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

I'm having trouble with myself.

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


Pictured: my insides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sadly I don't have a segway.

It should be an interesting week.

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

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

The Kids Are (Probably) Alright

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nostalgia in aisle 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that day is not today.

What's the haps, broseph?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long post about how much donkeys suck.

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

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

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

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





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



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


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

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


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

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


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

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


The trek back up was pretty much to be expected.

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

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

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

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

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

We. Looked. Good.

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



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

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

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

A v-neck shaped sun burn?!

It's on.

I've got good news and I've got bad news.

The bad news: my brain is splattered across a windshield somewhere and isn't very anxious to get back into my head. Or, to put it less dramatically, my thought box is broke, y'all. KV no en casa, if you catch my drift. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you had x-ray vision you would be able to see that the spot where my brain used to be is now occupied by a single, perfectly ripe banana.

A banana brain, if you will.

The good news: Garland and M are having a baby boy! Seh-weet. My soon-to-be-a-real-live-person nephew isn't due until September, but hot damn, I already want to buy the kid everything at Baby Gap, Babies R' Us, Baby Target, baby church rummage sale, baby swap meet, baby black market and pretty much any other location that sells goods that I can add the noun "baby" to. I'm determined to be someones Aunt Tina. Also, how could anyone possibly say no to these:



Is it weird that I just want to put them in my mouth?

A huge congrats and e-high five to Garland and M. But not to you, Brain. You know what you did.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

January 15, 1992

Well, ladies and gentleman, it seems that yesterday I suffered from what is commonly known as "an overreaction". It can also go by freaking out for no reason, momentarily losing one's shit or just straight up being an unpleasant dickface.

The rest of the day turned out fine. But, what's in the past is in the past and now it's time to focus on the future. What exactly does the future hold today? This guy:



That's right, Red, everybody's communal little brother, is entering full blown teenage sassery and turning 17 today. It seems like just yesterday we were making fun of his red hair and telling him we found him in a bathroom when he was young.*

So, in celebration of Red's glorious, goo filled entrance into the world exactly 17 years ago, I now present 17 things that make me glad Tomas is around.

17. He knows the cool, teen slang that all the kids are using these days.
16. He entertains me with his high school stories.
15. His hair is awesome. Somehow two Mexican parents gave way to a redhead, which has served him quite well over the years.
14. We stick together during family parties where we don't know anyone.
13. Whilst participating in #14, we also make fun. I love having people to make fun with,
12. He cracks me up during driving lessons.
11. He has given me the gift of knit. As in, the kid taught me how to knit and didn't stab me with a knitting needle when I almost lost my shit over pearling.
10. He's smart, like almost to a freakish degree. I don't think there is any problem Red couldn't figure out eventually.



9. He let's me call him "Fatty" even though the nickname doesn't really apply.
8. His fashion sense is pretty rad. Did I mention he KNITS HIS OWN ACCESSORIES?!
7. He owns accessories.
6. Red is his own person. He's not afraid to do out of the box things and he never apologizes for it.
5. He's a smart ass.



4. I can share comfortable silences with him.
3. He sings, loudly. Like big, fat lady singing. It's awesome.
2. He is one of the funniest people I've ever met.
1. Because even though we're related and I have to love him, I would still do it anyway.



So, here's to the littlest member of the group. Happy Birthday, Fatty.


*May or may not have actually been yesterday.

Never Too Late for 2008

It's only 5 days into 2009 and I don't think it's too late for a holiday update. Even though the holidays are so 2008. Well guess what? I don't follow the general principal of time. I make my own time. That was one of my resolutions in 2009, to make my own time. So now that it's 17:0x o'clock, it's time for a semi-late to the party 2008 in review.

Holiday 1: Christmas

Christmas was amazing...amazingly cold! When it snows in New Mexico, Mother Nature doesn't mess around. She's like, "You stole my land and, y'know what, eff that. Eat snow, ya bastards!" It was freezing. I stepped off the plane and looked a lot like this:


You better believe I was NOT doing lunges. It was so cold, I'm not even positive I could feel my legs.

