Things I have searched for on the internet today:
- 30 Rock quotes
- Alec Baldwin (here's a fact that will blow your mind: he used to be hot! Who knew?)
- The Beetlejuice movie
- Batman
- Remember the Titans (I watched this yesterday. And a few days before that. And one time twice in the same day.)
- Lyrics to Shakira's La Tortura and Garth Brooks' Calling Baton Rouge
- Rosetta Stone*
- Craiglist part-time jobs
- Summer school classes
- University of We Just Raised Our Tuition's History Department admittance requirements
- My bank account statement
- Horoscopes
- Whores**
- Pie
That last one was right before lunch. I don't want you to think I have a whore-pie connection in my mind. Although if I was a working woman I might demand payment in the form of money and/or baked goods. That's how much I love myself...and pie.
My searches today pretty accurately reflect my life at the moment. A few searches for relevant and important things, like classes and jobs, but mostly overshadowed by things I'll never need for any reason whatsoever, like checking to see if Garth Brooks still tours. Answer: no.
*I'm going to be honest: I'd sell my first-born for Rosetta Stone. I'd probably even throw my second-born in for free because I'd be so amped I got a free Rosetta Stone. The less effort I have to put into learning another language, the better.
**I'm not just randomly searching for whores in the greater Tucson area. I was reading this article and things kind of got out of hand.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Because majoring in lightning rounds wasn't possible.
I'm KV and I'm majoring in something kind of ridiculous: history.
I should clarify by saying that I don't think it's ridiculous. History has always been a fascinating subject to me. Maybe it's because I always read it like a movie script. Hold the phone, the Aztecs thought Cortes was the god Quetzalcoatl? And he didn't even correct them but instead used their beliefs against them, formed alliances with other native tribes and decimated their empire? This stuff practically writes itself.
However, I'm a firm believer that you can't invest in a future if you don't know your past. History got a lot of things wrong, but it also got a lot of things right. I like knowing where I came from.
The problem with majoring in history is there's no definite job you can do after you graduate. If you're majoring in pre-med, for example, you go on to medical school and eventually become a doctor. Elementary Education majors go on to teach, political science majors go on to be lawyers or judges and philosophy majors go on to do a lot of drugs and read a lot of Hunter S. Thompson. It's just the way the world works.
The majority of history majors go on to teach it. I don't really want to do that. I've spent the last sixteen years in school and the last thing I want to do when I graduate is go back and teach punk-ass kids like myself. I don't care how many blazers with sewn in leather elbow pads I get to wear or how many wine and brie socials are included. No Dead Poets Society in this corner, thank you very much.
To be honest, I don't really know what I want to do after college. And for now I'm cool with that. Maybe it's because I'm naive, apathetic or just blindly buying into the "whatever is meant to happen will" philosophy, but I'm not really worried about it.
What does worry me, however, is the judgement I get from people when this exchange happens:
Stranger: Are you still going to school?
KV: Yeah.
Stranger: What are you majoring in?
KV: History.
Stranger: How neat! Are you planning to teach it?
KV: Not really. Teaching doesn't really interest me.
Stranger:...Well, good luck.
That's neat? Good luck? What the fuck does that mean? Just because I'm not majoring in saving the world or business economics doesn't mean that I'm going to graduate, live in an old refrigerator box beneath the underpass and fight bums for food.
I once had a co-worker tell me that majoring in history was "whimsical". It's not like I'm studying fairy dust or elves; it's history. Past civilizations, cultures and people are not whimsical. The people of yesteryear (actual year between the 3rd and 4th centuries) would rise from the grave and curse the holy hell out of this place if they heard that.
I don't know why having other people judge what I'm studying irks me. Maybe it's because I sometimes feel selfish studying something like history. It's completely self-indulgent, but nothing else interests me as much as it does. So screw it if I don't have a job planned out where I can use it, if I'm going to be paying 20 grand a year for college, it's going to be in a subject that I like.
I figure worse comes to worse, I can make a living traveling the world with a band of gypsies. Or befriend the philosophy students, read a bunch of Kafka and smoke a lot of weed. Win!
I should clarify by saying that I don't think it's ridiculous. History has always been a fascinating subject to me. Maybe it's because I always read it like a movie script. Hold the phone, the Aztecs thought Cortes was the god Quetzalcoatl? And he didn't even correct them but instead used their beliefs against them, formed alliances with other native tribes and decimated their empire? This stuff practically writes itself.
However, I'm a firm believer that you can't invest in a future if you don't know your past. History got a lot of things wrong, but it also got a lot of things right. I like knowing where I came from.
The problem with majoring in history is there's no definite job you can do after you graduate. If you're majoring in pre-med, for example, you go on to medical school and eventually become a doctor. Elementary Education majors go on to teach, political science majors go on to be lawyers or judges and philosophy majors go on to do a lot of drugs and read a lot of Hunter S. Thompson. It's just the way the world works.
The majority of history majors go on to teach it. I don't really want to do that. I've spent the last sixteen years in school and the last thing I want to do when I graduate is go back and teach punk-ass kids like myself. I don't care how many blazers with sewn in leather elbow pads I get to wear or how many wine and brie socials are included. No Dead Poets Society in this corner, thank you very much.
To be honest, I don't really know what I want to do after college. And for now I'm cool with that. Maybe it's because I'm naive, apathetic or just blindly buying into the "whatever is meant to happen will" philosophy, but I'm not really worried about it.
What does worry me, however, is the judgement I get from people when this exchange happens:
Stranger: Are you still going to school?
KV: Yeah.
Stranger: What are you majoring in?
KV: History.
Stranger: How neat! Are you planning to teach it?
KV: Not really. Teaching doesn't really interest me.
Stranger:...Well, good luck.
That's neat? Good luck? What the fuck does that mean? Just because I'm not majoring in saving the world or business economics doesn't mean that I'm going to graduate, live in an old refrigerator box beneath the underpass and fight bums for food.
I once had a co-worker tell me that majoring in history was "whimsical". It's not like I'm studying fairy dust or elves; it's history. Past civilizations, cultures and people are not whimsical. The people of yesteryear (actual year between the 3rd and 4th centuries) would rise from the grave and curse the holy hell out of this place if they heard that.
I don't know why having other people judge what I'm studying irks me. Maybe it's because I sometimes feel selfish studying something like history. It's completely self-indulgent, but nothing else interests me as much as it does. So screw it if I don't have a job planned out where I can use it, if I'm going to be paying 20 grand a year for college, it's going to be in a subject that I like.
I figure worse comes to worse, I can make a living traveling the world with a band of gypsies. Or befriend the philosophy students, read a bunch of Kafka and smoke a lot of weed. Win!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Pop Quiz
What are college kids doing with their paychecks?
A.) Blowing it on two-for-one drink specials every Thursday night.
B.) Bribing Sallie Mae loan services to forget our number.
C.) Saving it up to go to a university we can't afford.
D.) Buying blow from Shifty Petey on the corner.
E.) Forgetting all the debt we've collected during our time in college and spending it all on concert tickets.
Answer: Mother-effing E. Suck it, Sallie Mae!*
*Seriously, if there's any way you could forget my number that would be spectacular.
A.) Blowing it on two-for-one drink specials every Thursday night.
B.) Bribing Sallie Mae loan services to forget our number.
C.) Saving it up to go to a university we can't afford.
D.) Buying blow from Shifty Petey on the corner.
E.) Forgetting all the debt we've collected during our time in college and spending it all on concert tickets.
Answer: Mother-effing E. Suck it, Sallie Mae!*
*Seriously, if there's any way you could forget my number that would be spectacular.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
This fire is out of control.
This is going to be a glorious morning. Do you know how I know? Because it's Fire Guys morning. What's Fire Guys morning, you ask? Why do I keep asking you so many questions, you wonder? You didn't realize you were in for an early morning quiz, you say? Oh you.
In the line of work I do, I see my share of firefighters. They're a large part of the organization I work for. You know that stupid stereotype where women will see a firefighter and completely lose her mind? It's preposterous and, frankly, offensive. I want to set the record straight: it's most definitely not a stereotype. It's true life, baby. Real as Aretha Franklin's love of powdered donuts and "look at me" hats.
Is that a bear claw I see?
If you are a woman and you don't at the very least get a hot flash when you see a fireman then your ovaries are plotting against you. Get that checked out.
Unfortunately, the fire guys only come in occasionally because this is an office, not a forest. There aren't as many fires to be put out here.
Today is one of the mornings where the stars aligned and God said, "Bring the dudes," and for whatever reason, there are fire guys around. There's one standing at my desk right now. Swooooon.
Ahem, focus. So earlier I was minding my own business at my desk. Doing a little typing, sipping a little tea and completely and totally groping myself. It's laundry time so my choice of clean bras has been a little limited. I was forced to go with one that, as it turns out, is trying to strangle my boobs into submission. I had one hand in my shirt, trying to mediate the fight between breast and bra when a fire guy wanders up.
"Uh, morning," he says. Strike one.
I try to play it cool, like this guy didn't just watch me get to second base with myself.
"Hey, good morning," I say. "How's it going?"
