"There are very few problems that can't be solved by going commando."

Dear Seattle,

I'm sorry you suffered the storm of the century. I talked to my parents yesterday and they told me they were stuck eating ramen noodles all week because they couldn't go out to buy food. In other words, they had to know what it's like to be me for a week.

I'm not sorry that an L.A. Times blogger - one who lives in Seattle, by the way - called the city out for its poor handling of the snow. Poor girl. She must miss the sun so much.

I'm sorry that many people mistook the tone of my previous blog post for anger. That wasn't my intent, and I wasn't angry. The intent of that post was to make fun of Art Thiel for writing a dissertation about Seattle's topography, climate, and the type of snow it receives in response to Kim Murphy's article, which was about preparedness. To avoid confusion, I went back and punctuated my writing with emoticons in order to make it painfully obvious that I was having fun at Art Thiel's expense.

I'm not sorry for writing that post. It was a hoot. I was laughing the whole time. And I don't care if I was the only one.

I'm sorry for calling you guys babies. What I really meant to say was "big fat crying babies."

I'm not sorry for thinking you guys are big fat crying babies. It's true.

Sincerely,

Reeny

"Hey, Art Thiel: Shut the hell up!"

That's what I said out loud after reading this long-winded diatribe by Seattle sportswriter Art Thiel. If you think I'm out of line, then I suggest you read it as well. Don't worry, I'll wait. I also apologize in advance. ;)

Done? Okay, good. Now I can continue. Where was I? Oh yeah...

Hey, Art Thiel: Shut the hell up!

Waa, waa, waaaaaaaa. Did you get beat up by a Californian when you were in grade school? Maybe you're on your period. ;) Or maybe you're just another typical Seattleite, overly sensitive and hyper-protective of your beloved hometown. So an L.A. Times blogger thinks Seattleites are wimps, so what? All that sobbing about the mean lady who called you names didn't exactly make you look like a tough guy. :p

I have never read a piece of writing that was so angry, so defensive, and yet so boring at the same time. Congrats for pulling that off. ;) My friends like to tease me for going off on nerdy rants, but obviously they've never seen anything written by you when you've felt insulted. You basically published a thesis paper on Seattle terrain in comparison to other cities that get snow. Wow. Next to you, I look cool, and that never happens! :D

I live in a city that people love to make fun of. Who cares? I make fun of it too. :) I mean, I could have named this blog Romantic L.A. (yeah, right) or Classic L.A. (please!) or even Sunny L.A. (closer to the truth, but far too cheerful for my purposes) but I didn't. I know this place isn't perfect, and that's why I don't get all upset when people talk trash about it. But you know what? The imperfections of this city are what inspired me to start writing. :) You gotta learn to roll with the punches, buddy.

I've read about the recent snowstorm in Seattle. :( My family lives there. :( A friend of mine was in an accident because of the snow. :( I feel bad for you guys, I really do. :( But it doesn't change the fact that the city is full of babies - yourself included - and it's definitely not gonna stop me from giving you a hard time for producing more whine than all the vineyards in France. ;)

Yes, I know it's the wrong word. This blog was meant to be read to an audience at open mike nights, okay? :p

And lest you think I'm one of those Angelenos who doesn't know what she's talking about, then let me just say now that I was born and raised in Seattle. :p I lived there for more than 20 years before I left, so I know how awful the weather is and how idiotic the drivers are. I'm not wrong in my assessment of Seattleites being overly sensitive, either. ;) I'm one of those transplants you mentioned, only I was smart and moved in the opposite direction. And you know why? Because it freaking snows up there! :p

One more thing. If you're still upset about having to give up your lunch money to a Californian, then go see a therapist, and shut the hell up. :D

***

UPDATE: I posted this on Twitter and Art Thiel retweeted it to 1,865 followers! I'd be happy if even 10% of those followers clicked on my link. So I tweeted the following response:

@Art_Thiel That was cool of you to retweet. Sorry for calling you a baby. I have to admit I still had fun writing it, though :p

Art displayed my link on his page without comment, but there were others who did have something to say to me, and none of it was nice. Of course, they were all from Seattle which is hilarious, not to mention it only served to prove my point further. I tweeted this for them:

I should be upset that my blog post garnered mostly negative responses, but since they all came from Seattle folk I actually find it funny!

