I love video games, but I'm not good at playing them all. Give me turn-based strategy and I can play at any level of difficulty you throw at me. Give me a game that requires frantic button mashing I'll probably not do so well.
The games for which I lack skills, well, they make me very, very sad. Especially since so many games lock beginners out of content.
This happened to me yesterday.
My boyfriend was sweet enough to pick up a copy of Marvel Ultimate Alliance 2 (yay!). I was very excited for co-op play, so I inserted the disk and watched the cheesy opening sequence roll by (lord help me, they used "ladies" and "girls" as insults to masculinity .... must ignore ...).
Anyway, the options screen finally popped up on the TV and, to my dismay, I had to choose a difficulty level. "Some achievements and content are unavailable at your level," the Xbox said to me.
Dammit.
Just because I lack the ability mash buttons in a logical sequence at breakneck speeds, doesn't mean I'm undeserving of cool content.
Lame-o.
Why not decrease the points awarded for achievements for the easy setting? Huh? Why not??!
Meany faces. All of you.
I guess I just have to go back to singing everything on Rockband at Expert level without flinching. So. There.
Nyah.
9.21.2009
Apparently I'm a diva
At least when it comes to gyms.
I gave up my membership at the YMCA because the neighborhood was shady and I couldn't talk myself into running around their parking lot after dark.
Now I'm in need of a replacement.
I want:
Enough cardio equipment so I can workout at 6 or 7 at night and not have to wait for a machine.
A circuit room.
Parking under $8/pop (Which is what it costs at UCLA) or something within walking distance of my apartment.
That's it. I don't need a locker. Or a pool. Or a steam room.
Really, it's not a lot to ask, is it?
Apparently in LA it is.
Ugh.
I'm tempted to buy my own equipment, but then I don't get the benefit of weight training. Or room for visitors.
I gave up my membership at the YMCA because the neighborhood was shady and I couldn't talk myself into running around their parking lot after dark.
Now I'm in need of a replacement.
I want:
Enough cardio equipment so I can workout at 6 or 7 at night and not have to wait for a machine.
A circuit room.
Parking under $8/pop (Which is what it costs at UCLA) or something within walking distance of my apartment.
That's it. I don't need a locker. Or a pool. Or a steam room.
Really, it's not a lot to ask, is it?
Apparently in LA it is.
Ugh.
I'm tempted to buy my own equipment, but then I don't get the benefit of weight training. Or room for visitors.
9.11.2009
2001 can go suck an egg
The anniversary of 9/11 always puts me in a melancholy malaise. 2001 marked the beginning of a rough time in my life.
I started the year by being dumped. Two friends were in a horrible accident that killed a motorcyclist. I ended up semi-dating a guy who I discovered was on the scene of that accident and lent my friends his cell phone. Broke up with that guy (not because of the coincidence, other reasons). Started dating the friend who was in the accident, and that ended up becoming emotionally tumultuous. Post 9/11 depression hit hard. It was hard to go to class. I didn't really even want to get out of bed. Slept too much. When I was awake I argued with friends about my pacifist views. No, I didn't want to go out and torture and/or kill the 9/11 planners. No war, please. There was a lot of fighting about that.
The next several years brought financial and emotional hardship. Medical problems. Deaths. Ugh.
Fast forward to fall of 2008. Things were finally okay. Ish.
I started the year by being dumped. Two friends were in a horrible accident that killed a motorcyclist. I ended up semi-dating a guy who I discovered was on the scene of that accident and lent my friends his cell phone. Broke up with that guy (not because of the coincidence, other reasons). Started dating the friend who was in the accident, and that ended up becoming emotionally tumultuous. Post 9/11 depression hit hard. It was hard to go to class. I didn't really even want to get out of bed. Slept too much. When I was awake I argued with friends about my pacifist views. No, I didn't want to go out and torture and/or kill the 9/11 planners. No war, please. There was a lot of fighting about that.
The next several years brought financial and emotional hardship. Medical problems. Deaths. Ugh.
Fast forward to fall of 2008. Things were finally okay. Ish.
9.06.2009
A post on my dearly departed Ginger, a.k.a. a Gin-Blog
Sometimes known as Ginger, Gin-bob, Gin-bob No Pants, Ginner and Princess, my sweet family pup passed away last month.
I miss her lots.
