#35 Never Have I Ever: Hunted for Easter eggs
Foreplay: I am neither of the following: religious, overly competitive, under the age of 10. So there would really be no reason for me to celebrate Easter.
To be honest, I hate competing. I'm either belligerently cutthroat or apathetically uncombative, neither of which has ever helped me win anything athletic. Basically, I shouldn't participate in a competition that involves anything physical cause it can get ugly.
The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me to an Easter egg hunt on Sunday -- "Survivor style," he added.
In the Survivor style hunt, a few less number of eggs than hunters are hidden. Those who don't find one are out. The losers, bitter and vindictive now, then hide a lesser number of eggs in the next round for the survivors. This continues until there is only one winner.
We gathered at a nearby park and 14 of us lined up, taking our marks. The hiders stashed away 12 eggs and at the shout of "Go!" we were all sprinting up the hill in a desperate search. I'm sure it was a sight to see: over a dozen people -- who are clearly adults -- making a mad dash to find Easter eggs.
In the first round, I can't say I was very motivated. I mean, I looked for eggs but I wasn't hunting them. But alas, just as I resigned myself to being out, I stumbled across one. Huzzah!
The sheer glee of not losing completely took over. And this is what I mean when I say I shouldn't compete. Because, dude, it was on now.
During the next few rounds, I was described by Hermosa as being one of the first sprinters out of the group -- this is while wearing my highly inappropriate pointy-toed kitten heels. I hurdled over a couple dogs; I threw myself into arachnid-adorned bushes; at one point I raced with another girl to clamber up a chain-linked fence to grab the last egg teetering at the top.
It was finally down to 7 of us in search of 4 eggs. Suddenly, there was only one egg left out there. I had been burying myself in a mysteriously sticky (ew) bush for 10 minutes, positive that the egg was in there somewhere when another player on the other side of the foliage screamed in victory -- blast! And so ended my mid-game winning streak.
However, the fun was just beginning -- I started hiding the eggs back at the house. A normal person would hide it somewhere like a bush or in the tomato planters. But when you get 3 vindictive girls together who just lost the last round to 4 guys, we get a little creative... like, oh say... in the gated gutter 2 feet below the ground or in a large bag of oysters and ice.
The Afterglow: I think I had more fun hiding the eggs and watching people scrambling to find them like crack-addicted dogs sniffing out their next fix than being a druggie dog myself.
I guess I can compete without throwing elbows or rolling my eyes. But hey, when it involves zombie Jesus eggs, it comes down to the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Showing posts with label hermosa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hermosa. Show all posts
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Virgin cleans up well
#30 Never Have I Ever: Gone out of my way to dress up nicely for an ordinary day
Foreplay: I love fashion and clothes. Unfortunately, my wardrobe has a price limit (well hello Forever 21 and H&M!). However, my laziness knows no bounds.
Although I have my own personal fashion rules [some of which include: no sweatpants in public; leggings are not an acceptable substitute for pants unless both ass cheeks are completely covered; by pairing a denim jacket with jeans or a jean skirt you are giving me full permission to mock you, etc.], there are days where I will throw on a pair of black jeans and a hoodie and... that's it. No bra, no shirt underneath. When you're an A-cup, you can pull off shit like that. You can also use bandaids as ghetto pasties when you can't wear a bra.
But anyway, my general outfit usually consists of straight-leg pants, a nice blouse, pointy-toed flats, and maybe a cardigan or blazer. My hair is worn down and straight, and my make up is unfussy. All of which takes about 20-30 minutes in my murderous morning haze. I'm put together but I'm definitely not Sartorialist material.
The Down and Dirty: I had a meeting with my boss for my freelance design job in the morning. He's only ever seen me in jeans and quirky t-shirts so I decided to doll it up a bit. I throw on my striped cream shirt, a black knee-length skirt, and red kitten peep-toes. On a whim, I slap on some red lipstick for good measure. I am 20 minutes late for my meeting.
"Where are you going so dressed up?" he asks when I finally arrive. Nowhere, I puff still out of breath from running into the office, just felt like wearing something besides jeans.
All is going well until I notice that my desk is getting higher. No wait. I'm slowly sinking in my seat. What the hell? The luxurious material of my skirt keeps slipping in the leather chair, forcing me to clamber back up every 10 minutes.
But generally, things were great. My ego was thoroughly stroked when I stopped by a mall to make an exchange and felt the linger of eyes. This is freakin' awesome, I thought. Until, of course - of course! - things took a turn for the worse.
