More photos, I'm bored.

J doesn't like to pay attention when there are ladies present. Or ever, really.



Neither does his big brother.



I told you there was flash flooding!

Gross, Yet So Funny

There is a new game in the fraternity house I call home.

See, I am the only girl in the house. I live with T, T's brother J, J's friend M, and several weekends of the month the youngest of the clan (T is the middle child of 9, have I mentioned this before? 7 boys and 2 girls all told.), the 16 year old A.

The game is called "Godzilla".

The boys will drink gallons of soda and belch at each other across the house. It makes me laugh to no end. (I am a 17 year old boy at heart. I would have to be, with all the dick and fart jokes that surround me at any given moment.) A is currently working on a two liter of root beer, which he is drinking without the glass. T is reaping the benefits of that one, as I have hidden myself in the dining room.

J and A have taken to making dramatic vomiting sounds whenever T and I kiss each other. This is also hilarious, but we have made them swear to not do it during the wedding ceremony. Fire at will during the reception, but ceremony is off limits.

The only way I can counter all this "boy time" is to announce things having to do with my girlish-ness. They don't listen--only fart, burp and throw things. I have been solidly accepted as a sister, and with that comes the "I'm going to hold you down and fart on your face" and "I'm going to make shrill screeching noises at you while you're trying to talk on the phone" act. (It seems that boys don't grow out of that sort of behavior. Ever. I'm sure that when we are all grandparents they will be doing crap like this.)

Having been raised as an only child, with only adult sisters, this is a new and semi-refreshing experience. Aside from the smell, of course.

It's nice to know that they accept me as family. It's also nice to know that as much as they rub their dirty socks on my face, they will help me in any way I need it, and stand up for me if necessary.

I suppose it's a decent trade off.

Isn't that the meaning of family anyway? I'm going to smother you with gas and B.O. and then threaten to kill anyone who harms you. Because I care.

There are worse things, I'm sure.

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On a similar note, another game that was famous when the boys were smaller is called "Butt-Chewy". This involves two of them running at each other from as great a distance as possible, and then at the last minute leaping in the air and spinning so that you hit the other person with your butt. Whoever flies the furthest after being hit loses, I think....

J and T attempted to recreate this a few weeks ago, and it did not end well. They both collapsed to the floor of the dining room in pain and laughter, while I laughed and choked and tried to make sure they were alright and hadn't broken anything that belongs to me. (They hadn't.)

It has been decided that Butt-Chewy is and was easier when you weigh less than 200 pounds and are 12, rather than 27. Also, when you and the sibling you are leaping into are similar in size. (Puberty does strange things like, oh, making people grow taller.)

Yeah. Never a dull moment, I tell you.

Vegas, Baby.

We have returned from the desert, unscathed. We drove 500 more miles than we needed to in order to see the Grand Canyon, (Which is really big. No, I'm serious.) but other than that, everything was great.

And here are some photos to prove it.

Here we are at Tao, a restaurant/nightclub in the Venetian hotel, for T's sisters birthday. (That's the beautiful A in the background.)



The food was amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I broke a major rule and consumed sushi in a landlocked state. (In the desert, no less.)

We did have some adventures in eating, however. Whole baby crab, anyone? (Not alive, thankyouverymuch.)





Then we went to an exclusive part of the Tao nightclub, up on the roof, (Tao Beach, for those link-clickers out there. No, I'm not linking again.) where there was a lot of drinking, some dancing, and a bit of black-mail photo taking.

Note that they are not posted here. :)

The next day, we went and saw a Cirque De Soleil show, which was awesome. We had amazing seats, and I think everyone loved it. T's brother J would have liked it more, I'm sure, had he not been sitting next to me. (There are lots and lots of boobies in this show.)

Later, after sending the beautiful C (remember her from my birthday posts? College roomie?) back to the airport, my friend from HS J (I really need to assign people fake initials on here. Too many J's.) came down and we drove to the Grand Canyon.