As a result, my writing goes to sh*t when I try to talk about her. I'll put her pictures first, so you can enjoy her. If you happen to want to read a rambling, disorganized block of text, it's waiting for you after the photos.
Squirrel watching prairie dog pose:
An unusual silly face. Normally she hated photos:
I'm not sure why I posted this one, seeing as it's just a picture of our carpet.
Mouthful of snow:
More of that delicious snow:
On a hike with my parents:
Snorf snort snuggle snorf:
Big torso, little legs.
When I was really little, I used to pretend I was a dog. I crawled around my parents' apartment barking. I remember filling a little bowl with food or water, putting it on the floor, and eating from it. Later, when I learned to write, I made sure to tell Santa I wanted a puppy for Christmas. Every year, without fail. When I grew up a little more, I bought books on dog breeds and poured over animal supply catalogs, circling the items I felt were good enough for my future potential puppy.
I didn't get one until the Spring of my senior year of high school. I was 17.
I arrived in my Montana hometown in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted from a Speech and Debate meet. It was bitterly cold and snowing like mad. Rather than make me brave the nasty weather, my parents came to pick me up in their enormous old, blue van.
The sliding door roared open to reveal a scruffy, dirty blonde dog. She looked quite a bit like Benji the hunted cut off at the knees, 1/2 Basset Hound 1/2 Skye Terrier. Her bark was all Basset, temperament mostly terrier. But I didn't know that yet.
I got in and asked what the deal was with the dog. I knew better than to assume she was mine.
"Oh, we're just trying her out," my parents told me.
I didn't know what to think. If I let myself get attached, I'd risk emotional devastation if they took her back to the pound where she'd inevitably be put to sleep. I was afraid to love her all the way, but that scruffy face was so. darn. cute.
When we got home I realized that my younger brother hated her*. Not for any logical reason - he just hates change. Any change. Even cute, furry, sweet, loving change.
I assumed she was doomed.
Then a few weeks passed. A few months. My parents never confirmed that she was our forever dog and I was too timid to ask. And then, that fall, I left for college. I had a dog for all of 6 months.
In that time I noticed that she could tell when I was sad. She'd sit near me until she sensed I was okay then would wander off to check on another member of the family. Nightly she'd make the rounds, the tinkling sound of her little license tags the only thing giving her presence away. First she'd check on my parents, padding in on her big furry feet. Sniff. Sniff sniff. With a head shake and a snort, she'd turn tail and head for my little brother's room. Sniff. Sniff sniff. Snort. Then it was my turn. I used to hear her come into my room, just part way. Stop. Sniff sniff. Snort. Once she knew we were all where we were supposed to be, she'd settle in for the night.
Sometimes I'd find her on the couch in the living room, using the low arm rest as a pillow.
Sometimes she'd curl up under my parents' bed.
Sometimes she'd be up on the ottoman by the window, staring out at the squirrels, sitting like a prairie dog.
When we'd go out for walks, she chased those squirrels up trees. I don't mean that she scared the squirrels so that the squirrels themselves ran up the tree trunks. No. Ginger scrambled up the trunk as far as her short little legs and big bodied momentum could take her. She never made it farther up than my head, but it was high enough to be impressive.
She ate a lot of snow. I think it may have been her favorite thing to do.
Small dogs didn't phase her. Big ones? She wanted to take them on. I don't think Ginger realized that she'd lose that kind of a battle. She herself was a big dog on little legs.
Part of her tongue was missing. I wish I knew the story there.
Anyway ...
I got to know her a little, and then I had to leave.
It sucked.
When I came back for Thanksgiving, she greeted me excitedly. I felt loved. Then, when I packed up my car to leave again, she hopped right into the passenger seat and refused to leave. We had to bribe her out with chicken. I didn't want to go.
It seemed that every time I came for a visit, she had lost more teeth. My dad eventually made the joke, "all she has for Christmas are her two front teeth."
My mom tells me that Ginger would let her know when she left something on the stove too long. And when one of the doors was unlocked at night.
She hated being groomed. She took it as a great personal insult that her lowly humans would dare harass her in that manner.
Enough details. I miss her. Lots. She was with us for 10ish years, but was closer to 15 years-old (or more, actually). I really wish I had spent more in-person time with her.
*To my little brother's credit, he warmed up to her. It just took him a little while. I actually don't know if he remembers disliking her.
I miss her lots.
