Log in

Previous 10

Feb. 26th, 2008


stolen from kim's desk.

heh.Collapse )

Jan. 26th, 2008


need a tour?

in about a month, i'll [hopefully!] be certified to give you a tour of the beautiful UC Davis campus. :D

Jan. 25th, 2008



I'm not sure why I bother posting to this thing. Nobody ever reads it but me. And sometimes Kim. But mostly me. And I live with Kim, so anything I have to write here I've already told her.
Basically I'm saying that my LJ life is useless. But who knows. Maybe someday I'll change the world and someone will find my online journal and it'll be like, a national ARTIFACT. Yeah, what THEN? HMMM??
This week has been CRAZY. It's flown by. And I feel like a lot has happened, but it probably really hasn't.
I'm still on a house-hunt. Having a place to live next year would be, y'know, awesome. Since it's kinda imperative. Or something. I know I've got plenty of time to actually find somewhere, but I tend to plan ahead. It's a good and bad quality all in one. It doesn't coexist well with "patience."

On an unrelated sidenote. This guy just rode by on a bike, and, no joke, he looked about 40 years old. Apparently he's DATING one of the girls in A building. It's really awkward to see him around. Because he's pretty old. And she's, y'know, not. It's a strange situation altogether.

I had an interview for a position as a tour guide on campus today. How intense would that be? I'd get to master the art of backwards walking. Then I could brag about my skill. Someone would be like "I can juggle eight flaming batons at once!!" and I'd be like "Oh YEAH?? Well I can walk backwards!" And applause would ensue. Or something like that.

I'm surprisingly awake today for waking up at 7:45am. I've woken up early every morning this week, and I'm actually a lot more awake than I'd normally be. It's nice. Alright. I'm getting food before I go to my 3 hour psychology experiment. ADIOS.

Jun. 23rd, 2007


i'm actually still asleep right now...

This is the part of my life i like to call PACKING.

I hate choosing clothes ahead of time. Packing is not my forte [although i'm not really sure I actually have a forte. I'll have to figure that out someday.] 
So, to avoid packing, I'll tell you my funny story from yesterday.
Yesterday me, my mom, and Daniel's mom [Linda] went to Denios, aka the auction [aka a giant garage sale combined with a farmers' market and a Dollar Tree] to find new luggage, since our old luggage was falling apart. So, we pull up, and see a giant sign that says 'LUGGAGE' right by the entrance [which was convenient, because my mother and I had made a deal that we were going to get in, get luggage, and get out, so this eliminated any extra 'window shopping' that she might have slipped in as we were walking past vendors to get to the luggage.]  So, we roll up to the luggage lady [as i like to refer to her] and started browsing around. The rest of this story is completely pointless, so I'm skipping over all of the details of the actual luggage purchasing, and skip to the second part of my story.
After I'm done picking out my luggage, Linda and I go sit down on a bench and wait for my mother [who was still at the luggage stand. So, technically, even though I was waiting for her, it stil fit into our 'Luggage-and-go" deal, so I couldn't complain.] So, we're sitting and talking, and a man walks up to us. He's about 5'6", and if you asked me to classify his body type, I'd go with 'more to love.' He was Mexican [shocking, right? A mexican at a Mexican auction?], and was wearing tight Wranglers jeans, white snakeskin cowboy boots, a button-down collared shirt [plaid, of course] and a white cowboy hat to match his boots. He had on a $5 pair of aviators sunglasses he'd bought from the vendor directly adjacent to the luggage stand.
So, Linda and I, resting innocently on the bench. Now, Linda's in her mid-50's. You needed to know that to further laugh at this story. This man walks up to us, looks at me and says 'You can go shop and I'll stay here with her if you want.' *place really nervously booming laughter here* Linda and I laugh, look at each other, and laugh some more. She politely says 'No, thank you' and continues to chuckle. So, the man keeps making small talk with us until my mom realizes we need to be rescued, finishes shopping, and comes to save us. We get up to leave [all the while, this man is telling us about his granddaughter] and this guy, NO JOKE, follows us out. Walks toward our car. Still talking about his granddaughter. We're all kinda like 'uh....wtf do we do?' So, Linda, again politely, turns and says, "We wish your granddaughter the best of luck. Have a wonderful day." and gets in the car to leave. 
We all started BUSTING up when we got in the car.  Linda says "Me, sitting on a bench next to little blonde Ashlee, and I'M the one who gets hit on. Never thought I'd see the day."
We saw the guy one more time as we were driving out. He waved.
It was hilarious.
Incredibly hilarious.
And, that's my story.


back to packing.

