Central California, or at least the Greater Fresno Metro Area from which I hail is much more similar to any Mid-West stereotype than your usual California sterotype. They love strip malls, chain restaurants, and want anything L.A. or San Francisco has. They are corporate sell-outs. Tract housing is abundant and the public schools are excellent. My hometown is a soccer mom’s dream come true. The air quality is terrible; pollution from the Bay and from So Cal float over the mountains and mingle with the pesticides. We don’t have snow days; we have fog days. On the outskirts of town there’s cotton and almonds, strawberries, grape vines, peaches, nectarines, alfalfa, and other crops. Inside the metro area, it’s a Starbucks everywhere you look and malls and movie theaters. It’s a snap to make a day trip to play in the snow on the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range or to visit Yosemite. They love Cheescake Factory and California Pizza Kitchen. Almost everyone is a Republican. There are more churches than Starbucks. And some cars have bumper stickers that read “2013: Obama’s last year in office.” The Hooters was built right next to a Chuck E. Cheese’s and during the first weekend the Hooters was open there was a knife fight in the bathroom. It involved members of the Fresno State men’s basketball team. The county fair actually has livestock and produce, as well as horse races and a midway. There is a strict 10pm juvenille curfew and a whole lot of pick-up trucks on the road. I don’t agree with all the ideals that come out of there, but it’s where I’m from and it’s made me who I am. And it’s California, too.
I say all of this in hopes that some foreign exchange student in high school finds it and realizes what they are getting into when they agree to go live in Fresno, CA. DO NOT BE FOOLED BY THE “CALIFORNIA” PART. It does not match up to the stereotype that is out there. Chances are, you will be disappointed.
Once upon a time in high school I was in Tennessee for some competition for one of the many nerd-o groups I was a part of. The other kids were fascinated to meet someone from California. One kid even asked me if I surfed to school. Kid, I’m from CENTRAL California. Between my house and the high school there is a field where the FFA (Future Farmers of America) kids keep their cows. My elementary school had orchards across the street from it. My junior high school was by the Rodeo Grounds, City Hall buildings, and Old Town Clovis. Old Town looks like some PTA has taken up shop in the main street out of a western film and is selling antiques, crafts, and candles out of what might have once been a saloon. Of which there happen to be several, as well. I am no where near the ocean. Plus, surfing is not an actual mode of transportation, it is a sport. One in which you ride waves, and waves do not run parallel to the shore. They roll into and crash onto the beach. No, I do not surf to school.
Every time I eat an oreo I think of the scene in the remake of the Parent Trap where the twins discover they both like to eat oreos with peanut butter. And as the scene plays out with two of the little Lindsay Lohan in my head I think, “what happened, Lindsay? What happened.” And I am a little sad. But then I eat the oreo and I am happy once again.
My left foot is bigger than my right foot, by an ENTIRE SIZE. We’re talking at least a good half an inch here. It is bizarro. And annoying when shopping for shoes. Which, clearly, I HATE doing since not only do I have freakishly large man feet, but one is freakishly larger than the other. Thank you for attending this pity party. kisses!
Once upon a time I scratched my cornea. I went to the doctor. The doctor put in drops to numb the pain. Then I went to work. At work, the numbing drops started to wear off and my eye started getting squinting. A co-worker then asked me out. Because he thought I had been winking at him. It was awkward.
It has recently come to my attention that I have lost a little over 5 pounds. This means I can now eat all the crap I want. This is not that different from my usual eating habits, but now I will not feel guilty about it. But only until I am back at the weight listed on my resume and driver’s license. Then I’ll feel guilty again. Not gonna lie, I’m pretty excited about this, folks.
Tonight I told my SIL (sister-in-law) that my brother used to sing the song that Farmer Hoggit sings to Babe to me. And then say “that’ll do, pig.”
She then asked me how I still talked to my brother, considering he also called me “Barky” and probably did a bunch of other stuff we’ve told her about but that I’ve forgotten since it all seems inconsequential to me.
I think she is now secretly afraid he will tell their child “that’ll do, pig. that’ll do.”
I secretly hope he does. but only because I happen to think it would be adorable. And hilarious.
I went out to dinner with my parents last night. When it was time for dessert, my mother starting calling out “cake. caaaaaaaaaaaaaake. cake!” as if the cake would come per her beckoning. My father then explained that it means she wants a very specific chocolate cake from a certain restaurant. We were not at that restaurant. My father reminded her this. She made a pouty face. I informed her she was like a baby - different cries mean different things. We laughed. She got the chocolate cake at this particular restaurant and enjoyed it. The end. P.S. My mother is not mentally handicapped, as this story may make her seem. She just really likes cake.
I would like to be cuddling with a boy and a furry animal watching a movie tonight. I will settle for eating half a piece of chocolate cake, watching tv, and listening to my mother snore after she has fallen asleep on the couch. yesssssssss!
I could not fall asleep last night until almost 5am because it was WAY TOO DARK and the silence was overwhelming. Because I am visiting my parents in suburbia. And because Los Angeles has RUINED ME. (Curse you, Los Angeles…)
My brother and his wife are about to have a baby. He asked me if I had some special name I wanted the baby to call me or if I was just going to go with Aunt Heidi. (This question made more sense when he posed it to my parents. Grandparents can have all sorts of cool names: Pop, Nana, Poppa, etc. But I digress.) I pondered for a brief second before I replied: “I would like the baby to call me Her Royal Highness, please.”
He said that was not an option. Neither was the Queen of Everything.
I have to go to you tonight. Please please please try to not be disgustingly hot for the next three days. I’d REALLY appreciate it. I mean, seriously, it’s the least you can do. For reals.
There is currently a car alarm going off outside my window. It is making me VERY angry. That’s a lie. It is causing me to be mildly annoyed, at best. Does this car NOT know I have work in the morning? It’s bad enough working on a Saturday morning without said car alarm going off. Bee Tee Dubs, car alarms are very ineffective. No one has be alarmed. No one is turning that AWFUL noise off. So if someone were actually trying to steal the car, they would have had ample time to steal it by now. So, maybe, the best time to steal a car is after the alarm has been going off for a minute and it has become CLEAR that no one is coming to turn it off. I take that back. The best time to steal a car is when you are in posession of the keys and the owner has just died of natural causes. One minute into the car alarm going off is probably the second best time. And that is the moral of this story. The End.