Peace the eff out.

I think I figured out why I'm so tired of writing.

I'm not actually tired of writing-- I'm rarely tired of writing-- but I am tired of writing about myself. I have little to say when I'm happy and even worse things to say when I'm not.

So, long story short, I don't really want to talk about me anymore. At least not in a so in your face sort of way. I'm starting a new project over here. I know, I know, I change houses more than a hermit crab. THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE. See what this blog does to me?

I'd love to see you guys (all five of you) over at the new place. It's been real, All Caps.

...aaaaand break.

I'm tired of writing.

Everything I've written lately just seems to be lacking. I can't figure out what I want to say and everything I do want to talk about seems trivial and, well, lame. I'm not depressed or anything, I just am kind of sick of talking about myself.

So, I'm taking a break. I don't know how long or exactly what this break will entail, but I'm going to take it.

Until next time.

Etc, etc, etc

It was recently brought to my attention that I listen to a lot of bands with animal related names.

Wolf Parade, Wolfmother, Andrew Bird, Arctic Monkeys, Fleet Foxes, Band of Horses, Cat Power, Cat Stevens, Minus the Bear, Grizzly Bear, Flight of the Conchords, Pedro the Lion, Animal Collective, you get the picture.

I've got lions hanging out with wolves, cats riding horses while foxes watch and more bears than you can shake a stick at*. My iPod is essentially one massive zoo. Or Noah's Ark if there was a VIP section. Sorry, tortoise, you're not on the list.

*Additionally, why would you shake a stick at a bear? That's just bad common sense.
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Since I still have two weeks before College brings the late nights and $200 text books back into my life, I've been trying to do what smart people do and read. This time up it's The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams. It's the sequel to the very amusing, way better in book form than movie form The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I'm going to be honest, I only started reading Hitchhiker because I was rummaging in Red's closet looking for something to read and/or steal. I liked the first one, but wasn't really that invested in the series. It wasn't until I was at Border's and saw Restaurant on sale for $2.99 that I decided to give it another shot.

Um, Doug Adams is a badass. A badass in the goofiest way possible. The guy writes witty absurdist fiction and I have decided that in my next life, I want to be a cheeky, odd, slightly off, old British man who writes about dolphins and space. God, let's work this out. If not, I will settle for just being cheeky.
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In October, I'm flying to Portland to visit Thurber. You know when you're little and you count down the days to your birthday? You check the calendar every.single.day and it just doesn't ever seem like your birthday is going to come. Like you're in some sort of space-time vortex where not only is time not moving forward, you somehow have GONE BACK A DAY. What the fuck, physics?

That's how I feel about my trip to Portland. I'm so excited to see a city I've heard so much about, to visit my friend and to hike around that October just can't come fast enough.

Additionally, I met one of my co-worker's sons this weekend who happens to live in Portland. Upon hearing about my upcoming visit, he offered to show Thurber and I around.

"I guess if I had to sum up Portland in a few words, it would be be beer, salmon and hiking."

Seriously?! Why didn't anyone tell me about this? Everyone knows I love salmon, hiking and beer. That's so common knowledge it's pract---

Wait a minute. Beer. Salmon. Hiking. You know who else loves all those things?



Oh shit.

Life goes easy on me most of the time.

Things are still weird, but I'm doing a lot more of this:



Less depressing blogging to follow soon.

"Hopefully it won't take you as long to get there as it did to get here."

The funny thing is, it was meant to be a compliment. A sincere one with poor delivery, it hit me harder than I was ready for.

It's taken me a long time to lose the weight I have. Longer than I wanted, but as long as it's coming off, I'm happy. I am in a constant state of discomfort and insecurity in my skin. I have no idea what I look like. I know that sounds silly, but I honestly have no idea how much space I take up. It is unnerving and can really wear down a girl's confidence.

The truth is, I haven't felt like I've been giving it effort in quite some time. I'll work so hard at the gym only to come home and find all those burned off calories waiting for me in the fridge. I don't want to eat half the time because I don't know how to do it anymore. I don't know the difference between when I'm hungry and when I'm bored. I don't know what anger, frustration, joy, or elation feel like without food. I dread meal time because food terrifies me.

I don't know what I'm hoping to accomplish with this post. I'm just complaining mostly. I'm tired. I'm really tired and I want to stop worrying about calories and fat grams and whether or not my jeans are going to fit me today. I can't even explain how exhausting it is to feel like you're losing the battle. No, not losing, staying in the exact same spot. I am fighting so hard and making no progress. I'm frustrated with myself, angry with my body and disappointed that my brain can't figure out how to fix this.

I'm just tired, guys. I knew this would be hard when I started, but I didn't anticipate how much of my life it would consume. I'm not backing out on my commitment to myself, I just feel really overwhelmed. I just want to be normal sized. I don't want to quit. I just want...something.

Crybaby Threat Level: High

Once upon a time I had my tooth pulled. After saying peace out to Molar 4, I was given the consolation prize of some pain killers.

I took some yesterday after the anesthesia wore off and they made me sleepy. So, I resolved to substitute the prescription strength pain killers for some regular Joe ibuprofen.

Side note: I would make a crappy upper class housewife because I can't handle Vicoden. So long, New York socialite life.

Anyway, this morning when my mouth felt like someone spent all night hitting it with a hammer, I did what any smart person would do: I took a Vicoden (I convinced myself it needed a second chance) and then drove to work. All in a day's work, folks.

So now my tummy is aboard the nausea train, my mouth is sore and tastes like iron and I'm hungry but it hurts to eat food. In other words, woe is fucking me.

Thus, here is a link to the "Where The Wild Things Are" trailer because it makes me really happy. And because deep down inside, I know this blog post fits me to a tee.

Why I Now Want To Be An Oral Surgeon: A Short Essay.

Tomorrow, I'll be saying good-bye to an old friend.



That's right, after twenty-two years hiding out in my gums, good ol' Top Right wisdom tooth decided to make it's grand entrance. Trouble is, it wasn't so grand. Instead of being a lady about it and curtsying in what would've undoubtedly been a fancy dress, it ripped into my mouth like fucking Rambo and took some names.


This isn't Vietnam.

Lucky for me, my mouth only has one crazed wisdom tooth instead of the usual four. However, nobody told the oral surgeon that because he's still charging me a ludicrous amount of money to remove Top Right.


Not quite as ludicrous as this, but you get the point.

For one tooth it's costing me $512. FOR ONE TOOTH. I understand it's a rebel tooth, but, listen, it's not going to suicide bomb my entire mouth or anything. Is this tooth some sort of long lost reincarnated medallion that will unlock the mystery of life? No? Then why do you insist on me paying you like it is? WHY.

The moral of this story is this: grow up to be an oral surgeon. Sure, yanking teeth out might not be the most exciting thing in the world, but you could take solace in the giant piles of money that you fashioned into chairs in your gigantic mansion. God, so that's why all the girls want to marry doctors.

Top Right, you have taught me so much. Good-bye, ol' buddy. I probably won't miss you that much.

Crazy

It seems like a while since I've come here. Why? Because these days, I spend the majority of my time grinning like a fool and listening to music that I can't relate to.

Example: last night, I was driving across town with the last of the Arizona sun warming my face, smiling the smile of the hopelessly happy and listening to old R&B on the AM radio. I'm basically a one-woman cliche.

I haven't really wanted to write about it because I'm afraid of jinxing it. I haven't felt good about myself or my life in a while and I don't want to scare away the good fortune. The beginning of the year was rocky for a variety of reasons. My demons came back for me and for the first time in a long time I didn't see a way out. I thought it over plenty of times and was just beginning to accept the fact that I was meant to be unhinged when something happened. I can't quite pinpoint what changed or how I got out of it, but I noticed one day that my head was a little clearer. Yes, the static and depression and overwhelming urge to obsess and control were still there, but the ideas that scared me so badly were now just speaking to me instead of shouting.

A while later, I realized that I wasn't so concerned about how I was going to make it through the day. Before, I had to have a firm plan of what I was going to do during the day, down the hour, because having free time to be alone with my thoughts was too risky. Suddenly, I had the free time that I dreaded so much and, very surprisingly, I wasn't afraid of it. I started to embrace it and it felt familiar. I realized I missed having time to myself.

These days, I can't quite remember what it the first four months of the year felt like. I remember what I was doing and saying and how damaging both tended to be to me, but I can't identify with the feelings anymore. It's like my brain re-arranged itself one night and I woke up feeling new. I went to work and my eyes weren't glazed over. I started caring about myself and things I deemed important. Funny thing is, after I started to realize that I wasn't crazy, things just started to fall into place. I'm two years away from being a college graduate, my relationships with my friends and family have proven to be stronger than I ever expected, I met The Boy and, while I'm still some way from my weight-loss goal, I am absolutely confident that I will make it to where I want to be.