But I'll tell you something: nothing gets rid of the coldies then some chili. If it's one thing New Mexico knows, it's chili. I had chili with posole, chili with tamales, and I can't be sure, but I may have chased a shot of tequila with a spoonful of yummy, delicious chili. My eating plan went to hell in a handbasket (full of chili).

The highlight of the trip was when my parents took us to Santa Fe. They went to college there and just wanted to show us around. Santa Fe is awesome. It has all these galleries everywhere and everything smells like, well, you know.*

However, if there's one gripe I have with New Mexico, it's the fact that we saw these creepy bronze statues hangin' around. Some were kids, some were animals, and a couple were bears. Now let me say this-- bears scare the shit out of me. I am terrified of them. I don't like statues, paintings or any other sort of bear replicas, but I'm not afraid of them. I'm uncomfortable around them because of what they represent: 600lbs of rage covered in fur. Bears will rip your face off and eat your legs all because you just so happened to walk within 200 feet of their cubs. I didn't see your name written on this forest, you selfish ass bear. It's not like you can outrun them either. They're freakishly fast for being fatties. You can't out climb them or out swim them either because, oh yeah, THEY'RE FREAKISHLY FAST FOR BEING SUCH FATTY McFATTERSONS. It's astonishing and really quite terrifying.

Of course, my family was thoroughly amused and fascinated by these statues. So much so, there was posing involved.









And then this happened:

Family: Look, KV, a bear! Go stand by it.
KV: No.
Family: C'mon! It's not a real bear.
KV: I hate it anyway.
Family: Go on. Pretend like you're punching it in the head.
KV: What?! No.
Family: C'mon. We'll take a picture and it'll be funny.
KV:...Fine.




Holiday 2: New Years Eve and New Years Day
Since this was the first year I was legally able to go out and make a fool of myself, I decided to take advantage. And take advantage I did!


Myself, Garland and Cris, Garland's sister


Cousin Noodle and her gentleman friend


Cris, her fiance B, Beezy and her boyfriend R.A.


Noodle was not impressed with my booth dancing. She must not have been using her eyes.


M and Garland


Who likes to rock the party? I like to rock the party!

Now, dear reader, I'd like to tell you about the songs I danced to and the jokes I told. But honestly, I don't remember a lot of the night. I suffered from a common ailment called "selective memory" or what some people like to ruin and call "blacking out". Here's what I do recall. Dancing was involved, as was alcohol and sequins. Bad decisions and laughing were also involved, the latter mostly being at my expense. But y'know what? I had a blast. Not just a regular blast, but a rocket flying, bomb exploding blast. If there's one thing I regret, it's drunk dialing everyone in my phonebook, including Directory Assistance. Oh Directory Assistance, you always take my calls.


Holiday 3: 1st Wedding of 2009
Alright, I realize this isn't a real holiday. But this is my blog and I'll write about what I please! This past Saturday, my cousin Bride got married. I love going to family parties because my family is awesome and on most occasions, alcohol is served. After spending most of New Years Day cuddled in bed watching The Office and my new copy of Rocky Balboa, I vowed that I would stay away from the liquor. Then I heard about this magical place at the wedding reception called "Open Bar". Oh, and what a magical place it was. I had fairy sparkled drinks like prickly pear magaritas, Washington Sour Apples, tequila shots, Negra Modelos, Fat Tires, sips of dirty martinis and the most delicious/disgusting shot called a peanut butter and jelly.

An after effect of hanging out Open Bar was my dancing abilities improved ten fold. I put Tina Turner to shame the way I rolled down the river on that dance floor. This was your dance area? Sorry, I own it now. Oh, what? You're going to play "Cotton Eyed Joe" in an attempt to get all the brown people to clear the area? Psych! You didn't realize I knew how to throw my hat into a ho down. It was amazing.


The always awesome lady cousins.


Nothing beats being fancy and drinking.


Me and Mama D


The scary ones, Poppa D and Armando


The lookers in the family.


