D.M. to the mofo V.

I've decided that when people email me "Thank you kindly" I'll reply with "You're welcome meanly". Too crass? Speaking of crass, how crass is this ass?

Aforementioned ass was standing directly in front of me and G at the DMV (doo wop dooo wee) the other day. Sure she was probs wearing a thong, but why even bother? She kept pulling her shirt down as if that would change that fact someone forgot to wear pants. There was this little kid there who must have been no older than 3 who was pimp walking all over the place. This kid was struttin. G and I could barely stop laughing. So I started to imitate him until he came up to me and tried to tickle my stomach and then his mom got all pissed and yelled at him. WHOOPS! Did you know that the DMV is a varitable meat market? If not, and you need your meat marketed, head on over prontissimo. G got hit on by a middle-aged bald guy who asked her if she "did computer repair" (if you know what I mean). I, on the other hand, being the classy broad that I am, got hit on by a homeless guy who first asked me if I was a musician and then told me I had interesting hands while attempting to hold my hand. Mind you I had written 'DMV' in Sharpie all over my hand (like a literal PALM PILOT! Get it!?!?) to remind myself I had to go. . . . so maybe he was just trippin and thought the writing was interesting. . . . anywhoskies, I'll have to ask him when we go out on our hot date this Friday night.

ZIIIIIING!

Go Pho Yourself And The Horse You Rode In On!

We're having Pho (Vietnamese noodle soup) from Pho Hoa for lunch which begs the question:

Hoa before bros or bros before phos?

No?? (sorry)

Dream weaver

Hello internet. What up? Really? SHUT UP, no . . . . WTF seriously?? Oh no he di'nt!! Whatever . . . . I SAID, WHATEVER!!

Ok, so the other night I thought it would be wise to eat an entire package of dried pineapple at 10 o'clock in the PM right before bed. When I went to sleep I had the following dream: I was watching this really rotund man rolling around on the grass at the park and someone was telling me that he was one of the most intelligent guys in the world, but that he kept all his great ideas inside his belly, hence the gigantorness of his gut. Here is an artist's rendering of said dream:

The guy was painfully bloated. . . . . so much so that I could actually feel the ache in his gut, in my own gut. Then I came to the realization that I was this fat man. . . . that my belly was bloated to the extent of severe pain . . . . and then I woke feeling like I was with child and the baby daddy was a dried pineapple.

Internet: That was the lamest dream ever.
Leslie: Look, I don't make up my own dreams. I simply relay them. Maybe if you'd quit pressuring me to write on this blog, I'd come up with some better stuff.
Internet: I'll decipher that stupid dream for you. You're literally and figuratively FULL of youself. You think you're so smart. . . . like you're belly is full of "good ideas". Where are those good ideas now, Les! HMMMMM? Spit one out.

(Leslie in the fetal position under her desk holding her dried pineapple impregnated stomach, rocking herself and weeping . . . . ever so softly weeping).

And a River Runs Through It

While in San Diego over Thanksgiving, my mom found an old flyer that I made when I was about nine. I remember my parents having a talk with me around that age letting me know that when I got older they would send me to college, but after that I was on my own against the cruel elements and mean streets of this godforsaken world. I figured I better get crackin on making some dough ASAP (if not sooner) so I created the following flyer and passed it around to all the mailboxes in our neighborhood.

Interestingly, watering your plants is of the same value to me as babysitting your children. Also, how "Professional" does one need to be in order to pick up your mail and newspaper while you're out of town? Why did I charge separately for these services? Sure I'm "Responsible" but am I "Dependable" ?? Did someone only use a Thesaurus to come up with this, or what? Finally, who advertises childcare with A HUGE HAND? That would be me. Guess how many baby-sitting jobs I got with this fly. (Answer: ZIP). Funnily enough, there was a lot of false advertising going on with my little helping hand. I recall getting the gig of turning the sprinklers on at my next-door neighbor's house while they were on vacation. For some reason I wasn't very dependable that week and kept forgetting to turn them on. Then one night at around 11pm I remembered that I hadn't watered their yard in like 3 days so I went over and turned the sprinklers on only to go to bed and forget that they were on. At 8:00 the next morning when I went outside to catch my carpool I noticed that my neighbor's house was now an island floating in a sea of sprinkler water that had been on for nearly 9 hours. Now THAT'S a responsible helping hand if ever there was one. And did I tell my neighbors of my faux pas? Nah. . . . I let their water bill do the talkin on that one.

