Appliance-Sexual

Being that I am still incredibly poor, despite being gainfully employed to the Man, I have been living in (over-priced) hovels ever since I left the warm, cozy bubble of UC Irvine. The primary criterion in determining whether an apartment qualifies as a hovel seems to come down to one major attribute: the fridge. When I was forced by a city-wide monopoly to rent from The Irvine Company, every single apartment I lived in had a dishwasher, microwave, fridge, and in most cases a washer and dryer. I took for granted that this was normal. I had yet to learn that these basic appliances equal "luxury" in Southern California. Which is probably why the only way I could afford those apartments was with a minimum of three roommates.

I swear, it was THIS big!

So when I moved to my first solo apartment in LA, I was a bit shocked to discover that I was only provided with a stove. Since I had no money for a fridge, I had to borrow a tiny mini-fridge my mom used to keep in her classroom that was barely big enough for three cans of soda. The freezer section was roughly the size of a shoebox and was perpetually iced over. I'm sure that I've complained about this fridge before on Sporadic Sporkitudes, that surely put the 'mini' in 'miniscule.' When I set out to move from South Central to the slightly less-ghetto North Hollywood, the only thing I really wanted was a fridge. I had acquired a microwave, gotten used to the laundromat, and I rarely did dishes, even when I had a dishwasher. But you just can't live without a fridge. And it's not exactly something you can tote around in an '89 Mercury Topaz.

With this determination to get my fridge, I made a deal with my then-future landlady. The apartment did not originally come with one, so to close the sale, I made her buy me a fridge. Because I'm sneaky and awesome like that. But it turns out, she was sneaky as well and found a loophole. I did not specify that the fridge had to be in working order. So for the first few months, the fridge froze everything from milk to grapes solid, no matter what temperature I set it at. Then it was just lukewarm despite having a repairman look at it twice. Sure, it would be reasonably cool for a few weeks on and off. But it was all just to lure me into a false sense of security. That sonofabitch.

Not only unappetizing, but a waste of money. Sigh.

Finally, I just gave up on perishable foods altogether. This was extremely difficult, since I'm on a diet that requires lots of fresh produce, protein, and low-fat dairy. I used to live off of dairy products and I could never trust them in my fridge again. I'd buy milk and it would go bad within a day or two. Cheese instantly developed a fuzzy green overcoat. And forget about leftovers from eating out. Because of this fridge, I have developed a latent intolerance for lactose. Not cool, Devil Fridge. Not cool. (Literally, hahahaha!). Now I've been subsisting on frozen food and dry goods. Meaning oatmeal, bananas, peanut butter, and 100 calorie whole grain hockey puck bread. It gets old.

But at long last, I was able to score a fridge of my own, one that actually works! I will spare you all the details on how I acquired it (let's just say there was a cage match, some Indonesian headdresses, and a handful of magic beans in the mix). But after a great effort (mostly by my chivalrous Gentleman Caller), I got the new fridge up the stairs to my second floor apartment, and the Devil-Fridge out to the alley. It was picked up within minutes from a junk pirate who happened to be scouring for roadkill. (I also gave her my old stereo that I never use because I haven't bought a CD since high school when I was going through a wicked Broadway phase, and hadn't even turned the damn thing on in 4 or 5 years.)

My actual thumb, and my actual fridge. Isn't it purdy?

No go away, we wish to be alone...

To celebrate my good fortune, I went grocery shopping for the first time in months last night. You cannot imagine the freedom of being able to shop for the foods that you want (and that are allowed by a semi-restrictive diet), and not have to worry about whether it will fit, get frostbite, melt, and/or grow radioactive mold within minutes of placement in a mini mini-fridge, or Satan's Refrigerator. I was practically giddy with delight as I skipped around Ralph's, tossing all the dairy products I had missed so into the cart. Seriously, I got some weird stares. But I didn't care, and intestinal discomfort be damned! Hopefully this will be the last you ever have to hear about my fridge because I'll go back to taking it for granted. But for now, let me just say, if it's wrong to be sexually attracted to a kitchen appliance, then I don't want to be right!

Adventures in Pest Control

Or rather, "Lack of Pest Control." Because it's the cockroaches' apartment. I'm just living in it. Yes, my apartment is ridiculously infested with cockroaches. While I admit that I should have contacted my landlady sooner than five weeks ago, the problem is so much worse than I thought. I'm not a squeamish woman. I don't freak out at the sight of bugs, spiders, or even snakes really. (Rats freak me the hell out, but if you like rats then there's something wrong with you.) But I just about jumped out of my skin when I started pulling out the stack of plastic bags that inevitably builds up when you've lived any place for any amount of time and are terrible about keeping up your New Years' Resolution to use re-usable shopping bags.