As a result, my writing goes to sh*t when I try to talk about her. I'll put her pictures first, so you can enjoy her. If you happen to want to read a rambling, disorganized block of text, it's waiting for you after the photos.
Squirrel watching prairie dog pose:
An unusual silly face. Normally she hated photos:
I'm not sure why I posted this one, seeing as it's just a picture of our carpet.
Mouthful of snow:
More of that delicious snow:
On a hike with my parents:
Snorf snort snuggle snorf:
Big torso, little legs.
When I was really little, I used to pretend I was a dog. I crawled around my parents' apartment barking. I remember filling a little bowl with food or water, putting it on the floor, and eating from it. Later, when I learned to write, I made sure to tell Santa I wanted a puppy for Christmas. Every year, without fail. When I grew up a little more, I bought books on dog breeds and poured over animal supply catalogs, circling the items I felt were good enough for my future potential puppy.
I didn't get one until the Spring of my senior year of high school. I was 17.
I arrived in my Montana hometown in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted from a Speech and Debate meet. It was bitterly cold and snowing like mad. Rather than make me brave the nasty weather, my parents came to pick me up in their enormous old, blue van.
The sliding door roared open to reveal a scruffy, dirty blonde dog. She looked quite a bit like Benji the hunted cut off at the knees, 1/2 Basset Hound 1/2 Skye Terrier. Her bark was all Basset, temperament mostly terrier. But I didn't know that yet.
I got in and asked what the deal was with the dog. I knew better than to assume she was mine.
"Oh, we're just trying her out," my parents told me.
I didn't know what to think. If I let myself get attached, I'd risk emotional devastation if they took her back to the pound where she'd inevitably be put to sleep. I was afraid to love her all the way, but that scruffy face was so. darn. cute.
When we got home I realized that my younger brother hated her*. Not for any logical reason - he just hates change. Any change. Even cute, furry, sweet, loving change.
I assumed she was doomed.
Then a few weeks passed. A few months. My parents never confirmed that she was our forever dog and I was too timid to ask. And then, that fall, I left for college. I had a dog for all of 6 months.
In that time I noticed that she could tell when I was sad. She'd sit near me until she sensed I was okay then would wander off to check on another member of the family. Nightly she'd make the rounds, the tinkling sound of her little license tags the only thing giving her presence away. First she'd check on my parents, padding in on her big furry feet. Sniff. Sniff sniff. With a head shake and a snort, she'd turn tail and head for my little brother's room. Sniff. Sniff sniff. Snort. Then it was my turn. I used to hear her come into my room, just part way. Stop. Sniff sniff. Snort. Once she knew we were all where we were supposed to be, she'd settle in for the night.
Sometimes I'd find her on the couch in the living room, using the low arm rest as a pillow.
Sometimes she'd curl up under my parents' bed.
Sometimes she'd be up on the ottoman by the window, staring out at the squirrels, sitting like a prairie dog.
When we'd go out for walks, she chased those squirrels up trees. I don't mean that she scared the squirrels so that the squirrels themselves ran up the tree trunks. No. Ginger scrambled up the trunk as far as her short little legs and big bodied momentum could take her. She never made it farther up than my head, but it was high enough to be impressive.
She ate a lot of snow. I think it may have been her favorite thing to do.
Small dogs didn't phase her. Big ones? She wanted to take them on. I don't think Ginger realized that she'd lose that kind of a battle. She herself was a big dog on little legs.
Part of her tongue was missing. I wish I knew the story there.
Anyway ...
I got to know her a little, and then I had to leave.
It sucked.
When I came back for Thanksgiving, she greeted me excitedly. I felt loved. Then, when I packed up my car to leave again, she hopped right into the passenger seat and refused to leave. We had to bribe her out with chicken. I didn't want to go.
It seemed that every time I came for a visit, she had lost more teeth. My dad eventually made the joke, "all she has for Christmas are her two front teeth."
My mom tells me that Ginger would let her know when she left something on the stove too long. And when one of the doors was unlocked at night.
She hated being groomed. She took it as a great personal insult that her lowly humans would dare harass her in that manner.
Enough details. I miss her. Lots. She was with us for 10ish years, but was closer to 15 years-old (or more, actually). I really wish I had spent more in-person time with her.
*To my little brother's credit, he warmed up to her. It just took him a little while. I actually don't know if he remembers disliking her.
8.31.2009
Update Extravaganza
I'll try and make this brief. (Is it wrong that the word, "brief," makes me snicker?)
