Going Solo

If you know one thing about me, it's probably that I act on impulse. I've long ago learned this is not always a positive. I mean, one should really look to see if there is water in the pool before one takes a dive, but I don't really have time for all that. Sometimes, I just have to do what I want to do, no matter what.

If you know two things about me, the other is that love me some Nine Inch Nails. It's been bugging me that I've stayed so broke and couldn't afford to go to any of the last Nine Inch Nails shows. I missed the NIN/JA tour with Jane's Addiction. And, now, they were in town to do the last shows...forever. I know. Poor me. But, five months ago, I thought I'd be in a better place.

Last Tuesday, in an effort to get to a better place, I was at happy hour with a friend. As I finished up my discount martini, and she went and she went out to feed the meter, I checked Twitter from my BlackBerry. Once again, when I was nowhere near my computer, Nine Inch Nails released tickets. [Insert litany of expletives here.] We finished up our chat, our drinks and $4 edamame, and then she took me home.

There, I opened my laptop and logged on to the site. One last pathetic try for tickets. I checked Thursday's show. Sold out. I tried for Saturday's show. Sold out. I wasn't even going to try for Sunday's show, their last, because that had to be sold out...and it was in Glendale. Yes, I appreciate the irony of it being at the Echoplex, but the drive would be a buzz kill. That only left Wednesday night, the next night. Available. I took in a breath. At $65 a ticket, I couldn't afford one let alone two. And I knew that none of my friends would be up for something that late notice at that price that didn't come with seats. So, I did the unthinkable and bought a single ticket.

Going to the movies alone is one thing. Having a meal alone is another. Going to a concert alone was...weird. I called two friends I thought might be up for it, or actually going. By the time one tried to buy tickets, they were all gone. I was indeed going solo. This, for me, was the ultimate single-gal act.

I didn't really have time to dwell on that, though. I had to figure out what to wear. Jeans were obvious, it was shoes that would be the challenge. I no longer own General Admission footwear. And open-toed sandals are not appropriate for this kind of gig. Much to my chagrin, I put on a pair of Nikes and then found that I no longer own jeans that are made for sneakers.

The compromises one makes to see one of her favorite bands perform one of their last shows ever should not be underestimated.

The entire drive over to the Palladium, I debated on whether or not I would squeeze to the front of the stage. I'm the kind that can and would. I'm also the kind who doesn't really like the general public, or having them sweat or breath on me. Then again, I do love Reznor, and this would be one my my last chances to really get my punk on. Decisions, decisions.

The last time I had been to the Palladium, it was for a charity show I had won tickets to. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Mike Watt and Eddie Vedder performed. I ended up next to the barrier, right from center and separated from my friend. It was this event that brought to my attention that "slam dancing" and "moshing" were two, totally different things. Slamming was organized chaos that had the pit and the perimeter. Moshing just happened wherever some eejit wanted to do it. And he was doing it all over my platforms! This was also when I realized punk was dead. I told a guy just over the barrier, "Next time security goes to the center to break up a scuffle, take my hand so I can get over the barrier. I want to get up on stage." He looked at me and said, "No." What? That's when I said, "What the hell are you doing here? There's no such thing as 'No' at a gig!" Meanwhile, my thigh was being molested by some drunkard I had to keep elbowing. Two other guys finally came over to help me out, scared away the perv, and we enjoyed the rest of the show. Chivalry lives, even in bondage pants.

Upon that reflection, I was happy to take my place off the floor. To the right of the stage, only equipment between me and the band. Trent would face me (yes, me) while he played keyboards. It was the perfect place. No one was crowding, molesting, or even spilling beer. It was, dare I say, civilized. And, I could have worn my sandals. Lesson learned.

Another lesson learned is that there is no graceful way to exit a crowd surf. In spite of doing it about eight times throughout the night, this one girl never ended hers well. The highlight of the night was watching two girls get tackled by security when they tried to rush the stage, making the wrong decision to do it over the equipment and computers. If you are going to do that, 1) you should have a good game plan, 2) you should be in better shape; speed and agility are everything, and 3) stop when the guards get to you, unless you want to end up ass over teakettle. Know the risks, people.

