Said the Moth to the Flame

I'm still thinking of going to LA to tell a story. The theme is "Blunders", and I think this will be the story I will tell:

The second day of my freshman year, I went to class starting with my 8am Chemistry class. I had my pens, hi-liters, notebooks and text books--all of which I carried on my back like an overloaded snail. By three o'clock, I was feeling good about myself, cautiously optimistic as I walked into my biology lecture hall, along with about 200 other students. It was mostly an introduction session listing the professors, the TAs and the resources available to anal retentive pre-med freshmen. At the end of the lecture, Dr. H mentioned that the lecture notes would be available as tutorials at the brand new computer center down the hall.

I went to the brand new computer center, to find an empty room with rows of computers and a harried man untangling wires as he balanced some books on his lap. I went to him, introduced myself and whispered, "I've never used a computer before. Could you help me?"

I'm not sure why I started whispering, but it seemed to annoy him. "Just pick up the mouse and play around with it a little. You'll figure it out."

I stood there looking at him, and then looking around the room. I wasn't sure why I would have to play with a mouse.

"Ha ha, I guess they got away. Good thing, since I don't like mice! How do I get started on the computer again?"

I'm pretty sure if someone had this conversation with you, with an American accent and a perfectly straight face--you'd think they're being a smart ass. He did, and it seemed to annoy him more.

"Listen, I don't have time for your jokes. Just sit at a computer and click the mouse. You'll figure it out."

I sat in front of a computer at the end of one of the rows, pretty sure I'd break it and get expelled from university during the first week of classes. Then I'd have to move back to Iran, listen to all the jokes of how I couldn't even stay in a university in America--where any bum can get in...I was about to cry. I was timidly hitting random keys and NOT reading the recommended tutorials, when suddenly a page popped up asking my name.

I looked around, and saw Angry Guy paging through one of the books. He was right, it wouldn't let me do anything to break it, the computer was helping me!

"Excuse me, should I be answering the questions?"

"Yeah, you're fine."

So I carefully entered my full name. I also provided my detailed address, class schedule and student status when asked. But the next two questions practically made me jump out of my chair.

"Are you Iranian?"

"Yes."

"Haaleh shoma chetoreh?"

"OH MY GOD! The computer is speaking to me in FARSI!"

Angry Guy couldn't ignore me any more, "What are you talking about? Computers don't talk. Someone at another computer station is chatting with you."

"But it spoke to me in FARSI! No one around here speaks Farsi."

And that's when a couple of Iranian looking guys jumped up from behind a computer in the furthest corner of the room, "It's us! We're Iranian! Sallam!!"

I couldn't collect my things fast enough. I was grabbing my notebook and pens, trying to get away as fast as I could, when they came over and tried to talk. One was a short guy with overly gelled hair and clothes that didn't fit him well. The other was a tall, lanky guy, too easy in his skin and a huge smile on his face. He was mighty proud of himself.

"Want to grab dinner? Do you have any friends? How long have you been in the States?"

I didn't answer any of the questions, just called out, "I'm sorry, I have to go. Bye," as I tried to run far, far away. As I ran, I looked over my shoulder to make sure they weren't following me. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered, considering how I had given them my dorm name, address and room number. "They won't look for me. I'll never see them again. They'll forget about this. They're guys, they won't tell anyone."

I was wrong, again. I saw them twice a day, every other day in my biology and chemistry classes for two semesters. Had I not been running away from them so quickly, I would have recognized the short guy as the overly zealous guy in my chemistry lab. They were premed, always with a pack of competitive Iranian premed students who eventually learned about what had happened. They only strengthened my resolve to avoid the Iranians on campus like the plague.

That didn't happen either. The tall lanky guy was determined to befriend me. He was a patient fellow; he stopped trying to talk to me for almost two semesters, but eventually his niceness got me talk to him. We studied together, hung out, exchanged emails when he moved away and spent long hours talking about life, family and dreams.

I'm glad he didn't give up, because today he's one of my dearest friends.

Cooking The Night Away

I have so many thoughts going through my head right now. How could I not?

Ahmadinejad came by and caused a ruckus, and everyone is asking my opinion--so I'll eventually have to opine. Please note, I do not know him personally, but because I am from Iran and am interested in politics, I am asked my opinion ALL THE TIME. The same way our European friends ask me to explain George W. Bush. I'm not sure what I have done to have to explain two politicians, but it must have been awful. I'll provide you with some thoughts eventually.