Later that night, Hermosa comes to pick me up for a concert at The Echo. However, I'm running behind. Way behind. This was a reoccurring theme throughout the day.
Earlier, I had decided that I needed a "night look" as Cosmo and Glamour often suggest -- something drastic and different but still stylish. So I showered, shaved, and wrestled my way into a vintage floral mini dress and heels. My makeup was painstakingly precise and I was determined to curl my naturally straight hair. After a ton of hairspray, a few burns followed by some carefully chosen expletives, and a 15 minute delay, I was finally out the door juggling my purse, cardigan, keys, and phone while frantically rubbing lotion on my legs as I scampered to Hermosa's awaiting car.
Parking in Echo Park is atrocious. We circled Sunset Blvd and nearby neighborhoods for a good 15 minutes before Hermosa questioned whether or not we should try sneaking into the Walgreen's lot. I don't know, I interjected, You might get a ticket. He decided a $70 ticket wouldn't be the end of the world and we rolled into a space. Despite the not-yet-Spring weather, I left my cardigan in the car since concert venue was only 2 blocks down.
Dressed to the nines and nursing my whiskey while standing next to homeless-looking hipsters and Urban Outfitter rejects clutching PBR made me feel so snazzy. To be honest, whenever I had to walk -- whether to the bathroom or up to the bar (my staple destinations) -- I was struttin' my stuff like it was a catwalk.
The whiskey was wearing off quickly and thus so was my drunk jacket on the walk back to the car. All I wanted to do was hop in the warm car and throw on my soft cardigan. I had had enough of freezing for the sake of fashion by that point.
Um... where's the car? Why is the parking lot completely empty? It was like some hipster version of Dude, Where's My Car? except with more hairspray and whiskey. Fuck.
Hermosa's car had been towed and we had the next hour to get to the tow yard before they closed for the night. We hailed a cab relatively easily (thanks to my short skirt?) and high tailed it there. The taxi took us down a dusty dead-end street with no street lights. Hermosa and I crawled out of the cab apprehensively. As we slowly approached the 15 ft. spiked metal gate, a flood light burst on and a rather large dog came charging at us from the distance.
I did not get dolled up to get mauled by a German Shepherd in goddamn rape alley.
Needless to say, we were in the car and out of there in less than 30 minutes.
The Afterglow: The German Shepherd turned out to be an absolute sweetheart but she was filthy. The sketchy tow yard owner asked if I wanted to wash my hands after our transaction. He unlocked a door in the back of the dingy office and then pointed at a doorway at the end of a unlit hallway. "Okay, she goes down there. You," he addressed Hermosa, "can go out there." He gestured at the garage outside of the office. Oh heeeeell no.
I mean, I appreciated all the compliments and extra attention but I was so frazzled by being late to everything. I don't think I have it in me to keep it up every single day. Dude, it takes a lot of time and effort to look good. Not to mention the pain of using a curling iron. Looks can kill -- or at least really, really hurt.
P.S. I wore the exact same outfit the next night (curled hair and all) and actually caused a saxophonist to stop playing mid song as I walked by. Ego, consider yourself boosted.
Foreplay: I love fashion and clothes. Unfortunately, my wardrobe has a price limit (well hello Forever 21 and H&M!). However, my laziness knows no bounds.
Although I have my own personal fashion rules [some of which include: no sweatpants in public; leggings are not an acceptable substitute for pants unless both ass cheeks are completely covered; by pairing a denim jacket with jeans or a jean skirt you are giving me full permission to mock you, etc.], there are days where I will throw on a pair of black jeans and a hoodie and... that's it. No bra, no shirt underneath. When you're an A-cup, you can pull off shit like that. You can also use bandaids as ghetto pasties when you can't wear a bra.
But anyway, my general outfit usually consists of straight-leg pants, a nice blouse, pointy-toed flats, and maybe a cardigan or blazer. My hair is worn down and straight, and my make up is unfussy. All of which takes about 20-30 minutes in my murderous morning haze. I'm put together but I'm definitely not Sartorialist material.
The Down and Dirty: I had a meeting with my boss for my freelance design job in the morning. He's only ever seen me in jeans and quirky t-shirts so I decided to doll it up a bit. I throw on my striped cream shirt, a black knee-length skirt, and red kitten peep-toes. On a whim, I slap on some red lipstick for good measure. I am 20 minutes late for my meeting.
