The last earthquake was on Easter. (Ah! aftershock!) Teebs, Mama Millz and I were just leaving the zoo, and that was a pretty big one, 7.2. This one was only 5.9 but it was epicentered closer and it was longer. And it was a mindfucker. There was the initial super crazy jolt and the requisite shaking to a slow fade (at which point TBU turned to me and said, earthquake?*) THEN it started all over again. Teebs and I casually went outside (he in his underwear, flaunting his adorable skinny legs) and the solid ground we were standing on continued to rumble for a good 15 seconds more. Earthquakes normally don’t bother me, I’ve been in a few in various situations (class, movies, the zoo) but this one was the biggest, strongest and longest (that’s what she said. HA! beat you to it!)

*Um YEAH it’s an earthquake! What the fuck else do you think it is? Our whole house is moving and creaking and THE GROUND IS MOVING! You were born and raised in California, I love you babe, but get a clue. This reaction was very similar to the one he had when we were at the zoo for the last earthquake. We were in the car getting ready to leave and just as he was about to turn the ignition he asked, why are you shaking the car?

I’m not shaking the car!

He turned to my mom, Are you shaking?

No.

Babe it’s an earthquake.

Not funny, stop shaking!

I’m not shaking, it’s an earthquake! I point to the sea of bouncing cars in the parking lot.

And even then he had a hard time grasping the concept. That was a pretty long earthquake too, we stepped out of the car after that whole conversation and it was still going. Anyway, Teebs needs better earthquake sense. Also it was really funny how the tourists lost their shit at the zoo. Downright amusing.

***

On Lady Gaga’s latest video: It’s like a film student mashup of everything having to do with the transition from the 80′s to the 90′s, including Madonna videos, with a sprinkle of Rhythm Nation (what with the bike shorts and general late early 90′s get ups) with just a hint of Christina Aguilera during her Dirrty phase. It’s like trying to make a gourmet meal out of everything you like and upon realizing it’s awful, you add something you know is terrible but you’re hoping it will somehow magically transform the shit stew you just made, respectively. Let me tell you, it does not work. That’s just the video, don’t even get me started on the fact that she’s just blurting out random Latin boy names, after the first chorus, TBU and I took over, Consuelo, Rigaberto, Domingo! It’s so painfully reminiscent of Madonna during her La Isla Bonita phase, there’s nothing performance art-y about it, not to me at least. I know that one could easily defend Gaga by saying that her whole schtick is about subverting fame and it’s constructs (and Madonna, Janet and Christina are perfect subjects), but in the end she’s a pop artist plain and simple and this was just pop rehash. I was already non-plussed by Telephone (the song itself and YES, the video too), this is just blech. Low point Gaga, sorry to say.

I’m so sure you needed my opinion on that. I consume entirely too much media.

***

The copious amount of media I consume is kinda my thing though. So continuing in that vein, The Tudors, on Showtime (and Netflix watch instantly!). I am loving this show. It stars Jonathan Rhys Meyers. I have conflicting feelings about him, I’m not a big celebrity follower so I may be confusing him with someone else, but isn’t he the one who flew into some sort of drunken rage at his mom and his sister and on an entirely separate occasion called someone a nigger when he wasn’t allowed on a flight? I mean, I SAY that I’m not a big celebrity follower but I certainly know a lot about somebody. I can’t find a picture of him where he doesn’t look ridiculous so I won’t provide one, but I assure you, he is a treat. I hope not too much of an asshole in real life because that would have an impact on my enjoyment of him.

Mmmm, yes, here he is. Not too ridiculous right?

Totally not ridiculous picture of JRM

Anyway, I loved him in Velvet Goldmine (see awesome photo above). Never thought about him again until I was browsing Watch Instantly and saw The Tudors. And I was like, Oh yeah, that guy! he was great in that one movie that made me want to do a ton of mushrooms and bathe myself in vomit and glitter! Right The Tudors, The Tudors. I could honestly do with less gratuitous sex scenes, yes I get the whole court was fucking everybody and it was all hush hush and dramatic, I get it, let’s be less cloying about it. Anyway, the costumes are unbelievable, really, really beautiful. Jonathan Rhys Myers does a surprisingly fantastic job as King Henry VIII. Surprising because I often find it hard to take ridiculously beautiful people seriously in serious roles. And I am captivated by Maria Doyle Kennedy, who plays King Henry VIII’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon. She has become my favorite part of the whole show. I know how the history goes and it makes everything so much more tragic and sweeping. Knowing how the story unfolds does not detract from the show, mainly because it is so loosely based on history if they weren’t freaking named right after the historical figures it might be hard to know it was about them.

Ha! Have you read this far? I don’t know what to tell you. The Millionizer is on media tonight.