Cruisin for a bruisin

Whilst dropping trou last night I noticed this gigantor bruise on that no man's land where the thigh ends and the hip begins right on the border of butt frontier. I don't know what is up with my equillibrium, but I am waaaaaaay uncoordinated and pretty much eat shit on a daily basis. Just this morning while walking out of the parking garage I stepped over a chain that was draped between two posts, but neglected to lift my knee up high enough and the toe of my boot caught the chain and I went flying, just BARELY saving myself before my face hit pavement.

What I almost looked like coming into work today. "Morning fellow co-workers!!!"

Axel says I run wrong and my feet aren't parallel to each other. . . . so maybe that's it. Long story incredibly long, my body is constantly running into and falling over things. This hip bruise is the result of me not knowing the dimensions of my own office desk (which I have been sitting at for the past 5 years) and I always cut the corner too close and end up smashing my mother hip into the edge resulting in a permanent banana-like bruise on that appendage. (Ed. note. this happens DAILY). Are my hips expanding and preparing to give birth whether I am with fetus or not, or am I just stupid? (I'm going with the latter). Which reminds me, a couple years ago when I was first learning to snowboard, Axel and I went to Tahoe and got all bruised up because of eating it on the side of the mountain.

Way to shred, Braaaa!

The following week I had a gyno appointment. So my 100 year old gyno was checking out the ol' cervix and while he was doing his thing he asks "How is everything going in your life? Everything ok with the boyfriend?" I thought this was a little weird as we never talked about Axel before, but I said "Yeah, everything is fine". Then he goes, "You guys getting along?" To which I said "Yeah, as much as can be expected." Then he tells me to put my clothes on and meet him in his office. When I go into his office he asks me "Is there anything you want to talk about? Anything at all?" At this point I'm starting to wonder what are the gynocologistics (ZING!!) of this conversation? What exactly does this old man want me to say? So I simply said "Nope, not really" and left. When I got home and got fully undressed in front of my mirror to take a shower, it hit me not unlike an abusive boyfriend . . . . my inner thighs were black and blue and bruised to a pulp as a result of my pathetic attempt at snowboarding. My poor gyno was probably dialing up women's protective services at that exact moment.

Bruise Knee is that you!?!?

(sorry)

Hall O' Weens

Pregunta me this. Would you say Axel and I are too old to dress up for Halloweener considering we (a) have no children (b) have never dressed up together in the past? I seriously think we'd make a fab Cagney and Lacey . . . no?

I mean Axel is the spitting image of Lacey and I have that very same Cagney expression on my face 99.9% of the time like "Did you just let one rip, Lacey?" But good luck getting Axel to be Lacey . . . . you should see the lengths I have to go to just to get him to be Pleathery HA! Get it, because I . . . umm . .. never mind. I guess I could always just go as D.J. Qualls.

Kid you not, I have that outfit and we have THE EXACT SAME HAIRCUT. . . . not to mention the same debilitating case of anorexia nervosa.

Oh Deer

What do you call a deer that can write with both hooves?



Bambidextrous

Come on! I made that up all by myself and it only took me 4 hours to photoshop that stupid picture so just shut it already! JEEEEEZ!!

Tons O' Pun!

I took a sleeping pill last night and now I have a major case of the Yawn (Ullrichs that is) . . . .