Yeah yeah yeah, I know.

There's an island of plastic the size of Texas in the middle of the ocean.

Speaking of re-usable shopping bags, since I was neglecting to use mine, they just sat on top of my refrigerator. Not collecting dust, mind you, but becoming a happy home for cockroaches of all stages and walks of their creepy, crawly lives. I pulled one such bag down and an entire community of cockroaches, big and small scurried out like Godzilla was attacking their green, recycled city! (Now I'm having fun picturing myself all green and scaly tromping around as anthropomorphized bugs scream and shout things in badly dubbed English). I guess that's what I get for failing to do my part to save the planet.

Picture my face on Godzilla's body.

I'm too lazy to photoshop it.

But this saga actually begins quite a while ago, when I first started noticing small creatures the size of ants just strolling around my apartment. I didn't know what they were, but I assumed that they were harmless since I didn't have any bites or develop any mysterious diseases. I killed them when I could, but didn't go out of my way if it was inconvenient (i.e. I was too sleepy). Then I observed that they were growing stronger, larger too. Like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, only with more legs and less of a command of early 90s Valley surfer slang. While I am super on top of things at work out of necessity, I tend to let certain tasks in my own life go unattended for far too long. (For example, it just took me a week and a half to finally go to the doctor for an issue that was by no means life-threatening but probably should have been addressed much much sooner.)

I would have preferred an infestation of mutant turtles.

They would at least make themselves useful and fight crime.

This is why I only just texted my landlady roughly five weeks ago to call pest control. Because it was an absolutely insane month at work, involving working several six-day weeks (during which each of those days felt like a whole week itself), I basically forgot about my unwanted house guests. At least, until I would walk in the door dead on my feet, too late to do anything about it. And in that time, I never got a call, text, or e-mail to set up an official time. And their numbers just kept on growing.

And I shall name him, "Dirty Uncle Sal."

Finally, my Gentleman Caller put his foot down and demanded that I purchase bug bombs and try to fumigate the place. He offered to help, but being an independent and self-sufficient woman of the world, I decided I was going to do this on my own. But then I walked around Target for an hour only to ask for help finding the damn bombs. Which they didn't have. So I went to Ralph's, got the bombs, and got ready to set them off. Only, you have to turn off your pilot lights and disconnect your smoke detectors to do so. Sadly, my independent worldliness only goes so far. I got frustrated when the smoke detector kept beeping at me (because I hadn't eaten yet and only got five hours of sleep so I was uber-cranky). I also was so afraid of blowing up the whole damn building that eventually I gave up and fell asleep in my chair like a giant baby. When I woke up, hours later, I sheepishly called for reinforcements.

Luckily my GC is very handy with such things and was able to come and rescue the pathetic damsel in distress. He even went a step further with this chivalry and volunteered to set off the bombs while I waited outside. Then we went and played golf. Because that's what one does when one fumigates for cockroaches. Not just mini-golf, but the real kind with the funny pants and many different clubs. It turns out, I'm not too shabby and actually genuinely enjoy golf. So the day wasn't so bad after all. Especially since we got frozen yogurt afterwards and there is nothing bad about frozen yogurt. When we came back and started airing out the apartment, we didn't see a plethora of dead bugs everywhere as expected. The problem was definitely better, but I was still outnumbered exactly one zillion to one.

This is totally what I look like when I golf.

I followed up with my landlady once more and scheduled the appointment for yesterday. The pest guy comes for two minutes and says in a highly irritated voice: "You didn't move anything." ...I didn't know I was supposed to. "Did you also know you were supposed to leave for four hours afterwards?" ...No. I schedule pest control all the time at my job. We have Terminix come out twice a week like clockwork. (Not that we really have bug problems, but with over 800 apartments, it's bound to happen eventually. Which is why I am on top of these things. At work, anyway.) Anyway, we never tell our residents they have to move everything out of their cupboards and drawers and be out of the apartment for four hours. But then the guy started debating the merits of spray vs. the gel that Terminix uses and I lost the battle.

Mean pest control guy. I guess if you kill

things for a living, you probably aren't the most jovial sumbitch.