"Where are you going so dressed up?" he asks when I finally arrive. Nowhere, I puff still out of breath from running into the office, just felt like wearing something besides jeans.
All is going well until I notice that my desk is getting higher. No wait. I'm slowly sinking in my seat. What the hell? The luxurious material of my skirt keeps slipping in the leather chair, forcing me to clamber back up every 10 minutes.
But generally, things were great. My ego was thoroughly stroked when I stopped by a mall to make an exchange and felt the linger of eyes. This is freakin' awesome, I thought. Until, of course - of course! - things took a turn for the worse.
Later that night, Hermosa comes to pick me up for a concert at The Echo. However, I'm running behind. Way behind. This was a reoccurring theme throughout the day.
Earlier, I had decided that I needed a "night look" as Cosmo and Glamour often suggest -- something drastic and different but still stylish. So I showered, shaved, and wrestled my way into a vintage floral mini dress and heels. My makeup was painstakingly precise and I was determined to curl my naturally straight hair. After a ton of hairspray, a few burns followed by some carefully chosen expletives, and a 15 minute delay, I was finally out the door juggling my purse, cardigan, keys, and phone while frantically rubbing lotion on my legs as I scampered to Hermosa's awaiting car.
Parking in Echo Park is atrocious. We circled Sunset Blvd and nearby neighborhoods for a good 15 minutes before Hermosa questioned whether or not we should try sneaking into the Walgreen's lot. I don't know, I interjected, You might get a ticket. He decided a $70 ticket wouldn't be the end of the world and we rolled into a space. Despite the not-yet-Spring weather, I left my cardigan in the car since concert venue was only 2 blocks down.
Dressed to the nines and nursing my whiskey while standing next to homeless-looking hipsters and Urban Outfitter rejects clutching PBR made me feel so snazzy. To be honest, whenever I had to walk -- whether to the bathroom or up to the bar (my staple destinations) -- I was struttin' my stuff like it was a catwalk.
The whiskey was wearing off quickly and thus so was my drunk jacket on the walk back to the car. All I wanted to do was hop in the warm car and throw on my soft cardigan. I had had enough of freezing for the sake of fashion by that point.
Um... where's the car? Why is the parking lot completely empty? It was like some hipster version of Dude, Where's My Car? except with more hairspray and whiskey. Fuck.
Hermosa's car had been towed and we had the next hour to get to the tow yard before they closed for the night. We hailed a cab relatively easily (thanks to my short skirt?) and high tailed it there. The taxi took us down a dusty dead-end street with no street lights. Hermosa and I crawled out of the cab apprehensively. As we slowly approached the 15 ft. spiked metal gate, a flood light burst on and a rather large dog came charging at us from the distance.
I did not get dolled up to get mauled by a German Shepherd in goddamn rape alley.
Needless to say, we were in the car and out of there in less than 30 minutes.
The Afterglow: The German Shepherd turned out to be an absolute sweetheart but she was filthy. The sketchy tow yard owner asked if I wanted to wash my hands after our transaction. He unlocked a door in the back of the dingy office and then pointed at a doorway at the end of a unlit hallway. "Okay, she goes down there. You," he addressed Hermosa, "can go out there." He gestured at the garage outside of the office. Oh heeeeell no.
I mean, I appreciated all the compliments and extra attention but I was so frazzled by being late to everything. I don't think I have it in me to keep it up every single day. Dude, it takes a lot of time and effort to look good. Not to mention the pain of using a curling iron. Looks can kill -- or at least really, really hurt.
P.S. I wore the exact same outfit the next night (curled hair and all) and actually caused a saxophonist to stop playing mid song as I walked by. Ego, consider yourself boosted.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Virgin writes Hemingway style
#15 Never Have I Ever: Written a song
Foreplay: I can write poetic prose. I can write piquant blog posts (I hope...). I can even write coherent text messages to my mom while 6 drinks deep into my weekend.
But you know what I can't do? Write a song that doesn't involve shouting bastardized rap into my phone to the phrase of, "Get yo' drunk jacket on!" Not that I've ever done that or anything...
I don't know how musicians do it. Do lyrics come first? Or does the melody? Does the guitarist simply wiggle his nose and a completed CD magically pops out of his ass? Well, does it?! How am I supposed to know?!
The Down and Dirty: Last week Hermosa emailed me a short guitar track and asked me to "apply those word skills of [mine]".
Oh man, I thought, how flattering is this! So I did what any lauded lady does. I left it practically untouched in my inbox for a week.
