Ambiguously Shallow

Me vs The World

2012-01-27T10:17:00.000-08:00

I'm a firm believer in owning up to your mistakes.

Mostly because I don't ever make mistakes, so there's never anything for me to own up to.

Except, you know, just this once, I'm wondering if I'm wrong. I want your opinions. For real. And then I'll decide, based on what you tell me, whether your opinion is right or wrong.

Okay, really, I do come in humility. It is possible in all of us at some point or another.

So I've had a little war waging with this trick at the gym for the past couple of months. She showed up one day and moved the fan. The fan that was blowing on me while I was running. I didn't say anything, because I was almost done running and I didn't want to be selfish.

But this morning, just after I started my run, she walked up to the fan and looked at me.

     Do you mind if I move this?

     Yes.

     But if I just turn it a little....

    Then it'll be blowing on you and not me. I'll be done in ten minutes, you can move it then.

She walked away, I kept running.

But as I ran, I wondered if I'd handled the situation the best way. What makes me get the fan over her?

Nothing, except the fact that we both wanted the fan to blow on us during running, and I got there first. I figured given a choice between the two of us, I was going to put myself before her. Besides, she did ask if I minded. I was only being honest.

But was that right? Was it right for me to put my own comfort over hers? Or should I, should all of us in such a situation, defer to the other to make the world feel more peaceful and nice?

What is the proper balance between getting what we want and getting others what they want, at our own expense?

I try to think what Jesus would have done (no really, I did), and I think maybe he would have let her move the fan. But what that teaches the girl is that she can have the fan every time, and that teaches her to be selfish.

I've determined that maybe the best course of action is for me to talk to this girl and try to come up with a solution.

Or maybe I say fuck it and continue to do what I do. Whoever is there first gets the fan.

Thoughts?

Wordless(ish) Wednesday

2012-01-25T05:24:00.000-08:00

So yesterday, I was revisiting some of my old posts on Twitter. I came across this little gem, which I uploaded during the first Charger game last year:

The caption said, "I am excited to be wearing this again."

Perhaps a better, more appropriate title would have been, "I am an attention whore, check out my rack and comment so I can feel better about myself."

I am ashamed of myself for posting this. I'm always the one who rolls her eyes at the stupid self-photos girls (and some guys) post on Twitter/Facebook that are an obvious attempt to get people to comment on how hot they are.

We all like attention, I get it.

But girls, if you're pulling duck face (Google it, it's a real thing), it's totally obvious that you're sucking in your cheeks and trying to make your lips look bigger. STOP. Just ask for attention the good old-fashioned way. By showing your boobs.

And that's wassup

2012-01-23T05:01:00.000-08:00

Between book stuff and Curvy Girl stuff and, you know, trying to have a life (read: trying to catch up on this season of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills), my blog has become a little neglected, much like the Christmas lights that are still hanging on our house OH MY GODDESS WE ARE THOSE PEOPLE and most New Year's Resolutions.

Ahem.

But enough about things that no one besides, like every judgemental trick on the planet cares about (sidenote: I care about these things, I'm a judgemental trick).

The one thing I like about my blog is that, when I'm putting off something important or trying to entertain myself when I wake up at four in the morning, I can go back and read what I was doing during any given period of my life.

Therefore, today, it's all about summary.

First, let's talk book. Several people have asked me what's going on with the book. What I can tell you is: it's still going. I'm in the process of re-writing the book for the fifth(!) time, and this time, it feels final. It's strong, I've found my voice, and, barring stupid, menial things like work and the rest of my life don't get in the way, I plan on sending it to publisher the first week of February. The publication goal is May.

Second, let's talk work. I had a month off, I went back, I realized that having to work when I'd rather be writing or sleeping or anything else is no longer for me. I'm in the market for a new job, one that will allow me to stay at home and do whatever the fuck I want. I've polished up my resume, and I'm no headhunter, but I'd say that between my ever-increasing bra size (I mean, you gain weight there, too, and that's not a bad thing) and that killer pair of boots I just bought, I'm a prime candidate to be a kept woman. Keep your fingers crossed.