The show ended without an encore. Reznor was quite sick, but gave us his all. So much so, they had to reschedule the remaining dates of this Wave Goodbye Tour. My ears are still ringing (I took out my earplugs...I couldn't resist), which can't be a good thing, but it does make me smile. This is just confirmation that a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, even if she has to do it alone.

At Least There's Not Muzak Playing

I feel like I am on hold. Like someone pushed "pause" or something. And it's grating on my nerves. I'm sitting here, spinning my wheels, going nowhere, getting nothing accomplished. And it's putting me in a bit of a mood.

I'm from L.A., so I know about astrology. It's an elective in high school. Kidding. Seriously, people, we aren't *that* out there. Anyway, the dread Mercury Retrograde cycle is about to go down. From January 11th through February 1st things are going to go a bit hooey. No. I don't live my life by the moon cycles. Mercury Retrograde and my sign are the only things I pay attention to in astrology. I don't even check my daily forecast (though, I do a monthly *glance* here and here). I used to read about Mercury Retrograde in LA Weekly's "Rocky Horoscope". She would write about it and say, "We're all screwed!" I was all, What's she talking about? Everything's just fine. I was in the eight grade. Of course everything was fine.

I never heeded the warnings Rocky put out. Never paid attention to it. Until I was an assistant production coordinator on a low-budget horror flick during film school. Principle photography started on the day Mercury turned, and I've never been part of such a fustercluck in my life. Everything that could go wrong did. In spades. It was unbelievable. From that point on, I've paid attention to this little phase and simply batten down the hatches. I'm not looking for trouble, per se, I'm just *prepared* for it.

I don't know if what I'm feeling now is the MR influence, or just M-E. Things have already started to lag. Hence the griping about feeling stuck. But there are things on hold, and I find that I am kind of holding my breath. I have a meeting next week that may or may not change my life. I may or may not being going to New York the week after that. I may or may not have work after next month. None of that is particularly earth shattering. None of it is giving me angina. Which is the weird part. I'm not tense or nervous. I'm paralyzed, in a sense. I'm certainly stuck creativity wise. Not writer's block. I don't believe in that. More like constipation. Everything is just stuck in my head and I can't get it out. This sucks.

Whether it's a planetary influence or my own shizzle, I just want things to get moving again. I've got deadlines and whatnot.

I Figured 8 Out!

It's been an exhausting week. The high high of the Obama win (let's be honest, Obama pwn3d McCain), and the low low of Proposition 8 passing was draining. Talk about buzzkill. I truly believed we would vote it down and make marriage available to all. We. Us. Californians. The trendsetters of the nation. Hey, didn't we bring you smoke-free bars, yoga and colonics? Enough said.

What is so bitterly ironic about all this is that we gladly passed Prop 2, which enables farm animals to turn around in cages. I'm pro-2. Don't get me wrong. But how did we give animals rights while we took them away from tax-paying humans? That's insane. And brought to you by a religion that believes in polygamy. Sweet Jeebus of late-in-the-day stains. Then again, we are the dorks who put Conan in our capitol. [Hey, Arnie, swell job with the budget. That whole "let's just open the books" strategy of governing is really paying off.]

It's taken me a while to process the whole debacle. But, I think I've figured out why people were so concerned about same-sex couples getting legally wed: A gay wedding is hard to top. Think about it. Same-sex weddings would be beyond over-the-top, but in a really elegant and efficient way. What straight couple could live up to that? Especially if all the best wedding planners, caterers, florists and designers were booked for years doing gay weddings. With that level of competition, and supply versus demand, it would certainly drive up the already high cost of a wedding. Imagine what a multi-tier wedding cake would cost under No H-8 circumstances. And, with our crappy economy, it really does come down to the bottom line.