Thank you thank you . . . . you've been a great audience!! I'll be here all week. Don't forget to tip your waitress.

When you get caught between the moon and New York City

Hello America, where have you been all my life? The other day a friend was in town and had a little get-together of sorts and all his best San Fran peeps crowded into this hipster restaurant to hobnob and schmooze. We all ordered appetizers, vittles, and drinky-poos. Side note, don’t you hate it when you go out to eat with a big group of people and no matter how little you eat or drink you’re expected to pay a butt load because they split up the entire bill amongst everyone? That’s why I usually order at least eleventy of these:

word to wise, word to my thighs, don’t invite me to group dinners.

But I digress. . . mid-munch I realized the gnocchi I was wolfing down my gullet was wrapped in bacon - "inside a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in an enigma" - You Winston you lose some . . . Churchill

Before I could projectile vomit, the little nugget o’ flesh was already swimming around in the old body cavity and my 16 years of meat celibacy came to a mouth watering end. Shockingly, I didn't keel over and die. Maybe it’s because I’m not a real vegetarian. I’m, how do you say in American, a non-eater-of-anything-that-has-a-face, unless it happens to be a delicious fish face.

People often ask me why I don’t eat meat and there are a few reasons:
I am a huge animal lover (i.e. I freaking hate small animals)

Hi, I'm a total jerk!

I have never really liked the flava flave of meat.
And finally, my mom was a vegetarian when I was a child.

Which reminds me, my mom used to take me and my brother to this place called Alive Polarity at Murrieta Hot Springs in Southern California when we were kids. It was this hippy dippy (aka CULTastic) au natural spa place out in the desert where they had these hot springs that smelled like eggs and they served only vegetarian foods and did yoga and massage and meditation and mud baths and child labor (I’ll get to the latter later . . . say that ten times fast, I DARE YOU . . . ok, ok, it's not that hard). My dad never went with us because he eats every kind of face . . . . and is a Republican. HEYO!
So the summer I was 6 years old my mom took us for an extended stay at Murrieta Hot Springs and enrolled us in their so-called Kids’ Camp while she marinated in fart smelling mud.

My first day at camp was weird because I realized that all the kids in camp were the children of employees of Murrieta Hot Springs and were extremely cliquey. The ‘camp counselors’ were strict, mean, masseurs making extra cash on their days off by supervising kids they didn't enjoy being around. They had this cultish way of talking and wouldn’t help me out in any way if I didn’t answer every question with the words ‘yes please’. Any affirmative response other than ‘yes please’ was strictly forbidden. On top of that, they didn’t tell me this rule and just ignored me until I figured it out on my own. I actually starved the first day of camp because whenever someone asked if I wanted lunch, I would simply say ‘sure’ unaware of the ‘yes please’ protocol. That evening I complained to my mom that I didn’t like camp and nobody talked to me or fed me or anything. My mom, most likely fearing her ‘Mom time’ was in eminent jeopardy, gave me the sage advice to walk up to one of the children the next day and introduce myself by saying “Hello, my name is Leslie, would you like to be my friend?” This sounded simple enough, so the following day I did just that. I waltzed up to another little girl and said “Hello, my name is Leslie, would you like to be my friend?” to which she responded “No. I already have friends.”

STELLAR ADVICE, MOM. Gracias por nada!

Crushed, I walked over to where my older brother Chris was playing and he pretended not to know me (most likely the result of being brainwashed into becoming a member of this veggie, yes please cult). I then tried to talk to one of the cult counselors, but was also ignored because I didn’t somehow work the words “yes please” into the following phrase: “Nobody will play with me. What kinda camp is this!??” To top this off, the main ‘camp’ activity was cleaning the resort’s hotel rooms. I kid you not, my mom paid cold hard cash-o-la for her children to clean hotel rooms unbeknownst to her (but knownst to me).

Me, back row, 5th from the right.