You guys, I don't think you understand my lack of creativity yet excess of performance anxiety. I don't know know what rhyme scheme I'm supposed to run with. Wait! Is it even supposed to rhyme?! This country-twanged folk song is super cute. I'd hate to mar it by adding lyrics about the social constructs of the word "slut" or urinating in alleyways or any of the other stuff I often write about.
So I took the Ernest Hemingway approach to writing: Drunk and indiscriminately. As I nursed my Fat Tire, I texted Whiskey Sour to whine about how pathetic I felt drinking alone while lacking inspiration. He rang me up for some pillow talk (on his end in Virginia), told me to go listen to "2 Atoms in a Molecule" by Noah and the Whale, and gave me 3 different writing topics. After we said our respective sleepy and buzzed farewells, I lit a candle, put on some Bright Eyes, and made intoxicated but determined love to my laptop.
Below are snippets strung together during my inebriated writing rampage based off each theme supplied by Whiskey Sour.
The morning after:
From my knees I kissed the seat, and spewed love from my lips
A crush (this topic spiraled into an aggravated rant on my part that involved the quote, "Fuck crushes; I'd rather just do it." What can I say? I'm one classy broad):
I don't need a friend, I need a warm body tonight
My first trip on uh... certain substances:
I only pray to God
Just to say that I was sorry
Just to prove I was right all along
The Afterglow: Definitely not of e.e. cummings grandeur but better than what I started with. Maybe I just needed a proper verbal ass-kick from Whiskey Sour and a stiff drink to loosen me up. To be honest, I'm still pretty buzzed. And it's not even midnight! This is either really awesome or really, really, really sad...
I'm going to go crack open another cold one before I'm forced to answer that question or text my mom back.
I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best: "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." Cheers to that, old literary dude.
Foreplay: I can write poetic prose. I can write piquant blog posts (I hope...). I can even write coherent text messages to my mom while 6 drinks deep into my weekend.
But you know what I can't do? Write a song that doesn't involve shouting bastardized rap into my phone to the phrase of, "Get yo' drunk jacket on!" Not that I've ever done that or anything...
I don't know how musicians do it. Do lyrics come first? Or does the melody? Does the guitarist simply wiggle his nose and a completed CD magically pops out of his ass? Well, does it?! How am I supposed to know?!
The Down and Dirty: Last week Hermosa emailed me a short guitar track and asked me to "apply those word skills of [mine]".
Oh man, I thought, how flattering is this! So I did what any lauded lady does. I left it practically untouched in my inbox for a week.
You guys, I don't think you understand my lack of creativity yet excess of performance anxiety. I don't know know what rhyme scheme I'm supposed to run with. Wait! Is it even supposed to rhyme?! This country-twanged folk song is super cute. I'd hate to mar it by adding lyrics about the social constructs of the word "slut" or urinating in alleyways or any of the other stuff I often write about.
So I took the Ernest Hemingway approach to writing: Drunk and indiscriminately. As I nursed my Fat Tire, I texted Whiskey Sour to whine about how pathetic I felt drinking alone while lacking inspiration. He rang me up for some pillow talk (on his end in Virginia), told me to go listen to "2 Atoms in a Molecule" by Noah and the Whale, and gave me 3 different writing topics. After we said our respective sleepy and buzzed farewells, I lit a candle, put on some Bright Eyes, and made intoxicated but determined love to my laptop.
Below are snippets strung together during my inebriated writing rampage based off each theme supplied by Whiskey Sour.
The morning after:
From my knees I kissed the seat, and spewed love from my lips
A crush (this topic spiraled into an aggravated rant on my part that involved the quote, "Fuck crushes; I'd rather just do it." What can I say? I'm one classy broad):
I don't need a friend, I need a warm body tonight
My first trip on uh... certain substances:
I only pray to God
Just to say that I was sorry
Just to prove I was right all along
The Afterglow: Definitely not of e.e. cummings grandeur but better than what I started with. Maybe I just needed a proper verbal ass-kick from Whiskey Sour and a stiff drink to loosen me up. To be honest, I'm still pretty buzzed. And it's not even midnight! This is either really awesome or really, really, really sad...
I'm going to go crack open another cold one before I'm forced to answer that question or text my mom back.
I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best: "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." Cheers to that, old literary dude.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Virgin can see the future
#14 Never Have I Ever: Had a palm reading and tarot card reading
Foreplay: Generally, I'd rather not waste money on entertainment akin to setting a pile of cash on fire.
