Nerdy Ladies and Cheese. Yumsie!

Unnng. I ate too many enchiladas tonight.


I wish I could quit you.

I therefore am reduced to sitting on the couch in sweatpants in a cheese induced paralysis. However, it is in my cheesy stupor I'd like to formally announce that I love Tina Fey. She's hilarious, smart and I have a major lady crush on her. I know being in love with Tina Fey is so 2008, but I believe in being fashionably late to the party.


The Tina Fey no pants party.

Did you see that picture? She's cradling a typewriter. A TYPEWRITER. I wish I liked ladies.

Also, 30 Rock is quite possibly the greatest show on television.

Liz Lemon: Kenneth, there is an adult picture of me on there!
Kenneth: Adult? You mean like driving a car or wearing a suit?

Sorry The Office and Lost, but you've just been upstaged by my lady love Tina.

And on the 7th Day, God Cursed the Stairmaster

Today is Ash Wednesday. The beginning day of Lent, those 40 days where Jesus wandered into the desert and let himself be tempted by the devil. It's all about resistance, folks. Which is why, I suppose, Catholics usually give up something for Lent. Jesus resisted the devil, so the least us mere mortals can do is resist alcohol or chocolate for 40 days.

I myself am not resisting anything. I can say that I'm going to, but that's setting myself up for failure. And I don't like to fail, especially in front of Jesus.


"Everyone gets in, except for YOU."

However, I feel like I should do something. Call it Catholic guilt, but it feels weird not to put myself through at least some mild inconvenience during the holy season.

So, my Lent plan is to exercise every day during Lent for a minimum of 20 minutes. I know that most people do that anyway, but I am not one of those people. Here are some reasons why:

-Sleep is much more precious to me than physical activity. I have often set my alarm to 5:30 in the morning with every intention of waking up and going for a quick walk before work. The only exercise the morning inspires is using my raging arm muscles to reach for the snooze button multiple times. Calories burned: 7

-I gots a busy life, son. Work, school, being social, wasting time, blogging. It all takes a toll. I think about exercising on the way home, but usually just end up drowning out that voice in my head that says, "You should probably go for a jog when you get home," with that other voice that says, "You know what would be awesome? Changing into sweats and eating a cold beans from the fridge because it takes too much time to warm them up." Calories burned: -3

-I like living life on the edge...of denial. I convince myself that walking from my car to work, walking from my desk to the bathroom and lifting that heavy box of files qualifies as my daily workout. In my defense, those file boxes can get really heavy because most days I'd rather read Perez Hilton than do work. Work is for squares who are too good to waste time. Calories burned: 11.

-I'm lazy. That's pretty much what it boils down to. Calories burned: 0.

So, today begins the Working Out in the Name Of The Lord plan. Best case scenario is that 40 days from now I will be a lean, mean, wrecking machine.


Pretty sure this is what I'll look like on Day 40.

Worst case scenario is I will fail horribly and drown my sorrows at the closest IHOP. Nothing cures the blues like pancakes. Yum.

We Go Together Like Groupies and Herpies

Hi. I'm KV and I love cheesy pop music. I've been a bad pop-music addict since I was in 8th grade and stood in line for four hours outside a Sears to purchase Backstreet Boys tickets. My addiction worsened the following month when I willingly and without influence purchased Will Smith's album Big Willie Style. My addiction further intensified when my brother's wife, Garland, became my music pusher. I discovered Rhianna, Robbie Williams, Michael Jackson, One Republic and, god help me, even that one Britney Spears song that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the face.

I am nowhere near recovery. But here's a secret: I don't want to be. I love pop music. I like to sing to it, I like to dance to it and I absolutely LOVE to get drunk to it.

That being said, does anyone else have a massive crush on The Killer's lead singer Brandon Flowers after seeing this video where he wears this:


"Is this enough brooding?"

I don't know what it is, but I want to be on him. Wait, that came out wrong. I meant to say that I, er, he's, um, screw it.

I want to be on him.

Paradise City: Where the Grass Is Green and The Girls Are Pretty

You'll be happy to know that today I was an active, productive adult. I only thought about ditching class for half an hour before actually driving myself over to campus. Which, as it turns out, was the right choice. If I had ditched like I originally wanted to, I would've missed the most awesome video about lava. That's right, I'm paying hundreds of dollars to watch a video about magma flow. Someone pinch me cause I must be dreaming.

After class I went to the gym. Run, run, run, sweat, sweat, sweat, you know how it goes.