He is beautiful. He has a sort of Roman haircut going on, like Russel Crowe in Gladiator minus the body armor (unfortunately). He's young, maybe a few years older than me. He's got a trimmed beard (hello, would you like to father my children?), muscles and a killer smile.
"I'm going to be in the conference room all day," he says. "But I was wondering if you had any Tums? My stomach is killing."
It's because it's trying to tell you that you're madly in love with me. Listen to your body, cute Fire Guy.
I scramble around my desk for Tums. Scramble is putting it nicely. I tore up every first aid kit, every drawer and every shelf in my area. All the while I'm trying to make small talk in the hopes that Fire Guy will realize that I'm hilarious and witty and he wants to elope with me.
"We have 5 first aid kits, one of them has to have Tums right?" I say.
He chuckles. Score. "I hope so. I think I just had too much coffee; had to get up early."
"Oh yeah, what office are you from?" I say.
"[Town four hours away]," he says.
"Oh lame," I say. I was about to say that if he moved to Tucson, he would never have to drive anywhere except over to my place, when I opened a cabinet and a glass vase fell out and shattered. Strike two.
"Shit," I say. I turn to face Fire Guy and he is giving me a look that says, "I didn't know our company hired the mentally handicapped."
"Sorry, but I think we're all out of the good stuff," I say. "You might check with Safety Officer down the hall. That guy has all the good pills." I laugh at my own joke and Fire Guy offers up a pity smirk.
"Uh, alright I'll go check," he says. He lingers for just a second, looking at the digital picture frame on Desk Mate's desk. I start walking towards another drawer to find something to clean up the broken glass with when I tripped on a loose piece of carpet and have to use a fan to keep myself and my dignity from crashing to the floor. Strike three.
Fire Guy was nice about it and pretended like I didn't just feel up the fan. Oh wait, I already felt something up this morning. That joke is tired.
I think it's best to observe the Fire Guys from a distance, lest I make more of a fool of myself. They may fight fires for a living, but they can never extinguish the fire in my heart. Or my pants. Maybe I should get that checked out.
In the line of work I do, I see my share of firefighters. They're a large part of the organization I work for. You know that stupid stereotype where women will see a firefighter and completely lose her mind? It's preposterous and, frankly, offensive. I want to set the record straight: it's most definitely not a stereotype. It's true life, baby. Real as Aretha Franklin's love of powdered donuts and "look at me" hats.
Is that a bear claw I see?
If you are a woman and you don't at the very least get a hot flash when you see a fireman then your ovaries are plotting against you. Get that checked out.
Unfortunately, the fire guys only come in occasionally because this is an office, not a forest. There aren't as many fires to be put out here.
Today is one of the mornings where the stars aligned and God said, "Bring the dudes," and for whatever reason, there are fire guys around. There's one standing at my desk right now. Swooooon.
Ahem, focus. So earlier I was minding my own business at my desk. Doing a little typing, sipping a little tea and completely and totally groping myself. It's laundry time so my choice of clean bras has been a little limited. I was forced to go with one that, as it turns out, is trying to strangle my boobs into submission. I had one hand in my shirt, trying to mediate the fight between breast and bra when a fire guy wanders up.
"Uh, morning," he says. Strike one.
I try to play it cool, like this guy didn't just watch me get to second base with myself.
"Hey, good morning," I say. "How's it going?"
He is beautiful. He has a sort of Roman haircut going on, like Russel Crowe in Gladiator minus the body armor (unfortunately). He's young, maybe a few years older than me. He's got a trimmed beard (hello, would you like to father my children?), muscles and a killer smile.
"I'm going to be in the conference room all day," he says. "But I was wondering if you had any Tums? My stomach is killing."
It's because it's trying to tell you that you're madly in love with me. Listen to your body, cute Fire Guy.
I scramble around my desk for Tums. Scramble is putting it nicely. I tore up every first aid kit, every drawer and every shelf in my area. All the while I'm trying to make small talk in the hopes that Fire Guy will realize that I'm hilarious and witty and he wants to elope with me.
"We have 5 first aid kits, one of them has to have Tums right?" I say.
He chuckles. Score. "I hope so. I think I just had too much coffee; had to get up early."
"Oh yeah, what office are you from?" I say.
"[Town four hours away]," he says.
"Oh lame," I say. I was about to say that if he moved to Tucson, he would never have to drive anywhere except over to my place, when I opened a cabinet and a glass vase fell out and shattered. Strike two.
"Shit," I say. I turn to face Fire Guy and he is giving me a look that says, "I didn't know our company hired the mentally handicapped."
"Sorry, but I think we're all out of the good stuff," I say. "You might check with Safety Officer down the hall. That guy has all the good pills." I laugh at my own joke and Fire Guy offers up a pity smirk.
"Uh, alright I'll go check," he says. He lingers for just a second, looking at the digital picture frame on Desk Mate's desk. I start walking towards another drawer to find something to clean up the broken glass with when I tripped on a loose piece of carpet and have to use a fan to keep myself and my dignity from crashing to the floor. Strike three.
Fire Guy was nice about it and pretended like I didn't just feel up the fan. Oh wait, I already felt something up this morning. That joke is tired.
I think it's best to observe the Fire Guys from a distance, lest I make more of a fool of myself. They may fight fires for a living, but they can never extinguish the fire in my heart. Or my pants. Maybe I should get that checked out.
Friday, March 20, 2009
R-r-r-rewind.
This weekend rocked my face so hard I didn't have time to blog about it. It had everything a weekend should have: snow cones, gut-punching laughter, tennis elbow and money winning. I just hit rewind so we're taking a (rather long) trip back in time.
Friday night I was psyched to have no plans. It was an insanely busy day at the office, a day that followed in the footsteps of the four days previous to it. The week decided that it was going to be a crazy bastard and throw everything my way. No time to file? Here's 50 things that need to be copied, collated and filed by the end of the day. There were so many people at my desk that I was considering opening a small bed and breakfast on the side. I would've called it I Need A Break(fast). Which is probably why I don't have a bed and breakfast. But I digress.
All I wanted to do Friday night was put in my time at the college track, rent a movie, change into pants with an elastic waistband and call it a night. I texted my pal Deezy to see if she wanted to join me at the track. She gave me a call a few minutes later.
"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go on a date with me?" she asked. "We could maybe go walking and then grab some appetizers and then maybe see a movie."
Food? Movies? Lady date? It took me a grand total of five seconds to say "hell motherfucking yeah!" before heading over. When I got to Deezy's place, she said she had a surprise for me. I was instantly excited. Deezy is the type of lady who is the epitome of spontaneous. I've always been intrigued by that, so when Deezy says "surprise" it usually means that she has something that will make me squeal in delight and/or poo myself with excitement. I mean, what? I don't poo my pants.
Awkward.
Deezy, as always, delivered the goods. She took me to a raspado place by her apartment. A raspado, for my non-Mexican, non-Arizona living folks, is a snow cone but made with real fruit. It's like a Mexican Diet Coke; not really healthy for you, but it tricks you into believing it is. And this place was legit*. It was a shabby little building on the side of the road in the ghetto part of town and everyone there spoke Spanish. I even ordered my shit in Spanish because I wanted to fit in. The signs were hand lettered on cardboard and the inside of it smelled like fruit. I got a little something called a mangoyada, which was mangos, lime and chamoy. Holy God, it was delicious. The raspado burst into my mouth and held a fruit fueled rave on my tongue. My taste buds were flipping the fuck out.
KV: I'm so excited I can't even get it in my mouth!
Deezy: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Friday night I was psyched to have no plans. It was an insanely busy day at the office, a day that followed in the footsteps of the four days previous to it. The week decided that it was going to be a crazy bastard and throw everything my way. No time to file? Here's 50 things that need to be copied, collated and filed by the end of the day. There were so many people at my desk that I was considering opening a small bed and breakfast on the side. I would've called it I Need A Break(fast). Which is probably why I don't have a bed and breakfast. But I digress.
All I wanted to do Friday night was put in my time at the college track, rent a movie, change into pants with an elastic waistband and call it a night. I texted my pal Deezy to see if she wanted to join me at the track. She gave me a call a few minutes later.
"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go on a date with me?" she asked. "We could maybe go walking and then grab some appetizers and then maybe see a movie."
Food? Movies? Lady date? It took me a grand total of five seconds to say "hell motherfucking yeah!" before heading over. When I got to Deezy's place, she said she had a surprise for me. I was instantly excited. Deezy is the type of lady who is the epitome of spontaneous. I've always been intrigued by that, so when Deezy says "surprise" it usually means that she has something that will make me squeal in delight and/or poo myself with excitement. I mean, what? I don't poo my pants.
Awkward.
Deezy, as always, delivered the goods. She took me to a raspado place by her apartment. A raspado, for my non-Mexican, non-Arizona living folks, is a snow cone but made with real fruit. It's like a Mexican Diet Coke; not really healthy for you, but it tricks you into believing it is. And this place was legit*. It was a shabby little building on the side of the road in the ghetto part of town and everyone there spoke Spanish. I even ordered my shit in Spanish because I wanted to fit in. The signs were hand lettered on cardboard and the inside of it smelled like fruit. I got a little something called a mangoyada, which was mangos, lime and chamoy. Holy God, it was delicious. The raspado burst into my mouth and held a fruit fueled rave on my tongue. My taste buds were flipping the fuck out.
