My Brother, Casanova

My cousin recently got married in Sutter Creek, an old mining town in the Sierra Nevada Foothills that features nothing but bars, antique shops, and slutty girls in its historic downtown area. My family spent an entire weekend drinking that little town dry, and it is quite possible that my brother single-handedly did fifty percent of the work.

The night before the wedding there was a "Martini Party" for out of town guests. The bride's father's first mistake was allowing this event to be Open Bar, and his second mistake was inviting my family. There was only one way this evening was going to end, and it wouldn't be sober.

I drank with my family, went to a pretty PG-13 bachelorette party, and then crashed early, gearing up for the wedding extravaganza the following day. Despite the earplugs that I had shoved into my head I was jolted awake when my very large, very drunk brother, and just as drunk (but not quite as large) cousin came barreling into our hotel room at full speed trailed by beer-farts.

I peeled one eye open to see my brother lying on his back on the adjacent bed with two muffins: one clutched in his giant hand and the other shoved entirely in his mouth.
"Hey, Bren..." I asked, "Where'd you get those muffins?"

Through a fine spray of crumbs he slurred, "I have NO IDEA."

"Great." I thought, "Just great. Not only is he drunk and loud, he is also a muffin thief."

Unprovoked, he launched into a long and strange story about how he managed to woo some towney-chick by flashing his friend's NFL player card, and telling her he played for the Miami Dolphins. The story concluded with him saying, "On a scale of one to ten...I'd give her a four." Umm...what? He lied so he could make out with a FOUR?

Once the muffins had been consumed/ground into the carpet my brother and cousin passed out to the sound of their own OUTRAGEOUS snores. They snored so loud I was tempted to further my attempts at muffling the sound by shoving bits of muffin in my ears, but I chose zero sleep instead.

Recent Quotes

I nearly died of laughter when I heard these next two quotes:

1. "Sometimes burritos are more important than friends." ~Lee Black

and:

2. "I chose my college based on how likely I would be to meet to meet Eddie Vedder." ~Name omitted to protect the not so innocent

The aforementioned Eddie Vedder lover also added that she used to love him so much that she once lost all control of her bladder during a particularly intense moment at a Pearl Jam concert. I would have paid a lot of money to witness that.

Oh Grass Valley...

Please see the following link to get a little glimpse as to why I love Grass Valley.

http://www.theunion.com/article/20090509/NEWS/905089958/1001/NONE&parentprofile=1053

Male Pedicurists: Masters in Their Own Right

A few summers ago, my friends Jill, Kelsey, and I chose to go to a nail salon close to my house in Grass Valley. Jill and I smiled and laughed nervously as we watched the people working below us, slightly self-conscious of the condition of our feet. As it turns out, working at a Summer Camp in the dirt for two and a half months wearing only flip-flops can really do a number on your feet. As we had just returned from our summer-long dirt extravaganza, the dirt had become so ingrained in my skin that I honestly began to think that my feet were just naturally a different skin tone than the rest of my body. Needless to say, Jill and I felt somewhat rude showing up at such a classy place (and by classy, I mean Jades Nails located next to the Fish and Chips dive in the GV) with such atrocious limbs. In some feeble attempt to save face, I offered the explanation, "Uhh, we work at a camp." To which one of the pedicurists retorted, "I can tell." Whoops.

As my pedicure progressed, I looked down and realized that the all-too-friendly Asian American man that was working on my feet seemed to be breaking out in a sweat. He had been attempting to file off the calluses on my heels for a good fifteen minutes, and to no avail. He finally said, "You want calluses off? I charge you five dollars."

I was slightly taken aback, thinking that he had just said he was going to charge me five dollars extra to continue sawing on my hooves. However, I glanced at his little cart of goodies next to my chair and realized that he was motioning to a corroded looking jar with a well-worn label. I picked up the jar, and upon closer inspection I realized it was a jar of well...ACID. A jar of acid that they had obviously had in stock for far too long, and that was only cracked open when people with freak-show feet came in with concrete calluses. "Umm...you want to put acid on my feet?" I questioned. He nodded encouragingly.