Like I said, I don't know what changed. I still have moments where I don't know if I'm allowed to be this happy. It doesn't feel real a lot of the time, but instead of spending a lot of time questioning or analyzing it, I'm just accepting it. Every single thought that kept me crippled during the beginning of the year is still there; I don't think those will ever go away. But they're quieter now and don't interfere as much. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I've beaten it. I don't need a label, especially that label, to define who I am and what I think about.

This isn't at all what I intended to write about, but I guess it just needed to come out. Funny how that works.

It doesn't have to be New Years for a resolution.

I'm having trouble with myself.

I've tried writing a few sentences to elaborate, but it all boils down to that one statement. I can't get myself to do what I want. Things have been going so well for me that I have essentially said "eh, forget it" to most of the things I was working on. My weight loss efforts have pretty much fallen by the wayside, I feel lost without a school project to work on, my job is testing the limits of my patience and I am right smack in the middle of numerous unfinished projects. I feel very cluttered.


Pictured: my insides.

I have the rest of this week and all of next week off from work (insert hallelujah angels here), so I've decided it is going to be a kick-off to de-cluttering my life. Does that sound too Oprah-ish? Oh God. I promise I'm not going to go buy her book of the week or anything. Eff Oprah. Yeah, I said it.*

Because I need to see it in writing and I can't say no to a good list, here are some things I'm planning on doing during my week of freedom.

1.) Crafts. I haven't knitted in ages. I guess it's because nobody needs a wool hat or scarf in the desert in the middle of July. Who knew? I have also been wanting to re-do my room because it's my favorite room of my house. Hello, narcissism, how do you do? I bought some blank canvasses at Michaels (shout out to 2-for1 deals!) that have been sitting against my door for the past month. I guess I really should have thought about the fact that I have the artistic talent of a first grader before I committed to purchasing canvas and paints, but we'll see what I can make of it.

2.) Exercise. I haven't done much of this for the past few weeks because, well, it's fucking hot. I somehow don't look forward to having a trainer yell at me to "push it!". Yeah, I'll push it alright. I'll push it all the way to the goddamn Cold Stone Creamery. You don't know my life, YMCA trainer.

For realsies, though, I need to get back on this bandwagon. I have the combination gross/lumpy feeling that can only come from leaving a permanent ass print in the easy chair. I've found that I like the solitude of jogging, but I get really uneasy doing that in front of people. Oh don't mind all the jiggling, folks, just trying to jog a couple miles without hacking up a lung. I found a nature trail that's not too far from my house, though, so I want to do a bit of trail running. Although it's a gravel trail and birds can run it, I'm still counting it as trail running.

3.) Not watch (as much) TV. I know, I know, it's blasphemy. But I've noticed that I can't just watch TV. I'll read a book, play on the laptop, try to get Simon to chase his own tail or any other thing I can distract myself with while watching TV. So, why not just cut it down all together? There are so many other things I could be doing, which brings me to #4.

4.) Get the hell out of the house. I love my house and all the comforts it provides, but I gotta get out more. Usually, when I'm at home, I put on some sweat pants and prepare myself for a rigorous day of lounging and lay downs. It's hard work but someone has to be the lazy hobo of the house hold. That sofa isn't going to nap on itself. I usually would probably say "screw it, it's my vacation and I do what I please", but I'm bringing in reinforcements.

My younger cousins, ages 9-16, are coming to spend the week with me. Why? Does one ever need a reason to hang out with a badass cousin?** My cousins are all active, imaginative, creative and absolutely needy people. They need to be entertained and guess who just signed on to be the figurative magician at the birthday party?


Sadly I don't have a segway.

It should be an interesting week.

So, there is is. The 4 things I want to get accomplished next week. Will I do it all? Can I survive all week on one tank of gas? Will I end up strangling a cousin in the process? Only one way to find out.

*Oprah, please don't send your housewife assassins to murder me and re-arrange my living room.
**Answer: no.

Surprise Visitor

Guys, I have a confession to make. Today I did something kinda bad.

See, when I came into work this morning, there was a surprise waiting for me.

"Hellooooooo handsome," I said. My surprise practically winked at me.

We flirted for a bit, me and my surprise visitor. I felt a little guilty. I've been seeing The Boy for a few weeks, but this surprise visitor and I are old friends. We have a history, see, and a saucy one at that.

Finally, when I could take it no more, I took my surprise visitor into the conference room. I made sure we were alone before sinking my teeth into my surprise visitor.

"Mmm, I missed you," I said. My surprise visitor was just as sweet as he'd always been and it felt so familiar and comfortable to have my lips right where they belonged.

Then, to my embarrassment, the door swung open and Deskmate uttered an, "Oh, um, sorry."

My surprise visitor tried to get the mood going again, but it was ruined for good.

"We can't meet like this anymore," I said. My surprise visitor tried once again to meet my lips, but I had to stand my ground.

"No," I whispered. "It's probably best if you leave."

And, with a heavy heart, I showed my surprise visitor the door and prepared to bribe Deskmate to keep my dirty secret.

Good-bye, Surprise Visitor.


I'll never forget you.

Tuesdays are okay in my book.

Usually the day after I write an angry blog, I feel bad about it. I'm like, "Shit son, I need to get my temper under control otherwise people are gonna start calling me Ike."


You gonna get it.

I don't feel bad about what I wrote yesterday though. It still rings true today. But, I do regret letting one situation affect my entire day. I was upset throughout the day, but my friends and family came through and punched my bad day in the face. Punched it in the face with RAINBOWS AND AWESOME.

First, good ol' Thurber drew me a cake with llamas and penguins around it. Then, NE wrote a super sweet blog post that made me blush and smile wider and weirder than The Joker on crack. Some friends of mine showed me some b-day love on the Facebook, MySpace and Twitter. Mama D and Poppa D took me for the largest strawberry daiquiri I've ever had the pleasure of putting down the hatch. The Boy gave me a lot of laughs and blew my mind by ordering a little something called a pie shake. Oh, that's right, a pie INSIDE a milkshake. Someone needs to call Criss Angel because my mind has been freaked.


On second thought, don't. Nobody wants this.

I usually tend to focus on the negative instead of the positive. Like I said before, the bad things leave a bigger mark than the good. The thing is, my life is going well. Good and exciting things are happening. I've gotten used to always having something wrong, something to fix, that I don't really know how to react when there is nothing that needs fixing. I seek out problems instead of just enjoying all the good fortune that has come my way. Days like yesterday have shown me that it's alright to feel good about something. I'm not going to apologize for all the good things that have been happening to me lately and I'm sure as hell not going to seek out misery.

I'm starting a change today. I am purging myself of all the dead weight in my life. I'm taking a break from being meek and not defending myself. I am going to take concrete steps towards being a good friend. I am going to be more assertive and not feel bad about getting things that I want. I'm going to be a little bit more of a bitch, in a good way, of course. Why? Because it's about goddamn time, is why.

So, yeah. Suck it, Monday. There's a new day of the week in town.

Please don't be so passive, be aggressive.

I have no clever way to start this because, well, I don't particularly care for being clever at the moment. Why's that? Because my brain is so full of rage that I can barely see straight.

Without naming names or specific incidents, I'd like to formally call bullshit. I'm calling bullshit on toxic and lame people. I'm calling bullshit on situations that I can change, but for whatever reason choose not to. I'm calling bullshit on all the things that make me want to surrender and go home.

"You never stick up for yourself," is what I heard on the other end of the phone. At the time, I was prepared to call bullshit on that too. But, as it turns out, it's true, and that makes me angrier than I could ever express. I don't stand up for myself because I'm so terrified of rocking the boat that it just doesn't seem worth it. I can stand up for my friends and family, but I can't do that for myself. I hate that. I'll let myself get beat up by friends, family and co-workers because, hey, they need to vent and the world could always use another martyr and I can handle it. That's what I tell myself; they get to be assholes because they need to let it out and I'm strong enough to handle it without taking it personally.

Well, I'm not going to stop doing that. I love my friends and family enough that I understand that sometimes, you just gotta let your inner dickhead have a go at the world and that occasionally that takes place all over your friends and family. But what I will stop doing is wearing myself out over friends and family who just don't deserve it. That might sound like an asshole thing to say, but I really don't give a shit. Maybe I am an asshole after all. An asshole with a broken heart who is tired of repairing the same wounds over and over again.