The end of 2008 turned out to be a whirlwind of fun. I had so much fun with my friends and family. I am choosing to believe that all the fun I've had in the past few weeks is an indicator of what 2009 is and should be.

So, here's to 2009. It's going to be fine.**


*Hint: CHILI.
**Another one of my resolutions is to rhyme more. I think it's working out really well so far.

Quick (Bor-ing!) Update

Hey, remember when I said that I'd be back sometime this week? Well, that was a lie. I'm not back. In fact, this isn't even me. It's a ghost writer named, uh, Urgle Grue?

It's been a successful holiday, for the most part. I have a ton to write about and lots of pictures to post. Christmas in New Mexico was definitely a lot different than Christmases spent in Arizona. For starters, it was freezing! Oh, and there was some sort of white business all over that I heard the natives refer to as "snow". I don't know that word but I'm told that's what it's called. One cousin even told me you could eat it. Um, what? Crazy New Mexicans.

I'm heading up to Phoenix for New Years to spend it with some of the best, if not the most awesome, people I know. It should make for some good times. I'll post more about it next week. For realsies this time.

Dirty Christmas

Today, Garland and I took a drive to the mall so I could finish up my Christmas shopping. All was going well, then this happened:

Me: I hate it when people are too southwestern. I get that you like it here, but enough with the kokopellis already.
Garland: What about boot tassles?
Me (confused): Boob tassles?!
Garland: Yes, boob tassles. Except they're southwestern so they're bolero tie boob tassles. And in the middle are kokopellis.
Me: That would be so heavy! It'd make your boobs sag so much that National Geographic would have to film you.
Garland: Like a really dirty native tribe. The Inaprop-Hopis.

After that conversation, the day went from a good day to an AMAZING day. It was the first day I actually felt in the Christmas spirit. After I dropped Holly off I drove home with the windows down and let the wind whip across my face. I looked at the sky and thought, "Good one," to whoever was listening.

Good one, indeed.

Dating the 10-year-old way

Tonight I was going to blog about my Christmas shopping, IHOPing, gym going and other general -ings, but the powers that be (read: Garland) is making me entertain her. I AM NOT A MACHINE! So I'm doing what any other sane, rational person would do: I'm writing about our conversation in the blog because that way I kill two birds with one stone. Win-win.

Turns out, writing and talking are hard to do at the same time. I'm writing right now and she's humming the Jeopardy theme song. New subject.

I went to Target tonight to get my present on. Because everyone knows that Christmas is all about going broke buying people things they kinda, sorta want. But I digress. I only had one goal in mind: to buy my cousin/goddaughter something awesome. When I was little, I judged people solely on how good their presents were. There's always the family member who gets you socks or, god forbid, underwear. You pull out a pair of granny panties in front of everyone one time and suddenly it's "Grandma KV" this and "knit me some socks" that. But Christmas was always saved by the cool family member who got you the newest toy, an amazingly warm sweater or pretty much anything with flashing lights. I want to be that person for my goddaughter. I am not above bribing kids to like me.

So I'm perusing the toy aisle asking myself, "What did I like when I was ten?" Now there's a question. I can't even remember what I liked a month ago, let alone eleven years ago. I end up in the board game aisle, awe struck and overwhelmed.

"I know, I'll get her Uno," I thought. "That way everyone can play and enjoy the game."

Then I looked to the left and saw Twister. "That might be fun," I thought. "She'll get a little exercise and learn about sexual tension when she plays with her friends."

Then I looked to the right and I saw it. A High School Musical Mystery Dating Game. I couldn't take my eyes off it. When I was a tween, I used to have a Mystery Dating Game, except it wasn't High School Musical. It was from a little show I like to call Saved by the Bell. That's right. I, like everyone else in 1993, was not immune to the curly haired mullet that graced Mario Lopez's pre-pubescent face.


AC Slater showed up on screen and it was like, "I'll AC your slater*."