On the drive home, I was feeling good. I did all the things I was supposed to do for the day and I was free to do what I had been wanting to do all day: unbutton my pants, take a nap and drink Diet Cokes. I really don't see how I don't go on more dates.

Rex Grayskull, my new iPod and love of my life (seriously, how am I not on a date right now as we speak?), must've been in a good mood too because he was pumping out the jams. Sweet Child Of Mine by Guns n' Roses came on. I was rockin'. Honestly, I think some people may have confused me for Axl Rose I was so good.


Pictured above: not me.

I was stopped at the light and was just getting ready for my air guitar solo, when I looked over and saw the guy in the car next to me giving me a look. It wasn't just a glance either, it was a glare. Nay, a smolder. I was being smoldered at.

At first I was a little taken aback. Then I thought about it. Here I am, rocking out so hard I was starting to fear for my car's safety. Of course this guy is checking me out! I thought. I must look like the coolest person on the planet right now.

Then I glanced in my rear view mirror to check out the situation this guy was seeing.



Woooooof. While in my mind I looked and felt like a rock star, I looked like I just escaped from an Elvis Presley impersonation festival. For crazies. During a hurricane.

The guy smirked at me and continued on his way. As for me, I did the only thing I could think to do to soften the embarrassment I felt: I put on Welcome to the Jungle and turned it on full blast. At the very least, I felt like I looked like the type of person who should be listening to Guns N' Roses.

Axl would be proud.

By the Power of Sam Elliot's Mustache

In the great city of Tucson, we have a little something called Rodeo Days. That is, we get two days off because the Rodeo decides to haul it's country ass into town. This is a big deal in our fair city. Schools close, businesses close, there's even a parade. A PARADE.

Funny thing is, nobody actually goes to the rodeo. Have you ever been to a rodeo? No, because they're boring. There's only so long I can watch a guy buck around on a bull (read: 8 seconds) before I want said bull to impale my skull because I'm so bored. And the rodeo clowns? Don't even get me started on those goofy bastards.

I'm not complaining though. I love any excuse to take two days off from school. It's just, I think the rodeo further perpetuates the stereotype that Arizona is still like it was in 1897.

I like to imagine that tourists are seriously disappointed when they come to Arizona. I mean, think about it. The only movies that feature Arizona are westerns. Tombstone, 3:10 to Yuma, Wyatt Earp and pretty much anything John Wayne or Sam Elliot ever starred in. People see those movies and are like, "Hell yeah! Let's go to Arizona so we can drink whiskey and wear chaps." People say that because the old west was badass, aside from all the tuberculosis and scalpings. Nothing will ruin a good whiskey buzz like not having a scalp.


Pictured: One of the most feared old west gangs, the Surly Bedwetters, led by the terrible Snotty Scotty Jones (first from right)

But the old west is in the past. It's yesterday's paper, baby. Old news. We don't ride horses in the street. I haven't seen a shootout in the streets outside a saloon since I lived in Nogales. Shit, can you even take a train to Yuma anymore?


"It's HOW FAR to Yuma? Fuck it."

I feel bad for people who travel all the way from, well, where ever it is that they're coming from to see Arizona, expecting it to still be old-westified. Sure, we have the Grand Canyon. And I guess Tombstone has a Cracker Barrel. And Bisbee has all those art snobs. But there's no shoot outs, nobody named Billy the Kid or any chance you can wander into a brothel. We're all "civilized" now with our fancy "technology" and and "laws". Turns out you can't just walk into a bar, take off your clothes and ask the bartender for a bourbon on the rocks and his finest whore. You'll get arrested if you do that. Something about indecent exposure and illegal prostitution. I don't know, I'm not a cop.

Yes, my friends, the old west is long gone. It only comes around one weekend a year now. And on this glorious, slightly retarded and always appreciated Rodeo Weekend, I will be nowhere near those bull-humping weirdos.

Instead, I'll be appreciating all the things time and knowledge has gotten us since the Wild West days, like the Internet and indoor air conditioning.

But, Baby, It's Cold Outside

The past few days have been terrible. Awful. Horrendous and incredibly, incredibly shitty. Thanks Universe, I owe you one.

In between bouts of unconsciousness and nonstop sobbing, I've been thinking about a lot of things. What sort of things? Oh, mostly my life. Mostly my life and what I'm doing with it. Mostly my life and what I'm doing with it and if I'm a huge failure. The answer I've come up with so far is (are you ready for it?):

I don't know.