On about the 4th day of camp I was walking to one of the hotel rooms and my mom just happened to be walking to one of her yoga sessions and our paths crossed. My mom was all “Leslie? What are you doing with that bottle of Windex?” To which I replied “My camp job”. Long story ridiculously long . . . that pretty much ended our relationship with Murrieta Hot Springs and we left the next day. The only good thing I remember about the whole experience was that the movie Arthur Two: On The Rocks was the only movie they played in the evenings and my mom let me watch it over and over and over each night until our dramatic exodus. Don’t ask me why, but the combination of Dudley Moore, Liza Minnelli and alcoholism is comic gold to any six year old.

T Pain-cakes

Last Friday Potsey and I went for a run at Crissy Field and then we needed to get new tires put on the ol' auto-mo-beeel, so we dropped the car off at our trusty mechanic

and were told to come back in 15 mins. Still dressed in my sweatfest outfit, we decided to keep the workout-a-go-go and speed walk around the Inner Richmond district for a bit.

Actual picture of my hair (not my body . . . I wish!) speed walking . . . . and yes, I spent $165 US dollars on that haircut

Whilst walking con mucho gusto, and the picture of pure determination on my face, some random kid

crosses the street and interrupts me mid speed walk with this little ditty:

RK (Random Kid): Hey you, where's the IHOP at?

Me: HUH? (breathing heavily as a result of speed walking a total of 2 blocks)

RK: YOU know. . . (hefty eye roll) The International House of Pancakes. Where's it at?

Me: Ummm . . . (to self "Can't he see I'M SPEED WALKING HERE?! I AM AN AVID EXERCISER, NOT A PANCAKE CONNOISSEUR!") No . . . . sorry I don't know.

RK: RIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT. . . . . like YOU don't know.

????

SERIOUSLY, what do I look like people???

"Houston, we have a pancake."

I'm Salutin' Putin

When I got home from work yesterday I was feeling kinda blue, not to mention super rumbly in my tumbly. So I started hunting and gathering (more gathering than hunting) for sustenance in our gourmet kitchen . . . .

only to discover that all we've got are some stupid Ritz crackers and cold(war)cuts. Which begs the question:

If you're blue and you don't know where to go to

Why don't you go where fashion sits . . . . . . (wait for it people)

Putin on the Ritz.

Different types who wear a day coat, pants with stripes

And cutaway coat, perfect fits . . . . (everybody with me now)

Putin on the Ritz!

I gotta say while they tasted kinda oligarchy, they weren't that Vlad! See what I did there? 'Cause his name is Vladimir Pu . . . . . never mind.

And, because I couldn't resist

A Boot Scootin Putin . . . . . .ZIIIIIIIING!

P.S. How awesome could this all be if I actually KNEW how to photoshop?

Answer: very

I'm having a hard time coming up with something to post so I give you this:

Yes, friends, it is a rainbow puking up rainbows into a toilet. You'll never guess where I found that picture that so aptly reflects my Wednesday mood. I was doing a Google search for Marc Summers from that Nickelodeon game show of yore called Double Dare and Mr. Barf Rainbow popped up . . . . don't you just lurve the interweb? Can anyone explain to me how people with blogs highlight a certain word in their blog and then when you click on that word it takes you to a link? Also, how do you attach actual YouTube videos to blogs? DIGAME!! No tengo patience to finger this out on my own. Okgreatthanks.

U-G-L-Y You Ain't Got No Alibi

Remember when you were a kid and braces were the epitome of cool? Braces were the ultimate sign of extreme teenagerness in my preteen world. I used to take paperclips, unhinge them and walk around with them in my mouth as pseudo braces. So when I found out I actually needed braces, my 10 year old world was rocked. Not only did I get full on brace-face, I was also fitted for headgear.

