The Unused Apostrophe

Tell Me All Your Politik

2011-12-14T07:28:00.000-08:00

Recently, my husband and I have been getting into the routine of eating dinner while we watch political dramas (and every Tuesday is Panda Express night). The moment dinner is ready, whether it's meatloaf with a side of a baked potato, a ham and cheese sandwich, or orange and kung pao chicken atop fried rice, we instinctively, as if we were conditioned, go upstairs, sit down on the couch, and turn on the show.

Before we got so comfortable in this routine, there would always be a comment of, "So, do you want to watch Commander in Chief tonight, or....?" as if we were tiptoeing around the subject, as if in the back of our minds we were wondering if maybe we should use our table for once, as if there was anything else we could possibly have done during our meal time. Now we've done it for so long, we don't even need to make eye contact--I bring up the food and drinks and he gets the TV ready. What a great marriage we have.

Some people may think that it's such an American thing to eat in front of the TV. I know some people forbid it, citing that as the source Americans are so overweight. It's those damn TV shows, they'll say, somehow invariably turning into an old, cranky man, no good use they ever bring except the weather or Johnny Carson. I like that Johnny Carson. Okay grandpa, we get it.

You know, I could see that argument that people who eat while watching TV are more likely to be overweight because they become mindless eaters, eaters who are so consumed with Geena Davis (my husband) or Rob Lowe (me) to even realize what they're putting in their mouth, but I don't think that's the only reason. For instance, eating too much makes people overweight. Not exercising makes people overweight. What, do you really expect me to eat 4 carrots and run on the treadmill while I watch The West Wing? Will then it be acceptable?

So we watch these shows and while we eat and we don't exercise--and it's okay. It's more than okay because we've actually learned something about our political system. For instance, we learned that, if Geena Davis were to run for president, we would unequivocally vote for her. She's a rock star of a president if I've ever seen one--the way she listens to both sides, the way she never buckles under the pressure, the way she stands up for what she believes in, even if it's unpopular. The way her red hair looks outstanding against that very presidential navy blue pant suit. I mean, she has all the workings of a great president for the American people.

I also learned that everybody in the White House has a perfect, quick response to everything that happens, never misses a beat, never stumbles over their words, and almost never, ever talks to someone while standing still. It's all walk-and-talk, walk-and-talk. I'm sure they eat and walk and talk in the White House--maybe the people who watch TV while they are holding the Shake Weight or doing jumping jacks will approve of this.

Also, I learned it sucks big time to be president. I wouldn't ever want to be that guy (or girl!). So many decisions, so many meetings, so many shaking of hands and so little sleep. That's one thing I find fascinating about these political dramas--they always show the President and his/her staff running on minutes of sleep, if that. Rightfully so, too--I wouldn't want my president to be snoozing away while there is a crisis going on in North Korea. But I imagine this part to be fictionalized. I mean, if the President hasn't slept in four days, and he or she gets on Air Force One to be in Hawaii in two hours, why aren't they going absolutely, certifiably insane? Why aren't they scratching down the mauve drapes with their claws like rabid cats, or singing "We Didn't Start The Fire" on repeat into a hairbrush all throughout the press quarters? Like, why aren't they faceplanted into their bowl of organic oatmeal as phone receiver is lain elsewhere? Or catatonic as they sign paper after paper after paper?

At least, that's what I'd be doing. I get like five hours of sleep and I'm already going crazy, my eyelids becoming heavy and my head bobbing. I guess that's why I'm not President.

Unfortunately, Commander in Chief ended abruptly and without conclusion, so we had to start another, and that's when West Wing came in. It'll be a while before we finish it, though, what with it being six whole seasons longer than Commander in Chief. I don't know what we'll watch after West Wing, though. Are there any other good political dramas, or are we going to have to resort to watching CSPAN?

I Never Saw the End of No Story... 'Cause No Story Ever Ends

2011-11-17T19:54:00.000-08:00

On his stomach, with this arms outspread like he was a plane, a soaring eagle, a boy crucified to his skateboard. It was the blue skateboard, the one that would never crack and never break and never get lost. His best friend would hold his ankles and push and pull him until he got the momentum just right, and, in one final lunge, he’d just go, faster and faster and faster, the ground beneath becoming blurry, all the while death in his mind right beneath his chin, a scrape away. And they would do this, risking their skin and their faces and everything else, down this forever steep hill, all summer long, when they were twenty.

But when they were younger, perhaps when the zits were fresh and the feelings foreign, these two guys would crouch on all fours under his friend’s giant tree, where the grass was speckled with light, and they’d eat—they’d graze—the grass below. It was good grass, tasted like spinach, and when Becky Cavanaugh drove up in her dad’s Mustang and saw the two teenaged goats, she looked at them and couldn’t utter a word. They continued to eat, to graze, for hours after that—for months after that. Becky drove by once more a few weeks later, and this time she didn’t stop.

At a party years into college, he wore a Robin costume and carried a Batman cardboard cut-out as his side-kick. It was funny because Robin was the main focus this time, and Batman was limp in the neck and fell over at the slightest draft. It was even funnier because he put a sock in his suit, in his crotch, because his friend told him to cover it up. The sock didn’t cover anything up but slid down his thigh and made it massive. There is a picture to prove it, somewhere under the bed in a box or in an album on the shelf. They’ll find it soon and give it to me.

When they were teenagers, with the group of friends that all went to church together, they put a sofa in the back of a dad’s pick-up truck, borrowed a dad’s generator, borrowed his unused television from the basement, and they drove up a hill, any hill, it didn’t matter, and watched a movie in the open and under the stars. A mother of one of them wanted to come and sit under the blanket and laugh with her kids on the hill, but she didn’t want to go to jail, which maybe would have happened, but nothing did end up happening, and they watched movies like that almost every weekend.

The cops did come, though, one night when they were doing something completely harmless. He was the voice of reason and said that they shouldn’t be sleeping on the roof of this pet store, but his other friend said no one would ever know. They slept peacefully, the boys did, and in the morning, they heard people inside the building below. In a hurry, they threw their stuff into the middle of a sheet, tied the sheet up, and lowered it down the side of the building. The people inside saw this large ball of stuff descending and that’s when the cops were called. A few of them scrammed and made it to the nearest IHOP, but one ratted, and the cops showed up for pancakes. He thought it was funny, so he took a picture with the officer for proof.

Then one night, when he was rooming with a fellow musician, he fell asleep on the couch, still in his clothes, no less, and when his roommate came home late, he awoke in a panic at the sound of someone coming in—panic screaming, panic yelling, panic movements of arms and legs in circular fast moments, panic that lasted for minutes, just like this. When the roommate asked the next morning if he remembered anything, he just said nothing had happened that night, nothing at all.

He also went to the Bahamas with his boss one summer, and they had a server at the cantina whose name was Ronald McDonald. He tried to sell them weed. It was a blast, they said, probably the funnest trip they both had ever been on. It was the picture in his office that sparked this memory, induced this nostalgia that happens every time he comes around.

But when he walked into the barbershop, the barber stopped shaving a man’s head, held up his arms like he was witnessing the return of his prodigal son, and yelled his name so everyone in shop turned and looked. And it was all eyes on him from then on out, as he got his hair cut, as the barber told the story to the whole shop, as if he had a mic and a spotlight, of that one time his woman slept with Jim Carrey. The man with the tattoo sleeve remembered him and gave us tickets to a comedy show we wouldn’t be able to make as he clipped a another man’s beard; a bald man sat waiting for his service as a man named Ernest cackled and turned red in the face from having such a high pitched voice.

And on the first date of the couple we came to see get married, he performed with just a guitar, a harmonica, and a crash symbol—this time, as people ate doughnuts and greeted the happy couple, careful not to get powder on his lapel or chocolate on her dress, he sang, his guitar with the strap attached with a shoestring, his crash symbol just about to crash to the boomchicaboom of Cash. The groom told the story of how he performed this, kicking the symbol and all, on their first date, and five years later, he’s performing it for their wedding day. An eighty year old woman who had nine hogs and eight dogs back in Okalahoma wanted to take him home, and if I hadn’t said I was his wife, she might have grabbed him by the elbow and changed her name to June.

It was when were sitting in the living room of the cozy house, somewhere out the forest, that the conversation turned to me, a story still about him, but this time I am an active participant, one that plays a part in the story instead of just sitting and listening, nodding and smiling at the right moments. And this former bishop of his told me he knew, right when he saw me, that I was the one for him, knew it in his heart without having talked to me before. His bishop told me how glowing and gleaming he was when we were dating, how he had told his bishop he wasn’t going to let me go.

And he hasn’t let me go, not yet and not ever will.

The Cheese Princesses and their parade through Old Hang Town. The time he took his friend’s wife out on a date and a week later she was engaged to his friend. The mutual friend and his fairy tale wedding with a forty-five minute love story and a nineteen year old bride. The country singer on stage with wind blowing in his hair, lights bursting from behind. The gigs when the mother-in-law would just not shut up. The nights in the basement where the jocks were over here and the parents were upstairs, not minding the ruckus down below. The people still calling into the station, a handful of years later, asking if he’s still around, they haven’t heard him on the air in a while. All of these stories, some old and some brand new, now that I have them, are stories I would never let go of and stories he will never let go of, either.

Just a Passing Moment Gone

2011-10-02T16:41:00.000-07:00

If you remember from last year, I blogged about taking a road trip with two good friends down to good ol' Pie Town, New Mexico. Well, I'm happy to say that we went back--this year, we went to the annual Pie Town Pie Festival.

I love festivals. You could call going to them one of my hobbies. But I have yet to be completely and utterly wowed by one here in New Mexico. If it weren't for my personality which is intrigued by the weird and uncommon, and if it weren't for my husband who makes any event enjoyable and memorable, I would, well, have to find a new hobby.

The Pie Town Festival was the same thing--too small enough to be absolutely floored by, but small and strange enough to love it and blog about it.

You would think that, duh, because the festival is in Pie Town, you'd be inundated with everything pie. And true, while there was a pie stand with slices that you could buy, and yes, there was a booth for corny pie-themed t-shirts (I got one that said, "piece out" with a picture of a piece of a pie missing. I'm still laughing at it), that was about it when it came to pie related stuff. Well, there were pie eating contests, but I feel you have to be a straight up sadist to enjoy watching something like that.

I chalk it up to being a small town. There's only so many things a town can do with its 40 residents. In my mind, I guess, I imagined much grander activities, like pie throwing contests, a group of math nerds doing problems with pi, a pie baking station with a handful of ingredients (Top Chef style). Like, why was there not a slam poetry performance dedicated to pies? Or why couldn't I get cross-stitched pillows and textiles with steaming pies that of course induce feelings of warmth and happiness? Why weren't there lectures on the history of pie and pie experts, those who taste test and bring out rulers and magnifying glasses to inspect and scrutinize?

The most exciting part of the whole adventure? The horny toad races.

Actually, that's a lie. It started viciously hailing, like the sky knew how lame this party was, and that was actually the most exciting thing to happen, and when the hail calmed down and finally let up, feeling accomplished, the horny toad race commenced as usual. But the ground was so cold and so wet for those poor horny toads, they army crawled across the cement like super sticky silly putty being dragged by a kid not strong or smart enough to just pick it up. Also, I'm pretty sure it was 'horned' toad races, but I prefer to say horny.

After the four of us (me and Randy and Emily and Aaron) had our slices of pie and ate lunch at the cafe, we headed to the small town of Magdelena, which is about an hour east. Just outside of Magdelena, you see, there is a ghost town called Kelly--an abandoned mining town that is ripe for explorers like us. We drove up the mountain a little ways, but the road was too rocky and the gravel too loose, so we parked at a questionable church, a church almost too quaint to be where it was. As we approached the town's entrance, we saw a visitor's sign, providing information on the town's uprise and downfall.

The sign admitted that thousands of people once lived in Kelly, and a few souls never left.

After we read that, as if this were the period to that sentence, black crows cooed and cawed and flew over head. Yeah, LIKE STRAIGHT FROM A HORROR MOVIE. Aaron and I thought it was fantastically creepy. Emily and Randy were fantastically creeped out.

Not much of the town has survived--only a perfectly macabre brick tower and the gigantic jungle-gym mill and mine down below. We threw stones down in the mill and we never heard them hit the ground.

It was interesting to see the character differences in us four. Aaron climbed and investigated with reckless abandon, not giving any heed that this might be a dangerous place. He led the way, and surprisingly it was me who was right there behind him, snapping pictures and being awed at this horrific history before us. Randy stayed behind, a spectator, and began to worry about the token sheriff-turned-serial-killer who, he knew, would approach us any minute with a shot gun on his belt. And Emily--well, she thought we were all going to die.

It would have been a perfect horror story, actually. The elements were all there: four friends out in the middle of no where, no cell phone reception, trifling with the dead and gone, obstructing with perhaps sanctified and haunted homes of yesteryear. We could have been knocked out and thrown down the mine and no one would have even heard us.

After exploring that abandoned mining town, I think I've found another hobby that might be more rewarding than silly little festivals: adventuring ghost towns. Of course, coupled with silly little festivals and a road trip with friends, there aren't many things that get better than that.

Gotta Know How to Bend (If You Don't Wanna Get Broke)

2011-09-02T15:01:00.000-07:00

I opened the door, and the heat was suffocating. I looked at Randy, he looked at me, and we for a moment exchanged a glance of do-we-do-this-or-do-we-not? But we had committed, we had paid, and we were meeting a friend--we couldn't back out now.

I stepped into the room, and the floor was saturated, completely, like I had just stepped in a puddle of water while wearing socks, but I wasn't wearing socks because when you do yoga, hell-o, you're barefoot, but I know you know the feeling of what it's like to be wearing socks and get them wet--and that's what it was like.

Everyone was already on their hands and knees, their butts in the air like a stretching cat, or with their stomachs on their mats, their chests up, looking like a praying mantis who is actually praying, or on top of their heads with their legs spread eagle, perfectly balancing, smiling at me upside down as we, the newbies, walked passed and laid out our yoga mats. A man in front of me was already sweating, and he was just sitting there, cross-legged, his palms upward to the sky, his heart and mind following--in uh, sukasana, as it were.

No one made a sound. No one looked at anything else but themselves in the mirror. People disrobed to their underthings, and people squatted, and they clinched, and they pulled, and it was weird.

It didn't start off so bad. In fact, at first, I kind of liked it, feeling how the heat really helped to loosen my limbs and encourage flexibility in my muscles. Our instructor, a man named Noah who had a weird Scottish/Spanish accent appear intermittently, wore only tiny swishy shorts, which was appropriate and I didn't mind because he wasn't bending. His blond chest hair looked like a freshly mowed lawn of wheat, and it didn't seem to bother anybody else.

What we didn't know going into it was that it was going to be near impossible to do. That the suffocating heat wasn't something we'd get used to, but something that only added to the pressure. That the stretches were not beginner stretches but stretches for the really limber, I'm talking Gumby type limber, and Randy and I were the only sorry souls who were far, far behind. I tried holding my leg out at my hip at a nice 90 degree angle while holding onto the ball of that same foot--cupping it, actually--in the heart of my palms, but that only lasted as long as a blink. I tried pretzeling my arms and legs simultaneously, then bending at places that I didn't even know bent, but I just fell over like a broken egg. I even tried lying on my stomach and lifting my arms and legs up to create a beautiful U-shape, but when I looked back, I realized my legs hadn't even lifted, and I thought for a moment I was paralyzed from the waist down.

During the Warrior Three pose, the pose where you balance on one leg, extend your arms straight forward, and lift the other leg parallel to the ground, so that when someone is looking at you from the side, they unmistakeably see a letter T and not a human, I totally saw some dude's junk. That was the best part. Not.

