Stubborn!

That was the subject line of an email I just got from my dad, who is now a genealogy-aholic. Here is what he sent me:

Irish Convicts to New South Wales
1791-1834

In the Rebel Field, R denotes Rebel (generic activity); D denotes Defender; RE denotes Emmet Rebel (1803); WB denotes Whiteboy (generic activity).

Name: Brennan, James

Reb: R

Ship: Brittania I

Tried: 1795

Trial Place: Dublin City

Death Place: On board ship due to flogging

Remarks: Died after receiving first 300 lashes and then a further 500 lashes the next day for planning ship mutiny

This is pretty horrific, but also amazing. It's nuts that my ancestor got lashed 300 times, then went back for 500 more - but at least nobody called him a Whiteboy.

Did I say I'm a wuss? Oh no, I have the blood of a Rebel (generic) in my veins.

Why I am a Wuss, Reason 1/8675

Since I live in California, it seems like there are several things I should do: eat healthy, drink fine wines and beers, make all sentences sound like questions, and surf.

Scratch that last one.

On Saturday I visited a friend in Bolinas, the small hippie town just north of the city, where she grew up. We walked down the beach, and I said I had seen a sign posted that there have been shark attacks around there in water less than six feet deep.

Tina said, Yes.
I said, Really?
Tina said, Um, yes.
Me: Holy crap.
Tina: People get arms bitten off all the time here.

When you are a kid, adults tell you that shark attacks are rare. This is true, for the average person - but if you are a surfer around San Francisco, apparently, you have to deal with the fact that you might get nommed by a gigantic fish. A great white, no less! Although maybe surfers comfort themselves with the thought that if they are going to get ate, at least it will be by the T. Rex of the sea.

No, that's stupid. I still can't imagine floating on a seal-shaped piece fiberglass, legs and arms dangling down, with a major great white breeding ground just a few miles out in the Pacific.

Then yesterday I went for a bike ride across the bridge with Umbro. We wound up in Sausalito, which is just precious. We ate sandwiches and drank wine on the waterfront, then wound up in a shop that had mini everything: small charms, tiny bottles (which we are going to fill with booze for our Alice in Wonderland party!), and leetle plastic animals, including great white sharks. Those things look terrifying - a half inch of plastic designed to take tiny bites out of your nipples, or to swim up your nose and munch on your brains.

Like the time I had nightmares about a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup commercial, I think the fact that I got freaked out by a shark toy is a sign that I should not surf. Or breed.

So proud!

Greenpeace's newest web editor, folks!

Happiness is a Warm Ass

It is hard to overestimate the pleasure of a heated toilet seat. I didn't even know they existed until I started working here, and now I am deeply dissatisfied with my home toilet. I am sure they are wasteful and frivolous, but they also comforting and welcoming, like a bear hug for your bum.

I give it three months until the honeymoon period is over.

I am staying here when I am in New York and here when I am in L.A. Who wants to come have a sleepover with me?

I love my joooooooooooob!

Self-satisfaction = eventual doom, probably.

I have found myself a lovely daily rhythm, and it is representative of the charmed life I am currently leading that I ride my bike DOWN HILL BOTH WAYS to work.

Every morning I wake up ten minutes before I have to leave the house. I brush, wash, dress, and give a quick big spoon to my sleeping boyfriend before I ride my bike to my shuttle stop. It is sunny every day; it is between 60 and 70 degrees every day. I wear jeans almost every day.

I get on my limo bus, settle into the leather seat, and listen to an NPR podcast. Twice a week I take an earlier bus so I can go to the gym before work; on those days I sleep on the ride. An hour later I disembark, eat my delicious free breakfast, and do my really cool job in a mediocre but acceptable manner.

I work at one of the nerdiest places imaginable. Most people are your run of the mill nerds, but not all, my friends, not all. There's a guy who wears all purple, with the exception of his socks and shoes. He wears one purple Converse, with a yellow sock; on the other foot he wears a yellow Converse, with a purple sock. Rumor has it that he alternates. This place is like college - whiteboards, posters, beanbag chairs, email lists over which people get all het up. Tons of free food, all the time. It's like Wellesley, but with dudes, and lucrative pay.