KV: I'm so excited I can't even get it in my mouth!
Deezy: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
If it were possible to marry, impregnate and spawn more baby raspados, I would've done it. Let's legalize that, America.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday some of my aunts and cousins came down to spend the weekend with us. It's always amazing to me that my cousins aren't the babies I remember them being. Suddenly everyone is 16 and pretty and muscular and knows everything about Ozzy Osbourne and Rhianna. And before you know it they're finding your phone, scrolling through your texts and asking why you say fuck a lot and asking what being drunk is like. Go ask your parents.
My cousins are awesome though. It's nice that they're older because I feel like we have more to talk about. I finally have someone to impart life advice to, like when I told my 16 and 14-year-old cousins that "High school should be fun. Don't spend it listening to Radiohead and writing shitty poetry." Take that all the way to the bank, kids.
But the real joy in Saturday was Cosmic Bingo. Yes, bingo. And let me tell you this shit is the greatest discovery I've ever made. Before you judge me and think, "So when did you turn 87 again?", you should know the tagline for Cosmic Bingo is "it's not your grandma's bingo". So suck it.
Bingo is hosted by a drag queen and there are drinks, food and music. Those last three are pretty much all the incentive I need to go anywhere. Usually Garland, M and myself are the only ones down to go, but this weekend we packed up and took my parents, my aunts, Garland's sister and her fiance and Tata. We've been plenty of times but have never won anything but the shaft and a sense of failure. The drinks help ease the bingo losses.
Saturday night was a different story. There I was, playing my bingo cards, following every number the caller called out. I had one number to go, O-74. And let me tell you, that bastard took it's sweet ass time showing up. Oh hey, O-74, glad you could make it to the party. Why am I sweating so much? No reason, just wondering if you were going to bingo rape me again.
But there it was in all it's glory. O-motherfucking-74. BINGO! I screamed it at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, so did someones grandma with a breathing tube. Even though breathing tube, pink pantsuit lady edged in on my bingo winnings, I still collected $100 clams. A single, beautiful Benjamin was heading my way. In your face, Indian Casino. It only took me a year of -coming to bingo to win my money back. Eff. Yes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After Saturday's bingo excitement, Sunday was relatively low key. We headed to a street fair downtown. There were all your usual assortment of downtown Tucsonans: hippies, college kids, drunkards, wannabe revolutionaries and people like me, who just came for the snow cones.
And all I had to do was sell my soul!
After the street fair, Red and I headed to the high school across the street from our house to play some tennis. I should start by saying that I don't play tennis. Red has a friend who is teaching him, and when I found out about this I insisted that he teach me. We went out and bought the cheapest racket we could find. A tennis racket that, apparently, was special made by Thor for The Hulk. This racket will fuck shit up. It also gave me the urge to talk mean shit.
The phrase "Suck Penn balls!" was uttered more than once.
Fortunately, Red and I were the only ones who were on the courts so nobody could see how awful I was or how many tennis balls I had shoved in my pants. I might suck at tennis, but my right arm is going to be ripped. I'll look like Freddy Rodriguez in Lady in the Water.
Discounted tickets to the gun show sold here.
The weekend was great. Most weekends serve as a reminder that there's more to life than the work week and school. This weekend, however, blew my shit up and was like, "Fuck being depressed. Put the sucking on hold and have some fun." Thanks for being such a foul-mouthed joy, Weekend.
*I was wearing a band t-shirt that said Dios Malos on it. In Spanish, it translates to Bad God or something along those lines. There was a Nana in front of me who looked at my shirt, looked at me and then gave me a rather disapproving look. I could hear her thinking, "This bitch better be going to church after this." If a Mexican Nana isn't silently judging you, it's not a legit Mexican place.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
I never could get the hang of Thursdays.
I've been a bit lost as of late. But unlike the TV show, there's no Matthew Fox or guy who plays Sayid to save me with sexy glances or explain to me what the eff is going on with all this time travel debauchery (seriously Richard Alpert, you have to be at least 100).
No, when I say lost I mean I am completely and totally unsure what I'm doing with my life. I mean sure, I'm going to school, I work, I have a social life, but what's the point of it all? Why am I doing it and why does it all feel so unrewarding? The biggest question of all, though, is how do I come back from this? How do I get found again?
Answer: beats me. I don't know and I get the feeling that I'll never know. Some days I'm okay with that and other days it terrifies me so much that I feel like curling into myself and disappearing. On the latter sort of days, I usually end up spending all day staring off into space with a nice, solid glaze over my eyes. The type of look that makes people think, "Is she thinking really hard about something or is she just high?" Hint: sadly it's not the high one.
Fortunately, I have some friends and family who are nice enough to listen to the ramblings of a confused little girl. I get some good advice from them.
"It's alright to just go through the motions sometimes."
"Your job doesn't define you."
"You're 21. You're not going to have it all figured out now and you shouldn't expect to."
"Why are you giving all your power over to someone? You're better than that."
"Don't wear white shorts with red underwear."
I usually feel better after talking to whoever drew the short straw and had to listen my complaints. Sometimes, however, advice comes to me from a somewhat unlikely source: Rex Grayskull, iPod extraordinaire. I knew if I paid $300 for an iPod it would give me life advice. Win.
I was driving into work this morning, still a little upset from my recent vacation to the dark side and trying to remember if I had any gum in my purse (answer: no). Rex was going through his morning shuffle when "I Want To Break Free" by Queen came on. One of the things I've been trying to sort through is my dependency on others. I like my friends and family, but there are times when I think I have to be a (wo)man about things and handle my business without all the fuss. Freddy Mercury seems to have discovered that several years before I was born.
This looks like a dude who knows his shit.
After the song was done, I felt a little better.
I can handle this, I thought. Next up was the song "Piece of My Heart" by Janis Joplin. I've been a casual Janis fan and can't listen to her without the overwhelming urge to get shitfaced, wear flowers and punch someone int he name of women everywhere. Peace and love my ass. But this morning I almost did a fist pump in the air when she screamed/sang (scranged? seamed?) the part that went, "take it!" Fuck. Yes. My heart is indeed a little battered and kind of split and broken in a few places. And the majority of the time it hurts like a mother (not literally. Nobody worry, I'm not going into cardiac arrest, unless by "arrest" you mean "nap time"), but life isn't all puppies and rainbows or rainbows made of puppies. It blows a lot of the time. And cheesy as it is, it's enormously gratifying to get through the hard times and feel like I've one upped life just by manning up and getting through it. In your face, Life. Ball's in your court assface.
Janis and Freddy gave me some good advice this morning. I walked into work feeling better. Today, I will conquer my little corner of the world. Tomorrow I might be back to being mopey and terrified, but today, well today I'm going to win because I have to. Because today there's really no other way to live than by saying, "Fuck it, I'm going for it."
No, when I say lost I mean I am completely and totally unsure what I'm doing with my life. I mean sure, I'm going to school, I work, I have a social life, but what's the point of it all? Why am I doing it and why does it all feel so unrewarding? The biggest question of all, though, is how do I come back from this? How do I get found again?
Answer: beats me. I don't know and I get the feeling that I'll never know. Some days I'm okay with that and other days it terrifies me so much that I feel like curling into myself and disappearing. On the latter sort of days, I usually end up spending all day staring off into space with a nice, solid glaze over my eyes. The type of look that makes people think, "Is she thinking really hard about something or is she just high?" Hint: sadly it's not the high one.
Fortunately, I have some friends and family who are nice enough to listen to the ramblings of a confused little girl. I get some good advice from them.
"It's alright to just go through the motions sometimes."
"Your job doesn't define you."
"You're 21. You're not going to have it all figured out now and you shouldn't expect to."
"Why are you giving all your power over to someone? You're better than that."
"Don't wear white shorts with red underwear."
I usually feel better after talking to whoever drew the short straw and had to listen my complaints. Sometimes, however, advice comes to me from a somewhat unlikely source: Rex Grayskull, iPod extraordinaire. I knew if I paid $300 for an iPod it would give me life advice. Win.
I was driving into work this morning, still a little upset from my recent vacation to the dark side and trying to remember if I had any gum in my purse (answer: no). Rex was going through his morning shuffle when "I Want To Break Free" by Queen came on. One of the things I've been trying to sort through is my dependency on others. I like my friends and family, but there are times when I think I have to be a (wo)man about things and handle my business without all the fuss. Freddy Mercury seems to have discovered that several years before I was born.
This looks like a dude who knows his shit.
After the song was done, I felt a little better.
I can handle this, I thought. Next up was the song "Piece of My Heart" by Janis Joplin. I've been a casual Janis fan and can't listen to her without the overwhelming urge to get shitfaced, wear flowers and punch someone int he name of women everywhere. Peace and love my ass. But this morning I almost did a fist pump in the air when she screamed/sang (scranged? seamed?) the part that went, "take it!" Fuck. Yes. My heart is indeed a little battered and kind of split and broken in a few places. And the majority of the time it hurts like a mother (not literally. Nobody worry, I'm not going into cardiac arrest, unless by "arrest" you mean "nap time"), but life isn't all puppies and rainbows or rainbows made of puppies. It blows a lot of the time. And cheesy as it is, it's enormously gratifying to get through the hard times and feel like I've one upped life just by manning up and getting through it. In your face, Life. Ball's in your court assface.
