day late and dollar short

Holy shit people like to write. My blog has been added to the blog list for one of the "rhymes with -an" friends. So, I naturally had to check out the company on this list. I never knew all these people had so much to say. Was I too involved in my own dealings to notice that they had large brains and lots of words to share? Did they try to share them with me one time but I was too busy blotting the martini stain on my skirt to hear? Why did I not know this? How could I have been so selfish? Who am I? Where did I get this pair of jeans from and how do they make my ass look so wide?

My former roommate Dave told me years ago that I should start a blog.

"It's a good reason to write."

Apparently, other people and I'm talking like 2 million other people agree. That's like every other person in Los Angeles. I'm so behind the times. I should have been blogging when Dave told me to start but, instead I was too consumed by trying to graduate from high school and finishing my community college apps. Yeah, we call them "apps" because it's shorter than saying "application." Just like "reej" is short for "reeject." But I "dig." Digress.

"Sex it up," the boyfriend says when I tell him today's post is shaping up to be somewhat boring. How can I sex up an entry about reading people's blogs? I think a sense of humor is sexy. But, I'm not feeling funny today. What else...Vin Diesel...money...success. Am I typing out loud? I could probably wrap Vin Diesel-money-success into one but, I can't find any photos online of Vin winning an award. Curious.

"That's hot," Paris Hilton says when something is sexy. Well then, the mountains north of my office building are the sexiest things in town. (Note: When I say MY office building, I want to clarify that I don't actually own the building, I merely occupy a 8' x 8' cube of it. Real estate is not my thing.) They are hot because they are on fire. Literally. I took a couple of photos which I will upload later. This is where I live. It smells like BBQ outside and my eyes are watering and my voice is raspy. God (sp?) or one of the other execs up there is pissed. Someone wants their minions to quit actin' the fool and take care of shit. We've been bad minions. Someone up there needs a S'more to make them feel better. I'm talking econo-value-pak-family-size type S'mores and they're looking for a place to roast their marshmallows. Not sexy.

because we can

It has been unusually warm in LA the past few days. Santa Ana Winds they call it. Indian Summer others say. This usually happens in autumn. We will get a few days of dry heat and then it disappears and the chill of October will begin.

Dry it is. I can feel my fingers tighten up after a shower. My skin itches. Pictures on my bulletin board curl as the moisture trapped between the image and the waxy backing is leeched into the atmosphere.

Hot it is. I don't consider myself a sweaty mofo but lately, I have been emitting an odor of which I am not proud. It's frikkin' hot; it's the most popular phrase in this town. People are turning on the A/C in their cars and gasping when they leave them.

To combat the dry and the hot, the young and the restless meaning the boyfriend and I, escaped to the beach last night. Well, not so much the beach as the gaudy Santa Monica Pier. As we crossed the bridge that goes over the Pacific Coast Highway, we could sniff the fishiness of the ocean. It wasn't all that much cooler by the water. In fact, when we claimed a suitable public bench as our own, I noticed that the wind was actually warm. It was warm and dry like a waft from an oven.

We sat on our bench for about an hour, gazing at the sparkling lights along the left coast. We shared a bag of green grapes and a package of green-red-yellow-orange Sour Patch Kids. Unfortunately, the sugar didn't help us stay awake. We were both getting sleepy but I was fighting it. I remembered a time when I was single and would long for someone to accompany me to the beach on a balmy summer night. Someone to share a bench with as the stars twinkled and the sea glistened. Who cares if it's almost Halloween and the air smells like sardines.

"I want to stay here as long as possible because it won't be like this again for a while. Because it's rare. And because we can."

My boyfriend, solid as he is, said that it would be different the next time we would be at the pier. And it would still be lovely. As long as he's there with wise words and a mean pitching arm (for lobbing grapes into the Pacific) I would expect nothing less. So, I surrendered to our departure. I knew we could leave and that we would return another night. Because we can.

That, my friend

So, my friend is moving and in search of furniture. He sent me a link to a craigslist posting for a couch and asked me if I liked it.


That, my friend, is a sex couch.

An, Ban, Can, Dan, Fan, Gan, Han, Jan, Kan, LAN, Man, Nan, Pan, Ran, Stan, Van, Wan, Yan

This is my first post to my new blog entitled "Lemon Days." I chose this name because I am Asian and I have yellow skin so every day is a yellow day and well, I also like lemons. Lemons are zesty and yellow like me.

There are only three people who will likely read this blog and their names all rhyme with "an." One of them doesn't even have an internet connection at home so she will be relegated to massaging her internet restrictions at her very corporate firewalls-everywhere job. This is for them (and me.) I hope to use this blog to practice writing. Paul Austere writes 1000 words a day or so he says. I don't know if I will write that many.