I was stood up by a not one, not two--but THREE internet/email friends in one month. Do I offend? You can't all hate me yet, you barely know me. This is all enough to make a girl feel unpopular. Sigh.

My brothers were here, for less than 48 hours. And yet, I could write a novella about that fun, fun experience.

But all of that will come a bit later. I have spent the last three hours cooking--which is always fun. We will spend the week feasting on two quiches (one Greek and another onion-mushroom), a big pot of Aash, a huge pot of biryani and a little hummus to snack on. I even managed to go jogging in the middle of all this prepping and cooking.

NOW will you come over?

What I love about the medical community: A Haiku of Frustration

Blank looks, befuddled
"Have you tried this med yet?"
Maybe MRI

A Friend in Need

I was dazzled and impressed by the injuries listed by Boo and offered my own unimpressive highlights, when I remembered the best part of the story of getting my nails being pulled out. Perhaps a little background would help explain:

My sophomore year in college, I developed strange white spots under two of my fingernails. None of the doctors who saw me had any idea what was going on. In response to the mystery spots under my nails, I started washing my hands even more frequently (with harsher soaps and hotter water) and disinfecting them with whatever I could get my hands on. This overzealous approach may have resulted in the subsequent infections under my nails. No one knows for sure, because the infections couldn't be explained by any of the doctors either. Over time, my nails started developing small holes, which lead to more infections, and more washing. Wash, disinfect, repeat.

By the beginning of my junior year, when I was an RA and a newly minted Microbiology major, my index and pinky finger sported holey, twisty nails that oozed fluid. It got to the point that I rarely used my right hand for anything close to my face. In early October, I decided that if something wasn't done to fix the grotesqueness of my fingers, I'd have to chop them off in the kitchen sink. With that, I marched myself to the student health center where every doctor, nurse and administrator knew me and my fingers. I told them I needed to schedule an appointment to somehow resolve my nail issues. They promised me an hour on the following Tuesday when the residents and specialists from UMC would do rotations.

The following Tuesday afternoon, I walked to the health center, sat on the bed and obediently modeled my warped fingers to each student and resident in the room. After a brief break to discuss the situation, the whole lot of them came back and their Leader announced that the best course of action would be to remove my nails and allow my nails to rebuild and regrow. He also recommended a round of medications which would 'possibly effect my family planning decisions'. I wasn't planning a family at the time, but the idea that my fingernails would prevent my ability to bear children was more than I could take. As the tears flowed, I tried to muster as much dignity as I could and asked, "Could you just start with removing the nail?"

And good doctors that they were, they listened. As the nurse injected the anesthesia, she asked if I was planning to have children soon. "No, but I'd like to keep my options open."

As she stepped aside, the Leader told me to lay down and relax. Unfortunately, I did and they pulled the nail from my index finger. I'm not exaggerating when I said I practically hit the ceiling, screaming in pain. The Leader was shocked, and asked if I actually felt anything. WHAT THE F#$!#@ DO YOU THINK?

I don't remember anything about the removal of my second nail, because I passed out. When I came to, I had three fingernails on my right hand and was clenching my teeth so hard I felt light headed. They tried to keep me until I was a little more comfortable, but I had to get away from there. All the way from the health center back to the dorm, I was hyperventilating and doing my best not to scream.

As I walked into the dorm, one of my residents saw me and asked what was wrong.

"Noth-ing. Pain. Can't. Breathe."

And that's when she did what any caring, kind resident would do for their RA. She smacked me so hard that the shock and impact almost knocked me over.

"WHAT.THE.HELL.ARE.YOU.DOING?!?!?"

"Isn't that what you do to help people when they're hyperventilating? Or is it when they're having an anxiety attack? I heard it somewhere. Oh my God! I think you need to breathe into a paper bag. Are you ok?"

I almost started laughing at the sincerity of her effort and the ridiculousness of the situation.

Wednesday morning, I went to class with two bandaged, throbbing fingers and a bruised face--and offers of assistance from a very apologetic resident.

Nothing to See Here

Back when I was on jury duty, I spent my time in between sessions reading, It's Not News, It's Fark. I would laugh out loud at the accuracy of the claims of how 'news' is presented on supposedly respectable news outlets--especially because it seems the pace of my reading matched the CNN news updates to a tee. The only thing I disagreed with, was the notion that there are slow news days that need to be filled with something, anything before the rabid masses turn off their televisions.