Janis and Freddy gave me some good advice this morning. I walked into work feeling better. Today, I will conquer my little corner of the world. Tomorrow I might be back to being mopey and terrified, but today, well today I'm going to win because I have to. Because today there's really no other way to live than by saying, "Fuck it, I'm going for it."
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
I wonder if St. Patrick got drunk and sang along to Queen.
I was very excited to go out for St. Patrick's Day yesterday. I'm not Irish, but I do appreciate alcohol. I think that's all that's required in order to participate. And something about potato famine and civil war, but I don't know. I'm not a historian.*
Mostly though, it was my first St. Paddy's Day that I could go out to the bars like the rest of the drunkards. I was determined to make it a night to remember. And in many ways, it was.
My night ended up being a series of epic wins and epic fails and ended in my driving home sobbing while listening to classical music. Epic fail. Thus, I present to you my St. Paddy's Day re-cap.
Win
I felt pretty confident on my way out to pre-game at a friend's house. I found this awesome vest that I was pretty psyched to wear.
Fail
As soon as I got to my friend's house, I spilled Rolling Rock all over the vest.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I have a co-worker who does security at the bar we were going to go to. It was very crowded, since it was A.) an Irish themed pub, B.) right next to the state university and C.) it is common knowledge college kids will do almost anything to get shitfaced and not remember their own names. However, my co-worker said he could get myself and my friends in no matter how busy. Score!
Fail
We ended up going to another, still just as crowded bar where I couldn't flaunt my street cred. Although this turned out to be a win in the end.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
We had to park super far away and I had to pee like nobody's business (seriously, it's none of your beeswax what goes on between me and my lady parts). You might think this should be in the "fail" category, but we stopped at a closer bar on the way to the other bar where the rest of our friends were to "use the restroom", and by that I mean we stopped to drink some green beer. Green beer, I should mention, that I didn't have to pay for.
Fail
After chugging my third glass of green beer, I felt my tummy do the "uh-oh, I think you might be puking at the end of the night" dance. I penciled in an appointment with Dr. Porcelain and his assistant, the bathroom floor.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I only paid for one drink the entire night. My friends were awesome and bought me the majority of what I consumed.
Fail
I eventually ended up on the dark side. I had a very intense conversation with a friend about how much I want to drive into the sunset because it would be neat and there's the off chance I might catch on fire.
KV: I think catching on fire would end most of my problems.
Friend: Yeah, except you'd be on fire.
KV: I guess you're right. I didn't think about that.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
While waiting in the line to get drinks (for fifteen minutes! Christ!), a cute boy with green suspenders, a green t-shirt and a green top hat turns around to chat.
"Be honest," he says. "Is this ensemble too much?"
I instantly think yes, but it takes a man with rather large cojones to both wear suspenders over a t-shirt and say the word "ensemble" with a straight face. Also he is cute and I have been drinking and everyone knows that means I instantly wanted to make out with his face.
"No," I respond. "I think the suspenders add a certain amount of awesome while the hat says 'I'm Irish but not a dick about it'."
Did it make sense? No. Did the boy laugh? Yes.
Fail
The boy turned back to his group of friends and nuzzled up next to another gentleman. Damn.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I met some friends of a friend who turned out to be hilarious, awesome people.
This exchange happened:
Boy: Hey, my name is Casey.
KV: I'm KV.
Casey: KV, that's a rad name.
Fail
The rest of the exchange went like this:
KV: Thanks! After Hurricane Katrina, every new person I met asked how I felt about it because my name so closely resembles Katrina.
Casey: That's weird.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
On the drive home, one of the new people I had met requested a sing-along.
"Let's listen to something by Queen or Selena!" she said. I think I told her I loved her.
Fail
I was so schwasted I botched most of the words to "Bidi Bidi Bom Bom". Seconds later, my Mexican card was revoked.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
On the way home we stopped at Del Taco to get some food. If your night of drinking doesn't end with Mexican food, then you're doing something wrong.
Fail
After my friend had dropped everyone off, I started crying and telling her how much I hate my life. I was so anxious to get out of her car, get away from everyone and drive home that I forgot to grab my food from her.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I started the beginning of the night excited and optimistic, wearing awesome green jewelry and a sweet vest.
Taken super sneakily at the bank.
Fail
Like I mentioned, there was the business on the way home with the sobbing and the Bach. I came home, took off my pants, sent some mean text messages to some friends and called it a night. I woke up like I do most other mornings: having to pee and listening to my dog clawing at the door. Also I looked like someone put me through a trash compactor and smothered me in failure.
Nothing says I'm a winner in life like an oversized Rocky t-shirt.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aside from all the fails of the evening, I did have a lot of fun hanging out with some of my friends. There was, admittedly, some grade-A bullshit that took place, but the alcohol seemed to make everything not matter as much. I'd say the Irish are on to something there.
*Lies. Although here's a smidgen of truth: I'm lazy and still hungover. Hungover blogging not so great.
Mostly though, it was my first St. Paddy's Day that I could go out to the bars like the rest of the drunkards. I was determined to make it a night to remember. And in many ways, it was.
My night ended up being a series of epic wins and epic fails and ended in my driving home sobbing while listening to classical music. Epic fail. Thus, I present to you my St. Paddy's Day re-cap.
Win
I felt pretty confident on my way out to pre-game at a friend's house. I found this awesome vest that I was pretty psyched to wear.
Fail
As soon as I got to my friend's house, I spilled Rolling Rock all over the vest.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I have a co-worker who does security at the bar we were going to go to. It was very crowded, since it was A.) an Irish themed pub, B.) right next to the state university and C.) it is common knowledge college kids will do almost anything to get shitfaced and not remember their own names. However, my co-worker said he could get myself and my friends in no matter how busy. Score!
Fail
We ended up going to another, still just as crowded bar where I couldn't flaunt my street cred. Although this turned out to be a win in the end.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
We had to park super far away and I had to pee like nobody's business (seriously, it's none of your beeswax what goes on between me and my lady parts). You might think this should be in the "fail" category, but we stopped at a closer bar on the way to the other bar where the rest of our friends were to "use the restroom", and by that I mean we stopped to drink some green beer. Green beer, I should mention, that I didn't have to pay for.
Fail
After chugging my third glass of green beer, I felt my tummy do the "uh-oh, I think you might be puking at the end of the night" dance. I penciled in an appointment with Dr. Porcelain and his assistant, the bathroom floor.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I only paid for one drink the entire night. My friends were awesome and bought me the majority of what I consumed.
Fail
I eventually ended up on the dark side. I had a very intense conversation with a friend about how much I want to drive into the sunset because it would be neat and there's the off chance I might catch on fire.
KV: I think catching on fire would end most of my problems.
Friend: Yeah, except you'd be on fire.
KV: I guess you're right. I didn't think about that.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
While waiting in the line to get drinks (for fifteen minutes! Christ!), a cute boy with green suspenders, a green t-shirt and a green top hat turns around to chat.
"Be honest," he says. "Is this ensemble too much?"
I instantly think yes, but it takes a man with rather large cojones to both wear suspenders over a t-shirt and say the word "ensemble" with a straight face. Also he is cute and I have been drinking and everyone knows that means I instantly wanted to make out with his face.
"No," I respond. "I think the suspenders add a certain amount of awesome while the hat says 'I'm Irish but not a dick about it'."
Did it make sense? No. Did the boy laugh? Yes.
Fail
The boy turned back to his group of friends and nuzzled up next to another gentleman. Damn.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I met some friends of a friend who turned out to be hilarious, awesome people.
This exchange happened:
Boy: Hey, my name is Casey.
KV: I'm KV.
Casey: KV, that's a rad name.
Fail
The rest of the exchange went like this:
KV: Thanks! After Hurricane Katrina, every new person I met asked how I felt about it because my name so closely resembles Katrina.
Casey: That's weird.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
On the drive home, one of the new people I had met requested a sing-along.
"Let's listen to something by Queen or Selena!" she said. I think I told her I loved her.
Fail
I was so schwasted I botched most of the words to "Bidi Bidi Bom Bom". Seconds later, my Mexican card was revoked.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
On the way home we stopped at Del Taco to get some food. If your night of drinking doesn't end with Mexican food, then you're doing something wrong.
Fail
After my friend had dropped everyone off, I started crying and telling her how much I hate my life. I was so anxious to get out of her car, get away from everyone and drive home that I forgot to grab my food from her.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Win
I started the beginning of the night excited and optimistic, wearing awesome green jewelry and a sweet vest.
Taken super sneakily at the bank.
Fail
Like I mentioned, there was the business on the way home with the sobbing and the Bach. I came home, took off my pants, sent some mean text messages to some friends and called it a night. I woke up like I do most other mornings: having to pee and listening to my dog clawing at the door. Also I looked like someone put me through a trash compactor and smothered me in failure.
