Why I stink (literally)

Last night my car smelled like Mexican farts. And no, the odor was not produced by an actual muchacho-- it was really the result of Azteca leftovers (part of a chicken fajita, beans, and rice, to be specific) mixing with the warm air of my car's interior to create a noxious smell of beany flatulence.

But this is actually the least of my odor issues. Let me first point out, however, that I, as an individual, do not stink (at least I don't think I do). But because of the smells that I am unwittingly confronted with on a day to day basis, I fear that I am essentially living in a cloud of irremediable stinkiness. Let's start with my job: I work with toddlers, so I am constantly either (a) changing diapers, (b) getting boogers wiped on me, or (c) touching toys that have been in kids' mouths. Granted not all of these acts produce an odor per se, but they're gross nevertheless and boogers and saliva coupled with the lingering stench of poop only add to my predicament. Now that we've established the fact that I most definitely reek of dirty diapers, one of the most arguably vomit-inducing smells of all time, it's integral that I point out that the dilemma doesn't end here. Upon arriving home from work, I typically either go to karate or run, both of which produce sweat (and not in an attractive, womanly glow sort of way). So add sweat onto the dirty diaper stench and you've got a pretty miserable combination. But wait-- I'm not finished yet! Now that I have a cat, my apartment has the animal smell-- and let me tell you, it's completely unavoidable. Despite the fact that Hector's litter box is cleaned daily and is strategically placed next to a Hawaiian breeze Glade scented oil plug-in, my apartment officially smells like sweat, crap, and animal with a hint of papaya and tropical flowers. I guess the only thing that could make the odor worse is if I smoked cigarettes or hid a decomposing body in my apartment. I've always claimed to be an optimist, see?

My new story...

Here's the premise of a new short story I'm working on: A pretentious, self-absorbed man who works for the poison control center and drives a giant yellow Hummer gets laid off from his job and ends up working at a grocery store, where he meets a saucy environmentalist-grad student cashier. Egos clash and witty banter ensue as a unique friendship evolves between the two.

Observations about myself...

Several things I have noted about myself after sorting through some photographs:

1. I do in fact have a big nose (see previous posting)
2. My chin might in fact be pointier than Reese Witherspoon's (if that's possible)
3. Is it just me, or does my left eye droop a little when I smile?

Hannah & Cassie

My little sisters (who aren't so little anymore!) at Greenlake.

Karate Kid (me, not the movie)

(Hmmm...the medal looks bigger in person, I swear.)

Last week I was promoted to second degree blue belt. I can't believe I've already been doing karate for over a year! I think the ironic part of it all is that my dojo is in kind of a crappy part of town, so the most likely opportunity for me to ever use my skills (if we can call them that) would be right after a karate class. I competed in my first tournament last month, and folks, you will be happy to know that it really is (almost) just like how it's portrayed in the final scene of The Karate Kid. There were a ton of competitors from this one school in particular, called Solerno, and they had these bright yellow and black "S" patches on their uniforms that looked like dollar signs from far away. And of course I couldn't help but think of Cobra Kai, the bad guys from The Karate Kid. I was slated to compete in individual kata (essentially a choreographed fight minus an opponent), and, you'd be surprised to learn (note the sarcasm) that I was the only 19-34 year-old female novice, so they tweaked the division to include an 18-year-old girl. Yup, just the two of us. It took off some of the pressure knowing that I was going to medal regardless, but I couldn't help thinking how angry I'd be if I ended up with silver. After all, I had a truly legitimate shot at the gold. Oh, and to top it off, this girl was a Cobra Kai-- er, I mean Solerno. I ended up beating her by only a couple tenths of a point, but screw it, I didn't care-- I won the gold medal! So now I'm technically the reigning Regional Amateur Athletic Union Female Novice Individual Kata Champion. Try saying that five times really fast.

Hector & Me

Awww, aren't we cute together?

Compliment of the Day

One of the two-year-olds I work with, Elena, said to me, "You have a big nose." I'm hoping she meant that it was only big in comparison to hers...

What's my age again?

I can't help it (or maybe I can, but that's beside the point). I am a complete dork. I wake up and I watch "Saved By the Bell" in the morning before I go to work and when I come home I read Lemony Snicket books. God help us all...

P.S. In case anyone is interested, the final book in "A Series of Unfortunate Events" comes out on October 13th...isn't that cute?