When asked what I wanted to do today, my answer was nothing. I don't want to do anything today because I'm too worn out. It bothers me that some very recent bullshit completely overshadowed some pretty fantastic events. What can I say? Hurt lasts longer than love and, baby, I got a lot of hurt today.

The Kids Are (Probably) Alright

When I was a little girl, I never really thought about kids. I had a few baby dolls, but I never felt the urgency and longing to be a mother like some of my estrogen-laden peers. Honestly, dolls weren’t really my bag; I was too busy being afraid of their lifeless marble eyes to braid their hair. You can just forget it if you think I was going to wrap them up in my favorite blanket and cradle them to my chest. It wasn’t until I saw a real baby that I became fond of them. Well, "fond" might be overgenerous; I was fascinated with them.

I was twelve when my cousin Lisa was born. My family was gathered at my aunt’s house and everyone was passing the baby around more than a half-smoked joint. Tias and tios took turns holding Lisa and brushing off their baby voices. (As an aside, I never understood why people speak to babies in incoherent high-pitched voices. Everyone does it, myself included. What a strange first impression of the world to get. The first word I said may have been “ducky”, but the first words I thought were probably more along the lines of, “I didn’t have to deal with this in the womb.”)

After everyone was satisfied with their turn, my mom asked me if I wanted to hold Lisa. I was petrified. Me? I wasn’t sure if I could handle being responsible for another human life for five minutes, but I agreed because I was so excited that someone trusted me with this responsibility.

I sat on the couch as my mom set up pillows on either side of me before putting one on my lap. Secure in my pillow fort, Baby Lisa was placed on my lap. She squirmed a little before yawning and looking at me. I wrapped my arms on either side of her and stared at her. It was a stare-down; me against baby, baby against me. I should have remembered the way she smelled like powder and formula. I should have commited her big, brown eyes that were complimented by a full head of hair into my memory. I should have spent more time understanding that this tiny human, who wasn’t even a part of the earth a few days ago, was spending part of the first week of her life on my lap. Instead, all I remember was wondering when the hell someone would take this baby off of me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t immediately love Baby Lisa, it was that I was terrified that I would do something to harm her. I was worried she would stand up, salute me and dive out of the pillow fort and onto the beigh carpeting that lined the floors. I was even more scared that I would shift slightly and somehow accidentally roll over her, making an accidental couch-baby burrito. I spent that five minutes with my arms around Lisa and not moving, not even breathing deeply, lest a rabid dog sneak up and snatch her away from me when I wasn't looking.

Ten years later and I still have essentially the same fear: I don’t want to hurt my kids. I’m not concerned about physically harming them (I still have many a pillows to construct a fort), but emotionally harming them. My worst fear when it comes to having children is that I will spend my entire life raising them and they, in turn, will spend their entire life in therapy complaining about me.

“She told me she doesn’t know if God is real,” I can hear my non-existent sixteen-year-old saying. “So I stopped believing in God and started believing in Joe. Our first kid is due next month.”

I like to think my parents did a pretty good job of raising me. I’m in my early twenties and have no major felonies, DUIs, children with uncertain baby daddies, drug abuse history and only a few instances of teenage rebellion and bitchery. I’m a relatively adjusted and compassionate person, regardless of whatever you’ve heard ’round the internets. While I can sing the praises of my parents all day, I can’t say that I understand how they did it. I don’t understand what makes me different from my friends, my cousins or the guests on “The Maury Pauvich Show”. How did my parents manage to raise my brothers and I into three well-adjusted, pretty normal non-felons?

I don’t know. I don’t even think they know. From what I can gather, parenting is a club nobody is prepared for. Sure, you can read the books and talk to the Parenting Club elders, but each circumstance is unique. Nobody has the exact same childhood, although many people have similar experiences. There is common sense that every parent learns first hand, like don’t leave permanent markers and toddlers alone. It only takes one Sharpie mustache on your baby's upper lip before you make a mental note to add that to the “Things To Remember About Parenting” list.

For the most part, however, it seems like parents are just winging it. They make up some rules and their children, out of love or fear for their parents, go with it. When I was younger, my parents’ word was the law. Everything they said was, had to be, true because why would my parents lie to me? When I was a teenager, I realized that my parents can, have and will always lie to me because they want nothing more than to ruin my life. Now, as a young adult, I realize that my parents are just playing a game that didn’t come with a rule book. They have nothing but my best interests at heart, even if I still occasionally think the only joy they get out of parenting is having someone to pass the unwanted chores to. The fact of the matter is, my parents were no more ready for parenthood than any parent. New parents can prepare for a child forever. They can read all the books, go to all the classes and talk to all the other parents, but they will be just as unprepared when that baby comes as if they just woke up one day and thought, “I think I’ll have a baby today.”

As I start to reach the age where my peers are having children or wanting children, I can’t help but have babies on the mind. I wonder if I’d make a good mother. I wonder if I’ll ever find someone I want to have children with. But, most of all, I wonder if I’ll ever feel prepared for motherhood.

M and Garland are currently expecting their first baby, and while I am excited and already filled with love for my unborn nephew, I can’t help but revert back to the same twelve-year-old girl who was terrified to hold Baby Lisa. I start to get the same nervous feeling, but then I stop to think about M and Garland. M, while he may have secretly always wanted to be a father, never publicly expressed a desire to have children. Garland, on the other hand, has stated on numerous occasions that she wants a family. She is the type of woman who sets her mind to something and accomplishes it; no fuss or theatrics, just impenetrable emotional armor and determination. When she said shortly after their wedding that she wanted to have kids, it was only a matter of time before one came along.

During one of our conversations about my nephew, Garland confessed that she was scared. She was excited at the prospect of having a child, but her excitement was mixed in with a healthy shot of fear. My unborn nephew, a defenseless six-month-old fetus, had cracked Garland’s armor. I listened in awe as she explained all the reasons she was nervous about having a child. I had no advice to offer because, well, I don’t know anything about children or raising them. But it suddenly dawned on me that regardless of whether someone is ready to be a parent or not, that’s not going to stop people from having kids. People have been recreating for thousands of years and, unless there is a serious uterus shortage in the near future, will continue to do the same thing for thousands of years to come. Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I won’t make a good parent. I'm just going to have to have faith that my parents set up a good enough example that I won’t completely screw up my child.

I have no doubt in my mind that M and Garland will be excellent parents. And, while I may always be nervous and unready to have children of my own, it won’t stop me from being the best tia I can be to my nephew.

In three months when my nephew arrives, I’ll set up my pillow fort once again. Though this time it won’t be completely out of fear, but rather a reminder that I want nothing but comfort and safety for my children, whenever it is I decide to have them.

Vocabulary.

There is this site that will tell you the words you use the most on your blog. I'd just like to say that the word "monkey" made it onto my list of blog words. So did "van", "fuck", "bathroom" and "eyebrows".

It really leads me to question what I talk about on here. And why you continue to read. I guess we're just two peas in a really odd pod.

Uh oh, emotions.

OH MY GOD. I hate everyone so much and stab in face and punch in head and I spit on your shoes and GODDAMNIT YOU ARE A WORTHLESS MACHINE.

Ahem, let me start from the beginning.

Deskmate has been in rare form these days, or maybe it's just me. But, guys, I'm dying over here. Don't believe me? Here's proof:


Why yes, I have been called a modern day DaVinci.

I don't want to sound ungrateful for my job, especially in these times, and I'm not. My co-workers are very relaxed and I like my job for the most part. But it's really easy, like second graders or monkeys or monkeys with a second grade education could do it. I really think it speaks volumes when you fail at a job that second grade monkeys (who probably took a break from throwing their own feces) could do.

I was wandering down the hall towards the printer, trying to get the hell away from Deskmate, when the printer starts beeping at me. It's not a friendly "Hey buddy, what's up?" beep either; it's a "I'm self aware and my only purpose on God's green earth is to annoy the holy hell out of you". What. The. Fuck. Printer. I thought we were pals. We've had some good times. I've printed out many a clip art riddled flyers on you. Do you know how much of my soul I had to repress to add clip art to those flyers?! I thought you liked all the colors and pictures of flying cakes. But you were pretending all along, weren't you? You heartless, lying succubus.

That's fine, Printer. You broke my heart. BROKE IT. And now? Now I'm going to break you.


Back up in your ass with the resurrection.

It is on, you fucking dinosaur. Welcome to the Axis of Evil, there's a seat over there next to Tyra's fat ass.

Anyway this goes down, someone is getting the stank eye from me all fucking day.

Lazy, baby.