Laterz!
- My darling dog Ginger passed away. I miss her lots.
- I adopted a troubled 5 year-old rescue pup named Cheeto. She used to be 15 pounds overweight, she has a bite history and is a Jack Russell/Corgi mix. A Cojack, apparently. (I'm currently training my boyfriend to handle her. Nipping/biting incidents: Me = 0, Boyfriend = 4+)
- I'm preparing to travel to Austin in a couple of weeks for this. I wonder what constitutes appropriate conference attire for nerds.
- 100,000 acres are on fire. Yes, 100,000 ACRES. The air quality is awful, atm.
- Life has been insanely busy. I'm hoping to finish my dad's website, revamp my mom's, transfer various ecommerce sites from Cafepress to Zazzle (stupid commission structure change), hear back on a web comic, update my pathetic portfolio, finish up a couple of scripts, write four reviews, wrap up an e-interview and poke a massive design project, among other things.
Laterz!
8.26.2009
Dear Blogosphere,
Darling! Baby doll! Honey sugar sweetie stapler muffin!
I miss you madly, I do.
I promise I'll be back soon, Scout's honor.
Hugs and Kisses,
Cat
I miss you madly, I do.
I promise I'll be back soon, Scout's honor.
Hugs and Kisses,
Cat
7.31.2009
What's that smell?
I worry sometimes that what I bring for lunch might stay around longer than I intend. Food aromas can be pretty distinct and, unfortunately, some have a tendency to linger.
Today I had tuna. For all I know, right now my office mates think I'm a weird lady that smells funny.
For the sake of etiquette, there are some things that just shouldn't be brought to work. These include:
- Popcorn. It's delicious, but everyone can smell it. EVERYone. You're not working in a movie theater.
- Broccoli. Sorry guys, but this stuff smells like flatus. Unless you're very, very cruel, it's not what you want your cubicle to smell like.
- Any and all fish/seafood.
- Children. I realize this digresses a bit from the original topic of food ... but ... I don't care how well-behaved Timmy is, I don't want to waste precious time pretending that he's cute while making awkward kid small talk. I can only have the "What grade are you in now? Look how big you've gotten!" conversation so many times before I snap.
Today I had tuna. For all I know, right now my office mates think I'm a weird lady that smells funny.
For the sake of etiquette, there are some things that just shouldn't be brought to work. These include:
- Popcorn. It's delicious, but everyone can smell it. EVERYone. You're not working in a movie theater.
- Broccoli. Sorry guys, but this stuff smells like flatus. Unless you're very, very cruel, it's not what you want your cubicle to smell like.
- Any and all fish/seafood.
- Children. I realize this digresses a bit from the original topic of food ... but ... I don't care how well-behaved Timmy is, I don't want to waste precious time pretending that he's cute while making awkward kid small talk. I can only have the "What grade are you in now? Look how big you've gotten!" conversation so many times before I snap.
7.29.2009
There has to be an easier way ...
Well crud. It happened.
The people at work found out I'm "good with computers."
Now my duties include everything from teaching people the intricacies Photoshop to showing them how to make bold font in Excel. And occasionally troubleshooting a printer or twelve.
Today I had to deal with a locked Excel spreadsheet. I really don't understand why people password protect these things. It just makes life harder for everyone that has to use them. My goal seemed simple: make the 11 x 17 spreadsheet fit an 8 1/2 x 11 page, while remaining legible. Should be too hard, right?
Wrong.
Unfortunately, sooomebody password protected the spreadsheet. My first troubleshooting step was to see if I could just unlock it from within Excel.
Nope.
The great Google God said I could download a program that would crack it for me. I decided against that method right off the bat, since it would probably give my work computer the ebola virus, and I really don't want to have to explain that to our IT peepz.
Instead I emailed myself the spreadsheet. Sent it from work email to Gmail. Then I opened it up in Google Documents and BEHOLD! The spreadsheet was unlocked. So I saved it as an .xls file and opened it back up in Excel.
Joy!
The people at work found out I'm "good with computers."
Now my duties include everything from teaching people the intricacies Photoshop to showing them how to make bold font in Excel. And occasionally troubleshooting a printer or twelve.
Today I had to deal with a locked Excel spreadsheet. I really don't understand why people password protect these things. It just makes life harder for everyone that has to use them. My goal seemed simple: make the 11 x 17 spreadsheet fit an 8 1/2 x 11 page, while remaining legible. Should be too hard, right?