So now on my day off, I'm completely moving all dishes, food, and other random items from my kitchen and bathroom into my living room and bedroom. My apartment is very small and cannot accommodate four rooms worth of crap into two. At this point it would just be easier to move. But it's cathartic in a way. Call it Spring Cleaning. Especially now that I've lived here exactly one year and it was probably time to go through all this stuff.

I should just move at this point.

We will see tomorrow morning between 8am and 10am if I moved everything to the pest control guy's satisfaction. I didn't care for his condescension nor his snark, but I just have to play along until I get the chemicals I need to finally slay these mutant nuclear bomb-resistant cockroaches once and for all. Then maybe I won't be afraid that one is going to crawl up my nose while I sleep. AAAAAAHHHHH!!

(On an unrelated note, I finally broke down and bought a brand new fancy schmancy iMac to replace my sad, slow, overfull, and no longer able to multi-task Powerbook G4, which I purchased in 2005 as a high school graduation present to myself. The laptop wouldn't even let me long into Blogger anymore, though that doesn't entirely make up for my absence. But I've been dealing with massive amounts of cockroaches, so I think I get a pass.)

Movin' On Up To the Northside

Well, technically I am moving up in the world. From ghetto South Central to glamorous North Hollywood. Though despite my change in latitude, I really see this as a lateral move rather than an upgrade. I was super excited to find a one bedroom for not much more than my studio, plus when you subtract the cost of the ever-rising gas prices, it's a great deal. And it's a great apartment, in theory. But when I saw it this morning in the harsh light of day, I realized several things:

1. It wasn't painted. Which I wouldn't care, but it really looks bad. All sorts of scuffs and marks and dirt.

2. The sinks and counters are dirty, like they were never cleaned.

3. There are holes in the walls that they didn't even bother to spackle.

4. The cupboards are in terrible shape. They are grimy and stained. They also need contact paper.

5. There is a hole in the bedroom where a outlet plate used to be.

6. The light in the bedroom is basically a bare bulb.

7. There's a random CHP bumper sticker on the front door (which is filthy).

8. The overhead light in the kitchen is broken and dirty.

9. There's probably more that I'm forgetting, but you get my point.

I hate to rant about stuff like this. I have super-low standards (I live in South Central, exhibit A), and I am not the kind of person who files formal complaints or asserts her rights as a tenant. Which is why my heater and a/c have been broken for a year and a half. And then I get all passive aggressive and whine about it online or to my mom without actually getting the problem fixed or fixing it myself. And that's on me.

But still, when you rent an apartment, even a cheaper one in a quasi-ghetto, you expect certain things. Especially if the previous tenant lived there for over 5 years. Fresh paint is not too much to ask for. No gaping holes in the wall isn't either. It's mostly the kind of stuff that on its own isn't a big deal. But when you realize that there's a flaw in every room, that's all you can see. And I don't have a lot of time, energy, money, skill or patience to fix this stuff myself.

Maybe it's the beer I had at lunch (yes I actually went out and bought beer on my own accord for the first time ever), but I just feel super down about this now. It's taken all the fun out of setting up a new place and all the possibilities that come with it. I know you get what you pay for, but seriously? I'm just wondering if this is going to be worth the pain in the ass it's been so far to move. Because right now I'm having major renter's remorse.

I remember the first day I moved into my current apartment and just looking around, completely stoked that I had my own place. It was fresh and clean and cute, even if it was in a bad part of town. But moving into the new place just feels like putting on someone else's dirty laundry. That's the best way I can think of to describe it.

The worst part is, I am just not comfortable asking for things. I hate to inconvenience people, even if I'm the one being inconvenienced. I know it's important to be assertive, but on the other hand, it's almost more important to me to have a good relationship with people I have to be in contact with frequently. I hate and avoid awkward situations at all costs. But what do you say? Um... I'm sorry, I think you missed a spot during the week plus that you had to get this apartment ready for a new tenant who is paying a significant portion (even if it is cheap for LA).

I guess I'm going to go back there later this afternoon to take some before pictures and maybe do some cleaning. It just sucks because I shouldn't have to. I'm already going to bust my ass cleaning this apartment because that's what a decent person does when you move out. Or a decent landlord who understands that apartments need to be clean and ready for the new tenant. That's why there's a freaking security deposit, folks. Maybe it's because I now work in the industry, at a place where the standard is impeccable. All the people who call me to bitch about the tiniest thing have now been wearing off on me and I've become the kind of person I hate.

I apologize that my first blog in weeks is such a boring downer. But I really needed to get this off my chest before I resume dragging my stuff up to the Valley. Sigh.