Fortune telling is all mumbo-jumbo for the most part. I can get better advice by... oh, say a Magic 8 Ball or plucking petals off a daisy than shelling out hard earned cash to a professional con artist who believes she can talk to dead people. I've observed friends perform cold readings before and it astounds me how many people lap this psychic stuff up.
I'm not going preach from my pedestal though -- astrology, magic, and psychics used to intrigue me. A much more naive version of myself visited a psychic a few years ago on one of those whoo!-crazy-summer-with-college-friends-yeeeaaaah! nights. After the "energy reading" a little voice in the back of my head kept chirping That was so amazing! She knew that you had a boyfriend! And that you're a confused college student! Wooooow!!
That voice was swiftly squished by a science textbook (my roommate's at the time; not that I would actually have a science textbook in my possession -- pfft).
The Down and Dirty: Hermosa and I headed to what his iPhone deemed as the "Best Psychic in L.A.". Because true clairvoyants are located right off Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. In a tacky hovel of a home office. Obviously.
As soon as we stepped in we were immediately accosted by a mother-daughter team. Hermosa was totally gung-ho about the psychic reading but I was much more apprehensive. Even though they offered a palm & tarot card reading package for $20, I thought of taking that bill and using it towards... oh, I don't know... 10 boxes of Easy Mac and a pack of temporary tattoos. You know, something actually worthwhile.
The daughter piped up, "I already see a lot of big things coming towards you very soon. You should do the reading so I can tell you more about them." If her pupils had suddenly dilated with dollar signs, she wouldn't have been more obvious.
But Hermosa hounded me into it and the mother relegated us to her two daughters, both in their early to mid 20s. We were led into their eerily clean living room where Hermosa was seated on the bleach-white sofa and I was taken to the glass dining table.
I seasoned her deck of tarot cards before she laid them out one by one in specific formations. My tarot card reading reeked of shit as she pulled it out of her ass. Oh, I've been working hard towards my career? Gee, don't know any other 20-something year old doing that. Sometimes I'm physically tired because of negative energy? You don't say.
The palm reading was even worse. She first opened by pointing between Hermosa and I and stating omnipotently, "I sense a connection between you two. Are you dating or friends?" What other options are there for two people who you saw walk in together no more than 15 minutes ago?!
And it just went downhill from there. She told me that I was closer to my dad than my mom; my mom is super affectionate while my dad responds to "I love you" with a nod in my general direction. Apparently, I'm worried about my younger sibling despite being the baby of the family. Oh, and then this lovely gem happened:
Back Alley Psychic: Someone who hurt you in the past is going to contact you soon if not already.
Daily Virgin: I've only ever had two boyfriends. One is now my best guy friend and I've hung out with the other on multiple occasions since amicably splitting.
BAP: Well, maybe a friend who you wanted something more with?
DV: Look, if I wanted something more with any of them, I would've gotten something more.
BAP: Perhaps a coworker? Are you sure?
DV: Please. Just... no.
At one point, she asked to change positions because the shadows cast on my palms were giving her an unclear reading. I would've given myself a facepalm had she not been holding my hands.
The Afterglow: Total waste of [Hermosa's] money. It was great dinner fodder for afterward but I could have gotten a more accurate reading from Panda Express' fortune cookies.
Hermosa had been so enthusiastic about his first tarot card reading that he asked his psychic about the significance of each card. Every. Single. One. Of them. As a result, she only dealt half of the deck and stashed away the rest. Subsequently, their readings ended far earlier than mine. So what did they do during this waiting period? The early-20-something year old psychic decided to go grab her infant and force Hermosa to play with it. For 20 minutes. WHAT.
I knew psychics were convincing scam artists but I didn't realize they were so skilled as to make Hermosa pay to be a babysitter. That little voice is in awe once again. Now, where the hell is a periodic table or flu pamphlet or something...
Foreplay: Generally, I'd rather not waste money on entertainment akin to setting a pile of cash on fire.
Fortune telling is all mumbo-jumbo for the most part. I can get better advice by... oh, say a Magic 8 Ball or plucking petals off a daisy than shelling out hard earned cash to a professional con artist who believes she can talk to dead people. I've observed friends perform cold readings before and it astounds me how many people lap this psychic stuff up.