***

The Millionizer has also FINALLY been accepted to nursing school! I got an A- in organic chemistry so that sealed the deal. I’m in. Now all I have to do is figure out a way to pay for it. I start July 12, I haven’t told my work and I am nervous as hell. I am also excited! Me! A career! Responsibilities that don’t involve sorting mail! Oh my goodness, could our little Millionizer be growing up? It might be happening folks, considering that she’s now 27. That’s 9 times 3! That’s late 20′s! That’s awesome!

Ok, ok, ok, ok now go watch Velvet Goldmine and report back, then watch the Tudors and lust after all the grandeur. Oh and this guy isn’t so bad either:

Henry Cavill, Gavin Rossdale lookalike and First Duke of Suffolk in The Tudors.

Well then, let’s go dilly some pickles and be nice to each other. Don’t pick at your skin!

The Millionizer has plans to do a post divulging all of her skin care suggestions. I was gonna call them secrets but that sounds like a lady mag trying to make you spend an entire hours worth of pay with the headline “Totally awesome butt secks secrets men want YOU to know!” I hate that shit. The headline would be in some gaudy neon color too. Tre gauche.

I showed my boob to some random bicyclist on the way to Costco tonight. TBU and I were recreating a “Want Bitty” skit and I pulled my boob out. TBU didn’t notice but the guy on the bike was like “did I just see what I think I saw?” Yes, you did kind sir.

Skip to about 1:20 for the gold. If you’re interested in mom boobs.

I played hooky (hookey? hookie?) from work today. I know, it’s only my third full week (well almost full) but I was so tired when I woke up this morning I almost couldn’t move. I haven’t been sleeping well since the transition. Speaking of transition. In Costco tonight I tugged on TBU’s arm and said, “You know you’re in so-cal when your local Costco in peddling acid wash and ed hardy inspired yoga leggings in a non-ironic, non-Halloween manner.” Ugh, the people in the lower half of this state, I am telling you.

That’s not to say they aren’t infesting more Northern regions, but this, this is where the hive is. The ones up there are just scouts. We visited TBU’s mom this weekend, or rather her house. You know, the one with the lake and the guards? We went out for a casual lunch on Saturday and there was this woman who I literally could not stop staring at. Her lips were an injury that she was parading around as a pout. And the boobs. I just really felt bad for her daughter. That poor girl. That poor flat chested little girl who is undoubtedly going to develop, if she hasn’t already, an unhealthy dislike of her body. Or not, because who am I to say? Just a girl with healthy C cups observing at a lunch counter.

Speaking of bodies or my body in particular, I have been having a thing with it. For pretty much all of my adolescent and adult life I have been trying to change it. See! That’s who I am to say! I wanted smaller boobs until I realized how awesome they were/are. Then I wanted smaller everything else. Smaller thighs, smaller stomach, smaller wrists, arms, hips, neck. I pretty much decided that everything about my body was just wrong. And I’m not saying I’m over all that, because I don’t think I’ll ever be. It has become such a normal part of my thought process, to dislike what I see in the mirror, that I don’t think the nueral passageways that connect those thoughts with my emotions will ever disappear. I don’t think I’ll ever see my thighs as they are, as beautiful. But I’ve decided that they just are, and that’s all I can do. I am tired of all the energy I spend on thinking about my body, how I can change it, how many calories I’ve consumed and burned. I am tired of wondering why I have the kind of luck to not have the kind of beautiful body I don’t have to work at. I am just tired of it.

This was all brought on because of the wedding. Of course, I am unoriginal and thought trying to lose weight for the wedding was a good idea. But the thing is, is that I was never trying to lose weight for the wedding I was trying to lose weight for the pictures of the wedding. I feared looking back at them and thinking how I could have done it, but I was just lazy. But then I realized I was probably the only one so focused on my flaws, the only one who noticed my double chin or the fact that my shoulder blades or collar bones aren’t readily apparent. And I was like fuck it.

But not like fuck it entirely, I am still working out five days a week and watching my portions and hoping beyond hope that something will budge. But I guess now I am just like, “It it what it is.” There is a hint of a sense of peace about it all but I am still predicting my future self being disappointed with my current self. But maybe my future self will be more awesome than I give her credit for. I don’t know.

TBU was asleep taking his night nap and I wanted him to wake up but I didn’t want to actually wake him up. So I figured I’d write a post. Because what inevitably happens is that I try to write a post and just when I’m all into it he wakes up and demands attention, like a child or a cat or something else that aggressively vies for your attention. Have I told you how I mostly write posts while the teebs sleeps? It’s the easiest time to get thoughts out and whip my fingers into a frenzy of flow. But before I started writing I thought, hey you know what self? Yes self? I think I should have some ice cream! Some really delicious, full fat, creamy ice cream. That sounds like a great idea self. It’s Friday, it’s ok to not have your usual dessert of frozen berries in a glass of soy milk. I rationalized that I started a bootcamp class and I was sufficiently sore, indicating that I had worked out at a pretty severe level and therefore deserved ice cream. So up I got to get my reward when guess who woke up? Yup that’s right, the cat. Who then woke TBU up. Now I’m typing this and he is all, whatchoo doin? He’s fixing his sound system so he can play his XBox and one of the cables isn’t working and he is narrating every thought to me. Knowing fulling well that I don’t give a shit about his game playing experience. Maybe it’s this cable. Oh. Wait. Now it’s working. No it’s not. Oh! It WAS this cable! I don’t care!

