Might maybe may

We might have gone to the famous Backstage Grill & Karaoke Bar in Culver City last night.
Harry and another intern may have been encouraged (forced?) by their superiors to sing a song together.
That song may have been originally recorded by Miley Cyrus.
I might have taken video.

It might be here.

(Disclaimer: whatever video might be hyperlinked might also be a tiny bit shaky.)

I just hope someone tells me.

Last night, cousin Bec, in true cousin Bec form, sent me an email with a link to a set of obscure pictures that made me laugh so hard I started convulsing. Harry agreed. These pictures are golden.

They're from an album entitled "Basset Hounds, Running."








It makes me a little worried. When I'm really REALLY old and wrinkly, with maximum face jowls, would someone dare take a picture of me, mid-run? And post it to the internet?

I just hope that if I develop jowls comparable to a basset hound, someone would tell me. So that I could make sure there were no cameras within a 6 mile radius of me if I ever decide to go on a jog. Leave me and my old lady jowls off the internet.

Putting the pathetic in "apathetic."

I’ve been feeling a lot of apathy toward broadcasting our life on the internet lately. My life feels really cozy and happy these days. I work, he studies, we go to the gym, make dinner, watch a Netflix TV show, do laundry, rinse, repeat. Sounds drab to the outside world, but I couldn’t be happier with it (the only exception being the NASTY confrontation I had with our refrigerator this morning because the fruit drawer REFUSED to open more than two inches and I had to weasel my hand in there for my grape tomatoes and as a result my hand is scraped and raw. Lame 1970’s fridge.).

Said apathy is probably stemming from the fact that I recently deactivated my facebook account. I was realizing (and so was spouse) that following the people I love via virtual reality always winds up making me feel so blue. I miss all you people who don’t live here, and wind up feeling even farther from you after going through your photo albums of “Baby’s 1st Photo Shoot” or “Pictures of the Triathlon” or “Weekend in ______ City.”

Then, I inevitably start asking myself, “Shouldn’t I be doing/learning/making all the things that ____ is? Shouldn’t I be traveling to ____ like Whoseewhatsit? Did I miss my opportunity in life to become a _____ like JohnJaneSmithDoe?” And thus, I get myself wedged in a weird funk of patheticalness (yes, this is a real word per dictionary.com). I’m not proud of it, but it happens.

So, I’ve gone cold turkey. I feel like I’ve been unplugged from the Matrix. I feel like I’ve commenced some sort of 12 step program for addicts. I feel like Jessie from “Saved By The Bell” after Zach stages an intervention to get her off caffeine pills after she has a nuclear meltdown and she misses her girl-band performance (“I’M SO EXCITED! I’M SO EXCITED!”). Maybe someday I’ll want to dive back into my electronic friendships, but for now I feel like life is treating me right.

And this video that Harry found is also treating me right.

Sell sell sell!

I feel for salesmen. Seriously. Because I can't sell anything.

I remember being in elementary school and, once a year, going to giant school fundraiser assemblies where us young and impressionable "youth of tomorrow" were presented with slide shows about selling wrapping paper, tubs of cookie dough, magazine subscriptions, or something equally innocuous. These fundraiser assemblies were filled with laser shows, music, repeat-after-me style audience participation, and guys in their thirties shouting things like, "BUT WAIT! If you sell twenty FIVE tubs of cookie dough, you will be sent a NEON BLUE INFLATABLE ARMCHAIR!" The myriads of prizes would be announced and flashed on a projector screen. And I was positively SINGED by the fire of competition. Yes, I truly have marched around my childhood neighborhood, knocking doors, trying to sell those very things-- to suburban people, who make their own cookie dough, already own wrapping paper, and buy magazines when they want them. I also remember breaking down and crying one night because I didn't get 75 magazine subscriptions sold, and I would be one of the only people I knew who DIDN'T get that grand prize-- a limousine ride to lunch at Carl's Jr. Yes, all this is real.

And don't even get me STARTED on my Girl Scout Cookie days.



Unfortunately, I can't sell. Anything. I couldn't sell a pepperoni pizza to a Ninja Turtle. I bet Donatello would just look at me sadly, shake his head, and walk away.

I did however earn that inflatable armchair. It had a hole in it. And much like that armchair, my salesman (saleswoman?)-ship has always remained very much... deflated.

Today, a very kind salesman wandered into the office.

I politely listened as he tried to sell me on his company's services. I felt bad for him, because the only answers I could give him were "Yes, I can take your card, but unfortunately we already have a vendor for that right now." The situation was not improved by the fact that a particularly large something was sticking out of his nose, and made a grand exit when he was mid-sentence.

I just wanted to give him a pat on the back (out of encouragement, and also because it's out of range of his schnoz) and say, "Hey, man. I'm sorry this pitch just isn't going your way. But hey, you tried, and I bet you were the type of kid who got to ride in a limo to Carl's. Props."

I took his business card.

Better luck next time, guy. I feel your pain.

“Jack, please, I'm only an elected official here, I can't make decisions by myself!”

(Ten points to you if you can name that movie)

The time has come. It’s been 4 ½ months. I can't take it anymore.

I, Sarita Guadalupe Mariachi Cortez Eatón Reynaldo, need a haircut. And for the vida of me, I can’t decide what to do.

Exhibit A

I could do something like this- more layers, no bangs, lazy wavy style, lots of freedom (sans freaky smile).

Exhibit B

I could go back to the world of fringe (sans blonde).

Exhibit C

I could lose a heaping amount of length and give my neck some relief.

Exhibit D

Or I could just go the experimental route.

I have the appointment scheduled with a girl that all the women in my office swear by. The only thing I lack is inspiration.

Deep thoughts? Favorites? Warnings? Movie quotes? Embarrassing childhood stories about the school playground?

Bring it.