Tabula Rasa

For the past few days I've been having a crisis. Not a mid-life crisis because I can't afford a Porsche, but I guess it'd be considered something similar. It all started with the Dodgers game last week. The Dodgers game I went to and had a blast at. The Dodgers game where I was on the outset of celebrity.

It was a foul ball. Most people sitting in the area where foul balls are prone usually bring a glove. I didn't. First and foremost, because I don't own a glove. A close second is the fact that even if I did own one, I wouldn't catch the ball anyway. Whenever something scary is about to happen, I usually close my eyes and start humming. Trust me, it's hard to catch a ball when your eyes are closed and you're rocking. Its hard to catch anything besides weird stares.
But the section I was sitting in was behind a net, which serves the distinct purpose of ruining pictures and saving our lives from foul balls.

Except this one. It was in the latter half of the game, and the foul ball went up high and looked like it was coming down in my section. Fight or flight. What do I do? Grab my purse, stick it over my head and start chanting to myself. I know people have gotten hurt big time from attempting to catch a foul ball with their bare hands. I can't imagine the damage it'd inflict on a noggin. My noggin for that matter. And this being a baseball game? The seats are somewhat akin to an airplane. TIGHT FIT. There's no where to run. I can't dive onto the floor (I seriously contemplated that at the beginning of the game) because there's about 1.3 inches from my friend's knee to the back of the seat in front of him. So I shrivel up and chant underneath my purse.

Here's the thing: I always thought that in life or death situations, your life is supposed to flash before your very eyes. Trust me-I perceived this as one of those situations. HB and LG didn't think so. In fact, they were laughing at me. I was a one woman side show...
But anyway, so I was scared. Scared shitless. I DO NOT want to be beaned by a baseball. What if I go into a coma? I don't even know what kind of medical insurance I have. I assume I have medical insurance. Which hospitals are good? What if I get brain damage? So many questions so little answers. This I chalked up to a 'life or death' moment. What do I expect to be running through my head? Oh I dunno-maybe good memories? I'll even take some bad ones to mix things up. But NO. Nothing. No memories, no good throughts, no questions about the pearly gates (assuming I go up and not down). My mind was BLANK.

My conclusion: I haven't done anything worthwhile with my life. I'm almost 30, and I have a couple of degrees behind my name. I can't drive, don't know cardinal directions, and love ice cream. That about sums me up in one sentence. Hence, my crisis. As I was telling my coworkers, even Britney's done enough to last two or three lifetimes. I haven't done enough to fill up 10 seconds worth of time while I'm waiting to see if I'll get clocked with a baseball.

Sad.

I've done a ton of work with the Make A Wish Foundation of Greater Los Angeles. While that's fun and all, I think that that's basic. I firmly believe that everyone should do some kind of community service to make society a better place. So, I haven't done anything significant. Like cure AIDS. Or save someone from drowning. The only thing I've done is help an old lady across the street. And throw out the kitchen trash on a periodic basis...

A dash of ambition, two shakes of luck, a swirl of delirium

From: Legalmisfit
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 10:25 AM
To: EA; CT
Subject: RE: lunch tomorrow

Yeah—I’m trying to lose weight too. Don’t believe me? Ask Clint.

While we’re on the whole losing weight topic, here’s my new goal: to get Britney’s body (pre-marriage and subsequent downward spiral) before Britney does.

I know-lofty goals.

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EA's response???
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From: EA
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 10:32 AM
To: Legalmisfit; CT
Subject: RE: lunch tomorrow

I think that’s awesome. My goal is to make Beckam look like a couch potato… Talk about lofty goals

Think Blue

Earlier this week I went to a Dodgers game. My work thought that my coworker LG and I did a good job, well...at our job, so we got rewarded with some kick ass seats at a Dodgers game. When we got our tickets, the Dodgers were still in the running for a spot at the playoffs. We were stoked.

Oh boy-what a difference two weeks makes. By the time our game rolled around, the only way the Dodgers were going to go to the playoffs was if they won every game AND Arizona loses the rest of their games AND San Diego loses the rest of their games AND Colorado loses the rest of their games. Hold on...the Dodgers still probably don't have a chance.

Oh well.

But here's a pic of LG and I at the game. This was how close we were! 13 rows from the bottom!!!

