Hot

Oh freaking G it is hot!  It's so hot outside that I can't help but think of animal-based "It's so hot..." jokes:

It's So Hot....... I saw two trees fighting over a dog! 

It's So Hot....... I saw a squirrel picking up nuts with pot holders!

It's So Hot....... I saw a chicken laying an omelette!

As you can see, it's so hot outside I can't even focus on writing a decent blog post!

Blake

So, I have a reader named Blake.  Sigh...swoon... quiver...

Recently Blake came to my rescue by defending my honor in the comments section of this very blog.  I have to admit it made me feel like a damsel no longer in distress.

Not that any of you heathens would understand -- every time I post a new blog someone calls me a slut or takes about going #3 all over my face.  It's pretty ridiculous.  I'm a person, you know -- and I have feelings.  Just because I didn't like Dark Knight Rises doesn't mean I'm a "Stupid bitch."  I mean, jiminy Christmas already: I can't have an opinion?!

Thank you, Blake--here's a little illustration of how you make me feel:

XOXO,

TJS

Blonde

Or what if I were a bombshell -- a blond bombshell? Would you still be interested? Or maybe you'd be MORE interested? I need to know -- I need to know why boys think the way they think. It's sick, right?

Cleavage

Cleavage is a funny thing.  It gets so much attention from boys it boggles the mind -- it's almost as if they can't help but look... I've got to admit: I like that!

TJS

Freckles

The Internet is a funny thing.  There was a time when I used to think that my readers were interested in my comics & stories because I was interesting.  Sure, I knew that being young and um, nubile probably had something to do with it, but I had no idea that a lot of my appeal came from my ethnicity.

You see, as it turns out, the Internet is overloaded with guys who are OBSESSED with Asian girls.  If you don't believe me look it up -- it's crazy out there!

I'm on record as saying that I don't consider myself Asian:  Technically I'm half Pinay, half Caucasian.  The Pinay part makes me 1/2 Pacific Islander, but everyone ~ especially frisky guys ~ want to categorize me as Asian.  I'd be happy & proud to be Asian, but that's simply not the case.

But what if I weren't Asian-looking, or even an Islander?  What if I were Caucasian?  Not a fat basement-dwelling white guy, like some of you have suggested, but a super cute white chick... like with freckles and stuff?  Would you still love me?  Would you still be interested in being my Knight in a shining Star Wars t-shirt?

I wonder.

XOXO,

Tera

Doc Martin

Do you watch Doc Martin?  It's on DVD and PBS here in the States.

Doc Martin is a TV series that takes place in a quaint little seaside village.  The story revolves around Martin Ellingham, a MD who suffers sudden onset hemophobia and is forced to change his career from surgeon to country doctor.

Dr. Ellingham doesn't suffer fools gladly, in fact he is downright rude to the point of hilarity.

The stories are generally about the trials and tribulations of a stuffy, insufferable man working in a village where everyone is up in his business.

It's really great!

I just caught up on the first four season while laid up with back problems.

TJS

The Dark Knight Rises review

Pixar-style Catwoman

TDKR is okay Summer blockbuster fare but ~ for me ~ it fails as a film.

SPOILER ALERT!

Too many familiar elements lifted from other films sink this ship: Index cards featuring beats from Rocky 3, Usual Suspects and Iron Giant (to name a few) must've been tacked up on the Nolan Brother's refrigerator.

I rolled my eyes, and literally almost vomited when the audience cheered that Batman wasn't dead.  Oh brother!

No shame here though: John Lasseter & Pixar have been successfully using this Mad Lib movie making formula for years!

TJS

PS: I like Catwoman a lot!

Today's special

I hurt my back.  I'm not sure how.  Maybe during yoga?  Maybe my new desk chair, or memory-foam mattress?  I got a new car too, and the seats are really low.  Could that hurt one's back?  Like I said I'm not sure how it happened: it just happened.

I'm not crippled or anything, but it hurts like the devil every time I move.

Are there any MDs out there who want to feel up a girl in return for a back exam?  I'm totally serious: a free no-questions-asked external grope for some equally free medical advice and maybe a prescription.

I would also consider this offer for anyone who had good painkillers:  a good five minute external grope for equally good pain killers.

I look (and feel) great naked, BTW.  Anyone who has seen or participated will confirm this.

Write me at terasanders@gmail.com.  I promise I won't tell a soul.

Health care.  Sigh.  Why's it gotta be so expensive?

Reflexology

I had a great massage at a local reflexology spa.  The place is called, "Jolly Foot."  How great a name is that?

The masseuse massaged my feet into oblivion.  *Sigh* I was thinking about asking her to marry me afterwards, but I didn't know the right words in Chinese... and I'm mostly straight so that probably wouldn't work out too well.