Nothing says I'm a winner in life like an oversized Rocky t-shirt.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aside from all the fails of the evening, I did have a lot of fun hanging out with some of my friends. There was, admittedly, some grade-A bullshit that took place, but the alcohol seemed to make everything not matter as much. I'd say the Irish are on to something there.
*Lies. Although here's a smidgen of truth: I'm lazy and still hungover. Hungover blogging not so great.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Cena-riffic
I don't really like talking on the phone. I never really have. I don't get people who are all about it either. When I was in high school, I spent most of my time with one particular friend. We had most of our classes together, ate lunch together and I often gave her a ride home. As soon as I walked in the door, she'd call me. You know, just to say hi and see what was new.
Just to say hi? We just spent all day talking to each other! What on earth could you possibly have to say to me after spending 8 hours together? And as for what's new, you mean what's new in the half hour since you saw me last? Good Christ, didn't you get enough of me during the day?
Can one ever really get enough of this?
That has been my general phone philosophy for years. If you have something to say to me, do it like a real person and text me. Aside from taking millions of pictures of my dog, Simon, I generally use my phone for texting purposes. It works perfectly since I hate talking on the phone but would die if I couldn't text. Literally. It's a rare genetic condition called Ceasingtobewithoutunlimitedtextsitis. There was a show about it on Discovery Health Channel called 'The Girl Who Had to Text or Her Face Would Melt Off'. True story.*
So today, I get a text from my goddaughter, D. I was surprised because D is ten. She is an awesome goddaughter. One of my favorite things about her, though, is that she's a tomboy. I was at her house a few weekends ago and she was watching Friday Night Smackdown. I told her I thought it was cool that she was watching that, and she surprised me even more by bringing down a John Cena action figure and a play wrestling ring. I was impressed.
We chatted about what we were doing (her- watching TV, me- taking some names on a crossword puzzle book) before our conversation turned to this:
KV: Did you hear that John Cena is making a new movie?
D: Yeah. I really want to see it.
KV: I hope it's better than his last one. If not at least he still has wrestling to go back to.
D: If it's bad he should just stick to things that he's good at like wrestling. He's good at that.
KV: I agree. You should write him a letter.
D: Duh! I did.
I'll have this conversation in my phone for a while. So whenever the clusterfuck of sadness that is occasionally my life decides to step in to say hello, I can scroll back to this conversation and feel better.
And that, my friends, is why texting is better than talking on the phone. Good day to you!
*Not at all a true story.
Just to say hi? We just spent all day talking to each other! What on earth could you possibly have to say to me after spending 8 hours together? And as for what's new, you mean what's new in the half hour since you saw me last? Good Christ, didn't you get enough of me during the day?
Can one ever really get enough of this?
That has been my general phone philosophy for years. If you have something to say to me, do it like a real person and text me. Aside from taking millions of pictures of my dog, Simon, I generally use my phone for texting purposes. It works perfectly since I hate talking on the phone but would die if I couldn't text. Literally. It's a rare genetic condition called Ceasingtobewithoutunlimitedtextsitis. There was a show about it on Discovery Health Channel called 'The Girl Who Had to Text or Her Face Would Melt Off'. True story.*
So today, I get a text from my goddaughter, D. I was surprised because D is ten. She is an awesome goddaughter. One of my favorite things about her, though, is that she's a tomboy. I was at her house a few weekends ago and she was watching Friday Night Smackdown. I told her I thought it was cool that she was watching that, and she surprised me even more by bringing down a John Cena action figure and a play wrestling ring. I was impressed.
We chatted about what we were doing (her- watching TV, me- taking some names on a crossword puzzle book) before our conversation turned to this:
KV: Did you hear that John Cena is making a new movie?
D: Yeah. I really want to see it.
KV: I hope it's better than his last one. If not at least he still has wrestling to go back to.
D: If it's bad he should just stick to things that he's good at like wrestling. He's good at that.
KV: I agree. You should write him a letter.
D: Duh! I did.
I'll have this conversation in my phone for a while. So whenever the clusterfuck of sadness that is occasionally my life decides to step in to say hello, I can scroll back to this conversation and feel better.
And that, my friends, is why texting is better than talking on the phone. Good day to you!
*Not at all a true story.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Nobody likes Julia Roberts anyway
Sometimes I have a hard time with things. Things, in this case, is all encompassing. Every once in a while everything seems to cave in at exactly the same time. Like an earthquake, except instead of plates in the earth shifting it's serotonin levels in my brain freaking the fuck out. So, y'know, basically the same thing.
When my head decides to take it upon itself to bring the crazy*, it can be really hard to see the silver lining. This time, the silver lining came in the mail.
It was so nice of Entertainment Weekly to do a cover story on me and my celebrity husband, Clive Owen. Not like those biased cheese wieners over at People magazine who haven't named Clive Owen Sexiest Man Alive yet. There's only so many times you can name Brad Pitt or George Clooney sexiest men alive, People Magazine. Jeez guys, get it together.
*Do you guys think Bring the Crazy would be a good movie title? I could follow it up with a sequel, Bringing the Crazy 2: I Think Blue People Are Following Me. Someone get Paramount on the phone.
When my head decides to take it upon itself to bring the crazy*, it can be really hard to see the silver lining. This time, the silver lining came in the mail.
It was so nice of Entertainment Weekly to do a cover story on me and my celebrity husband, Clive Owen. Not like those biased cheese wieners over at People magazine who haven't named Clive Owen Sexiest Man Alive yet. There's only so many times you can name Brad Pitt or George Clooney sexiest men alive, People Magazine. Jeez guys, get it together.
*Do you guys think Bring the Crazy would be a good movie title? I could follow it up with a sequel, Bringing the Crazy 2: I Think Blue People Are Following Me. Someone get Paramount on the phone.
Friday, March 13, 2009
What I learned in college.
I had to give an oral presentation in my Spanish class as part of my final exam. I spent all night stressing about it, for reasons that now seem really silly. Mostly because my presentation went a little something like this:
KV: I know we were supposed to memorize it, but is it okay if I read from index cards?
Professor: Yeah, sure. That's fine.
KV: (read a two minute presentation about quinceaneras, the Mexican answer to a sweet-16. Less cars to be given out, but definitely more booze to be had.)
KV: Almost all the girls in my family have had a quinceanera. And with 20+ cousins, that's a lot of quinces.
Professor: Don't take this the wrong way, but your family must spend a fortune! I would think it reaches a point where nobody wants to hear the word quinceanera anymore.
KV: Not really. My family is really into partying. Any excuse to drink and dance is cool by us.
We spent the next five minutes talking about parties. My professor then told me to have a good spring break and "not worry about this class anymore." I spent most of the day yesterday worrying about this presentation. Slaving over making a poster. Pouring over my Spanish book until my eyes refused to focus. I may have even paid Red to help translate some things from English to Spanish. Nothing that can be proven of course.
My point being I spent all that time for nothing. I was in and out in an hour and a half. It felt super anti-climactic but after thinking about it, all I have to say is hot damn! That's what I call a final.
And who am I to disagree with a teacher who tells me to have a good spring break and not worry about school? Nay, to disagree with the entire educational system? I mean, it'd be a slap in the face to educators everywhere if I didn't go out and not worry about Spanish class. And I'm not one to slap faces. Not today, anyway.
KV: I know we were supposed to memorize it, but is it okay if I read from index cards?
Professor: Yeah, sure. That's fine.
KV: (read a two minute presentation about quinceaneras, the Mexican answer to a sweet-16. Less cars to be given out, but definitely more booze to be had.)
KV: Almost all the girls in my family have had a quinceanera. And with 20+ cousins, that's a lot of quinces.
Professor: Don't take this the wrong way, but your family must spend a fortune! I would think it reaches a point where nobody wants to hear the word quinceanera anymore.
KV: Not really. My family is really into partying. Any excuse to drink and dance is cool by us.
We spent the next five minutes talking about parties. My professor then told me to have a good spring break and "not worry about this class anymore." I spent most of the day yesterday worrying about this presentation. Slaving over making a poster. Pouring over my Spanish book until my eyes refused to focus. I may have even paid Red to help translate some things from English to Spanish. Nothing that can be proven of course.
My point being I spent all that time for nothing. I was in and out in an hour and a half. It felt super anti-climactic but after thinking about it, all I have to say is hot damn! That's what I call a final.
And who am I to disagree with a teacher who tells me to have a good spring break and not worry about school? Nay, to disagree with the entire educational system? I mean, it'd be a slap in the face to educators everywhere if I didn't go out and not worry about Spanish class. And I'm not one to slap faces. Not today, anyway.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
And in my third life, I was a gypsy
I've been listening to this guy Beirut a lot lately. I don't know what it is, but the guy soothes me. He plays this gypsy sounding music that is heavy on the accordion and not at all shy about making me want to purchase a tambourine and start a traveling band. Or belly dance.
Pretty sure it'd look a little something like this.
I'm starting to think that there are very few problems in my life that can't be solved with a dance party.
Pretty sure it'd look a little something like this.
I'm starting to think that there are very few problems in my life that can't be solved with a dance party.
Monday, March 9, 2009
What a crazy assemblence of thoughts!
I feel like smashing something today.