I mean, c'mon! Yoga is already pretty exposing enough, what with rocking side to side as your ankles are above your ears--Man in front of me, did you not get the memo that people, specifically an impressionable young woman, who would no doubt write about this sort of thing, would be behind you and would look up during Warrior Three, trying to meet their eyes to the sun, and instead meet their eyes to that?! It's called underwear, for cryin' out loud!

Luckily, the man next to him, the one who wore even shorter shorts and was dripping--and I mean dripping like a facet drips when it's not quite turned off, or dripping when you squeeze out a soaking wet sponge--was kind enough to wear spandex underneath. Thank you Lord for that one.

When it was about five 'till the hour, I began lying on my back, again my palms up and open to the sky, thinking--wow, I made it, I actually made it through the whole session and I didn't throw up, didn't blow up, didn't get completely beat up. But, no--it's hot yoga, it's elite and paramount, only for the true yogies, and it would be going another half an hour.

So, what did I do for the last half an hour? Laid there anyway. I just pretended to look like I was going to barf, so Noah would understand. He even nodded a few times and held up his hand, signaling he knew, he hasn't forgotten what it's like being new to this endeavor. I would have fallen asleep if I weren't in sauna.

When we left, Randy, poor Randy, he had worked so hard, grimaced his way through the whole class, he was twitching by the end. As we left, Noah grabbed him by the shoulder and rubbed it a bit--the equivalent to the welcome-to-the-firm handshake for yogies--and told him, in these exact words (remember Scottish/Spanish accent here): "I know it was hard today, man, but if you keep coming back, you can do two classes for the price of one, and I swear, you'll go to the doctor and you'll blow their f***ing minds at how f****ing healthy you are, man."

And that's what made it all worth, money shot and all.

Burning Ring of Fire

2011-07-14T19:13:00.003-07:00

It's the middle of July, and we finally, finally got our swamp cooler working. No more sleeping out the deck (although I felt like such a kid), no more putting ice on my neck to cool down, and no more worrying that guests will just melt before my eyes because they are so uncomfortably hot. Ah, swamp coolers in the Southwest. Sweet relief.

Not being able to escape from this sweltering heat has reminded me about an experience that happened this month two years ago. It was my first time in New York City, and it was the first time I ever slept in a sauna.

Okay, so not a real sauna. But it was hot--so hot, I might as well have stripped down to my bra and boy shorts and initiated the downward dog pose. At least then I would have released all those negative toxins and affirm my inner self, awake every cell in my body, and feel my soul come alive.

My friend Patty and I, exasperated from the work and the stress and the work and the stress of our office job, decided to take a weekend off and spend it in New York City. Living in Baltimore at the time, it was only a few hours drive--we could take a bus that cost only $20 each way, and we could stay with one of Patty's friends, someone who had recently moved to the Big Apple to work in theatre. We would see Broadway, we would eat good food, and we would, of course, forget for a little while, the reason why we went on the trip in the first place--it would be the trip to New York I had always dreamed of.

We arrived in New York City, and it was after ten o'clock at night, but the buildings were so big and the lights were so bright, the sky was not black, but cobalt, and close, so close because there were no stars. I felt small, a forgotten button left in the crack of the sidewalk. We soon met Patty's friend, who I'll call Ange (short for Angela, because Angela is just too feminine). Clad in a black t-shirt, Jenco jeans, a backwards black hat, and stringy hair, long entangled from grease and smoke, she wouldn't look me in the eye and her jaw stuck forward like a bulldog's. Patty and I wondered, as we ate a less than satisfying taco from a taco truck that we absolutely had to eat while we were in New York City, if maybe forking over the money for a hotel would be preferable. But it was too late; before I knew it, we were on the subway, zooming, the lights to my left and to my right now bright, blurry lines.

She lived in a placed called Astoria, and as whimsical and fairy-tale as it sounds, it really wasn't: the neighborhood was slathered in grease, painted black, smelling like rats had just gotten out of a bath of scum and sewage. The people were sad and slumping, and we would soon find a cockroach crawling along the wall as we ate at Mike's Diner, which had ironically displayed a banner above its entrance pronouncing "Voted #1!"

But we were in New York City! We were among city people, their art, their creativity, their desperation, their busyness, and those alone mystified me. I didn't care about the fact that I was breathing in smog; I didn't care that the train above me shook the ground, shook my insides. It was New York City!

All that went out the window (it was 'defenestrated,' look it up) when we stepped into her apartment. Inside a brick building that looked like it could have been a telephone booth at one point, she gave us the grand tour. Over here was the kitchen, which had peanut butter, Brussel's sprouts, and honeydew on its counter, and over here were the bedrooms. Hers was down there. Mine was right here. Patty would sleep on the couch. We were tired, but most of all, we were hot.

She apologized briefly for the lack of air conditioning, but, as you know, the life of a stagehand doesn't pay. Her crippling couch cushions sans couch and wire rack full of nothing but rice cakes could have told me that.

Patty and I hung out for a while as Ange went to bed. We tried not to think about how smothered we were in heat; we wiped the sweat from our foreheads and thought of all the things we would do in our 48 hours in NYC: eat some good grub, see a Broadway play, live the good, fast life. It was all so thrilling, thrilling as beads of sweat dripped from our earlobes and noses.

I thought maybe it'd be cooler in my bedroom. There was an industrial sized fan in there, but really, it only mixed up the hot air instead of cooling it. Stripping down to a tank top and gauchos, I lay in the bed and began to soak. No amount of tossing and turning could send enough breeze my way. The train right above my head didn't provide any drift, either. I kept pursing up the blinds, getting a peek into the night through the steamy window, wishing I could be anywhere but there.

I somehow got through the night. I don't know how. When I woke up, I had to squeegee my arms and legs. I reached for the door, again praying for that draft at the arrival of new air, but my hand slipped on the knob. I wiped it down my pant leg, and turned the knob again. But it wouldn't budge. The door, it was stuck, I was stuck, and there was no way I was getting out of that hell.

I texted Patty, hoping she'd wake up and come get me. But she didn't. So I waited. I tried the door again, again, and again. After a few minutes of looking out the steamy window, wondering if there was a way I could jump (there wasn't), I decided to try the door again. After a pep talk and a deep breath, I grabbed the door handle, turned it mightily, yanked the door, and it finally got loose.

I took the coldest shower of my life that day, and I just stood under the shower head, letting it rain, rain rain.

I wonder if Ange ever got air conditioning.

Like it was Halloween, but it was Fourth of July

2011-07-08T16:22:00.000-07:00

To celebrate our anniversary, Randy and I dressed up like aliens for the annual UFO Festival in Roswell, NM. Instead of giving each other greeting cards or following that old-fashioned rule of "1st year, paper goods" or whatever the heck it is, we figured returning to our honeymoon spot and transforming into beings from outer space that come in peace would be the best way to go. And it was. It certainly was.

We actually got pretty lucky, in a strange way. See, we had dressed up--me in a lime green bob, gold eyelashes that touched my bangs, and a floor length, entirely sequenced dress (yes, from Savers, and yes, the checkout lady called it "absolutely stunning"), and Randy in a silver space suit with green pointy ears and a laser gun--all in hopes to enter the costume contest. It was a good thing, really, that we were late for registration (I just had to put on more glitter, more glitter), because one, we would have most definitely been overlooked by the kid who was a transformer that literally transformed into a police car (can I get an "OPTIMUS!"?), and two, we wouldn't have had to opportunity to strut our stuff downtown, thus becoming celebrities to these alien loving people.

For some reason, we were the only ones dressed up. We figured, you know, after the contest, everyone would mingle downtown, meet the locals, visit with the tourists. But no. It was just a bunch of moms in jeans, kids in strollers, teenagers on cell phones, and dads in hats. So what happens when you really are alien? You get your picture taken. Again, again, again, and again.

It was as if nobody had ever seen people dressed up in costumes before! Here we are, thinking we're going to fit in, be one of the crowd, hoping to gawk at and take pictures of others--not the other way around!

But the more we were asked to pose for the camera, and the more little girls pointed and said, "Mommy, I wanna be like her!" the more we fell in love with it all. Instead of us looking and watching and me taking mental notes on blogging about that guy or that girl being a character in a future story, it was us who were the subjects--it was us who would be posted on Facebook with the caption, "Only at the UFO Festival," or "This is my hometown. How weird." It was us who people would tell their grandchildren about, tell their siblings who thought going to the UFO Festival was a waste of time. It was us who made peoples days, made them forget about the sun's heat and the never-ending day just long enough to snap our picture and shake our hands.

We even got a free snow cone for being in awesome costumes! A young kid, presumably the son of the owner of the van, came up to us and told us we could get any snow cone we wanted, and it would be on the house. I tell you, small town people really got it going on. Nothing beats that kind of kindness.

As we got our free shaved ice, perhaps our biggest fans came up to us, and although the woman only had a small digital camera, it was not unlike what J.Lo must feel when the paparazzi ambush. She told me to pose a certain way to get the good lighting, she got full-body shots and up close shots. It was all so magical, really, like this woman and her husband (who was off talking to Randy about alien abductions) were so serious about their UFOs and their beliefs in aliens that, when they saw a few young people having fun with it all, they realized just how silly it all can be.

The woman told us we had made their trip, that meeting us was the highlight. How little she knows we feel the same way towards them.

I Come From the Water

2011-05-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

Last night, right before we fell asleep to an uncharacteristically boring episode of X-Files, my husband and I discovered a show on Animal Planet called River Monsters. Unexplainable creatures being one of our many "things," we were instantly intrigued. The show, hosted by the ever enigmatic Jeremy Wade, takes viewers into the territories of harrowing fish monsters in the depths of sometimes uncharted waters, pushing the boundary between safety and danger, and providing a sense that, truly, we are not alone.

About fifteen minutes in, we got bored, so that's why we switched to X-Files (which, too, followed suit). But before we got uninterested, Jeremy Wade went finishing in an ancient lake in Japan. He was searching for a gigantic catfish, the very same catfish that, once it wiggles, causes all of the earthquakes in Japan (!). Right before it cut to commercial, and right after the menacing music started pounding, he caught something, and it writhed, and he writhed, and it was possibly the monster he was looking for.

Turns out, it was just a catfish. He held it with both hands and it opened its mouth wide and heaved, choking, essentially, as Wade explained what kind of catfish it was and that maybe, maybe it was the relative of the river monster he was searching for. It had two long, thick whiskers coming from its mouth, pointy whiskers that I'm sure could stab anyone if messed with; it was the color of garbage and it flailed once it again realized it wasn't in water, not unlike the way an old man throws a coffee machine across the room because it doesn't work correctly. His beady eyes, dark and hollow and staring straight me, never lit up, never showed any sign of friendly recognition. I imagined this catfish was the grump of his school, the way its lower lip slouched in disapproval.

Finally, Wade let the fish back into the water, and his search continued on.

Usually, things I watch on TV don't affect me that much. (Okay, so like ONE time after watching an episode of X-Files, I thought Randy and I were going to get abducted because we knew too much, but that was a looong time ago, I mean like two weeks ago). But for some reason, that cranky catfish never left my subconscious. This morning, right before my dog started barking at the door to let him out, and right after my husband got up, I started having this dream that didn't really have a beginning:

I was in a lobby, a place that looks like the guest services and gift wrapping area of Macy's, but it wasn't exactly that. I was sitting in chairs, and it kinda felt like I was at the DMV waiting to be called (nightmarish, I know). Once my name was called, I went up the counter where the people were, and I was given a new cell phone and a new cell phone plan. Once I agreed to everything and signed the papers, I was handed the very same cantankerous catfish that Jeremy Wade caught on TV only a few hours before.

He still had the beady eyes. He still had the bottom lip that protruded and judged me. Those whiskers were still there, still pointy and dangerous. I looked at the lady behind the counter, she just blinked and smiled. I grabbed the fish in my hand, thinking, wondering, worrying how I was going to make calls, how I was going to text, how in the hell I was going to put this thing up against my face and talk into it. I looked in my purse, looking for something that would magically make this fish into a cell phone, and what do I find, I find my orange headphones. I stick the jack into the fish's head, and he doesn't so much as mind or notice. Thinking this could actually work, I then proceeded to put the earbuds in my ears. To my sincere surprise, I didn't hear a thing.

I took the fish home with me, thinking that maybe I just had to get used to it, like how it is with all other new phones. I set it on the kitchen table and stared at it, and it stared back, this time being as still as a dead fish. But it wasn't dead. It was inhaling, exhaling, even sighing once as a passive aggressive signal of disapproving my inability to accept this creature as my new cell phone.

I sat down on the couch and began to commence worrying again: what about the smell? Would would people think if they saw a fish against my face? How would I fit it into my back pocket? Would it be able to take pictures at a concert? How about ringtones--are they annoying midis, or can I download famous TV theme songs for free?

Finally deciding to once and for all get on with it and quit my worrying, I reached for the fish and turned it over, its breast facing up. I stated dialing on an invisible dial pad, then held the fish up to my ear. It was slimy, cold, wet, like the grossest part of the river was right on my face. I started to gag, heaving at stench of fish and river water now mere inches away from my nose. After a beat or two, my mother picked up the phone and said, "Oh, honey, I'm so glad you called!"

That is the last time I watch Jeremy Wade before bedtime.

I'm Not Going to State Obvious Observations

2011-04-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

I stole this flyer from the back of a stall door. I've had the pleasure of reading it almost every week for a whole semester now. Here it is, word for word:

GRE STUDY BUDDY

I am looking for someone who would like to do tutoring sessions with me to prepare for the GRE. I found a tutor that is really on top of her game who will charge $20 a person per session. Considering that most of the GRE prep courses range from $400-$1,200, I think that this is a really good deal, and we would get the benefit of having individual attention that matched our specific needs.

I would be totally willing to get together and do some studying outside of tutoring sessions, and I think it would be cool to have someone to work with and stay motived with. Plus, I'm kind of cool to hang out with, so there's that too.

Feel free to contact me at krisxxxx@xxxxxx.com if you are interested.

Below is my response.

RE: GRE STUDY BUDDY

Thanks for posting your flyer on the back of the stall door so that when I squatted on the toilet I would be able to have something to read. Although your flyer reads more like an article than a flyer (really, as a future graduate student, you should know that LESS IS MORE on flyers--luckily I had no other choice than to read it), you do have excellent grammar and syntax, and I wish to commend you for such a feat. Should you pass your GRE, take these excellent writing skills and continue to write flyers, but ONLY post them where people cannot physically look away--like, above their faces during their laser eye surgery or insert them into those eyesight testing machines at the DMV.

I think it's cool that you said it'd be cool to have someone to study with and that you're cool to hang out with. I'm cool to hang out with, too, but if you're gonna hang out with me, you absolutely MUST wear T-shirts with one word on them (only one word, that's it; none of this "love is all you need" or "save the planet" or "just do it" crap. Acceptable words include: burrito, horseback, honeycomb, or dishwasher), and you also must never, ever say things like "that sounds like a great band name!" or "that's what she said." I HATE that's what she said!

I am very serious about passing my GRE, so by the time you're done reading this, you should be done peeing (or pooping, whatever). So hurry up and email me and I'll start the interview process to see if you're the right match. We have to be cool together, you know?

Contact me now at michelley346@comcast.net. Right now. Go! (But wash your hands. I don't study with germy people.)

I really hope I get a response!

Somewhere, Out in the Desert

2011-03-14T15:00:00.000-07:00

After living in New Mexico for nearly two decades, I can say I have finally--finally--gone to Truth or Consequences.

In another effort to conquer New Mexico and check off another city (town?) on our list, we drove to T or C and spent the afternoon there. We spent the day in the historic downtown part, and it was as surprising as it was pathetic. This really is the dirty southwest, and dirty could be found in its shallows and in its depths. Not dirty as in I would have to cover my little child's eyes if I had one, or I would feel uncomfortable if my dad was by my side. But dirty as in the way a framed photograph of your great-grandmother gets dirty: it collects dust, it's intriguing in its nostalgic mystery, yet you don't want to get your hands on it because you don't know where it's been or what you'll get from it. That's how T or C felt.