Hutch the Apartment Hunter

A few weeks ago, I was all stoked because I had decided to finally leave my hovel in South Central. But then I ended up not going out to look at apartments because I had so many other things to do. Like watch Snakes on a Plane with my gay best friend, Eric. That was absolutely vital. Who else was going to drink 3 glasses of white wine and dance around his living room singing "So kiss me goodbyyyyyyeee, honey I'm gonna make it out alive, so kiss me goodbyyyyyye!!!!!!!!?" (I nominate that song for new best 'dance around singing like a jackass' anthem, now that 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' should be graciously retired). So I lost momentum on the search, burrowing deeper still into my trenches and just gritting my teeth through the 25-50 minute commute. (Sure it could be worse, but commuting is commuting. And Stan is not long for this world. Every minute counts). I even told my landlady, "I like it here, I'm settled. Plus, moving is such a pain."

Singing into a spatula.

Because hairbrushes are so overdone.

But then someone egged my house. And when I say 'egged,' I mean singular. One egg. Some jackass (the obnoxious destructive kind, not the ridiculous dance around to catchy one-hit wonder kind) threw a single egg at the iron screen door of my apartment. This is why I hate living so close to the street in the ghetto. Hoodlums feel entitled to employ unhatched chicken offspring as a form of malicious vandalism. The thing that pissed me off more was that they did such a half-assed job of it. If you're going to egg someone's house, egg the damn house. You don't throw one roll of toilet paper on someone's tree and call it a day. Kids today. So fucking lazy. In any case, three day old, dried stuck-on egg is tricky to get off of a non-stick pan (which reminds me, I have to do the dishes). But how does one get it off of an iron door when one doesn't own a proper bucket or have access to a hose, I ask you?

Now this is a proper job. Take note, hoodlums.

Normally this kind of thing would amuse me. Haha, I live in the ghetto, isn't that funny? Like the sign on the Boost Mobile store that just opened on Crenshaw "Grang Opening!" And it's not like my house hasn't been vandalized before. There's some sort of tagging on the busted a/c unit outside the window. I don't think I'm a specific target, people are just bored so they want to draw on shit. But still, this was the last straw. As soon as I got in the house I started Craigslisting apartments within a 5 mile radius of my work. And yes, I just used 'Craigslisting' as a verb. And it sounds vaguely dirty for some reason. The other last straw, the epilogue straw if you will, was when I made a delicious chocolate cake last night. I had one piece and didn't cover it with foil right away. When I went to do so, I discovered a small cockroach crawling alllll over it. What a waste. Stupid cockroach. Stupid apartment.

Me, more or less. More more than less.

I found a few options, all more than I'd like to pay ideally, but I could probably swing at least 5 or 6 of them. So I'm going forth and going north today to check them out. And I can't back out like I did a few weeks ago. This is happening whether I like it or not. Because I just gave my thirty days notice a few days ago (about 5 minutes after discovering the egg on my door), and now the clock is ticking. Though most places you visit want you to move in right away and intimidate you by making up fake other interested parties which doesn't work out so well when you have to give 30 days notice. It's the catch-22 of apartment hunting. I wonder if there is an apartment website that has a search parameter "within walking distance of a kickass Irish pub." Now that would be sweet.

I'm excited to see my potential new home, but at the same time, the daunting task of driving all over Hollywood, North Hollywood, and Valley Village is intimidating. I don't even like going one place in a single day. This is one of the reasons I'm living where I am, because I was too lazy to look at several different options before jumping on the most convenient at the time. One shouldn't impulse shop when picking out an apartment. Especially when you don't know the area. It's just that my first three apartments were all in Irvine, ranked one of America's top 5 safest cities. Every apartment is gorgeous, new, perfectly maintained, and fully stocked with every appliance you would need. I took for granted that I would have my own washer and dryer, a full-sized fridge, a dishwasher. Then I moved to the ghetto and was in for a world of doing without. Which was fine, I dealt with it. I just think I could have gotten a lot more for the same amount of money if I had actually tried. And now that I actually work for a property management company and have become more worldly in the ways of Los Angeles, I think I'm much better equipped.

A typical leasing office in Irvine. It may have been a boring college town,

but it sure was purdy. And you'd have been arrested on the spot for egging someone's house.

I'm still just as lazy though. And I still hate driving around to more than one place.

But enough apartment talk. Actually, enough talk period. I need to start getting ready to haggle and peruse.