ANYWAY!

So there has been major wedding planning drama. It all started about 16 years ago when TBU’s parents divorced. Fast forward to last Monday when we met with the wedding planner that TBU’s dad wanted us to meet with. We went knowing full well that she is a crazy ass rich person’s wedding planner and that we could never afford her. But we were playing his game. The game he plays when he is dangling money in front of your face. After looking at the planner’s portfolio and drooling over these amazing weddings we found out that it was juuuuust out of reach. It turned out to be a much more reasonable number we were looking at.

Let me clarify something right here. I don’t need a crazy ass rich person’s wedding. I don’t need lighting effects, to be paraded in on an elephant or for doves to be released. I was, and still am, mostly concerned with everyone having a great time. What I found most appealing in a wedding planner was that someone else would deal with all the shit that goes into putting a wedding together. You know, someone to decorate, to clean up and to generally make sure everything goes as it should. That’s all I wanted. Really.

Ok, so now we’re looking at a much more manageable number with a planner but we’re still short just a bit. And we’re thinking, hey maybe throwing this party doesn’t have to be a huge chore, maybe we can hire someone to do the hard parts for us, leaving us more time to drink and get ready. So we go back to his dad and tell him the planner told us the bill would be no more than $1. And his dad is like, great! I am comfortable with that. He does some math and, in addition to what we’re going to contribute, he decides that he will give us $0.35 if AND ONLY IF, TBU’s mom will also contribute $0.35. He mentions the alimony he had to pay her for 15 years and how his resources are not unlimited but that she has resources and money money money. Then he asks how much my family is contributing (a far larger percentage of their annual salary than you are, thankyouverymuch). Mind you this is a man of means, significant means.

So, we take this news back to TBU’s mom, we haven’t even asked her for more money (she has already commited to about $0.25 at this point, a generous and appreciated sum). We just get to the part in the story about how we liked the wedding planner’s portfolio and how, if it were possible, we’d like to have her do the wedding. THAT’S ALL WE’VE SAID when she starts bawling and screaming that from this point forward she is no longer involved in the wedding at all and that she will absolutely not give any money to a wedding planner. She said she would go to the wedding and support us and whatever but she would remove herself from any pre-wedding activities. And we are like WHAT. THE. FUCK. just happened?

She’s crying and telling us that her ex-husband is trying to control her (it’s probably true) and that he’s dicking everyone around with his moeny (again, true). Her current husband starts yelling at us, asking why we would even want a fucking wedding planner. Uuuuummm I dunno, how about not having to do any manual labor before my fucking wedding day? And then he drops the bomb (it was a bomb for me at least, others were far less affected). He says that it’s ridiculous that a groom’s mom should have to pay any money for the wedding. I immediately feel ashamed (that’s not accurate, but I don’t know how to accurately describe the exact feeling I had, however, it was terrible). So I start crying. I’m upset because the underlying theme of both of these conversations is that these people are giving money for a wedding they shouldn’t even have to pay for because my family doesn’t have the money to do it themselves. So here I am, this poor kid sitting on the patio of an extremely large house that resides on a man-made lake, where you have to pass through security gates to even get on the man made island. And not just a security gate where you enter a password, no, you have to talk to guards and they have to check your name on a list, like it’s the fucking Warner Bros lot or something. Now I’m crying and TBU’s mom thinks I’m crying because she won’t give us anymore of her money. Which is not the case. Truly, not the case. I am crying for two reasons 1. she is crying and I have a difficult time dealing with my and other people’s emotions and 2. I am being yelled at by a rich New York Jew about how my family should be paying for this and how I have to make a decision to settle things.

Oh yeah, did I mention that? That TBU’s step-dad started yelling at me to make a decision? No? Because he did. And that didn’t help me regain composure, not even a little. So I sit there silently, with tears rolling down my face, my lips quivering and trying desperately to regulate my breathing while TBU and his mom are screaming at each other and step dad is berating us for even thinking about getting a wedding planner and how I have to make a decision. Well it was pretty obvious that the decision had been made when TBU’s mom started screaming that she wasn’t giving any money if there was a wedding planner involved. They get up and walk to the end of their yard that meets with their dock, where their boat is waiting for them, bobbing up and down in the man-made lake they live on, so they can go on their nightly boat ride. We leave on our trip back to San Diego.

