Dear (John) Summer

Dear Summer 2006,

I'm really and truly sorry that things haven't really worked out between us. I've been working forty to fifty hours a week, and I just don't have the time I used to have to dick around with you and your sandy Southern California beaches. Although, it might have been nice for you to turn down the thermostat a little bit around it. It has been hotter than Hades the past few weeks. If I wanted humidity, I would have stayed on the east coast.

I also really appreciate you taking the time and this particular summer to put close to all of my friends at a stone's throw distance. Oh no, wait. That's not right at all. Everyone's in Africa or England or Chicago or south Indiana or New York. Thank you for making it so convenient to sit down with friends and get coffee. Nope, no wait, I'm at home on a Friday night watching Ready, Set, Cook! because everyone's at least one time zone away.

And instead of filling my life with the friends I know and love, you have actually caused my loneliness to grow so great as to make me feel left out of social functions with people I don't even like. Now that's just cruel. And sad (for me).

Thank you for allowing me to wake up at 335AM nearly everyday of every weekend to go serve coffee to ungrateful-rude-undercaffeinated-people I don't even know.

And thank you, above all things, for allowing me to finally be interesting in someone three weeks before I have to leave for school again. You are truly awesome and have my best interests at heart.

Fondly,
Erin Siobhan

PS If I weren't going to see Kelly Clarkson on Tuesday with my best friend, we wouldn't even be on speaking terms.

Sex and The City Quote Of The Day

"Smart, yes, sometimes cute, but never sexy. Sexy is the thing I try to get them to see me as after I win them over with my personality." - Miranda

Yes. Story of my life.

Everything I've Ever Believed In Is Now Dead

LANCE BASS IS GAY!!!

WHO IS SHOCKED!?

Global Warming vs. "Weather Cycle"

I'm used to triple-degree summer weather living in the San Fernando Valley. Usually, it happens a few days in August, and we all laugh about it in December, when it's 70 degrees and sunny on Christmas. After all, it's a small price to pay for mostly mild weather year round.

Yesterday, as I took a moment from making the 12 venti-extra-caramel-frappucinos-with-extra-extra-whipped-cream (nasty), I looked up and out the window at the McDonald's marquee down the block. It said it was 116 degrees. At 7:00PM.

...At least it's dry heat?

Mini-Road Trip to San Diego

I will tell you this: driving to Carlsbad for three hours in traffic with a car that not only does not have air-conditioning, but when you turn it on it blows ninety degree air in your sweaty face, is a very long time. Luckily, my bestest friend Kelsey, and I know how to make the most of our soaked backs and sweaty knees by completely ignoring our perfect wavy bed-head/shockingly glossy 'do's and rolling down the windows while belting "Defying Gravity" to the other air-conditioning-challenged drivers with their windows down on the I-5.

Upon our arrival in Carlsbad, which took longer than expected, for my trusty "double true" Google Map directions betrayed me, making us look for an exit, which does, in fact, not exist (damn you Parnell, I guess you were too busy macking on some Magnolia cupcakes), we searched for the nearest location that had air-conditioning.

And that location happened to be Jack-In-The-Box.

Okay, normally I would never set foot in a Jack-In-The-Box, but the promise of a heavy, constant draft of cold air made me quickly abandon any scruples I had, and I embraced the greasy goodness and sharp wit of their placemats, a genius excerpt of which I have convenient placed below:

"For millions of years, it was simple. Breakfast happened whatever time you were lucky enough to bag a wooly mammoth. Morning, noon or night. No one said "Sorry, sir. We stop serving mammoth at 10:30 AM." Now we're so 'advanced' you can put a DVD player in your wallet, but if you want eggs and sausage in the afternoon, people treat you like a caveman."

This placemat made the three hours in the car (plus my not having gotten any sleep due to working at Starbuck's before dawn) almost completely worth it.

I guess seeing Jordy Lievers after eight months in her incredible portrayal of Princess Winnefred in Once Upon A Mattress that made the rest of the trip worth while.

I guess.

Post-Adolescent Pondering

I remember when I was a little kid and used to think "Wow, grown-ups are so funny, serious about the right things, cool in all the right ways, and get to wear sweater sets. I can't wait to be just like them."

Then, when I was thirteen, I was all "Fuck grown-ups. They don't know shit about shit."

Then, when I was sixteen, I thought "Wow, I can't wait to be a grown-up and not have to deal with this petty sixteen-year-old-girl drama."

And now, as I gracefully enter my twenties, I have discovered that grown-ups are the same as kids and teenagers, with all their same insecurites and drama, only with better shoes and coordinating outfits. And dishwashers. And a better chance in hell of actually getting any Social Security when they retire.

And thus ends my pseudo-intellectual drivel sermon for the day.

I'm going to go watch PeeWee's Playhouse on Adult Swim.

The Mother, The Mechanic, and The Epic Cell Phone Story

So, hobgoblins stole my cell phone. One minute, I am happily texting away, making ridiculous money while babysitting the cutest and most mellow seven-month-old you have ever met, and the next, my cell phone had completely disappeared. After four hours of tearing the apartment apart, we yielded no logical conclusion as to my beautiful black razr's whereabouts save 1) the baby ate it and 2) there is a 3x2 wormhole at the center of Bronwyn Keith's coffee table. I bought a new one today, if you haven't given me your cell phone number, please do.

