CDog vs. The World

NOTE: This post is the first installment of my two-part blog series, entitled, “Twilight: A Civilized Discussion.” Now, I’m aware that it’s not really a discussion so much as a monologue, although you the reader can certainly respond via comment. But my goal with this series is to A) present my opinions on a popular issue in a calm, civilized, and articulate way (i.e. refraining from using words/phrases like, “sucks,” or, “blows big time”) and B) revive the lost art of using specific examples when explaining why you do or do not enjoy something, rather than just saying, “I like it because it’s amazing,” or, “I hate it because it blows big time.” Do enjoy.

Hi. My name is CDog, and I’m a recovering Twiholic.

Okay, that’s maybe a little overdramatic. But honestly, when I reflect on my relationship with the book/movie sensation currently gripping the nation, it really does feel like I’m recovering from a brief and (fortunately) relatively harmless addiction. Yet while I kicked the habit, the rest of the world still seems pretty content to turn on, tune in, and drop out.

I know that, several posts back, I went on a bit of a Twi-bashing rant. I even tagged it as a rant. Cut me some slack. I’d just finished re-reading the 7th Harry Potter book (again). Emotions were running high. And yes, the rant felt pretty good. But ranting doesn’t leave much room for civilized dialogue, and it recently occurred to me that I’ve never really observed people having a polite discussion about why they do or do not enjoy the series. People either love it so passionately that they shout down detractors or hate it so violently that they refuse to listen to fans. So, as somebody who has been on both sides, I’m going to use this post to very calmly and directly discuss my relationship – and subsequent break-up – with Twilight.

Allow me to start with a 3 part disclaimer: 1) I do not judge you if you are a Twilight fan. Seriously. I don’t think Stephenie Meyer is stupid or the spawn of Satan and I don’t measure your intelligence by how you feel about the books. I was pretty die-hard myself at one point, and while my opinion changed, that doesn’t mean I think less of you for standing by the series.  Enjoying stuff is fun. Party on, Twi-hards. 2) Spoiler warning: I’m just going to assume that anyone reading this has A) read the series, or B) doesn’t care. Plot secrets may or may not be revealed. Continue at your own risk. 3) Be warned: It’s a little lengthy. Maybe get a sandwich first. Or, if you’re at home and it’s nighttime, change into your PJs and get some hot chocolate before you settle in.

The First Date

It’s no secret that I’m a Potterphile. At the age of 11, I already loved to read, but Harry Potter affected me in a way that no other piece of literature had up until that point. In college, I got the feeling that I was expected to say that Steinbeck, Shakespeare, or Hemingway opened my eyes to the real power of the written word, but in truth it was Rowling. I fell in love with her series as a child and, to this day, remain devoted to her characters and her vision of the power of love and friendship as a conquering force. So of course, finishing the 7th and final book was a very bittersweet moment for me.

Finishing the Harry Potter series was like ending a relationship with somebody I’d been dating for nine years. Not because either of us necessarily wanted to, but because he had to…move to a cat farm on the other side of the world because they desperately needed a vet, and I could’ve gone with him, but I’m deathly allergic (?). Sure, I’d always be able to look back on the good times we’d shared, but life would never be the same again.

Anyway, after this devastating break-up, going to the bookstore was terrible. I didn’t want to read anything there. All I wanted was more HP, and that was the one thing I (sob) would never be able to get again.

So some time passes, and my friends (aka the Internet) decide I need to get back in the game. We go to a party (Barnes & Noble), I have one too many (sips of water), and in walks Twilight.

It’s not quite as polished as my last book series, but we have some things in common, and maybe I need someone who’s a little rough around the edges. So we get to talking, I have a couple more (sips of water), and before I know it, we’re back at my place and I’m asking it in for a drink. How forward of me.

The Right Place At The Right Time

All relationship metaphors aside, I came across Twilight at the right place and time. Harry Potter had ended over the summer. This was, as we’ve established, horribly depressing to me. College graduation was looming, and I really needed a relaxing read that was absolutely nothing like the books I was studying in class. Fangirls were all abuzz about Twilight on the interweb, so I decided to see what the fuss was about.

Well, book one gave me vampires. I love those (in more of a fun Buffy/Dracula sense than a hardcore, sexy, Anne Rice way). And I just so happened to be in Seattle. Maybe it’s me, but something about being in gray and rainy Washington while reading about being in gray and rainy Washington just enhanced the experience. I devoured the first book of the series. I sang its praises to friends. And, as finals were rapidly approaching, I made myself swear not to read the second and third books until after graduation. I had papers, packing, and family arrivals to plan for.