TBU calls his dad and says his mom won’t match his dad’s $0.35. Dad says that’s too bad and that is that. Now, I’m not upset with TBU’s dad because he won’t give us as much money as we’d need to hire the wedding planner. No, it’s his money, he worked for it and I see no reason that he should just give it away. But I am upset with him because he used our wedding as a way to control a situation with his money. He used our wedding to piss TBU’s mom off. He was being an asshole when I thought he would be excited for us. It’s complete bullshit that we know he could afford the whole cost of the wedding and has in fact offered to pay for a significant portion of it, only if TBU’s mom matched him. The only thing he was ever excited about was the opportunity to wield his bank account, probably because that’s the only thing he could wield that would cause a reaction. Fuck him. I guess (obviously) I was being naive when I thought he could rally and just be happy that his son was marrying the person he loved and who loved him back. Nope, this man is as creepy* in his head as he is on the outside. I never really liked him, but now I’m just going to avoid him. At this point I really don’t want his money, it would just make things mucky and gross. Like really, he won’t give a measly $0.35 when he was comfortable with $2 beforehand? You’ve played your cards dude now the only thing you’re doing is confirming that you’re an asshole. Congratulations! No one fucking likes you! There are more infuriating details but that is enough for now.

*One of many, many creepy things (including repeatedly commenting on my looks and staring at me like a pedophile) he’s done happened the day before this all went down. He came in from the pool in his speedo and sat down on the arm of a chair so that I was eye level with his geriatric junk. Then after a series of unfortunate inquiries on TBU’s part he went out to the street STILL IN HIS SPEEDO and put on a helmet, wrist guards and a fanny pack (we still don’t know why the fanny pack) and proceeded to demonstrate this device for us:

So please imagine a 70-ish man, in a speedo, a helmet, wristguards and a fucking fanny pack doing that in a rather upscale neighborhood. I could not make this stuff up I am not nearly creative or high enough. This man is a fucking loon.

Oh yeah and the wedding theme is Dirty Dancing. No joke, the best movie ever is the theme of my wedding, we have invites and shot glasses and everything. It’s going to be awesome, a little low budget, but awesome.

First dance to this? Or this? I love the chola clowns in the second one. You don’t really think this one do you? You fucking purist, although it is a good one. If Swayze dies before the wedding I swear I’ll include this one

*Why can’t the internet agree on one spelling of martial when concerning marshall law? I’m going with the single “l” because double consonants with no difference in pronunciation are so colonial. (If it sounds like I just made that up, it’s because I did, but it feels like I’m on to something.)

Tijuana is a study in world politics in itself. Yes, it’s ghetto, dirty, corrupt and the birthplace of the donkey show. But it also has wealth, world class culture, education and is an incredibly important border town, it is one of a few major US/Mexico border cities. Also, it was the first foreign city I ever visited. What happens in Tijuana happens in the US, environmentally and politically. More importantly, it happens where my mom lives. When I was growing up, late at night we would periodically hear a flock of helicopters circling a mansion close by. Inevitably the morning news told of the latest drug bust and the now incarcerated ring leader with helicopter footage of the carefully kept grounds. Once, a body was found a half mile from our house. That was the closest it ever got, but there have been many, many within a 5 mile radius.

Tijuana gets dismissed as a dusty, drunken party to be left before the buzz wears off. TJ though, is special in ways I can’t even explain. I’m no expert but it is a dialectic between so many things: Anglo/Latin worlds, poverty/wealth, depravity/culture the list is endless. When all these things get mashed together, and the fact that it’s the last stop between Colombia and the huge cocaine market of the “wealthy” Americans, you get Tijuana. It couldn’t exist in its current form under any other circumstances. There is a reason it’s world famous.

As best I can understand it, the deal is this: there are two major drug cartels (Arellano-Felix Cartel and the Jaurez Cartel) a leader of Juarez died, now the AFC is trying to overtake them and their territory. This is what the movie Traffic was about, and shit has only gotten worse since then. At first the bodies were dumped behind buildings in the middle of the night. Now full blown shoot outs happen in the middle of the day on crowded streets. Innocent people die because they were in the line of fire. They aren’t small crime scenes either, these battles leave 10-30 bodies in the street at a time. What’s more, the cartels spend over $1 million a week in police bribes and they have sophisticated military grade weapons. They’re no joke.

TJ isn’t the only Mexican city to deal with violent drug cartels, cocaine has to travel up from Colombia somehow. Unfortunately, the news of all this gives people the impression that traveling to Mexico will get you killed. And that may be true of a visit to Tijuana but overall, that couldn’t be further from the truth. So when people joke about the shit hole that is Mexico, on the surface it’s true. But on a deeper level it bothers me because its been colonized several times over and each colonizer has taken what they wanted and left the aftermath to work itself out. And what we’re seeing now is still the aftermath. I think that’s a point people miss sometimes. The gold and silver mined from Mexican soil created rich economies in Europe especially Spain. Those cathedrals drenched in gold? Yeah that’s from some Latin country, most likely Mexico (or what used to be Mexico).