Wrong.
Unfortunately, sooomebody password protected the spreadsheet. My first troubleshooting step was to see if I could just unlock it from within Excel.
Nope.
The great Google God said I could download a program that would crack it for me. I decided against that method right off the bat, since it would probably give my work computer the ebola virus, and I really don't want to have to explain that to our IT peepz.
Instead I emailed myself the spreadsheet. Sent it from work email to Gmail. Then I opened it up in Google Documents and BEHOLD! The spreadsheet was unlocked. So I saved it as an .xls file and opened it back up in Excel.
Joy!
7.27.2009
Think Pink
I'm torn.
On one hand, I really don't care for pink. Occasionally I indulge in something that's a brilliant, deep magenta. Maaaybe. But cotton candy pink? The single, strangely sickening color that tech marketing folks use to attract women? Not so much. It's just not my style.
I resent this shade of pink. It's patronizing. The cotton candy pink laptops (which are never top of the line models, btw), game consoles, mobile phones, game controllers, etc. scream at me from the shelves of Best Buy. "THE NEEDS AND DESIRES OF FIFTY PERCENT OF THE POPULATION CAN BE BOILED DOWN TO THIS! IT'S ALL YOU GET! CONSIDER YOURSELF INCLUDED!" When these companies got together to brainstorm ideas for attracting female consumers, this one shade of pink is all they could come up with? Really? Seriously. Really?!?!!
However ...
Somehow I feel drawn to these things. I feel a bit like it's my duty to buy them. To prove that the market it out there. That, yes, girls ... nay ... WOMEN ... like this stuff. Sometimes I want to cover my laptop in sparkling pink rhinestones. As a sign of solidarity.
I am female. I can also fix your computer. This combination is neither mutually exclusive, nor unusual.
Full disclosure: There is a cotton candy pink Xbox 360 controller sitting on my coffee table at home. I also insist of playing as Peach in Mario Kart. And I win.
On one hand, I really don't care for pink. Occasionally I indulge in something that's a brilliant, deep magenta. Maaaybe. But cotton candy pink? The single, strangely sickening color that tech marketing folks use to attract women? Not so much. It's just not my style.
I resent this shade of pink. It's patronizing. The cotton candy pink laptops (which are never top of the line models, btw), game consoles, mobile phones, game controllers, etc. scream at me from the shelves of Best Buy. "THE NEEDS AND DESIRES OF FIFTY PERCENT OF THE POPULATION CAN BE BOILED DOWN TO THIS! IT'S ALL YOU GET! CONSIDER YOURSELF INCLUDED!" When these companies got together to brainstorm ideas for attracting female consumers, this one shade of pink is all they could come up with? Really? Seriously. Really?!?!!
However ...
Somehow I feel drawn to these things. I feel a bit like it's my duty to buy them. To prove that the market it out there. That, yes, girls ... nay ... WOMEN ... like this stuff. Sometimes I want to cover my laptop in sparkling pink rhinestones. As a sign of solidarity.
I am female. I can also fix your computer. This combination is neither mutually exclusive, nor unusual.
Full disclosure: There is a cotton candy pink Xbox 360 controller sitting on my coffee table at home. I also insist of playing as Peach in Mario Kart. And I win.
7.23.2009
Tragedy at suppertime
So there I was.
Home from a long, hard day at work.
Making myself a delicious, nutritious Lean Cuisine delicacy.
The little black plastic dish looked out at me from behind the microwave door.
Spinning in circles.
I looked right back at it.
Eager and ready.
Beep beep beeeeep.
Went my microwave.
"Hoorah!" went my tummy.
"Hello gooooorgeous," I said as I opened the door.
Reaching eagerly for my meal with hands bare.
But as my fingers wrapped themselves around the little black plastic dish.
My nerves registered HOT PAIN.
"GAH!" I said as I lifted the little black plastic dish.
Up and away from the safety of the microwave.
"NOOOOO!" I said as the little black plastic dish.
Leapt away from my pain flashing fingers.
Tipping over and away from me.
End over end.
Into the garbage can.
"Oh," I said.
Looking at the upside down little black plastic dish.
Sitting in the garbage can.
And then I made this face:
Home from a long, hard day at work.
Making myself a delicious, nutritious Lean Cuisine delicacy.
The little black plastic dish looked out at me from behind the microwave door.