Shift in tense: Now it’s summer. Jennie has gotten into the books too. I’m not marathon reading quite as successfully as before, as there’s work in the daytime and many nights are spent with friends in Marin. I blame these things for the fact that it takes me so long to get through New Moon and Eclipse. Little do I know, I’m already starting to become a little disenfranchised.

Breaking Dawn is released. I pre-order it at Borders but feel no inclination to go to the midnight release (this should’ve been a warning flag). I start reading it as soon as I finish Eclipse. At first, I’m all about it. Then, maybe a bit less than halfway through, I stop reading it. “I just need to take a break,” I say, “I read the 2nd and 3rd back to back. I think I just need to read something else for a bit.”

Denial. Truth: I’m bored. I’m just not ready to admit it.

I read two other books. Then I finish Breaking Dawn.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

This should’ve been the point in my relationship where I realized that Twilight was the rebound guy and that we’re not really meant to have a future together. But I’m in a little too deep, and in a couple months, the movie will be released. Coming out with a movie is basically the pop culture equivalent of Twilight asking to move in with me. The guy who played Cedric Diggory in HP4 is playing Edward. My worlds are colliding, and saying, “Yes,” just seems so natural.

I see the movie. And that is truly the beginning of the end.

I hated it.

I have never been as disappointed by a movie as I was when I went to see Twilight. It was low budget, and in my opinion, it showed. What was supposed to be a movie quickly evolved into a really extended music video, complete with extremely exaggerated facial cues (Edward, JASPER), frequent and unnecessary slow-motion (Bella walking into science class. We’re not stupid – the fan is blowing her scent at him. That could’ve happened in real time.), and lots of soundtrack-backed montages.

The dialogue, in particular, struck me as painful and awkward. The viewer was bashed over the head with exposition: the characters verbally told us what they were going to do as they did it, or else told us what they were thinking when they could’ve illustrated it through their actions and saved a lot of time.

And can we take a moment for this line, uttered before Edward takes off running through the forest with Bella on his back: “Hold on tight, spidermonkey.”

I know, right?!?!?!

I came out of the movie bummed out. But the thing was, nobody around me seemed to agree. Patrons left the theater singing its praises, some excitedly planning to see it again, others proclaiming it was already their fifth time (in two days).

“So,” I was asked, “What did you think?”

“Well,” I answered, “I…the soundtrack was really good.” (I stand by that statement, by the way.) “And the Cullens were the way I pictured them. Elizabeth Reaser was really good.” Elizabeth Reaser had, like, three lines.

On my way to the bus stop, I called Jennie.

Me: “I just got out of Twilight. You saw it last night?”

Jennie: “Yeah.”

Me: “What did you think?”

Jennie: “I kind of didn’t like it.”

Me: “OMG, yes. I thought it was ridiculous!”

Jennie: “Me too. It was terrible.”

We went on to discuss how disappointed we were, and I think both of us were relieved that we’d come to the same conclusion.

Displeasure with the movie eventually led me to reexamine the books, and I quickly realized that I had issues with them too. I didn’t like the way the characters evolved: Bella’s personality progressively disappears as she throws herself into a relationship that, after awhile, doesn’t really seem romantic so much as creepily obsessive. Edward becomes controlling, patronizing, and kind of jerky. And all of their drama suddenly seemed like it was meant to disguise the fact that nothing of substance really happens in the third and fourth books, minus a 2-second fight, a wedding, a whole bunch of human/vampire and eventually vampire/vampire sex, and a super weird/eventually irritating birth.

Oh yeah. It was over. Way over. Sorry, Twilight. It was nice while it lasted, but I hope you didn’t give up your apartment, because that is so not happening.

Cold Turkey?

Let’s switch back to my first metaphor. I haven’t been able to quit Twilight cold turkey. I was in way too deep to pretend like it never happened. But I’ve learned to see it for what it is. And, truth be told, my experience wasn’t entirely negative. Here are some positives:

1) I was serious. The soundtrack to the first movie is really good. I listen to it all the time.

2) New Moon led to me being labeled a werewolf. See, one of the characteristics of the NM werewolves (I know, Breaking Dawn tells us they’re technically shapeshifters, but I like to pretend Breaking Dawn never happened) is that they’re really hot all the time. I’m really hot all the time. This prompted Jennie to proclaim, “CDog, you’re a WEREWOLF!” I have since really embraced this title.

3) I came up with the theory that, if you go into the Twilight movie super excited and with high expectations, you’re destined for crushing disappointment. But if you go in expecting it to be hilarious, you’re in for a treat. I tested this theory, and it’s true: Twilight is the world’s greatest accidental comedy.

4) I’m super attracted to the wolf pack in New Moon. Yeah. Fine. I’m going to see it.

5) The books do have their moments, and they’ve helped get millions of people – young and old – excited about books. I’m not going to condemn something that gets people excited about reading just because I didn’t happen to enjoy it.