Hoover Dam, anyone?




And then onward to the Canyon.






The photo where T is standing, arms outstretched, on a rock outcropping? Yeah, well....I was terrified of him flinging himself over the edge. So terrified that I went out there myself. And clung to him like a baby koala bear.

All in all, a great trip.

(Oh, and Brian? The flowers in the last post are a type of wild foxglove.)

Finally, photos

So this is going to be photo heavy.

Remember when I told the story of T and I staying up all night to watch the sunrise/I was terrified by a seal?

Here is the proof.







Yeah, so it's five thirty in the morning and I have been up all night in that pic. Forgive me and my lack of eyelashes.

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Ok, so here are some pics from my holiday weekend, where I spent my time trying to pretend that I don't hate most of my family, hiking the most aptly named beach on the planet, and eating a lot.






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Also, we believe we have picked our reception site for the wedding, which thrills me to no end. I have pics of that as well, but I will post them later.

We are leaving for Vegas on Friday, and it promises to be a great time all around. We will be visiting the Grand Canyon while we are there as well.

There will be no posting after this Thursday until the middle of next week.

I'm sure you are all wildly disappointed.

Hot Hot Hot

And not the Cure song, kids.

I am lucky enough to live in a part of the country that is not plagued with oppressive heat. Summer months are sunny, warm, and mild. The thermometer rarely leaps over the 85 degree mark. I am thrilled with this, having spent eight years in a state where if it cooled off to 85 degrees at night in the summer, everyone heaved a huge sigh of relief and wiped their sweaty brows.

Today, it was 94 degrees here. The thermometer will remain in that area for at least a week.

My displeasure cannot be measured. I am travelling to Las Vegas in two weeks--I will fill my camel hump with uncomfortable temperatures then. I don't want, or need, to get a head start.

T and I went to the hardware store today, along with everyone else in the county, to purchase fans.

The relief these fans has brought forth is....meager. I hope they do more in the night time, lest T and I explode.

Due to the heat, I am sitting on the couch wearing an outfit that if anyone other than T were to see me in, I would probably set off a flash bomb to try and scare the mental image out of the minds of those around me. (I am really only ok with T seeing me in this outfit because he has truly, truly seen worse of me. Stomach flu, major loss in the family, and total emotional bereavement come to mind. That, and he seems to want to spend the rest of his life with me--He should know what he is in for.)

This outfit involves a pair of shorts that, by their existence in this world in a size meant for women with asses my size denotes a level of insanity and delusion in the american public these days. These shorts are, and were, I'm sure, intended for women who are tittering size twos, tossing their long blond hair and dotting their "I's" with hearts and smiley faces. They are named things like, Candi or Cindi, Heather, Tammi or....Something cute. (If anyone reading this fits this bill, I commend your small ass and cute, pert nose and breasts. I know you have them--use your powers for good instead of evil. There are women with bodies like me that hate you.)

It is hot enough that I am willing to debase myself on this level. I fear for my cohorts in Vegas.

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My oscars have taken to assaulting the in-tank heater as though it has offended them in some way. The internet tells me that they are behaving this way due to boredom, and that I should purchase toys for them.

Somehow I can't see the fish enjoying a fake mouse or dog bone. What kind of toys to you get a fish? I can't see them frolicking over a frisbee.

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I decided to learn to crochet. I already know how to knit, and my sister crochets, and I watched her do it and it seemed faster than knitting. Being an instant gratification sort of woman, I picked up a hook and some yarn and cast on.

T asked me to make a blanket, something big enough for the two of us to use on the couch or something. So I went a little bigger than I thought I should.

Being unskilled and unfamiliar in the ways of crochet, I didn't realize that the cast on stitches will be bigger than they seem when you progress into the project, unlike knitting.

I am crocheting a blanket that will be over six feet long and wide. T refers to it as a marquee, my mother, a carport. Right now it is an incredibly long scarf.