Revolutionary thinking, right? Quick, I want to copyright that. Someone look into it.

Thinking about how much I suck has gotten me nothing except puffy eyes and an unhealthy amount of sodium. I stress eat beef jerky like nobody's business. (To all the cows that had to die in order to supplement my depression, my apologies.)

Yesterday in particular was rough. I came home, sobbed myself into a stupor and saw the dark hand of depression coming back for me. After all these years, it was finally back to claim me in the name of all those who had gotten lost before me.

"I'll bring you freedom," it said. I was terrified.

Lucky for me, I have some amazing people in my life who helped me out. And upon further reflection, I would like to say this to the depression that has come back and made itself welcome:

Fuck you. That's right. Fuck you right in the face, you silly bastard. You're not better than me. I will do everything I can think of to pull myself out of this hole. Oh, and this hole that I'm stuck in? Fuck that, too. I am better than this and I realize it now.

So here's to getting better. It's scary and cold outside, but I ain't stayin' here.

Valentine's Aftermath

I now know it is possible to spend an entire day unconscious.

Plan Drink Face Off went off without a hitch. Some friends and I headed to a hip kids bar downtown. It was a blast. I drank, I danced, I shit talked and I laughed a ridiculous amount. It was like the perfect storm of awesome. Someone get George Clooney on the phone, I have a sequel idea to pitch.

The result of having such a fun night is waking up feeling like someone punched my head and dumped a trash can in my mouth. I stumbled into the house this morning at 8 a.m. and proceeded to take off my pants and immediately fall asleep for THE ENTIRE DAY.

Well, that's not technically true. I woke up long enough to do two things:

Eat tacos,


and watch zombie movies.


Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to turn in for the night. At 7:37. Score.

That's amore...and vodka!

Well, it's here. Another V-Day. Don't get that confused with Vagina Day. That's not until September.

No, today is the day that couples love and singles dread. The day where single gals like myself put on their best velor track suit, watch whatever movie Lifetime is showing and drink themselves out of three boxes of wine. So, basically just your average Wednesday night but with much more shame and wine stains on the bed.

Not this Valentine's Day though. Because on this day, February 14, 2009, I'm going to do something very brave: drink my face off.

That's right. I'm doing it for single people around the world. I'm going to bravely march myself into a bar, order several drinks, probably talk to loud and sing too much, and then I will make the long journey home to a friend's couch. No need to thank me for my efforts. The Medal of Honor will do.

This Valentine's Day, I'm going to have a blast. I don't really see the point in dwelling on my party-of-1 status. So instead I'm going to hang out with my friends and have a good time. Because that's what I like to do most days, so why should the National Day of Getting Some be any different?

Happy Valentine's Day all around.

Internationally Smokin'!

A couple days ago, a friend of mine hooked it up and got me advanced screening tickets to see The International.




At first, I had no idea what my friend was talking about. He said, "I got you tickets to see The International," and I was like, The Inter-who's that now? Is this a foreign film?

Nope. Turns out, it's a movie starring my husband Clive Owen. The trailer made it seem like it was kind of, maybe, a little bit alright. Look, I'm just going to shoot you straight here: it looked awful. Like it had a serious Bourne Identity complex. But, it has Clive Owen and it's important to support your fake celebrity spouses in whatever endeavors they take on. Otherwise they'll leave you for "real women" who don't "stalk their houses" at "all hours".*

Here is my official take on the movie: it blew. I don't really even know what it was about. Something about banks and missiles and the Israeli government. I can't be totally sure because I was distracted by this the entire time:





You guys, I don't think there was one scene where he didn't have dirt on his face. Not. One. And it was glorious. The movie takes place internationally (I totally didn't see that coming!) at all these gorgeous places. I suppose the reasoning for this was to advance the so-called story, but all I kept thinking was, "I would do Clive Owen in Milan. I would also do Clive Owen in Istanbul, and Paris, and, good god yes in New York." I'm pretty sure that's what the filmmakers would have wanted me to think.

So, to sum up, if you're interested in well-crafted and thought out storytelling, don't see this. Don't even see the movie playing in the room next to this. It's that bad.

But if you're going specifically for ogling purposes, you won't be disappointed.


*Allegedly, of course.

Breakfast memories

I went to breakfast with my dad this morning. Nothing fancy, just a little mom and pop diner close to our house. This morning was the first morning in the past two days that I haven't felt like bursting into tears.