Okay, that's a bit of a lie. I feel like thinking about smashing things and maybe paying someone to do it for me because I am lazy. It's a mix of laziness and rage today, kiddos. I don't really know why. Maybe it's because it's Monday. Or maybe it's because I spent most of my weekend avoiding my friends for no good reason other than I'm growing increasingly more anti-social and I really, really wanted to stay in bed watching 30 Rock all weekend. On the Scale of Awesome, 1 being finding bugs in your pancake mix (after you've eaten enough to open an IHOP in your belly) and 10 being having Mr. T come to you for advice on how to be cool, I'd rate myself at an easy 4.
I don't know what it is, but I've got a mean case of the I-don't-want-to-do-anything-but-lay-in-bed-and-watch-TV-on-DVDs. It's a serious disease, okay? You can totally confirm it on WebMD.*
However, because it's generally unacceptable to spend all day in bed when you're not dying, I find myself trying to be productive. It's, um, sort of working. I do, however, have some thoughts on my mind. And since you voluntarily came here, you get to read them. Score!
1. I learned how to use the Genius feature on Rex Greyskull today. And when I say "learned how" I mean I pressed a bunch of buttons simultaneously until Rex threw a bunch of southern blues at me and told me to stop touching his buttons. Genius is the best feature ever, especially for a lazy lady like myself. Why would I do something myself when I can just have technology do it for me?
2. I spent half an hour on IMDB searching Patrick Wilson. Did you ever see the movie Hard Candy? You know, the one with Ellen Page before she started annoying the bejeezus out of everyone? The plot of the movie, for those who haven't seen it, is Ellen Page plays a teenage girl (shocker) who starts up an inappropriate relationship with the sort-of pedophile, 100% creeper Patrick Wilson. But, uh oh, things aren't what they seem and suddenly there is a fan and it is covered in shit because, damn! your mind just got blown. I don't need proper punctuation here folks. In any case, the entire time I was watching that movie I was thinking, "This is some messed up stuff, but I would totally do the guy who plays the creeper." They were very confusing, albeit totally hot, feelings.
Um, where was I? Oh yeah, I spent most of the day IMDBing P.Wils because I took in a screening of Watchmen last night and, Pat Wilsonofabitch, there he was! Which leads me to #3,
3. I came up with a one sentence review of Watchmen:
Zack Snyder needs to ease up on the slo-mo.
Listen, don't tell the fanboys, but I didn't think the movie was that terrible. My friend Dave let me borrow the graphic novel a few years ago and I was blown away. But it's no secret that Hollywood loves to take great books, change their entire content, poo on 'em a little and release it into the world. Cut, print, someone get me a martini. There's no comparison between the movie and the book; the book is so much better. That'd be like comparing a goldfish with a shark, except the shark has a rocket launcher strapped to it's back and makes you think about life and the world and how Alan Moore has more talent in his crazy old-man beard that you do in your entire body. The goldfish is the movie, the shark is the book.
However, as a movie, it was ai'ight. Zacky Boy changed the ending, took out a lot of the minor storylines that made the book so awesome and made Dr. Manhattan look like a cartoon. He also slow motioned the shit out of everything. Someone getting a roundhouse kick to the face is cool, but someone getting a roundhouse kick to the face in slow motion is cinematic gold. It's film making 101, baby diapers. Or so Zack Snyder would have you believe.
There are my thoughts for today. I feel a little less like smashing things, but still very much like being a hermit. A hermit who spends all day in sweats watching old episodes of The Office. Ah, that's the life.
*I'm assuming it's on WebMD because I refuse to go there. I'm a strict follower of the philosophy "If I don't acknowledge that there's blood coming out of my head right now, then it's not happening". I'm also a pretty avid subscriber of the "If it hurts that bad just take some Tylenol/Advil/NyQuil with vodka". Medical school, schmedical school.
Okay, that's a bit of a lie. I feel like thinking about smashing things and maybe paying someone to do it for me because I am lazy. It's a mix of laziness and rage today, kiddos. I don't really know why. Maybe it's because it's Monday. Or maybe it's because I spent most of my weekend avoiding my friends for no good reason other than I'm growing increasingly more anti-social and I really, really wanted to stay in bed watching 30 Rock all weekend. On the Scale of Awesome, 1 being finding bugs in your pancake mix (after you've eaten enough to open an IHOP in your belly) and 10 being having Mr. T come to you for advice on how to be cool, I'd rate myself at an easy 4.
I don't know what it is, but I've got a mean case of the I-don't-want-to-do-anything-but-lay-in-bed-and-watch-TV-on-DVDs. It's a serious disease, okay? You can totally confirm it on WebMD.*
However, because it's generally unacceptable to spend all day in bed when you're not dying, I find myself trying to be productive. It's, um, sort of working. I do, however, have some thoughts on my mind. And since you voluntarily came here, you get to read them. Score!
1. I learned how to use the Genius feature on Rex Greyskull today. And when I say "learned how" I mean I pressed a bunch of buttons simultaneously until Rex threw a bunch of southern blues at me and told me to stop touching his buttons. Genius is the best feature ever, especially for a lazy lady like myself. Why would I do something myself when I can just have technology do it for me?
2. I spent half an hour on IMDB searching Patrick Wilson. Did you ever see the movie Hard Candy? You know, the one with Ellen Page before she started annoying the bejeezus out of everyone? The plot of the movie, for those who haven't seen it, is Ellen Page plays a teenage girl (shocker) who starts up an inappropriate relationship with the sort-of pedophile, 100% creeper Patrick Wilson. But, uh oh, things aren't what they seem and suddenly there is a fan and it is covered in shit because, damn! your mind just got blown. I don't need proper punctuation here folks. In any case, the entire time I was watching that movie I was thinking, "This is some messed up stuff, but I would totally do the guy who plays the creeper." They were very confusing, albeit totally hot, feelings.
Um, where was I? Oh yeah, I spent most of the day IMDBing P.Wils because I took in a screening of Watchmen last night and, Pat Wilsonofabitch, there he was! Which leads me to #3,
3. I came up with a one sentence review of Watchmen:
Zack Snyder needs to ease up on the slo-mo.
Listen, don't tell the fanboys, but I didn't think the movie was that terrible. My friend Dave let me borrow the graphic novel a few years ago and I was blown away. But it's no secret that Hollywood loves to take great books, change their entire content, poo on 'em a little and release it into the world. Cut, print, someone get me a martini. There's no comparison between the movie and the book; the book is so much better. That'd be like comparing a goldfish with a shark, except the shark has a rocket launcher strapped to it's back and makes you think about life and the world and how Alan Moore has more talent in his crazy old-man beard that you do in your entire body. The goldfish is the movie, the shark is the book.
However, as a movie, it was ai'ight. Zacky Boy changed the ending, took out a lot of the minor storylines that made the book so awesome and made Dr. Manhattan look like a cartoon. He also slow motioned the shit out of everything. Someone getting a roundhouse kick to the face is cool, but someone getting a roundhouse kick to the face in slow motion is cinematic gold. It's film making 101, baby diapers. Or so Zack Snyder would have you believe.
There are my thoughts for today. I feel a little less like smashing things, but still very much like being a hermit. A hermit who spends all day in sweats watching old episodes of The Office. Ah, that's the life.
*I'm assuming it's on WebMD because I refuse to go there. I'm a strict follower of the philosophy "If I don't acknowledge that there's blood coming out of my head right now, then it's not happening". I'm also a pretty avid subscriber of the "If it hurts that bad just take some Tylenol/Advil/NyQuil with vodka". Medical school, schmedical school.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
American Pie
Tonight Red and I went to a dessert lounge called Something Sweet. This place is fantastic. I always feel super fancy eating there because it has the word "lounge" in the title. You know who eats at lounges? Rich people. You know who's not a rich person? This lady. But damnit, I can throw on my dress jeans, run a comb through my tresses and pretend. Also, did I mention that it serves nothing but dessert? It's pretty much as close as I'll ever get to living in a real life Candyland.
Which way to Gum Drop Mountain?
My favorite thing about Something Sweet (aside from all the pie) is they have board games you can use. There's your Monopolies, Clues, Trivial Pursuits and Uno. It's essentially just like going over to your grandma's house to play board games and eat homemade dessert. That is, if you're grandma was June Cleaver.
Red and I settled on a game called Top 10. Or maybe it was 10. I don't remember, I'm still kind of on a pie high. The game came with these top 10 cards wherein you get a category, like "Top 10 Richest Countries" and the other player has to guess what the top 10 is. Or at least that's the way we were playing it because we're rebels. I don't have time to abide by real rules.
I picked a card with the topic "Top 10 Murder Weapons Used in the U.S." because nothing says "wholesome, cozy dessert lounge" like murder. Red got the #1 weapon right away (guns), but because he's not a sociopath, had some trouble with the rest of them.
"Um, animals?" he said.
"Animals, really?" I said.
"Yeah, like death by dog attack," Red said.
"No, Red, because this is America, not Mexico," I said. Red thought some more before just shouting out answers.
"Burning! Using your bare hands! Arsenic!"
"Okay, here's a hint," I said. "The #10 weapon is pretty much the most American way you could ever murder someone."