Third, let's talk life. I've got a terrific tan, thanks to the 80-degree weather we've had for the past month and also the inventors of the spray tan. I joined a new gym that costs slightly less than liposuction, but the feeling of power I get after sweating and panting for an hour is totally worth it. I think. I'll tell you when I can button my pants again, which isn't yet, even though I've been at it for two weeks and OMG why am I not back into my skinny jeans already?

Also, we considered getting another dog, thinking Hank would surely love a little playmate and maybe he wouldn't be quite so needy for our attention. And then we dogsat for a friend and realized that having another dog meant we had two little shitbags competing for our love, which is somehow not two but ten times more annoying that just the one. I won't even get into the extra poop and the dog smells we had to contend with. I suspect it'll be a while before we throw children into this mix.

So stop asking, everyone on the planet!

To summarize: I'm complaining about my job, the extra 10 pounds I've put on, and my kids (errr...dog). I am, if nothing, whole-heatedly American. Now excuse me while I log onto Facebook and over share about my life and/or complain about the fact that it's Monday.

Because in every mistake, you'll find either a lesson or a scapegoat

2012-01-11T05:29:00.000-08:00

You know the moment when you sit back after a hard days work and say what the shit was I thinking?

I learned an important lesson yesterday.

I spent all day mudding, taping, cleaning and painting...only to sit back at 8 pm and realize I hated the color. It screamed I'm five and I play with unicorns. Way too purpley.

I took some time to reflect on exactly where I'd gone wrong, and the only logical thing I came up with was that I was completely, deathly, shit-faced sober when I ordered the paint.

So now, I get to spend all day today making the room not look like a giant pile of Barney crap.

Which means there are a few less hours today for me to peruse old blog posts, trying to figure out how someone found my blog by Googling "I love Snooki"and then trying to figure out a safe way to use bleach and brillo pads to scrub the ensuing shame from my body.

I am a big believer in finding a lesson out of every mistake.

Which is why I no longer have faith in sobriety.

Lesson learned, Universe.

On Sharing My Space

2012-01-08T08:40:00.000-08:00

Ever since we moved into this place I've been begging him to give it up to me.

The mancave, that is.

For whatever reason, the mancave is my go-to writing space. It promotes my creative flow despite the wood paneling and pink valences. Or maybe because of it.

Scott used to claim that it would never be mine.

But that was before I told him he could use my office for a home-gym.

After two years, victory was mine.

I got it. And then I didn't want it anymore. Turns out the mancave comes with a price: sharing. First of all, there's no way we can get rid of the couches up there. Second, there's no other room to put our spare flat panel. Third, where else would we keep the projector, the PS3, the Purdue clock I have no idea why we own, and the ridiculous collection of mountain biking DVDs?

So I'm moving back to my old office. It's the only room in the house that I will have complete and utter control over (you know, besides the kitchen, the living room, the family room, and all the bedrooms). I'm going to paint the walls purple and hang up butterflies and bitchy and/or inspirational quotes.

I'm not going to share it, it's going to be beautiful, and, most importantly? It's just plain mine.

I do what I want

2012-01-05T05:29:00.000-08:00

Every winter I have four weeks off work. The first two are spent doing Holiday things like eating cookies and figuring out which types of alochol taste best when laced with peppermint. The last two are spent eating leftover Christmas cookies and making lists of all the projects I need to do while I have all this time.

I'm in the third week of my break this year, and I have yet to cross off one item on that to-do list.

I blame the 80+ degree weather, the fact that I've given up booze for a month, and my pure, unadulterated laziness.

And the fact that I've woken up every day with the exact same thought: fuck it, I'll do whatever I feel like today.

The hard copies of all my photos have yet to be scanned so that they can be stored digitally and not take up the space in the closet of my second guest room that I in no way need, the room that is supposed to be converted into my office still smells way too much like boy, and I have yet to color-coordinate my winter wardrobe.

There is a giant pile of new clothes on the floor of my closet that I haven't put away. The load of laundry I started three days ago is growing moldy in the washing machine. The Christmas tree, though undecorated, is STILL in my living room.