I'm not going preach from my pedestal though -- astrology, magic, and psychics used to intrigue me. A much more naive version of myself visited a psychic a few years ago on one of those whoo!-crazy-summer-with-college-friends-yeeeaaaah! nights. After the "energy reading" a little voice in the back of my head kept chirping That was so amazing! She knew that you had a boyfriend! And that you're a confused college student! Wooooow!!
That voice was swiftly squished by a science textbook (my roommate's at the time; not that I would actually have a science textbook in my possession -- pfft).
The Down and Dirty: Hermosa and I headed to what his iPhone deemed as the "Best Psychic in L.A.". Because true clairvoyants are located right off Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. In a tacky hovel of a home office. Obviously.
As soon as we stepped in we were immediately accosted by a mother-daughter team. Hermosa was totally gung-ho about the psychic reading but I was much more apprehensive. Even though they offered a palm & tarot card reading package for $20, I thought of taking that bill and using it towards... oh, I don't know... 10 boxes of Easy Mac and a pack of temporary tattoos. You know, something actually worthwhile.
The daughter piped up, "I already see a lot of big things coming towards you very soon. You should do the reading so I can tell you more about them." If her pupils had suddenly dilated with dollar signs, she wouldn't have been more obvious.
But Hermosa hounded me into it and the mother relegated us to her two daughters, both in their early to mid 20s. We were led into their eerily clean living room where Hermosa was seated on the bleach-white sofa and I was taken to the glass dining table.
I seasoned her deck of tarot cards before she laid them out one by one in specific formations. My tarot card reading reeked of shit as she pulled it out of her ass. Oh, I've been working hard towards my career? Gee, don't know any other 20-something year old doing that. Sometimes I'm physically tired because of negative energy? You don't say.
The palm reading was even worse. She first opened by pointing between Hermosa and I and stating omnipotently, "I sense a connection between you two. Are you dating or friends?" What other options are there for two people who you saw walk in together no more than 15 minutes ago?!
And it just went downhill from there. She told me that I was closer to my dad than my mom; my mom is super affectionate while my dad responds to "I love you" with a nod in my general direction. Apparently, I'm worried about my younger sibling despite being the baby of the family. Oh, and then this lovely gem happened:
Back Alley Psychic: Someone who hurt you in the past is going to contact you soon if not already.
Daily Virgin: I've only ever had two boyfriends. One is now my best guy friend and I've hung out with the other on multiple occasions since amicably splitting.
BAP: Well, maybe a friend who you wanted something more with?
DV: Look, if I wanted something more with any of them, I would've gotten something more.
BAP: Perhaps a coworker? Are you sure?
DV: Please. Just... no.
At one point, she asked to change positions because the shadows cast on my palms were giving her an unclear reading. I would've given myself a facepalm had she not been holding my hands.
The Afterglow: Total waste of [Hermosa's] money. It was great dinner fodder for afterward but I could have gotten a more accurate reading from Panda Express' fortune cookies.
Hermosa had been so enthusiastic about his first tarot card reading that he asked his psychic about the significance of each card. Every. Single. One. Of them. As a result, she only dealt half of the deck and stashed away the rest. Subsequently, their readings ended far earlier than mine. So what did they do during this waiting period? The early-20-something year old psychic decided to go grab her infant and force Hermosa to play with it. For 20 minutes. WHAT.
I knew psychics were convincing scam artists but I didn't realize they were so skilled as to make Hermosa pay to be a babysitter. That little voice is in awe once again. Now, where the hell is a periodic table or flu pamphlet or something...
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Virgin hangs ten
# 7 Never Have I Ever: Tried surfing
Foreplay: Discounting the lack of blond hair and scarcity of “like” in my speech, I fail at being the stereotypical beach bunny.
I curse the sun; I wear SPF80 sunblock religiously. The ocean freaks me out; who knows what's hiding in there -- it's not like you can actually see the bottom. I mean, have you seen Shark Week?! To put it simply, the beach and I just don't get along what with it wanting to kill me; last summer I took up boogie boarding only to have 3 lifeguards swim to my rescue from a gnarly rip tide as the weekend crowd looked on.
But I've always wanted to surf. It just looks so friggin' cool -- beach gods be damned!
The Down and Dirty: I pestered Hermosa enough that he agreed to take me surfing on one of the worst surfing days possible. As we drove into RAT Beach, the wind was pounding, the waters were choppy, and not a soul was on the shore. Hermosa and I soldiered on but if donning my wetsuit was any indication of things to come, I was going to be in a world of pain. That thing was trying to simultaneously choke me and give me camel toe.