Little did I know that there is a very fine line between braces and headgear and their respective acceptance in elementary school. I was told that I only had to wear my headgear at night, but in my mind I thought all things orthodontia would sky rocket my lukewarm popularity into oblivion. So why wouldn't I bring out the big guns for all my classmates to fawn over? Imagine my utter shock and dismay when I waltzed into to school wearing this . . .

and nobody wanted to sit next to me. I also got the distinct impression that people were laughing at me, not with me. Couldn't they understand I was ALMOST A TEENAGER with all this metal in my face? Why couldn't they just see that!??! At first recess I wore my headgear on the monkey bars and whilst doing a lemon drop, I bonked the side of my head against one of the bars causing my headgear to jam up inside my mouth so that I didn't even have the choice of removing it because it was all stuck in my jaw! I remember seeing my childhood crush (Todd Emblem who was 2 years older than I was and one of my brother's best friends) playing kickball and he wouldn't even make eye contact with me. That stupid day was the longest school day everrrrr. After school I had to go see my creepy orthodontist, Dr. Watson, just to get that stupid thing off my freaking face.

Things didn't get much better once puberty set in.

Mock turtleneck - Check

High waisted culottes - Cheque

Ridiculous perm - Checkers

Cocker Spaniel-esque bangs - Checkmate

80's white super cinched belt - Checkedy Check Check

"You're not fat, you're just chunky" can-do attitude - Check-oslovakia

(Let's go in for a close-up, shall we?)

Seriously, could I cinch those culottes up any higher?

And ever heard of the T-Zone Leslie? Maybe look into it pronto.

This is seriously awesome . . . . .

Read article here.
How would you like to be a child at that "children's home" with poo breaking in through your windows? AWESOME. And what exactly is a children's home? Is that like a retirement home for really really really really really really really young retirees?

Floor Four . . . going down

Since I'm half German . . . . . .

(mi madre was born in the land of the Deutsche) my family celebrates Christmas on Christmas Eve. This used be so cool when I was a kid because we'd get all our presents the night before Christmas when all the other non-Germans had to endure sleepless nights awaiting the break of dawn to open up all their shizz. As a result, Christmas Day was no big dealy-doo in our household and rather anti-climactic. We'd usually end up riding our bikes out in front of our house waiting for our next-door-neighbors to finish their Christmas celebration so they could come outside and compare and contrast their loot with ours. When I was 12 years old, my parents decided to do something different on Christmas Day. Instead of lounging around our house, my parents decided to take us to downtown San Diego to the Food Bank and volunteer our services to the needy. My brother Chris and I were rather nonplussed because who wants to hang out in ghetto-fab downtown San Diego on Christmas Day? Not to mention we were the only stinkin' kids there. Anywho. . . . . The San Diego Food Bank was in this big old warehouse with all these different floors to it and all the volunteers were supposed to get organized into groups to help out on each floor. Nobody really knew where they were supposed to go and what they were supposed to do, so finally this priest got on stage with a microphone to explain the whole process to us. So I'm standing there between my mom and dad and the priest goes:

"Thank you all for coming today. You have all been assigned a floor to work on. The homeless will visit each floor and you will assist them with whatever is taking place on your particular floor. Floor One is storage and cots where they can leave their stuff in a secure place and later sleep. Floor Two is the cafeteria for food. Floor Three is showers. Floor Four is blowjobs. Floor Five is clothes exchange."

Immediately after stating the purpose of Floor Four, a cumulative gasp went through the crowd and I whispered under my breath, "I am NOT working on Floor Four." My mom shot me her dagger eyes look that burned straight through my very soul.

Someone next to the priest whispered something in his ear and he immediately made a little nervous cough and said "I meant, Floor Four is where the homeless can blow dry their hair". I felt really weird for the rest of the day knowing my mom knew that I knew what a blowjob was . . . and on GD Christmas Day for Christ's sake!!