We ate lunch as this bright turquoise cafe called The Happy Belly Deli. Really, we went there only for the name and for the color of the exterior paint. And if those two aspects didn't exist--if it was typical cream stucco and it was named something lame like "Scott's Deli," then we certainly would have passed it up and found something infinitely more worthwhile. By the end of our meal, we wished we had gone somewhere else, longing for the Wild Coyote Grille right across the street, or the Pink Sheep Cafe just a few blocks down--those would have definitely given us the T or C experience we were looking for. Instead, The Happy Belly Deli just gave us crappy, rusty tasting tap water, flavorless sandwiches, and an overweight waitress who wore one of those skorts that my friends and I wore when we were in kindergarten. You know what I'm talking about--the shorts/skirt combo, that way you could be a dainty little lady AND swing upside down on the monkey bars! I thought people were done with skorts when I went into the second grade, but I guess not.

And not only did she wear a skort (we knew about the shorts underneath because she bent down in front of us so, so gracefully a few times), but she had rainbow bangs. So, imagine this: bangs that aren't really bangs anymore--the kind that go past your chin, but since your hair is down to your waist, they're still technically bangs. And on these bangs, there are multi-colored sections of hair, or the exact chromatic pattern of a rainbow. And when she would bring you your water from the tap and not from the fountain, or when she would bend over and grab that napkin, those rainbow colored bangs would fly like a fabulous gay pride flag in the wind. That is T or C right there.

Much like all of the other desolate and desperate towns we've visited, we went to consignment shop after consignment shop. Truly, I wonder: how do these people make money? If we are the only customers, and we are even afraid people will break into our car because we own a GPS and probably have a left over chicken sandwich somewhere, how do antique stores and jewelry stores really last? Does everyone just sleep in their store, hanging on to people like us, who will inevitably disappoint them because really, we're just window shopping?

I did buy a pretty rad ring at a boutique, though. The guy was down to earth, wearing a unicorn on his shirt with a rainbow shooting out of its horn. And he told me his wife handmade the ring, so that coupled with the fantastic shirt, I was a goner. The ring looks like a miniature ristra on my finger. Now I have New Mexico with me wherever I go.

Our real reason for going to T or C was because we were headed to Las Crues--yes, another luxurious weekend getaway spot, if I do say so myself--to check out Randy's long-lost friend's band. It turned out, we were two of five people at the show--the rest of the bodies in the lounge, all thirteen of them, were somehow associated with the two bands performing. So that was cool--we go to Las Cruces for our own private show, kinda.

The place where the show was held was at this brand new "self-expression lounge." This woman named Kiki spent a year and a half creating this spot for bands to come and play, for poets to slam, for artists to display, for kids to hang out after hours. It's pretty bitchin' (the musicians' words, not mine). But if you're afraid of mannequins, even the kind that look like a Hindi god, then don't go there. But if you're fascinated by an immaculate display of hundreds of rock crystals, of extremely pouffy and silky shag pillows, of the artwork and architecture of bongs, of a bathroom that has green laser lights swirling around the floor and on the walls as you pee, of a six-foot giraffe made of seashells and wire, or of robots made out of what robots are typically made out of, then this is the place for you.

The actual show itself was entertaining--the first band that played was called Blvd Park, and they were just as surprising and quirky as the venue they were playing in. Their genre, I found out, is spaghetti-western-desert-browngrass. If that doesn't titillate your senses, I don't know what does. I will be listening to them and their sweet swooning trumpets and crooning vocals for years to come, I know that for a fact.

The second band, Musical Charis, with the member who knows Randy, were just as delightful. They even invited Randy to jam a few Johnny Cash songs up on stage. It felt like Randy was singing just to me. Okay, so maybe he actually was singing just to me because by that time people went out for their smoke break or check Facebook break, but still. It was magical.

Next time you're on your way to Elephant Butte, stop in Truth or Consequences. You might just find that waitress again, and maybe she'll have zebra bangs that time. And if you happen to find yourself in Las Cruces for whatever reason (hey, we did), check out the Yum Bunny. Kiki would love to have you.

All I Want to Do is Turn Around

2011-02-16T21:23:00.001-08:00

In case you didn't know, there is a small town south of Albuquerque called Pie Town. You'll miss it if you sneeze, and it might just blow away before someone could even say bless you. In fact, we got lost looking for Pie Town because the GPS didn't know how to find it. But we were determined. Nothing stands in the way of me and my pie. Town.

There are only a few buildings down the main drag, if you could even call it that. Two pie shops and something of an old, abandoned chiropractor's office, or maybe I made that up because that sounds more mysterious than a steel shop or a mechanic. Apparently, there are about forty families that live in Pie Town, but they must have been ghosts, because we didn't see a soul save for those in the Daily Pie Cafe. Either that, or they were hiding behind trees, afraid us city-folk would take all their pie and sell it for fortunes and glory.

I had been yearning to go to Pie Town ever since I discovered it by accident on Google Maps. Randy and I were looking at the route to Las Cruces because one of my brothers had recently moved there. My eye caught those two words, and I became insatiable. I imagined this place made completely of pies, very much like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, but not just chocolate: pies. Blueberry goo dripping from the eaves, waiting for young tongues, pecans bespeckled along the road, ready for you to skip to and pick up like fallen pennies. Sugar and spice sprinkling down on the residents as they walked with giant, rhubarb stained smiles. Pie offered for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; the constant smell of warm glazed crust, even when you went to sleep and especially when you woke up. People worshiping Pie on Sundays and people putting their pies in wagons and taking them for walks on Saturday evenings. Pie Appreciation and Pie Theory. Every day being Pie Day in Pie Town, and the Mayor declared a pie-of-the-month every month, to keep people guessing and on their toes and whispering about their secret homemade pie recipe.

However, after researching Pie Town, I discovered it was actually founded by Clyde Norman in the early '20s who came from the dust bowl and settled there. He made delicious pies, according to the legend, and to make an honest living, he opened a cafe and sold them. When travelers stopped by and asked what this place was called and he didn't have an answer, many suggested Pie Town and the name stuck. Thus the emergence of the Daily Pie Cafe. There is, too, a competing cafe just a pie slice's throw away--The Pie-O-Neer Cafe--a CVS to the Daily Pie Cafe's Walgreens.

My husband and I and our good friends Emily and Aaron checked out the Daily Pie Cafe, since they served lunch, too, and the other one sold mostly pies. Lunch was enjoyable. The best green chile chicken noodle soup Randy has ever tasted came from the Daily Pie's Cafe kitchen, and they were so kind to give us the recipe. The cafe was petite, lined with old glass bottles and Route 66 memorabilia. Beside the wall of T-shirts that say things like, "Where the !@#$ is Pie Town, NM?" and "All I want is Pie," you'd never think this was a tourist trap. And while I may not say it was the best pie I had ever eaten, for I believe finding the best pie ever is a life-long quest, I do believe it was worthy of the three hour drive and the near car sickness I got. And as I bit into my slice, I tasted something difference about this piece: it tasted the way Pie Town tasted. New, novel, completely mysterious and excitedly discovered. Pies were meant to live and be eaten there, like it's their sanctuary.

The four of us got each a different pie slice, and we passed them around like they were ceremonious indulgences. Mine was my favorite: chocolate and peanut butter on a chocolate crust. Tell me that isn't sensational.

If you're ever down that way, take a detour. Forget about the calories and the miles and the dust and the forsaken land. You'll discover something so rare and wonderful you'll want to protect it from big cities and people with big pockets. Chances are you'll really like the slice you get, too.

Just when I thought you couldn't possibly be any dumber...

2011-01-09T16:48:00.000-08:00

While the guys may be dumb and dumber, I've learned many a life lesson from good ol' Harry and Lloyd.

1. Always open the mysterious woman's briefcase--especially before you take your road trip and spend your whole life's savings.

2. Look on the bag for the name of the person you're searching for. It's probably there.

3. A woman won't meet you at a bar at 10 am. She always means 10 pm.

4. Never trust a little old lady on a motorized cart.

5. The soup du jour is the soup of the day.

6. You don't need a radio in your car.

7. Never pee in beer bottles while speeding.

8. We landed on the moon!

9. Your tongue will get stuck to chair lift if you try to lick the ice.

10. A blind kid won't know the difference between a dead bird and an alive one.

11. Always check that the toilet works before completely unloading.

12. One in a million is a good chance.

13. Pay attention to your girlfriend or she'll write you a John Deere letter.

14. Ketchup and mustard are good antidotes to extremely hot peppers.

Rave On

2010-11-17T19:18:00.001-08:00

My husband and I like to go on road trips. Our fantasy vacations consists of the unseen and overlooked, the quirky and unique, the spontaneous and unforgettable. Our honeymoon was full of adventure, and it hasn't been anything less sense. Recently, we went to Clovis, NM for a weekend getaway. Now, I know what you're thinking. Clovis. New Mexico. The town that is pretty much Texas it might as well be apart of Texas. Clovis. The one that everyone passes through on their way to Lubbock and forgets it exists as soon as they pass it. Clovis.

But! Clovis, New Mexico, as a matter of fact, was one of the places where the late and great Buddy Holly recorded some of his most famous material. Yep. In a studio some goold folks named Norman and Vi Petty owned. Ever heard of That'll be the Day? Or Everyday? Or what about True Love Ways? Yeah, Clovis.

We camped out at a humble campground/RV campsite just outside of the main drag. We arrived late in the evening, after dark and, well, after Clovis' nightlife had gone fast asleep. A dude next to us, a chunk of a man, helped us set up our tent. He made jokes like normal friendly ol' neighbors do. We found he was there to see the Buddy Holly festival, too, just like we were. He, his friend and some random woman with electrocuted black hair all stayed in one of those Chevy vans that was perfect for people like him. It was incredible seeing them all come out of the van in the morning, like I was watching a bunch of clowns come out of a tiny car.

There ain't much to do in Clovis, I'll tell you that. We did happen to find some pretty interesting things, though, amongst all the blue hairs and people who will be perpetually stuck in the '50s. A consignment shop that smelled like moldy oldy clothes and moldy women (so impressively called Consigning Women--no, we didn't see a Delta Burke look-a-like), an exquisite men's store where suit jackets sold for over $600 (named after the exceptional Homer Tanksersley of the Tanksersley fame, of course), and an all too cozy smoke-cloud of a store with the rarest and most prized sports trading cards (although I don't know for sure, I believe the owner bathed in his own smoke in the back of that store, which also two-timed as his house).

During the concert that Saturday night, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and Little Richard all resurrected and the everyone seemingly forgot we lived in a world with Blackerrys and Twitters and The Situation. With the rockin' music, the hip thrusting, the shiny hair grease, the poundings of keys on a piano, I became nostalgic for a time period I never experienced. I became a fan of all these people, their posthumous reincarnations so precise I wouldn't have known the difference if I didn't know any better.

Before the concert, though, as everyone with their walkers and hearing aids trickled in, my husband and I walked by this man sitting at a table, alone. He had a red tablecloth, a few CDs, and a stack of business cards. We noticed him and struck up a conversation. A lovely British accent poured out of his mouth, and we were instantly intrigued. (Read this part with a British accent) A Brit, all the way from England to Clovis, New Mexico! How preposterous! (End accent) But this man wasn't preposterous. He was legit. Luhh-gyt. The most legit fan there, even bigger and better than the people who actually heard Buddy Holly make it number one on the radio.

Dave Slater was his name, and this was his second year making the trek all the way out for this festival, and he didn't plan on it being his last. His CDs were cover songs he did in an actual studio of some of his favorite Buddy Holly tunes. He even wrote a song inspired by Holly's tragic death called, "Meant to Be (Crash Site Nightmare)."

After the show, we ran into Slater at the local IHOP (a rather hoppin' place for Clovis if you ask me). There, we talked with him more about his fanhood of Buddy Holly. He told us of the time he visited Holly's airplane crash site on the 40th anniversary of Holly's death. It was if he was speaking of his own father's death site, the way he worshiped and cherished and held it in such a high regard. He tried again ten years later, almost down to the minute the plane crashed, even, but because of the treacherous winter conditions, he himself got into an accident and it wasn't "meant to be."

If it weren't for the fact that we had to hit the road early the next morning, we would have stayed with Dave that whole night, probably right there in that IHOP booth, talking about Buddy Holly and the '50s American music. We have faith, though, that he's not done with Clovis, New Mexico. It's his graceland.

I'll Be Running Circles Around You Sooner Than You Know

2010-07-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

We just looked at each other and we couldn't believe it. All these babies, these kids, these noises, these smells, these things. What had we gotten ourselves into?

It wasn't a normal Sunday. No, not the Sundays we were used to. We were used to people our age, quiet; spiritual hours of reflection, worship, even inspiration. We were used to our peers sitting calmly, reading reverently, talking in their adult language to other adults in their whispered tones, the same tones that their mothers taught them to use when inside a church--the same tones the children we were amongst had forgotten just as soon as their mother scolded them for not speaking so.

There was a woman, poor woman. She had four rowdy kids, and she was all by herself. As the sermon went on, the kids grew more wild and more imaginative, making the ground hot lava, the seats rescue boats, and hymn books hats for their heads. The rows of chairs no longer places for people to sit and enjoy the talks given, but rather they became stomping grounds, even a trampoline to one of her little boys. This little one, one in particular--he was in blue. A soft blue, a hue that belied his temperament and raging rampage against the monsters in the sea below. I would have never guessed a boy in such a blue would be gnashing and slashing and kicking and throwing at invisible things down below--I figured, sitting there watching his helpless mother drowning in the helplessness she must have felt, that a boy in such a blue should be sitting right next to her, respectful and serene, perhaps swinging his legs just a bit, just to remind the rest of the congregation he was a little boy.

Our faces clenched, our eyes squinted, our bodies leaned forward and erect, our lips were tucked underneath our teeth because, we thought, doing those things would eliminate all other outside noise--the noises a young and very, very newlywed couple did not yet want to hear so loud and so pounding in their ears. The straining and the squeezing and the gawking did nothing to take care of the red-faced children with devil horns and drool seeping out of their mouths. No, nothing. As I was talking to a woman later on that afternoon, expressing our shock and disdain, she just replied, "It's only a matter of time until it's your kids."

Gettin' Caught up in the Scene

2010-06-09T20:20:00.001-07:00

If you had told me that one day, my body would be seen by millions all over the nation, I probably wouldn't have believed you. If you had told me that the top of my head, that very red hair I work so hard to maintain, would be the absolute center of the frame, the focal point in the foreground in the scene, I probably would have cocked that very same redhead back and scoffed. If you had told me I'd be feet--mere feet--away from one of television's most famous and sought after TV star, I would have just stared blankly in your eyes and waited for you to pull out the inevitable and always predictable, "juuuuuust kidding!"

And while you nor anyone else told me these things beforehand, they all did, in fact, happen. Okay, so maybe "seen by millions" is a bit of a stretch. And okay, so maybe my head wasn't the absolute focal point of the scene, but it was blurry and right in front of the absolute focal point of the scene. And, right, okay, so maybe I wasn't feet away from television's most famous star. She's pretty famous and pretty star-like, but it's not like she's Conan O'Brien or anything.