It was time to get my feet wet -- literally. Initially, I was owning it. I expertly mounted the surfboard like Tera Patrick. I could paddle like a spry Golden Retriever. I even caught a small wave into shore boogie board style.
But somewhere along the lines, the beach gods noticed I was having fun and decided to put an end to it. This was brought to light when a rough wave suddenly wrenched me towards an unwelcoming mass of seaweeds at a less than leisure speed. Deciding it was better to jump ship than get a face full of slimy plant life, I lurched off the surfboard and promptly ate it on the rocky shore. Not having swallowed enough salt water through my nostrils, another wave decided to offer me a few more gulps.
I later drowned my sorrows in Sauvignon blanc and chocolate chip cookie dough cheesecake in between snotting sea salt into my napkin.
The Afterglow: You would think that I'd be deterred from ever stepping foot onto the beach again, but I am so pumped to kick some Poseidon tail! I want to surf f'real next time. None of this lame boogie boarding on a surfboard business -- no. I want to paddle out, catch a wicked wave, and flip off the ocean as I ride it in like the freakin' king of Siam on an elephant!
Alright, so that may be a little advantageous. I just don't want to swallow any more salt water. Is that too much to ask?
Foreplay: Discounting the lack of blond hair and scarcity of “like” in my speech, I fail at being the stereotypical beach bunny.
I curse the sun; I wear SPF80 sunblock religiously. The ocean freaks me out; who knows what's hiding in there -- it's not like you can actually see the bottom. I mean, have you seen Shark Week?! To put it simply, the beach and I just don't get along what with it wanting to kill me; last summer I took up boogie boarding only to have 3 lifeguards swim to my rescue from a gnarly rip tide as the weekend crowd looked on.
But I've always wanted to surf. It just looks so friggin' cool -- beach gods be damned!
The Down and Dirty: I pestered Hermosa enough that he agreed to take me surfing on one of the worst surfing days possible. As we drove into RAT Beach, the wind was pounding, the waters were choppy, and not a soul was on the shore. Hermosa and I soldiered on but if donning my wetsuit was any indication of things to come, I was going to be in a world of pain. That thing was trying to simultaneously choke me and give me camel toe.
It was time to get my feet wet -- literally. Initially, I was owning it. I expertly mounted the surfboard like Tera Patrick. I could paddle like a spry Golden Retriever. I even caught a small wave into shore boogie board style.
But somewhere along the lines, the beach gods noticed I was having fun and decided to put an end to it. This was brought to light when a rough wave suddenly wrenched me towards an unwelcoming mass of seaweeds at a less than leisure speed. Deciding it was better to jump ship than get a face full of slimy plant life, I lurched off the surfboard and promptly ate it on the rocky shore. Not having swallowed enough salt water through my nostrils, another wave decided to offer me a few more gulps.
I later drowned my sorrows in Sauvignon blanc and chocolate chip cookie dough cheesecake in between snotting sea salt into my napkin.
The Afterglow: You would think that I'd be deterred from ever stepping foot onto the beach again, but I am so pumped to kick some Poseidon tail! I want to surf f'real next time. None of this lame boogie boarding on a surfboard business -- no. I want to paddle out, catch a wicked wave, and flip off the ocean as I ride it in like the freakin' king of Siam on an elephant!
Alright, so that may be a little advantageous. I just don't want to swallow any more salt water. Is that too much to ask?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Virgin sings the blues
#4 Never Have I Ever: Recorded a song.
Foreplay: I hate hate hate being showered with attention if only for the fact that criticism and rejection scares the ever loving shit out of me. However, I do love to sing but rarely by myself or in public -- and never without liquid courage. I always grab a partner and a Screwdriver when hitting up some karaoke. While I don't believe ignorance is bliss, in this case it's freakin' euphoria. Oh, did I hit a flat note? I'm sorry, I can't hear over the rhythmic glug-glug of this fine bottle of Charles Shaw chardonnay.
I'd like to think I have a pleasant albeit low voice but middle school and high school choir is as far as my technical singing abilities go. Needless to say I was surprised, flattered, and anxious as all hell when Hermosa asked me to sing a duet with him.
The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me over to record a cheerful little diddly he wrote about self-righteous pilgrims. I really couldn't turn down an offer like that.