You guys, let me tell you a story about my weekend.

I was selfish. I did EXACTLY what I wanted and it was delightful. I've always been a team player. Need someone to take one for the team? Sign me up. It's not always pleasant or what I want to do, but I get satisfaction from seeing my friends and family happy, even if I'm not. Sick, right?

I'm not sure how it happened, but this weekend I turned it off. I had things to do, things I should have done and things I already committed to, but I didn't want to do any of them. I've been under pressure from all aspects of my life recently; school, work, losing weight, making new friends, maintaining older friendships, saving money, tuition, Vegas, parties. The summer is jam packed and although I'm looking forward to all of it, it doesn't change the fact that I've been a busy bee. This might be normal for most people, but here's a little secret about your buddy KV: I'm lazy.

There, I said it.

My ideal day consists of nothing more than eating take out, going for a walk, napping and lounging around watching movies. That's all I want out of life sometimes. I do realize, though, that's really impractical and mostly impossible.

Not this weekend, though. This weekend I had the privilege, nay, the luxury to say "fuck all that lame bullshit I don't want to do" and instead do everything I wanted to do.

Pedicures with Mama D? Hell yeah. Shopping with Red? You know it, girlfriend. Walks with M and The Boy replaced worrying and planning for the future. Chats with Garland and Thurber eased my worries about work, school and scrounging up money for a college I can't afford. Spending Sunday with my dad, watching "Rocky Balboa" and reading Cormac McCarthy relaxed and made me happier than I've been in a long time. It was as close to a perfect weekend as any other I can remember.

Today, as the last remnants of the weekend fade into the past, I feel a little nostalgic but refreshed. There same problems that I was able to tune out for two days were waiting to greet me this morning. They still suck and I'm still no closer to a solution, but I understand that my problems aren't the only things that matter in life. They are important, no doubt, but not unsolvable.

What has proven to be unsolvable is the laziness that courses through me. This weekend, however, I didn't mind it so much.

Vital information for your everyday life.

Hello kiddos. I gotta get a new nickname for you readers. Kiddos sounds like I'm trying to entice you into my windowless van. I mean, like if you wanna come into said van and eat ice cream off my waterbed, I wouldn't say no. I digress.

Today, because I feel like oversharing, I present to you 20 things you didn't know about good ol' KV.

1. I am obsessed with my eyebrows. I pluck, comb and trim them on a daily basis. I've made my lady cousins, Mama D, one of my aunts and Garland swear that if I am ever in a coma, one of them has to come pluck my eyebrows. They can get very out of control very quickly. They're like a cobra, except hairy and on my face.

2. As far as I'm concerned, I am a deaf-mute in the bathroom. No conversations shall be had while business is being handled. Just call me Helen Keller, baby.

3. I sometimes slip into accents during regular speech time. I have been known to pepper my sentences with a Jamaican, Mexican, Matisyahu, Minnesotan or Sarah Palin accents. Sometimes, during the glorious drunken hour, all the accents will combine to form one powerful, incoherant Super Accent of Drunkeness, also known as slurring.

4. I don't like it when people are angrily shouting. I start to feel sick to my stomach. Confrontation scares the shit out of me.

5. I love being loud. I know that pretty much just cancels out what I said for #4, but it's my blog and I do what I want. I especially love it when I am with my family and the decibel level rises by 50. Put a board game in the mix and someone is going to get shouted at in drunken Spanglish.

6. I judge someone based on what movies they like. I once bailed on a date because the guy didn't know who the Coen Brothers were. Check, please.

7. I hate being in college. I feel like I'm wasting my time and money. I would quit school if I had a better idea.

8. I hate that #7 is true.

9. I would shoot myself in the face if I didn't have an iPod. I realize I'm spoiled and I'm cool with it.

10. I time most things. Almost everything that I do is counted out (for example, I won't drink milk left out for more than 10 seconds, won't wash my hands for less than 6 seconds, won't brush my teeth for longer than 2 minutes, etc). Sometimes, when I have to do an unpleasant task, I count how long it takes me to do it.

11. A cold iced tea will pacify me in almost any situation.

12. I am a comedy snob; if someone can't make me laugh and/or doesn't laugh at my jokes, I will not like that person and subsequently convince myself that they are stupid.

13. Most of the time, I honestly do not understand why people like me.

14. I know exactly who my bridesmaids would be even though I am nowhere near ready to get married.

15. I don't care so much for celebrity gossip anymore. This is heresy for my friends, I'm sure. But, listen guys, I'm starting to find Perez Hilton more irritating than anything else. I'll turn in my lady card now.

16. This should probably be called 15a or be some sort of contiuation of #15, but I love gossiping. I'm not even sorry. I don't say anything behind someone's back I wouldn't say to their face and I never spread mean or hurtful secrets. I can, however, keep my lips shut when it's important.

17. I don't really care for cake. Again, here is my lady card. Just take it.

18. It's not important to me to have biological children. The more and more I think about it, the more I'd rather adopt.

19. I fall in love with a song or album and listen to it continuously until I never want to hear it again. I try not to do this often as it will completely ruin albums/songs for me.

20. I have an unnatural urge to be an audience member during a taping of "Maury". I just want to scream at slutty underage girls or good-for-nothin' baby daddies.

So, there you go. 20 things you know about me that will help you get into my good graces. Please use them wisely and not for blackmail.

Ouch.

Yesterday was so laughably terrible that I had no other choice than to, well, laugh at it all. I spent the first part of my day drenched in the stench of mediocrity and dirty feet at the DMV, followed by numerous phone calls to unexpectedly helpful banks. Thanks for not screwing me on this one, Wells Fargo.

After spending the day running errands, I made some soup and called it a day. Poppa J came over and we rented some movies. I was enjoying just hanging out with Poppa J and Red, but I couldn't shake the headache I had. I started rubbing my temples, but that just made it hurt even more.

Oh well, I thought. It's probably because I'm wearing a hat and I've had a stressful day. I'll just sleep it off.

This morning I woke up like most other mornings: groggy and craving a muffin. I got into the shower and praised Jesus for warm water. After steaming up the bathroom, I wiped the mirror clean and saw this:


Not pictured: Ike Turner.

What the holy hell?! Where did that come from? I searched my noggin and suddenly remembered what happened. There is a shelf above my bed where sometimes things are put. Heavy things. And sometimes said things fall DIRECTLY ONTO MY HEAD.

Hello, Klutziness? It's your old friend, KV. Glad you could drop by.

I tried to cover it up lest my co-workers think I'm cooler than I am by sporting a black eye on a Wednesday.


Also not pictured: emo tears.

Sorry guys, no bar fights over here to speak of. Just a laughably terrible Tuesday.

Smashing Good Time

Editor's Note: Today I'm taking a cue from one of my favorite blogs, Letters and Lists and writing a letter to some people who, unfortunately, are now near and not so much dear to me.


Dear Shitheads Who Stole My Purse Last Night,

Hey guys, what's up? I hope you're really enjoying the contents of my purse. It was so awesome the way you totally disregarded human decency and smashed The Boy's car window to steal my purse. Super cool of you. It actually works out well. I mean, I wouldn't have known what to do with my entire paycheck anyway. You guys really know all the good places to spend someone else's money, like Best Buy and the grocery store. I hope my 80 hours worth of work got you something really cool there, like the complete "Jackass" series or an iPod.

Oh, which reminds me, I hope you enjoy Rex Grayskull, my $300 iPod. He had like 2500 songs on him, so hopefully there's something on there that you'll like. Please excuse all the Abba and Justin Timberlake. Had I known someone would be stealing him, I would have loaded him up with Yanni and myself saying "fuck you in the face" over and over again. I in no way whatsoever hope he shorts out and electrocutes your ears. I would mention that sometimes the earbuds can indeed shock you, but I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

Boy, you guys sure did surprise me by stealing my wallet, work badge, car keys, house keys and The Boy's camera. You must've known that I wanted to feel stupid, guilty and incredibly frustrated all at the same time. Thanks! Also, just so you know, it only took me an hour at the DMV to get a new ID. And it's only going to take me one entire work day to close my accounts, open new ones and change the locks. Can you believe it?! Only one day where I have to push everything aside to deal with this. What a steal! No pun intended, cause it's obvious you guys already know so much about steals.

So, in conclusion, I hope karma drop kicks your face sometime in the very near future. Also, enjoy my favorite ghetto gold hoops and new peppermint chapstick. I hope you get rabies.

Peace fuckers,
KV

Jesus, dude, none of us know what to do with you.

Wow, that last blog post was a week ago, eh? Whoops.