People, there's no point in living if you can't poke a little fun at yourselves.

***

UPDATE: Sarcasm doesn't come naturally to those that are easily offended. Since all these poor, helpless Seattleites on Twitter thought I seemed angry in this blog post, I went through and punctuated it with emoticons to make it less scary sounding. They have been highlighted in blue for your benefit. There, all better now?

I've also written an apology to the city of Seattle, which you can read here.

"My bed smells delicious. Unfortunately it smells like coffee."

Victory! I've found the only two pages on Wikipedia that are up and running today.

This one and this one.

You can thank me later.

If you don't have time to read about Congressional bills, then just sign the petition here. It only takes a second. Well, maybe a little longer if you have a slow connection and you decide to log on at the same time as everyone else, which is pretty much guaranteed to happen. But four seconds tops.

"She would reek of Vietnam!"

A lot of my friends are fans of How I Met Your Mother, but up until recently I had only seen a few episodes in passing. My feelings on the show were neutral. Not great, not terrible, just okay. However, when people started pointing out similarities between Robin's character and myself, my vanity got the better of me, and I started watching the show marathon-style a few weeks ago.

I'm halfway through Season 6 now. I'm getting worried that I won't know what to do with myself once I run out of episodes on Netflix, because as much as I hate to admit that I was wrong - and I seem to be doing that a lot lately - How I Met Your Mother is actually pretty good.

I get the jokes now. Turns out you have to watch it from the beginning to get the jokes. Also, I have to give credit where it's due, because many of the catchphrases I hear on a daily basis come from that show. "Legen... wait for it... dary," "Challenge accepted," "Lawyered," and even "True story" were made popular by How I Met Your Mother. I have to say though, I'm a little disappointed that my friends have no imagination whatsoever when they speak or write.

But I'm getting off track. Wow, I'm even doing the red-herring-filled narrative like Future Ted! Anyway, the whole point of this blog post is that it is absolutely uncanny how much I have in common with Robin Scherbatsky. She may be tall, Canadian, and crazy about firearms, but the differences end there.

Here are just some of the ways in which we are alike:

We're both transplants.
We're both extremely independent.
We're both tomboys.
We're both reluctant to commit to anything.
We both hate kids. Okay, hate is a strong word, but we definitely don't want kids.
We both had a short-lived career in music.
We're both skeptics.
We both like to wear boots. Then again, that's every girl. Scratch that.
We both would rather travel and live abroad than settle down.
We both say "but, um" a lot.
We both like hockey, though she definitely likes it way more than I do.
We both had unfortunate experiences in Japan.
We both love dogs.
We both can't stand it when there's a hotter girl in the room. Oops, every girl again.
We both think "shut up" is an appropriate default response.
We're both friends with a morally depraved womanizer who wears suits all the time.

True story.

"Second coming... are we talking about Jesus or sex?"

I think it's time I weighed in on the Tim Tebow conversation. Everyone else is talking about it and I'm starting to feel left out.

I have a question for Mr. Tebow. Unfortunately, he probably won't ever get around to answering it because he's a famous quarterback and I'm... well... not. But I'll ask it anyway.

My question is this: Do you think that if God weren't so busy fixing NFL games in favor of the Denver Broncos, that he might have enough time to deal with other pressing issues like poverty, hunger, AIDS, cancer, the national debt, the environment, the mortgage crisis, the conflict in the Middle East, the decline of the euro, the fall of Rome (again! WTF Rome?), homelessness, unemployment, petty crime, white-collar crime, health care, gay rights, or even Michael Bay movies?

Probably not. I mean, there are hundreds of sporting events going on all over the world, and God has to listen to each and every prayer regarding the outcomes, determine which side is more earnest, and make decisions for all of those games. And then go see his bookie.

I just don't understand how Tebow can honestly believe he has God in his corner. For some inexplicable reason, which we can never know, God is pulling strings here and causing miracles there for the sole benefit of one guy. Why? Does this mean God loves Tim more than Tom? (I'm talking about Brady.) Again, why? And I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that God even cares enough about football to get involved in the first place when there are still so many unanswered prayers out there.