Hold the phone! I forgot to mention that I finally got to drive the golf cart at work! It only took me two months and one failed attempt (during which the thing just beeped angrily at me and wouldn't budge.) To be honest, it was kind of a let down. It just beeped a lot, and didn't have any turn radius, and I kept running into curbs and guard rails. Plus, it was a bitch to drive in heels since you have to slam on the accelerator to get it to move. So, my inner child is severely disappointed. But still, VICTORY!!

And in other news, I found out that a one-hit wonder R&B group from when I was in high school used to live in my apartment complex. They threw an all-night eviction party the night before they were kicked out. Poor one-hit wonder R&B group who couldn't pay the rent. The high school version of me used to sing their song and attribute it to this totally dreamy guy we dubbed "the Sexy Beast" because he was on the basketball team and had a small part in real movie.

And that's all the news for now!

Why I Will Miss South Central

I hate to say it and wreck the street cred I've been working so hard to acquire, but I think I'm finally over the novelty of living in South Central. I've been here over a year and a half, which was about a year and a half longer than anyone expected. Sometimes I love it here still. Like when I see the Liberty Tax dancers on the street corners dressed like Statues of Liberty, skipping, twirling, waving, never without a smile. Sometimes I hate it, like when I get accosted in the drive-through at McDonald's by people asking me for money. Then there are the times at the laundromat when I'm simultaneously frightened and amused by the colorful characters that stop by to do the laundry or sell pirated DVDs and/or tamales.

This is what happens at 10pm on a Thursday night.

My neighbors set old Christmas trees on fire

in the middle of the street. Classy.

I hear the most hilarious phrases from passersby (as my door is exactly two feet from the sidewalk and there's no insulation). Which while loud and irritating, is also great fodder for comedy. One such conversation I overheard part of the other night around 11pm. My friend Eric has been crashing at my place for the past few weeks until he moves into his new apartment. Since it was Friday night and he is not an old fuddy duddy like me, he was on his way to a sexy party that didn't even start until I was pleasantly tucked away in bed. (I also had to work the next morning, so that also explains why I was not going to the sexy party.) I woke up just as he was locking the door to this conversation:

Ext. South Central Neighborhood - Night

A stylish young black man locks the door to the heavy iron screen door on an olive green and red tile apartment building. ERIC (25), is somewhat of a hipster, but not the obnoxious kind so we can forgive him for this association. He also likes boys. Like, a lot. That's important to the story. Two young ghetto girls dressed like hookers approach him.

GHETTO GIRL 1

You locking up?

ERIC

Um, yeah.

GHETTO GIRL 2

Where you going?

ERIC

To a friend's house.

(Ed. Note, Wisely not

mentioning the sexy party)

Eric starts walking towards the bus stop. The girls follow him, wobbling a bit in their high heels, obviously intoxicated. (Ed. note. This was all I heard. Meanwhile I was panicking, thinking he had been talking to my landlady. I'm probably not allowed to have guests for this long, since she pays the water bill. But I went back to sleep shortly after my panic attack. What follows is the story Eric told me later on.)

GHETTO GIRL 2

What's your name?

ERIC

Eric.

GHETTO GIRL 1

My name's Janae, but everyone

calls me Little Vicious.

GHETTO GIRL 2

And everyone calls me Baby Vicious.

Eric tries not to snicker under his breath and keeps walking.

LITTLE VICIOUS

You cute. I would totally

fuck you.

ERIC

Uh...

BABY VICIOUS

Oooh gurl, me too. I

would lay it on you.

ERIC

That's nice. No thanks, though.

LITTLE VICIOUS

What's the matter? Do you

like boys or something?

ERIC

Is it that obvious?

BABY VICIOUS

That's ok. We like other

girls sometimes.

LITTLE VICIOUS

Yeah, we even have gay

friends.

BABY VICIOUS takes out her cell phone to show Eric pictures of their gay friend.

BABY VICIOUS

Yeah he's cute too. I

would totally lay it on

him if he weren't gay.

LITTLE VICIOUS

We could call him, and

hook you two up if you want.

ERIC

That's ok. I actually have

to go. Nice talking to you.

BABY and LITTLE VICIOUS

Bye Eric, sexy!

A shiny old school cadillac pulls up to the sidewalk blaring a repetitive bassline so loud it shakes the foundation of the olive green apartment building. Baby and Little Vicious squeal and teeter over to the car. Eric walks faster. He may be African American, but he's afraid of black people.