Guys, I have a confession to make: I'm burnt out on the blogging.

It's not that I don't enjoy it (where else would I spout out my random thoughts?), it's that I don't really feel like I have much to write about.

Things have changed a lot in the past few weeks and, if I were a good blogger, I'd write about them with such zest you would think I was a lemon. (Lemon zest! Get it? Anyone?) But, here's the thing, I'm so excited and happy to be living it all that I can't properly sum it up afterwards. I feel like if I take the time to write about everything, I'll miss out on what's happening in the present. At this point, I care more about keeping the memories than writing about them. Barf, right?

Maybe I can find a way to make my new found zest for life co-exist with the writer inside of me. Compared to how rough everything was a few months ago, it's still new, exciting and pretty damn scary that everything has seemed to just fall into place.

So, because I feel like I'm completely butchering what I'm trying to convey, here is my horoscope for this week. I feel like it sums up a lot of what's been happening lately.

Cancer (June 21-July 22): In honor of the karmic cleanup phase of your astrological cycle, I invite you to do the following exercise: imagine a pit in the middle of a desert that holds everything you've ever used up, spoiled and outgrown. Your old furniture is here, along with stuff like once-favorite clothes, CDs and empty boxes of your favorite cereal. But this garbage dump also contains subtler trash, like photos that capture cherished dreams you gave up on, mementos from failed relationships and symbols of defunct beliefs and self-images you used to cling to. Everything that is dead to you is gathered here. Got that vision in your mind's eye? Now picture yourself dousing the big heap of stuff with gasoline and setting it on fire. Watch it burn.

Yep.

This blog post won't grant you any magical wishes.

One of the coolest feelings in life is feeling pleasantly surprised. It's the best kind of surprised to be.* It sneaks up on you, but instead of punching you in the gut, it pats your back and says, "Here you go, buddy, enjoy this little treat." Thanks, Life! I will enjoy this treat. Mmm, blueberry.

I was recently pleasantly surprised by something that, for the time being, must be kept under wraps. I'm like a mummy the way I keep my shit on lockdown. Or was it like a prison guard? A mummy prison guard? I digress.

So, because I apparently can only think in list form, here is a list of pleasant surprises I'd like to receive in the near future.

1. Clive Owen
scenario: I'm sitting at home, watching a Bridezilla marathon.

::knock on door::

KV: Clive Owen?!
Clive Owen: Oh, hey there. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I thought if you weren't doing anything, we could maybe go to dinner in Paris. And then later we could get married. Also, you look awesome in those sweat pants and should wear them when I'm buying you a million dollar necklace.
KV: OKAY!
Clive Owen: Good. Let me smoulder at you while I tell you all the reasons Julia Roberts sucks.


2. $100,000 found on a street corner
scenario: I'm walking down the street and see a suitcase full of cash next to a gutter.

KV: Holy shit! $100,000! This is more money than I've ever seen at one time.
Universe: Yes, KV, yes it is. I left this here for you for all those times I was an unbelievable asshole. Use this to pay off your student loans, go to an out-of-state college and to pay all your bills and those of your family. Then, after that, take a really lavish and totally unnecessary trip to a foreign country so you can get more cultured. Also buy a hybrid car cause they're good for the environment.


3. A free neck massager
scene: Me in Sharper Image.

Salesman: Hey there, incredibly attractive lady with remarkable and frizz-free hair. How would you like a free neck massager to rid you of all your tension?
KV: Well, I don't know...
Salesman: It's made of gold and unicorn eye lashes.
KV: Sold.


4. Tucson invests in a monorail
scene: Me reading the paper.

Newspaper headline: Tucson Finally Gets Its Shit Together And Builds Monorail So People Won't Have To Take The City Bus That Always Smells Like Feet and Pee
KV: Score!


5. All the people I like in place at one time
scene: A bar in downtown Tucson.

KV: EVERYONE I LIKE IS HERE AT THE SAME TIME! Someone get me a drink.


*Other kinds of surprised include shocking ("That lady is a dude!"), tragic ("That lady is a dude."), intriguing ("That lady...is a dude?"), confusing ("That lady...is...is a...dude?"), concerned ("Brah, that lady is a dude."), frustrating ("That.Lady.Is.A.Dude.") and mild ("That lady is a dude?").

Letters

Here are some things I've been meaning to say. Because I'm girly and mushy and you want to vomit because it's so cheesy. Well, there's a bucket right over there.

Dear M and Garland,
Happy Anniversary! You two are awesome and I love you both very much. Miles is going to be adorable and no girl will ever be good enough for my nephew. I hope you enjoyed Vegas.

Dear Simon,
Thank you for being an awesome dog and even better napping partner. However, I think you need to know, you desperately need a bath.

Dear Mom and Pop,
Happy 25th Anniversary! It's really amazing to see you guys make it through 25 years and still be really and truly in love with one another. Also, thank you for not smothering M, Red or myself, although I'm sure it was very tempting at many times, like earlier this morning.

Dear Red,
When did you get funnier than me? Thank you for trying to make me better at tennis. It is going to be a sweet, sweet day when we play a real game and I spank you.

Dear NE,
You're this blog's #1 fan. If I ever write that book, you're getting an acknowledgment.

Dear Thurber,
I'm happy for you, but OREGON CAN SUCK IT. Not really, but I'm going to miss you. I'm buying a plane ticket the day you leave. Do you think one flannel shirt will be enough to suffice? Should I buy Birkenstocks?

Dear Poppa J,
I'm glad we're cool again. Nobody else would ever put up with my daily "The Office" or "Waterboy" quotes. "Wake her ass up, we gotta win tomorrow!"

Dear Pickle,
You are an adorable cat. Why did you run away from me today? I LOVE YOU.

Dear Nikki,
Way to stick it out in school. I'm proud of you and you deserve to be happy regardless of what you're doing. I'm glad we're back to being cool too.

Dear Deezy,
You are like the coolest chick on the planet. Thanks for always giving good advice even though I openly and proudly admit to loving Justin Timberlake.

Dear Twitter,
You are more addicting than crack with much less pock marks and missing teeth.

Dear Hair,
Thanks for finally being awesome and not obnoxious.

Dear U of A Hat,
Thanks for keeping that asshole Hair in place.

Dear Boy Who I've Been Hanging Out With Recently,
The more I hang out with you, the more unbelievably awesome you become. Kudos.

Dear Dave,
YOU ARE GOING TO BE FAMOUS AND IT IS GOING TO RULE. You truly are one of my favorite people and I'm glad we met in our crazy little high school.

Dear Alison,
Why don't you hang out with us anymore?! I miss your face.

Dear Living Room,
Stop being so effing cold. A scarf doesn't really go with this outfit.

Dear Lama,
Come to Tucson immediately so we can hang out because I also miss your face.

Dear Robert Smith,
Please cool it with the lipstick. Seriously, it's weirding everyone out.

That's all for today, guys. Happy Friday!

I now know Ben Harper makes me sleepy.

Have you ever had so much on your plate that none of it really seems real? I have a million things to accomplish, but it's so much that my brain has reacted by skipping past stressed and overwhelmed to just a weird sort of calm. Like the eye of the storm; you know that there's still an entire fucking hurricane to get through, and you have no reason to be but you're just incredibly calm about the whole thing. I tend to panic in this sort of situation. My thought process generally goes a little something like this:

Step 1: What do I need to accomplish today?
Step 2: What can I do to accomplish that?
Step 3: Holy shit, that's a lot to do.
Step 4: Well, I guess if I plow through I can get the majority of it done.
Step 5: Oh shit, tonight is [insert social/family engagement that you already committed to].
Step 6: I'll just have to cancel.
Step 7: Oh my god, I forgot about that extra report due tomorrow.
Step 8: THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME IN THE DAY TO GET EVERYTHING DONE!
Step 9: Okay, okay, calm down.
Step 10: Nap

Uh, yeah. It's been busy, I guess is the point of this post. Actually, there really is no point I was hoping to get out of this. I was just kinda tired of looking at that last post. But, to make up for being lame, here is an ELEVEN MINUTE VIDEO of a song that I just can't get enough of. Yes, the song is awesome. No, I don't know what the heck the video is about. And you're probably nowhere near high enough to understand what's going on. That being said, enjoy!



Jeeeeeeeeez, did you watch the entire thing? Don't you have work to do?

Nostalgia in aisle 3

Yesterday afternoon, I slowly trudged into my house, seeking relief from the brutal Arizona sun. My work uniform was stifling and I couldn't make it to my room fast enough to strip out of the hot polyester. I made it to my room and closed the door. I wandered over to the window to pull my blinds closed and I saw my grandpa sitting on the patio, smoking a cigarette and staring off into space.