6) New Moon totally has a monopoly on good werewolf merch. And, like I said before, I’ve really embraced being a werewolf.

So there you have it. From first meeting to calling it quits (mostly): my relationship with Twilight.

Stay tuned for the heavily researched second installment. There were red pens and highlighters involved. Direct quotes will be used. Page numbers will be cited. Intelligent points will be made. Maybe you’ll even believe I got a college degree in something other than crazy.

P.S. – I’m not really deathly allergic to cats. I saw that on an rerun of Law & Order: Criminal Intent and decided to use it.

There’s going to be a fire drill soon.

That has nothing to do with the content of this post, or my trip in general. I’m just letting you know that now, in real time, my office is about to have a fire drill. The whole building has been going through it, floor by floor. Right now, there is a mass of people in our elevator bank. Several of them trailed loudly through our floor because they didn’t know where to go. At any given moment, our front door props will demagnetize (again), strobe lights will flash, alarms will go off, and we will evacuate to the floor with the colored symbol that matches ours.

I was cool until we got to the weird designated symbol thing. That just sounds needlessly complicated. Anyway, if you’re reading this, and it sounds like my flow was interrupted, blame the fire drill.

Now, back to the action.

When we left off (a really long time ago, which we are going to ignore), my dear friends and I had waited in line for many hours outside the mall in Costa Mesa, I had been violently sunburned, met Selena Gomez, refrained from tripping and falling, and dined at the Rainforest Cafe. Oh, and let’s not forget that less than 24 hours before all this happened, I had been in San Francisco.

That night, we returned to Jackie’s dorm room, which I must say was much larger and nicer than mine ever was. That’s not to say that dorm life at Seattle U. sucked, but you can’t argue with a bathroom in your room. I’m just saying.

It didn’t take long for all the not sleep and standing in the sun to finally catch up with me. Nat and her roommate Kat drove back to Long Beach. 10:30 suddenly felt like 5AM, and soon after, I was asleep.

The next morning, we readied ourselves for life and enjoyed breakfast on campus. Experiencing life at a college that was not my own was interesting. (Fire drill just happened. FUN!) The dining halls at SU and NUI Galway, which I attended while studying abroad in Ireland, were incredibly similar. It’s just not as easy/at all possible to get a nice plate of sausage and chips at SU. Things were different at UCLA, and while I won’t bore you with the details, I will say that I found it all very intriguing.

After breakfast, we loaded up Jennie’s car and awaited Nat and Kat’s return. Reunited, we began the second leg of our adventure, or rather, the shopping leg. First stop: Whimsic Alley, your number one source for all wizard items, both practical and novelty.

My first trip to Whimsic Alley – or, in layman’s terms, the “Harry Potter store” – had taken place a little less than a year before. Nestled on Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica, it has almost every piece of Harry Potter merchandise you could imagine, including old school merch that predates the films and is based off the illustrations in the books. You can find notebooks, banners, custom robes, wands, pins, postcards, candy, and so much more. Among other things, I was able to pick up a nifty Gryffindor headband that ties together my Hogwarts student uniform quite nicely.

Our second important stop was decidedly more Muggle but no less magical: the Johnny Cupcakes store on Melrose. Johnny Cupcakes is a designer out of Boston that my sister introduced me to. Find out more and check out his online collection here: http://www.johnnycupcakes.com/ I have several of his pieces, all obtained either as gifts or from his online store, so it was fun to be able to stop by one of his actual retail stores.

Wallets considerably lighter, it was now time to drop off our young friends and hit the road. Next stop: UC Santa Barbara, Jennie’s alma mater, to have dinner with her cousin Tracy, who had just started her freshman year.

And here, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the award winner for epic trip misadventure.

We stopped by Tracy’s dorm to pick her up, met her suitemates, went to dinner, and went back to drop her off. All fine and normal. Jennie and I were a bit behind schedule, so our goodbye was brief. I made a last minute bathroom trip, and we were out the door. Here is the exchange that I believe sealed our fate:

Tracy: “Do you need me to walk you down?”

Us: “You live on the second floor. I think we can handle it.”

Tracy: “Okay, don’t get lost.”

Us: “Hahahaha. Yeah. Lost. (insert more jokes here)”

Ahem. Karma, thou art a bitch.

Here’s what happened: We got on an elevator full of boys talking about the Dodgers. There was a lone guy in a Giants jacket, so we decided to back him up. Big mistake. These guys were not our people. So, feeling awkward, we got off one floor early. Okay. Fine. We just have to wait for the next elevator, right?

Wrong.