But then again, what do I know? I'm one of those crazy people that thinks there's never a dull moment in the world--what with us fighting not one, but two wars; the greater part of a continent starving; France acting all neoconny after the party (I love France, but seriously?!); the US economy and the impact of said economy on the world; any given moment of the Bush administration; the Jena Six; Iraq acting all grown up and sovereign-ish; anything related to the Middle East; Russia and its nail-biter politics; Pakistan and whatever the heck their President comes up with when he wakes up in the morning... I don't know, these are just the top few things I think about when I wonder what's going on in the world. Obviously, I'm a crazy lady who doesn't know what news is. All one has to do is turn on the television around 6 pm to learn that OJ Simpson 'allegedly' stealing his own worthless crap from alleged thieves who allegedly stole it from him earlier is what is really 'news'. CNN International had PrettyBoy Blue-Eyes bemoaning the style choices of Larry King's guest that night.

GAHHHHHHHHH!!

A couple of weeks ago, when our genius president was in Australia, he made a fool of himself (again) and embarrassed anyone with a two digit IQ when he thanked PM Howard for inviting him to the OPEC Summit (he wasn't invited to OPEC, he was actually attending APEC), and referred to the Austrian soldiers fighting in Iraq (if I were an Australian fighting in Iraq, I'd be really pissed). Then he almost fell off the stage for walking off in the wrong direction. All of this was sad and entertaining, but nothing of significance was actually mentioned about what happened during APEC. Most people didn't even hear about it, outside of what is mentioned on late night shows.

This is how we end up with George Bush as our president for two terms, how people don't recognize their own elected officials, but recognize has-been celebrities; this is how we will fall apart--following the lives of people who should not be getting any attention or recognition.

This is what drives me crazy every time I turn on the television.

Lost--Again

I just realized that I am missing my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo--again. This is not due to my carelessness or indifference towards my books--but because I insist on sharing my books with people who forget to return them to me. I may have single-handedly made Karen Armstrong a best selling author, because I have purchased at least six copies of A History of God for myself--only the most recent one of which is in my possession. This does not include copies I bought with the intention of gifting to people.

I guess I have to stop by Barnes & Noble on the way home tomorrow.

Traveler's Guide to Insanity

My mom called today to tell me that she was anxious about her upcoming trip. She's going back to Iran and is worried about weight limits, itineraries and visitors.

"A strange thing is happening--as I get older, I feel I'm getting anxious and forgetful about my trips. It's very difficult."

I responded to this with silence, because only my mother would think this is a new phenomenon. She is perhaps one of the most neurotic travelers I know. Actually, she's generally neurotic--freaking out about everything from dinner preparation to just getting ready to go to a dinner party. As she continued worrying about her 'new' anxiety, I had to interrupt and remind her of the first trip we took North to the Caspian Sea after we moved to Iran.

Almost every family in Tehran spends some part of summer up North. It is a ritual. Unfortunately, my parents were not part of this tradition--unless they were talked into it by their friends. On this particular Tuesday, my father casually mentioned that we would be spending the weekend (starting early Thursday morning) with Mr. and Mrs. P and their family. My mom started running around the house frantically trying to get everything ready for our family of five to spend less than 72 hours round-trip from Tehran to their orchard in Rasht. You would think that we were moving to another city for good. By Wednesday night, she had wrapped, packed and piled enough clothes, down mattresses, blankets, towels, food and dishes to support a village after a disaster. Of course, I was her helper--running around, folding linens, packing clothes and cleaning up behind her as she cooked. By Thursday morning when she woke us up at 3:45 sharp, I had decided that I hated going North, and hated Mr. and Mrs. P for dragging us out of bed to go to their stupid orchard. We took turns showering and loading the car. By the time we were done, my baby brother was sitting on my mom's lap up front (they didn't require car seats in Iran), my younger brother was sitting on my lap and the rest of the VW van was full of household goods and supplies. There are not enough words to describe how resentful I was before my dad even got in the car. We generally did not have the opportunity to travel for fun, and from what I was seeing, I did not much like it. I had resolved to spend the next six hours sleeping no matter how much my seven year old brother squirmed on my lap. And just before I closed my eyes and drifted off, less than 200 meters from our house, my mother turned around and whispered, "Did you remember to unplug the mosquito killer? Well, did you?"

I tried to remember, and decided to just say 'Yes'. After all, there was no way my dad would turn around for me to check without ruining everyone's already irritable mood. And there is nothing I tried to avoid more than putting my parents in a bad mood.