Consider the violent parallels of the colonial oppressors and the native drug cartels. I mean the country has been almost completely stripped of its mineral wealth so it’s only natural that people make money off the land in other ways. If cocaine weren’t regulated by the United States, we wouldn’t see these drug wars. So in a way there is still a colonial presence, except it’s not involved in violence directly but it’s complicit in it.

In an effort to keep my mind off my UCSF application I’ve become more and more obsessed with Mexican goings on. But I’ve just replaced one stressor with another. I mean, faaahck, it’s a bloody soap opera and my mom is like right there giving me a play by play. She even sees victims of the fallout in the ER where she works.

The Millionizer is at Flashcamp

Their reply email um, replied with, ” We’re not ready to open the ad network to general applications, but we saw your wonderful blog on our waiting list, and didn’t want to keep you waiting!” At first I was flattered. But immediately after I was flummoxed.* Was I really that special? So special as to warrant a rush to the head of the line? I wondered if they made everyone sign up and wait for an invitation only to give them a “special” invite 2 hours later.

*I’ve been studying for the GRE and flummoxed just flowed out on to the screen. I had to stop a second and ask myself, “Wait, was I flummoxed?” I looked at my flashcard and confirmed, I was indeed flummoxed.

Regardless, I finished the application, which included my address and social security number. So some very unknown people have pretty much all my information. Right after I sent it, I realized I should have put my mom’s PO box as my address, but oh well. Do I trust the Blogher ad network? I guess I trust them enough.

I have a fear of losing my anonymity though. My mom won’t say a word if my video camera is in the room, on or off. I can’t imagine how she’d react if she found out I mentioned sex on the internet. I’ve read a few old posts and they’re not too bad, but they’re not too great either, from a mom perspective. I know they will generate conversations I don’t want to have, that’s my biggest concern. And there might be a few confidentiality issues with work. But whatever, I make double minimum wage, they can fuck themselves. However, they do pay for my health insurance. I can make some strategic edits, I guess. I did read some things that made me cringe with embarrassment, and not even the overtly ridiculous posts. It was more randoms exclamations and terribly worded sentences.

I pretty much brushed these fears aside and told myself that none of it mattered because Blogher can promote all they want, it doesn’t mean anyone is going to actually like and continue reading this thing. Other than the fact that I publish this blog, there is nothing special here. This self deprecation managed to calm me down. It usually does. Existentialism is magical.

Of course I have to deal with the question, “Am I selling out?” Which is dumb because there is nothing to “sell out.” I think on a typical day maybe 30 people read this blog. A nice round, fathomable number. I like 30. It’s not like I’m sitting on a thousand acres of rainforest and selling to a factory farm that wants to import cheap beef to the US. I am fine with my decision. It is kind of weird though, somehow themillionizer.com becomes less of all mine. Knowing I can always opt out and go back to the way things are right now is comforting though.

If the ads could even pay for hosting it would be awesome. That’s totally plausible because it is cheap and inferior. Oh! It would totally blow my mind if it paid for my hosting AND my internet bill. And if it allowed me to quit my job and touch myself all day. Well, you know I would.

Here’s to hoping it doesn’t get out of control.

My mom got my hair done last night before I got on the plane. I was like, Mom, I’m getting pink stripes in my hair. And she was like, No you’re not. -Yes I am. -Not if I’m paying for it. <giggle, giggle> I got my hair done while she was at work. And it’s pink. I’ve never had my hair colored professionally, like professionally primary colored. I’ve always gone to the drug store and made my bathroom the scene of a murder. But it turns out so much nicer when someone who is paid to do it, does it. Mom loves it. She liked it even better as she watched me go through security at the airport and easily spotted me. She called me as I was going up the escalator to the terminal and stalkerishly whispered, I see you, you’re on the escalator. I turned around and we blew each other kisses. I miss Mom, she’s amazing. She’s 56 and working on her bachelor’s degree. How cool is that? She also chastises me for judging people in the same breath that she points out a teetering fat lady in sausage jeans and toothpick stilettos. We watch intently, one day that inappropriately dressed fat lady is going fall and we’ll be ready.

Also, my former co-worker got a sewing machine and it’s the exact same one as mine. No big deal, except that I’m a dork and read her post about getting a noise machine and ran out and bought the exact same one. I’m using it tonight for the first time. I hope it’s as effective as the fan. I love me the fan. What you’re thinking is, So the fuck what? You would be right, I have no point to this. I am just easily amused.

I had a jolly good time in San Diego this Christmas. There were hangovers (totally Sir Chinko’s fault) but there was no peeing on myself or throwing up. And that is what I call a success. Sir Chinko deftly summarizes my non-Mom related experiences here and here.