Leslie's "Coming Out Party" . . . . as an idiot

Over the weekend Axel and I tried to watch the Olympics, but no dice. First of all, we don't have cable . . . why you ask? (dramatic eye roll) because we prefer to READ . . . duh! And by 'read', I mean watch Mexican television since those are the only channels we get . . . . (we don't even know how to read, silly!) No, but seriously, the reason is we are cheap and haven't bitten the proverbial televisual bullet and gotten it installed. I promised Axel that it wouldn't be a problem because we could just watch the Olympics online . . . . but that proved to be a problem as well since we have a Mac and were unable to install whatever was necessary to watch it online. So brilliant Leslie goes, "Let's watch whatever is posted on Youtube! I'm sure the opening ceremony is on Youtube". I do a search for 2008 Olympics Beijing on Youtube and Axel and I watch . . . and it actually made me cry. Those guys were AMAZING. I seriously don't know why I cried, but I was moved Goddammit!
I come into the office today and Yedi asks me if I saw the opening ceremonies and I told him "I was moved to tears Yedi, those gold guys, while a bit homoerotic, were nonetheless INCREDIBLE!!" and Yedi goes "What gold guys?" I say "THE GOLD GUYS! The opening ceremony!! COME ON! They were THE BEST!!" Yedi goes "Were you watching the Special Olympics?" so I send him this:


Welllllllllll . . . . that pretty much got me laughed out of the office, as that was NOT the opening ceremony for the 2008 Olympics after all. Why am I so S-L-O-W!?

Sidenote: We've been catching up on some of the games here at work and the commentators keep saying "This is China's coming out party" . . . . who knew China was gay? HEYO!!

Mystic (not the tan or the pizza)

I've been extreeeeeeeeemely busy at work lately and was going through the drawers of my desk only to discover yo tengo muchisimo crapola en mi escritorio. Here is a list of some things currently in my desk drawers:

A Cha-Cha Chia Pet Alarm Clock

A homemade check my boss's 8-year old daughter made for me with a rainbow on it (someone knows I'm hard up for cash-o-la)

A bottle of Ziacam Cough Mist Max expiration 08/2007. (VOM. . . who even uses this stuff and how did it get in my desk?)

A Snapple cap with the following "Snapple Real Fact" on it:
Squids can have eyes the size of a volleyball
Side note: how awesome a fact is that? I would LOVE to see some volleyball squid eyes. . . . name the time and place and I AM SO THERE!

A Sewing Kit that I've puff painted the words "Sew . . . a needle pulling thread" on the lid, yet have never used.

A Flashlight

A Keychain (that I find jocular to the nth degree) that I made with my office laminator (click to enlarge and therefore join me in the hilarity. . . or not, since I'm the only one who finds this amusing)












An old journal I never really used, that has the following written on the last page:
Greetings,
To know someone here or there with whom there is a feeling of understanding;
In spite of thoughts or distances, unexpressed,
That can make of this Earth a Garden!
MYSTIC.
Which brings back this ridiculous encounter that happened to me when I first moved to the Bay Area and was living in the Oakland hills with my brother. I didn't have a full-time job yet and was substitute teaching at the French-American School in Berkeley (though I speak zilch French . . .shocking right? Since I'm such an experienced linguist at, how do you say, La Espanola, shabadoo). In the afternoons I would sometimes go to this cafe by UC Berkeley and get a coffee and then sit and read in the sun on the small grassy knoll near the tennis courts. So I'm sitting there reading and this guy with dreads