Tata has been a part of my family for seventeen years. We moved in with him when I was five and my Nana passed away. I don't know why our family was the one who moved in, but I remember being in awe of our house in Nogales. It was big with wing-backed leather chairs and tile floors. Some of my favorite memories were coming into the living room, sitting with Tata and watching old episodes of "Looney Toons" while he laughed louder than I'd ever heard a grown-man laugh. Other times, I remember him putting on his military uniform, complete with badges, stars and a white helmet, and trudging off to the cemetery to participate in burials.

When I was nine-years-old, we moved to Tucson. I was still fairly young, but I don't remember there ever being a question of whether or not Tata would come with us. Along with my parents and brothers, he was a staple in our immediate family. We hadn't been a family of five in years; we were now a proud family of six.

Our first few years in Tucson, Tata was the same as he was in Nogales. He made the same jokes, laughed at the same things and even had a girlfriend. I rarely had a real conversation with him about my life or his, but it was just assumed that we cared for each other and there really was no need to discuss it.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I brought Tata into my U.S. History class so he could speak about his time overseas during World War II. At first, he sat in front of the class and didn't say much.

I tried to encourage him to talk about the discrimination he might have faced as a Mexican man. "Tell them about the time--" I started, but Tata held his hand up and cut me off before I could finish. He took a deep breath and launched into a story about how he and his buddies used to hang out in the Burmese jungles during their down time. He told stories of the cute girls he saw overseas, the jokes him and his friends shared, and how his experiences during WWII shaped him. It was the first time I had ever been impressed by my grandfather. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride that this was my Tata who was sitting in the front of the room, cracking up my classmates.

The Tata who sat in front of my sophomore U.S. History class was not the same Tata I saw yesterday. He sat in the same patio chair he always does, smoking a GPC cigarette and staring off into space, looking at something I can't see. He's quieter these days, a little slower too. The Tata who used to watch "Looney Toons" with me is long gone and sometimes, it makes me sad to think that one day he won't be here at all.

I quickly changed my clothes and made my way into the kitchen. Tata came in from outside.

"Hi, mijita," he said. He smiled at me and pat me on the shoulder, same as he does every day. I put my hand on top of his and smiled back.

"Hi, Tata," I said. He squeezed my shoulder and shuffled back to his room.

A lot has changed since that day seventeen years ago when we moved in with Tata. Much more has changed since that day thirteen years ago when Tata moved with us to Tucson. Our family of 6 has expanded and we are all getting older. I am coming to terms with the idea that one day I will wake up and there will be nobody to squeeze my shoulder and call me mijita.

But that day is not today.

What's the haps, broseph?

Fun fact: I heard someone say just that a few minutes ago. A grown-man, I might add. Wooooof.

I know I haven't been around these parts in a while, but it's because I've been learning one very important universal truth: having a life is exhausting.

Case in point, I spent Saturday night out at a "club" filled with "people my own age" and had a jolly good time. Whoops, that last one doesn't fit with the hip kid vernacular. I had a bomb ass, hip to the mother effing Twitter Facebook time of the Apple Bottom Jeans. That's all the cool terms I could think of.

As a result of spending the evening doing what every 21-year-old in the world does every weekend, I spent all of Sunday out of commission. I did nothing but eat Chinese food, sleep and watch old episodes of "The Office".

The past few days have been busy. My summer school classes are slowly sucking the soul (and a few hundred bucks for books) out of me, work is insane in the membrane and I have been a social butterfly with friends, family and an awesome, potentially meaningful boy situation.

So, because it's rare for me to be both upbeat and eloquent at the same time, here is a list of things I am currently grateful for. Here we go.

1.) Saturday nights. Listen, all the best stories happen on Saturday nights. Lampshades get put on heads, alcohol is consumed, laughably bad decisions are made and dancing is had. Saturday night is the night of the week every other weekday is jealous of. Do you think that anyone is hooking up with a guy who looks like Geraldo Rivera on a Wednesday or eating tacos from a hut on the side of the road on a Monday? Pashaw.

Saturday night marked an important evening. My pals Deezy and Papa J officially ended their time as roommates and my friend Thurber is in town for a few days before moving to Portland. Having a trifecta of friends in town, I decided it was only necessary to take them out and get them all drunk. So, Saturday night, our group headed to one of my favorite bars for a night of drinking and debauchery. It was a blast. I have some pics that I'll put up later, but let's just say the night ended with a few new acquired phone numbers, drunken rambling, smokey hair and tacos at 3 in the morning. Verdict: success.

2.) Baby Miles. M and Garland are six months along and I get more and more excited every time I see them. M and Garland are like pioneers; my own personal Magellan into the cloudy waters of adulthood. They've handled everything beautifully so far and it makes me happy to know that, in three months, they'll have a son to add to their family. And I'll have a nephew who I already want to buy everything for. Because the baby is a boy, poor M has had to endure this question over and over:

KV: If I bought you and the baby matching hats/glasses/shoes/bowler shirts, would you wear them at the same time?

The answer every time: a shrug and a "sure". That's all I'm asking for.

3.) Laughter. Alright, before you roll your eyes and vomit on me because I just listed "laughter" as something I'm grateful for (what is this, Chicken Soup for the Cheesy Ass Soul?!), hear me out. I have laughed harder and more frequently in the past week than I have in a while. I've been hanging out with a new boy and he has me in stitches non-stop. Red is fine tuning his own sassy brand of humor with hilarious results. Even Simon, that smelly tan dog of ours, has been cracking me up. I laugh a lot as it is, but this past week has been out of control. If I keep it up, I'm pretty sure I can get abs of steel just through the magic of laughter. Suck it, P90X.

It's getting better all the time.

I don't know what it is, but I've been in a really good mood lately. Case in point: today, for no reason at all, I just started giggling. I'm not talking about a little tee-hee-ing, I'm talking full on giggle fit. Japanese school girls came out of nowhere and were like, "Hey, KV, chill with the giggling. You're embarrassing yourself."

I don't even know what to do with myself. Mind you, I'm not complaining. It's just that my situation hasn't really changed at all, so I'm kind of caught off guard. I'm still clueless as far as life goes, I have no idea how I'm going to pay for the transition to a state university, my summer is jam packed with work, school and social obligations and my car/phone/computer/life breaks down every third day of the week. I'm still in the exact same situation as I was a few months ago when I was sobbing myself to sleep and doing my share to help with the failing ice cream industry by eating enough Dryers to put the half-ton man to shame. I was basically a walking Lifetime movie.


I need to work on my seduction eyes.

So why the change now? Why am I falling into giggle fits and taking detours down Shit-Eating Grin Lane?

I don't know. I don't know and, honestly, I don't really care. I'm happy with whatever happened in my brain that triggered this good mood. So, I'm going to try something that I rarely ever do.

I'm going to enjoy it.

A long post about how much donkeys suck.

I was going to write some inspirational story about how I conquered the Grand Canyon and found strength inside myself that I never knew was there, but that would require thinking and forming coherent sentences. Verbs? I ain't got time for no stinkin' verbs!

Thus, I present to you a photo essay entitled "Rain and Donkeys: How I Made It Out of the Grand Canyon Without Having A Stroke and/or Stepping In Donkey Poo."

Mother Nature must have known I was coming to get my vengence on her because the morning of our hike, it was raining. Raining tears of fear! Hey-o! High fives? No? Okay, moving on.

These two guys, Austin and Red, were my hiking partners for the day. Or, as I like to call it, the only people I could convince to come with me.





We got to the rim and were scoping out our trail, Bright Angel Trail. I had originally wanted to hike all the way down to this place called Indian Gardens, which I thought was 1.9 miles. Yeah, 1.9 miles from the 3 MILE POINT. It would've been a ten-mile round trip and we were kinda short on time. So, we picked the three mile house, which, as evidenced by this picture, was REALLY FUCKING FAR.



So, we gathered lots of water bottles and Rice Krispy treats (because only the super experienced hikers take Rice Krispies) and started down. It was a pretty nice trip down. It was drizzly and misty and generally kind of eerie. At one point, Red looked up into the mist and said, "I feel like we're in the pterodactyl cage in 'Jurassic Park'."


It was agreed that there was a very real possibility that dinosaurs may come out of the mist, so I tried to blend in.

"Rawr! Seriously, guys, I'm one of you. Please don't eat me."


The rain and mist was awesome compared to the new bane of my existance: canyon mules.

