Ayer, comenzó a nevar a las once de la mañana.

Wanna know who’s going to win the elections? Forget the newspapers, take a look at who people are putting their money on and you’ll get a more accurate reading. Warning: This site isn’t safe for work. I mean, it’s gambling basically.

Here’s something I never knew: Each Trader Joe’s store employs a team of artists to write all the signs, price tags, and labels.  Who knew!?  I met a TJ artist this weekend.  She’s fresh out of college and paints murals decorating the store.  It takes her about a week to complete a mural.  Currently she’s working on a farmer’s market scene.  She says most people mistaken the wall art as wallpaper. 

Workwise, they give her leeway to design the art, provided she stays within a given theme (like a vegetable or farmers market).  So she shows up, pops on her iPod and paints an artichoke.    Nice gig huh?        

I didn’t want to blog about this originally because I felt like such a navigational dunce afterwards but after having discussions with other folks, I feel sort of not as retarded about it anymore.

Ugh - I didn’t realize what a long rambling post this was until halfway into the story. Let me give you the Reader’s Digest version here for those folks who don’t want the sordid details of my sufferings on the Virginian highways - I got lost.

Now onto the Charles Dickens version: On New Year’s Eve, I went to a party in Virginia. I only printed directions getting there (colossal mistake). Finding the house was no problem. Mostly. I missed the turn going into the street which the house was on because the signs were sort of tucked in the corner and poorly lit. No big deal. I eventually realized I’d gone too far, turned back and found the place. Later, some other party guests commented about how tricky it was finding the street too (and they had been there before) so that was mildly comforting. That night, knowing it was NYE and the coppers were out on the prowl for drunk drivers, I made sure not to get too happy. Bummer, since I like bubbly wine. Point being, this didn’t happen because I was drunk. It happened because I can’t find my way out of my room. (Hmm… maybe I shouldn’t say that. That’s another story.) Anyway, I left at one-ish and headed home. So I’m driving out on the street and I keep going straight and lo and behold there are other cars on the road. Perfect. This is how I navigate in strange places, I stalk. My logic being most people are headed towards a major highway so if you travel with the pack, you’ll probably end up on a major highway. (Proof that I’m a lemming.) Well, they wound up in a street that got darker and darker and I realized I was in a neighborhood. Luckily, I was heading straight so all I had to do was u-turn right outta there. I get to a big intersection and thankfully it’s a red light and there’s a car on the lane left of me. I roll down my window and yell and wave (friendly as I can possibly be) asking for the exit to the highway. The guy points to my right, it’s practically in front of me. So I hop on the highway and drive merrily along until I realize I’m going the wrong way. I’m heading deeper into the maze. Crap. I take the next exit and end up in Arlington (I think) and again I find myself at an intersection, rolling down my window, waving, asking for the exit back to the highway. The nice lady points me in the right direction and I’m on my way again. A few minutes later, I realize I’m heading towards the airport. It’s an express and there’s no way out. You have to go all the way to the airport! I call my sister who is 3,000 miles away because you know, that’s helpful. She can telekinetically levitate me from the ground and move me home in a straight line. I tell her I’m heading to the airport and how much I’m hating Virginia roads. I cut across the median using one of those lanes that the police usually park their speedtraps and turn around. Again, I exit and I find myself on some small neighborhood road. Again with the rolling my windows down, asking for directions. This time, it’s two women who are going semi-towards the highway exit. So they tell me to follow. I was pretty far from the highway by then. Of course, a couple minutes into the highway, I realize I’m going the wrong way again. This is getting old. Hilary Duff had sung “Wake Up” two times by then and it wasn’t working. This time, I get on the exit and there’s a fork on it to go back on the highway going in the opposite direction. It was a highway u-turn exit! I’m back on the highway, and there, hidden, is an exit toward the beltway. Finally, I’m back in familiar territory. What should’ve been a 30 or 40 minute drive, turned out to be an hour longer.

The other day, I was sharing my ordeal with some D.C. people and they all nodded in understanding because they all had similar stories or know people with similar stories. One person even took three hours trying to get out of VA, in broad daylight. I’m not sure what it is (poor road signs? no road signs?) but it’s like you get in and you can’t get out!