But I remember loving that game. I was so hip. I was totally with the times. As I stared down High School Musical Dating Game, I knew that was the one. So I bought it and brought it home. And now I'm having second thoughts. The Mystery Dating Game was awesome when I was 10, but ten years later it's just embarrassing. Furthermore, why should 10-year-olds be worrying about dating? And just why is Zac Efron staring at me so intensely? Is there something on my face?


I don't know that I feel comfortable about him staring at my 10-year-old cousin so, lustily.

So, the Mystery Dating Game sits on the chair across from me. Zac Efron's weird kidnapper face stares at me as if to say, "You know you want to date me. C'mon, just roll a 6 or an 8 and we can make-believe date all night long." No. No I don't want to do any of those things. But Dani might. So, I think I'll keep it.

After all, everyone needs an Aunt Tina.

*My sexual innuendos don't have to make sense.

Thanksgiving up in here

It's Thanksgiving! Well, almost. Some of us still have our day jobs, y'know. We can't all just take the day before a holiday off and go galavanting around town with the top to the car down and being fun and fancy free. And by all that, I mean that I have exactly 13 minutes left at work so this is gonna be a quick one.

I hope everyone has a fun and super delicious day tomorrow. I'll be going to my uncle's house in Queen Creek and hanging out with my family, all 159 of them. My uncle makes the best food I've ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth.* Don't believe me? Well check this: he likes to wrap things in bacon. Oh, you want some shrimp? How about shrimp with a bacon blanket. What's that? You want some zuchinni? You know what you make that zuchinni dance in your mouth? A nice strip of bacon. Ok, so maybe it sounds gross when I talk about it here but you get the picture.

I'm off! And since I'm too lazy to Google a picture of a turkey, here's a fancy picture of the Northern Lights that someone at work sent me.


Pretty!


*I don't have time for a "that's what she said" reference, but you get the point.

EnV2, will you marry me and commit to a lifetime of good reception?

I forgot my phone at home today. I feel cut off from the world. Everytime I forget my phone (which believe me, isn't often), I get really stressed out and anxious. What if someone really imporant is trying to call me? What if I'm missing out on some hilarious text from a friend? What if I've won something and they're calling to let me know but I'M NOT THERE TO ANSWER?!

My skin gets all goosebumpy and my voice gets really high pitched. I've been trying to mentally teleport my phone to my office building all morning. So far, no go. Damn it, this is why I need to be enrolled in Hogwarts instead of lame, no magic college. I could apparate anything in a matter of seconds. But no, I'm enrolled in learning-through-boring-textbooks-and-lectures-instead-of-flying-around-on-a-broomstick-and-hanging-out-with-Dumbledore college. Effing muggles, man.

Aside from missing my one true love (I'm looking at you, Verizon EnV 2), I'm feeling better. The weekend did me well. It was a weekend long birthday celebration of the awesome blossom that is M, my older, cooler brother. Drinks were served, vomit was plentiful, burgers were grilled and fun was had. I just found my camera today and let me tell you, that bad boy went on an adventure this weekend. So now there's photo documentation of all the drunken, obnoxious antics. Great. Perhaps I'll get around to posting them later. If I remember. Maybe.*

*Maybe not. My ego is still pretty bruised on account of me embarassing myself. I was all up on that shorty like, "Wassup yo?" and she was all, "You don't know 20 different ways to make me call you Big Poppa," cause I don't, yo.**

**What?

I'll show you some Steps of Knowledge

Whew, another Halloween down the pipeline! Verdict: success. As promised, here's what I looked like as a Blue Barracuda.



Blue Barracuda was the best team from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Everyone knows it. So much so, that during our bar hopping we ran into another Blue Barracuda. Who knew so many former LOTHT fans liked to discover their very own Temple of Vodka on a Friday night.

The rest of the group looked great. Don't believe me? Don't be silly. Check 'em out.


M dressed up as Period Pants and Garland was an 80s fitness instructor.


Garland's sister and her fiance.


Deezy rockin' the no pants look from Risky Business.