The day started with my brother and I sitting in a forsaken trailer that had only a bottle of A1 Sauce and the sounds of two eager extras awaiting their claim to fame. Eventually, after the minutes faded into much longer and uneventful minutes, more and more people started trickling in, and we found our clique. As we got our direction from the man in charge whose name was Walt but looks nothing like a Walt but rather more like a Chad or a Mark, we soon realized the misnomer 'extra' was both insufficient and outside of the show biz jargon. After lunch, which, by the way, was catered and probably the most expensive and most intense lunch I've ever eaten in my life, we were no longer referred to as petty 'extras.' We became 'background,' a name with more gravity and more superiority that, for a moment, made us feel like the weight of the show's future rested on our shoulders. The shoulders that would soon become famous by some.

I'll skip the part about waiting. There was a lot of waiting. Waiting standing up, waiting sitting down, waiting while you ate, waiting while you pretended to sleep, waiting while watching the takes before you. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Fast forward to the part where they needed me, when it was my time to shine (gosh, what's with all these rhyming cliches I'm using? Forgive me, every Creative Writing teacher I've never had. Know this is just the limelight in my talking). Keep in mind that I had my sister's heels on, who not only wears heels that could kill a man if placed in the right part of his neck or chest, but were so narrow in the toes, my toes became little purple sausages that hurt as if a thousand little needles were jamming into them. Also keep in mind I was wearing an outfit that is classified as "upscale business conservative," an outfit that I would probably never consider unless it was the rare occasion of a job interview. Keep in mind, too, I was specifically chosen for this scene. Me, pointed at, given specific direction and props. Me!

I had to walk down the hotel lobby, down the stairs, sit down at my table, and begin to read my newspaper. The actor in me started coming up with a method, with a reason I was sitting at that specific table and reading that specific paper that way instead of the other ways to read a paper. How I sat, how I turned the page, how my head was held, even which way my sausage-y toes were pointed were all due to this made up character's motive--the fact that she, this upscale business conservative woman, was waiting in this very hotel lobby for the spy at the competing company to give her the inside goods to provide her leverage at her job. This woman couldn't care less about the US Marshall and the teenage girl bickering over at the table adjacent from her! She had much more important things to worry about!

But the girl who played the businesswoman, the girl whose toes were dying a slow death and who wasn't really reading the paper and found out halfway through it had actually been upside down the whole time was absolutely enthralled with the US Marshall and the teenage girl bickering. Or, at least, with actresses playing the US Marshall and the teenage girl. She was within earshot and could hear dialogue perfectly, all the while pretending to read the paper and not even noticing or caring about her surroundings.

After I walked and sat and read, I did other things like walk with a man who was my traveling companion behind the bellboy who carried our excessive luggage. My brother was a bartender, scrubbing the bar, refilling the drinks... doing bartender-y things that I really have no clue what they do. Pretty soon, the exhausting 10 hour day of filming and mostly waiting was over, and I could finally take my shoes off and relax.

On the way home, my brother and I were anxious to see the episode we were in, already planning on recording it and getting the DVD once the season was released. And even though our expectations of how much our likeness was captured on film were far too great and we played up our becoming famous quite a bit, we could now say what the life of an 'extra'--excuse me, what the life of a 'background' was like. Now that we have insider knowledge, it's like we know it all.

On the Back Deck of Our First Apartment

2010-05-19T20:46:00.001-07:00

I think TV has really tainted my perception of how looking for a new home should be. I always saw it as romantic while the couple linked arm in arm scale up and down the home and imagine all the stages of life it'd go through and how, oh honey, how they'd go through it all together. I always thought it was an immediate decision, one where the adults involved just looked at each other and, as if their minds and voices and mouths were wired to do everything in sync and in the same pitch, shouted, "We'll take it!" as they threw their arms up and leaped toward each other in gaiety and abandon of all anxiety. I imagined looking for a new home--particularly a new apartment--would be that part of growing up and moving on that was monumental and worthy to be documented in stone.

I had no idea that, when it really came down to it, I'd rather live on a street called Arapahoe than on a street that's adjacent to a street named Columbine, simply because I'd prefer to think always think about wrapping a hoe when giving out my address instead of the high school tragedy that was one of those "I remember exactly where I was" moments. Really, when it comes down it, I'll take the apartment named Nine-O-Nine rather than the apartment called Crest View, even if Crest View did make me want to jump into a freeze frame of elation and completeness because, let's face it, saying you live at Nine-O-Nine is way cooler and gives you so much more street cred than saying you live at freaking Crest View.

Seriously, when I imagine giving my new address to somebody, be it someone taking my information at the doctor's office or when ordering something off TV, I don't want my street name to be as bland and unimaginative as Vin Diesel's acting. I want my street address to have presence, have claim, have anything but two generic Spanish words put together to make it sound authentic. Please, no more Mesa Verdes or Camino Vistas. Let's get some originality in here, people.

Along with street names and names of the apartment community, I'm finding I have a high standard for the leasing agent. I once had a young blonde, professional yet down-to-earth, show us around. We didn't like her nor her pant suit. Those perfectly manicured nails and that unequivocal speech about the square footage of the apartment--give me a break. I prefer the little old ladies, the ones that talk about planting gardens and tell you to watch your step, even if the step is so huge, you wonder if even she can get over it. I prefer the middle-aged women who have lipstick marks on their teeth and talk so fast they have to cough every few minutes to keep the saliva from getting backed up; the agents who are so enthusiastic about their apartment homes and so ready to sell you on it they'll pull anything--anything--out of their butts to make it better than it is.

"While the width of the this kitchen is about the same as your arm span, it's very European, you know, so you get that European, on-the-go, Euro-foreign feel to it. Not many apartments have this, in fact. In fact, no other apartment has this at all. That's how great it is."

"As you can see, the living area is very small, but look how cozy it is--especially for newly married couples! And oh, you can't beat this quaint little feature of this section of the wall that's missing so you can immediately look in the kitchen from the front entrance instead of looking into a wall. Doesn't it just open up the room? It's so unique. No other apartment will have something like this."

"Yep, you're right--absolutely no counter space in the bathroom. But did you see the new Berber carpet newly installed? Eh, eh?"

Can you see how difficult this process is?! It's no longer romantic--it's no longer let's bring in the fireworks and streamers and dance around because YAY we just found our new place. Not only is it hard to find the perfect street name--believe me, I would kill to live on a street named Morningwood--but it's difficult to find one that's just...perfect. One that doesn't have a random section removed from the wall to open up space; one that doesn't smell like the 1970s and feel like the 1950s; one that doesn't take 30 seconds to walk the entire perimeter; one that doesn't call the 6'X 6' room with three exercise machines a"state-of-the-art" fitness center. And while my expectations may be too high--I can hear people saying I should just settle for the most logical and most reasonable and most affordable and most centrally located--I can't bring myself to settle. I can't do it because, like I said, this is my new home. And your home is supposed to be the only perfect thing in your life. The thing you come to when you want to get away from the world. The thing that comforts you in your sleep or when you're sick and knows all your secrets but never tells, the place that holds your favorite people and brings out the best in them, that gives you security in a time where security is rapidly vanishing.

Finding a new home is not like going to the department store and finding a new blouse. It's not like going to the grocery store and, after squeezing a few avocados, you pick the ripest one, just like that. It's not that simple. It's your new home... it's supposed to replace the old one. So it'll take a while, I'm finding. It'll take driving around the city for two days. It'll take enduring every last bit of BS each leasing agent has to offer (except the old lady, she was legit). It's not meant to be taken lightly because, after all is said and done, it's your home. It's just so important to feel at home in your home. I guess that's what I'm seeking for the most.

Flash

2010-04-12T18:19:00.000-07:00

[Some fiction, to make up for my missed month.]

Flash

*******

He wrapped his arm around her waist, and together, in concert, they smiled the same smile. They looked ahead, into the smiling lens of the camera, and waited for the stranger to press the button. The stranger had trouble finding it--she fiddled and mumbled and giggled with nervous laughter. The man let go of his smile, took the camera, showed the stranger patiently how to do it. He went back to the girl, wrapped his arm around her waist, and together, in concert, they smiled the same smile.

The flash went off, illuminating their faces. In that instant, they, as they were, froze: she wearing her ankle-high grey camouflage pants with a hemp anklet, her wicker shoes becoming frayed on the heels. Her orange tank top flowed against her skin, exposing the tan she’d been working on that week. A few nameless strands of blonde strayed from the top of her head, out of her ponytail, just wanting to let go of her scalp and escape. His other arm, the one that wasn’t around her waist, was bent slightly, his wristwatch glistening as it peaked out from his pocket where his hand rested. The sunglasses which he had been wearing only moments before clung to the neck of his shirt, pulling it down just enough to expose a few hairs she would soon adore.

But when the camera flashed, she didn’t know that she would fall in the love with this man standing next to her, tilting his head and smiling. She didn’t know that he would bake her cookies in the morning, that he would call her mother mom, that he would never cry in front of her. She was unaware, in that moment, that he would one day raise his voice at her, even though he promised he would never, and that she would soon resent how he always made her laugh when she was angry at him. She had no idea that one day she’d sever all her ties with him, pack her stuff, and never say another word to him again. In a flash, she was just the girl with a tan and a smile, wrapping her arm around a man she just barely knew.

In that flash, that moment when the light washed across the skin of the man and bounced back to the camera, he closed his eyes. Both of them, crescent moons to his smiling lips below. He didn’t mean to close his eyes; he didn’t mean for their first picture together to be tainted with his eyelids locked. He would say to her, just seconds after the picture was taken as they viewed it on the mini screen, that he was always the worst at keeping his eyes open, that seventy percent of his photos are with his eyes half or completely closed. She would begin to tease him, saying that he looked drunk with his clown smile that had no open eyes to compliment it. He didn’t know that, years after this picture had been taken, he would find it in the bottom of an old coffee container as he was cleaning his closet, and that when he looked at it, at the girl who was once his best friend and best lover, and at his closed eyes and her sparkling smile, most of his heart would ache. It would ache for knowing the possibility of them was never reached, for the fact that he let her go, for the fact that, when his current girlfriend would walk in, he’d have to scramble and joggle and popple, just to hide the picture he was adoring and mourning.

Learning the Hard Way, Gin Blossoms

2010-04-10T17:17:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when a music lover and a story lover fall in love... or just when they use their skills to create one boss story.

************

College Days, Robert Earl Keen. School’s Out, Alice Cooper. California Summer, Ryan Gillmore. Hello New Day, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Carefree, The Refreshments. Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan. King of the Road, Roger Miller. Walk on the Wild Side, Lou Reed. Endless Highway, Mike Tramp. The Wrong Side of Reno, Rocky Votolato. The World Aint Slowin’ Down, Ellis Paul. Rocky Mountain High, John Denver. Highway Patrol, Junior Brown. I Can’t Drive 55, Sammy Hagar. I Fought the Law, The Bobby Fuller Four. Amarillo by Morning, George Strait. I Still Miss Someone, Johnny Cash. Walking Alone, Green Day. Cheating at Solitaire, Mike Ness. Thousand Miles from Nowhere, Dwight Yoakam. Lonesome Town, Ricky Nelson. Gotta Get Up Every Morning, Junior Brown. 18 Miles to Memphis, Stray Cats. The Show Must Go On, Queen. Something to Believe in, Poison. Little Help from my Friends, The Beatles. Wish you Were Here, Pink Floyd. Bad Luck, Social Distortion. Broke, Love Sick, and Driftin, Hanks Williams III. It Aint Me, Babe, Bob Dylan. Something for the Pain, Bon Jovi. Run from Your Memory, Chris Knight. Used to Love Her, Guns ‘n Roses. So Hard to Find my Way, Jackie Greene. Too Legit to Quit, MC Hammer. Here I Go Again, White Snake. Happy in the Meantime, Lit. Sweet Somewhere Bound, Jackie Greene. Hello, I’m in Delaware, City and Colour. No Sleep ‘till Broadway, Beastie Boys. Thunderstorms and Neon Signs, Wayne Hancock. Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, U2. Postcard from Kentucky, Rocky Votolato. Almost to Tulsa, Bobby Charleton. Up All Night, Slaughter. Santa Fe Girl, Jackie Greene. Best Day I Ever Had, Vertical Horizon. I’ve Got You Under My Skin, Frank Siantra. Maybe We Should Fall in Love, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Love is the Road, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Keep the Faith, Bon Jovi. The Final Countdown, Europe. Homeward Bound, Simon and Garfunkel. I’ve Been Everywhere, Johnny Cash. Comin’ Home, City and Colour. Six More Miles, Mike Ness. California Sun, Riveras. The Dream is Over, Van Halen.

*************

Special thanks to Randy and his brilliant mind. This story is loosely based off him.

She Was Only in it For the Rain

2010-02-28T19:07:00.000-08:00

It always smelled like dust and rain inside. It was older than I, and I remember never being able to fathom my dad ever having something before I was born. When you’re ten, you don’t think of the life your parents had before you came along, much less about the cars they owned.

Or in my dad’s case, a 1982 Chevy van. The cobalt paint, the kind that cracked like an old man’s face when he smiled, chipped off almost every time we entered that vehicle. And the moment we stepped in, that same raindrop dust smell was waiting, warming the bucket seats, as my siblings and I engaged in a hearty round of “calling” the seats. We always fought for those bucket seats--whoever sat in them were official and diplomatic. The only advantage to being the lone ranger in the backseat meant being aloof from the crackling static of AM talk radio my dad insisted on listening to. I wondered then if he really enjoyed what those hostile men were growing red in the face about. He never showed any expression while listening--no nods of his head, no scoffs and light cackles. Not even a reach to turn it up the volume just a snitch when things through the speakers got heated. With his left elbow propped on the window, his index finger a mustache on his bare lip, he steered with his other hand, wordless.

I remember being enchanted by my dad’s powers. When the van got hot, which it often did in the desert summers, he simply fixed it by rolling down the windows. No need for air conditioning, right? When the van needed something fixed, he put on his pit-stained white T-shirt, propped open the hood, and began clanking away. When the interior got dirty, he vacuumed the velvet and wiped the windshields at every gas stop. I imagine he told sweet nothing’s to his beloved as he stroked the side mirror, not only to adjust but to give soothing affection, for this, in his mind, was how his van kept alive. He made sure we had napkins on our laps when we ate and secure cup holders when we drank. This van was pristine, despite nature’s cruel habits.

We were driving in this van--he affectionately called her Big Blue--one day during a massive downpour. These were rare for New Mexico, and of course, we were stuck in the van. I sat in the bucket seat (I guess I had called that one first), looking out the window at the vines of water running down the tinted windows. He must have noticed my heavy sighs and relaxed muscles, my blinkless gaze towards the outside world. Rainstorms were something to be appreciated, for they were exciting and adventurous, my dad’s thoughts must have been. This lethargy is inexcusable!

“Did you know I can stop the rain?” My dad said, straightening up and turning down the volume knob.

“No you can’t,” said my teenage sister from the backseat, making the last sound of her sentence harsh and sharp and cynical.

“I can, too.” Replied my dad, upping his speed. “Wanna see?”

I met his eyes in the rear view mirror and nodded, swinging my leg underneath my bottom. I probably clapped or bit my bottom lip, something I usually do when I get excited about something to come.

“Wait for it,” he said, caressing the air above the steering wheel. He held out his right hand, the magic hand, and I didn’t break my gaze. I tried to imagine how this was possible--would he have bolts shoot out from his very palm? Would he snap his fingers and wave them, like they did on TV shows? Would he simply just flick his wrist and then soon we could to roll down our windows and start suntanning our forearms?

The rain banged Big Blue, and in a flash like a superhero, my dad waved his hand horizontally, and it just stopped. The patter, the wet, the motion, everything was no more. I looked around the van, trying to find any signs of a trick or a hidden accomplice, but I could find nothing. My sister, now perked up, told him he lied and that he actually didn’t do it. “Where did the rain go, then?” He replied, a slight snort creeping out of his mouth.

My back fell into the bucket seat, and I vowed never to move until I figured out how he did it.

“Cool, huh?” He said, readjusting himself to his usual position.