Me & my jolly feet are still basking in the afterglow!

XOXO
TJS

June gloom

I'm back in sunny Los Angeles , but it's not all that sunny.  In fact, it's not sunny at all.  They call it, "June gloom," but it's extended well into July.

I don't mind the cool, cloudy weather, but it's just kind of unexpected, y'know.  It's usually bright and super hot this time of year.

On an episode of the Sopranos, Tony once said, "Remember when is the lowest form of conversation."  I'm not so sure that's accurate; my vote is for conversations about the weather.  I know I'm slamming my own blog entry here, but I can't think of anything less interesting.

Sunday in San Diego

Well, Comicon is over (for me at least;) I've had my fill.  Like I mentioned earlier: I spent most of my time as a product representative.  But I did get to go to some panels, view a few teaser trailers, and see some pretty great costumes.

There was even someone selling comic books here, allegedly:)

I've been attending Comicon for a few years and it has always been more about movies & TV than comic books.  I hear tale that it was once nothing but comics; writers panels, comic book dealers, artists signing their work with fans queueing up for blocks.

It's definitely not like that these days.  All you really see are corporate displays... seems a lot like a car show, or any industry show these days.  Some people seem upset by this, but I feel it's just natural progression.
Nothing remains the same -- it the nature of things.

I'm sure some day people will pine for the simplicity of Comicon 2012.

Booth babe

So, like I said, I'm at Comicon. I usually attend as a Industry professional, but I forgot to register this year so the only way I could get in is by taking a gig as a "product representative"...that's a nice way of saying I'm a scantily-clad "booth babe."

It started as a fun gig... well, until I started running into people I know from work -- now I'm totally embarrassed!  My costume totally shows ass cheek & side boob! I don't want my co-workers seeing my ass cheeks & side boobs, would you?

XOXO,
TJS

Chifferobe

So I'm in America's Finest City (San Diego) for Comicon this week.  I went to Preview Night last night and saw a bunch of amazing stuff: stuff I wanted to buy but stuff that would probably end up in a cardboard box somewhere so I didn't give in to my fangirl urges.  I mean, who really needs a Walking Dead zombie action figure anyway?


I can barely watch that show, BTW.  It scares me like crazy, and I live alone, so I'm always thinking there's a zombie lurking in my linen closet.  Don't laugh: it could happen.  Bath salts are turning respectable folks into flesh-craving freaks nationwide.  Don't you read the news?


I'm writing to you from a lovely 5 star hotel.  Okay that's a lie, it's a 2 star hotel, and the bedspread smells kind of... spermy.  Not that I would know that smell first hand, mind you: I'm a princess, and princesses don't know, or write, about such thing. So there you go.


The reason I THINK it smells spermy is because just this morning, while doing yoga, I discovered a Polaroid of a fat guy with a boner under the chifferobe.  The Polaroid was a self portrait, shot by said fat guy, in my hotel room's mirror.  It's horrifying, revolting, and hilarious all at once.  Why is this fat guy so proud of his weiner? Why did he leave the picture behind?  Did he want an innocent yoga-doing girl to find it?  Who uses a Polaroid anymore? When was this thing taken?  Is a bygone boner from the 70's?  It's hard to tell.  Anyway, that's why pretty much everything in this room smells spermy to me.


I'm going to go scrub myself down with a wire brush and head to Comicon Day 1.  More on this later...

The French leave

I've become famous (more like infamous) for my propensity for the "the French leave."


A French leave refers to the act of leaving a party without bidding farewell to -- and thereby not disturbing -- the host.


In American culture it's considered rude to leave a party without saying goodbye, but -- in my mind -- it's much more rude to create a scene over the fact that you're leaving; air kisses and phony sentiments are not for me!


On this subject I am unapologetic. 


I think that the French -- and dogs -- got it right.  Dogs, you ask?  Yup, in the wonderful world of canines there are no goodbyes, only hellos!

Flaky

I've been called a lot of things in my life: the B word, the C word, the S word and the W word are a few of my favorites.  They're all descriptive, and can be very hot when used in the right um... circumstance.  But one not so hot aspersion keeps coming up, and it got me a little worried. That particular aspersion is: flaky. 

I'm flaky? 

Here's the definition:

Flay-ky [fley-kee]

1. Of or like flakes.
2. Lying or cleaving off in flakes or layers.
3. Slang: unreliable, eccentric; dizzy: a flaky brother-in-law.

It's the slang definition that concerns me.  Unreliable?  Eccentric?  Dizzy?  What?  Me? Ha ha ha!  Just because I disappear for months on end, pull an occasional "French leave" (more on this later),  bat my eyelashes to get out of trouble, and run screaming from every relationship I've ever cared about doesn't mean I'm flaky!  It means I'm a twenty-something year-old girl, and twenty-something year-old girls have an excuse: 

A woman's prerogative.  

