Lazy, baby.

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

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

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

There, I said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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?!"

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.