If we know anything in California, we know not to piss off West Hollywood or San Francisco. They rally, picket, march and candlelight vigil like nobody's business. They are or-gan-ized. And they pull the numbers. Because these cities are known for fabulous, *inclusive* parties, everyone wants to crash them, easily doubling or tripling their crowds. People who love good dance music and strong drinks tend to tag along (and throw down their support). See, it's all about *community*. [That, and we know that the rallies end up at The Abbey in WeHo or Harvey's on Castro.]

I'm convinced that weddings are the reason Prop 8 passed. Straight people are insecure and afraid of being upstaged. Breeders have no style on their own. Oh, you think I'm being bigoted now? Puh-leez. Look at the difference between, say, Ellen and Portia's wedding and that of Celine Dion and Rene What's-his-name. That's what we are capable of without gay guidance. Everyone knows that. I'm not stereotyping. I'm stating fact. Reference Cher with Sonny and then Cher with Bob Mackie. Need I say more? And, while I would like to think I would avoid the meringue and a sad silhouette on my own, believe you me, if/when I get married, I'm bringing my queer nation with me to make sure I don't regret my wedding photos. And, that's what straight people are afraid of.

America, don't give up on us just yet. H-8 doesn't belong in our groovy State. So we are taking to the streets. We are taking it to court. We are taking it to Utah. We are checking out of Marriott. We are petitioning up a storm. We will break 8!

And, not that I am any sort of legal eagle, but I don't think there is any way this can hold up in court. We have a precedence of same-sex marriage. Some same-sex couples were wed in that legal window. We can't make those marriages invalid. Therefore, we how can we deny others the same rights? It seems to this laywoman that there's enough here to fight the good fight and win. And equality will prevail. Because, while we might be known as the land of fruits and nuts, we are also a bunch of rebellious trailblazers. We know how to make things happen.

And, if Arnie needs to bring in some revenue to Cali, he might want to think about helping us bring down Prop 8. We need the marriage license fees.

To Morro, Part II

Things I learned about myself during my weekend at Morro Bay:

1. It's better if I pack the night before rather than the day of.
2. If I'm not going to pack the night before, it's a good thing for me to forget to wash my makeup brushes so that I can use the residue on the eyeshadow brush in place of the shade I forgot to bring.
3. No matter how tired I am, there's always time for good conversation.
4. No matter how much coffee there is, that's no replacement for sleep.
5. I can drink a lot of wine and still not have a hangover (though that may be due to the phenomenal amount of bread I consumed over the course of the weekend).
6. I can actually function without internet access (but there's a hell of a lot of Twitter to read when I get home).
7. I can easily fall asleep without the TV on to lull me (that could also be due to the wine/bread/late-night-convo combination).
8. I can be around 7 kids at once and my head won't explode (again, the wine and bread may have assisted here as well, but the kids were pretty close to angelic).
9. I can almost not swear at all in front of said children, and can pretty much refrain from inappropriate comments or conversation topics...or at least I can keep a low voice when I do slip.
10. I don't care about the rock.
11. I don't carry the soccer mom gene.
12. Fudge gives me a headache (which causes me heartache).
13. I tend to forget to pack my motivation when I go on vacation.
14. I tend to forget to eat my vegetables on vacation (unless salsa counts as a vegetable).
15. No matter how utterly adorable a child might be, it's still not enough to rouse my maternal urges to consider actually having one myself.

This is my second time going to Morro Bay. The first time I went, I was really tired. I kind of slept through most of it. It's sort of a sleepy town anyway. I was there for two days before I noticed the rock. As we were walking toward the ocean, I stopped dead in my tracks and said, "Holy mother! Look at that rock!" The whole street stopped to look at the "special" girl pointing at the obvious. My friends just shook there heads. "You are just now noticing it?" one asked. I reminded her how tired I was.

