Liquer? I Dont Even Know Her!

A side effect of being a single twenty-something in a town bursting at the seams with married thirty-somethings is the fierce automatic kinship you feel with anyone who vaguely even matches your place in life. According to my calculations (Im actually kind of a scientist at this) there are about 6.5 people in this town that are in my statistical variation. And last night I drank with all of them.

Despite half hearted efforts by the town of SLO to create mingling opportunities (Chamber Mixer anyone?), we mostly forage for ourselves, and frankly, it leads to some hilarity.

So, with that interlude, the pertinent story at hand.

Last night, as according to what is now a fairly stringent Wednesday tradition, I pranced home early, made something delicious to contribute, and got ready for a night of debauchery and board games. But this time, this time was different. Firstly, I got to drink on campus. Which I havent done for oooh, 5 years now. Really, I wish I could describe the nostalgia of walking up the stairs to the Sierra Madre Basketball courts. Secondly, I got locked in a bathroom. I could not be more serious about this. There are pictures to prove it.

But what made the evening interesting for me was the fervor we all had for sharing. It felt (maybe because of the location) a bit like freshman year of college. Where everyone feels displaced and ready to turn themselves inside out to make some new friends. It didnt have that twinge of adolescent desperation or anything (the good thing about getting old is that you are more relaxed, particularly about drinking), but I think the intentions were similar.

We talked for hours, covering topics like monogamy, past indiscretions, and every possible proponent of sex. Topics that I am usually fairly private about, all of a sudden felt like fair game. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe simply the fact that my close friends (like those of my companions last night) dont live in town, and Im a little starved for that intimacy.

Either way, Im looking forward to next week.

Attention Bad Guys

One of the very best things about living alone is really, the fact that I live alone. I come home, and everything is where I left it (unless its a hair tie, because I still can't figure out where Simon socks those things away to). My closet is undisturbed, my DVDs still in alphabetical order. I am free to dance around in my chonees, unabashedly bleach the kitchen for the second day in a row, and eat my strange Russian food unjudged.
Most of the time, I revel in it.

Living alone however, is not however without its drawbacks.
Because, I could not possibly be clearer, I am terrified of bad guys.
Seriously. I'm not sure what makes me think I'm such an appealing target, but even as a kid, I used to imagine that the world was out to kidnap me. Which made walking the half mile home from elementary school a test of fortitude, let me tell you.

Nowadays, when I get home I do what can only be described as an impotent sweep of the house (because really what would I ever do if I actually found someone?). With brave Simon always at my heels, I check around the corner of the kitchen, then flip on all the lights and make my way upstairs. I check in my closet , and in a burst of bravery tear back the shower curtain. I look to Simon for reassurance with questions like "you made that noise didnt you?". Only after this self placating behavior can I get down to the business of relaxing.

Except times like last night when my dad calls.
"Hey, did you lock your downstairs window?"
"Yeah dad, why?"
"No reason, I just had a terrible feeling."
Jesus. Really? YOU had a terrible feeling? Because now I bet mine is terrible-r.
I spent the rest of the night watching Law and Order and wishing I was married to Detective Elliot Stabler, or at the very least cohabitating with my own gun happy green beret.

My comfort is in the fact that although my paper thin walls are a disadvantage when I am trying to drown out my promiscuous neighbors drunk-self esteem sex, they will come in handy if I am ever say, screaming bloody murder.

That being said, if you are reading this and are in fact a bad guy, be assured that I am very popular and may at any moment have a number of brawny gentlemen callers with fierce right hooks and deadly aim. Also I teach self defense.

Of Russian Jewish Bazaars

So you know how I promised never to write wedding planning stories on here unless they were funny? Well Im pushing the limits. Because although this situation might have been funny to a fly on the wall (really it depends on the fly's sense of humor) it sure wasn't as funny to Tina at Edna Valley Winery.

My parents came down this weekend to sign all of the paperwork for the winery that we had picked out a while ago, but as luck would have it, my number one choice, Edna Valley Vineyard got a cancellation for my date, and Angel of Patience Tina (APT, as she might now be called) shot me a line. Little did she know that she was signing up for the most trying two hours of her life (unless she has given birth, in which case, its a toss up).

We pull into the winery this morning a solid 40 minutes after we said we would be there. Because we are Lightmans, and that is how we roll (we roll late). Tina might have caught on to who she was dealing with when my dad made her walk the dimensions of the tent out on the lawn. Three times. But you know what? Tina persevered. She assured both of my parents that although yes, she was sure that Russians party harder than anyone, ever (this being a fact my dad really tried to drive deep) the winery was more than equipped to handle our soviet extra-hard-party needs.