Spinning in circles.
I looked right back at it.
Eager and ready.
Beep beep beeeeep.
Went my microwave.
"Hoorah!" went my tummy.
"Hello gooooorgeous," I said as I opened the door.
Reaching eagerly for my meal with hands bare.
But as my fingers wrapped themselves around the little black plastic dish.
My nerves registered HOT PAIN.
"GAH!" I said as I lifted the little black plastic dish.
Up and away from the safety of the microwave.
"NOOOOO!" I said as the little black plastic dish.
Leapt away from my pain flashing fingers.
Tipping over and away from me.
End over end.
Into the garbage can.
"Oh," I said.
Looking at the upside down little black plastic dish.
Sitting in the garbage can.
And then I made this face:
7.17.2009
BFG
Most of the time, I love being tall.
- Us tall folks make more money, have higher social status and gain more respect than short folks.
- The extra height lets me be intimidating in a subtle way. Especially with 5 inch heels. (Not that I'm intimidating, generally. But heels still help when I put on my "for serious" face.)
- I can reach things on my own at the supermarket. Or in the kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
There are, however, some drawbacks to extra height.
- You're prone to bumping your head and knees a lot. Small cars are the devil.
- Good luck finding pants that fit. Or shirts that don't show your belly. And jackets with long enough sleeves.
- Losing weight does not show until you have lost an ungodly amount. I say this because I just lost 7 pounds in the past month and I can't figure out what part of me got smaller. Maybe it was my grey matter?
- Us tall folks make more money, have higher social status and gain more respect than short folks.
- The extra height lets me be intimidating in a subtle way. Especially with 5 inch heels. (Not that I'm intimidating, generally. But heels still help when I put on my "for serious" face.)
- I can reach things on my own at the supermarket. Or in the kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
There are, however, some drawbacks to extra height.
- You're prone to bumping your head and knees a lot. Small cars are the devil.
- Good luck finding pants that fit. Or shirts that don't show your belly. And jackets with long enough sleeves.
- Losing weight does not show until you have lost an ungodly amount. I say this because I just lost 7 pounds in the past month and I can't figure out what part of me got smaller. Maybe it was my grey matter?
7.16.2009
Leave
I'm not one of those people that thinks you have to suck it up. That there's nothing you can do about it, so wait it out. Grin and bear it and make it through. Deal.
Nope.
Not me.
It's not about running away at the first sign of trouble. It *is* about knowing you deserve to enjoy being alive.
Sometimes happiness can only be found if you go. Get out. Leave.
Nope.
Not me.
It's not about running away at the first sign of trouble. It *is* about knowing you deserve to enjoy being alive.
Sometimes happiness can only be found if you go. Get out. Leave.
7.15.2009
Existential Angst
I occasionally wonder why I do so many things. If I'm just doing my 40 hour/week day job, I feel useless. Listless. Stuck.
Instead of enjoying free time, I just cram more and more onto my to-do list. Writing projects, graphic & web design, publicity, so on and so forth. I'm not sure if I'll ever manage to slow down.
But maybe I will. And maybe the key is a day job that actually pays me to do stuff I love.
I'll find it someday. I hope.
Instead of enjoying free time, I just cram more and more onto my to-do list. Writing projects, graphic & web design, publicity, so on and so forth. I'm not sure if I'll ever manage to slow down.
But maybe I will. And maybe the key is a day job that actually pays me to do stuff I love.
I'll find it someday. I hope.
7.01.2009
Cities are weird
1) There was an angry mime yelling at a camera guy on the corner by my apartment. Apparently he's not a very good mime.
2) There are a few celebrity hot spots on my workout route. If I didn't find them so annoying, it would be an exciting discovery. I get to deal with paparazzi glaring at me in all of my sweaty glory when they realize I'm not an approaching star. I'm not sure what tips them off ... ... ...
3) Speaking of workouts, I've started writing workout haikus. Here's the latest:
Nose pressed against glass
Photog' catches shopping star
I pass by smirking.
2) There are a few celebrity hot spots on my workout route. If I didn't find them so annoying, it would be an exciting discovery. I get to deal with paparazzi glaring at me in all of my sweaty glory when they realize I'm not an approaching star. I'm not sure what tips them off ... ... ...
3) Speaking of workouts, I've started writing workout haikus. Here's the latest:
Nose pressed against glass
Photog' catches shopping star
I pass by smirking.
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