“Do it again!” My sister’s voice stretched to the front.

“In a moment. I have to rest and recharge.”

We drove in silence, the curiosity paralyzing me. He raised his hand to the same position, just like before. The moment we passed underneath the overpass, he waved his hand, made a noise this time. It stopped. I didn’t figure it out until my older years, but even then, I still believed my dad had the power to stop the rain.

Fiesta is Number 1; Siesta is Number 2

2010-01-14T14:25:00.001-08:00

We all use them. We all share a love-hate relationship for them that pendulum swings back and forth, depending on the situation. We all have funny stories about them. We've all been going to them since youth. And now you're all reading a very blog about them: public restrooms.

I decided I'd write this month's entry on public restrooms when I was enjoying one (yes, enjoying it) on New Year's Eve in a fancy and quaint Embassy Suites in Sacramento. It was then I noticed that all public restrooms are different, and each one speaks a thousand words about the facility in which it is placed. Each has its own personality--not necessarily dependent upon its occupants, but unique its in atmosphere, tone, character, and any other literary device I can metaphorically relate.

The best public relieving station I've ever been to? Hilton's El Conquistador Hotel and Resort in the heart of great Tucson, Arizona. I've never seen such a beautiful place. What with the soft, forgiving romantic light, the mauve marble counter top and wallpaper, accentuating each beautiful curve and line upon any body that looks upon itself in the giant framed mirror before them. The stalls were like mini suites, giving each woman the privacy and decency she deserves. There weren't those gaps between the wall and door of the stall, the ones that harm those on the other side by revealing the mess and human nature of a colleague, friend, or worse yet, a stranger. El Conquistador Hotel knows which information is privy to those fixing make-up and washing hands, and what happens inside the stall is definitely not on the list.

Probably the greatest thing about that bathroom was the basket of tampons on the counter, right next the wrought-iron soap dispenser. This basket, no bigger than the bread baskets Olive Garden gives you with your endless Salad and Breadsticks deal, cradled a handful of tampons, unassuming and, of course, free. No asking strangers for them, no scrounging around to find money, and certainly no false hope in seeing a dispenser and realizing it hasn't been changed since the '20s--this place knows how to treat its patrons of breeding age.

It is no wonder, then, that the rest of the resort was like that bathroom only a hundred times more elegant. I'm guessing the reason they put that waterfall in the lobby instead of the bathroom was due to the implications the sound of rushing water might have on its empty bladdered guests.

You might ask, why would Michelle be staying in a hotel like THAT, one that has a mini bar and lady-killer couches in the ladies room? It just so happens I did, in fact, not stay at that hotel, as much as my heart desired to. I didn't stay at the Embassy Suites one in Sacramento, either. I just had to pee really badly, and sometimes, I like to pee in class. I not only feel like a queen, but so does my toosh. And when you got a derriere like mine, you really want to pamper it.

Although, I do have to say--as many times as I've visited five-star public restrooms, I've also gone to the crap-nasty ones, too. It's all balance, you see. The bad helps you appreciate the good. And not all bathrooms are created equal.

I've used countless truck stop ones, the ones that are used out of desperation on those never ending road trips that soon become a Dateline special. I've used graffitied ones, ones that give me inspiration as well as the creeps. I've also used ones that try so very hard to be like El Conquistador but never quite make it, which usually end up having a shower curtain and a random Lazyboy chair for the breastfeeding station (all you Mormon women out there know what I'm talking about). I've used the ones you have to turn the light on to use, a moment that is not only threatening but throws you off guard. I've gone to plenty that have the automatic air freshener that sound like baby farts and smell even worse than the natural odors creeping about; I've spent time in ones that are designed more like cubicles than a restroom. I've witnessed some with the toilet seat nearly falling off, and ones where the stall was so roomy, I had enough hooks to hang my jacket, sweater, purse, and shopping bag, all without touching the grimy floor. Yes, as a person who frequently has to pee when on outings, I can safely say I've been to them all.

The free-tampons-on-the-counter one is still my favorite, though.

This is The Kind of Comedy Where No One's Laughing, 'Cause It's Hard To

2009-12-25T15:54:00.001-08:00

Airports are always a large cauldron of steaming ideas for writers. Boiling with fantastic characters, unabashed overheard dialogue, and a vast array of quick unforgettable scenes, I find refuge (and often a muse) in the many airports I've been to in my lifetime. And although I'm not a businessperson who travels by plane every other month, and I may not even be close to a pilot or, for that matter, a flight attendant, I have been to enough airports to pick up one thing: no matter how different they are, they are all the same. In their quirkiness, in their personality, and in their memories, they are the same.

I actually write this from the Las Vegas airport, my butt hardening on the navy surface that is most commonly called carpet. The chairs I could be sitting in are bathing in the unforgiving Nevada sunset, and really--I just can't take the heat. Christmas music is still fluttering, in and out, reminding me that, oh yes, Christmas is today. Traveling makes you forget what day it is sometimes. It also makes you forget what the heck you're doing or who you are, if you take enough drugs. That's usually me, which is why it's a hazard I'm flying solo and a pure Christmas miracle I'm even able to write this blog.

Other than the strategically placed slot machines and the awesome Best Buy Express kiosk, Las Vegas airport is pretty standard. I haven't seen any kookies yet, but hey, that's what the Albuquerque airport is for. Which is the sole reason I started this entry.

Oh, Sunport!

I got to my gate earlier than expected, so I had plenty o' time to kill. I could have gotten on my laptop, even messed around with my new awesome phone--I could have wandered around, pretending to be a tourist as I pretended to love the tie-dye T-Shirt with snow wolves and hot air balloons. I could have even taken a little nap, being that Christmas started early for us this morning. But no, my choice of wholesome recreation while waiting for my aircraft to arrive was, simply, people-watching.

Anyone who knows me know I LOVE this activity. I wish I could get my major in it. I didn't mind the wait, really, because there were so many people there to just study. Of course, one cannot people-watch without eavesdropping. Call this my minor. And for the whole hour and forty minutes I sat and waited, I did exactly that.

The greatest thing I could have ever witnessed in an airport happened today. There I was, cross-legged and seemingly deep in thought, feigning moments of rapture into another world. Really, the only world I was rapturing-in was the scene of a cute old couple and a weird old guy. I shall call this scene: Cute Old Couple and Weird Old Guy.

Cute Old Couple was sitting adjacent to me, side by side. I only saw their backs, and only knew they were there when this Supreme Incident happened. An old man, bursting in the belly, approached this couple. His beard, fully white, reminded me of snow blemished in the tiniest sense from the underlying soil. He said, without any equivocation: "Now this is a PG rated flight, don't you know."

I perked up. Of course I did.

The couple looked at each other, waiting for the punchline.

Then he punched the line: "No hand holding, okay!" He jabbed the air with his backhand, gesturing to them the gesture people make when making a joke (a joke that no one gets). He erupted in laughter, thinking he should have won Comedian of the Year.

I saw Cute Old Woman lift her hand up and drop her husband's, dropping him flat. The Cute Old Couple shared a forced laughter as--ready for this?--he did the most embarrassing, most old-mannish, and even the most ironic act I've seen a human do.

He pulled out his sweatpants and shoved--not put, shoved--his hand down, readjusting himself.

Okay, so maybe not readjusting "himself," but he was readjusting something. Whether it be his tucked-in shirt or his junk, I know not. As soon as I realized I was laughing to myself, I turned away, hid my mouth in the neck of my four dollar Odwalla drink, and immediately knew what this month's blog entry was going to be about.

I love two things about this experience. One, his reaction to his extremely lame joke. People all the way in security could have heard this man cackle. It would have been acceptable if he approached Cute Old Couple and, in a lighthearted way, told them it was a PG flight because they were reading a porno, but no. All they were doing was holding hands.

Second, I loved that after he made his unpunching joke, he reached down inside his sweatpants and felt around. Looks like someone needs to tell him Flight 5668 is a PG flight.

I haven't seen any crotch-grabbing old men that could be cousins to Mr. Funny Man while in this airport, but I'm sure Las Vegas International Airport will get him soon enough. They always do.

The Sidewalk Stares Up Silent

2009-11-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

I hate to admit it: I've become one of those people.

You know those people that rap on your door, interrupting your Oprah. Those people that knock, knock, knock and wait, wait, wait for you to fix yourself before you answer. The people who pretend to like yippy dogs when you answer the door, who'll bend down and baby-talk your dog to death just to seem more lovable in your eyes. Those people who already have a spiel all ready for you and forget it the moment your cold eyes look into theirs. Yep, that's me.

I don't know why, really, I've been subjected to this unnerving job. In all truth, I hate doing the deed, and I am just as bugged by those people as everyone else. But in order to keep my job and provide service, it's gotta be done by someone. Might as well be done by that crazy red head.

One wouldn't think that as an after-school tutor, I'd have to go door-to-door talking to people, selling stuff, making pitches and wishing good days. Typically, I don't. But there have been a few things that needed promoting around the neighborhood where I work, and my boss points directly to me. Is it my awesome New Mexico Flag iron-on patch on my pants? Is it my really fast speech and incessant smiley face? Is it the booty? Really--what is it about me that makes me right for this task?

I don't think I have that good of a door approach with these people. I mean, it changes every time; I rarely reap any rewards for my service. Like the little old ladies--I find myself hunching over, excruciatingly tender, saying things like, "Mmkay" and "Dear!" through my sing-songy voice. But when the dude, plastered in tats, answers his door without his shirt and a cigarette in his hand, I usually just shove the flyer into his face and say,"Here!" and scram as if I just saw my parents doing it. And when I get the people my age--especially the females my age--I freeze up, I forget how to speak. Once I remember the general mechanics of talking, I say incoherent word salads, just strings of incomprehnsible slang terms and nouns used as verbs, only hoping their knowledge in text speak will get me out of this speechless rut.

I especially love the abrupt people. I had one gentleman cut me off in the middle of my speech by darting into another room. For a good 30 seconds I wondered if I should just turn around and go or if I should just stay. I ran through all of the possibilities in my mind of what he could possibily doing. He could be getting a gun, he could be tending a baby, he could be stirring his stew, he could be scratching his butt. Right as I figured he was MIA, he bounced back and said, "We donate through my church," and shut the door in my face. I'm glad you had to go into the other room to figure that out.

And, of course, being one of those people means having one of those experiences. Yep, I was chased by rabid dogs.

Well, not exactly chased. And not exactly rabid. They were yippy dogs, no bigger than a toy poodle. But they could have been rabid and they could have chased us.

I was doing a service project this time, and Haley and I were just going door-to-door, doing our thang. In an effort to avoid face to face confrontation, we just left a flyer at the houses with all the intimidating gates before the front door. We figured, anyone who puts a grandiose gate before your front door doesn't want to be bothered. We did a few more houses and then, literally out of no where, these dogs started charging at us. Charging the way these young pups know how to charge. In an instant, we started running. But if anyone knows Haley and me, they know we don't run. In surrendering to the beasts, we stopped and fell to the ground. I tried to disarm them, to become allies and at a peace with the monsters, but they wouldn't have it. My gently extended hand became a piece of meat, my ankles became their bone.

I freaked out and this time really ran, but no matter how far I got nor how fast my speed was (but let's get realisitc, it wasn't faster than a slight jog), these buggers just kept at it. Haley was immune to them, apparently. Maybe because they sense she's not one of those people.

Finally, the dogs let up. We were free. Our comrades found us and laughed, giggling at how they loved it was us who got the dogs instead of them.

I have an all new, all-profound respect for people who go to door-to-door in whichever capacity it may be. I'm sure they're better at it than I am; I'm sure whenever they interrupt Oprah, it's a warm and welcome treat.

Who Needs Perception Anyway

2009-10-10T17:13:00.000-07:00

You may think we're one of the same, but we're not. Sure, we have the same creative knack, and yeah, we both need expression more than the average left-brained. But, let me announce it here: theatre-people are very, very different from writers.

I just happen to be both.

Although, not really. I'm not a theatre person because I wasn't "in" theatre in high school. I did S-Troupe, a branch of creative writing with a splash of theatre. My second semester in college, I took what began the first of many theatre courses--this one being an acting class--but even then, I was never a theatre person. I didn't touch people like I was on drugs, I didn't make up nicknames for everyone I associated with. I didn't straddle a guy who was "just a friend" as the teacher taught us about Uta Haagen and the difference between mechanical and in-the-moment acting. No, I'm not a theatre person, but I do love and am passionate about the art of theatre and performance. Especially the written part.

So I guess you could say I'm a writer, then, being that it's my first and foremost passion. But am I really a "writer" in the most stereotypical sense? Do I wear obnoxious scarves, keep my hair unkempt, and sip all too pretensiously my steaming hot coffee from a styrafoam cup? Am I monochromatically dressed, simple and plain, wearing the same thing over and over again because I have no reason to go out into the real world (because why do writers need to dress up if all they do is sit home and write?). Do I seclude myself from the outside world just to create my own? Do I wear glasses?

If I'm not a theatre person and I'm not a writer, then what am I? And how could I be both?

Of course, that rambling up above that you just read (and probably felt like you wasted your time on) is just the juice from tightly squeezed, highly exaggerated stereotypes I've observed. Especially recently, which prompted this blog in the first place.

I attended a dicussion at UNM's Rodey Theatre with the "two most influential playwrights in America today." When I heard that, I was instantaneously intrigued, what with wanting to become a playwright being the underscore of my college career. I even ditched my favorite class for it, which meant the stakes for it were pretty high for me.

I've never seen bigger segregation in my life.

On the one side, there were the writers. The people that were there to know the pains and struggles, the heartaches and skyscraping joys of the success of these playwrights' plays. They wanted to hear about the process, know what they were thinking and feeling as each and every syllable entered their mind and exited through their fingers. As they seeped into their chairs, legs tightly crossed (even the men--I know), fingertips on puckered lips, they intently listened, eyes nor limbs budging. Hardly anyone talked to each other--they were cold. These people were writers. They were the only ones in the whole audience that took notes.

The other side, theatre people. They were chit-chatty, blasting obscenities and remarks about female genitalia that would make any grandmother roll over in her grave. They had their midriffs exposed, their breasts falling out, their legs wrapped around each other. As one girl combed another girl's hair with her fingers, they purred and bated their eyelashes on each other's arms. A young man laid his hand too close to the family jewels of another man; a girl, wearing practically a band-aide for a skirt, spread her legs wide open, up in the air, ankles way above her head, practicing for a scene. Or at least I hope she was practicing for a scene and not reenacting what happened backstage. They were vivid, lively, talking about the people they are for only a few hours each night as if they were real. These people were theatre-people. They were all about themselves.

Once the floor was opened up to the audience, the variance in questions had me amused to the point of taking notes on what THEY, they audience, had to say. The actors asked questions pertaining to themselves (as they were the actors in the play these two established playwrights had written). One of the playwrights said, "I like actors. Especially the young ones," and an audible sigh of pride and relief was heard among the theatre people side. Hate to break it you luvvies, but he wasn't talking about you specifically.

The writers were not much better in their audience participation. They could hardly speak up, and when they did, their questions were so diluted with never ending clauses embedded within their sentences, their elitist way of talking made everyone else want to zone out. They also had this thing where, at almost every pause one of the playwrights made, whether it be to collect his thoughts, take a breath, or perform the indicated action of a comma, they would nod and go, "Hmmm. Mmm." It almost made me believe the writers forgot how to use words. Ironic.

And I haven't talked about the playwrights themselves!

One of them, whom I've deemed my favorite from that event, was so cliche. He wore a denim cardigan (that's what I'm going to call it), and this gray mess of hair, combed with an egg-beter, which kept on falling in his face, after which he then swooped back with his unfailing fingers. He had his legs crossed the whole time and held his hands in his lap. This made him look very frail and waif-life, which I imagine can be easy to do if you're a professional writer. Heck, just writing this blog takes a lot out of me--I can't imagine what it must be like for realzies.