"Um, raping someone to death?"
"I was looking more in the neighborhood of explosives," I said.
"Oh. Well you said American so I just figured," Red said.
I don't think Nana Cleaver would approve.
"whatWhatWHAT?!"
Which way to Gum Drop Mountain?
My favorite thing about Something Sweet (aside from all the pie) is they have board games you can use. There's your Monopolies, Clues, Trivial Pursuits and Uno. It's essentially just like going over to your grandma's house to play board games and eat homemade dessert. That is, if you're grandma was June Cleaver.
Red and I settled on a game called Top 10. Or maybe it was 10. I don't remember, I'm still kind of on a pie high. The game came with these top 10 cards wherein you get a category, like "Top 10 Richest Countries" and the other player has to guess what the top 10 is. Or at least that's the way we were playing it because we're rebels. I don't have time to abide by real rules.
I picked a card with the topic "Top 10 Murder Weapons Used in the U.S." because nothing says "wholesome, cozy dessert lounge" like murder. Red got the #1 weapon right away (guns), but because he's not a sociopath, had some trouble with the rest of them.
"Um, animals?" he said.
"Animals, really?" I said.
"Yeah, like death by dog attack," Red said.
"No, Red, because this is America, not Mexico," I said. Red thought some more before just shouting out answers.
"Burning! Using your bare hands! Arsenic!"
"Okay, here's a hint," I said. "The #10 weapon is pretty much the most American way you could ever murder someone."
"Um, raping someone to death?"
"I was looking more in the neighborhood of explosives," I said.
"Oh. Well you said American so I just figured," Red said.
I don't think Nana Cleaver would approve.
"whatWhatWHAT?!"
Friday, March 6, 2009
Not a boy, not yet a woman.
I've often been accused of being a bit of a tomboy. When I was younger, I chose the Hot Wheels, pogs and dinosaur action figures my brothers played with over Barbies.* Dressing up wasn't really my thing either, that is unless you count overalls with only one strap buttoned. I spent most of my youth wearing camouflage pants, pink Converse high tops and a pink shirt with Sylvester the Cat on it. It was the 90s, don't judge me.
Maybe it's because I grew up with brothers, but I've never really been into girly sort of things. To be honest, I get confused and intimidated by a lot of the make-up, clothing, hair styling and accessories options. How am I supposed to know what summer scarf goes with this outfit? Wait, accessories are supposed to match? How exactly do I work a curling iron? See, it's all very confusing. One wrong move and you'll end up with no eyebrows and half a shaved head. I've seen it happen and it's gross.
It wasn't until my older brother, M, brought Garland around that I took a real interest in what clothes I wore and whether or not my hair was brushed. Garland, also a tomboy at heart, is quite the fashionable lady. She came on to the scene and suddenly I realized that I didn't really look like, well, a girl. Mostly though, I was astonished that someone so chic and put together could be such a tomboy. I started looking at the other ladies in my life. My lady cousins always had impeccable hair, cute outfits, wore high heels and were all very pretty. I suddenly felt very out of place.
With my cousins and Garland's help, I started on an unspoken quest to become more ladylike. I just felt like it was time to start looking a little more, um, not like a butt.
In some ways, I have succeeded. I put forth effort in my appearance (most of the time, depending on how lazy I am in the morning and if I absolutely, positively have to look like someone who got a decent nights sleep). I have started a passionate, albeit quite pricey, love affair with accessories and flats. I now know what a manicure, pedicure and brow wax are, how much they cost and where the best places to go for each are. I know when to use ribbon, the difference between fall and summer colors and am a avid reader of Glamour magazine.
But in most ways, I am still the same tomboy. I would pick zombie movies over romantic-comedies any day. My mom still rolls her eyes and says, "KV, you're such a boy," when I choose to watch a marathon of Deadliest Catch instead of the home and garden channel. I can't walk in high heels to save my life and dresses make me uncomfortable. I once accepted a date from a guy only because he quoted Roadhouse to me. Just today, I chose a book about submarines during WWII instead of chick-lit.
I'll always be a tomboy. No amount of make-up or wavy, luscious locks doused with the latest hair product will change that (and I'm talking super luscious). And, y'know, I think I'm pretty okay with that.
*To be fair, I did love Baribies at one point. I even had a few and my friend from down the street would come over and we would reenact scenes from Disney's Aladdin. That is, until one day my brother and his friend from down the street discovered fire crackers. And you know what they say about fire crackers: they're a gateway explosive. My Barbies learned this first hand as they were strapped to stick after stick of illegal firecrackers. May they rest in peace (or pieces). Amen.
Maybe it's because I grew up with brothers, but I've never really been into girly sort of things. To be honest, I get confused and intimidated by a lot of the make-up, clothing, hair styling and accessories options. How am I supposed to know what summer scarf goes with this outfit? Wait, accessories are supposed to match? How exactly do I work a curling iron? See, it's all very confusing. One wrong move and you'll end up with no eyebrows and half a shaved head. I've seen it happen and it's gross.
It wasn't until my older brother, M, brought Garland around that I took a real interest in what clothes I wore and whether or not my hair was brushed. Garland, also a tomboy at heart, is quite the fashionable lady. She came on to the scene and suddenly I realized that I didn't really look like, well, a girl. Mostly though, I was astonished that someone so chic and put together could be such a tomboy. I started looking at the other ladies in my life. My lady cousins always had impeccable hair, cute outfits, wore high heels and were all very pretty. I suddenly felt very out of place.
With my cousins and Garland's help, I started on an unspoken quest to become more ladylike. I just felt like it was time to start looking a little more, um, not like a butt.
In some ways, I have succeeded. I put forth effort in my appearance (most of the time, depending on how lazy I am in the morning and if I absolutely, positively have to look like someone who got a decent nights sleep). I have started a passionate, albeit quite pricey, love affair with accessories and flats. I now know what a manicure, pedicure and brow wax are, how much they cost and where the best places to go for each are. I know when to use ribbon, the difference between fall and summer colors and am a avid reader of Glamour magazine.
But in most ways, I am still the same tomboy. I would pick zombie movies over romantic-comedies any day. My mom still rolls her eyes and says, "KV, you're such a boy," when I choose to watch a marathon of Deadliest Catch instead of the home and garden channel. I can't walk in high heels to save my life and dresses make me uncomfortable. I once accepted a date from a guy only because he quoted Roadhouse to me. Just today, I chose a book about submarines during WWII instead of chick-lit.
I'll always be a tomboy. No amount of make-up or wavy, luscious locks doused with the latest hair product will change that (and I'm talking super luscious). And, y'know, I think I'm pretty okay with that.
*To be fair, I did love Baribies at one point. I even had a few and my friend from down the street would come over and we would reenact scenes from Disney's Aladdin. That is, until one day my brother and his friend from down the street discovered fire crackers. And you know what they say about fire crackers: they're a gateway explosive. My Barbies learned this first hand as they were strapped to stick after stick of illegal firecrackers. May they rest in peace (or pieces). Amen.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Hogwarts Isn't Listed On Google Maps
Quick warning: Yes, this post is mostly Harry Potter related. There's some spoilers. However, I'm assuming you've read the Harry Potter books so it should be old news. And if you haven't read them yet, then maybe it's time to re-evaluate your childhood. Or adulthood, depending on how old you were when you became aware of their existence.
Tonight, I saw something truly amazing. But before I get into that, a little back story.
Two summers ago, my sister-in-law, Garland, and I camped out in a Border's bookstore for five hours to wait for the release of the seventh Harry Potter book. We weren't ashamed. We picked up a copy of the sixth book for a crash refresher course, found a spot in the humor section and got to work waiting for our beloved boy wizard.
At first I was embarrassed. Here we were, two grown ladies, waiting for a book that was originally intended for kids. I felt out of place for two whole seconds. That is, the two seconds before I saw the people dressed as wizards, ogres, giants and one woman who, for some inexplicable reason, was dressed as a cat. Um, last I checked Harry Potter didn't take place in a litter box.
These people were consumed in all things Harry Potter. There was story telling in the children's section, face painting near the bathrooms and dry ice in cauldrons just about everywhere. That part wasn't so unexpected.
"We're going to wait with the geeks and the weirdos," I remember explaining to a co-worker.
The unexpected part was how into it I was. Garland and I spent a big part of the evening discussing the sixth book and our theories. We spent more time talking about how sad we were that the series was coming to an end. We weren't dressed up and we sure as hell didn't get our faces painted, but we were just as big as geeks as the rest of the people who voluntarily agreed to wait in a cramped, smelly bookstore until 1 a.m. just to get a book we probably could have bought at the grocery store the next morning. It was about the experience. We were so excited to be a part of it, geeky and odd as it was.
A few days after I got my book, I spent a few hours talking to a co-worker about it. For one reason or other, we started talking about Sirius Black, Harry's godfather and my favorite character.
"It's such bullshit how his character died," I said. "He should've used his animagus powers to change into a dog or something."
"If I were an animagus, I'd change into a dragon," my co-worker said.
We spent the next hour discussing what animal we would shape shift into and why. It was a very productive day.
Okay, so flash forward to tonight. Are you with me? We just time traveled so I want to make sure everyone is here.