It's a painful slap in the face to see the Lord Almighty, the most powerful being in the universe, picking favorites among the rich and famous while ignoring the needs of those far less fortunate who really could use a little help. He seems kind of petty, in very much the same way humans are petty. God sounds like a dude who would rather turn on ESPN and kick back with a beer than read the news and try to make a difference in a way that actually matters. Did God create man in his own image, or was it the other way around and the author of Genesis just had dyslexia?

Every time I ask a Christian why God allows so much suffering in this world, I always get the same two answers:

1. The Cop Out
This is the insistence that suffering is a part of God's plan. We can never hope to understand it; we just have to accept it. One day, when we're all in heaven, sitting around a bonfire and singing "Kumbaya" together while making s'mores, God will tell all. He will explain why he allowed kids in Africa to be born with AIDS and why it was necessary for the Broncos to win all those games. Wow, can't wait.

2. The Illogical Justification
We suffer because we've sinned. Therefore, God can't or won't intervene in the life of baby born in Africa with AIDS because it was the baby's own damn fault. The baby may not have sinned yet, but it will. Okay fine, but he'll intervene during a football game to make sure that some quarterback - a guy who's already got it good - throws a pass to a wide receiver - another guy who's got it good - so that he catches it and manages to run to the end zone without members of the opposing team - guys who all have it good but not as much on that particular day - tackling him to the ground?

Tim Tebow, I'm not trying to criticize your gameplay. You've experienced incredible success at a very young age and I'm glad for you. Also a little jealous. But let's be real here. You got where you are because you train hard, you practice every day, you have a good coach and good teammates, and you're a virgin. I'm not kidding. 24 years without sex? If I had that much pent-up frustration, I'd be a black belt in karate.

Here's what I'm saying. You should take responsibility for everything that happens in your life, good or bad, because ultimately, you're the one in control. When you throw a game-winning touchdown, own it. Give yourself a pat on the back. And if you should screw up and lose a game, then recognize that you made a mistake or didn't play your best, and learn from it so that you don't repeat it.

But don't say it was God's will that your team won or lost. That is such a cop out.

***

UPDATE: The Broncos lost big time to the Patriots not even 24 hours after I posted this. I'll be honest, I'm kind of smug that God was absent from the game. Still Tebowing, Tim?

"No live goat for you tonight."

I have two announcements, both of which make me sad.

The first is that I just got back my editor's revised copy of the article I wrote for his magazine. He told me that he really liked it and only had to make a few small edits. Turns out "a few small edits" was a total rewrite of the whole thing.

And the second is that I may have to start a Twitter account. This is especially embarrassing because I have said for years that I would never use that service and that the people who do are sad attention whores. Apparently, it's the best way to network if you're a struggling writer and you want people to read your blog. Then again, it wasn't too long ago that I said I would never start a blog, either.

Haven't made any money yet and already I'm a sellout.

"You look like a Chinese kung fu movie that was poorly dubbed."

In the past when I lived with roommates, I could always send someone out to get me soup if I wasn't feeling well. Now that I live alone, I no longer have the luxury of in-house pity servants, but I do have 24-hour delivery in downtown L.A.

I decided that I needed to find some other way to be productive since I didn't come into work today. I ordered noodles from a nearby Thai restaurant (really good noodles might I add), sat down in front of my computer, and proceeded to write. I had to ask someone a question for the piece I was working on, so I made what I thought would be a quick phone call, but it turned into a 45-minute conversation.

I was still talking to the guy when my delivery arrived. It then occurred to me that I had never bothered to change out of my writer's uniform, which is the same as what I sleep in, which is the same as underwear.

Moral: always put on clothes before ordering delivery. Sadly, this concept was somehow not obvious to me until today.

"I just wanted you to know that I accidentally touched the love box."

This is the story of what I did on the weekend of New Year's Eve.

The plan was fairly straightforward. I was scheduled to fly back to L.A. from Seattle on the morning of the 30th; I would arrive at 9 a.m. and meet my friend Manoela at 3 p.m. to drive to Vegas with her friends, all of whom were Brazilian and none of whom I'd met before. In between the airport and the road trip, I would go home to my apartment, drop off all my extraneous luggage, take a nap, pack a weekend bag, and show up to meet this new group of people fresh-faced and well-rested with a bottle of champagne in hand.

