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.

What's the opposite of 'buzzkill'?

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

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

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

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

I am happy because...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

And on the 7th Day, God Cursed the Stairmaster

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

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


"Everyone gets in, except for YOU."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Sweat Fueled Revelation

Tonight I got home and did what I normally do: I ate dinner. Chicken and chili stew, it was everything a dinner should be. Hot, tasty and homemade, it frolicked in my mouth and danced down my throat. I had a large bowl and then sat around wondering what I could do to burn off all the calories I'd just eaten. That's all that my mind thinks about these days.

If I eat that, how much would I have to do to clean the slate again? To be on even keel?

It's incredibly tiring and most of the time, takes the joy out of eating. Tonight I took Simon for a walk. I chatted on the phone with an old friend for a long time. I missed talking to my friend and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. We said our goodbyes and Simon and me headed home.

I got home and plopped into the kitchen chair. "Great," I thought. "I'm done now. I can shower and not worry about calories for the rest of the night."

I looked down at my lower body and knew that wasn't going to be the case. Some nights, I'm proud of what I've accomplished and the parts of me I've lost. Other nights, I am disappointed in myself. I'm angry that I haven't accomplished more. But tonight, I felt selfish. I had left the girl I used to be behind. Physically, I don't remember who that girl was. I see photos of her and I don't recognize her. I feel sorry for her. But I forget sometimes that I was her. That I used to laugh in her body. That I had friends who cared for me no matter what I looked like on the outside. For all the times I was insecure or angry in her body, I was also happy. I told jokes and stories and had really great times. I loved and was loved in her body.

I rolled my mini-trampoline (the min-tramp) into my bedroom, put on some music and jumped on. The music was upbeat but I didn't really hear any of it. My body was moving but my mind was still thinking about the girl I used to be. A while back, I put up an old Polaroid of that girl on the wall for inspiration.

"So I'll know I can never go back," I thought as I tacked it up. It caught my eye as I was bouncing. Suddenly I heard the words of a song I'd heard a thousand times before.

I'm going on, the song said. I looked at the Polaroid. "Well, I guess that's true," I thought. I bounced more and listened to the words. It was like hearing them for the first time.

But every once in a while, I think about her and smile, one of the few things I do miss, it said. "Good Christ," I thought. "That's exactly right."

But baby I got to know, baby I've got to show, baby I've got to prove it. And I'll see you when I get there.

I was completely consumed. My legs were aching and my chest was tight, but I couldn't stop. I felt weightless. I am not leaving her behind. I'm ditching the bad parts and taking the rest of her along with me. Sure, I'm terrified. I've been terrified since the beginning. The fear of failure and regression tug at me every day. It probably will forever. But looking at that photo and listening to those words, suddenly everything made sense. There is no going back, ever. There is no failure, not with this. There is nothing but what I choose to do.

And I promise I'll be waiting for you. Goddamn right.

Magnus Samuelsson ain't got nothin' on me

I joined a gym today. I had previously been a member of particular lady gym that shall remain nameless (but not lame-less). I was kind of unhappy there and the ladies who worked there were bitches. I already had kind of crappy self-esteem so I don't really need Nazi work-out ladies riding my ass while I was trying to tone that exact same ass.

So after putting in a year at the lady gym, one of my friends suggested I join the gym he was going to. I'm all for breaking a sweat with friends (nothing strengthens the bond between friends like sweating profusely and grunting excessively*) so I agreed.

I'd been a member of this gym before when I was younger so I wasn't too nervous about going back. When I was a member of LA Fitness, I had to give myself a half hour pep talk and drink three Red Bulls before I could even step foot inside. And even then I could only spend twenty minutes on a machine before the voice in my head that said "HOLYSHITEVERYONEISLOOKINGATMECAUSEI'MSWEATINGTOOMUCH" took over and I became two breaths away from being the gym's resident crazy lady. It was a bad scene.

But this gym is more laid back. Nobody cares what you're doing and I like that. I feel good about this change. I've lost a good amount on my own just kind of half-assing it, so now that I'm thinking about maybe possibly putting in a solid effort maybe the rest of what I want to lose will come off easier and/or quicker. Plus I get really hyped up on the endorphins and by the time I leave there I'm relatively positive I could bench press a Volkswagon Beetle if I needed to. In fact, today when I left, I gave a fellow gym goer a high five and accidentally launched him across the parking lot.** Guess I don't know my own strength, which can happen when you look like this:


This is me. Actual size too. Jealous?


* That's what she said.
** This may or may not have happened.

My buns, they don't feel nothin' like steel

I've been trying to spruce up my workout routine. In addition to ocassional jog or the many walks I take (read: gossiping and just so happening to be walking), I've tried to add in some DVDs to mix it up. Sometimes it's just way too hot to exercise outside. So far, I've done step aerobics and a yoga/pilates DVD that beat my ass to a pulp. So, you know, all in all good stuff. Call me a masochist, but if I'm not sweating and a Lotus position away from death, then it doesn't feel like I'm working out hard enough.

So a few weeks ago while searching through my family's movie collection, I came upon this:



Now I know what you're thinking. KV, that's a grown man wearing white spandex. I know, I know. But look how buff he is in that white spandex! His name is Gilad and he's ridiculous. I'm afraid that if I don't complete all the sets on the VHS (oh yeah, it's a VHS) that he'll use his toned arms to reach through my TV screen and inflict maximum damage.

Gilad is whipping my ass into shape! Which just goes to show you that just because a workout tape is horrendously outdated doesn't mean it can't make you ache in places you don't care to mention on a blog.