While this whole event unfolded, Jill was nearly falling out of her chair she was laughing so hard, and I think Kelsey may have peed a little. In the most polite voice that I could muster, I replied, "Umm, no thanks, I'm going organic. I don't put acid in or on my body."

He smiled at me as he motioned to my impenetrable skin and said, "Dis why you single. Dis why you have no boyfriend." Amazing. Not only was he able to look at me and deduce that I was single, but he could also pinpoint the exact reason for my solitary life. Independence, Choice, Non wavering belief in staying away from anyone who belongs to a Clan or Guild are, apparently, not among the reasons that I am currently flying solo. Nope, the man giving me a pedicure had, in five minutes, deduced that I am single because of my Camp feet.

Well, this really pushed Jill and Kelsey over the edge, and they immediately deemed Jades Nails the best place EVER to get a pedicure. They agreed that the hour long drive from Sacramento was well worth it for the comedy show.

The man shrugged his shoulders, and, mood unaltered by my rejection of the acid, began dutifully filing my feet. However, in a final display of comic genius, he did begin singing Cisco's heartwarming and well known hip-hop hit "The Thong Song" in a voice that only an Asian American male pedicurist can produce. "Let me see dat thoooooong!" He crooned, as he looked up at me. I silently cursed myself for, once again, wearing a skirt while getting a pedicure, and I shoved the folds of fabric on my lap deeper in between my legs so that not even one sliver of light would reach my "no-no" parts, as Kelsey called them.

On the up-side, my feet looked FABULOUS, and the three of us did manage to completely weird-out an elderly woman who was getting her nails done by having a rather loud conversation about Brazilian waxes. I figure I broke even with humiliation/entertainment that day.

The Many Smells of My Home

I knew I was making a gamble the first time I ever set foot inside my current residence. Although it had just been "repainted,"* upon first setting foot inside the building an unusual smell that I described as a mix of stale cigarette smoke and Chinese food came at me like a smack in the face. Not being a stranger to horrible smelling places in San Francisco, I figured it was merely remnants of the previous 8+ tenants and that the place would eventually "air out" after we had moved in. I could not have been more wrong.

During the past four months that I have lived in the Brothel (as it is known amongst its inhabitants) I have experienced one of the oddest evolutions of smell that has ever existed. The Smell (which is now its own entity and requires capitalization) evolves daily, and, much like a box of chocolates (Holla, Forrest Gump!); you NEVER know what you're gonna get.
Each day before I open the door to my home I turn the key with a mix of anticipation/impending doom. It's never a question of whether or not The Smell will be there (because there is ALWAYS a smell), but whether or not the Smell will be so severe that it will make me gag as I walk up the stairs, or if it is in one of its more dormant phases and is currently being poorly masked by a scented candle or a cleaning product. And while the Smell is ALWAYS bad, the answer to the question, "WHAT is that smell?" is always different.

Some days The Smell is mold. Some days it can be described as old throw-up. I typically find myself associating The Smell with a wet dog, as its intensity tends to increase with inclement weather. No matter the form The Smell chooses to take on a particular day, it is evident that this beast is a shape-shifter the likes of which my roommates and I have never seen.

The largest problem with The Smell is that we cannot figure out where it is coming from. It seems to be most intense at the top of the stairs, but countless searches for a would-be rotting animal/piece of trash have left us puzzled, empty handed, and nearly sick to our stomachs. It appears that The Smell is inherently a part of the building, as if it were actually included in the blue print. It is entirely possible that The Smell is an integral part of the structural integrity of the building, and the entire thing would come crashing down if we ever did locate its source/secret hide out/lair. (I like to imagine that The Smell has a secret lair located somewhere underneath my staircase where it plots against me).