The weather gods had other plans for me.

Thanks to a thick layer of marine fog, all flights coming into and out of LAX were delayed. Including mine. Especially mine. I sat at the terminal and watched as one by one, all the other flights to Los Angeles boarded. Some were late by 15 minutes, others by as much as two hours, but my flight received the star treatment: indefinite delay. Yesssss. Every time I checked the airport monitors for my flight status, it had been pushed back by another hour. When my scheduled departure was moved yet again from 1 p.m. to 2, I gave up all hope on road tripping with the Brazilians.

I called Manu and told her that I wouldn't be able to make it. Not to Vegas - I was going there no matter what - but to the 3 p.m. meeting for our drive. I couldn't expect these people that I didn't even know to wait around for me, so I told her I'd find my own way there. Since I wasn't able to get a flight from Seattle to Vegas, I booked one from LAX to LAS for later that evening and crossed my fingers that I'd make the connection.

The gate agent had warned us that as soon as our plane was cleared to depart, we would take off even if it was far in advance of the scheduled delay. In other words, leaving the airport to go do something fun was not an option. We were advised to not even leave the gate area in order to hear the announcements. So I took out my phone charger, tethered myself to the wall, played Angry Birds, and waited. And waited. And waited.

I had never spent so much time in an airport before, and I've actually slept overnight in one!

And then something embarrassing happened. I was in the airport for so long that I started to nod off. I missed all of the announcements, including the one that I had been waiting all day to hear. If not for the gate agent specifically calling my name, I would have slept through the boarding process and missed my flight entirely, and if that had happened, I'd probably be writing this from inside a padded cell right now.

Fortunately, it didn't, and I finally arrived in Los Angeles at 6 in the evening.

Unfortunately, my flight to LAX was so delayed that I missed my flight to Vegas, and had to hang out at the airport (oh, goody!) for another couple of hours trying to get a seat on the next plane. Finally got one but of course, that flight was also delayed. Yay, more airport time! It's pretty much a miracle that it was still the 30th when my plane touched down at McCarran. By then, I had spent a total of 17 hours in transit. 17 hours!

But wait, it gets better. Remember that extraneous luggage I wanted to drop off? Let me paint a picture of just how much extra stuff I had. I came to Seattle with one carry-on suitcase and one backpack. I left with the same carry-on and backpack, five pairs of shoes, sweaters and jeans from my mom, tops and dresses from my sister, a new coat, make-up and skin care products, handkerchiefs (no, seriously), new underwear (there was a sale and I need something to wear when I'm writing), winter accessories even though I live in L.A., dental products because my sister works as a hygienist, a microdermabrasion machine... oh, did we forget that Christmas comes right before New Year's?

My family was so generous this holiday season that I needed an extra suitcase to put all my new toys in. Luckily, my parents had one they weren't using, so they gave it to me. It was the size of a house, had only two wheels and a handle that didn't extend, and weighed about 50 pounds after it was packed. No words exist that can possibly describe the sheer awesomeness of having to drag that thing around Vegas because, yes, there were two room changes involved that weekend.

What kind of moron goes to Las Vegas for a weekend getaway with two suitcases containing all their Christmas presents and five pairs of shoes? Me.

Now, having said all that, I had an amazing time in Sin City when I finally got there. I reunited with a friend who lives in the UK that I hadn't seen in over a year, won $100 at roulette, and even learned a little Portuguese. What do you know, the Brazilians turned out to be pretty cool people.

We celebrated the arrival of 2012 on the Strip with champagne and fireworks. There were signs at the hotel entrance warning us not to bring bottles out onto the street, but we decided to be rebellious and snuck two bottles out anyway. We giggled at our cleverness and reveled in the fact that we were the only people who would be having champagne at midnight. When the clock struck 12, hundreds of champagne bottles all over the Strip were uncorked and I was sprayed with bubbly rain from every direction. So much for being sneaky! But it was the best tasting rain ever, and the fireworks were beautiful.

I probably logged in about six hours of sleep over the course of three days, but it was totally worth it.