The other was more business looking, which threw me off a bit. He was bald, wore glasses, had on a sweater vest (!) and spoke in a very soft tone. I could tell the actors wanted something more harsh, but it was just right for the writers. He was interesting because he made all the lame quips that the writers laughed at and the actors didn't get. (I think the writers were only laughing because they knew that, one day, they'd be up there where he was, and they would want some aspiring writer to laugh at their lame jokes, too). This playwright also randomly threw in an F bomb attached with a prefix that was pretty uncharacteristic--or at least what I thought. I guess he wanted to throw a bone to the good ole actors up there.

I walked away from that lecture feeling two things: one, my dream of becoming a playwright and seeing a production of my play at a university theatre--or even better--is not so unreachable. I received some sound advice that I've penned and I hope to incorporate one day in my own work. These men are old and prestigious, but they were young once, and I doubt they've always been geniuses.

But also, I walked away with questions, questions about who I am and where I belong. Am I a theatre person? Or am I writer? Can I be both? While this blog is merely a satirical look at the preceptions and apperances of these two categories of people, meant only for humor and amusement, I still can't help but wonder if I'll ever fit into either of these groups perfectly.

However... do I really want to?

Did You Get My Message?

2009-09-16T18:05:00.000-07:00

God must know I love dialogue. Or He must know I'm the only one crazy enough to not only take note of what strangers are saying around me, but that I'll actually write a blog about it.

I've had this idea for a while, the idea that I'd write something with strictly pieces of dialogue I heard from random people wherever I was. This idea never came to fruition because, well, one cannot really make a coherent story with just fibers of conversations strewn together. That doesn't make a quilt--not even a semblance of one. All you get are... fibers of conversations strewn together that don't make any sense whatsoever.

But I've eavesdropped way too many times in my life for them to go unscripted.

One dates back a few months. The sun was sinking behind the cityscape, the smell of the gasoline from the bus now starting to wear off. The engine, once melodious, now monotonous. A few people buried their heads in a book, while others escaped into imaginary-music-video-glory via iPods and laptops. Here and there, a few closed eyes and opens mouths. And some of us just sat there, entertained only by our external forces, those actors of the stages we created just by merely watching and listening.

The couple behind us were the main act that night. A young, sassy, intelligent (nay I say redheaded) woman, juxtaposed with a sophisticated, gallant, seasoned gentleman.

Or, at least, that's what they were putting on. Actors--remember.

The words they exchanged were superfluous, even an insidious plan to entrap one another in the merciless web of conversation. They tossed these words, these symbols of their faux-intellect, to and fro, alley-ooping them in hopes for that one climactic score. Words like research, analyzation, hypotheses (emphasis on the "eeze" ending, indicating more than one hypothesis). They spouted off phrases such as, "the most underrated work of literature of all time," and "upon my study in this human genome project with my colleagues..."

Bull-o-nee.

It became apparent to us through this rather vanilla conversation about DNA analysis and 19th century Victorian feminist literature that, these people, although only strangers minutes ago (although, I think they might disagree, because "they've known each other their whole lives, it seems like."), were not really talking about all that theoretical garbage. They were just using that as masks, mere vehicles to get them to their final destination. Take away all that boring Ph.D crap and you'll get down to what they were really talking about. Sex. Or, at least, the possibility of sex.

He proved his acumen (just like I did now by using that word), his sincerity, his deep, methodical thinking by his paramount word choice and stately sentence structure. He captured her with his acute sense of detail, his mind-blowing accuracy in remembering and processing information. He was doing it all for show, though. No one REALLY cares about all that doctoral mumbo-jumbo upon first meeting them on a bus! They care about the weather and the Lakers game and the current political scandal. But, to him, there was no other way to get to her, the bookish honor student by daylight and fiesty kitten by moonlight. So he spouted it out, all to a fountain in a drought.

She wasn't in a drought, though. She wasn't really longing for conversation, for a warm body, for somebody would just listen and take away all her fears. She may have given that impression when the bus first began its journey, but as the minutes bled into hours, she realized what was happening. She finally realized what "My conclusion of the human genome project" really meant, and she backed away.

But not backed away as in moved seats. No, she couldn't. She had already committed once she buckled her seat belt. Once she took off her shoes and began twirling her already twirled hair (stupid redhead). Instead of doing something drastic, she took the other way out. The way that's dangerous, that's not always one hundred percent accurate. Yes, she took the boyfriend route.

More and more, she brought up her ex-boyfriend. She talked about how they met, the instant connection they had, the amazing memories they shared together. She talked of his affection, his love, his devotion to her. To not make it so obvious, she did mention his faults, but as she was doing so, she cushioned them with signs of admiration and aspirations of never-ceasing infatuation. She was not interested, but she was already locked in there with no escape route.

We all can assume where this went. As the wheels turned, he kept thinking of ways to get her into bed with him; she kept bringing up how much she wants to be with her ex-boyfriend. This teeter-totter, although subtle to those uneducated in subtext, only escalated as we neared the city. But, like all research projects and Jane Austen novels, just when you think it's never going to end, it does. Finally.

To record that conversation word for word would have been to record agonizingly brilliant destruction of the human self-esteem and precise exposition of complete vulnerability through the transparent masquerade of scholarly jargon. And even though I may not be able to remember word for every pretentious word they used, I can at least make some coherent story out of it.

Caught Me Looking Through Your Eyes

2009-08-21T12:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you remember, sometimes you forget. Sometimes you pretend to remember when you really forgot--sometimes forgetting is much more favorable than remembering. But, no matter how long time has passed, forgetting and remembering will always go hand in hand.

Forty years is a long time. Celebrities have died. Academy Awards have been won. Presidents have been elected. Trends have come and gone. Technology has advanced. But no matter the structural change--no matter the change in culture, attitude, even morals and values on life, people are always the same.

We were signing in at the table, my mom as nervous as she was at the Prom. I felt a force push me over; then liquid splashed on my leg. I turned around to see my mother completely smothered in a man, a man I was assuming was the one we were there for. He cradled her in his arms and they giggled again, not unlike how they used to.

“Did you know your mother is the best kisser in the world?”

I exploded in laughter. Only moments before, she had told me she couldn’t remember if she kissed this man or not.

Everything has changed now. Hair color. Weight. Age. Status. Feelings. Beliefs. Ideas and perceptions. All that--gone--completely different than how it used to be. You have children, you have a career, you have spouses and exes, you have money, goals, reputations. If someone met you back then, they wouldn’t even know you.

How, then, can people remain the same and change at the same time?

Go back forty years to someone’s past and you’ll see what I mean.

There was the incessant talk about looks. As old high school friends and acquaintances walked by, pretending not to be noticed by the rest of the crowd, no less than five pairs of eyes were glued to every inch of their appearance. Comparing, criticizing, coveting. Everyone had to know how the last forty years have treated everyone else, and the best way they were going to find out was by looking. Staring. Studying. Not unlike the first day of class, the outfits and accessories were picked out precisely, even rehearsed, to make sure you’re well represented. The first day of school may be forgettable for most, but seeing someone forty years later for the first time is something you generally don’t forget--so it is a requirement, it is a rule, a standard, even an obligation to look your best. It would only be a shame otherwise.

There was the chatty gossip. Much like high school passing period all over again, although instead of catching up on the date last night or the comment she said behind her back, they were talking about adult things. Among the first to be brought up in every single reuniting was marriage. Then children. Then career. The tone became serious, the hearts more heavy with gratitude, love, admiration. And just when it sounds superficial, you realize--it’s not. It’s their actual lives. Not the bubble of a life they lived forty years ago, but their actual journeys as human beings living on this earth.

There was the flirtation. But no longer were they flirting for the possibility of something in the future. They were flirting for their past, to rekindle the youthful, naive fire that was once all that mattered in their world. They were longing for that feeling of utter infatuation, the kind that, at seventeen, meant death as the only other option. Most of the people haven’t thought of their peers in years, even decades, and now, in a blast back straight to their past, they all of sudden cannot remember for the life of them why they went their separate ways. They can remember how to spark it all over again, however.

There was the pain. Pain still, but of a different kind. Rather than pain from the failing grade or pain from being stood up, it was pain from the life they all had led, from the experiences and moments they wished they hadn’t known. It was pain not for what didn’t happen but for what did happen. It was pain of bringing it up, admitting it to people whom you barely remember. Forty years later, pain you thought would go away still exists.

So sometimes you remember and sometimes you forget. Sometimes remembering requires forgetting. And although changes have taken place and it seems you are a completely different person than who you used to be at seventeen, there is comfort in knowing that person is still a part of you, no matter how big or small. Whether you only remember foggy slivers of your life forty years ago or whether your remember every single detail of your life back then, something will always be there. You may change on the surface. You may not even believe the same things you used to. But even after forty years, if you can still awaken that part of you and feel like you used to, something’s been done correctly. The changes haven’t changed you completely.

So people change. Yet they don’t. Quite the paradox. It just may take forty years to figure it all out.

This Is The World We Live In

2009-07-11T19:42:00.000-07:00

Maryland really has it all.

From extremely rich parks of the future to... extremely ghetto parks with live ammunition in the grills.

Welp, I can now safely say I've seen both sides of the spectrum here. I'd be really shocked if there were a happy medium. Maryland just doesn't seem like the happy medium type. They're either sugar-on-top friendly or spine-tingling grumpy. It's either jaw-droppingly wealthy or hobotastically poor. It's either fantastically delicious food or gag-me meals. But least it's coming full circle.

I don't mean to drone on yet again about another park, but this one is a must-mention. Or must drone, however you want to look at it. What we thought was going to be a rousing time of food and games with our company turned into quite the show from the other side of the street. But I'll get to that later. First, I must talk about the neighbors.

Oh, the neighbors! How I truly envied them. The mother (or father? I'm not sure which) was sitting on a crookity lawn chair, sipping beer and relaxin'. Anoher person was there who I am assuming was the counterpart of this first person. Then the third person--the son, I'm guessing. He looked around 15-16 years old. And he was swearing sweatpants that just... let everything dangle. I won't describe that part.

The thing about this family is not what they were doing, what they were talking about, nor what they were wearing. What really is important is what they were listening to. On their boombox (or imaginary Music Box of God, I don't know), I heard Michael Jackson singin' his heart out. Seems fitting witth the recent events. Of course. But really, these people were different--and I knew they were just by the album they were listening to.

Sure, it's common for people now to be all-of-a-sudden interested in MJ. But no, these people--I can tell they were true MJ fans. They were listening to the whole Dangerous album, from song to song, without skipping any until the album finished. No casual or social Michael Jackson fan listens to that whole album from start to finish. That just doesn't happen.

After having a dance party in my head and singing under my breath, I decided to play with Malan on the swings. As I got up, I heard this massive POW! from the area we had set up shop. Eh. I thought it was just someone trying to scare someone by popping an air-filled bag of potato chips. No big deal. It's not like we were in the ghetto or anything.

But I guess I really need to learn what a gunshot sounds like, because apparently, that's what that noise was. No, it wasn't as epic as I could most certainly make it out to be, but still--that's pretty wicked. Nate came over and, as if he were telling me something about pest control, he told me he saw ammunition in the grill he was currently working at. I remained cool, calm, collected--although my imagination was running wilder than it did when I was slipping into my Michael Jackson induced fantasy of being the biggest rock star in the world.

I then saw my co-worker on the phone, and I knew from that moment in history somethin' was gonna go down. Sweet. This would make the--what?--third time cops have come while I was at a park? At least time it wasn't after hours!

You know how cops are. They know that the very glimpse of their uniforms and badges will burst open a bag of panic and frenzy among even the most tranquil of crowds. So they walk everywhere expecting that reaction--much like how Michael Jackson would walk everywhere if, you know, he weren't dead. And you know how people are when they see cops, especially when they're in a crowd. People start talking at impenetrable speeds, they begin to let their guard down and go into the freak-out, I-just-lost-my-child-at-Disney-World-mode. It's quite the episode to watch, actually. Something to DVR for sure.

I was further from the crowd when the cops came--oh, sorry, when they "interrupted"--the soccer game that was taking place. I saw them pushing the air around them, trying to force my co- and semi-co-workers off the field. But they should have known it was going to take more than just a few pitiful arm waves for these guys to get off the field. First of all, half of them are salesmen--they like to put a fight and argue. And second, half of them had their shirts off. That meant business. And nothing--not even a bullet getting hotter and hotter by the second only yards away from them--was going to get in their way.

Pretty soon, we were all off the playing field and onto the street. The house on the opposite side of the street--another family just hanging out-max-relaxin'-all-cool--reacted so completely different than we did. They were mocking us, they were challening the cops--they even were cruely laughing at the fire truck that eventually came. I couldn't quite understand these people's motives. Did they put the bullets in the grill and were just waiting for a group of 75% Mormons to light it up, thinking they'll have a delightful Saturday afternoon with burgers and hot dogs? The older gentleman in the crowd of lawn-lookers was cupping his hands over his mouth like he was at a sports game, ragging on the opposing team. Were we too sissy for him? Was he secretly getting his jollies out of this? Or did he just not like the sight of cops and firemen?

If only these people were listening to MJ. Then we probably wouldn't have gotten such a cruel mockery from them.

As I stood on the side of the street, trying my hardest to entertain a little girl while trying to keep her from running into the middle of the street, I saw one of my childhood fantasies play out right before my eyes. One of the cops took one of those shields that has POLICE written across it and held it up in front of him. Another cop, behind him, crouched down. They practcially army-crawled their way to the grill, almost anticipating it to come alive and outburst with a tentacle at any moment--and if they weren't near on their fours or had that shield, they'd be sucked in and sucked up instantaneously. I had to resist the strong urge to join them, to roll and slice and dash my way around this loaded grill. I even felt they they were doing it wrong, like their form wasn't the correct form I always used when I was younger. But I had to play mommy, so I decided to save that reverie for later.

A few pokes and pricks here, a couple minutes of intense dousing with a real fire hose, and probably a community blow on the hot ashes from the cops and fireman, and that was it.

Anti-climactic.

The grill wouldn't light up. It became dark. Michael Jackson finally rested. And we just overstayed our welcome. Maybe next time we'll meet somewhere in the middle and have an average experience at a park, Maryland. Maybe next time.

The Teeth In Your Mouth Are All Clichés (AKA The Word of Your Body)

2009-06-27T16:24:00.000-07:00

I like the word vault. I like it because that's how I describe my mind sometimes. I have a vault of names, a vault of pictures, a vault of song lyrics, a vault of all the favorite things in my life. I even have a vault of memories, of stories that really have made my life worth living and sharing. I open this vault often, using its contents whilst in the midst of both casual and deep conversations alike. While yes, I open this vault oft times, I hardly ever lock it shut.

I like the word canker. I saw it in the scriptures the other day and I underlined it. The scripture wasn't anything worth underlining--no striking spiritual revelation, no answer from the high heavens had been received. I just like the word canker, and the fact it was in the scriptures just made the scriptures go up a few notches. Canker. What do you think of when you hear that word? I think of the sore in your mouth, the kind that relentlessly stick out when you're eating and burn when you eat something spicy. I like the word because it's so expressive; the picture it paints in your mind just by saying the very word canker is fantastically graphic. Everyone understands what you mean when you say the word canker. I think, if I'm going to ever start insulting people to their faces, I'm just gonna call them a canker of this otherwise beautiful world. That'll really get them.