While one of my favorite things to do is solving mysteries and investigating strange occurrences, I have accepted that this is one case that I will just never crack. It is with this knowledge of defeat that I have come to terms with The Smell. While we will never be friends, we have learned to live together civilly...with the help of half a dozen scented candles.

*I think the landlord just opened a can of paint and threw it on the wall, coating all light switches and outlets in addition to the walls...and the carpet.

This One Time at Whole Foods

The Whole Foods across the street from my friend Jessica's old apartment in San Francisco is one of the greatest places in the world. I love all of the food, the people are friendly, and Good God, they even sell yoga mats! Every time I walk inside I can't help but think, "Orange-cranberry vegan cous cous! This place is great!"

One time Jessica and I were standing in line waiting for our organic-vegan-vegetarian-cancer curing groceries to be scanned when I glanced up and took a good look at the man who was running the cash register. Standing at approximately six feet, three inches tall and weighing in at around 140lbs, this guy looked as if he ate about one meal a week. He was dressed entirely in black and sported a plethora of colorful tattoos, most of which featured some sort of scull. His hair was shoulder length, parted on the side, dyed black and slicked back in order to show the world what a tortured artist he really was. To complete his unique look, he had curled the ends of his mustache up to form perfect little curls pointing towards the centerline of his face. Picture the mustache that Captain Hook had in the movie "Hook" and you will have the right idea. Of course, the mustache and his fu manchu were also dyed black.

Now, I'd like to think that I am fairly open-minded. I am fine with many types of life choices including only allowing the color black to touch your body. However, I thought I was going to explode from containing my laughter once I glanced down at our cashier's name tag. The name came into my view, and I quickly had to turn my back to the guy as I regained my composure. Predictably, our cashier's shirt boldly decreed that he went by the name, PANTHER. That's right, Panther. Like a giant black cat who terrorizes the wild lands of India, Panther. Before I turned back around, I leaned over to Jess and said, "Please look at his name tag." Jessica's eyes flicked up, landed on the name tag, and she too had to spin around in order to collect herself.

As we waited in line the man in front of us dropped a roll on the floor that had been balancing on top of his pre-made dinner. Panther, ever the courteous employee, said, "Don't worry; you can go grab another one. Hey...," he motioned to me, "hand me that one on the ground. Three second rule!" I thought nothing of it and bent over, laughing out loud and thinking to myself, "Oh that Panther, he is such a kidder!" However, my humor quickly turned to confusion as he did not throw the roll away, but placed it next to his cash register for safe-keeping.

"Are you really going to eat that?" The girl bagging our groceries asked. I glanced down at the spot where the roll had landed. Although it didn't look particularly dirty, common sense told me that a person should not be eating rolls that have fallen on the ground in a grocery store check out line where foot traffic tends to be particularly high. "Of course I am!" Panther cried. "People need germs and bacteria in their bodies to survive. That's why the Japanese freak out if they get a cold. They are so concerned with germs that their bodies do not get exposed to as much bacteria as they should. When they get a cold they feel like they are dying." Jess, the girl bagging the groceries, and myself nodded, more out of puzzlement than agreement, but Panther continued, "Why do you think all of those pioneers lived into their eighties? Because they didn't worry about germs all the time!"

It was at this point that I realized that Panther had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He almost had me with the Japanese thing, but his statements about the longevity of pioneers quickly changed my opinion. As we left the store I turned to Jess and explained to her that Panther was, in fact, incorrect. The settlers of this country usually died at an early age often due to poor hygiene and a general lack of knowledge of good sanitation practices. Jess nodded in agreement and assured me that the short life of the pioneers was a commonly known fact, although it had appeared to escape the comprehension of our dear friend, Panther.

So we left Whole Foods, and didn't stick around to find out if Panther, self proclaimed germ devotee and historian, decided to eat the roll. However, we did discover that Whole Foods is an equal opportunity employer, as they do not discriminate in the hiring process against large, black predatory cats that are usually found only in Asia.

Don't Forget...

Actual reminders I found programed into my phone:

1.CORN!
2.Call Therapist.