Here's the thing about baseball games-they're actually not boring. Its a whole different world when you're at the game than when you're camped out in front of the tv watching. So LG and her sister left during the first or second inning (I can't remember which) to get food. They come back and the Rockies have scored two.

Legalmisfit: We're losing
LG: OMG what happened?!?!
Legalmisfit: I dunno. I was too busy looking for David Duchovny.

Yes, that was our actual conversation. And David Duchovny really was there. I have to give credit to HB-he's got hawk eyes. Me? Not such much. I didn't even believe him at first. So I'm going to add him to my list of celebs I've seen.

The parts of the game I saw were good. This meaning, yes, I wasn't watching the whole game. But I have A.D.D. so much can't be expected of me in the first place. Between looking for David Duchovny, eating a Dodger Dog, eating garlic fries, trying to find the damn malt guy (note to the uneducated like me-malt IS NOT ice cream), getting whiplash from trying to find the wave, and eagerly anticipating the 7th inning stretch, I really wasn't concentrating on the game. But it was fun and I had a blast.

Fight or Flight

You know that civilian who will run into a burning building because he see grandma on the second floor trapped? Or the guy who will run into the street to save a dog when a car comes barreling down? Well, I am neither of those.

My brain and body aren't equipped for 'fight or flight.'

A decade ago I visited my brother up in Washington state and we went white water rafting. I distinctly remember the instructor telling us not to hold onto anyone if they're falling out of the raft. On the raft floor are flaps that you put your inside foot in so you won't fall completely out. So if you grab onto someone by their arm, he runs the risk of dislocating a joint. Ouch. I remember the instructor telling us this before we began rafting.

Halfway through we hit a pretty big wave. Lo and behold, my brother starts flying out. Of course his foot is secure in the raft. And of course I lunge and grab his arm. I'm holding onto him for dear life. And of course I remember the instructor telling everyone not to do exactly what I am doing. But duh-I'm not letting go.

I CLEARLY DON'T FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS.

Last night I cooked for the first time in my new crib. Roomie wasn't around, and I told him that I'd get a fire extinguisher, but I didn't, which means I had to be super careful. I did, however, buy a small bag of flour. It had the capacity to put out a match.
I like searing chicken first and then dumping it in the oven to finish cooking. Especially with white meat-it keeps it from drying out. Before I start cooking the chicken on the stove, I go to see if I know how to work the oven. It has all over three knobs, but trust me, these things are difficult. I don't know when to preheat, but I think now is as a good a time as ever, so I turn the temperature to 350. Immediately I smell gas. Not gasoline like at Shell (that smells good), but the natural gas smell. Uh oh...and then there's a little ticking sound going on. I'm not sure what it is, but it can't be good.

I think most people would have immediately turned off the oven and ran. Either or. Both would be fantastic. Me? What do I do? I stand five inches away from the oven and count each tick I hear, similar to counting sheep at night. After counting to 45, I'm bored, so I walk to the stove, poke my chicken a few times with the pasta scooper, and throw it on the stove.

I'm surprised I'm still alive.

You Know I'm Bad, I'm Bad-You Know It

I've ordered a knife set and a spice rack from Amazon. It shipped Friday, and should get here by the 17th. I don't know why anything shipping from inside the US to another place also inside the US takes more than 2 weeks, but hey-I don't make the rules here. I got the spice rack because I was appalled that Roomie didn't have one. The apartment apparently doesn't come equipped with salt and pepper either. Well, now that I think about it, the spice rack doesn't come with salt and pepper. So I guess in two weeks I'll still be in the same boat. Hummm...
I sprung for a knife set because Roomie doesn't have one of those either. When I asked him, he replied, 'I have a knife or two.' Oh boy. One day I was digging in a drawer for said knives, and almost walked away sans 3 fingers thanks to his uncovered bread slicer =(
So knives and spices it is.

I tell Roomie that I bought these things when we're out at lunch. My life is so mundane that buying spices and knives is considered news. I give him hell because he doesn't have salt and pepper. And he responds with something along the lines of, 'I'm a guy-I don't cook. That's your job!!!!' So I fired back, 'Boy-I can poison you so fast...'

So let's now assess my two week stay here:
1) I've warned him of a possible fire as a result of my culinery skills
2) I've threated to poison him

I see the wheels in his head turning, wondering what kind of mess he got himself in by signing me on.