I like the word brilliant. I like that British people use it to describe almost anything pleasant. "Oh, that was a brilliant nap." "What a brilliant mood I'm in right now." "That Michelle Dyer... she is absolutely brilliant." (You read all of those with a British accent in mind, right? 'Cause the effectiveness is lost if you don't. So go back and read that all again, but with a British accent in mind. Okay good). Brilliant is word that evokes such passion, force, such intensity and brightness. I see rays of vivid, bright, bold colors, just shining and twinkling. And yes, that's exactly how I feel about my mood sometimes.

I don't like the word manslaughter. That's ugly, and it makes me feel dirty.

I like the name Jiggets. I found someone has that last name. Someone real, empirical, tangible--they exist with that last name. Someone with that name around Maryland is walking around, breathing, living, (hopefully) smiling. Jiggets! I want to meet them! If it were a dude (I can't remember the first name. It wasn't as good as Jiggets, though), I would consider marrying them, if only to have to the last name Jiggets. I imagine this Jiggets person being very lumpy. Lumpy and large, but with every lovely lump, enough love and laurel to give to everybody else who wasn't blessed with the name Jiggets.

Am I being panegyric about this Jiggets person? Maybe. Maybe even a little portentous, I'd posit. I really like P words, apparently.

When the Future's Architectured by a Carnival of Idiots

2009-05-31T15:13:00.000-07:00

Rich people know how to do everything.

They know how to live in big, ornate houses. They know how to hire people to do their yard work, raise their kids, and bring milk to their doorstep. They know how to drive nice cars, they know how to fly non-Southwest flights, they even know how to vacation in Marriotts and Hyatts all across the globe.

Rich people know how to build parks, too.

Let me paint you a little picture. A cute family of 4--a husband, wife, and two young children both under the age of 4. And then some random nigh-20-year-old that tags along everywhere they go. This family is fun; they like to go out and do things with all the other inhabitants of the earth. This family just picks up and goes, hoping that they wherever they find themselves will be amazing, picture-worthy, even something to tell everyone else about once they get home.

So this family goes to a park. But this isn't just a regular park with lead-paint chipping off the swing sets and peed-on static-y slides. No, no this park is much more than that. You have to dress up for it.

There we were, getting out of the car like we had just driven from San Antonio non-stop, completely flabbergasted by the breadth and depth of this park that was before us. We got loaded up and ready to go, and then we noticed something. Something was off. No one said it at first--we all just kind of looked around, silently realizing the potential social danger we were about to cause.

We were surrounded by rich people, rich houses, rich cars. But not only that--we were surrounded by rich people who were dressed up. Dressed in sweater vests, cocktail dresses, dress slacks--heck, even the khaki pants were more than we were. Couples dressed alike, little girls had bows in their hair, no woman was without high-heels and panty hose.

I had never even thought such a thing existed. Dressed up--to go to a park? I thought that was a dress down occasion. You'll always get dirty, and almost always you or someone you know throws up on or around you. Heaven forbid my recycled Prom dress gets yucky!

Little did I know, being a poor girl from Albuquerque, New Mexico, that there was more to this park than I had ever been used to. I was used to hoboes, randomly placed poles parallel to the ground ankle-height ready to break anyone’s toe who wasn’t smart enough to watch where they were running. I’m used to the parks with a little bit of grass, a giant map of sand, and a leetle corner for the playing structure that was in between a jungle gym and scaffolding. I was used to parks that had swings that made your hands reek of sweaty metal for hours on end, the kind that left that grainy, black, eraser debris on your palms and fingers after just mere seconds of clutching. Oh, the parks I was used to were nothing like this one.

Neon signs, old fashioned arcades, a place exclusively for popcorn--even a ballroom for nightly dancing. That’s why all the people were dressed up! Of course! These people weren’t coming to this park to do fancy drug trafficking--they were here to dance!

After scoping out the scene and finally becoming immune to the dehumanizing looks and glances from all the ritzy glitzy people with their sequenced hand bags and designer loafers, we found the most magical and most confusing part of the whole park: the part that mocked every single park I have ever enjoyed in my lifetime.

It was bewildering, really. There were these things. And then more things. And then some more shapes and things and parts sticking up over there. And then, oh, look, swings--we recognize those! We’re safe here!

I’m sure a Ph.D in geometry came up with this design, so I don’t mean to knock Dr. Pythagorus, but really, I didn’t even know how to approach the thing. Okay, so there’s this rope thing, which I’m used to grabbing and hanging on as I swing from one platform the the next, but it had this plate on it. And this plate had what looked like chocolate chip cookies, but instead of being delicious chocolate chip cookies, they were the first batch of chocolate chip cookies that got scorched, and, in a sudden abandon of all sense and logic, your mom stacked on a plate and gave them to your dog or deaf grandpa, whoever was closer. The logical thing to do when you see a big rope driving right through the middle of a plate full of hardened chocolate chip cookie ash is to step on it, right?

Wrong.

Once you step on it, all sense of balance and grace anyone has with them flees, even faster than you can smack the New York Style Pizza platform 40 degrees above your knee cap. But once you slam the plastic pizza and reclaim your equilibrium, you have to try to grasp the chrome rainbow above. But, watch out, this rainbow tricks ya--it twists at angles I didn’t even know where possible as defined by the laws of physics. There these rich people go again! Reinventing the laws of the physics with their monochrome, skeletal rainbows and burnt chocolate chip cookies.

After this little bit, planted in the rubber (note there was no sand present at this park--something which made me all icky inside), there were, again, metal poles sticking out of the ground. We again attempted to use these contraptions for their sole purpose, as I’m sure they were dying for some poor people to play on them, but we couldn’t figure out how they worked. At first, we thought, maybe it was just because were adults and it should only be used by little kids. But once the little girl (in the picture I painted for you, remember? Oh, did I not specify that was us? Yep! Smile!) got on it, we still didn’t know how to do it.

Eventually the sperm-shaped poles got boring; we instinctively moved over to the swings. Apparently, rich people are short, because the swings were barely a foot off the ground. And it’s not like we could scrape our feet across the ground to make it a little more exciting. Thanks, rubber-sand. Thanks a lot.

What really made the evening was when the rich kids came over to play, of course dressed to the nines (what does that expression even mean? I’m sure a rich person made it up). They got on the non-sperm-looking pole and automatically, without hesitation, confusion, or even a double-take, began playing and swirling and twirling and giggling. There they were, using that pole thing for its correct capability, knowing how to do it without an instruction. It was evident to me then and there that rich people are just endowed with that type of knowledge. It’s innate. They see a weird pole with circular rims on it sticking out of a rubber ground and they know exactly what to do with it.

It’s a good thing that young man’s Armani tie didn’t get caught, ‘cause that would have been ugly. Nobody likes to see a rich boy cry.

Once it became dark enough to not be able to see our hands in front of our faces, we decided it was time to leave. After all, we’re used to the creepers coming out then.

When it Started We Had High Hopes

2009-04-19T18:07:00.000-07:00

I shall call this: The Mighty Quest to Fix The Curse

We know. Women just know. We know what we need when we need it. It sucks, but it's almost like a superpower, in a way. And on one Monday morning, I needed a fix desperately.

Of course, I was ill-prepared. Of course! That's the curse of never carrying around a purse AND the Monday morning curse! Oh, and that womanly curse that happens every 28 days. Call it whatever you will, but it's a curse nonetheless.

I could rely on my sister. Of course I could. So I quickly texted her, in a rush, as I hoped to God no one would notice my curse. As fate would have it, she didn't have what I need. Since when! I mean, really! You always have those! I'm the one that's always caught off guard by this, not you!

So I went to the bathroom in one of buildings on campus, trying to be sleek about finding what I needed. I didn't want to be obvious. That would be terrible! So I did one of those quick scans-across-the-entire-bathroom to hide my real reason for being in there. No luck. I decided to go into a stall and just pretend. Going into a bathroom, looking around, and immediately walking out after doing or leaving with nothing is kind of creepy and borderline stalkerish. Who does that that's NOT looking for someone they can capture and hide in their drunken uncle's basement?

I waited in the stall for what I thought was the appropriate amount of time: long enough to supposedly pee, but not too long so people who are on the other side waiting for fixing their make-up to get uncomfortable and nervous at the thought of going in right after you. Whilst hiding in my metallic tomb with flyers and a cute drawing of a giraffe smoking weed plastered on the walls, I set out my plan: go to every bathroom I could think of within a relatively short distance and scope out the scene in there. If I could not find my desired goal, then I would have to take this matter out of the bounds of campus. I turned around, flushed the toilet with my foot. I could feel the glare of the sanitary napkin recepticle mocking my existence and future execution of my plan. I rolled my eyes at it, not even understanding why it would be there if its counterpart, the one that supplies the solution to my curse, is not conviently located in this vicinity. So, really, it was the stupid one.

I set out on my quest. I went into the Library--I KNEW there had to be one in there. I remember being in the basement after one long half-hour of killing time on the internet before my class, and I saw it in there. Those bathrooms in the basement were ancient. Ancient people always had ample amounts of fixes to their curses, I knew it. Down the stairs I walked, as a secrent agent on my mission, into the bathrooms. And there it was.

I saw it. It was shining, sparkling, even angels were singing its praise. I inched closer to my sanctuary, reveling in its glory and greatness. I looked around the cubicle--it was damp, echoy, and stale. But most importantly, I was alone.

It only required ten cents. Ten cents! Oh, I would give over my whole quarter if I needed to! Anything to pull that lever and have my cardboard tubular solution burst out, bounce off the edges, and straight into my clean, ready hands.

I pulled my most prized dime out of my wallet, placed it in the slot, and twisted away. A red flag should have gone up when I heard the crunch crunch creak creak of the cranking lever. I should have also known that ten cents was way too good for this, especially in this day and age with prices shooting through the roof.

To my utter dismay, nothing came out. If only that had been MY issue. I banged it, punched it, shook it, did everything I could think of that I saw people in the movies do when anger was mixed with frustration. Nothing. Only dust and air came out of that bruised machine.

I decided to give up on the failure that was the dispenser from the Great Depression and move on to the floor above me. Maybe because it was the basement, that's why it hadn't been refilled since the '20s. That had to be it. But just because the bathroom is a floor above and has been attended to within the last decade, doesn't necessarily mean it will provde you the things you need.

I didn't even want to stay in that bathroom longer than I had to. I was starting to boil at this point. I set out to another building, a building that had a store in it, one that I was SURE had what I needed. A little convient store inside the Student Union Building--definitely something with all of life's little (and big) essentials.

The store was packed like it was a department store on Christmas Eve. My throat started to cotton-up, my hands began leaking with sweat. I surveyed the area in a vast motion, blocking out all the grease, salts, and sugars screaming my name. Then I found the panel I needed.

Medicine, cotton balls, ointments, floss, toothpaste, nail filiers, combs, Q-tips. Oh, and condoms. Three different kinds of condoms and NOT what I needed! Fueling, I left the store in a haste.

I tried two more bathrooms. I got nothing. I found one machine, but I'm now convinced it was only a mirage. With nothing else to do and knowing the doom that only lay ahead, I took it to the streets.

I met my sister and got the keys to her car. Luckily, I had enough time before my next class to leave campus and take a little stroll. But, since I was rushing, urgent, and couldn't linger and smell the hobos, I made the fastest run to the store anyone has ever known.

I was driving in a completely unfamiliar place, lost and foreign. My sister had told me where to go, but I found a store closer than what she had previously mentioned, so I made a quick and treacherous dive to the side of the road and pulled into the most ghetto Smith's I've ever laid eyes on.

Seriously. I think, if I had sneezed, the whole building would have fallen over. But that didn't stop me from my quest. I used my womanly instincts and immediately found the aisle I needed, the aisle that possessed the very thing that would plug up all of my problems. Well, immediately, that is.

And there it was. Its pinks and purples, its flowery writing, its nauseating and insinuating logo, just there, waiting to be picked up by me and only me. It's like the box was saved just for me, like its sole purpose for existence was to help ME. I grabbed it, admired it, thought about hugging it, almost hugged it, but then just put it under my arm and walked down the aisle, confident at my victory. But wait. I couldn't JUST buy this and only this. That would be too incriminating. I turned around, scurried for something that I could buy inexenpsively that would also be simple and justifiable. I saw a crate of Nestle Flipz, those heavenly chocolate-covered preztels that make any bad day better. They were one for a dollar, so I grabbed one and headed towards the cashier.

It wasn't until I was behind four men at the register and noticed the male cashier that I realized the juxtaposition of my purchase. Never making eye-contact with anyone and just swiping my card, I picked up my things and went.

My mission was over, complete. My quest done, me victorious.

(This is dedicated to Patty because we love sharing our curse stories.)

Without Them, The World Grows Dark Around You

2009-03-15T21:03:00.000-07:00

I kinda miss my imaginary friends.

I was walking on campus the other day, and I saw a man, wrinkled with time and experience, pushing a push broom (yes, that is what they used for. That and flying.) He was sweeping up the dust from Albuquerque's most recent fury, collecting the dried, crunchy leaves and congregating them, starting a new crunchy leaf collection that he will at once step all over once he has the time to relieve a little stress. But he was doing more than just sweeping up debris. He was talking to his best friend.

His best friend. Or maybe it was a lover scorned. Or maybe it was the high school teacher to whom he's finally standing up. Or, maybe, it was his father he's harbored strong feelings for and now is finally letting the wounds spill open. I don't know--I didn't actually see anyone.

Either way, he was on a soap box, rambling on and on. In the few seconds that passed as I walked by, I could tell he was ranting about something. Whether he was angry, passionate, excited, anxious, I know not; be he was drilling his point to that person, whoever it was, and nothing was stopping him.

I couldn't take my eyes off this man. Eww gross, not like that. But he was so into it, like it were real. Well, I mean--of course it was real. But I wanted it to be real for me, too. And that's when I realized that, hey, why can't it be?

When we were younger, we all had imaginary friends. Our teddy bears were our most loyal friends. We were superheroes; we were damsels in distress; we were wild animals; we were genies (okay, maybe that was only me. I had a weird fascination with I Dream of Jeanie when I was like ten). We were anything we wanted to be, we had anyone we wanted, by our side, ready to hear what we had to say. This weathered old man, well aged and seasoned with a little craziness, has every right to talk to his invisible buddies while sweeping! Something has got to keep him sane, right?

Somehow I Got Everything Backwards

2009-02-04T11:19:00.000-08:00

Everyday, I realize more and more I am no longer at BYU-Idaho.

People smoke on campus! There is a Queer-Straight Alliance! Even--get this--evolution taught in classes! Gasp!

I'm not bothered by these things. I actually embrace them. I love the guy with seven instruments (four of which he invented) attached to his person just hanging out, playing the music that his soul sings. I love the girl standing up on the ledge, perched as if she were Empress, reading from some religious text about how we should shun away the evil spirits and become harmonious with Nature, all the while her boyfriend and best-friend-since-4th-grade sit down below, cross-legged and poised, backs as straight as James Bond, soaking up her words as if she's speaking eternal truths.

But what I think I love most is my drunk professor. Drunk and a little gay, I'd posit. I imagine if I ever went up to him to ask for the enlightening new developments in evolutionary theory (yeah, right), he'd reek of Captain Morgan and petroleum jelly. He just kinda has that greasy kinda feel to him.

He is not what I expected at all. When I registered for classes, I admit, I was swayed by the fact his name is Hilliard. Yeah. I mean, anyone who has the name Hillard is bound to be a professor. And an awesome one at that. I pictured coming into class on the first day and seeing this skinny man, very frail like he would break at every joint at any second, standing there with his laser pointer in his one hand, and stroking his mad white beard with the other. I imagined a man so full of knowledge, he is literally weighed down with all of his studies and findings. I wanted a professor who was quirky and made anthropological jokes that only anthropology majors would understand; even a professor who, at the very mere mention of something groundbreaking in anthropology, would become turned on and a little flushed, unable to finish his sentence properly. I imagined that man exactly.

And I got the drunken, hideous-T-Shirt-wearing professor named Hillard instead.

