She blinded me with science (and then totally took my organs).

I know I said I wouldn't be around as much this week, but what can I say? ALL CAPS, I just can't quit you. It also doesn't help that I'm the only one at work and I'm harnessing all my passive-aggressive powers into saying "Screw you, The Man!" by not working. Okay so I'm still answering the phones. And maybe I'm still sending out company-wide e-mails. And I may have changed the toner cartridge in the printer. But dammit! I am not a machine!

You're not my real mom.

Ahem, what? Where was I?

My brain is still relatively fried from my week long journey into adult life, so I'm having a hard time focusing. A harder time than usual, anyway. And yes, that is what she said. Let us take a moment to recognize. All done?

One of the reasons I've been so swamped with school work, regular work, etc is because instead of being a good time-manager, I'm a terrible one. I should be time-fired. Zing! No? Okay.

In the few hours of free time I have, I don't spend it studying, working or even exercising. I'm not trying to teach myself a new craft or attempting to better the world. What am I doing, you ask? Reading this:



I should start by saying I didn't pick this out. Aside from generally being a little hesitant to buy a book called Stiff (lest someone think I'm scouting screenplays for my new porno), I don't like feet. So a picture of dead feet on the cover of a book under the word Stiff? That's gonna be one seriously weird (and potentially illegal) dirty video.

But it came highly recommended by Garland. Now, Garland and I may have different opinions on movies, music and literature, but one thing is always for certain: we both like to be entertained by weird and potentially gross things. Plus, there are few people on the planet who know my taste better than Garland, so I relented, grabbed a Jell-O pudding out of the fridge (not recommended whilst reading this, by the way) and got to reading.

This book is, for lack of better words, awesome. It is about all the things that can happen to your body after death. Say, for example, you donate your body to science. Well, what does that mean? What happens to your body after you donate it?


Bill Nye the Science Guy may or may not be involved.

Well, apparently a lot of things. You can donate a still beating heart, liver or kidneys to transplant patients. The Army can shoot at it to test the stopping power of bullets. Medical students can dissect you, the auto industry can use you as a crash-test dummy or you can end up at a body farm where researchers study decomposition to help aid in crime scenes. In short, any possible use you can think of for a cadaver has probably been tried.

After reading much of the book, I've come to the conclusion that I want to donate my body to science. I am already an organ donor, but if there's more than can be done with it when I'm gone, then have at it.

I think this would be good for a few reasons. It would be comforting to know that even if I didn't accomplish anything with my body when I was living, maybe something can be accomplished when I'm dead. Totally still counts. Also, it would help others in the long run and I could use some extra points tacked onto my soul at the end. Heaven doesn't let in any freeloaders. I know, I checked. Also, it would lessen my chances at coming back as a re-animated zombie. And if that doesn't make it worth it, I don't know what would.

Day of the Dead: Puppies Redux

Beh-larg.

I am a zombie today. I don't mean that in the sense that I've recently eaten brains or have the urge to groan and stumble around, but rather I am feeling pretty dead today.

Example: a salesman came into our office and asked to speak with the head of our purchasing department. I know who the head is; I've spoken to the woman millions of times and I think I even have a picture of her kid somewhere in my home. But I couldn't piece it all together. Can. Not. Compute. So I stared at the phone list for five minutes before scratching my head and saying, "Uh, just leave me your card and I'll see that the right person gets it." The guy looked at me like a mongoloid, so to smooth things over I winked when he gave me his card. Winked. My own eye is trying to send SOS messages to strangers.

I don't really have anything to write about today. I've already admitted defeat and am content with being an undead, slightly hungry and mostly useless shell of a lady today.

So, because for some reason my brain can't think of anything else, here's a picture of puppies running:



Because everyone loves puppies.

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.

Valentine's Aftermath

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

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

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

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

Eat tacos,


and watch zombie movies.


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

In A Nutshell

Things have been hectic. Not in a bad way, mind you, but there are times when it feels like the earth is spinning way too fast and I can't seem to catch up. This morning I was a little late to work and felt really rushed. I had so much on my plate. Install my new computer, file months worth of neglected files, work on a project I'd been putting off. Catching up was the name of the game.