When I tried on the Risky Business glasses, it looked like I was blind. And have carpal tunnel. So pretty much exactly what I was going for.


The ladies.

I have to be honest, most of the ladies we saw looked scandalous. Deezy was not the only one showin' off the risky business. Just by wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I felt way overdressed. We saw a couple girls wearing only underwear and corsets and one girl who was just in a bra and a small piece of fabric trying to masquerade itself as a skirt. Ladies, I realize Halloween is code for "vaginas dress like sluts". I get it and I've made peace with it. I'll even go so far as to say that some of the slutty fire fighters, slutty policewomen, slutty Dorothys and even that one slutty witch looked alright. But c'mon, wearing your underwear and putting animal ears on is just lazy. You aren't even trying. I mean, at least the slutty (insert job here) had some sort of idea what they wanted to be, even if they got it terribly, inappropriately wrong. Ladies, we're better than that. We're much more creative than that. And if you're not, then at least don't let the drunken Tin Man in the corner touch your yellow brick road. It's just ooky.

Hope you all had a good Halloween! Now onto November.

Weekend Shenanigans

I realize it's not the weekend anymore. I was busy and didn't have time (read: was too lazy) to blog. What was I doing? I'm glad you asked (read: get ready for this week's blog post).



Friday

I should start by saying that I don't do girly things. I was raised with brothers and even my girl cousins were alway a little tomboyish. I don't do facials, I don't really get together with my girlfriends and watch "Sex and the City" and I'm not really one to paint nails or do make-up together with my lady pals. Yet on Friday evening, I pretty much did all of those things. Ria (of my Gossip Girl/OTH post fame) invited me over to watch movies and do facials. In the spirit of trying new things, I agreed. Here is what happened:




Looks like a good night, right? Then this happened:





I looked like a ghost. My face was whiter than my shirt and I'm pretty sure I scared myself by looking in the mirror at least once (read: three times).


Ria was having way more fun than me.





Saturday

Someone in my office told me about Oktoberfest. Since I've turned 21, I really want to go to things like this just to prove that I can. It's really weird, but I get a tremendous amount of joy when someone asks me for my ID. It's like, "Suck it, I can totally drink." I'm trying to tone down my looks of satisfaction.


I convinced my brother M, my sister-in-law Garland and my best friend Poppa J to accompany me to Tucson's own Oktoberfest (read: in the middle of a ball park). It was fun! We got some drinks, M and Garland got down with some Greek food, and a good time was had by all.

M and Garland rock the camera phone


Myself and Garland


Oh that guy? That's my pal Poppa J and his amazing hand face. I know, science should study him. That's what I keep saying.

I'd like to take a second to discuss the food situation. This Oktoberfest felt a little like the fair. There were booths where you could get food and beer, and then seperate booths where you could buy things or play games. Everyone was filling their bellies with beer and food, and we saw this guy.





I don't get people and their need to consume huge pieces of meat. But this guy, this guy was classic and not to mention, very enthused about devouring that baby thigh. Then Garland and I decided we'd really like pickles. You know, those gigantic ones that only taste good when you're walking around in public, suckling them and generally looking really inappropriate. We waited a ridiculous amount of time in a really long line, only to discover that we're really stupid and there were plenty of stands with pickles that did not have a line the size of Germany. We got our pickles, and some of us were less pleased than others.




Also, wtf is happening with my hair? It's like it's eating my face in order to try and get closer to that damn pickle. And apparently pickles turn me into a mutant. Weird.


After the Great Pickle Search of 2008, we capped the night off with a bag of kettle corn the size of my leg (read: Garland's body).



Love at first sight.


This picture was mostly taken to illustrate the classiness of the evening. If posing with kettle corn next to empty kegs of Coors Light doesn't scream sophistication, I don't know what does.


The rest of the weekend was great too. Hamlet in the park, watching movies, being lazy and late night drinking with friends made it a great weekend. Sometimes I forget how awesome my friends are and then weekends like this come and I'm like, "Oh yeah, this is why I continue to know these people." Duh.