When I wake up in the morning, I feel more like Lily Allen, to be honest.

I haven't blogged with more words than pictures because I haven't been able to write a story worth telling. I've tried, and failed. Failing = losing. I am a terrible loser. So I try to blog, I try to be funny, I fail. So I fail and that means losing and I hate losing so I get really depressed and then I definitely can't be funny because I'm wallowing in a pit of self-pity and personal degradation. The pressures of maintaining decent quality of bloggiture (read that like literature, get it?) have been getting to me. I will not apologize for my absence anymore, because I was doing the internet a favor. There is enough tragically terrible writing and failed attempts at humor floating around this intricate series of tubes (classic internet joke - one of my favorites) without me adding to it. So that's that.

Thoughts/Musings that I couldn't flesh out into entries:

+ The cover of my March 2010 copy of the Williams-Sonoma catalog has donuts on it. Delicious donuts. Perfectly shaped, glazed, and posed donuts. You know what I have to say about that? Eff you, Williams-Sonoma. I gave up junk food/empty calories for Lent and you knew that, didn't you? As if that jackass SOMEWHERE on the second floor of my apartment complex baking snicker-doodles wasn't bad enough, now I have to look at donuts. You knew, and you're a jerk.

+ I know the majority of the lyrics to that "Tik-Tok" song by that stupid girl who spells her name with a dollar sign, and I hate myself just a little bit more for that fact. But I'd like a moment to defend myself. The only reason I know that song is because it plays EVERYWHERE. In bars. (which i've consequentially stopped going to.) (okay, I'm kidding.) (Well, I have stopped going, but not because of that song.) (I wonder if there's a grammatical rule for the number of back-to-back parenthetical asides permissible in a piece of writing.) (Hmm.) What was I saying? Oh yes, they play the song in bars. In Steve Madden. In Barnes & Noble. Nowhere is safe. And because of this unfortunate series of events, every once and a while, the line "Wake up in the morning / feelin' like P. Diddy" gets stuck in my head. Now, I have an incredibly high tolerance for ridiculous song lyrics. i.e. "this shit is bananas / B-A-N-A-N-A-S,*" "You make me want to La La,**" or the ever-classic "girl I wanna be the poppa / and you can be the mom.***" But, believe it or not, there is a line. And if she hadn't crossed it by replacing the 's' in her name with a currency symbol, then she blazed right past it when she opened her mouth. Because in all honesty, what does that even mean? Seriously. Is it a metaphor? Can she spell metaphor? or would it be met@phor. (Freedom of speech is being immensely abused.)

Bonus Line: "Now the dudes are linin' up / 'cause they hear we got swagger / but we kick 'em to the curb / unless they look like Mick Jagger." *commence facebomb*

+ I have recently moved on to Blackberry Storm #4. Number one had a hard-drive issue. Number two had a defective speaker. Number three had a megapixel breakdown, so now we're on to number four. I am a big fan of giving names to my different technological devices (like Dexter - my laptop, Maxie - my hard-drive, and CC aka Central Command - my desktop) but it's hard to really get attached to a device that you know is going to cop out on you after a month or two of seemingly mutual adoration. If I was looking to be happy for a couple months before invariably succumbing to pain and suffering and a whole lot of "What could I possibly have done different? Why didn't this work out? What's wrong with me?" then I'd get a boyfriend. But no, I don't need a boyfriend - because I own the Blackberry Storm.

+ There are several reasons why I regard my parents as two of the most intelligent, capable people that have ever lived. But hands-down, one of the top reasons I think my mother is bordering on wizardry is because she, Kathryn Thibeaux, can successfully fold a fitted sheet. Now, I've never seen her in action, but time and time again, sheets would be returned to the linen closet of our home, in uniformly square piles. The entire concept of how to fold those pocketed little devils eludes me. I try, every single laundry day - I try. I get two corners together, tucked into each other with mediocre success, but then I am left with some kind of trapezoidal disfigurement. I have spent up to an hour trying to make that four-sided monstrosity into something that resembles my mother's craftsmanship - but alas. I always, without fail, resort to my own personal fitted sheet folding technique: the 'ball it up and shove it in a corner' method. Not as effective, definitely not as pretty, but kind of fun to do.

* "Hollaback Girl" by Gwen Stefani

** "La La" by Ashlee Simpson

*** "Temperature" by Sean Paul

laissez être l'amour

E! True Hollywood Story: Oakland, California

It might just be as bad as you think it is...