Jun. 21st, 2007


here we go again.

once again, i've started a journal that i can't quite seem to keep up with.
i'm just too damn lazy.

whatever. nothing really exciting ever happens in my life, anyway.
i just felt bad for not posting in a long time, so i thought i should at least do a short entry.
now i'm done.


Jan. 21st, 2007



On Keeping a Notebook
Joan Didion

"'That woman Estelle,'" the note reads, "'is partly the reason why George Sharp and I are separated today.' Dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper, hotel bar, Wilmington RR, 9:45 a.m. August Monday morning."
    Since the note is in my notebook, it presumably has some meaning to me. I study it for a long while. At first I have only the most general notion of what I was doing on an August Monday morning in the bar of the hotel across from the Pennsylvania Railroad station in Wilmington, Delaware (waiting for the train? missing one? 1960? 1961? why Wilmington?), but I do remember being there. The woman in the dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper had come down from her room for a beer, and the bartender had heard before the reason why George Sharp and she were separated today. "Sure," he said, and went on mopping the floor. "You told me." At the other end of the bar is a girl. She is talking pointedly, not to the man beside her but to a cat lying in the triangle of sunlight cast through the open door. She is wearing a plaid silk dress from Peck & Peck, and the hem is coming down.
    Here is what it is: the girl has been on the Eastern Shore, and now she is going back to the city, leaving the man beside her, and all she can see ahead are the viscous summer sidewalks and the 3 a.m. long-distance calls that will make her lie awake and then sleep drugged through all the steaming mornings left in August (1960? 1961?). Because she must go directly from the train to lunch in New york, she wishes that she had a safety pin for the hem of the plaid silk dress, and she also wishes that she could forget about the hem and the lunch and stay in the cool bar that smells of disinfectant and malt and make friends with the woman in the crepe-de-Chine wrapper. She is afflicted by a little self-pity, and she wants to compare Estelles. That is what that was all about.
   In fact I have abandoned altogether that kind of pointless entry; instead I tell what some would call lies. "That's simply not true," the members of my family frequently tell me when they come up against my memory of a shared event. "The party was not for you, the spider was not a black widow, it wasn't that way at all." Very likely they are right, for not only have I always had trouble distinguishing between what happened and what merely might have happened, but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matters. The cracked crab that I recall having for lunch the day my father came home from Detroit in 1945 must certainly be embroidery, worked into the day's pattern to lend verisimilitude; I was ten years old and would not now remember the cracked crab. The day's events did not turn on cracked crab. And yet it is precisely that fictitious crab that makes me see the afternoon all over again, a home move run all too often, the father bearing gifts, the child weeping, an exercise in family love and guilt. Or that is what it was to me. Similarly, perhaps it never did snow that August in Vermont; perhaps there never were flurries in the night wind, and maybe no one else felt the ground hardening and sumer already dead even as we pretended to bask in it, but that was how it felt to me, and it might as well have snowed, could have snowed, did snow.
    How it felt to me: that is getting closer to the truth about a notebook. I sometimes delude myself about why I keep a notebook, imagine that some thrifty virtue derives from preserving everything observed. See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of doing what I am supposed to do, which is write -- on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, paid passage back to the world out there: dialogue overheard in hotels and elevators at the hat-check counter in Pavillion (one middle-aged man shows his hat check to another and says, "That's my old football number"); impressions of Bettina Aptheker and Benjamin Sonnenberg and Teddy ("Mr. Acapulco") Stauffer, careful apercus about tennis bums and failed fashion models and Greek shipping heiresses, one of whom taught me a significant lesson (a lesson I could have learned from F. Scott Fitzgerald, but perhaps we all must meet the very rich for ourselves) by asking, when I arrived to interview her in her orchid-filled sitting room on the second day of a paralyzing New York blizzard, whether it was snowing outside.
    Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a particularly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
    My first notebook was a Big Five tablet, given to me by my mother with the sensible suggestion that I stop whining and learn to amuse myself by writing down my thoughts. She returned the tablet to me a few years ago; the first entry is an account of a woman who believed herself to be freezing to death in the Arctic night, only to find, when day broke, that she had stumbled onto the Sahara Desert, where she would die of the heat before lunch. I have no idea what turn of a five-year-old's mind could have prompted so insistently "ironic" and exotic a story, but it does reveal a certain predilection for the extreme which has dogged me into adult life; perhaps if I were analytically inclined I would find it a truer story than any I might have told about Donald Johnson's birthday party or the day my cousin Brenda put Kitty Litter in the aquarium.
    So the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking. That would be a different impulse entirely, an instinct for reality which I sometimes envy but do not possess. At no point have I ever been able to successfully keep a diary; my approach to daily life ranges from the grossly negligent to the merely absent; and on those few occasions when I have tried dutifully to record a day's events, boredom has so overcome me that the results are mysterious at best. What is this business about "shopping, typing piece, dinner with E, depressed"? Shopping for what? Typing what piece? Who is E? Was this "E" depressed, or was I depressed? Who cares?
    I imagine, in other words, that the notebook is about other people. But of course it is not. I have no real business with what one stranger said to another at the hat-check counter in Pavillion; in fact I suspect that the line "That's my old football number" touched not my own imagination at all, but merely some memory of something once read, probably "The Eighty-Yard Run." Nor is my concern with a woman in a dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper in a Wilmington bar. My stake is always, of course, in the unmentioned girl in the plaid silk dress. Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.
    It is a difficult point to admit. We are brought up in the ethic that others, any others, all others, are by definition more enteresting than ourselves; taught to be diffident, just this side of self-effacing. ("You're the least important person in the room and don't forget it," Jessica Mitford's governess would hiss in her ear on the advent of any social occasion: I copied that into my notebook because it is only recently that I have been able to enter a room without hearing some such phrase in my inner ear.) Only the very young and the very old may recount their dreams at breakfast, dwell unpon self, interrupt with memories of beach picnics and favorite Liberty lawn dresses and the rainbow trout in a creek near Colorado Springs. The rest of us are expected, rightly, to affect absorption in other people's favorite dresses, other people's trout.
    And so we do. But our notebooks give us away, for however dutifully we record what we see around us, the common denominator of all we see is always, transparently, shamelessly, the implacable "I." We are not talking here about the kind of notebook othat is patiently for public consumption, a structural conceit for binding together a series of graceful pensees; we are talking about somethingprivate, about bits of the mind's string too short to use, an indiscriminate and eratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker.
    And sometimes even the maker has difficulty with the meaning. There does not seem to be, for example, any point in my knowing for the rest of my life that, during 1964, 70tons of soot fell on every square mile of New York City, yet there it is in my notebook, labeled "FACT." Nor do I really need to remember that Ambrose Bierce liked to spell Leland Stanford's name "£eland $tanford" or that "smart women almost always wear black in Cuba," a fashion hint without much potential for practical application. And does not the relevance of these notes seem marginal at best?
          In the basement museum of the Inyo County Courthouse in Independence, California, sign pinned to a mandarin coat: "This Mandarin Coat was often worn by Mrs. Minnie S. Brooks when giving lectures on her TEAPOT COLLECTION."
          Redhead getting out of car in front of Beverly Wilshire Hotel, chinchilla stole, Vuitton bags and tags reading:
          Mrs. Lou Fox
          Hotel Sahara