I started to unload some of the contents of my purse that I brought specifically for work. Some snacks, a book, chapstick, things like that. I looked at the way I had laid them out and realized that these few things could represent what my life has been about for the past few days.



The new year is a great jumping off point for dieters. Well, it would be, but I'm not a dieter. I eat whatever I want, just in limited amounts. I've been trying to watch what I shove into my mouth* so I can keep myself on track. Watching what I eat is important to me, almost as important as say, oh, zombies.

I think I've made it pretty clear how I feel about the undead. Sure, zombies are fascinating (as is this book), but it's not just them I'm fascinated with. I love the idea of being able to say peace out to the real world and focus on whatever I want to. Be it zombies or the awesome DVDs that were bestowed upon me by "Santa", I've been enjoying being able to check out from real life whenever I feel like it. I won't be able to do that once school starts (barf), but until then, I plan on escaping into the zombie apocalypse, the world of Rocky Balboa or Scranton, Pennsylvania as often as I can. That is, when I'm not mini-trampolining.** Because let's face it, sometimes made up worlds are way better than the one I live in. Take that, Earth.


*Yes, that IS what she said. I heard it with my own ears. She's such a pervert.
**Sweet God, mini-trampolining is the best exercise ever! More tomorrow.

Backup Plan

Today I feel like this:



Which sucks for two reasons. The first of which being that feeling like I resemble a 50 foot tall dinosaur doesn't quite give me the self-esteem boost I'm looking for. The second reason being that if I were going to be any monster, I want to be a zombie. That's right. I want to be a rotted, green, eyeball missing, people eating zombie.

I'd make a good zombie because it'd be the easiest profession* ever. Their only goal in life, er, un-life, is to eat. Granted, what they eat is human flesh, but that's just a small price to pay to be a member of the everlasting un-dead party. All my worries about school, work, social standing and self-esteem would be gone because I'd be dead and wouldn't care. The only thing Zombie Karina would care about is eating and trying not to trip over my decomposing peers. My estimation of what a day would be like in the life of a zombie would go a little something like this:

7 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
8 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
9 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
10 a.m. -Wander around looking for food.
11 a.m.-3 p.m. - Groan.
4 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
5 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
6 p.m. - Stare at something off in the distance; wonder to myself if it's food.

I think you get the idea. If my plans to be a professional, well educated and well adjusted adult doesn't work out, I plan on becoming a zombie. So if in the distant future you see me wandering around, dead with half my arm missing, you'll know that behind my cold, lifeless eyes I'm smiling. But, uh, you probably don't want to get too close.


*This is of course assuming that being a zombie is on scale with having a full time job. You would have to have qualifications like, "Can eat up to 10 pounds of brain" and "Has 2+ years experience in being un-dead" and "willing to work holidays, weekends and dark, foggy nights".

Northern A to the Z

This past weekend, my clan packed our bags and drove to Sedona. I had all these witty stories but I don't really feel like writing about it anymore. So, to sum up, this is everything that happened:

1. Watched Austin play football. It was awesome. Austin, who is my not so little younger cousin, cleaned up. He's #1, both literally and figuratively.

2. Ate at a Sizzler

I'm serious when I say I really did not know Sizzlers were in existence anymore. Ugh, buffets are gross unless it involves breakfast or Chinese. There were some upset tummys that evening in Sedona.

3. Drank at the hotel bar with a dozen stuffed game animals.

4. Partook in some "haunted eating" in Jerome, AZ

Now I will say this: I like haunted things. Haunted houses, hotels, inns, corn mazes and even the occasional hamgurger are all very appealing things. I am the biggest baby when I'm actually at said haunted places, but I still really like to go. So when someone mentioned the eating establishment "The Haunted Hamburger", obviously I was game. Hey, I thought. Maybe I'll see a ghost or if I'm really lucky, a zombie. Nope.

What the hell?! There were no ghosts or zombies anywhere in sight. I wasn't expecting bleeding walls or anything, but I don't think it's too much to ask for a poltergeist to throw some dishes around or my burger to moan. Especially when I realized that the H.H. has help from the DEAD AND THE UNDEAD.

Um, last I checked the undead were awesome. As far as being haunted goes, this place was not so awesome. But I'll forgive the H.H. because my veggie burger was delicious, even if it didn't contain the souls of the recently deceased. I guess I can settle for that.