Good. I was out taking the family dog, Simon, for a walk. We're ambling down the sidewalk enjoying the silence of the night. I usually can't stand taking Simon for a walk because I don't really know the meaning of "leisurely stroll". I walk fast and with a purpose. Picture a one-woman marching band, but less drums and more feathered hats. But tonight I was feeling patient and I didn't mind that Simon stopped and chewed on every piece of grass we saw.
The street we were walking on was dark. There were street lights, but there were also lots of shadows. Simon started to act strange. He stood still and growled, then quickened his pace, and then stood still again. I had my headphones on so I didn't really notice until I almost tripped over him. I took one of my earbuds out and followed Simon's gaze to something that looked a little something like this:
I gasped immediately. Not only was I caught off guard, but I was terrified. Not for my safety or that of my dog's, but because the first thought that came into my head was, "Holy shit, it's an animagus."
This harmless, shaggy, black dog was Sirius Black come for me in his shape shifting form. It took me a couple seconds longer than I'm proud of to realize that A.) this is real life and B.) why would Sirius Black want to eat me? I defended him. I may have even shed a tear when I read of his death. I was emotional that day, okay? Sue me.
So, Simon and I headed for home. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't turn back to get one last glimpse of the shaggy dog, part of me secretly hoping it'd turn into Sirius Black and whisk me off to Hogwarts.
Tonight, I saw something truly amazing. But before I get into that, a little back story.
Two summers ago, my sister-in-law, Garland, and I camped out in a Border's bookstore for five hours to wait for the release of the seventh Harry Potter book. We weren't ashamed. We picked up a copy of the sixth book for a crash refresher course, found a spot in the humor section and got to work waiting for our beloved boy wizard.
At first I was embarrassed. Here we were, two grown ladies, waiting for a book that was originally intended for kids. I felt out of place for two whole seconds. That is, the two seconds before I saw the people dressed as wizards, ogres, giants and one woman who, for some inexplicable reason, was dressed as a cat. Um, last I checked Harry Potter didn't take place in a litter box.
These people were consumed in all things Harry Potter. There was story telling in the children's section, face painting near the bathrooms and dry ice in cauldrons just about everywhere. That part wasn't so unexpected.
"We're going to wait with the geeks and the weirdos," I remember explaining to a co-worker.
The unexpected part was how into it I was. Garland and I spent a big part of the evening discussing the sixth book and our theories. We spent more time talking about how sad we were that the series was coming to an end. We weren't dressed up and we sure as hell didn't get our faces painted, but we were just as big as geeks as the rest of the people who voluntarily agreed to wait in a cramped, smelly bookstore until 1 a.m. just to get a book we probably could have bought at the grocery store the next morning. It was about the experience. We were so excited to be a part of it, geeky and odd as it was.
A few days after I got my book, I spent a few hours talking to a co-worker about it. For one reason or other, we started talking about Sirius Black, Harry's godfather and my favorite character.
"It's such bullshit how his character died," I said. "He should've used his animagus powers to change into a dog or something."
"If I were an animagus, I'd change into a dragon," my co-worker said.
We spent the next hour discussing what animal we would shape shift into and why. It was a very productive day.
Okay, so flash forward to tonight. Are you with me? We just time traveled so I want to make sure everyone is here.
Good. I was out taking the family dog, Simon, for a walk. We're ambling down the sidewalk enjoying the silence of the night. I usually can't stand taking Simon for a walk because I don't really know the meaning of "leisurely stroll". I walk fast and with a purpose. Picture a one-woman marching band, but less drums and more feathered hats. But tonight I was feeling patient and I didn't mind that Simon stopped and chewed on every piece of grass we saw.
The street we were walking on was dark. There were street lights, but there were also lots of shadows. Simon started to act strange. He stood still and growled, then quickened his pace, and then stood still again. I had my headphones on so I didn't really notice until I almost tripped over him. I took one of my earbuds out and followed Simon's gaze to something that looked a little something like this:
I gasped immediately. Not only was I caught off guard, but I was terrified. Not for my safety or that of my dog's, but because the first thought that came into my head was, "Holy shit, it's an animagus."
This harmless, shaggy, black dog was Sirius Black come for me in his shape shifting form. It took me a couple seconds longer than I'm proud of to realize that A.) this is real life and B.) why would Sirius Black want to eat me? I defended him. I may have even shed a tear when I read of his death. I was emotional that day, okay? Sue me.
So, Simon and I headed for home. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't turn back to get one last glimpse of the shaggy dog, part of me secretly hoping it'd turn into Sirius Black and whisk me off to Hogwarts.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I Want It All, I Just Can't Figure Out Nothing
I've been having a hard time as of late. I can't figure out what I want to do with my life and everything I've done thus far seems, well, bleh. Quarter-life crisis come early is what's happening. At least I think so because I'm too lazy to look up what defines a quarter-life crisis on Wikipedia.
It's not that I don't have direction. It's that there's too many directions I want to go in. I want to study history, but I also want to learn how to be an archaeologist. I want to study anthropology, paleontology, Spanish, Mexican-American and European studies. I want to learn web design. I want to improve my writing skills. I want to be a screen writer, an editor, a director, or at least an extra in a zombie movie.
Dream big!
The problem is that I can't choose. I've tried and I just can't. I decide to go with one major and it's fine for a semester or so and then suddenly every fiber in my being is like, "History is for pricks and dead white guys. Let's be a movie director now!"
Aaaaaaand that's how you spend almost four years in college and still accomplish nothing academically. It's really quite a talent. I could write a book.
So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to build a resume right here on this blog. And by "resume" I mean "a list of things I am awesome blossom at". I'm talkin' awesome blossom with EXTRA awesome. Eat that.
1. Yelling/Shouting/Being Loud In General
Seriously, if there was a medal for being the loud, I would win it. I'd win it so many times, that they would eventually just end up naming the award the KV Award For Outstanding Decibel Achievement.
2. Watching things
Like this except with less robots. That is, unless has a spare robot.
If you need someone to watch a movie for you and then make comments about it, I'm your lady. Marathoning TV on DVD is one of my favorite things to do. I once even spent an entire Saturday watching Lifetime movies and westerns. Point being, if you need things watched, I'm pretty amazing at it. I don't discriminate between good or bad movies, entertaining or boring ones. Which leads me to #3...
3. Napping
I can nap anywhere. ANYWHERE. When I was little, my mom used to pay people to find me because I was such a stealth napper. If you need someone to be unconscious for 1-2 hours at any point in the day, then look no further. No longer than 2 hours though. Any nap that's longer than 2 hours is a sleep. Although I'm pretty good at that too.
4. Drinking
My drinking comes complete with dancing on platforms at clubs, hitting people in the eye with my elbows, drunk dialing, speaking every word of Spanish that I've ever heard and an enormous increase of Skill #1. However, it also comes with the spins, occasional vomiting and multiple declarations of "Seriously, seriously, you guys, no, shut up seriously I'm trying to say something here, I love you."
5. Time wasting
Pretty self-explanatory.
It's not that I don't have direction. It's that there's too many directions I want to go in. I want to study history, but I also want to learn how to be an archaeologist. I want to study anthropology, paleontology, Spanish, Mexican-American and European studies. I want to learn web design. I want to improve my writing skills. I want to be a screen writer, an editor, a director, or at least an extra in a zombie movie.
Dream big!
The problem is that I can't choose. I've tried and I just can't. I decide to go with one major and it's fine for a semester or so and then suddenly every fiber in my being is like, "History is for pricks and dead white guys. Let's be a movie director now!"
Aaaaaaand that's how you spend almost four years in college and still accomplish nothing academically. It's really quite a talent. I could write a book.
So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to build a resume right here on this blog. And by "resume" I mean "a list of things I am awesome blossom at". I'm talkin' awesome blossom with EXTRA awesome. Eat that.
1. Yelling/Shouting/Being Loud In General
Seriously, if there was a medal for being the loud, I would win it. I'd win it so many times, that they would eventually just end up naming the award the KV Award For Outstanding Decibel Achievement.
2. Watching things
Like this except with less robots. That is, unless has a spare robot.
If you need someone to watch a movie for you and then make comments about it, I'm your lady. Marathoning TV on DVD is one of my favorite things to do. I once even spent an entire Saturday watching Lifetime movies and westerns. Point being, if you need things watched, I'm pretty amazing at it. I don't discriminate between good or bad movies, entertaining or boring ones. Which leads me to #3...
3. Napping
I can nap anywhere. ANYWHERE. When I was little, my mom used to pay people to find me because I was such a stealth napper. If you need someone to be unconscious for 1-2 hours at any point in the day, then look no further. No longer than 2 hours though. Any nap that's longer than 2 hours is a sleep. Although I'm pretty good at that too.
4. Drinking
My drinking comes complete with dancing on platforms at clubs, hitting people in the eye with my elbows, drunk dialing, speaking every word of Spanish that I've ever heard and an enormous increase of Skill #1. However, it also comes with the spins, occasional vomiting and multiple declarations of "Seriously, seriously, you guys, no, shut up seriously I'm trying to say something here, I love you."
5. Time wasting
Pretty self-explanatory.
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