Over pancakes, we talked about the family. We talked about my Tata, my brothers, uncles and cousins. Then the conversation turned to my nana. Nana Irma died when I was five but I still miss her. I like to imagine what she would be like now, how she would react to the person I've become. I find myself wondering if she would be proud that I'm her granddaughter.

"I don't really have a lot of memories of her," I said. "But I like to think she was a no-nonsense woman. A strong woman, someone who was the rock of the family."

My dad drank his coffee and nodded. "She was a good woman," he said. "If there was something that needed to be done, she didn't make a fuss about it, she just did it."

I suddenly felt very ashamed. I've spent the past few days mourning the past. I've beat myself up over things that I can't change. I've been focusing so much on what needs to be done and how I'm going to accomplish it instead of just doing it. I don't want to be a martyr, I just want to get my stuff done.

I look at my family and it's clear that I come from a strong line of women. From my grandmother to my own mother to my aunts and cousins, I think there is very little the women in my family can't accomplish. I think I possess the strength they all have, I just haven't been using it.

Still, I wish my Nana were alive. I wish I could ask her what she thought when she was my age and if she was happy with her life. I don't think people are ever satisfied with their lives. I don't think the doubts ever go away, it's just a matter of learning to work around it.

That still seems like a pretty raw deal. But there have been millions of people before me who made life work somehow. I just have to get on with myself.

A Harsh Wind

I am in a bad state.

I was in a bookstore tonight browsing and I couldn't find anything. Nothing in an entire store. I found myself standing in front of the Anthropology/Archaeology section and I just started crying. I scanned the title of each book until my eyes started to drown and couldn't focus. I tried to move away. There's a truth there I'm just not ready to face.

A few minutes later I was standing before a shelf of fiction, the K authors. I let my eyes roam around and they landed on The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. The tears came again. I once read a Kafka anthology and there was one story, I can't recall the title, but he wrote that story in one night. One night. I will never in my life be able to accomplish what one man could in one single evening.

I know it's pretentious to compare oneself to a literary master. I know that I will have time to figure it all out but I can't help but feel like a complete and total failure. What have I done with my life? Nothing that I can think of. I am the same person I was in high school. I am doing the same things and having the same conversations I was four years ago. The strides I have made since then are insignificant. I look at what I could potentially be doing and I am terrified. I am terrified that in four more years, I will be doing the exact same thing I'm doing now. I'm scared shitless that I am going to settle because it's comfortable and I'm too scared of change. I am fucking horrified that I am nothing but mediocre. I'm scared that I'm a bad writer, a bad friend, a bad sister, a bad employee, a bad daughter, a bad student and one royal fuck-up of a person in general.

I don't know where to go for answers. I don't even know that there are answers. I don't know how on earth I'm supposed to grow up and have a future when I'm not even sure what to make of my past. I don't know what it takes to be a successful, happy person. Can someone be happy? Or is it this constant cycle of wondering if you're good enough? Neither answer will make me feel better.

Fuck growing pains. Seriously.

I just put in new wallpaper...on the inside

Good evening, children.

I didn't mean for that to come off as creepy as I think it did. I promise I'm not in a windowless van with shag carpeting and candy (or am I?*).

I have a confession to make: I've been cheating on Second to a Sitcom. Yes, it may be shocking. But there comes a time when a girl and her blog just fall out of love. I still love STAS, but I'm just not in love with it anymore. That's the bad news.

The good news is I think I discovered why. STAS has become an obligation. It started out fun and fancy free and now I feel like it's become rather forced. I come home from a long day at work and it's "nag, nag," this and "the kids are hungry" that. I'll write something, come back and read it later and think, "Jee-eeeez, I'm retarded."

This is where the cheating comes in. I've been writing elsewhere instead of here. I actually get nervous to come here. I get cold sweats and my stomach starts somersaulting more than a five-year-old all hyped up on Fun Dip. I feel like STAS is judging me. "I know you've been writing all over town you harlot," I imagine it thinking. It's true though, I'm writing everywhere else except STAS. I'm like an addict; don't care where I get my writing fix as long as I get it. I'll write right here in this dirty alley on a dumpster instead of my nice, sweet, welcoming STAS.

For this I am sorry. To the readers, yes. But mostly to STAS. I'm sorry I done you wrong, baby. But if you take me back, I'll never do you wrong again.