This time, the rock was fogged in. Seen it once, seen it a thousand times anyway. And after a hellish heatwave, I was happy to don a sweater and shiver. After a hellish work week, I was happy to do nothing more than meander through the day with chit-chat and snacks. This is really what life is about. I felt kind of bad, like I was a terrible guest when they would ask me, "Do you want to walk down to the beach?" Nah. "Do you want to go out for breakfast?" Eh. Maybe tomorrow.

Then I realized, maybe this wasn't all about me. So I asked, "Do you want to go to the beach?" After a pause, the answer was, "Nah."

We did venture out to lunch and took a stroll around the village. More friends (and their offspring) came over for dinner. We learned that you should read the poundage and do the cooking math before you go to bed, in case it's supposed to cook for sixteen hours (but that you can adjust the heat and get it done in ten). We also learned that an excited young man in new, dark-rinse jeans will stain cream-colored walls when he bounces off of them. And that Clorox wipes will only take you so far before you actually rub through to the paint you painted over. And, sometimes a person just needs to go to sleep without saying good night. Which is okay. That's just how we roll.

Mornings do come dreadfully early, especially on the last day. But, let me just say that on neither morning did I wake to a baby crying. No. Not this perfect child. Not even when Aunt SAM emerged from her room with glasses on, blemishes blazing and rocking a faux ponytail. Though he and I seemed to perfect the art of the headbutt on day one, on day two, he confused it for a kiss. Or maybe he's all about love and not war. Either way, I only want spawn if I can have one as good as him. But, that's a tall order, and since my friends already have one that good, I'll just bogart him from time to time. I can't wait for him to start talking. I know it will be profound. Probably something along the lines of, "Lady, back off!"

I'm not good with goodbyes, so I just sort of pack up and go. I had to hit the road a bit early in the day so I could avoid Sunday traffic back in L.A. I thought about stopping for gas before getting on the freeway, but didn't. That would be smart, and we know how I like to make things difficult. On my way down to the 101, the hawks soared overhead. Had I even thought about this possibility, we would have been picnicking on the hills, watching them sail above us. Instead, I swerved on the road as I watched them circle and swoop. I took them as a good omen.

I paid $2.97 for gas in Carpinteria. The drive home was only three-and-a-half hours long...without speeding. The hawks were indeed a good sign. And, even after stopping for a burrito, I was home in time for True Blood. It couldn't have been a more perfect weekend. Well, if I would have remembered my eyeshadow, that would have been a bonus.

To Morro, Part I

Beginning a weekend getaway on only four hours of sleep is not a good plan. Thought I might go on record with that, just in case you were thinking of doing something similarly stupid. Don't. It can be a little dangerous. Also, don't get cocky and think you can manage without caffeine on that tiny amount of sleep. That's just asinine.

It's not often I get the chance to sneak out of town. Vacations this year? Deux (and both were weekend-sized...sigh). So, when friends call to say, Let's get away, I do my best to comply. Inevitably, my schedule leading up to the break is always a fustercluck. Last week was no exception. But I was so looking forward to my weekend away at Morro Bay, I could hardly wait for Friday to arrive. Of course, I was well into Friday before I got to bed. Blogs take up a lot of time.

My lack of sleep made Friday a harried morning. I barely had time to get dressed. There was no time to run by Starbucks for fuel on my way to Client #2. Surprisingly, I had energy. I was alert. I didn't even yawn. All without a hint of caffeine. No green tea, nor chocolate covered espresso beans. I almost called Guinness.

After work, there was the scurry to get errands done. Run to the store, get gas, check tires and oil, and...oh, yeah...pack. Packing in a rush can lead to disaster. Fortunately, it only made me late, and I only forgot my eyeshadow. At least I remembered my feminine supplies, because it's only really a vacation if Aunt Flo tags along. Jeebus. Of all the luck.

Because I was running late, I had to skip the much needed car wash. I also didn't have time to make a medicinal stop at the Bucks. I was high on Midol, so I didn't care. Besides, I was hoping to make it to Morro Bay before the crash set in. Because the crash was inevitable. And it would be a bitch. I could feel it in my bones.