My personalDNA Report Here’s an example of an application you can put on your Facebook profile… or your blog.   I like fiddling with these personality tests. Don’t necessarily agree with some parts. For instance, I don’t know about encouraging but for reals, I am not a leader. I’m a follower.  *meep* (lemming sound)  I don’t think I lied during the test but this doesn’t sound like me. I pay very little attention to details and have no interest in pursuing new activities. On top of that, my nature is not outgoing. It’s ingoing and instaying.   I was hoping taking it a second time on a different day would yield more accurate results but no, I got the same thing.  Maybe I need someone else to take it for me.  Maybe I’m not who I think I am.  Maybe I need to go lie down.

it’ll suck the life outta you. I joined Facebook. I spent almost the entire day stalking people - looking at everyone’s profiles, photos, and feeds, and playing with all the different applications. There are some neat ones out there like a map dotting all the places you’ve ever visited, and some useless fun ones like Growing gifts. I think it’s a pot that eventually grows into a surprise something. Every thing I do is documented on Facebook down to the minute. I’m so last century because that still weirds me a bit. Like that song by The Police, every body is someone’s not-so-secret stalker. It makes me somewhat self conscious. Thankfully, it’s a little more private in that people can’t see your profile unless you permit it.  Riiiight?

My manicure fell apart. It lasted 11 days. I shouldn’t say it fell apart. I picked it apart. No one can resist nailpolish-picking when it’s on its last leg. I would’ve showed ya’ll the damage I wrought on my nails but I was so keen on getting it all off that I couldn’t be bothered reaching for my camera after I got my hands on a bottle of remover. Anyway, I don’t think anyone’s interested in half-picked nailpolish. Which is why I am discussing it at length.

I used to wonder why nail shops were everywhere. Who’d spend $15-$20 a week doing their nails?! Ah, ignorance is bliss. Or ignorance is money in the IRA. Well, now I understand why nail salons are a thriving business even though it’s so competitive with just about one on every corner. I want to go back and get my nails fixed up again. It’s addictive. Ah well, guess it’s back to DIY.

By the way, based on my pretty limited experience with polish, I’ve had decent luck with OPI, Maybelline, and Revlon. Not a fan of Estee Lauder or Sally Hansen. I did read about this new sticker type of nailpolish on the Budgeting Babe. Looks really easy to use.

To begin my self-improvement project of fraternizing with the white folks, I went to a happy hour last night with a fun bunch of people. Turns out the white folks were outnumbered so I left. Ok I’m just kidding. I had a great time. It’s been a while since I’ve gone anywhere for fun. In hibernation mode, if I’m not at work or running errands and seeing dumbbutt dentists, I’m home, knitting, eating and blogging.

This was my first time at Gordon Biersch. I liked their beer and service. Restrooms are clean, lots of TV screens, nice outdoor patio area. Service-wise, they split our bill for ~20 people. Geez, most places I go to won’t do it for even 5 people. Food is good too, but beware the garlic fries. Unless you’re trying to ward off vampires, them garlic fries are potent. Of their house beers, I only tried the Hefeweizen and I thought it was a good flavorful but not overpowering beer. So you have a frame of reference, some common beers I like are Sam Adams, New Castle, Yuengling, and Corona. Basically, pale ales and lagers are good, stouts only on the rare occasion. Bottom line, I look forward to future happy hours at this joint.

Too Many Asians at this School: Racialized Perceptions and Identity Formation is an eye-opening research article written by Jenny Tsai. Basically, her findings suggest that we like being white. White is the new pink! Acting white is good. It’s cool and it’s fitting in. Acting foreign is FOBby and unsocialized. So how does one go about proving ones whiteness? Date a white person, have lots of white friends and curse at your parents.

After reading this article I immediately did a mental self assessment of my friends y’know, to see how well I do on this white continuum. Let’s see… 4 Asians (ooh off to a bad start), 1 black, 1 white! YESS!!, 1 Latina. That’s it?? I dunno where that puts me but I’m off to go make some more white pals. One is not enough! Especially since there’s no such thing as too much of a good thing.

Update: I emailed Jenny for her article and she directed me to this link. It’s free, in PDF if anyone’s interested.

Tomato pickers for fast food joints like McDonald’s, Taco Bell, and Burger King, get paid $0.01 to $0.02 per pound of tomatoes picked. They haven’t seen a pay raise for about 30 years. Now, they’re finally getting a pay raise of one cent. Hallelujah! That’s a 50% raise! Guess who’s cheaping out on them? Burger King. They won’t pay! Doesn’t make sense. It’s not like they have to absorb the added expense anyway. In the end, we’d all pay for the extra fraction of a cent worth of tomatoes on our sandwich. What’s the big deal?