Let me tell you something about mules that you may not know: they're assholes. They smell like hobos and they poo everywhere. I expected to see mules and maybe even get stuck behind them once or twice. What I did not expect was to see fresh piles of donkey presents every two steps. Here's a little equation for you: donkey presents + dirt + rain water = a poo cocktail you want no part of. We had to do some tricky footwork to avoid the Grand Canyon's hommemade mule surprise stew. Blech.


After a few miles of successfully avoiding mule droppings, we made it to our 3 mile mark.

That face? That is the face of a girl who is 3 miles into a canyon. The face of a girl who hasn't quite registered the reality that in order to get out of said canyon, she'll have to walk another 3 miles uphill. One could call it the face of ignorance. Or maybe denial. Either way it was short lived.


The trek back up was pretty much to be expected.

The trail is pretty maintained, but it's still a constant incline. The first mile and a half I hit a good stride. Red and Austin were in front of me the entire time, but for the most part we were able to stay together. The last mile and a half, well, that part kicked my ass. I don't have any pictures of it because my main focus was on staying alive. I know, I'm such a selfish asshole. My bad, everyone.

Red and Austin were pretty good about setting and keeping a consistent pace. However, after a while I declared my ascent back up to the rim pace free and took a lot more breaks than I actually needed. Even in the Grand Canyon I can't escape my laziness.

We had all agreed that we wanted to be out of the Canyon and back onto the rim by 2 p.m. By the time I caught up to Red and Austin it was 1:45. We were close to the rim, a mere 10 minutes away, when what did we find?

Donkeys. Everywhere. It was a clusterfuck of donkeys. We had to wait for the tour guide to finish his schpeil before we could pass them. We were determined though; there was no way we weren't making our 2 o'clock goal.

After the donkey congregation dispersed, we hauled ass up the last bit of the trail and finally made it out at 2:02 p.m., four and a half hours after we'd started.

We. Looked. Good.

Some ice cream, iced tea and a couple waters later, we were sore and ready to nap. But not before showing the Bright Angel Trail what we really thought.



Austin didn't have feelings towards the trail one way or another, I think he was just psyched to get some pizza...and Rice Krispy treats...and a sandwich.

All in all, it was a good experience. My exact words upon emerging from the Canyon and seeing my family waiting for me were, "Holy shit, I can't believe I just did that." I was so psyched that I accomplished something I set out to do and so overwhelmed by the Grand Canyon's natural beauty, that I decided to bury the hatchet between the GC and myself. No more fueds with Mother Nature, I told myself.

That is, until I saw the parting gift the Arizona Sun had left me.

A v-neck shaped sun burn?!

It's on.

A bear may or may not be attacking me as we speak.

I'm minding my business today, listening to last.fm and doing some typing when I notice that the music has stopped. What's going on here? I think. I pull up the last.fm screen to find this:


We'd hate for Wolf Parade Radio to fall on deaf ears. We hope you're still there, but in case you've wandered off, recieved a long-distance phone call or been...


EATEN BY A BEAR, we've paused your station until you get back.

Eaten by a bear*? Why you gotta break balls?

Re-match, bitch.

My senior year in high school, I went to the Grand Canyon. I'd been plenty of times before (after all, you can't live in the "Grand Canyon State" without going at least once), but this time was going to be different. We were going to be hiking into the canyon.

I was pretty unhealthy in high school and generally unaware of the outdoors world. But, my friends were going so I talked my way onto the trip.

"Are you sure you want to go?" one of my teachers asked me. He was concerned that someone of my, er, caliber might have a hard time hiking downhill for 2 miles and coming back on a steeper incline for another 2 miles.

"I can do it," I said. I flashed a smile, dropped some witty banter and I was in.

We got to the Grand Canyon in a group. I was nervous because the only exercise I ever got was walking from the main building in the high school to the carne asada stand in the back parking lot. More so than being nervous, however, I was cocky. I compared myself to the people I saw hiking into the canyon.

"Alright," I thought. "If that guy over there can do it, I can do it."

I started at the same pace as my classmates but after a quarter mile, my pace slowed considerably. My knees weren't prepared for two miles of downhill and grew shaky. One of my friends and a teacher, Ms. U, stayed behind to walk with me while the rest of the group practically ran down the trail. We stopped every ten minutes because I needed a break. I'd sit on a rock to take a break and watch as kids, teenagers and grandparents passed by me, smiling and laughing. I didn't understand how someone could be smiling while walking down. Good Christ, I could barely convince my mouth to open wide enough to breathe let alone smile.

We were a mile and a half down when another teacher, Mr. M, came trekking up the trail to meet us. The same Mr. M who I convinced to let me come on the trip was now informing me that he didn't think there was enough time for me to go all the way down to our intended meeting spot.

"It's just that it gets pretty steep up here," he said. "Everyone else is already almost down there and there's still another half mile to go from here."

I stared at him, out of breath. My friend who had been walking with me looked at me, then Mr. M, then down at the ground.

"I just want you to remember that for every bit you go down, you have to go back up," Mr. M said.

I nodded. "I'll just start walking back up then. I'll meet you guys at the rim."

Mr. M nodded and my friend gave me a wave. I was humiliated. I wasn't embarrassed at what Mr. M had said to me; he was just trying to look out for myself and the rest of the group. I was mortified that I overestimated my ability to keep up with my peers. I'd always had the mentality that if I thought I could do it, I could do it without any practice or preperation. When it came down to the wire, I convinced myself, I could do any physical task that was demanded of me. It was bad that I didn't realize my philosphy wasn't true before I made the journey down a giant canyon face, but it was even worse that something so obvious had to be pointed out to me in front of my friend. The more horrifying thing, however, was that I was more than a mile into the Grand Canyon and I had no idea how I was going to get out. I was stuck.

So, I started walking. I slowly trudged up and put on a good face as donkeys and senior citizen groups passed me. I made jokes and laughed when my classmates, done with their lunch near a drop off that I never got to see, caught up to me and proceeded to pass me yet again.

"We're trying to beat Mr. M up to the rim!" they shouted to me.

"We'll see how that goes," Mr. M said trotting up a few steps behind them. Those bitches. I could barely breathe and they were having a race up the Canyon.

I was exhausted and defeated in more ways than I could imagine. My toes were numb and the walking sticks that carried my shaky legs down the canyon were now just another source of excess weight. I was just about to give up and try to hitch a ride on a donkey when Mr. M came lumbering down the Canyon.

"I thought you could use the company," he said. It was the first time in my life that I remember feeling overwhelming gratitude towards someone. I would have punched a donkey down the canyon at that point if he had asked me to. A little while later, Ms. U joined in our trek up to the rim. After 8 grueling hours in that bastard Canyon, I made it to the rim. My classmates welcomed me when I got back to our camp and everyone did me a favor by ignoring the elephant in the room (or the campground).

The Grand Canyon kicked my ass that day. I had never in my life felt so defeated. We came home and my ego mostly recovered, but there has always been a scar on it that just can't quite fade away.

Well, this weekend, I'm looking to tackle that scar. I'm looking for a re-match with the Grand Canyon. I've got broken in hiking boots, lots of sunscreen and a healthier self to bring to the table.

This weekend, I'm coming for you, Grand Canyon. I am going to stomp your ass with my gianormous hiking boots and then I am going to eat an ice cream cone and marvel at your ridiculous natural beauty.

This weekend is our re-match. It's on.

What's the opposite of 'buzzkill'?

Buzz-revival? Buzz-zombie? Buzz-survival?

Whatever it is, that is what's happening over on my side of the computer. Nothing has been able to kill my buzz. I'm happy these days. There's no real reason to be, I just am. Happiness is a bit of a double-edged sword for me. It's awesome because I wake up with the intent to accomplish things, like wearing clothes with buttons instead of elastic or seeing the light of day. I feel joy when I see my friends and family and don't have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry and drink a lot.

The part I'm not so comfortable with is my creative juices stop flowing. Happiness is the Hoover Dam of my brain; it's cool because, hey, look, a dam used for hydroelectric power! but sucks because it blocks the water from doing it's natural, flowy thing. In this example, my brain juices are the water. Does that make sense? It if doesn't, blame happiness. It makes my similes suck.

In fact, y'know what, here's a list of things that are currently making me happy. So when I'm not around as much and when I write lame blog posts, you know what to blame.

I am happy because...

• People think I'm awesome. Have you ever had one of those days where you wake up, look at yourself in the mirror and think, "Why the hell does anyone like me?" I feel like this most days. I don't really understand why someone would go out of their way to hang out with me, let alone a whole group of people.
  

This photo proves that I was cool looking at least once in my life. So, y'know, score one for me.