The next elevator came, and then…stayed. We stood in it for awhile, but it decided that all it wanted to do was hang out on the first floor. Now we’re in a bit of a bind. Stairs would be great, but we don’t know where they are. So when a group of girls shows up and gets on the elevator, we get on too, even though we’re well aware that it’s broken.

The girls quickly decide to take the stairs, and we follow them casually. Jackpot. But wait a minute…these stairs have taken us someplace very new and very unfamiliar. We’re surrounded by washing machines, a game room, a dining commons. Everything but a way out. To top it all off, Jennie has left her phone in the car, so we have no way of calling Tracy and telling her to come save us.

Overcome by mild panic and hysterical laughter, we jump onto the next elevator we see and take it up to Tracy’s floor. But now we’re on the other side of the building, which, in this particular dorm complex, is basically the same as being in a different country. So we laugh a lot more, wander around, and finally – FINALLY – get where we need to go. This time, we are taking no chances and trusting no staircases. We get on the elevator, even though we just have to go down one floor. And of course, some 19 year-old douchebag in sweats and flip flops says, “You guys are really just taking the elevator one floor? Great. Awesome.”

Half an hour after leaving Tracy’s room, we – the two college graduates - get to Jennie’s car.

After about five minutes of laughing ’til we cried, we were back on the road, ready for the long haul to SF. Our master plan for passing the time? A start to finish sing-along of the Rent Broadway soundtrack. It was quickly decided that Jennie would be Mark and I would be Roger, but we had a false start after we realized we had failed to divide the rest of the parts (these are the kind of problems we run into in our lives). After we sorted all of that out, we pressed play and got down to business.

Somewhere around, “Over The Moon,” we made a pit stop for gas (and water – had to take care of the voice). Of course, we managed to choose the creepiest gas station ever in the middle of nowhere, near a motel I determined was used only for seedy affairs and murders. Said station was also being managed by a guy who looked like Santa Clause, if Santa never showered and worked at a Chevron. But it got the job done, and minutes later, we had bid Chevron Santa goodbye and were back to merrily singing about love, AIDS, and damning the man.

After our glorious performance, I got a little punchy. We passed an Applebee’s, which I declared look like Christmas when it was lit up (kind of true). Then we passed a Chevy’s, and I noted that its lights simply made it look like Partytown (also kind of true).

Once we hit San Francisco, we were both hardcore losing steam. The soundtrack to Camp Rock was on the stereo, and I had resigned myself to simply moving back and forth in a poor imitation of car dancing so that I wouldn’t fall asleep. A bit of a sad sight, but it totally worked.

Just before 2 AM, we pulled into my driveway. Drunk on sleep deprivation, I staggered from the car, belongings in hand, professing my thanks and love for my best friend. Somehow, I managed to change, brush my teeth, and fall into my bed. And that, dear readers, is the end of my semi-spontaneous epic October weekend adventure.

Note: Remember when I decided I wouldn’t use the names of people I discussed? Yeah, I’m over it. It turns out it throws off my rhythm when I’m writing and I end up wasting time rephrasing things just so the nickname sounds better. This may be or may not be a sign of budding insanity, but I’m just gonna roll with it. Welcome to a blog with names! Except for mine, but that’s really just because I refer to myself as CDog – both mentally and in casual conversation – on a regular basis.

Welcome back, dear reader(s)! In the time that has passed since my last post, I a) spent a day shivering at my desk in rain-soaked pants, b) fell victim to a fever that evolved into an unfortunate cold (may or may not have been direct result of “a”), and c)  had a cold medicine and caffeine fueled dance party in a Wal-Mart. None of this really explains the delay in posting. I just didn’t want you to think I’ve been sitting around doing nothing.

But enough about what I’ve been doing lately. Let’s get back to what I was doing approximately two weeks ago. When last we spoke, Jennie (I wasn’t kidding – blog with names!) and I had successfully completed our early morning marathon drive to L.A. and had arrived at our first stop: our friend Jackie’s dorm at UCLA. We picked her up and were joined by our friend Nat, who had driven up from school in Long Beach with her roommate Kat. The five of us piled back into Jennie’s car and embarked upon phase 2 of the adventure.

Now, this was the part of the plan that was the least specific, as I pretty much had no control over it at all. I knew where the event was happening and when it was scheduled to take place. But that was it. So really, this made the fact that three friends and a stranger were totally game for going in blind with me even more awesome.

We arrived at South Coast Plaza at about 11:20, parked, made an all too important bathroom run, and then made the journey to claim our place in line. And what a line it was. I wish I could draw a diagram or something to illustrate the intensity of this business. Teens, tweens, and parents dutifully armed with blankets, lawn chairs, and activity books had assembled in a line that extended through the mall, out the door, down the side of the building and back up into upper parking lot, where it then coiled back and forth several times. Line. Intensity.