Come 5ish, it's back on the shuttle to do some work (yay shuttle wi-fi), listen to music, etc. I get dropped off at a (different, panoramic) spot 4 blocks from my house, admire the famous (Full House opening credits) view, then ride downhill home. There I am met by my boyfriend, who until yesterday was gloriously unemployed and was the best housekeeper you've ever seen; once he even met me at the door with a gin & tonic.

We get organic vegetables from local farms delivered to our house, so we cook dinner at home most nights. Then we either go to a show (Mike is an editor for wiretapmusic.com), go out for drinks, or stay in and watch The West Wing and talk about how we wish Jed Bartlet was our president. Our obese cat is the littlest spoon.

On weekends we go for bike rides, hike, walk around the city, or hang out in the park. We take trips to Tahoe, to Napa, or up the coast. Most weekend nights we drink excessive amounts of adult beverages, and I usually take photos to post on semi-public fora.

We are both uneasy that this is not going to last for too much longer, but in the meantime, I am going to gloat my ass off.

Who Knew?

My boyfriend doesn't like it when I call myself a yuppie, but now I realize that all along, I have just been a White Person.

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com/

UPDATE 3/25: Dude who writes this got himself a sweet book deal, according to today's Publisher's Lunch. If it sells well, I bet he tries to follow it up with the inevitably-offensive Stuff White People Don't Like.

This is what Linked In is for

My ex-boss just asked to friend me on Facebook. Yes? No? Limited profile?

Every time I learn a social skill (recently: don't smile at coworkers you run into in the office bathroom), a whole new awkward situation presents itself.

Dreams are more stressful than real life.

Two nights ago I had a dream that I was in a room, organizing my jewelry and trinkets. No matter how much I organized and hung up and put away, there was always more - necklaces and bracelets and earrings and lockets and those charms we made out of Fimo clay when we were in 4th grade.

While sorting and stressing, I would sometimes gaze lovingly at my fish tank, which had two big koi in it and two pet piglets. All four animals were swimming happily together in the tank. Then I saw that the piglets were being rough with the fish. When I went up to the tank, I noticed that the piglets were actually trying to eat the fish. I reached in and pulled the piglets out, and as I did so I realized that the piglets had actually eaten the fishes' eyes out. Fish eye-craters, all golden and scaly.

That's messed up, right? Caitlin showed restraint last night in not analyzing the shit out of me. I don't want to know what the dream means, but I do want you to have the image of koi eye sockets and hungry piglets in your head.

Not really. I'm sorry about that.

An Ode to Leslie

My friend Leslie is smart and sweet, but she can also be a gigundo weenie. Leslie recently got a call from an old friend ("Friend") with whom she had not had an amicable conversation since college. The last time they saw each other, Leslie objected to the verbal abuse directed at Friend by Friend's mother, and stormed out of an argument over the proper way to fold underwear.

So why did Friend call? Not to catch up on life, but to ask if Leslie will be her maid of honor. As in, for her wedding.

Here are the things that Leslie knows about being a maid of honor:
1. You have to buy a dress that the bride picks out.
2. You go the the wedding.

That's it! I know about as much, and I have no idea what I would have said if I had gotten the same request, but Leslie said yes, and is now in charge of hustling this girl through the wedding process, with the aid of a mother of the bride that she hates and a groom she has not met. The shower, the bachelorette party - these are things Leslie knows nothing of. A bride with no friends, a maid of honor with no clue...it is going to be awesome.

UPDATE, 3/24: This is slightly less funny since Leslie rode her bike into a car at high speeds after leaving my house on Thursday night, BUT: on the wedding webpage, Leslie is listed as "the bride's best friend since they were 5." Also, the wedding colors are fuschia, tangerine, and white. All right!

Iz in Ur Intertubez, Revvin Ur Enginez

Inspired by Leslie B. and Nicole D., here I am, attempting to fulfill your anecdotal needs.