That story makes me so happy for some reason. I get hit on all the time here also. But in the five years since I've known Eric, I've never heard him being so brazenly propositioned by females. He's just so out of his element here in the ghetto. We both are, I suppose. But that's not the reason I've decided to move. I'm a big girl now, and I think I deserve a big girl apartment. One that has a separate bedroom and living space. An apartment in which I can actually fit a whole couch instead of just my big blue comfy chair. Somewhere I can have friends over, or flying spaghetti monster-willing, an actual party without having strangers sitting on my bed. It would also be nice to not have people be afraid to come visit me like my sister-in-law who was genuinely nervous to bring my then six-month-old nephew to visit. I would love to have a place that has an actual heater and air conditioner so it's not miserable six months out of the year. Somewhere with a full size refrigerator that isn't just barely bigger than my microwave. Ideally it will be somewhere with my own washer and dryer, and an easy parking situation for both me and any guests I might have. I don't want to have to commute longer than 10 minutes to work. That's the big thing. And I also don't want roommates. Overall, I don't think it's too much to ask for. I just wish moving wasn't such a pain. Let the apartment hunt begin!

So long, South Central. It's been real. Real what, I don't know. But real nonetheless.

Why UPS is dumb: a Rant

Don't bother reading this, expecting some cute, carefully packaged anecdote, list, or review. I just need to complain and get it off my chest before I head off to work all toxified and irritated. It's already going to be a hell of a day (deadlines, what what). So it's my birthday tomorrow, yay me, and someone was kind enough to send me a package from Amazon. Or maybe I was sleep-online shopping and ordered something for myself and don't remember. In any case, I came home yesterday to find a UPS notice that they had tried to deliver it yesterday, but I wasn't home. I wasn't home because I have a job (temporary though it may be). Many people do, though not as much as need them these days. The point is, how am I supposed to be home at 10:30am on a Thursday to accept a package?

In normal neighborhoods where people have porches or at least doorsteps that aren't located 2 feet from a ghetto sidewalk where passersby can and probably will steal a scrumptious looking box from someone else's stoop, UPS will just leave the package and go on their merry way. (In those short brown shorts, I always envision them delivering things mid-musical number). But not in my 'hood. At first I wasn't bothered, since they always try 3 times before returning to sender. And I would definitely be home on Saturday to sign for it. But on the notice it said that they only deliver Monday through Friday. What crap is that? Are they more lazy than the US postal service who works six days a week, rain or shine (bullshit holidays like Columbus Day not included)?

So the solution to my dilemma is that I arranged for them to hold the package (tee hee) at the local UPS center. Unfortunately the closest one to my residence is Downtown. I HATE Downtown. With its nonstop horrible traffic, confusing one-way streets, scary homeless people, expensive lack of parking, it's just the worst. The center closes at 7pm too, which means I have to get from Westwood, where I work, all the way Downtown when I don't get off until 5:30. If you're not familiar with the area, that's a long-ass way WITHOUT Friday night rush hour traffic downtown. I don't even know if it's possible. And there will probably be a line of other people with day jobs who want to pick things up before the weekend, because the brilliant UPS center isn't open on Saturdays!!! What the hell, man??!?!?!?!

So to recap, on my birthday eve, which happens to fall on one of the few insane work days of the Market, I have to drive clear across down, in traffic, with a very small window of opportunity to pick up the package that I didn't know was coming so I couldn't arrange to have my landlady sign for it instead. Then I get to come home and change for Karaoke night at Gabe's, with my a cappella ladies. Actually, that will be kickass. I've never done real karaoke. Once when I was about 17, a few of my choir geek friends and I stood in the doorway of the bar area at Denny's at like 4AM and dorkily harmonized to "I Will Survive." (We were underaged, so we couldn't actually go in the bar). So that will be sweet. But if you know me, you know what a big deal it is to drag my ass out at night, and to do anything that isn't strictly necessary for survival. And I've already gone out several times (for me) this week.

ARGGHHH!!!! Maybe I'll just wait until next week and pick up my package (tee hee) when I'm not stressed about Karaoke. Though I won't get it in time for my birthday, sad. I do however have a large box to open from my parents that actually asked what to do about the delivery-non-grata in my area. They sent it to my office, instead. And I can't WAIT to open it, because I think I know what it is, and it will be the greatest. present. EVER!!!

I don't want to sound ungrateful to whomever sent me the Amazon package (tee hee). Especially if it was myself. Thank you soooo much for being considerate enough to give me a birthday present. Especially since I am the world's worst gift giver. If I buy a present at all, I'm cheap, it's not a good choice because I can never think of anything good. I'm just whining because that's how I'm wired.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's report on my first real Karaoke night!!!