We took our spot, and for the first time that day, I turned and said, “You guys are good friends.” Jennie, Nat, and Kat left to get food. Jackie kept me company in line. And so it began. Within 20 minutes, at least a hundred more people had taken up spots in line behind us, and it would only continue to grow. Witness the awesome promotional power of the Disney folk.

I must say, it was very interesting being an observer in the line. The parents back in our section were, of course, a little tense. The Disney Store – who was sponsoring the signing – had employees manning the line, warning our section that there was no guarantee that we would make it in time and they should prepare their kids for disappointment. That’s got to be a tough position to be in. While my wildly enthusiastic support of what I dubbed Selena Gomez Day may suggest otherwise, I’m an adult. I’d already prepared myself for the possibility of not making it, and my reaction would’ve been, “Oh well, we tried. Let’s go…(insert new eccentric activity here).” There would be no tears in our car when we left. Those parents had no such guarantee.

But you know what? The vibe in that line was really kind of fantastic. At 1:00, things started moving, but they were moving slowly. DS employees had explained that there would be no one-on-one photos or personalizations with the signing so that they could keep the line moving, but Line Intensity would not be so easily conquered. Hours of slow movement passed outside under delightfully punishing SoCal sun, and there was not one single tantrum. I was impressed. There was, however, an abundance of CD wrappers carelessly discarded on the floor, so I made it my mission to pick them up and throw them away. Gotta pay it forward for Mother Earth.

Fast forward to 3:00. Things aren’t looking good for us. At the rate we’ve been moving, we won’t actually make it inside the mall for at least another two hours. We have moved into the shade, which is a blessing, though it also leads us to discover just how violently my face has been sunburned. A Disney employee announces that at about 3:30, they’ll come out and make a cutoff point in the line for the people who definitely wouldn’t make it. I say, for maybe the fourth or fifth time, how wonderful my friends are. We begin to suspect that the heat has made me delirious.

At 3:30, we start looking for the person in charge of creating the cutoff point. Instead, we are get a wave of screams that works its way up the line. Perplexed, we turn away from the hordes of excited tweens and look to a Disney Store employee. “Selena just said she’d stay until 6,” he explained. Now, my reaction to this unexpected news was not to scream. After all, as we’ve established, I am an adult. Instead, I turned to Jennie and said, “Now, that’s just nice.“

And it was. It was just nice. ‘Cause think of it this way: everybody in that line had a CD to be signed. The units had been sold and most likely wouldn’t be returned. You’ve fulfilled your obligation to be there from 1-4, and signing your name for 3hrs straight has to get kind of tedious. So yeah, sticking around for another 2hrs to do something that really only benefits your fans is nice.

So is sticking around in a line for hours on end to do something that really only benefits me. My friends are beyond nice.

We finally reach the inside of the mall at about 4:50. And now all that, “I’m an adult,” crap goes out the window and I get kind of nervous. Meet and greets always make me nervous because I’m terrible at making small talk with anybody, let alone people I happen to be a fan of. Fortunately, I don’t need to worry about that here, as the exchange will be brief. My main concern becomes not falling. A small stage has been erected in the mall, and suddenly it’s all three of my graduations all over again, where all I can do is picture myself walking, tripping, and totally biting it. Hard. (Side note: My falls don’t just lack grace. On occasion, they’ve sent me to the ER. This was a way legit concern.)

Not to worry, friends. I didn’t fall at any of my graduations and the streak stayed alive on Selena Gomez Day. My 22-year old, sunburned self stayed standing and had a very pleasant exchange. She was super nice and engaging, I was gracious, and the moment was a success.

So now it’s 5:15. I’m on a high that is part adrenaline and possibly part heat stroke. I haven’t been hungry at all and so had only indulged in a soda and a bottle of water since about 9:30 that morning, but suddenly I was ravenous. For a second, we all got a little crazy and thought about motoring it to a store in L.A. before it closed. However, by the time we made it to the car, we came to the conclusion that it would be better to wait until the next morning.

So what do you do to cap off a ridiculous, RIDICULOUS day like that? Well, first, you walk back into the mall through what can only be described as the fanciest Sears you’ve ever been to. And then you have dinner at the Rainforest Cafe, where your friends flag down the balloon animal guy so that he can make hats for all of you, which you (of course) wear throughout the entire meal. Mine was a monkey in a tree, complete with bananas.

As a thank you to my three awesome friends and stranger who became a friend, the balloon hats were on me.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion: In Which CDog and J. Bunnie Get Lost in a UCSB Dorm Building For 20 Minutes!