Just like that, my mother had planted a seed or horror and paranoia in my mind, that blossomed into the most hellish travel experience of my life. For 72 hours, I had visions of our building burnt to the ground as a result of the little felt pad on the mosquito killer overheating. I could just see all of our neighbors standing around the remains of what used to be our building, wondering how this could have happened. I would be branded as an arsonist for my forgetfulness, when in reality it was my brother who was always playing with matches and burning things. They may even file a complaint against me and hand me over to the police and force my father to pay for all of their houses. By the time we made our first stop, I was on the cusp of a nervous breakdown, my eyes wide open in horror--causing our would be hosts to laughingly point out I was the most intense looking 12 year old they knew. That just added anger to my fear of being hauled to jail and disowned by my parents.

When we returned home, I was still wide-eyed and full of fear. I had not slept, I had barely eaten anything and all I wanted was to see our building still standing. As we pulled into our street, I stuck my head out the window and tried to see our house in the dark. There it was--four stories high, three units wide and covered in gray stone--just as we had left it. As I lay my sleepy brother in his bed, I looked around for the mosquito killer. I finally found it--with its cord wrapped around it, in the drawer in our bedroom--just where it was supposed to be when it wasn't in use.

I literally don't remember anything from that trip, and have no idea what Rasht (or any other part of the Caspian coast) looks like. When people talk about the beauties of the Caspian coast, I just nod and smile, assuming they know what they're talking about. But more than anything, I have to bite my tongue when my mom worries that her age is effecting her anxiety level and causing her to worry when she travels. The poor woman has always driven herself (and others) crazy when she travels--she's only noticing it more now.

Freshman Year: Nice, Not Cool

One afternoon, towards the end of my first semester freshman year, I was doing the same thing I did almost every afternoon--studying on my bed. This was not due to my studiousness, rather to the fact that I was scared of two things: failing (and subsequently being sent back home) and making a fool of myself. While I have still managed to avoid the first, I failed at the second endeavor no matter what I did--even if I spent almost all of my freshman year hiding in my dorm room.

On this particular afternoon, the girl at the front desk called and told me Mike was there to see my roommate. My roommate wasn't there, but I knew Mike and went to bring him to our room to wait for her. When I went to get him from the front desk, I saw a thin, tired looking man dripping wet from having walked in the rain. He followed me silently and sat on the floor by the door. I would have gone back to studying, but there was an awkward silence and a very wet man on my dorm room floor. I offered him a towel, which he silently accepted; I still couldn't focus.

"Are you ok?" I didn't know what else to say.

"Yes. I'm fine--for a guy who has just been cut off from his family and hasn't eaten in two days. My father just threatened me, claimed that I wasn't getting another penny out of him and not to even think of contacting my mom or grandparents for help. I would rather starve than ask them for help. She's can't help herself--how the hell is she going to help me... "

He was rambling, angry words bursting to the surface--apparently he had just been waiting for someone to ask him. Meanwhile, from about the time he had finished saying he hadn't eaten in two days, I was keeping myself busy by making him a stack of turkey sandwiches.

I was shocked at his anger. Every time I had seen Mike during his visits, he had been funny and carefree. He was nice to me, if a little confused by my lifestyle. He was one of the rare people I had met who had never seemed stressed or overwhelmed by college life and the realities of growing up. This wet man named Mike was a stranger, I was meeting him for the first time.

By the time I handed him his turkey sandwiches, he was looking at me with more than his usual confusion. "What's this?"

"Turkey sandwiches. The bottom two have mayo and mustard. But I didn't know if you like them or not, so the others are without sauce. What? You just said you hadn't eaten in two days."

He sat in the same spot and ate the first sandwich in silence. Of course, it would have probably been impossible for him to talk as he stuffed his mouth with food--but he may have run out of angry words about his family life.

"I'll go to DC. I have a couple of friends out there. You can get places if you play your cards right over there. You need to look at people and make them feel like they're smart. Learn a few things, shake a few hands, act confident and you'll make it. Have you ever been to DC?"

I shook my head no. He continued to talk to himself.

"Well, I'll send you a postcard when I get there. I'll probably crash with Jess or Amy. They'll take me in. I swear, flatter a girl a little bit, give her a good sob story and she will take you in and treat you like a king. I bet you anything, in two weeks, I'll have a bunch of new clothes a comfortable couch to sleep on and a date to all the interesting events. I'll be eating three meals a day again. For some reason, girls really feel good about themselves when they feed a 'poor guy'." He stopped here, sandwich mid-air and looked at me in the eyes for the first time. I had just taken him in and fed him, and he sat on my floor mocking me. I said nothing.