In order to distract myself from the impending doom of exhaustion and the bummer of traffic, I chatted with a friend for over an hour. She got me to Ventura. NIN took me the rest of the way. Once the sun fully set, the yawn-fest hit. And I was only a third of the way there. I never realized how far away Morro Bay actually is. I wasn't sure I would make it, and even considered going back home to get some sleep and drive back out the next morning. But, only a total wuss would do that. An idiot would just keep on going.

I suppose I should have paid more attention to the Google Map, because the occasional glance in the dark was not sufficient. I am a competent driver, and even a competent directions reader. But the first time I drive a new route in the dark -- especially after inadequate sleep -- can spell disaster. Or something equally annoying. All I knew was that I would take the 405 to the 101 to the 1 and -- boom -- four-plus hours later, I'd be in Morro Bay. Of course, there's more that one 1 off the 101. And, of course, I took the first one that came along.

Fifteen minutes on the darkest, single-lane highway in America, I began to draft law requiring that the highway/route/freeway number and direction it's headed be posted every so many miles (five would be my suggestion), so that when someone as exhausted as myself gets the feeling the vertigo from the winding road and begins to question if she's actually going in the right direction could look at a road sign figure that out. Instead, seeing one too many signs for Lompoc and none or Morro Bay, and worried that I might actually be headed toward Malibu instead of the Central Coast, I turned around and went back to the 101. An hour later, there was a second sign for the 1, and this one lead to Morro Bay.

Do you pay attention to all the tiny street names of the sharp turns to you take off the off-ramp to get you onto the main drag? Me neither. So, why does Google Maps add those, only to confuse me later? I don't have time while I am driving in the dark with dry contacts to note how many inches I would be driving on those streets. I'm easily distracted by places with names such as "Taco de Mexico", which leads my brain to wonder if "Taco de Ireland" would actually be a choice. So when I see street names on internet directions, I actually think they matter. Once again, I pulled off the road and called my friends to give me guidance. Five hours after I left Venice, I pulled into their driveway and, thirty seconds later, had a glass of wine in my hands. Did I tell you they are good friends?

Tune in for To Morro, Part II tomorrow.

Smoke Gets in Your Area Code

The joke is that California does have four seasons, but they are: Earthquake, Fire, Riot and Mudslide.

It's Fire season, people.

When the Santa Ana winds kick in, all bets are off. I think we'd be better off just staying in. That's my preference. Heat, rain, snow, bitter cold; I can take all of those happily, with a hair flip and smile. Wind annoys me. It's rude, difficult and unforgiving. There's no hairstyle that can survive the Santa Ana's (though, I have to say, the Brazilian Blowout does a good job of it...because all it can be right now, a week after doing it, is be pin-straight). Let's not even get into the whole static situation. It's so not the best part. Lotion. Hairspray. No matter the trick or remedy, it only gets you so far.

Because the winds are multi-directional, crap easily bypasses your sunglasses and attacks your contacts, which remain dry no matter how much you blink. Then there is all the other shizzle being blown about, going right up your sinuses, which become irritated making your eyes red, cutting the ribbon on the sneeze-fest. All in all, it makes for quite a look.

Driving in to Malibu on Monday was an adventure. The winds were so strong, I felt like I was in a scene from Twister. Because the Santa Ana's were blowing over the mountains, I wasn't sure what would fly out at me next. I got used to the branches, of all sizes, being hurled at me. I was keeping an eye out for a Smart Car, though. And the trucks. We were all having a tough time driving a straight line. Amazingly, what the winds did blow over was all the smoke from the Lake View Terrace/Porter Ranch fires. That area is a good forty-five miles east of Malibu, and countless zip and area codes away. Mother Nature is a powerful broad.

When Malibu smells like campfire, people grow uncomfortable. Me included. As the smoke cast the glow of sunset in the sky (and it was barely eleven ayem at the time), we started checking the news sites regularly to be sure there weren't any fires in our neck of the woods. After all, Nick Nolte's caught ablaze last week, and for no good reason. Anything was possible. Fires don't necessarily come in threes here; more like they come in dozens.

