So Sorry to All I May Have Led Astray Over My Years of Misusing the Word

...but this just in from the source:

"All this time, it's gavone, not cavone. Oooops."

So for example: "I was sweating like a gavone in a bust-out whorehouse in Texas in August."

I don't see how I'll ever break the habit.

She's Back!

[Breathlessly.] The pregnant girl! At the gym! She's back!

There used to be this super-skinny girl at the gym who kind of killed me with her matchy-matchy purple sports bra/contrast-band pants/shoes combo, always folding right in half when she stretched before class, which killed me, because I could only fold in half if I got flattened by a truck. Then one day I noticed she was a tiny bit pregnant, and I snickered to myself that she'd never be so skinny again. (Yes, I snickered to myself because I am mean, apparently, I have no defense; but don't ack like you wouldn't do the same.) After a few weeks, she disappeared, and I thought she'd gone off to do the only reasonable thing: eat ice cream, not in the gym. G'on, gurrrl. That's respectable.

But tonight she was back, with her adorable little figure with a bump in the belly part. She's maybe six, seven months. And she's back in Brand New Booty class! Now granted, most pregnant woman get brand new booties, but usually it's not the same variety of brand new booty as I've been working on for months in Brand New Booty. And that class is really hard, y'all!

I'm just saying.

Dress Distress

me: my shirt has cali's hair all over it and my shorts are too short and my shoes are ug and i look trashy today
oops
girl needs better lighting in her dressing area
sis: i looked trashy yesterday, but different trashy, like I belonged on COPS
me: cops?!
sis: i was wearing a marines tshirt and track pants and flipflops and had a baby attached to me
me: DANG girl
sis: all i needed was curlers
me: why do you even own a marines t shirt?
sis: who knows
i have no clothes and here's why
1. maternity clothes - don't fit, duh
2. pre-maternity clothes: i boxed them up for a few months and now i'm too lazy to go dig them out
me: nice
you are officially a mom
but what's my excuse today?
i have no bebe to blame for my bad outfit (and by bebe i'm not referring to a bejeweled velour track suit either)
sis: now that you realized you have nice legs, you pushed it too far?
me: yup
must be it
sis: understandable
me: always taking it too far, that's me
sis: if short is good, shortest must be better
me: riii-eeeght?
sis: seems logical
me: and i'm nothing if not perfectly logical

Highlight Reel

30! So far so good.

State of Self on Waning Days of Twenties

Spazzy, blessed, awesome. Not sure. Changeable.

Sometime early this week, I changed the course of my spazz attack (which was the standard no-baby-plans-yet boilerplate) to the wait, I'm too young to grow up, look how young I am, woooo!-variety spazz. Didn't see that coming.

In addition to my girls-only Jamaica trip at the end of the month, the blue-eyed boy had made plans for my upcoming birthday weekend involving sea kayaking in the Channel Islands near Ventura (an idea which, if I recall, I might have instigated after we watched a California's Gold episode about it, and, basically, if Huell Howser jumped off a cliff, I would do it too). But then I decided that sea kayaking seems like something staid that families do, and we're not a family, we're crazy fun young people, woooo, and we should go to Vegas instead and wear tiny, besequined dresses and bikinis with gold hardware (at least I should), and throw dice and be rowdy, and shop shop shop indiscriminately, and let it ride on red number 30, woooo! Because that's what the kids do! And that's essentially what I've wanted to do for most birthdays since I turned 21 (19).

Well, what happens when you think you might want to change plans a scant few days before your existing plans, is that airfare goes up so high that it's prohibitive, and who wants to drive into the desert during Friday rush hour, and then back all day Sunday when it's your birthday and you're sitting in the car with a hangover getting blasted in the face by the AC, eating Gardetto's party mix and Crystal Light Slurpees from the 7-11 on the interstate? So driving and flying are both out, which means Vegas is out for my 30th birthday this weekend.

So that locks us into our original kayaking plans, which I think will be awesome after all (if it had been viable to go to Vegas, I probably would have freaked out and insisted on reinstating the kayaking based on some impromptu consciousness shift) (hey, at least I know myself), and it will be good to feel healthy and alive out there on the pacific Pacific. I'm back on my eat-right/work-out kick (after a dastardly post-Half Dome June) and I've been all kinds of sore this week thanks to serious gym commitment. And I like the idea of feeling healthy and strong as I kiss 29 goodbye. (Sea kayaking Saturday + bowling birthday party Sunday clearly = monastically disciplined fitness regime, non?)

Today, I am wearing tiny shorts and sky-high sandals, and I got a few whistles from passing cars on my way to and fro Subway (veggie delight on wheat, bag of apples, Diet Coke) down Sunset Boulevard. Whether or not I am still wild at 30, apparently my legs still look good. (Actually, note to self: legs are bona fide asset. Why have never noticed?)

Last night at the after-party for the Espy awards, I told the blue-eyed boy I would not be morally averse to any procedure that would perk up my eye area a bit. It took him like four minutes too long, but he got around to saying, "You're perfect!" I think he's onto something.

...best and most supportive friends and fam ever, a job that is fun and challenging and full of perks and never boring, great condo with a separate walk-in closet just for shoes and accessories...

So, au revoir, twenties. I will miss the halcyon Berkeley years, and the New York years (although they were not hardly halcyon), but thank heaven I will not have to miss my woooo! wild friends, because I've still got em. See ya in sequins, girls...*


*Somebody please take me to Vegas in August, though, for real.

R.I.P.

Jane magazine, 1997-2007.