You know when parents and teachers and movies of the week tell kids that nothing is impossible as long as they believe in it? I think perhaps wee CDog took that message a little too literally. To this day, one person’s crazy notion is my totally plausible plan. It is this ability to embrace the ridiculous that recently gave birth to an epic weekend. What follows is the story of that weekend. Part 1. Yes, there are parts. It’s a long story. Get over it.

First, a little bit of background. I spent the latter 2/3rds of my junior year of college studying abroad in Ireland. I got home in early May, probably a month or so before I ordinarily would’ve been out of school. Jet-lagged, broke, and awaiting the start of my summer job, I set about re-assimilating myself into American life the way any self-respecting 20 year-old would: by watching daytime TV.

TNT and A&E were just as I left them, more than eager to fill my empty hours with Law & Order, American Justice, and Cold Case Files. But even I need to take a break from forensic programming once in awhile, so I decided to flip to the Disney Channel and see what I could find out about the upcoming High School Musical 2. Because, make no mistake, I was excited as hell about HSM2. However, while on my fact-finding mission, I discovered another gem of DC programming in Hannah Montana. It had catchy songs. It made me laugh. All it took was one episode, and I was sold.

Fast forward to my senior year of college. Things have been pretty sweet. No roommate, so the only distraction in my room is me, but now I’m trying to write important and lengthy final papers and all of this is making me realize that me is actually a very effective distraction and how do I get all this done without having a nervous breakdown? Yes. That’s right. Disney Channel to the rescue. I discover Wizards of Waverly Place. The cast is talented. They make me laugh. And I’m always ready to embrace wizards. So I spend many a night in my PJs and a sweatshirt, books and papers spread out around me, computer on my lap, and WOWP on in the background. Nervous breakdown averted.

Fastforward to present day. I find out, courtesy of a very devoted friend, that Selena Gomez – one of WOWP’s young stars – will be signing her recently released album at South Coast Plaza shopping center in Costa Mesa, CA on Saturday, Oct. 3. Now, my mind working the way it does, my first reaction isn’t, “Oh, man, why don’t I live in SoCal?” Rather, it is, “Oh, man…how am I going to get to SoCal?”

Pulling out my phone, I fire off a text to J. Bunnie: “We should totally go to the Selena Gomez album signing in Costa Mesa next weekend.”

About a minute passes, and my phone sounds out a response: “Hahaha. Let’s do it!”

If I had to point out a flaw in the magical art of texting, which has saved me from having to carry on real phone conversations for years now, it would be this: it’s hard to tell when a person is being serious and when he/she is kidding. I had a feeling my dear friend thought the latter of my original message, so I clarified: “I’m actually kind of really serious about it. I even have a plan.” And it was true. It took about 30 seconds for me to come up with a plan after reading about the signing, and there were some details that needed to be ironed out, but it was something.

My phone was silent a bit longer this time, and then an answer came: “What’s your plan?” And, in a nutshell, my plan was this: we spend Friday night/Saturday morning driving to SoCal, and I promise not to fall asleep. Because that was the first hitch in the plan: I can’t drive. Woops.

Second hitch in the plan? I had tickets to see Paramore in concert that Friday night, which meant we couldn’t leave in the early evening or anything and bank some extra time. Woops: The Sequel.

But, I pointed out, we were still young and we needed some adventure and spontaneity in our lives. Plus, we had friends going to school in L.A. and Long Beach, respectively, so we could hang out with them and do some shopping and basically just have a grand ol’ time.

Here’s the thing: this plan was ridiculous. Just because I came up with it doesn’t mean I didn’t realize that. These are usually the kind of crazy things I do on my own (kind of like time I took three different buses to a mall in Washington I’d never been to so I could meet Luke Ridnour). But this was, at the very least, a two person scheme. J. Bunnie, bless her heart, got on board, and I believe this is owed not so much to my powers of persuasion as to the fact that she’s just really, really awesome.

As it happens, the Paramore show was postponed. I was both bummed out and kind of happy – of course, I’d been excited to go, but now I just had to wait a month longer. Plus, it gave me some extra time to finish my trip prep and get some sleep. Ultimately, I didn’t end up going to bed any earlier because I decided putting music on my iPod was a lot more important.

At 3:00 AM, my alarm went off, and I staggered to the shower. Hitch in the plan #3: I don’t drink coffee. I never have, and I sincerely doubt that I ever will. Each day, I function on 100% CDog power. So it was up to the shower and my own excitement to wake me up enough to play the crucial role of entertaining passenger. At about 4:30, I was loading into the car, a box of leftover pizza in one had, my bag in the other. The adventure was about to begin.

And you know what? The drive down was pretty frickin’ smooth. We talked ourselves awake, combatting the darkness of early morning. I decided it was an excellent idea to start naming the contents of large trucks, although occasionally my sleep deprived mind just started inventing things.

