Skype-othetically Speaking

For those of you not around for the daily business of the Scrap, you should know I have fallen deeply, passionately, uncontrollably in love. Not necessarily with the man I am about to marry (I kind of like him too), but with a pretty little piece of technological genius (No, its not a vibrator).

Skype. Skype makes my heart flutter. And for those of you who know me, this is a really big deal. Technology and I have never gotten along. Like feuding roommates we have a mutual disdain that leads us to passive aggressive behavior in which we fill each others shampoo with water and gossip behind one another's backs. My computer will delete things without telling me, and I in turn let Simon sit on its face and click control-alt-delete like seven times in a row.

But Skype, Skype is different.

Skype makes funny celebrating noises when I get an e-phone call, and just like that, a loved ones face appears on my screen. and I can talk, and dance and show them things. And have a chugging contest with Kerri. And show G my new chonees. I am like Harry Potter and Serius Black talking through the green fire. Only with no fear of getting walked in on by Professor Snape. And its easier than crouching in a fireplace. (Is the Harry Potter analogy going too far? Because I seem to be really attached to it.)

Also, Skype lets me take a picture of the screen, so I can save a hilarious moment of an e-call for posterity. Right now I am looking at one of Kerri doing the crazy christina dance. It makes my day better.

So, for those of you with a web cam, do yourself a favor. Go to Skype.com and download the program. And talk to me. You know you want to.

A Fan Letter

Dear Sir

Remember me? Im the girl on the treadmill next to yours. No not the blonde one in spandex. The other one. The sweaty one. The one that only has an hour at the gym in the morning and uses it to the fullest. The pizza calories dont burn themselves you know.

Remember how you wore sunglasses indoors at 6:30 a.m.? You really had me wondering for a while. "Could you be blind?" I wondered as a sweated to the oldies. No. But you probably should be. Because after a while I caught on to the game. And not because I'm a detective (I'm not), or a genius (I am) but because you cat called. At the gym. At 6:30. In the morning. On a treadmill.

I don't know if you realize, but just because you are walking on a treadmill, doesn't actually mean you are walking away from anything. I feel it is necessary to inform you that you are in fact walking in place. And I am pretty sure it is part of good catcalling etiquette to drive (or at the very least walk) away after you whistle. But you are, again, on a treadmill. In sunglasses. Harassing unassuming people that have better things to do.

But you weren't done, were you sir? You just kept marching along, craning your chubby neck at anything female that had the misfortune to walk by. And when I was done with my run you decided to turn your considerable charms my way. Whats that? You really were impressed by my run? (liar, I know I look like a wounded gazelle). Thanky! And yes, I am that flexible. No, Im not a dancer, and no. I am absolutely not interested.

But thanks. Oh, and sweet shades.

Love,
The Girl on the Treadmill Next to You

Simple Pleasures

I am in no way undermining the joys in life that are weddings, and children, and lifelong friendships, and cherished family moments.

But sometimes, happiness is having the really cute teenage employee at Bed Bath and Beyond flirt with you while you pick out hangers in your sweatpants.

Simple pleasures man. Im just saying.

On Visible Brush Strokes.

Adhering to a friend's demands, I am now revealing to the world what a hot mess I really am.

Growing up, I was always told that "I am painting a masterpiece, so hide the brush strokes." I was never to leave the house without brushed hair, mouthwash-ed teeth, and "natural" makeup (because green eyeshadow is for whores). The justification for taking all of this trouble was that "I was never sure who I would meet". And, true story, this advice still rings in my ears.

That is to say, it echoes somewhere deep in the recesses of my foggy brain as I haphazardly tie my dirt hair into a ponytail. and chew a piece of gum to hide the bagel breath. Because what I have learned in my adult life is that I am in fact painting a masterpiece. But it is much more like a Monet. Because from a polite distance I look perfectly groomed. It's only when you peer closer (or stare long enough) you see that I am in fact riddled with brush strokes. and bruises. and scrapped knees. and the occasional coffee stain (because although they have outlawed talking on the phone while driving, they have yet to tear my coffee out of my caffeine-greedy fingers.)

Because here is the crux of the matter: who has time for perfection? And isn't it a little comforting to know that I have better things to do than straighten my hair every morning? like sleep? As it stands, today I am less of a Monet, and more of say, a Jackson Pollock, where the only thing you see is the brush strokes. I am at work with skinless knees and shins (owing to my inability to stay vertical, and a story for another day), a weird bug bite on my arm, and serious under eye circles (they look a lot like those "before" pictures in infomercials that you are sure are doctored). All of which are a testament to a fantastic weekend. And I'm totally ok with that. I always liked modern art better anyway.

So on the off chance that I meet the president today, he should also know I forgot to put on deodorant.

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.