    Well, perhaps not entirely marginal. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Minnie S. Brooks and her MANDARIN COAT pull me back into my own childhood, for although I never knew Mrs. Brooks and did not visit Inyo County until I was thirty, I grew up in just such a world, in houses cluttered with Indian relics and bits of gold ore and ambergris and the souviners my Aunt Mercy Farnsworth brought back from the Orient. It is a long way from that world to Mrs. Lou Fox's world, where we all live now, and is it not just as well to remember that? Might not Mrs. Minnie S. Brooks help me to remember what I am? Might not Mrs. Lou Fox help me to remember what I am not?
    But sometimes the point is harder to discern. What exactly did I have in mind when I noted won that it cost the father of someone I know $650 a month to light the place on the Hudson in which he lived before the Crash? What use was I planning to make of this line by Jimmy Hoffa: "I may have my faults, but being wrong ain't one of them"? And although I think it interesting to know where the girls who travel with the Syndicate have their hair done when they find themselves on the West Coast, will I ever make suitable use of it? Might I not be better off just passing it on to John O'Hara? What is a recipe for sauerkraut doing in my notebook? What kind of magpie keeps this notebook? "He was born the night the Titanic went down." That seems a nice enough line, and I even recall who said it, but is it not really a better line in life than it could ever be in fiction?
    But of course that is exactly it: not that I should ever use the line, but that I should remember the woman who said it and the afternoon I heard it. We were on her terrace by the sea, and we were finishing the wine left from lunch, trying to get what sun there was, a California winter sun. The woman whose husband was borh the night the Titanic went down wanted to rent her house, wanted to go back to her children in Paris. I remember wishing that I could afford the house, which cost $1,000 a month. "Someday you will," she said lazily. "Someday it all comes." There in the sun on her terrace it seemed easy to believe in someday, but later I had a low-grade afternoon hangover and ran over a black snake on the way to the supermarket and was flooded with inexplicable fear when I heard the checkout clerk explaining to the man ahead of me why she was finally divorcing her husband. "He left me no choice," she said over and over as she punched the register. "He has a little seven-month-old baby by her, he left me no choice." I would like to believe that my dread then was for the human condition, but of course it was for me, because I wanted a baby and did not then have one and because I wanted to own a house that cost $1,000 a month to rent and because I had a hangover.
   It all comes back. Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one's self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it: I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals aline, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be: one of them, a seventeen-year-old, presents little threat, although it would be of some interest to me to know again what it feels like to sit on a river levee drinking vodka-and-orange-juice and listening to Les Paul and Mary Ford and their echoes sing "How High the Moon" on the car radio. You see I still have the scenes, but I no longer percieve myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue. The other one, a twenth-three-year-old, bothers me more. She was always a good deal of trouble, and I suspect she will reappear wieh I least want to see her, skirts too long, shy to the point of aggravation, always the injured party, full of recriminations and little hurts and stories I do not want to hear again, at once saddening me and angering me with her vulnerability and ignorance, an apparation all the more insistent for being so long banished.
    It is a good idea, then, to keep in touch, and I suppose that keeping in touch is what notebooks are all about. And we are all on our own when it comes to keeping those lines open to ourselves: your notebook will never help me, nor mine you. "So what's new in the whiskey business?" What could that possibly mean to you? To me it means a blonde in a Pucci bathing suit sitting with a couple of fat men by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Another man approaches, and they all regard one another in silence for a while. "So what's new in the whiskey business?" one of the fat men finally says by way of welcome, and the blonde stands up, arches one foot and dips it into the pool, looking all the while at the cabana where Baby Pignatari is talking on the telephone. That is all there is to that, except that several years later I saw the blonde coming out of Saks Fifth Avenue in New York with her California complexion and a voluminous mink coat. In the harsh wind that day she looked old and irrevocably tired to me, and even the skins in the mink coat were not worked the way they were doing them that year, not the way she would have wanted them done, and there is the point of the story. For a while after that I did not like to look in the mirror, and my eyes would skim the newspapers and pick out only the deaths, the cancer victims, the premature coronaries, the suicides, and I stopped riding the Lexington Avenue IRT because I noticed for the first time that all the strangers I had seen for years--the man with the Seeing Eye dog, the spinster who read the classified pages every day, the fat girl who always got off with me at Grand Central--they all looked older than they once had.
    It all comes back. Even that recipe for sauerkraut: even that brings it back. I was on Fire Island when I first made that sauerkraut, and it was raining, and we drank a lot of bourbon and ate the sauerkraut and went to bed at ten, and I listened to the rain and the Atlantic and felt safe. I made the sauerkraut again last night and it did not make me feel any safer, but that is, as they say, another story.