“That truck was full of nuts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Actually, I don’t know. I might have made that up.”

We made one stop, which is a really big deal as I’m kind of notorious for having to pee all the time. But no. I was a rock star. A bladder controlled rock star.

We refueled, J. Bunnie bought the largest and apparently most terrible iced coffee ever from McDonald’s, and we were back on the road. Everything became much easier with the sun up, and we were in L.A. just before 10. But while the most involved phase of our travels were over, the adventure had really just begun.

End of part 1.

In our next installment: Tweens. Celebrities. Suburns. BALLOON HATS!

The weekend that just passed was full of adventure and I’m working on telling the story. Until it’s ready, please enjoy this brief interlude.

I’ve told this story a lot. Sometimes I do it well. Let us hope that this is one of those times.

My nickname – featured prominently at the top of this very blog – sprung from a conversation with friends about which animals we’d be based on personality, etc. (oh, college). As it was once my aspiration to grow up to be a dog (I was six, but I’ve never really let go of the dream), it wasn’t hard to arrive at a conclusion. Once that part was done, CaitDog – frequently shortened to CDog – just naturally evolved into my title. However, it should be mentioned that in high school, I did have a friend who occasionally referred to me as CaitDawg, so snaps to her for being ahead of the times.

Settling on this nickname was great. It was fun, and now I had a built in username for everything, though I’ve been known to add a “13″ to the end on the rare occasion that it’s already been taken. I’ve used it for my Guitar Hero band name, this blog, and my Twitter handle, among other things. And that brings us to the next part of our story.

My best friend came to visit me in Seattle during my senior year of college and we took a trip to the Experience Music Project (EMP), Seattle’s interactive music museum. The two of us tend to bring out the best in each other, and when presented with the option of recording a simulated concert performance, we jumped into line without hesitation. As we waited our turn, a woman with a clipboard approached us and asked what would end up being a very fateful question: “What’s your band name?”

Band name? Nobody said anything about a band name! “Do you need a minute to decide?” Uh, yeah! We faced each other, a serious decision now weighing upon us, and the conversation went something like this:

“What’s our band name?”

“I don’t know. When I play Guitar Hero, I’m CaitDog.”

“We can’t just be CaitDog. What about me?”

“Well, I mean we could add to CaitDog.”

“Add something? What are we going to be, CaitDog and J. Cat?”

A this point we paused for laughter, but she wasn’t done.

“CaitDog and J. Bunnie?”

I looked at her. “YES!”

And that was it. Joke became reality, and CaitDog and J. Bunnie were born. We even have the posters to prove it.

But the story doesn’t end there.

That summer, J. Bunnie got a Wii and Rock Band. We, along with her two cousins and some friends of ours, played like it was our job. At the time, we were all working as counselors at the kids’ musical theatre camp where we’d all met many years earlier, and it seemed only natural to clock out at the end of the day and go log some Rock Band time. Yet, once again, we were faced with the band name dilemma. CaitDog and J. Bunnie were a wonderful team, but we needed something a little more inclusive.

“CaitDog and J. Bunnie…CaitDog and J. Bunnie and…”

“I could be NatCat,” suggested our friend on the mic. Brilliance! With the addition of that title, and the running theme of animals, we settled on the all encompassing name of The Pet Shop, a band that would expand to Earth, Wind, and Fire proportions with the addition of various other members. It is a title that has gone to serve us all well, even outside the realm of Rock Band. The Pet Shop was our AIDS Walk ‘09 team name and is generally how we refer to each other in our daily lives.

So that ended up being not so brief, but now you know the story and will understand the use of animal-related nicknames in any and all future posts.

Stay tuned for a recap of CDog and J. Bunnie’s whirlwind weekend adventure.

This is going up a little sooner than I expected. But I just purchased Kathy Griffin’s memoir (Official Book Club Selection – in stores now!) and I don’t want to become so engrossed that I forget to share this very important story with all two and a half of you reading. Which reminds me -  Hi, Mom! (Actually, this is a lie. My mother made the bold declaration that she “doesn’t read blogs,” which I really think is code for “doesn’t know what a blog is.”)

The middle finger on my left hand is a rather angry shade of red and my entire desk smells strongly of Windex. Why? Because I’m an idiot. It’s funny how 95% of the time when I say I’ve had a ridiculous and/or terrible morning, it’s almost entirely my fault. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It all started with some fish.

I recently decided that I missed having living things to look after, and given my dad’s allergies and my parents’ overall aversion to furry friends in their home, fish have always been the go-to pet. After several unsuccessful solo attempts (including a stop at a pet store that had several open tanks of live crickets on the floor in front of the register, which left me with the vague sensation of having crickets all over me), my mother drove me to a pet store in Serramonte yesterday and I returned home with two new friends (who I promptly almost murdered when the bag containing them slid and emptied itself onto the floor – fortunately, I move quickly).