X is supposed to be in the Santa C next week. I hope she isn’t teasing me like she used to do with the boys back before she was a mondo slut. Except now she is just a slut for Snake. So it’s like it never happened. It’s just because I love you X. And also because I’m terribly jealous of your sexual exploits. Terribly. My point being that I AM SO EXCITED THAT X IS (maybe totally, hopefully?) COMING TO VISIT! Drinking and loud laughing, woot!

Ok, let’s all think about p-kitty’s mass shrinking into the ether and never returning.

The Millionizer has poor boundaries and just spent like 4 hours registering for Yelp. Don’t waste your time, it is easier and more satisfying to just start a whole new blog of your reviews. Because hay-seuss kreesto customizing that shit is impossible. Yelp, fix yo shit.

[tags]lymphoma, yelp, san diego, christmas, inappropriate imagery[/tags]

Drunk and stoned-over, grasping at straws.

First off, I can’t wait to see Superbad. You should go see it too. An R rated teen movie that isn’t retarded like America Pie? I’m in. Also, Michael Cera was in Arrested Development and rocked my face off. I’m in. Did I say that already? I’m not even going to look before typing.

Second, I forgot to tell you all that when my mom and I were in SF last week we were walking our cocktails off and saw Good Vibrations across the street. Knowing what it was I ignored its presence. But my mom was all Good Vibrations! What is thaaaat?

It’s a sex shop mom. A world famous sex shop.

A sex shop? We should go in! God bless my mom. Because she was sincere to the core.

Uhhh. OK? … Wait, no. I don’t want to go in there with you.

You mean you would go in there, just not with me?

Yes.

But I’m your mom!

I know!

Oh. Right. But we should still go in there!

The conversation ended when I flat out refused to go in and told her there would be no other way about it so just stop asking. When we passed by she stuck her head in and yelled out to me on the sidewalk, It looks so clean and friendly! It’s like they’re buying shoes in there! My mom is the best tipsy friend a girl could have. It is to be expected from the woman who had me singing along to “Sexual Healing” at six.

Third, you know what the best kind of dinner party is? The impromptu kind where a friend calls just as you are about to start cooking and you invite them over. No anticipation, no fretting just hanging out. Love it.

The Millionizer is the verb doer

[tags]Bret Michaels, Good Vibrations, San Francisco, sexual health[/tags]

It was 1993, the summer of Heidi Fliess, Lorena Bobbit and Jurassic Park. A beautiful summer in San Diego. Our moms were single and worked full time. Which I guess influenced their decision that at 10 years old Lassie and I could take care of ourselves and Lassies 6 year old sister. I was dropped off in the morning and picked up at night. Every waking moment was spent together, sometimes the Christian sluts from across the street hung out. They weren’t sluts yet, but then again they weren’t 13 yet.

We grew restless in the summer heat. By August, our imaginations had waned. We’d mixed every permutation of house potion we could think of. We’d broken one of at least every thing in the house. Lassies little sister had cut her foot on glass that we broke no less than twice. We actually caused her mom to cry when we made Indian shoes out of her old Boston fern. We were out of ideas, until…

One morning I walked into Lassies house, waiting for her mom to leave. I innocently sat at the kitchen table reading Goosebumps or some such nonsense, looking light years away from the holy terror I would become once the garage door closed. Lassie met me downstairs with a crazy look in her eye. When her mom left she motioned me into the garage. She showed me a glass bottle that had once held Juicy Juice. It was almost full with liquid in a very familiar shade of yellow. She couldn’t stop grinning. She held it up like she won an award she wanted me to admire. She didn’t say a word the whole time.

I asked her what it was. She didn’t tell me. But she did say that last night she and the christian sluts from across the street became paranoid with the possibility of a burglar. Ok… So they devised an ingenious solution: They would all pee in this jar. And if anyone ever entered their house they would throw it in his face. The assumption was that it would be just so foul the intruder would immediately give up and retreat in shame. I saw some flaws in this plan. 1) The jar was kept at Lassies house, what if someone was in the christian sluts house? Were they supposed to run over, pound on the door and ask her mom for the jar of pee? 2) The fact that the jar was kept in the garage was the most reasonable part of the plan. However, what if the victims didn’t have access to the garage in the intruders presence? 3) Who has the fucking wits about them to fetch a jar of pee, unscrew it and get aim at a burglars face? 4) After all is said and done, how are you going to feel now that you’ve gotten stale pee all over yourself and your house?

None of this reasoning stopped me from peeing in the jar. Lassie handed me a pale blue thingy to pee into and then pour in the jar. Looking back, I peed in what could only have been an Easy Bake Oven measuring cup. My pee was in that jar, I was as dumb as them. We were bored and it passed the time.