I thought this essay was wonderful, so I thought I'd share it with you. Hope you enjoyed it.

Jan. 14th, 2007


the regular cheerios are better.

Really, they are. The Honey Nut Cheerios just aren't quite as good as plain old Cheerios. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Speaking of stories, I've had a strange desire to write a short story lately. I'll be sitting around doing nothing and this random sentence about a character will pop into my head. But, being lazy like I am, I don't write any of it down. I just keep it in my head so it drives me crazy and I can't think about anything else until I actually put it on paper.
I'm ridiculous.

I'm sorta dreading AP Lang because of all of the writing I'm going to have to do, but that's also sorta the reason I'm looking forward to it.
It's been SO long since I've done any writing. I miss it. And, I took AP Lang so I could do more expository writing than literary analysis on account of the fact that I HATE literary analysis. With a passion.

Does it make me too obsessed if I actually download Harry Potter podcasts? Because if it does....then I'm too obsessed.
[Not that I'd stop downloading them or anything. No, no. BUT. Just thought I'd ask.]

I'm taking a trip to Old Sacramento today. I'm going with Ashley and her family for her little sister's 14th birthday. So all of her little friends are coming too. OH NO. I have absolutely NO idea what we'll be doing, so I might have an adventure story later.

Time to go...
do something other than this.


Jan. 10th, 2007


(no subject)

[it's better if you don't cheat and don't skip any songs.] 