who must have been 45? 50? 59? who knows, comes saddling up to me and stands there blocking my sun, watching me read . . . . which is a weird feeling. . . . being the reader being watched (as apposed to the readee?) Movingon.org, so I look up and the guy says something like "Can I see the book you're reading?" and I oblige, and he reads the back of it and acts all super enthused and tells me that he's read it before, which I found skeptical considering it was some total chick book like You and Your Uterus. Then he asks me if I'd like to check out some film called Rabbit Proof Fence that was showing in the next 30 mins. I don't know what is wrong with me and why I'm always afraid of hurting people's feelings and can't simply say "Thank you, NO", but I can't. On top of that, I'm a really bad liar and came up with some stupid excuse that I had to go do something in exactly 30 mins. So the guy then asks if I have something to write on and I hand him my blank journal and he writes that total cheeseball pseudo poem in it. . . After reading it I go,"Ummmm thanks . . . . Mystic . . .?" Then Mr. Can't Get A Hint Magillicutty asks for my phone number. Idiota numero uno, once again couldn't just tell him no and/or give him a fake phone number, and like the total tard that I am I give him my actual phone number thinking he won't call and if he does, he'll get the point that yo no soy interesante when I don't call him back. Well, that didn't exactly transpire. He called me every day for the next week and each voice mail message got more and more intense a la "Hey Leslie, I know you wouldn't give someone your number just to try TO AVOID THEM!" Oh Mystic, you know me TOO WELL. Finally I had to get my brother to call Mystic for me and ask him to leave me the chingao alone.

OMG ANTM WTF CYJDA?! (Couldn't You Just Die Already)

Doodle . . . . America's Next Top Model premiers Sept. 3. I'm trying not to get my hopes up about this season, but if you could see me now, you'd notice that I'm totally smiling with my eyes (if you know what I mean).

If I told you you were beautiful, would you page me on the regular

Axel the P and I went to Mendocino this weekend and it was totes fab. We drove up the 101 to Mendo, drove through Fort Bragg and then drove south along the coast to the tiniest picolino town of all called Elk. We had reservations at this uber cute inn called the Greenwood Pier Inn on the cliffs overlooking the coast. Seriously so cute I could barf. They obvs were pet friendly, so we checked-in and left Potsey in the room for all of 8 minutes while we walked to the restaurant to get a glass of wine and watch the sunset. Whilst in the restaurant I heard what sounded like an elderly woman being stabbed to death in her room . . . . and that elderly woman turned out to be one Potsey Lydia Maguillicutty Donaldson.

(Dapper, unless left alone in hotel rooms)

He totally freaked out due to his 'abandonment anxiety' and was making these ridiculous screeching sounds that could be heard all over the hotel grounds. We made a mad-dash back to the room and picked his pathetic ass up and he joined us for a romantical sunset. We had dinner at this faux french restaurant called Le Petite Rive that got great reviews on Yelp yet was not that great. They tried way too hard to be all shmancy with their food by like providing a peach sorbet in the middle of the meal to 'cleanse the pallet' . . . . yet my pallet wasn't that dirty after the first course salad, so it was kinda weird. After din din Axel and I decided to take it to a whole new level of cheese and drove back to Elk blaring Justin Timberlake's 'My Love' (how does Axel know all the words to that one?) and decided to go down to the beach. We were told where to hike and when we came to the cliffs we noticed a rope line to the beach below. Mind you, I had 3 glasses of wine in me, so I thought it was a brazilliant idea to descend down this cliff at 8:00 in the PM. The first half of the climb was pretty steep and then we came to a 2nd rope which took us to the very bottom. So we scale this cliff and then hang out on the beach (Leslie went into the ocean whilst Axel looked out for sharks). Then we decided to go back up the cliff seeing as it was getting dark. So I'm scaling this wall on the first rope and get the 2nd rope only to realize that someone has either untied it (POTSEY!??!) or it came loose from its holding and I'm stuck on the side of this cliff with one end of the rope in my hand! It was a carbuncular debacle the to nth degree. Luckily, I was drunk enough to have no fear, yet sober enough to not totally spazz out and crept up the side of the cliff on my hands and knees with Axel in tow. Here is an artist's rendering of the experience.

This will come as a complete shock to you, but that whole idea of not eating in exchange for not going to the gym yesterday didn't quite work out. Not only did I not not eat, I ate my weight (if I weighed 1 delicious little pint) in chocolate gelato last night. Why do I do this? Por que yo tengo idiota con mucho gusto por su puesto chingaou!