I guess people call him Hilly, which is cool. That gives him some validity. But still, the fact that only spots on his head are gray and that he still has complexion that is not taken over by age spots is a little disappointing. I wanted a nerd, dang it! Not a Silvester Stallone impersonator!

Of course, I am slowly throwing my perfect schema of the perfect professor into the trash can that's outside (the one that the hobos always dig for not quite burned out cigarette butts) and welcoming this new idea, this new persona that is Hillard. He's quirky enough for me, so I'm liking him. The subject is Anthropology, after all, so I'm learning more about the mannerisms of my professor and how dung flies mate (it's totally cool; maybe I'll save that for my next blog) than of how we are "related to apes."

He slurs his words, and he speaks in weird beats. I visualized his punctuation as he was speaking during my last class (as I usually do with speakers), and it went something like this: "Natural selection. Is nonrandom.... diff-er-ential reproduction of individuals. Nonrandom. What does that mean, that means that [insert theories here]. Altruism (at his point he looks as if he's going to burp, so he tucks his chin in and purses his lips) is. Based upon. Kinship. Kinship is the sole basis of Natural. Selection. Now what does this mean, this means that we humans are weird. We're weird 'cause. We do weird things."

And that's just his verbal beats. He also slurs and empasises his words in weird places (where the drunk idea came from). It goes something like this: "Naaaturl seeeleckion aks on the aBILity to learn. (Same burping face again. Maybe vomit this time?) ProgrAMs you to learn things that are. ImportANT to. Yooou. When in Roam, do as the Roamins do. Take experience todaaay to CHange our behavior tomARRow."

As one might assume, learning is difficult for me in that class because I'm constantly thinking how I can describe his ways through words.

He also makes a pyramid with his hands and puts his lips to their tips and slowly paces around. I bet that's one way to hold in his burp. Or his hiccups! If he's drunk, I bet that's it.

Imitating is the best form a flattery, yes? This semester will be interesting, one that I feel priveldged to be apart of. I would ace the exams if they were about the mannerisms of the professor, but unfortunately, the world is not ready for that yet. Hey, at least I did some studying while doing this post!

Shattered Glass, Broken Laws

2009-01-01T01:46:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the unknown is scary. Sometimes it’s so scary, it’s thrilling. Sometimes it’s so scary, you opt out, you decide to wait on the curb while the rest of the crew goes on. And sometimes, you just have to do it.

That’s what we did. We just did it. We hopped the fence through a fold creating it less dangerous than it could have been. Signs screamed at me, telling me get off the property, that violators will be prosecuted, that there was no trespassing. They just made me want to further even more.

But I was scared. Scared of what was ahead. So scared, in fact, that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. The nerves drove my feet forward, my heart pounding guiding the way. Before I knew it, we couldn’t go back. And I didn’t really want to, either.

It was galactic, all of it. I had never seen anything so huge; I had never felt so small before. The broken window panes, the sun fighting to get through, illuminated everything, even the dust and dirt on the ground. We walked, unsure of where to go but completely enamored with what was before us. Architecture had never been so powerful; like a painted canvas, it expressed its heartbreak, its excitement, its melancholy and so-so days. It was haunted with the pasts of thousands of visitors, just as in awe and rapture as we were. So, we continued on.

It was damp in there, musty and unforgiving. A strangled bird laid to rest; old lockers and a washing station once thriving now still and dead, blanketed by dust and grime. Everywhere we turned, we could see the outside world, only tainted by the lime and forest tints on the shattered glass, creating a kaleidoscope to disguise the reality down below. Someone had been there, standing where I was, breathing in this cosmic world of metal and history. It was eerie, but we were enticed by the fear.

In the background, a faint train whistle, igniting a fantasy within my mind of what this place was like hundreds of years back. That sound probably consistent and not too far in the distance. But more people, working hard and sweating, trying to make a living all the while really only living within these now deteriorating walls.

And all those signs, signs of warning, signs of caution, signs of rules and regulations. Signs that we easily ignored today, but had they been pushed aside so many years ago, men would have been fired, rebuked, even humiliated. It was important then to know which sites were authorized personnel only, which places required hard hats, which places had a first aid kit. To us now, however, we mocked them as we blatantly disobeyed like a teenager rebelling. To us, they were something to capture in our digital time capsules and keep for generations.

The birds are what got to us. We climbed stairs that were all too shaky for my liking, and when the army all fluttered about in their school of murmurs, we could tell they were bothered. The pigeons were the owners of this place, after all, and we had overstayed our welcome. So we left, etching into our incapable minds the refuge, the castle, the inspiration that this spacious, abandoned creation was. And we hopped the fence again, vowing to return again but wordlessly realizing it will never be as exhilarating nor as scary as it was that time, the time we embarked upon the unknown.

And I have proof down below.

Give Me Strength, Reserve Control; Give Me Heart and Give Me Soul

2008-11-05T12:28:00.000-08:00

Whoever thought up Mormon dances was mad.

It is a thing of wonder and thing of amusement to stand on the sidelines of a Mormon dance. It's one of the things we do, one of those things that is mandatory for every LDS youth across the galaxy. It's like spaghetti. It's always the default when there's simply not another option.

I've been attending these said dances for most of my adolescent life. Even into my young adulthood, it's still a prevalent activity. I always ask myself why I go to these things. And then I hit the dance floor. And I just pretend I'm in some club where bodies are so close together, the seams are lost within the mass. I just believe the music is good; I forget it's cheesy pop with a terrible dancing rhythm. I see people going crazy as if they were on some kind of drug to heighten the experience, but in reality, they just lack the ability and timing of a dancing queen. I refuse to acknowledg it's in the same cultral hall where I've suffered through many talentless talent shows, airy potlucks, vanilla wedding receptions, and occasional meeting overflow location. Only Mormons would know what I mean when I said meeting overflow location.

But the thing about these dances is... it's really up to the person. I'm gonna say it: they royally suck. A dance is not just simply putting your iPod lirbary on shuffle and hoping and praying that "My Neck, My Back" by Khia doesn't come on. So, instead, it's something else that we've heard at every other dance before. "Lady in Red," "YMCA," "Cottoneye Joe," "Forever Young," "When You Say Nothing at All," and a handful of swing-dance songs are forever on the Playlist That Really Shouldn't But Will Because It's Church Approved. So, dances are not fun. Really. On a superficial, wallflower view, the dances are lame, and they should be grabbed by the neck and tossed onto I-25 like an old mattress falling from a bed of a pick-up truck.

And yet, I keep coming back, month after month.

I think it's because I shock all the other Book-of-Mormon-distance-apart members with some sick dances moves. I tear up that dance floor, and I have no shame in droppin' it like it's hot. I'm legitmate competition to J. Lo and Beyoncé, and I've been told I should take an African dance class. Give me a crappy song with no dancable rhythm and I make it hotter than...scalding milk.

People fall into niches when they go to dances. I usually don't get asked to slow dance, which is totally fine by me because I usually get motion sickness after turning in circles in a somewhat slow, undignified motion. If I do get asked, it's by the geeks, which I totally love because I can talk video games like no one's business. And that turns them on to a point where they don't know how to handle it, so they end up talking about toothpaste. I love that, too.

Then there are always those couples. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones who, at every swing dance, wipe out the entire center of the dance floor so they can show off their leaps and jumps and straddlings of partners' waists (it's totally okay 'cause they're at a Mormon dance, remember, and it's a form of "recreation"). They usually dress up for that specific song or dance routine and wait the whole dance just to show off their mad skills. They're sweating and breathing profusely--kinda like the way the little Japanese girls do after they dive from a 100 foot plank in the Olympics. And then, when that song is over and done with, they do the exact same thing to every other song. Like Swing really goes with Black Eyed Peas.

And there's always a cirlce. I have a theroy about these circles. I think they form upon misunderstanding. So, there are groups, right. At every dance, there are cliques of people, dancing (or, standing). When one member of the group starts to spazz in what they think is an awesome dance move, the group widens, giving room to the spastic dancer (who, by the way, thinks they are on top of the world). Another person sees this person going into a seizure, and they feel bad for them, so they start to do the same, making it look like it's the cool thing to do. So, two spasmodic dancers means more room to be needed--thus the circle getting bigger. Pretty soon, the circle covers the perimeter of the dance floor, and all the outliers think someone is doing something totally rad, so they join them. And the cycle repeats itself.

And yet, I keep coming back, month after month.

The thing with dances is... it really is all about internal experience rather than an external stimulation. I let mysef go and just feel whatever rhythm the poorly-chosen song has. I bust it and break it, and people enjoy the comfort of being able to look like an idiot alongside of me. I do not claim to be a good dancer. I merely move in a series of motions I think my body would approve of. I don't go to MoDowns for the terrible tissue paper decorations, the crap-nasty finger foods, the too-close-for-comfort slow dances, the awkwardness of not knowing what to do with myself when all of my other friends are paired up, the censored or otherwise G-rated songs, the small talk with fellow dancers, the themes that never really fully came into fruition, nor the excuses I make up to not give my number to those that don't even know how to ask for one.

I go for the chance to feel alive, to let it all go and not worry about what others are thinking, to make a fool out of myself so my friends can feel comfortable in their own skin, to give people a good laugh, to enjoy my Friday evening with people who aren't afraid of me, and, dang it, just to dance. Even if the song selection is repulsive.

Most Arresting, Most Heart Stopping, Most Free Flowing

2008-10-11T15:20:00.000-07:00

Raspberry picking isn't as dirty as it sounds.

When Judge suggested we do that, I immediately put up my guard and started into my rant--the rant I've never actually said but have rehearsed almost every night since I was sixteen. "Now, I appreciate your forwardness, but I have values, and--"

But then he explained it's an actual, wholesome activity. I didn't even know raspberry farms existed in Albuquerque, let alone people picked them!

Corrales is one of those places you don't really know all that well, but if someone out-of-town asks you about it, you pretend like you know it inside and out. We drove around looking for this farm, albeit a little precariously, and it wasn't until we passed the sign that had the annoyingly incorrect grammar, "U-Pick Raspberries!!!!!!" that made us turn around. We finally found it. A sweet little place it was.

We saw this cute little family nearby. The daughter, maybe nigh 4 years old, was excited and curious about the whole experience. She was the source of amusement for moments on end, and, inevitably, the inspiration behind this entry.

"Daddy! Look at how many raspberries I have!" She said, showing her father the carton full of only four raspberries.
"How many do you have there, sweetie? One, tw--"
"Ten-thousand!"

The father soon got into raspberry picking, merrily pulling the ripened purple buttons off their thorny vines. He chuckled as he tossed them into his carton, feeling the tingle in the pit of his stomach like a victorious slot machine gambler. He noticed Skeet and I and held up his carton of raspberries. "They dragged me outta the house this morning, but I'm actually having a lot of fun," he said to us.

"I don't want to hear about all the fun you're having." A stern, feisty voice said from behind us.

We turned around and saw her. The Wife. She was in the other row behind us, picking the raspberries off the vine as if they were her husband's head.

"You're just mad because I'm having more fun than you are." Husband responded back. He plopped another raspberry in his carton and went along, looking for more tarty fruit.

The little girl was still in her own world, completely oblivious to her parents' semi-playful-somewhat-cause-for-divorce-banter. A train choochooed from the trees behind us.

"Daddy! A train! I want one!"
"You... want a train?" He asked, perplexed at his daughter's request. He looked down at her, wondering exactly how he was going to pull this one off.
"No," she said, breathful and sweet.

The girl must have seen Skeet and I throw a few raspberries into our mouths straight after picking them, because she apparently wasn't saving them in her carton (I hope she didn't see us when we put our mouth to the vine and pulled one off that way--yikes). Her mom noticed this and told her to stop eating raspberries, or else she'll "get really bad diahrreha."

"Well, at least it'll be soft and--" The father chimed in, but was immediately cut off by the Wife's glare. "I guess we shouldn't... be talking about...that."

"Oh, don't worry," Judge waved his hand in the air, tossing away the nonsense. "I work in the medical field. I'm used to it."
"Yeah." I smiled and chuckled, trying to make the moment less awkward. "And you don't know my mom."

Let's Open Up A Restuarant in Santa Fe!

2008-10-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

I'm living life like I've never quite lived before.

With being out of school and out of a job, I've got plenty of free time. I love sleeping in, doing as I please, being spontaneous with my days. I usually find something to keep me engaged and busy. I just take it day by day, living it up and enjoying it as best as I can.

I'm so used to being busy. I love having something to do. Up at BYU-Idaho, my days were planned out with countless things to do. I had 14 credits, meetings every day except Fridays, a church calling, and a class that I was teaching. I got sheer joy from putting a little check mark next to my thing-to-do. Now I don't even need a planner.

But don't think I'm just rotting away on my couch as I watch reruns of King of Queens and The Colbert Report. I'm currently (well, not at the moment, being that I'm writing, silly) job seeking, and I went to a random class at UNM yesterday, just so I could remember what it was like to learn something new. It felt really good to be sitting in a class with my throat not killing me and not feeling like I want to die--a huge difference to the beginning of the semester.

I almost had a job. A job like none other I've had. I would have been a Feline Tech at the Canine Country Club and Feline Inn, but I found out the hard way I have mad cat allergies. It didn't occur to me I'd be allergic to cats until I was down on my hands and knees scrubbing their areas incessantly sneezing. And my throat got all porkupine like. Then when I took a deep breath I felt my lungs were an 83 year old trying to go down her steep driveway to get the mail. Not fun.

So, to save myself from endless misery and wo, I talked about it with the managers and I'm not working there. They're "keeping my application on file, just in case another job more suitable for me comes up." I knew that line was coming the moment I heard my phone ringing, bearing the bad news.

There is a job opening at this hair cut place for kids in the mall that I might apply at. It doesn't pay well, the hours are crap, but it's cash flow I didn't have before. My plan of submitting my stories to contests to win big money is still in effect, but I'm still in the waiting process. It'd be really ironic if I got hired at a hair salon: I have no interest in hair whatsoever, I hardly do anything with my hair and nor do I know how to do anything with my hair, and I currently have a badly cut mullet.

Yeah. Don't ever go to a beauty school for a hair cut, even if the price for your cut is an enticing six dollars. My hair is ruined. I look like Toad from Mario. It's like the girl cutting my hair just decided to cut one really short layer and leave the rest long, giving me that business-in-the-front-party-in-the-back look. Although, if this were the 80s, all the other mullets would make fun of my mullet. That's how bad it is.

So I've ventured into such girly things like hairspray and bobby pins to make it look decent. One can't really tell I look like a mushroom when walking passed me down the street because of how I fix it, but I know it's there, which doesn't erase the horror. Maybe if I get hired at said kiddy hair salon, they'll fix it for free. Or just laugh in my face as I walk away ashamed, covering my hair in an even worse looking beanie.

Look, Grandma! The Best Blog Ever!

2008-10-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

I love to write.

I've been debating whether or not to start a blog for some time now. One thing that was holding me back was the fact that blogs are such trends. Everyone seems to have one now, and I'd just be another one of those people. People are even doing it as a means for wedding announcements and invitations! What a crazy, digital, technoligzed world we live in.

But let's be honest: blogs are instant, they require no postage, and it's a super nifty way to ask for gifts from people who don't already know what to get you for your wedding. I feel bad for the luddite friends of the lovely couple getting hitched, though. No presents from them.

I don't even know if people will read this. I actually don't believe anyone would care what I have to say, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to say. I love to write. And because I'm a faster typist than handwriter I might as well just get on the old bandwagon and suck it up. Plus, I never know: Conan O'Brien could be browsing the internets one day and stumble upon my blog and be so enthralled, he'd invite me to come on his show and inevitably start writing for him. Because let's face it: he needs new writers.

So, yeah. Blogginess.