What is your name? Or what should your name be? Black Horse and the Cherry Tree. - KT Tunstall [okay...]

How is your life going? Buttons. - Pussycat Dolls [again, okay....]

What is your nickname? Wanted Dead or Alive. - dunno who it's by, but Chris Daughtry is singing it. [haha.]

What is your theme song? My Girl. - Prom CD. 

What is your best friend's theme song? What a Wonderful World - Sung by Chris Daughtry

How is your life going to turn out? Empty Handed. - Michelle Branch [damn.]

Will you get married? Candyman. - Christina Aguilera [so, yes?]

Will you have kids? Perfect Day - Clay Aiken.

What will your job be? The Friend Nobody Likes - Dane Cook [haha. dang, my job is to be the Karen of the group.]

Did you/will you finish school? Instead. - Stacie Orrico

Who is your best friend? Hollaback Girl - Gwen Steffani. [haha. NONE of my best friends are 'hollaback girls.']

Who is or will be your significant other? Breakaway. - Kelly Clarkson

Who do you like? Lost and Confused. - Lillix

How will you die? Shine. - Aly & AJ.

How do you feel right now? Behind These Hazel Eyes. - Kelly Clarkson. [too bad my eyes are blue.]

What is your favorite song? Can't Hold Us Down - Christina Aguilera

How could you describe your parents? Revolutionaries. - Bethany Dillon

Your best friend[s]? Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash

Your teachers? Bad Day - Daniel Powter

Your significant other [or crush...]? All I Need - Bethany Dillon [aw, shucks.]

Yourself? Tight. - Stacie Orrico [hahahaha.]

What is your best feature? Til' I Get Over You. - Michelle Branch

What will you be / should you be, profession-wise? The Way - Clay Aiken
How could you describe this survey? Some Hearts - Carrie Underwood

What makes you angry? I'm Every Woman - Sung by Mandisa.

What makes you sad? Desperately - Michelle Branch.

What makes you happy? Superbleeder - Dane Cook. [lol.]

What makes you dance? Dreamer - Bethany Dillon. [My shuffle sucks. It plays the same artists over and over.]

What is your favorite color? I Am One of Them - Aly & AJ

How would you describe yourself? Superstar - Sung by Ruben Studdard. [haha. YES.]

Who is your worst enemy? Some Kind of Miracle - Kelly Clarkson.

Who do you hate? Breathing - Yellowcard. [So, I hate everyone that breathes? Sucks.]

Who do you love? Back at One - Sung by Ricky Smith

Who do you lust after? Heaven - Sung by Elliot Yamin [A bit ironic, don't you think?]

Finish the Sentence 
I wish Enigma - Trapt

I want to Chemicals React - Aly & AJ

I want to kill For My Love - Bethany Dillon

I want to eat the I Turn to You - Christina Aguilera

My head Testing the Strong Ones - Copeland

I am blow Jackson - Johnny Cash & June Carter

My best feature is Too Little Too Late - Jojo [CRAP.]

My eyes are Ain't No Other Man - Christina Aguilera [Told you my shuffle blows.]

My hair is Trouble - Sung by Elliot Yamin

My face is Beautiful - Bethany Dillon [HAHA. NO JOKE. Love it.]

You should Back Home - Yellowcard

Words of advice Stuck - Stacie Orrico

How do others see me? Killing Me Softly - Sung by Kimberly Caldwell

How do I see myself? Speak For Myself - Aly & AJ

Now THAT was pointless, wasn't it?
Oh well. It kept me entertained for a few minutes.

Jan. 1st, 2007


what's up?




Ashlee, your subconscious mind is most preoccupied with issues around your friendships

On a conscious level, you might already be aware that something is troubling you, or eating up a lot of time when it comes to your friendships. But it's also possible that thoughts and feelings about your relationships have been preoccupying your subconscious mind — leaving you with nothing more than a general sense that things just don't feel 100% right in your life though you can't quite figure out why.

You may feel dissatisfied with your current circle of friends or conflicted about one of your closer friendships. Perhaps you long for more fulfilling connections, or wish that you found your friendships less draining, or more balanced. Or maybe you're so frustrated with your situation that you avoid the topic all together.

Whichever feelings hold true, your test results indicate that right now, your subconscious mind is working overtime to resolve the issues confronting you in this area of your life — even if you don't feel aware of it.

However, you can learn easy ways to tap into your subconscious mind and discover the source of the issues that are preoccupying you.

Previous 10