Thus, I am going to do a bit of re-imaging of STAS. Yes, I'll still talk about nonsense. A girl can't be expected to be serious all the time. But I'm also going to talk about whatever comes to my mind and I feel like I need to write down. I like writing to an audience; maybe it's my middle-kid syndrome acting up. Or maybe it's because sometimes late at night when my ego had been inflated to maximum capacity, I think I can write. I don't know. Jury's deadlocked on that one.

STAS will go forward, but not as planned. I only have the half-assed, semi-thought out, above mentioned plan. And plans and me don't necessarily go hand in hand. I'm winging it, is what it comes down to.

So for now, STAS and I are staying together. You know, for the kids.

*I am!

Studying Is For Peasants

As part of my general education courses, I have to take some silly things that don't really relate to my major. It's stupid. I end up paying hundreds of dollars to take classes that are a.) boring and b.) information that there is no possible way I am going to retain after the final exam. You need to know the chemical reaction that occurs in humans when they "fall in love"? Sorry, can't help. My Human Sexuality course ended two semesters ago and that information is long gone.

But, because it's higher education and they're just after your money (and your braaaaaaains!), they insist you take these assface courses. Something about having a well-rounded education. I don't know, I'm not a professor.

One of the classes I'm taking that at least somewhat relates to what I'm studying is Spanish. I have some major issues with Spanish. The first of which being I am Mexican. That's right, third generation, baby. I know more Spanish swear words that I know what to do with (probably why there's no room for real information in my head). I watch novelas and know my way around Sabado Gigante. But I'm not fluent.

That's right: I'm a fraud.

An impostor.

A pretender. A poser. A big, fat phony.

I have a huge arrogance complex with learning Spanish. I refuse to put my 100% effort into it because I feel like I should already know it. It's embarrassing, especially living in the southwest. Especially living in the southwest with a Mexican name. Especially living in the southwest with a Mexican name and having a family who SPEAKS PERFECT SPANISH. And the Mexicans hate you when you're one of them and don't speak Spanish. They look at you and you can see it in their eyes. They're thinking, "You're not one of us, gringo. You can only say donde esta la biblioteca and un mas cerveza, por favor in Spanish. Pinche pendeja."

It sucks. I'm willing to do anything to learn Spanish except actually dedicate the time to sit down and study it. My pride simply will not allow it. Thus, I'm dedicating the time I would normally set aside for learning Spanish to making a time machine.


Roads? Where we're going we don't need roads!

Why? Because if I can go back in time, I'd insist that my parents teach me Spanish so I could avoid this whole situation. Plus, if I made a time machine I could patent it, sell it and pay someone to learn Spanish for me. Everyone wins.

Hold the Elevator

Remember the MTV show Daria?



There was an episode once where Daria and her pal Jane are going door to door selling chocolates. They stop at a house and knock on the door. They hear distant footsteps and some banging about. When the owner of the house finally opens the door, it's a large, sweaty woman in a moo-moo who is breathing rather heavily.

"Sorry girls," she says in a deep, mannish voice in between gasps of air. "I just came up from the basement."

Daria and Jane exchange looks and then offer her a chocolate bar. Because she's a hefty and, one can only assume, hungry woman, she agrees.

I don't remember the rest of the episode, but I'll always remember the way the big lady in the flowered moo-moo talked. My brothers and I cracked up at that and years later it still swims around in my head.

Today at work I was in the basement filling my water bottle. I usually make a bee-line to the elevator, but today I decided that I would spice up my morning routine and take the stairs. My office is on the 6th floor and each floor contains 2 flights of stairs. Including the stairs to get to the first floor, that's 14 flights of stairs.

Since I'm a masochist, I dropped a mental f-bomb to the stairs and started to climb.

2nd floor rolls around and I'm thinking, This isn't too bad. Not breathing too heavy and I can feel my heart rate climbing a little.

3rd floor comes into view and I'm thinking, Maybe I can bail here and take the elevator.

4th floor and I'm thinking, Shit! This was a bad idea. I haven't even broken in these shoes yet!

5th floor and I'm thinking, If I die in the stairwell, I wonder how long it'll be until someone finds my body. Is this why everyone in early America was fuckin' ripped, because they had no choice but to take stairs? No wonder they went and got themselves polio.

Finally, the 6th and final floor and I've never felt such sweet relief. I drag myself to my desk and make a mental note to burn down the stairwell.

"You alright?" my co-worker asks, amused.

"Sorry," I say between some heavy breathing. "I just came up from the basement."

Oh shit. At least I wasn't wearing a moo-moo.