One of these days, I'll have an anecdote, and I will remember it. And when I remember it, I will write it here, and the words will work together, and it will be hilarious. And I will finally feel accomplished. Until then, I have pictures, and a couple quippy remarks. I hope you can make due for the time being.

The move from Houston, Texas to Oakland, California has caused several quizzical expressions and even more "how many times have you almost gotten shot" -type questions from family, friends and other concerned parties. To answer and lay to rest these occurrences, I have decided to put together a bit of a play-by-play of everyday life in my Oakland.

This is my home. Please note, this is not a crack house. There are no drug deals going down in the garage, no hookers or "maybe-ladies" hanging out of the windows looking for business. There are no tricked-out neon green Buick LaSabre's rolling on 22's down my street - and people don't try to sell me bedazzled OBAMA t-shirts outside my front door.

This is a lemon tree. That's right, about a half-block away from my house, there is a fully functioning lemon tree. I should note, however, that for me, this is a hazardous landmark. Because lemons come off their branches, and there is someone in my neighborhood that likes to assemble pyramids out of those fallen soldiers. Yes, 9-piece pyramids right in the middle of the sidewalk. Also, my name is Eleanor and if there is something to trip over, I will find it. Have you guessed the ending? Face hits pavement, lemons running amuck everywhere, old people laughing. Happy Friday.

The good news? There are no lemon trees in the urban ghetto. Score 1 for my Oakland.

Author's Note: I asked Shelby for a synonym for tree. She came up with 'arboreal structure.' It was too good to steal, but I had to share.

And now we have Lake Merritt, the substantial body of water within a quarter-mile radius of my non-Meth Lab residence. Check out those blue skies (thank you, Bay Area), blue water (thank you wide-angle for missing the trash along the edges), and the guy in the blue jacket (who, I swear, is not homeless.)

One of my favorite types of trees, found quite frequently around the edges of the lake. And no, they did not choose these trees because they are more challenging to pass out underneath, though I have witnessed some pretty fascinating vagabond sleeping arrangements. Not under these trees, of course. Because I don't live in the Tenderloin. (If you don't understand the reference, look here.)

Oakland Trees.

If I lived in the ghetto, these would have been chopped down, carved out (trees make a great place to stash your coke bag when the cops are around) and just set on fire 'cause "we were just so high, man." So I am using this giant plants as proof that I live in a decent area, where we like green things (in moderation of course) and oxygen.

Author's Note: My knowledge of illegal narcotics and places to hide said drugs is strictly from movies and wikipedia. I feel the need to reiterate: I am not addicted to cocaine.

My hills. My movie theater. Not exactly inner-city Compton is it? Sorry to dash your dreams of my gangster-ridden lifestyle. But Wait! There is hope.

From time to time, I do enjoy livin' the thug life. Just like this guy.

This guy, and I, we're straight thuggin' it all over the 5-1-0, G.

...and then there's this guy. Everyone else is wearing headphones for a reason, sir. We don't want to hear your arbitrary strumming. Listening to you repeat the first 4 chords of your favorite Crosby, Stills and Nash tune is not enjoyable ambiance for the rest of us. Please, put the guitar down, and do some silent pondering or something. Don't be THAT guy. No one really likes THAT guy.

This is a shout out to some poor, disgruntled, undereducated conspiracist. The Bay Area is full of anti-government, love and let love hippies, and that's all fine and wonderful. But political statements scribbled on top of electrical boxes should really have a spell-check feature. So here's to you, paranoid douchebag, there is only the 1 e in 'poisoned' and your arrow is technically pointing to a janitorial closet. But nice try.

So there you have it. Not once have I been shot at. Not once have I had to ask my neighbors to keep the rap-battles to a dull roar. Not once have I had to explain why I simply don't think I need a crack rock. And not once have I high-fived a twenty-dollar hooker on my way home.

My sincerest apologizes if I have shattered dreams of my elusive lifestyle in the Five-Ten area. But do not fret, because every once and a while, I venture out of my corner of the bay, and there are sights to be seen. Hopefully, when my ability to write wanders back to me (or I ask my parents to FedEx it, since I might have left it back in Houston, accidentally) I will be able to share those moments and events.

Until then, Raider Nation, Let's go A's, and something about the Sharks.

Holler.