"I didn't mean it like that. Really I didn't."

For the first time that entire semester, I made eye contact with him and did not avert my eyes. That was not how I was raised. In my old world, only shameless girls looked men in the eyes like that. Even then, I blushed out of shame, because I was unaccustomed to the directness of the exchange. I was becoming something different from the daughter my mother had raised and sent away. I was no longer only focusing on my studies, but slowly talking to boys. It occurred to me for the first time, that not only had I ignored my mother's advice and stayed in the room when my roommate had brought her friends over, I had talked to them over time. Indeed, they were almost the only people I talked to outside my lab partners and study group members. And now, without thinking I had brought this man into my room, fed him and looked him in the eyes as he mocked me.

"Listen. I'm sorry--really. You're different. You're not cool, you don't look like the other girls, you don't act like the other girls. You're nice. You didn't even ask me if I wanted something, you just helped me. No one around here does things like that." He was back pedaling, confusing the color that had rushed to my face for an emotion other than what I felt. He felt bad for being caught.

"I fed you because you said you hadn't eaten and it was the right thing to do. I know you--or men like you. I didn't feed you to impress you or make you like me, because your kind does not like my kind. You think I'm stupid and funny--but nice enough to help you if I can."

And from there, we returned to the awkward silence. He ate, and I read--or pretended to as I stared at my book. My roommate eventually came back, and looked completely baffled by the semi-wet man on the floor and the silent girl on the bed.

I learned two things that day, 1) the reputation you develop early on in college seems to follow you around for a while. 2) in the minds of many people, 'nice' and 'cool' are mutually exclusive qualities. That day, in the awkward silence of my room, I established a reputation as a 'nice' girl; the girl guys were honest with, the one that listened but didn't play games. It was safe to tell me what you really thought, because I wouldn't use it against you on a date. I was the little/big sister, at once teased and protected. I don't know how but for years after, people I met on campus knew me through that exchange with Mike--one that he didn't forget for a while. How do I know? The following year, I got a postcard from Washington DC in an envelop, with a $20 paper clipped to it.

On the postcard, there was a short message, "Thanks for lunch. It's nice here."

The Science of Hair

I love French Scientists--I married one of them--because they ask interesting questions. Questions about the connection between dementia and HIV; stroke and Alzheimer's disease; and the ever important tangle in hair.

It seems some very important scientists at the Ecole Polytechnique have scientifically proven the superiority of curly hair. Based on complex physics formulas that are too difficult for the average person to understand, straight hair tangles more than curly hair--causing pain and anguish to straight haired people everywhere. Thank goodness that mystery has been solved. And before you dismiss the Ecole Polytechnique as some obscure institution, it is a very reputable university that asks the hard questions.

So on the mornings I spend hours pulling my hair straight, layering anti-frizz stuff onto it before ironing it to obedience--and then it all curls up again; I can take heart in the fact that science has proven my hair to be less tangle prone than that of my straight hair sisters.

The Plan: Weekend Getaway (Part II)

While our weekend didn't work out quite as I had planned it, it was a pretty nice weekend. If you ignored the searing heat, the brown out, the traffic and the searing heat. It is bad when being outside is actually cooler than being inside your home. Our poor upstairs neighbors had to resort to coffee shops and bookstores for most of the weekend. We stayed home for most of the first two days, then took a drive to other parts of SoCal, which seemed cooler to us. Either that or the heat had made us lose our senses...

So here is an overview of what we did:

• The Self-Realization Fellowship and Meditation Gardens: I heard about this place on PBS, and considering how many times we have driven past it, you would think we'd check it out. But prior to our visit, I thought it was strictly a religious retreat. The gardens, open to visitors, are lovely. We didn't take a camera--again because we weren't sure if it would be disrespectful to anyone worshipping or meditating. We enjoyed the garden (the views from the top of the garden were one of the best in San Diego, I think), watched the fish in the pond for a while and then went to a nearby park for a homemade picnic lunch. The lunch was nice, watching kids running around the park with reckless abandon made it even better. It was still crazy hot outside though.
• Shahrzad: Having lived close to LA for a while, I can honestly say I don't miss it. However, there are a few places I like to visit and miss from time to time. Shahrzad, a Persian restaurant in Westwood (Eye-ranian central) is one of them. They make fresh, Persian flatbread which can be a lovely meal in itself. Of course, we had to stuff ourselves silly with all kinds of rice dishes and appetizers--but only after eating a basket of fresh, hot bread. Mmmm...bread.
• Girl at The Getty: On the way to Santa Barbara after lunch, I pointed out The Getty to M. I'm pretty sure it is the first time he was impressed with a museum in California. Having lived in Paris, he does not consider The San Diego Museum of Art a 'Real Museum'. I can't argue. But The Getty did get his attention. If you have a chance to go, you should. It is free (there is an $8 parking fee) and beautiful. Actually, I must say, I get pretty excited about visiting museums; I'm almost speechless--as if in a shrine of some kind. We returned on Tuesday (driving back from San Diego, NOT Santa Barbara) and spent some time there, basking in natural and man made beauty in the sun. We just happened to catch Manet's Bar at the Folies-Bergere during its last week. Oh, and here are some pictures of me, in case you're wondering what I look like.
  

And my personal favorite, me under the bouganville trees:

• Santa Barbara: SB was nice, even though the visit was quite short. Due to the traffic and distractions along the way, we arrived later in the afternoon than I had originally planned. Actually, I had planned to be there in the morning--but that's ok. We drove around town, saw some of the sights, and almost got run over by drunk tourists on bikes. Next time we go, we're planning on staying longer. Actually, the thing worst part of the trip was getting on the road on Monday night. It took us almost five hours to get from SB to San Diego, with much of the time spent on the freeway between SB and LA. This is one of the many reasons, I hated living there.
  
• The Moth: I have been reading and hearing about The Moth for years. I emailed and asked the people who organize the events if they could do something on the West Coast (this is before I even lived in San Diego). They politely said there were no plans, but I should stop by and attend one of the events next time I'm in NYC. Unfortunately, I rarely happen upon NYC. So imagine my joy when I found out that they finally have events in LA. They started recently, and we went last night. For some reason, they didn't get as high a turnout as they usually do. I almost got up and participated. I guess that will have to wait for another evening. Perhaps October, when the theme of the stories are "Blunders". If you know anything about me, you know how far I must stretch my imagination to find "Blunders" in my past...

The Plan: Weekend Getaway (Part I)

In a rare move of foresight and planning (as opposed to my charming habit of procrastinating), I had planned this past Labor Day weekend full of all kinds of fun activities. I was giddy. I was excited. I was a woman with a plan. I planned it so far in advance, that I gave more than the requisite two weeks notice to my boss when I requested to have Tuesday off. What were my big, fancy plans?

I had planned it so we would stay home and relax for a couple of days when all those crazy Americans got on the road and started driving places. I got things to cook, sunblock and a list of undiscovered gems in our lovely city. We were to spend the Saturday and Sunday in San Diego, hosting possible visiting friends (who sadly did not visit), cooking, beach bumming, writing, etc. and then drive up to Santa Barbara early Monday morning. According to The Plan, we'd spend the night in SB, drive to Los Angeles on Tuesday, explore a few places and attend The Moth event in the evening.

Cool plan, huh?

Sunday morning, I was on the phone, casually telling my friend about what I had planned, how we'd drive up the coast, maybe visit a winery or two, find a little place to stay and hang out in ...

"What's that look for?"

I had to ask, because M was looking at me with a blank expression. It seems, in addition to having a plan, I also have a husband who is more forgetful than I am.

"Why are you telling her we're going this weekend?"

"Because we are. Remember? The Gmail calendar I created so we could both check schedules and plan things? Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, The Moth...The time I took off of work..."

Blank look continues. I apologized to my friend and told her I had to go.

So it seems there was a slight miscommunication, misunderstanding or some other kind of mystery involved. He was pretty sure I had never mentioned all of this for this weekend, and I had all kinds of stuff to show that I had. It seems while I envisioned a nice little getaway in quaint SB, my husband had planned to train someone on a scientific something or another.

C'est la vie.

We still had a lovely weekend, we saw Santa Barbara (briefly) and attended The Moth--just not as I had planned.

I'll write more about what we did in a different post. But before I end this post, I did want to say, I have VERY good reason for not planning trips and events. It is not because of my unfortunate and undeserving reputation as a procrastinator. It is because even when I plan, nothing works the way I envisioned it.

Sometimes, that is a good thing.