Fortunately, we were in the clear, so to speak. We had a hard time breathing from the thick-ash air, but looked good under the amber glow of the smoky sunlight filter. The winds remained relentless. Something I would enjoy at home, on the sofa, watching an old movie. Not so much at work. I did my best to tune it all out, send my good vibes to our tireless firefighters, pray for those whose homes are at risk or were consumed.

Eight-point-five hours later, I left the office. The winds were gone. The air was still. The skies were calm. The glow was actually coming from the sunset, though the smoke was still in the air. And the ash was in my car. Tilted moonroof. Amazing how much junk can float through that little crack. Fugme.

As I drove home on PCH, I admired the full moon's glow on the water below, so much more serene than it was that morning. The scent of campfire still in the air. Usually a comforting aroma instead marking another of nature's tragedies. Wildfire. Heartbreaking and scary, reminding us that no matter how powerful or in control we think we may be, Mother Nature can quickly prove us wrong. All of us.

Driving Gloves

I've made this mistake before. The last time I had a long commute, I got in the habit of listening to punk rock on my way into work. I love it. It's a better jolt than caffeine. However, it can make you a little agro on the road. Honking horn. Flipping bird. That was then, though. Now, I'm a Buddhist. I'll just chant for those stupid asses.

I also arrived at the office a tad "intense". I was ready to go. Ready to do something. My co-worker suggested listening to jazz instead. While it's an art form I appreciate, to me, it's better heard in the evening. In the morning, I want more.

Another side effect of punk tunage is speed. That can be a problem. I was born with a lead foot. The first thing I learned to drive was a motorcycle. I like to go fast. I like to feel the road. I lean into the curves in my car. Listening to a hard, heavy beat and a raucous serenade, looking ahead at an open stretch of undulating highway...I dare you not to go eighty. Heck. I'm just trying to stay under fifty. (It's the posted speed in most of the area I barrel through...I have the most difficulty where it's not.)

I'm being challenged all sorts of ways with this new gig. Wake up early. Be on time. Keep an eye out for the fuzz. Sheesh. That's a lot to ask from a girl first thing in the day. I might soon be going back on the Starbucks -- though I've been on the papercup wagon nearly a year now...really don't want to blow it.

The drive home, however, is taken at a slower pace. As the sun sets into the Pacific, I chat with friends as the road unwinds me home. I'm too tired to work the iPod, and the BlackBerry has speed dial.


Play with speakers set to 11.

Vampire Weekday

I love my gym. It is the mecca for all things strange. It's like a continual, bizarre parade of endless, post-modern performance art. You never know what you are going to witness. And, in my nearly eight years of going there, I have seen some sights. My personal favorite is the man who puts the strap of his Walkman MP3 in his mouth and dances about in a fencing manner through the back weight room. Once, the Walkman smacked him in the face when he got a little carried away. He quickly recovered and resumed his ballet. He's not the wackiest, just the most reliably entertaining.

The gym has the typical random professional athletes, random bodybuilders, random actors, random whack jobs. There are a few normal people, too. The odd ones are just more fun to watch. And when you have an hour to kill on the cardio machines, you have a good perch and plenty of time to check out the membership.

A few years ago, I had a thrill when I found a Lost Boy in my gym. I nearly swallowed my gum when I spotted him standing there on the steps to the back room. Jason Patric. Yum-me. Let's face it, The Lost Boys is early girl porn and Jason Patric -- with those eyes, that jaw, those lips and in 501s -- is a girl-porn star. And I get to sweat next to him occasionally. It's not a bad way to start the day, my friends and neighbors. He perspires in such a pretty way. I, however, do not. At the end of my sixty-minutes, I'm more of a red-faced, drowned rat with a ponytail. And it always amazes me the guys who will actually flirt with me when I am in that state. But, that's my gym for you. A bounty of strange rangers.