Delightful, but why would this have any impact on my morning? If you are a regular reader, you may or may not recall a post in which I outlined my morning routine. It’s planned very precisely. Any interruption and I end up running late, forgetting something important (i.e. my keys) or electrocuting myself. Well, now feeding the fish needs to be factored into the equation.

I didn’t execute the new routine quite as well as I’d hoped this morning.

So it’s 7:43, and I’m half-running down the hill to catch my bus, half-accessorizing myself, jamming rings onto fingers and earrings into ears. This may sound unusual to those of you who know me well, but I’m sort of trying this new thing where I at least try to look like a functional almostgrownup.

I miss the ideal bus, but catch the mostly acceptable back-up. By the time I slide into a seat, I realize I’ve made a mistake. One of my rings is on the wrong finger.

Now, the odds of this happening are pretty slim. Especially since I really only wear two rings. But in my frenzy, I managed it. Oh well. Not a big deal, right? I’ll just take it off.

Wrong.

This particular ring was really not meant to go on this particular finger, and now it refuses to come off.

It is at this point I’m stricken with what can only be described as extreme finger claustrophobia. My hands are sweating, which only makes my fingers swell. I panic, proceeding to twist, push, pull, claw, and even bite at the circle of metal that will not budge.

Dammit.

Okay, CDog. Think. Sometimes you don’t wear rings in the summer because the heat makes your fingers swell. Kind of like right now. And sometimes you don’t wear them in the winter because the cold makes your fingers shrink and the rings fall off. That’s it! Cold!

Upon reaching this brilliant conclusion, I decided the next logical step was to unscrew the lid to my Nalgene bottle and shove my hand into it. Surely the water within was cold enough to get the job done.

After approximately ten minutes of sitting on the bus with my hand stuck in my water bottle, I decided this particular course of action would not work. I also decided to empty the bottle and re-fill it once I got to work.

Fast forward three hours. I’m a wreck. My desk is covered with tiny water puddles of various temperatures. Several delivery men have made drop-offs while I was secretly holding my hand in a cup of water under my desk, prompting me to withdraw it and awkwardly sign for the packages with my soaking wet left hand. I’ve made a number of phone calls to my mother, because mothers are supposed to know how to fix these things, but her phone is off because she’s still sleeping like any normal retired person.

At this point, I’ve convinced myself that I’m going to have to call Kaiser and explain that I have a ring stuck on my finger and am seconds away from a nervous breakdown. And then I remember. Who can I always count on to provide a solution to life’s biggest and/or most ridiculous problems?

That’s right: the nameless, faceless authors and commentors of the internet.

Full of hope, I turn to my keyboard and proceed to type, “ring stuck on finger” into a search engine. It turns out many people had suggestions on how to deal with my plight, but to my chagrin, I had already tried a number of them. Icing it. Submerging in cold water. Soaping. It seemed that the next common solutions involved going to a jeweler and getting the ring cut off (which I did not want to do) or going to the doctor (which I did not want to wait for – remember what I said about finger claustrophobia?).

Hopeless once again, I prepare to abandon my efforts and try to think of a considerably less stupid reason to convince my boss to let me leave early, all the while trying not to think of that messed up scene in Return of the King where Gollum bites Frodo’s finger off, when I read a casual, less conventional suggestion. “If soap doesn’t work,” one author had written, “try window cleaner.”

Window cleaner, hmmm? Why, I just happened to have a bottle of Windex under my desk. And really, what could it hurt?

So I took my bottle of Windex, stuck out my middle finger (I know), and sprayed it liberally. Then I worked at the ring for a bit, and to my surprise, it budged. The movement was slight, but it was more than I’d been able to achieve all morning. Excited, I sprayed my finger again and renewed my efforts.

Ten minutes later, my finger was deep purple and dripping. Several paper towels lined the floor beneath my desk, soaking up the puddle of Windex that was a direct result of my frantic spraying. But I was almost over the knuckle, and after that I was home free. Spray. Pull. Spray. Pull. Spray…YES!

The blood and color rushed back into my finger and I sat there, gaping in disbelief as I flexed my free phalanges. At that exact moment, my boss walked by my desk and said, “You look very nice today.” Victory on all fronts.

So, what did I learn today? To pay more attention to what I’m doing? To take my time when it comes to accomplishing any task, even the small ones? To set my alarm earlier? Maybe. Although, theoretically, these are all lessons I learned when that whole electrocution thing went down a few months ago.

Honestly, I think what I’m truly going to take away from this experience is that all life lessons worth remembering can be found in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Pass the Windex.