The Da Vinci Code

Yup, I saw the movie last night. Though many of the reviews are negative or only so-so about The Da Vinci Code, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I'm not sure what exactly people were expecting or why they would be disappointed-- I mean, let's look at the book. I loved the novel, and thought it was a gripping, incredibly compelling but entirely plot-driven story. And therein lies the key to the movie's cynics: if the film is indeed an accurate adaptation of the novel, then I argue that it's unfair to expect an Oscar-caliber film. The Da Vinci Code is essentially a thriller (albeit a very intriguing and exceedingly clever one). It's much more on par with an action movie than an award-winning drama. Bottom line: The Da Vinci Code (the movie) is exactly what it's supposed to be: a fast-paced, thoroughly riveting mystery-thriller. Just because Tom Hanks is in the movie and Ron Howard's directing shouldn't make expectations unnecessarily high. Everyone needs to simply take the movie at face value and understand that it doesn't stray from the essence of the novel at all, but rather embraces it and doesn't work under the pretense that it's aspiring to be something that it isn't. That, my friends, is truly cracking the code.

Anti-smoking Ads

Is it just me, or is the recent wave of anti-smoking commercials highly reminiscent of Grimms' fairy tales? I'm sorry, but smoking a cigarette is just not as disgusting (and not to mention eerily disturbing) as a kid coughing up a hairball. It's just not. When did such extreme gross-out factors, originally employed by our early nineteenth century buddies Jacob and Wilhelm, become the norm for teaching children morality lessons? What's next, a crow ruthlessly poking out the eye of a kid who dabbles with nicotine, much like how the evil stepsisters meet their demise in Cinderella? I find it interesting how in a time where political correctness reigns supreme, these near-offensive anti-smoking ads that aim to scare kids into making the right choices somehow manage to slip through the radar.

Yes, poop jokes will always be funny

Recently I was talking to some of my friends about our favorite episodes of South Park. At the time, I rambled off a bunch of really good episodes, but somehow the best (well, one of the best, at any rate) SP ever magically eluded me. Later that night the episode came to me in a near-epiphany, and I've been silently apologizing for my irreverence ever since. How could I have forgotten about "Worldwide Recorder Concert"? An episode that centers on a single, musical note in which everyone in the world simultaneously craps their pants-- that, my friends, is truly genious. And you can say what you want or deny it to your heart's content, but everyone knows deep down there's nothing more hilarious than a good old-fashioned poop joke. (And yes, this is coming from a 22-year-old woman).

Kirkland 5K

I ran the Kirkland 5K today, and unfortunately, I failed to beat my time from last year. So I now have a sneaking suspicion that the "10 pounds of muscle" that I gained in the off-season might not have actually been muscle...but oh, well. I should probably just be happy that I finished the race and tried my best, right? But alas, I am far too competitive (which I know may come as a surprise to some people) to be satisified with anything less than basking in ultimate glory.

Good Ol' Metro Transit

I love Seattle. I think it's perfect. And I also think it's safe to say that there's no place I'd rather live. But it's precisely because of my steadfast, unconditional love for Seattle that I feel compelled to point out the city's most glaring problem: the metro bus system. Over the course of my college career my reliance on Metro has wavered between consistent to sporadic. But now that I'm officially in the working world, I have been consistently commuting by bus to and from work for the past nine months. And throughout the duration of my approximately 35-minute bus rides, I am left with many opportunities to stare out the window into the lush Aurora landscape and ponder Seattle's transporation system-- or perhaps more accurately, lack thereof. I used to think that people who were unwilling or hesitant to take the bus were either high-maintenance or lazy. But now I know that the reason why many people refuse to ride the bus is because their time is worth much more than the completely absurd inefficience of the metro transit system. Sure, it's relatively simple travelling north-south in Seattle (I'm one of the fortunate ones, thank goodness), but what about those who are attempting to travel east-west? What should be a simple, brief bus ride stretches into a bus trip, resulting in upwards of an hour crammed in a smelly (and the stench varies from bus to bus, depending on one's destination) seat sitting next to a bum or an overzealous business man whose thigh inadvertently infringes upon your personal space with your iPod as your sole salvation. You can't simply hop on a bus and go to any other part of Seattle except downtown, and even then, you have to be living either in north or south Seattle, or the U-district, to be able to easily commute downtown. Any other destination requires a transfer, which can easily add a half hour or more to your total bus commute. So what's the solution to this pressing problem? Remember when Seattle was going to have a monorail that would allow for a fast and efficient commute between Seattle's various neighborhoods? Sure, the construction of the monorail was going to take years, but at least the future of Seattle's transportation held the promise of a convenient, time-saving mass transit system. Well, sadly, the monorail was shot down almost as quick as a bus ride from Greenlake to-- never mind. Chicago has the "L," New York has the subway, why can't Seattle have a monorail? Or at the very least, a bus system that doesn't take me an hour to travel from Greenlake to the International District.