Fast forward to the summer of 2001. Lassie and I were getting ready to move to college which is a natural time to get rid of a bunch of shit. Working on the last shelf in the garage there it was, eight years old. Still as yellow as ever. Never having fulfilled its destiny. It was a nasty remnant of a reckless summer. Now it was staring back at us. Lassie and I locked eyes. We knew what it was and did not want to touch it. Finally her mom came over and picked it up. We stopped everything, our hearts thumping. We did not want to explain if questioned. Her mom asked, What is this, is this juice? We said nothing. Her mom began to unscrew the cap. Silence. Should we save her from what she was about to experience? But if we did that, we would have to explain that eight years ago, 4 girls peed into the jar she was holding and left it to stew in relentless Southern California heat. She brought the jar to her nose. Why? Why would anyone bring an unknown substance closer to their face? Lassie and I didn’t move, we wanted no part of it. She caught a wiff and jerked her hand away, spilling eight year old pee onto her hand and sleeve. It splashed onto her shoes and dribbled onto her pants. We couldn’t move. She immediately screwed the cap back on and said, Well whatever it is, it’s old, and threw it away. She never changed her clothes, we said nothing. We were off the hook. No embarrassing explanations of how we went into the bath tub with no pants and squatted over an Easy Bake Oven measuring cup and then poured our pee into a collective jar. No explaining the genius theory of house burglars don’t like pee on their faces. Just like that, the summer of 1993 was simultaneously taken away and seared into my memory.

[tags]1993, childhood, Lorena Bobbit, Heidi Fliess, pee[/tags]

One: When I was in 4th grade I was completely madly and totally in love with Ian. Ian lived across the street from a former friend (a friend deeply involved central to the Pee Story, which I swear to god is coming). From 4th grade on we (she wanted his ass too) perched at her bedroom window for hours on end waiting to catch a glimpse of Ian in his bedroom. Oh god! Ian in his bedroom! The wonder, the fascination, the brief brief moments of glory. This obsession lasted a few years. We didn’t talk about it much after elementary school, but it was still there. Ian was in our circle of friends so we had some precious face time with some regularity. Ian was mormon, had a “blended” family and shared a room with one step brother. In 6th grade there was a rumor Ian had a crush on me. Ha! suck it former friend! Alas, nothing ever came of this. Mostly because Ian actually had a crush on Heather, the blond gymnast. I couldn’t hate Heather though, because she was my friend and generally a good person. I am getting away from my point here.

My point is that in 8th grade, the flame of my passion still burning strong albeit silently, our school participated in some JUST SAY NO campaign. This consisted of the entire school tying red ribbons on the fence in the shape of JUST SAY NO. The effect being passing cars able to see our commitment to Nancy Reagans lasting impression on American youth. But I didn’t tie my ribbon on the fence right away. I fashioned mine into an AIDS ribbon and wore it around for a couple hours. Feeling quite proud of my knowledge of important world events. It was lunch time and our clique was cliquing. Ian came up to me and noticed the ribbon. He noticed! He opened his mouth to speak to me. My breathing slowed. I didn’t want to miss a single syllable from his mouth. Ours eyes locked, So you support fags? The words almost killed me on the lunch lawn. I ran to the bathroom and forced myself not to cry while my face contorted. Fuck you Ian. I do support fags. But AIDS isn’t fag disease, asshole. His hateful words dashed the beautiful image I had of him. In my mind Ian was a sensitive man with at least as much world knowledge as myself. In one quick sentence our future was over. In one quick sentence I was reminded that we were in 8th grade and to get over myself. But Ian was still an asshole. I never really talked to him that much afterwards. In high school he went on to play football and become the blonde blue eyed jock we all love to hate. He was also prom king and voted BMOC. Assholes are like that aren’t they?

Two: Last summer (or the summer before, I can’t remember) I visited X in Berkeley. More specifically Cloyne. Wait this link better summarizes my experiences at Cloyne. This memory is rendered much shorter by its inherent hazyness. I do know I was visiting X and if you go to the first link I parked right there. This was a time of extreme poverty on everyones part. So when I got there 3 of us walked to the local liquor/grocer and bought 2 packages of a ramen noodle variant. X and I shared 1 made with extra water so there would be more broth to share. It was still daylight by this point. The time line goes dark for 3 or 4 hours. The next thing I remember is getting ready for the ho-down at another co-op and X telling me that she’ll meet us there because she has a date to make out with some guy whose girlfriend is out of town. I could not make this stuff up. I refused to wear anything remotely ho-downish but still manage to get down with my bad self. I wore a purple sequin top and black dance pants. It was awesome. The ho-down got shut down, not by the police, I forget why. But not before I embarrassed myself in front of not 1 but 2 friends’ younger siblings. I hope they were drunk enough to forget what they saw.