Our little parade of disfunction traipsed after Tina through the kitchen where we distracted and nearly tripped no less than three caterers , and on through the grand dining room where I, strictly out of curiosity, tried to test the structural integrity of a folding wall.

I like to think that it was when Tina ushered us into the meeting room to hammer out logistics that she understood the full gravity of the wedding she was about to entangle herself in. Oh, we asked to see table cloth samples, then argued about each individual one amongst ourselves, we asked to see wedding videos, then didn't watch them as we argued about them amongst ourselves. And although Tina kept telling us it was too early to really delve into seating arrangements, flower choices, or cake designs, we did not listen as we were too busy arguing amongst ourselves.

We ended with a bang, tasting everything on the wine list, and scarfing down tasting wafers like they were crack rocks, and we their hapless addicts. Oh, and we stole snacks from the event going on that day. But by this point Tina had slipped away to her office.

And really, I wouldn't have it any other way. My family is loud, strong willed, and we all possess the irrepressible urge to talk only when at least one other person is talking (if two people are already talking, well thats even better). But we are also hands down, the funniest, most entertaining people. Seriously, my wedding is going to be amazing. I just hope Tina can hang.

In Mid-State Fairness.

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of going to my first Mid State Fair to see Toby Keith in concert. And I know, I know, I have lived in the county for going on 7 years, but I had as yet never visited the parallel universe that is the Paso Fair Grounds. My love for country crooning lured me right out of my comfort zone. And I tell you, it was like walking (while drinking booze out of a plastic boot that lit up) on a whole other planet. A planet of Wranglers, stretch pants, and frankly, the most respectable mullet I have ever had the good fortune to drunkenly point at.

Let's start with the food. What? Deep fried twinky on a stick you say? Yes. And the biggest corndog ever intended by Jesus? Yes yes! To be fair, and to admit my weakness for all things on a stick, it was all fantastically delicious. And to prove that Paso is in fact moving with the times, both booths purported to be deep frying my eats in oil that contained no partially hydrogenated oils. So, the wedding diet is still on track.

In my quest for a "big-fuck-off" belt buckle, I dragged my poor friend C through a myriad of commercial booths that sold everything from entire cowhide wardrobes to entire rhinestone encrusted accessory lines. And although I did not find MY belt buckle ( I maintain that I will know it when I see it) I did test out the limits of reclining comfort with the most amazing hanging chair. The learning is in the quest after all.

So, the evening was a wild success. I got to dance around (and show off my seasoned moves to a gaggle of particularly naked high school girls who should really move away from dropping it like its hot) to the vocal stylings of Mr. Toby Keith, got to sip on the worlds grossest lemon drop (what was I even thinking getting a mixed drink?) from the worlds coolest mug, and discuss a mutual aversion to tight jeans on fat men with a good friend. What more can one do with a Thursday night?

You were stationed where?

Today's post is, in fact a dedication.

Why? Because I happen to be very blessed with fantastic friends, and equally important a forum in which to sing (type?) their praises.

Today's focus? A certain bipolar forest creature. In honor of the fact that he started his very own blog yesterday (squeel!), and that he spent the better part of his day watching me interrogate winery wedding planners like a poor man's Stabler grilling child pornographers, this is his shout out.

So, my top 5 favorite things about Bear:
-his laugh is infectious
-his ability to out-over-analyze me
-he makes up elaborate life situations (best man anyone?) to make things more interesting
-his staunch loyalty to those he loves
-his mother

I think it is definitively rare that one genuinely gets along with their partner's friends. It is an even rarer thing for said friends to want to hang out with you even when said partner isn't around. But it is, I believe, a reflection on all parties involved that this rag tag posse adopt you as one of it's very own. I am lucky enough to not only be absorbed in this way, but also to be loved with a fierceness and loyalty reserved for siblings (or cell mates). So cheers boys, life would not be the same without you.

Musings and Appreciation

A friend of mine recently came back to San Luis Obispo for his mid-tour leave from Iraq. I was very happy to see him safe and largely unscathed. After having eaten our weight in sushi and froyo (damn you Yogurt Creations, you saucy devil) we drove out to the Avila Beach swings to give him a much needed whiff of the ocean and some perspective.