I don't think I'll ever get it. So I'm trying something new. I'm saying a general "fuck it" and just rolling with it. Which leads me to my next point...

• New friends are fantastic. Once I started implementing my "screw it, I must really be rad if people keep wanting to talk to me" policy, things kind of started falling into place. I haven't been interested in making new friends until recently. Something very interesting has been happening in my group: everyone is a pair. There have been several occasions where I look up from my plate/salad/sake bomb only to find that I'm the only person around without a significant other. The 7th wheel. It's cool because I like everyone in the group, but it can get a little awkward when it's New Years Eve and there's nobody to make out with except a drunk cowboy. I need more single friends. Where all the drunk singles at?! Oh yeah, everywhere.

• I can shop in normal girl stores now. Many of you know my journey to become the Incredible Shrinking Girl, some don't. So here's a quick game of catch up. I used to be the biggest size at the big girl store. That's like being the fattest elephant at the zoo. An accomplishment in and of itself. but not really one you write home to mom about. I didn't have a light bulb moment or whatever the hell it is Oprah talks about, I just didn't want to have to start shopping in the extra-big girl/tent store. So, I changed some things and I can shop in normal girl stores now. I'm the biggest size at the normal girl store, but I'll take being the biggest monkey at the zoo over the biggest elephant.

That's all I can put a name to right now. As evidenced by the zoo bit up there, my brain is not helping me out today. I'm on my own which, today, is pretty okay with me.

I'll take "update" for $400.

Ugh. My cell phone is dead, I owe money to the Tax Man and I spent all weekend Facebook stalking old crushes and watching movies that were made before Y2K.

But, y'know, I can't complain. Things have been looking up in more ways than one, excluding the aforementioned cluster fuck of yuck. I've made new friends, I'm close to hitting a long awaited goal and I'm preparing for a re-match with the grandest of canyons. Don't worry kiddos, more about that tomorrow.

In the meantime, I'm going to bang my cellphone against the brick wall in my room in hopes that it'll shock it back to life. Nothing wakes up dead technology like blunt force trauma.*

*Scientific study still required.

Another post about how I am an old woman.

Two things today:

1.) Suck it, Spring 2009 semester. I was going to take a moment of silence to mourn all the potentially fun times that were lost during the hours of studying, questioning my major and wondering how the hell anyone becomes so amped about Geology, but then, well, #2 on this list happened.

2.) The following conversation between me and a co-worker (via IM) reminded me that there probably wouldn't be a whole lot to mourn.

KV/... well, the day's almost over at least.
Co-worker/... It will be a long night though
KV/... working late?
Co-worker/... Nope, just almost everyone I know graduated today and I have like 20 different people I have to take shots with tonight
KV/... busy night
Co-worker/...Yeah, should be fun. What are you up to
KV/... um, a friend of mine proposed watching "wrath of khan", but i don't know if i'd rather do that or watch "enter the dragon" at the loft.
Co-worker/...Oh
Co-worker/...Uh, that's cool

I think I'm going with Bruce Lee, because I don't always get Star Trek, but a Chinese guy kicking someone in the face is universal.

I'm still not making any coffee, though.

A couple weeks ago, I had a conversation with M about our jobs.

"I just want to do something that I like. I don't even have to love it, but I'd like to wake up and go to a job where I'm doing something that I care about," I said.

Without missing a beat, M said, "I want to make money. I want to make enough money to be able to do whatever the hell I want."

Today, as I was sitting in on a meeting that had little to do with me, I couldn't help but remember the conversation M and I had weeks earlier. I felt bad. The woman leading the meeting flew in from out of town. She was looking to talk to someone about records and, for reasons unbeknownst to yours truly, I was the best representative. I listened, nodded, made the appropriate comments at the appropriate time and generally did my best to look like I belonged there.

The woman studied my face as I spoke. She watched me so intently, I started to think she could see right through me. I focused on her eyes and silently dared her to read between the lines.

"I don't know what I'm talking about," was the underlying statement.

"I don't care about any of this," was a close second.

"I'm just biding my time here until I get transferred to the department I really want to work for," came in third.

Then, as I was in the middle of rattling off something not even I understood, it hit me: I need to grow up.

I have this thing in life where I just expect everything to work out on the first try. I expect to love the first job I have. I expected to get into my first choice college and have it all figured out by the time I walked in the door. I expected to graduate in 4 years and have a job lined up doing something that both pays well and is emotionally fulfilling.

Um, no.

None of that happened. And, much as I regret some things, I'm kind of glad it worked out this way. I'm starting to realize that only on the rarest of rare occasions will life go according to plan. It doesn't make it less painful or frustrating, but at least life is kind enough to be consistently cruel. For now, I'm struggling to figure out what kind of job I want and if it's possible, or even relevant, to have it be something that satisfies me emotionally.

"Just do something that makes you money. It doesn't have to be something you love, just something you can stand. Once you have the money, do the thing you love," M said it to me and it just clicked. It made sense and I was a little amazed that I hadn't thought of it before.

M's voice filled my head as I spoke to the woman who was leading the meeting.

"Sure, I can look into that for you," I said.

Her eyes bore into me and I thought, "I can do that, but not because I care. There are fewer things in the world I care less about. I can look into that for you because it will eventually lead me to the road I want to be on. I can sacrifice some of my interest and happiness because I know that someday, it will be repaid to me in full. I can look into that for you because I am putting faith in myself that I will follow through and become the person I want to be. Most of all, I can look into that because I have the knowledge, talent and ability to."

The meeting let out and I walked back to my desk. The ever-present urge to drop everything and walk out the door was still there, strong as ever. This time, though, instead of trying to repress it, I welcomed it. I allowed the feeling to make itself at home, hoping that it would never leave me. Praying that it will remind me that while I may not know what I want to do, I sure as hell know what I don't want to do.

I took a deep breath, sat down and got back to work.

She blinded me with science (and then totally took my organs).

I know I said I wouldn't be around as much this week, but what can I say? ALL CAPS, I just can't quit you. It also doesn't help that I'm the only one at work and I'm harnessing all my passive-aggressive powers into saying "Screw you, The Man!" by not working. Okay so I'm still answering the phones. And maybe I'm still sending out company-wide e-mails. And I may have changed the toner cartridge in the printer. But dammit! I am not a machine!

You're not my real mom.

Ahem, what? Where was I?

My brain is still relatively fried from my week long journey into adult life, so I'm having a hard time focusing. A harder time than usual, anyway. And yes, that is what she said. Let us take a moment to recognize. All done?

One of the reasons I've been so swamped with school work, regular work, etc is because instead of being a good time-manager, I'm a terrible one. I should be time-fired. Zing! No? Okay.

In the few hours of free time I have, I don't spend it studying, working or even exercising. I'm not trying to teach myself a new craft or attempting to better the world. What am I doing, you ask? Reading this:



I should start by saying I didn't pick this out. Aside from generally being a little hesitant to buy a book called Stiff (lest someone think I'm scouting screenplays for my new porno), I don't like feet. So a picture of dead feet on the cover of a book under the word Stiff? That's gonna be one seriously weird (and potentially illegal) dirty video.

But it came highly recommended by Garland. Now, Garland and I may have different opinions on movies, music and literature, but one thing is always for certain: we both like to be entertained by weird and potentially gross things. Plus, there are few people on the planet who know my taste better than Garland, so I relented, grabbed a Jell-O pudding out of the fridge (not recommended whilst reading this, by the way) and got to reading.

This book is, for lack of better words, awesome. It is about all the things that can happen to your body after death. Say, for example, you donate your body to science. Well, what does that mean? What happens to your body after you donate it?


Bill Nye the Science Guy may or may not be involved.

Well, apparently a lot of things. You can donate a still beating heart, liver or kidneys to transplant patients. The Army can shoot at it to test the stopping power of bullets. Medical students can dissect you, the auto industry can use you as a crash-test dummy or you can end up at a body farm where researchers study decomposition to help aid in crime scenes. In short, any possible use you can think of for a cadaver has probably been tried.

After reading much of the book, I've come to the conclusion that I want to donate my body to science. I am already an organ donor, but if there's more than can be done with it when I'm gone, then have at it.

I think this would be good for a few reasons. It would be comforting to know that even if I didn't accomplish anything with my body when I was living, maybe something can be accomplished when I'm dead. Totally still counts. Also, it would help others in the long run and I could use some extra points tacked onto my soul at the end. Heaven doesn't let in any freeloaders. I know, I checked. Also, it would lessen my chances at coming back as a re-animated zombie. And if that doesn't make it worth it, I don't know what would.