Ok so natch the after after party is at Cloyne. X is still no where to be found, I imagine kissing evolved into heavy petting and so on and so forth. I’m dancing in a room, it’s dark, I’m drunk. I see a brown lab bottle neatly labeled Brain Juice. I should have known better. I really really should have. I open it up and take a deep breath. Oh shit. My last clear thought of the evening: ether. By pure luck some douche elbows me in a fit of grace. The bottle spills all over me, it’s in my hair and all over my clothes. You know what this means right? I can’t stop getting myself high. I am high off my ass on ether and there is nothing I can do about it. Everyone around me is taken victim. I passed out on a pile of (dirty?) clothes and woke up the next morning with my brain swollen shut. It was a completely amazing weekend. Dancing and unintentional drug use made possible by theft from a UC Berkeley science lab? Hell yes. God bless the Clones, every last one.

The Millionizer needs more of the latter

[tags]AIDS, Cloyne, Berkeley, Brain Juice, I hope all mormons aren’t like this[/tags]

When I was younger, way before I had ever gotten my first kiss, my mom would always ask me what my type was. You know, what type of boy I liked. I never had an answer. At that point my type was any boy that would give me the time of day. I think it was an unfair question for two reasons. One: how was I supposed to know? I had never even been kissed, I wasn’t about to limit myself to one particular segment of the male population. Two: I think she traumatized me, unknowingly of course, but traumatized nonetheless. I am going to tell you a little ‘dote and I hope my mom never ever finds this website because if she reads this she will cry from guilt (maybe. she might just laugh). In third grade I was totally madly in love with Grant Lee (so presidential), he could have been the poster child for the aryan nation. He was blond*, blond, blond with blue eyes and I thought he was just amazing. After picking me up from school one day I was all giddy and my mom wanted to know why, so I told her I just saw Grant and I was so excited because I loved him. Those actual words, I said I loved him, I was that sure. And instead of saying something motherly and reassuring she blurted out, How do you even know what love is? I remember it word for word because it was like a punch in the stomach and it sucked the air out of my lungs. She made me doubt the validity of my feelings. I figured she was right, how could I know what love was, I was only 7? I never told her about any of my crushes after that. If I did it was in a, Hey this is my friend Carlos, kind of way. It took me 3 months for me to say anything to her about TBU and that was more than 10 years after the Grant incident. And even then I minimized our relationship to her. Now, I’m not a parent but I know parents are people too and they can’t always say the right thing all the time. And I’m sure she would take it back if she knew how it affected me. So, I’m not really angry about it, it’s just something I thought of recently because I finally figured out what my type is.

*Blonde or blond? Is it different for men and women? If so, fuck that.

Before my trip to San Diego, TBU and I bought MP3 players. While trying to fill 30 gigs I noticed a trend. Most of the male artists had 3 characteristics in common, and it happened that I had a mild crush on them. Skinny white boys with dark hair. Then I looked at TBU and yep, skinny white boy with dark hair. I am not one of those people who likes a persons music because she thinks he’s hot. I mean there are plenty of skinny white boys with dark hair whose music/bands I don’t like. Take for instance Third Eye Blind. And there are plenty of musicians on my MP3 player who don’t fit that description like Ben Gibbard. I wouldn’t touch that with a 10 foot pole, but I will make out to his music.

It all started with Rivers Cuomo, I was 12 and had been subconsciously turned off to blond men. It quickly spread to Chris Carraba and unfortunately Brandon Flowers and many others. I don’t know what it is. I don’t even mind the eyeliner. In fact, it does it for me. There is something fundamentally more intriguing and aesthetically pleasing about a guy with dark hair. Everyone else can have their Abercrombie model, give me some emo hipsters. I like the Britpop boys who spasmatically stomp their feet to the beat. I like the acoustic guitar players. I don’t care if it’s shaggy dark hair, straight dark hair, or whatever. I hate facial hair though, it makes me think certain sexual acts are going to be painful. I also found a trend in the kind of female musical artists I tend to like. Put simply the theme would be, over the fucking top. Gwen Stefani (although she is biting something hard these days), Karen O, Fiona Apple (that girl has some anger management issues to sort out), Debbie Harry, Janis Joplin and Peaches to name a few.

So that’s my dirty little secret, I like skinny white boys with dark hair, I don’t mind the eyeliner or emo music. I’ll sing along like a 14 year old. Sir Chinko and I will go to that Dashboard Confessional concert and push 12 year olds out of the way to get to the front. We’ll do the same thing at a No Doubt concert. Fuck it, we’re bigger and stronger.

The Boys

Rivers Cuomo

Chris Carraba

Brandon Flowers

The Girls

Debbie Harry

Peaches

Fiona Apple

Karen O

What’s not to love? Sorry, but I didn’t feel like taking the time to format all the pictures. So you’re going to have to deal with the bad middle school yearbook feel. So that’s that, I like my men quirky and my women crazy.