I know it's cliche, but there is nothing like looking at the ocean at night to make you feel utterly human. Something about the combination of endless night sky and the vast ocean expanse that make you feel small but somehow completely significant, somehow kindred in history and humanity.

We talked for a long time on the swings, about his experiences in the last few months, about being home, about the human condition in general. Although my heart broke for some of the stories he told me, I couldnt help but think about what they meant for us as a human race. The truth is, I am constantly surprised by our capacity as people for both incredible kindness and inexplicable cruelty, sometime wrapped in the same body. It isn't like Aasop taught me, that someone is utterly villanous or perfectly saintly. In the end, I think most people remind me of zoo animals, content to be a part of our individual habitats, hardly ever looking outside the scope of our immediate lives. My friend talked about being back in the states and hearing people gripe about the littlest things, and how angry he initially felt hearing these complaints while he feared for his life everyday. But in the end, thats what we have. If we were to always extend ourselves outside our cages, life would be too hard.

Sometimes, there is just too much to think about.

Cheater Cheater...Sleep Disorder

So, I keep having dreams where I cheat on G. Inexplicably, my sub-conscience has plotted an overhaul of previously dreamless nights with some pretty odd me-centered renditions of "Unfaithful".

I am insulted by this for two reasons. The first of which is that the dream is really vivid, the kind where you wake up not entirely positive that it didn't happen. Which makes for some uncomfortable morning musings. The other is that these dreams can in NO WAY be mistaken for sex dreams. No, in a move that is so typically Jewish Guilt, I dream strictly about the cheating aftermath. I dream about the anxiety of having to tell G, or worry that he will find out. It feels akin to gaining the weight without eating the cake.

And I know, I know, what I should be worried about is the recurring dream where I cheat on the man I'm supposed to be marrying. Shut up Freud. But I truly don't understand the symbolism of the sexy parts of a dream like that being left out. Other than self flagellation for original sin. Which I didn't think I was into.

Of Bruschetta, Drumsticks, and Bikes

I think one of the most fantastic elements of living and working in a college town during the summer is that essentially, its a throw back to younger days. Seriously. My work load is about a quarter of what it is during the school year, things are laid back, people wear tank tops to the office.

I behave like what is, for all intents and purposes, a ten year old kid most of the time. A ten year old kid with a credit card and the ability to buy alcohol. I see movies during the week. I walk to the store to buy drumsticks and eat them on the way home. i throw one person tail gate parties in my parking lot with a bottle of wine (I don't have a porch goddamit). And I t.p. my boss's house. Just kidding I don't do that. Yes I do. Anyway, I am essentially the Walt Whitman of San Luis Obispo. (I'm not entirely positive he had access to drumsticks, but he sure was a fan of the lollygagging).

There isn't really a purpose to this post other than to give you a rare glimpse into the life of the Scrap. And to make you people working corporate jobs in LA something to shake your fist at. You may get paid 100k, but admit it you are still sippin' on hatorade. Because its 4:00 and Im going home to make bruschetta for a potluck with friends. Suck on that.

So you are getting married! Now what?!

In case you don't already know (in which case what are you doing reading this blog? stalker.) G asked me to marry him last Monday. In the Cinderella Castle at Disneyland. Along with a beautiful diamond ring he also bought me mickey shaped ice cream to sweeten the deal. Proving once again that he is the perfect mate.

All of that being said, I think it is slowly hitting me what it is exactly I have gotten myself into. That isn't to say that I don't relish the idea of spending my life with the man who understands the importance of Disneyland to a girls perfect day. Its more so that MY particular prince charming rode in, gave me a rock, and then hightailed it out of the country. And I'm a little frightened of planning the hilarious shit show that will be my wedding, by myself.

The title of this post is the exact title (punctuation included) of a book that was passed down to me from a friend who was married last year. It is actually a terrifying little publication that not only talks about the nuances of whether or not you should actually marry (like marriage counseling, but with drawings) but all the things that weddings entail. For instance, did you know you have to host an engagement party? What about a bridal shower? and you are expected to give people prezzies for coming to your wedding? You didn't know all that? Well, neither did this girl.

So, its shaping up that I'm going to be the meanest bride in the world, and will eliminate like 5 of the 9 parties I'm supposed to throw for you bastards. And you aren't getting prezzies either. So there. But true to form, there will be booze.

Also I'm going to make all kinds of attempts to assure that this blog does not turn into a wedding blog. And if it does, at least the stories will be funnier. Drunken wedding dress shopping? Stay tuned to find out!