My kitty cat, Hector...

The Mariners finally won a game, woo-hoo! So now my personal record is 2-1, which is exceptionally better than the Mariners' actual record. Of course they're only a little over a month into the season, so I'll remain faithfully optimistic (until they tear my heart out and crush it again-- just kidding!).

I Heart MTV

I love MTV. I remember I went through a period a few years ago (you know, way back in the day when I was a college student) where I thought MTV completely sucked-- and I'm pretty sure it did. But now I'm completely addicted to it. I especially love the dating shows, like "Next" and "Date My Mom." Despite the fact that the dialogue is more contrived than some of the less-than-perfect reality shows that grace our airwaves, the premises of these shows is a unique spin on standard reality fare, tailored to the teens and twenty-somethings of today. And though in real life not every mom dresses like she stepped out of a page of a Victoria's Secret (mail-order only clothing, of course) catalog, or has a witty one-liner sharper than a WB teen drama quip, "Date My Mom" somehow manages to achieve that rare balance between, "Thank God I'm not on this show" to, "What if I were on this show?". Ah, MTV. How I love thee.

Turkish Delight

I decided to finally delve into my Chronicles of Narnia boxed set that I had gotten for Christmas, and now I'm totally into them. Narnia has got me thinking, though. Classic fantasy is kind of bizarre. I've noticed that the authors have a tendency to use the first- and second-person points of view much more frequently and consistently than any other type of literature I've encountered. For example, Lewis will say something like, "If you've ever been scared you know exactly how Peter felt when..." But for me there's an almost borderline creepy kind of intimacy with that sort of unexpected, dare I say "intrusive" shift in point-of-view. It's like, just cut the friendly chitchat and tell me what happens to Peter! I think fantasy writers should have been held to the golden rule of essay writing: never say "I" or "you" and use the third-person religiously. Of course, the word "religiously" brings me to a whole other topic regarding Narnia. What's the deal with all the overt Biblical overtones, anyway? That's something I'm still working on. And one more thing that's really buggin' me. When the Pevensies encounter Father Christmas, Lucy is given a dagger and says that she thinks she could be brave enough to fight in battle. Santa replies, "But battles are ugly when women fight." Why? What does he mean by that comment? I can't figure out if Father Christmas is making an antiquated sexist remark, or if he is some sort of proto-feminist. I'm fairly certain it's either a major jab at women (hence the movie's omission of the line) or the highest of compliments. Of course I'm rooting for the latter.

Pet Peeve of the Day: Why don't people get the hell out of your way when you're running? I went for a run at Greenlake today, and I know that place is always crowded, but I don't think I'm going way out on a limb here to ask for a simple common courtesy: I'm running, you're leisurely walking; therefore, move the heck out of my way before I run you down! If I wasn't afraid of inadvertently plunging into the lake I'd be a little more aggressive with people, especially since I jog with my iPod and wouldn't be able to hear them yell at me as I shove them out of my way.

Post Numero Uno

Well, I finally gave in and decided to create a blog of my own. It's either a testament to the degree of boredom that I'm currently experiencing or my near-desperate desire to write something-- anything. At any rate, I know that what I have to say is at least as interesting as what everyone else who has a blog has to say...and even if it isn't, well, artful elaboration is one of my fortes.

Today was that big immigration march and rally downtown. Unfortunately, I got off work right in the midst of the protest, just in time to see thousands of people marching down 4th right as I wanted to cross the street. So I ended up having dinner at McDonald's and then went to the library to check my e-mail and surf the net. It was better than attempting to take the bus home right after work, which would have taken God knows how long. I made it home by 8, and Hector was right at my door waiting to greet me. I found my sponge from the kitchen sink on the floor by my front door, so now I have some vague idea of what Hector does all day while I'm gone... and unfortunately, judging by the chunk of sponge strewn about the floor, I don't think it has anything to do with doing the dishes...