But, goddamn, do I have some amazing tan lines.

And? I am content.

A year in review

2011-12-30T05:40:00.000-08:00

One sentence for each month of the year.

January: Made friends with Kathryn, a woman who not only inspires and uplifts me but makes me laugh as well, and had an epiphany
.
February: Scott went to Germany for two weeks, I was unsober for two weeks.

March: I learned how to compromise.

April: Visited Moab for the first time and was labeled a "good" rider (and not just "good for a girl").

May: Publicly announced my intention to publish a book, shared the book with an editor, was told the book (as well as my writing skills) was good.

June: Turned 33, realized my pants still didn't fit, vowed to change that.

July: Became officially copywrited.

August: I offend one too many people (probably) and didn't care because, well, I'm me.

September: Adopted a baby...errr, dog.

October: I finished my book and sent it away.

November: I realized I might not be ready to have kids yet (or at least the getting pregnant part).

December: I joined a writing group, realized a friendship had run its course, and got a new writing gig.

And, finally, a sentence to summarize what I learned this year (actually, my New Year's resolution): I want to be the person who says "I am" rather than the person who says "I'm going to."

Adolescence

2011-12-20T19:14:00.000-08:00

Another writing group, another fantastic night of writing, friends, and wine (actually, Skinny Girl Sangria. I stopped after one and a half glasses, so...meh on that, Bethany Frankel). This time, we were randomly given a picture and then had 25 minutes to write about it. I'm sure my picture was something famous or other, but I, having grown up in the country and having since maintained my uncultured heritage, came up with this:

I wish this bitch at least had smelly armpits. But of course she smells like fresh petals and morning dew and sunshine and whatever else everyone loves. And why are her boobs so much bigger than mine?

Oh well, at least I’m smarter than she is.

We’re sitting here in the garden picking flowers and pretending we like each other.

We don’t.

What adolescent girl does, really like another girl, that is?

It is a constant competition. Who has the best smile, the brightest eyes…the longest hair, the most friends.

I’m hardly ever the best at anything, except for the smarts. I got those.

Too bad the smarts don’t help me with the boys, except when they want to copy my homework.

All I want is love, someone to think I’m the best, the prettiest, the funniest, the girl with the most luxurious hair.

But no. This bitch got asked to the dance, this bitch has already had her first kiss.

And I, along with my “outstanding” marks, am sitting alone in her shadow, wishing I had an ounce of her confidence, an iota of her pizazz.

What does she have that I don’t have?

Maybe I don’t want to know.

I have nothing but the memorization of the quadratic formula and, let’s face it, guys don’t really care about that, at least not the kind of guys I want to be with.

I wish I could really love her. I wish I could look at her and not be jealous of her flawless taste, her ability to flirt with anything and everything that comes her way.

I wish I, too, would have thought of putting the flowers in my curls instead of just picking at their petals and wondering when my turn will come.

I wish what I have would be good enough, that someone would love me just as I am.

Instead I sit and hope and wish.

The dreams and wishes are grand and vast but…the biggest wish of all is that this bitch had forgotten her deodorant.

I am sick of her being so goddamn perfect.

Advice, please!

2011-12-20T07:21:00.001-08:00

I'm over at Curvy Girl today doing what I do best (thinking I know everything). Go read it!

Feel Good Friday

2011-12-09T14:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it's happened. I am no longer the most selfish trick on the planet.

I am not claiming to be totally unselfish, but I am not at least unselfish enough to accept Scott's suggestion that we forgo Christmas gifts to each other this year and donate to a charity instead. (Actual charity, not we-need-a-camper-trailer charity.)

I could find exactly no arguments against this, as he is right (did I really just say that?). We both have everything we need (did I really just say THAT?).

I'm getting nothing for Christmas. And...I pretty much don't mind.

I chose to give some money to St. Jude's, even though I really know nothing about them except they put pictures of those sad cancer babies on the return slip, so I can't bear to throw away those beautiful, innocent children and end up sending them a check every single time they send me a donation slip.

