soft

note to self:

if a customer wants their omelet to be prepared not well-done, do not type "not well-done" into the computer...your kitchen staff will mentally ignore the "not" part of the message, cook a well-done omelet, and then have to annoyingly cook another omelet.

next time, try using a word that means the opposite of "hard". like "soft". that would've been a wise word to use.

i have my dumb moments. i think waitressing is making me soft.

oh twelve & highland,

i keep my bar tab open and, like a familiar dream, you pummel me with charges that i don't recollect ever making. haven't the faintest idea. never again. we are not friends.

silly

WHO AM I !?

and i don't mean in the philosophical sense of the question...i mean, quite bluntly,

who the f am i !?

posing this question following the simple fact that i just traded a sheriffs badge silly band for a batman silly band with a borders bookstore employee. as he was counting the obscene $5.57 i had just dished out for a magazine, i noticed his collection of silly bandz inhabiting both his wrists and pulled up my own sleeve to reveal my three rubbery companions. connection. he showed me spiderman, the joker, and batman. i showed him my money sign, horseshoe, and sheriffs badge (all given by friends). then i said goodbye and left borders only to return two seconds later and propose a trade: my sheriffs badge for his batman. i wanted it, badly. he accepted and, though brief, our exchange of silly bandz was as ceremonious as wedding bands beneath the alter. "now we are friends," i offered, this time leaving borders and not going back.

i never thought that i would wear a silly band in my life, let alone take part in the growing trend of trading them, but it only takes one friend to turn you on to something new. it's such a simple act of tit-for-tat, like two kids trading their halloween candy, but proves that we are never too old to part with something that was once ours in the name of friendship. (or batman).

hanging from a rope

"can't believe we live here" texted one of my so-cal buddies as i was enjoying a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a veggie omelet at martha's, a restaurant in hermosa beach where the patio is littered with umbrellas and the ocean close enough to taste. my friend and i were enjoying a much deserved post-workout meal under the comfort of the shade. we had just played six games of gnarly volleyball, meaning long rallies and close scores. the entire morning i was just feeling so blessed to be playing my favorite sport on what felt like a hot-summer's day with three extremely talented and driven athletes. the sweat and sunscreen were coupling effortlessly in the corner of my eyes while my legs were begging for mercy...only my mind was fully aware of how beneficial my "running around chasing a ball half-naked" routine is. the only way to get better is to play with people who are better than you. soooo i didn't win a match. minor details. i held my own, and i'm climbing my own mountain. we finish playing and guess who runs up from the water? nicole-branagh, now partnering with kerri walsh. no big deal. when i got home, i took a picture of my butt showing off my tan lines and sent it to a few friends. the new yorkers haven't responded yet...could be hanging from a rope.

don't look at the weather report for hermosa beach...you'll just get very, very upset.

e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g

back in los angeles.

back to "the grind" which, for most out there, means back to grumpy monday mornings followed by four more work days before diving headfirst into the weekend.

for me, it means about three waitressing shifts per week, playing beach volleyball in the mornings, grocery bags dangling from my handle bars, coffee shop visits where i appear as if i'm checking my stocks, and long walks where i attempt to lose myself. i lose everything: my inhibitions, my fears, my calories. i become a daydreamer vulnerable to being pummeled by a car, or at the very least, a pile of dog shit. the lyrics all blend together until all i can hear are the melodies and how they compliment my stride and the leaves beneath my feet. here, i am in flow. here, i am on my knees beside myself after just winning my first major volleyball tournament in front of my family and friends. here, i am flying to san francisco to promote my first book. here, i muster up the courage to grab his hand before he grabs mine.

but since i've returned from my three-week holiday i've been struggling with my emotions. it has always taken me a few extra days to just settle into the change in scenery, people, and obligations following a trip. it's as if "jet-lag" gave birth to a monster and i am its caretaker. my sense of place in this world is jostled, leading me to question everything. e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. what is the meaning of life? why am i investing in a dream that will in all likelihood reap me no monetary return? is it inevitable that for every beautiful wife out there there is a husband who is tired of sleeping with her? i have two and a half men to thank for that one...

as you can imagine, this is about as fun as using the restroom in a guest's house and then realizing that there is no toilet paper. but the questions have begun to subside and i am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. yesterday, a regular at my restaurant told me that god/jesus/jeramiah knows my calling in life and he will show it to me.

well, thank god/jesus/jeramiah for that!

"they're right over eastern kansas right now," says my dad.

i try to picture eastern kansas in my head. is kansas next to kentucky? sounds like they could be neighbors. i need to seriously work on my geography.

he was referring to my sister and her boyfriend, who he had dropped off at the airport at around 4:30 this morning for their flight back to san francisco. this is what my dad does. when a family member is en route to where he is (or has just left him) he will track their air travel--connecting flights included--until they safely touchdown at their final destination. for instance, as i flew from los angeles to raleigh for christmas several days ago, i knew with full confidence that my dad knew the terminal and gate number in which i was reading outside magazine while waiting in dulles international for my connecting flight. if he has it his way, my dad will show up early to the airport, park the car on the top deck, and watch as the plane that we are in gets clearance to prepare for landing. his experience serving in the navy, over a decade working for the airlines, several years piloting his own planes, and continued fascination with those magestic flying creatures (say you personally know a member of the blue angels and you'll officially have his heart) are all reasons that compel him to show this behavior flight after flight. it's his way of feeling in control of his loved ones in a situation where has no control. it's also a way, i suspect, that he feels close to us despite being hundreds of miles apart.

this just in: "they're going to be back a few minutes before 11 a.m."

hey, dad? we feel the love too :)

twentyeleven

two-zero-one-one

not merely a grouping of four numbers, for it's a way to help us conceptualize and compartmentalize our lives, and in one brief second all over the world, what was once this year becomes last year, and what was once next year becomes this year.

i drove across the country and moved to los angeles, last year.

i lost some good friends, last year.

i made some good friends, last year.

my confidence as a volleyball player was seriously shattered, challenged, and then mended, last year.

i decided i wanted to write a book, last year. but this year? i haven't done shit--not the entire year. and neither have you, but watch as all this drastically changes...

happy new year.