As I watched as Hermosa set up the equipment in his makeshift studio (a Macbook, Pro Tools, and a bad ass microphone in his bedroom) my feet began icing over. Now, I was totally game on my drive over. I had some time to study the lyrics, get the the rhythm down pat, and exercise my voice. But as I stared into the condenser mic my mind went blank, my trembling limbs couldn't keep a non-River-dance tempo, and my voice was going to either squeak or growl uncontrollably at any given minute.
I needed liquid courage. STAT. So we each had a glass of wine. And then another. And then a couple beers on top of that. I think one of us suggested that we start recording before our slur starts speeching. What?
We hit record and went through the song a few times before I got a chance to hear any of the tracks. I already knew I was off but I had no idea what to expect. What the hell was that? Was that me? Seriously?! I've been told I have a low, smokey voice but have I always sounded so... drag queeny?
We tried to forge ahead but the damage was done. I was like Punxsutawney Phil who saw his shadow and fled back down the hole to drown in self-deprecation and an unholy amount of discount Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I wasn't quite willing to give up until I had something decent to show for my efforts but this pilgrim business was working as well for me as it did with Pocahontas.
Hermosa suggested we switch to a more mellow, almost bluesy number he had written. Well, hot damn! Maybe the song fit my range better, or perhaps it was my fervent frustration, or it could've been because I was finally sobering up -- but I didn't sound too shabby this time 'round. I wouldn't go about posting it on YouTube, but I wouldn't mind playing it ever so quietly alone in my room when I know that my flatmate is gone for the weekend so that I can scream into my pillow when my vomit-inducing chagrin finally spills over.
The Afterglow: The sound of my own voice still provokes a full body shudder of mammoth proportions but it also baits my inner perfectionist to create a piece to be proud of. Recording is actually heaps of fun if you don't take it too seriously. I'd love to have another go at it; perhaps sans alcohol. Ha, who am I kidding?! Pass the pinot noir, please!
Foreplay: I hate hate hate being showered with attention if only for the fact that criticism and rejection scares the ever loving shit out of me. However, I do love to sing but rarely by myself or in public -- and never without liquid courage. I always grab a partner and a Screwdriver when hitting up some karaoke. While I don't believe ignorance is bliss, in this case it's freakin' euphoria. Oh, did I hit a flat note? I'm sorry, I can't hear over the rhythmic glug-glug of this fine bottle of Charles Shaw chardonnay.
I'd like to think I have a pleasant albeit low voice but middle school and high school choir is as far as my technical singing abilities go. Needless to say I was surprised, flattered, and anxious as all hell when Hermosa asked me to sing a duet with him.
The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me over to record a cheerful little diddly he wrote about self-righteous pilgrims. I really couldn't turn down an offer like that.
As I watched as Hermosa set up the equipment in his makeshift studio (a Macbook, Pro Tools, and a bad ass microphone in his bedroom) my feet began icing over. Now, I was totally game on my drive over. I had some time to study the lyrics, get the the rhythm down pat, and exercise my voice. But as I stared into the condenser mic my mind went blank, my trembling limbs couldn't keep a non-River-dance tempo, and my voice was going to either squeak or growl uncontrollably at any given minute.
I needed liquid courage. STAT. So we each had a glass of wine. And then another. And then a couple beers on top of that. I think one of us suggested that we start recording before our slur starts speeching. What?
We hit record and went through the song a few times before I got a chance to hear any of the tracks. I already knew I was off but I had no idea what to expect. What the hell was that? Was that me? Seriously?! I've been told I have a low, smokey voice but have I always sounded so... drag queeny?
We tried to forge ahead but the damage was done. I was like Punxsutawney Phil who saw his shadow and fled back down the hole to drown in self-deprecation and an unholy amount of discount Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I wasn't quite willing to give up until I had something decent to show for my efforts but this pilgrim business was working as well for me as it did with Pocahontas.
Hermosa suggested we switch to a more mellow, almost bluesy number he had written. Well, hot damn! Maybe the song fit my range better, or perhaps it was my fervent frustration, or it could've been because I was finally sobering up -- but I didn't sound too shabby this time 'round. I wouldn't go about posting it on YouTube, but I wouldn't mind playing it ever so quietly alone in my room when I know that my flatmate is gone for the weekend so that I can scream into my pillow when my vomit-inducing chagrin finally spills over.
The Afterglow: The sound of my own voice still provokes a full body shudder of mammoth proportions but it also baits my inner perfectionist to create a piece to be proud of. Recording is actually heaps of fun if you don't take it too seriously. I'd love to have another go at it; perhaps sans alcohol. Ha, who am I kidding?! Pass the pinot noir, please!
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