Now I my cell phone is sure to materialize after I have dropped several hundred dollars to buy a new one. At least cutey-mc-cuterson Ryan at the Cingular store said I have thirty days to return the phone if I find it. Which I hope I do.

In other, happier news, due to the genius of Wes, we were able to secure tickets to The Early November's triple disk release show. Amazing. It was amazing. The record was worth the three-year wait. The whole band signed our CDs, and Jeff (drummer) took me on the tour bus because he couldn't find his Sharpie. It was magical.

It took us over two hours of traffic to get to Anaheim, and we barely made the show. Because we missed the openers, we found ourselves at the very back of the venue. I hate being in the back at shows because I love the energy of the band and the energy of the front of the crowd. However, as I standing in the back, I couldn't even tell if I was at a live show the way the crowd was reacting. The were just standing perfectly still, blankly staring at the stage 100 feet away. They were barely conscious. How can you not be psyched to see this band live? There is nothing better than seeing your favorite band live, supporting them, meeting fellow fans, hearing new tracks before anyone else, and above all things, dancing and singing and crashing into other fans. We finally squeezed our way to the front by the end of the show, and I got kicked in the face. Twice. It. Was. Awesome.

I mean, what's a live show if you don't get kicked in the face? Am I right, or am I right?

Cavities Not Included

Today, I was in an elevator that was playing actual elevator music. I was both frightened and intrigued. Either I had never noticed elevator music before, or today was the day I became un-oblivious-ified to the world around me. It kinda sounded like Pink Floyd, which I am okay with.

As I was cruising (slash waiting in traffic) down the four oh five to get to my dentist appointment, I used my car as my secret sanctuary of music, as I often do. The wonderful thing about driving in your car with the windows rolled up is the ability to play whatever you want, as loud as you want, or more specifically, the ability to blast the "sell-out shit" you secretly love, but you would never admit to your friends that you own. Even in New York, you becomes extremely wary of your iPod screen as you ride on the subway. You hold the player in your hand, your burgeoning paranoia causing your heart to race and your brow to pour sweat, and you think Dear Christ, please don't let that incredibly-cute-indie-hipster see that I'm listening to A*teens. Even if you secretly love it, you will deny that you have even heard of it until your dying day if it makes you seem at all uncool. And finally, your delicious-syrupy-sweet pop secret has become forbidden fruit in this world of mainstream indie ass-hats.

However, I have learned the valuable lesson: Judge not lest thee be judged. Or, put into simpler terms, I listen to Aly & AJ in my car. These may not seem at all embarrassing to you if you've never heard of them, but if there is any musical obsession that I ought to be ashamed of, it's this one. I mean, seriously, they're on the Ice Princess soundtrack, and they did a track for a Disney Mania CD. As a self-described music snob, I should run into oncoming traffic.

But I don't. And I won't. If it's good, it's good. If I love it, I love it.

(And it helps that they had a huge spread in Blender magazine two issues ago.)

I sat in my car with the rolled up windows and my broken air conditioning with my stereo cranked to capacity. I was enjoying myself, but I was afraid to roll down my windows. I mean, I was driving through Westwood Village, looking for parking. I was surrounded by trendy UCLA students dressed as hobos and billion-dollar-bag ladies. I wasn't going to sacrifice my credibility for comfort! But then I caved.

As I rolled down my windows, Aly & AJ streaming through my speakers and out into the air on Wilshire, I heard an old familiar song blasting to my right.

In the car next to me, a black hair, black eye-lined, black clothed girl was blasting A*teens.

I looked over and I waved. She rolled up her windows.

Huh. Maybe she doesn't like Aly & AJ.

Live From New York (or ...Los Angeles, at least until August 21)

After four (long) years touring the LiveJournal circuit, I've decided to cut my post-pre-adolescent-emo-angsty-self free, and embrace the only slighty less self-absorbed world of Blogger. Only now can I truly spread my wings and embark on a non-stop flight to adulthood and self-discovery.

Or, you know, not.

I mean, why ignore another seemingly innocuous internet obsession? Blogger! I invite you to inhabit and conquer my soul! Because if I don't find some means of escape for the next forty-some days, I might find myself in some crazed, drug induced coma, surrounded by friends crying "Such a pity! She was so young!," with others perusing my CD and DVD collections in the background (just happy I could make some kind of contribution...).

Hmm, some business?

A word from your friendly neighborhood Starbuck's Barista: If you're ordering a "regular" coffee, and I gleefully ask you what size you would like, don't look at me from across the bar with burning contempt in your rolling eyes, while sighing "GRANDE," as if I missed the memo stating the word "regular" can now be used synonymously with "grande," and squishing your face into one of extreme annoyance because you think you've already told me the size of your coffee, and you cannot believe I could have the kind of audacity as a lowly Barista to question your obvious authority on the lingo I spent sixty hours learning in training. Do you see my certified barista pin?

Or maybe that's just my iced-venti-five-shot-eight-pump-sugar-free-hazelnut-soy-latte causing all my edginess.