Look it up, you've probably been pronouncing and spelling it wrong your whole life!  

And you call me flaky!

XOXO,

TJS

Black Phoebe

I'm back in my apartment in Los Angeles.  The place feels empty.  It's a cavernous two-story with a spiral staircase.  It's way too big for just me, but I do appreciate living alone.

I like to be left to my thoughts.  I really do.

When the weather is nice {which is almost always} I like to open the windows and let the breeze blow through my place.  Even though I live next to the 101 freeway I can hear a lot of bird songs.

The owners of this building went to great lengths to add gardens and trees wherever they could.  This attracts birds & stray cats and all sorts of interesting bugs.  As long as they respect my space I respect theirs.

Black phoebes twitter around my windows and hop around on my balcony -- they're really cute!  I have an African-American girl who works with me named Phoebe.  She even puts, "Black Phoebe" on her headshot; signs her name that way too!

Phoebe is a PA at Jukebox Studios, but she wants to get into acting.  She's super beautiful.  I think she's probably going to make it.

It's going to be funny seeing everyone at Jukebox after being away for so long.  I'm going back on Monday. In the meanwhile I'm going to enjoy some quiet time.

I'm just going to sit here for awhile and let the days wash over me.

Where you at?

Hi!  Remember me?

I've literally been without my tablet for days.  I did something horrible to it and now it doesn't work.  I've been reduced to posting from my phone, which isn't the greatest to begin with.

Good news is: I'm returning to LA tomorrow!  Yay!

I've had an existential visit with my family, and now we're closer than ever.  Bad news is: I'm back on "island time" and it's going to take a serious adjustment to get back to being a busy bee at two jobs.

Thanks to all of you who have been reading and checking in.  And a very special thanks to you-know-who for being so understanding! XOXO

I'll start posting new comics soon.

Tera

Taco milk

I went shopping at Chode's today.

Just to be clear, Chode's is the neighborhood grocery store, a chode is a euphemism for naughty bits.

Anyway I was in Chode's shopping and I forgot my glasses.  I'm very self-conscious about wearing glasses and I almost subconsciously leave them behind whenever I go somewhere that I really need them.  Particularly when I'm not wearing contacts, which I wasn't.

I was perusing {more like squinting really hard} the new products aisle and  saw a package for "Taco Milk."  Sounds disgusting, but I'm an adventurous girl and I picked up a container.  Just as I was doing so an elderly man tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Miss, you are very beautiful.  I'm 86, I tell the truth."

I thanked him and before he walked away he said, "By the way, that taco mix is delicious."

I was simultaneously pleased and alarmed by his comments.  Beautiful? Me? Flattery will get you everywhere. Taco mix? I thought it was Taco milk. And who even thinks there's such a thing as taco milk? What the aitch?

Worst of all, are my eyes really as bad as an 86 year olds?

A letter to boys

I wonder about you boys and your fetishes. I'm not talking about latex & ball gags, I mean the more pedestrian kind. I've seen all kinds of boys with all kinds of obsessions: boobies, booty, va-jay-jay, feet and even cuticles.  


I've even had to say, "Hey buster, I'm up here.  If you wanna nurse on somebody go back home to your mama!" 


I didn't really say that, but I wanted to!


When I see a boy I'm attracted to, I'm attracted to him as a whole.  I think it would be kind of weird if I were all obsessed over one specific part, like the man-bag for instance.


That's not to say I've got a thing for balls -- trust me, I don't -- so please don't send pictures, I'm just trying to make a point.


Girls are all about the person and boys are all about the parts.  I know I'm generalizing, but it's generally true.


Whenever I wear a low-cut top boys stare at my cleavage as if it was broadcasting the latest sports scores.  


And don't say, "If you don't want us to look then don't dress that way."  Sorry to burst your bubble but girls don't dress for boys, they dress for other girls. There's a clothing competition in the secret world of chicks that you've probably never even heard of.


In closing, if you do find a girl who loves your man-bag don't let her get away because loving a scrotum takes commitment: those things are seriously ugly.

Cotton pony

In case you haven't noticed I'm a bit of a handful.

I know I'm talented, somewhat pretty, witty and smarter than the average bear, but I am an emotional tsunami:  When I blow into town, there's very little left standing.

This is especially true during my Moon Cycle.  I've written several comics on this subject so I'll spare you the gory details, but when I'm riding the cotton pony my moods can swing wildly and I can get emotional over just about anything.

Have you ever seen the highway safety sign with the silhouettes of the family running across the freeway? That made me cry once.