(I need to take a brief tangent here...not too long ago, I was upstairs on the stretch deck and Jason was there, too. Our mats were across from each other. I was doing my thing, he was doing his. I was taking my time. When he was finished, he put back on his shoes, got up from his mat and headed down the stairs. Then, a flash caught the corner of my eye. This chick had gotten up from where she was stretching and threw herself on the mat where Jason was nanoseconds before. It was far from graceful. I think she kind of hurt herself when she landed. It was spectacular.)

So, yesterday, I was bopping around doing upper body when another fanged wonder appeared in the distance. I couldn't be sure if it was him at first, because I'm only wearing one contact this week. (Long story.) I didn't want to squint-stare, so I lost track of him when I was doing my lats (I can't believe I just wrote that). But, as luck would have it, he came right up next to me when I was doing my biceps and shoulders (I can't believe I wrote that, either) to do his biceps and shoulders (somehow, it's only weird to write workout lingo when it pertains to me). He was on the side of my "good" eye, so I could see him clearly. Stephen Moyer, the delicious, you-can-bite-me-anytime vampire from True Blood.

I was trying not to stare at him through the mirror, because that's just rude. But, Nine Inch Nails was on the iPod (again), and "Ruiner" was playing. I nearly drew blood biting my lip, trying not to giggle as Trent whispered in my ears: "How'd you get so big? How'd you get so strong? How'd you get so hard? How'd it get so long?"

Really. That was the true scene. You try keeping a straight face and proper form with hot vampire actor on one side of you and Trent Reznor inside of you...your head, I mean...saying such things first thing in the AM. It was perfect.

And you wondered why I wake up early to workout.

Nice Genes

I saw on the AP wire that gene testing is on sale. Now, I won't spend more than $75 on denim (I'm super effing cheap sometimes), but, for the price of an iPhone (the expensive one that works), I can have my DNA spun and a tale of my ancestry and potential diseases told. And I so want to do it! (Wondering what to get me for Christmas? A gift certificate to 23andMe would be lovely. Thank you.)

You have no idea how this fascinates me. I don't geek out on much, but DNA makes me want to don a pocket protector. I've often considered my gene pool a murky swamp, what with my asthma, allergies, Epstein-Barr, the ulcers that healed only to morph into severe gastritis (I preferred the three ulcers)...the list goes on. We haven't even tackled what "runs" in my family that I have so far avoided. Surprisingly, even with all I've got going on, I function sans meds (if you saw my allergy panel, you would think they would have moved me into a plastic bubble), sans caffeine, too (except for the trace amounts in my organic green tea; the EBV is back under control). I'm kind of an anomaly. I've stumped my doctors more than once. So, health-wise, I would love to get a full panel on what made me who I am today, and what I might want to keep an eye out for tomorrow. An ounce of prevention and all that.

I know a fair chunk of my lineage, but I'd like to get the rest of the story. I know I come from a strong beer drinking lot (that would be the English and German strands of my DNA already determined through other sources). I assume from my love of champers there's a bit of Gaul to go along with my gall. I wouldn't doubt some Russian as well, as my penchant for the vodka might hint. I was already told by a Belfast man that, if I were Irish, I would come from a Scottish clan of horse thieves who fled to Ireland to avoid prosecution (i.e., death). That sounds about right and would explain my love of men in kilts, a death-inducing allergy to horses (call it karma), and why I feel so safe in Dublin. Love of Guinness would equally be accounted for by my aforementioned beer-drinking roots mixed with taste-bud evolution.

Do I buy into this wholeheartedly? No. It's right up there with getting my astrology chart done, my handwriting analyzed or my palm read. Being a California chick, I'm into all that. It's meant to be fun. Any insight is a bonus. Enjoy the parts that fit, blow off the rest. Still, I'm hoping for a big DNA reveal. Like being a part of a royal bloodline. I think tiaras are fabulous and would like an excuse to wear one all the time.

5.8

Earthquake! I'll still take those over a hurricane or tornado.