So, here I sit, sweltering in the heat, wearing ridiculous "Bunni" shorts and a tank top that shows my boobs off if I bend over, the hair that isn't plastered to my head with sweat flapping in the meager wind provided by our new fan, crocheting a blanket you could hide a family under.

Logical.

Inspiration!

I really need to start writing again. Like, writing for real. Like I used to--the words used to fly out of me, it took everything I had to slow my brain down enough to get them out and onto paper in a somewhat decipherable fashion.

I stopped writing when my life fell apart. Just stopped--nothing. I have had a few blogs here and there since then, hoping that would inspire my brain to get the old juices flowing again.

But nary a word in almost five years. That's a long dry spell. Sometimes I worry that my writing was fueled by the insanity of my life when I was in HS and college.(Especially college. Jeebus.) I used to know I was good. I would get the writing bug and disappear for days at a time, headphones on, oblivious to nothing but getting words on paper. That feeling...

I haven't had it for a long time.

I do best during dry spells when given an assignment--weird, I know. If someone tells me "Write me a story about this!", I can do it. My friend J gave me a set of parameters for a story, and I have outlined and done research and character developments and all that....but the fact that he asked for a romantic comedy is setting me back. I don't do romance. Maybe I will change it, I know J would be ok with it, or just do my best to stay within the parameters and hope that it helps me grow as a writer.

I just....miss it being effortless.

Kicking and Screaming, Don't You Ever Look In a Mirror?

I am writing this blog entry from the living room of T's house.

While sitting in front of the television.

Wireless Internet....oh, how you will change my life.

T's computer is a complete bastard. I have mentioned this before, of course, as well as the annoyance of sharing the computer with a house full of people, all of who believe their need for the internet is equally as great as yours.

T and I received a wireless router for an engagement gift. We purchased the wireless card today. After hours of troubleshooting and three phone calls to IT friends in California, I can now write blog entries while sipping a diet pepsi and watching Investigation Discovery (my new drug of choice.).

I love to multi-task. Love to use the computer in front of the TV, while listening to the radio. The knowledge that I can take my laptop into ANY ROOM OF THE HOUSE, including the YARD or GARAGE(!) and dick around to my hearts desire....I'm thrilled.

And out of reasons not to blog. (Stay tuned!)

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My sister and niece (who is a year older than me) were in town this week.

Kill me.

After lots of passive-aggression, lots of closeted insults, and lots of my wanting to set fire to them both, T and I were set free to do as we pleased in the Metropolis. We shopped some, visited my new favorite over-priced store on the planet, and visited the most disappointing coffee house I have been in for a long time. Voted best coffee and gelati in the metropolis, they offered up improperly named desserts (that were not gelato/i in my humble non-italian opinion, nor in T's humble italian one)(Oh, and panna cotta and creme brulee are different things, dicks.) and shitty coffee. So there.

Anyway, all that aside, we were taking a mode of public transport back to our car that evening, and a couple sat directly across from us, eating vegetarian burritos. The woman had on blue socks and black sandals, as well as a scarf. The man was wearing shorts and hiking boots with a tye-dyed shirt. It was not the clothing, nor the unwashed smell that horrified T and I. It was the length of the mans fingernails.

Ok, kids. I like nails....on women. I have acrylic nails, which I keep quite short. I got them to stop me from biting my nails, as a smoker that also bites their nails needs to go get on some serious anti-anxiety meds, and liked the way they looked so I ran with it. Nails (depending on what you do for a living, there are exceptions to every rule) should be short, clean, and orderly--especially on men. Always on men.

This man had fingernails that were longer than mine. Longer, and stained and pointed....it gives me shivers just to think about it. He had to clean the burrito out from under them when he was done eating.....oh, sweet Lord.

What motivates people to do thinks like that? What could this man do for a living that would require, or even facilitate nails of that length? Why is his wife/spouse/lover/life-partner/anyone-he-sees-on-a-regular-basis ok with this?

So. Gross.