What I'm trying to say is: I make rash, emotion-driven decisions when I'm like this and sometimes other people get hurt.  This time it was a boy I was seeing, let's call him "Timmy."

Timmy and I were, like made for each other.  He is funnier and more talented than me -- and I find that very appealing!

Anyway, my traveling, jet lag, family drama and blood letting finally got the best of me and I took it out on poor Timmy {my heart is still broken over this so please don't laugh.}  I'm pretty sure my excuse for getting mad was less than legitimate, but -- good reason or no -- I was GENUINELY mad and I have no control over it.  Kind of like the Hulk or something.

The conclusion I came to was: I can't have a man in my life.  If I do, one day I'm going to be all over the news as the lady who snipped off her boyfriend's wiener with the garden shears.

So Timmy, please understand: I didn't mean to hurt you, I just wanted you to keep your junk intact.

Lifestyle intervention

It's so warm in Mangilao, even warmer than Los Angeles.  I guess I forgot how tropical it is here almost year round.

I'm glad I came. I feel loved and cared for when I'm around my family.  That's something I haven't felt anywhere else.

I had my "lifestyle intervention", and believe it or not,  it was a was a cathartic experience: I feel cleansed.  I was initially resistant to the idea but now I know it was necessary.  I had definitely gone off the rails.

During my intervention my Dad offered to fix all the messes I've made by paying my unpaid bills and settling other uh... unsettling business -- all in exchange for me staying in Mangilao permanently.

For the first time in my life I told him no.  I told him that I could see that I had shamed him and I would never do that again.  I told him I knew that I was making horrible decision but those days were over. I told him that I needed to clean up my own messes or I'd never learn how to live a respectable life on my own.

And you know what?  He said he understood.

What the aitch?

Lesson of a lifetime: never underestimate your parents.

Men are all the same

It's quarter to three AM here in Mangilao and I'm angry, angry about something I probably don't have a right to be angry about.  I started off peeved but now my face is flushed and my skin is hot to the touch and that's a sure sign that I'm GENUINELY angry. Grrr!

And now I can't sleep and that's making me even more angry.

I'm sure you can guess what I'm angry about from the title of this post. Did I mention I'm really angry?

On a positive note: I've been getting a lot of super sweet comments and emails from my readers and I cannot tell you how good that makes me feel. I require a lot of attention in case you haven't noticed.

Here's a couple examples of palate-cleansing fan art I just got.  I'm going to write a nice email to the boys who created them right now.

Day at the beach

I spent the day at the beach.  I worked there, actually: drawing for my job at the studio.  I have an Asus slate and I can draw right on the screen.  It's a fabulous little device, and it allows me to do my work remotely while I'm here in Guam ... and while it's a little on the pricey side, I couldn't recommend it more.

My day at the beach got me thinking about how much time I used to spend in the water, and how much that used to frustrate my family.

I wrote a comic on this very subject a few years ago.  Here it is:

                                                                Click to enlarge

A positive spin

A reader pointed out that I've been whining a lot so today I'm going to blog about positives.

Did you know that I'm a good surfer?  Well I am.  I have excellent balance for such an imbalanced girl, someone once pointed out.

My Mom use to say I loved the water so much I was probably half fish.

I don't go in the water much anymore.  That's probably because my girlfriend got eaten by a shark. Well, not eaten. "Bit" is probably more accurate, but it just doesn't sound as dramatic.

We were out beyond the breakers. I never even saw the shark. Suddenly there was my best friend, sticking her bisected hand in my face, screaming for her life.

I remember praying to Jesus to please let us make it back to shore alive.

My friend lost a few fingers but she's fine. I call it her "Creepy hand," she calls it her "Lucky hand."

Hmmm... I think I just learned a lesson from my own blog!

Tera

PS: I wrote a comic about this incident a few years ago.  Here it is:

Click to enlarge

Uneasy lies the head

My sleeping pattern is out of whack.  I suffer from serious jet lag, and I've barely slept since I left Los Angeles. Ugh.

Adding to my frustrations is the intermittent Internet here, which is my only connection to the civilized world.

I'm staying at my parent's place in Mangilao.  I was so happy to see my Mom and brother I broke down and cried.  A lot.  Too much.  Like hysterical, inconsolable sobbing.  They think something's up.  And so do I.  I've been holding in a lot of shame and now it's spilling out all over my parents white wall-to-wall carpeting.

The Colonel {my Dad} will be coming home from the base soon.  Oh boy.  I'm well into my twenties but I feel like I'm twelve when I'm in his house.

My Dad printed out some choice examples of my comic strip and left them on my bed for me to see.  I suppose I could say they're all fiction, but I don't lie.  Ever.  And I'm certainly not going to start now.