Black as You Wanna Be

Here's the thing: I love video games but I suck at them. I'm not big on violent gory stuff too. Or maybe I just love the idea of video games. Actually, I just love Yoshi and all the Mario Brothers characters (minus Daisy and Peach). Since Roomie is more mature than I, (or maybe Mario is seen as childish) he plays the 'adult' games complete with gore and carnage.

He's got a subscription to Game Fly, and this week, the game was Def Jam Icon. The sleeve mentioned something along the lines of 'starting a record label and signing artists.' I thought it was like a journey-similar to Donkey Kong. HELL NO. You're suppose to open a can of whoop ass on your opponent to the beat of the music. I think that's the part where EA was trying to integrate the music aspect of Def Jam into the game more so than its predecessors. Hubcaps spin and twinkle to the beat of the song. Roomie fought Luda. He fought Redman. He fought T.I. He fought Young Jeezy (who the fuck is Young Jeezy?)

Here's the amazing thing: after an hour, Roomie was kicking ass and taking names! He's the whitest white boy I know. I'm Asian and have urbandictionary.com favorited. Neither of us understood half of what was said. Maybe it was the Ebonics? Maybe it was the poor grammar? It was just incomprehensible.

So there's the option of building your own gangsta rappa. Or fighter. Whatever. I'm impressed with the amount of detail put into building your own person. Everything was adjustable. From the color of the eyes, to the shape of the eyes, to how high the cheekbones were-absolutely everything was changeable. And in the middle of it Roomie asked, 'How black do we want him?' Yes, even that was an option. Our guy (named aptly: Playa) did so well that he got $1,000 to go buy clothes. We're trying to sign on more people and get richer so we can afford to get him a grill (priced around $35,000). I'm not sure what the goal of the game is, but now I'm hell bent on getting him a grill. That's how we roll.

Denied

I love my new home. Its very comfortable, and by that I mean its nice but not over-the-top. Its tastefully decorated, lots of open space, and comfy. The thing I love about the complex is that someone was nice enough to steal three shopping carts and keep them in the garage. I know-it seems ghetto until you realize that without it, you're going to make 4 trips up and down to get all groceries in. Since I'm in the process of moving, I have much more than just groceries. So here I go loading up the cart. Groceries at the bottom of the cart. Then I have a garbage bag fully of dirty laundry that I threw in. Over the sides of the cart I draped the dry cleaner I just picked up. On top of that was a bag of toiletries, and a bag of miscellaneous items. This cart was chalked full of stuff. Across the garage I go. Up the elevator, and down the hallway. None of the flooring is carpet either, mind you. Its looks almost like huge brick pieces. I know I'm going to do this again tonight and tomorrow night. I'm seriously thinking of investing in some ear plugs it was so damn loud. The safari animals in Africa probably woke up.

Too bad I was so excited about my new place-otherwise I would have just felt homeless. I totally had the look down: dirty jeans, hair unkempt, huge part of my life wheeled in a shopping cart.

This is going to be my downfall in my new home: I can't get in. The lock doesn't turn for me. I had this problem when I first picked up keys, and two days ago when Lisa and I dropped off some items during our lunch hour. 5 minutes I'm fiddling with this lock. The door will not fucking open! So now here I am, sweating profusely, near tears, and my shopping cart is somewhat warped and threatening to roll away from me. AND I CAN'T GET IN!!! (notice how I'm already calling the shopping cart 'mine'?)

I call Lisa and ask her how to open my door. Her words, not mine: 'You have to be gentle with it-slide it in slowly and out again a couple of time, and maybe wiggle it around some.' (what are we talking about??)

Either way it didn't work. So the only thing I can think of doing is trucking the shopping cart back down to the garage. What a way to announce my presence. Off I go again clanking and baning down the hallway. At this point I'm not sure what to do. Oh-on top of all this I NEED TO PEE.

Finally I break down. I go introduce myself to my new neighbors and say, 'hello! I live next door and can't get in. Can you please teach me how to work the lock?'

I can't remember the last time I was so excited to be inside. Oh wait-probably the last time I had a tall cup of coffee and then ended up sitting for 45 minutes in traffic.

My roomie came home much later. I informed him that under no circumstance was I to leave the town home again. I'll deplete my checking account, savings account, stocks and mutual funds (in that order). Once I'm down to only having enough for a month's rent, I'll put in my 30 days. His response? 'Cool!'