Consequently, they send me lots of donation letters with sweet, bald kids on the cover. By now I've donated enough money to pay for at least three pair of boots or ten Mexican hookers, plus the treatment for the ensuing STDs.

Scott is choosing to give money to Holly's Garden Rescue, which is the rescue center that brought us Hank.

There are so many people doing so many amazing things in the world, I wish I could give to them all.

If you're wondering what's gotten into me, well, so am I. If you're wondering why you, too, are not so giving, well, so am I.

It's not right, my sacrificing of things for me to give to others.
Ah, well. At least I'll still have my crappy attitude and complete disregard for other's feelings.

The new gig

2011-12-08T05:19:00.000-08:00

I never did specify what the new writing gig is, but now that it has officially been posted, well, you might as well know: it is an advice column. So now I can spread my opinion and truth far and wide, this time when people are actually asking for it.

Go read it or you're dead to me.

Walking Away

2011-12-06T05:19:00.000-08:00

Normally, I'm a pretty easy-going person. I am a totally low-maintenance friend, and very little upsets me.

I have always prided myself on not being emotional, on not getting upset over silly things.

And even when I do get upset, I'm not one to dwell on it. I get over it quickly.

Before I bought a house with Scott, I lived with two girls. One of them thought she was part gangster, part princess, and I still haven't figured out how she thought the two could co-exist in one person. When she got mad she would yell and scream and cuss at whomever she was angry.

She was angry at me a lot.

I would always respond the same way: by turning my back and walking away.

She perceived this as me being weak, but I didn't walk away because her screaming was too much for me to handle. I walked away because I refuse to let anyone bring me down.
Does it feel good to scream back? Hell yes it does.

But it feels better to not respond to negativity. That? Is real power.

Sometimes the person who was yelling apologizes, sometimes the friendship just ends.

A true friendship will endure, regardless.

Recently, someone I thought was a good friend hurt my feelings. This, after years and year of her getting mad at me, refusing to talk to me about it, and then just trying to pick up where we left off without ever addressing what had happened.

I drafted many texts and emails to explain why I was upset, but I never sent any of them. Part of me wanted to go off, part of me just wanted to express my hurt. But the part of me that wanted to show her, hey, this is me, I don't put up with shit like this, won, and I have not spoken to her since. Would I have been spoken my piece if she had reached out to me? Yes. But she didn't reach out to me, and this time, I've decided I'm done trying.

I realize that in relationships you have to break down your walls and swallow your pride, but this is a friend I have always done that for. I've held my tongue too many times to count, I've apologized when I knew I wasn't wrong. (sidenote: I'm NEVER wrong)
But I finally had to realize that maybe this friendship wasn't all I thought it was.

This is me not holding my tongue anymore, this is me not submitting to tantrums and demands that our friendship be on her terms.

This is me walking away. I'm ready to let it go for various reasons, and I can honestly say I harbor no ill feelings.
I am not weak, I am not uncaring. I am just me, and I refuse to let anyone bring dark energy in my life.

On Living Dreams

2011-12-03T09:31:00.000-08:00

Most of my ideas in life come from my dreams or the time shortly thereafter.

I do my best thinking in the morning, which is why I try to never sleep later than 4:30.

Last night, my best thinking came just after one.

I woke up from what I thought was a nightmare but what turned out to be a major source of inspiration.

It was a vague dream, the gist of which was that I was hiding from something. Naturally, I was hiding on top of a bunk bed in some sort of dorm, because how is that not the greatest hiding place of all time?

I cowered against the wall, afraid to be found.

The "monster" that was trying to find me was...myself.

Well, I found myself, and in that moment, I had the epiphany that, all along, I should not have been hiding from myself. I should have faced my fears head on, because I am capable of dealing with anything. We all are.

This dream was a manifestation of the internal struggle I've had in sharing my writing. A year ago, no one had read my book. Six months ago, I hesitantly hit "send" on an email to allow an editor to read it. Three months ago, I sent the book to three friends. A day ago, I volunteered my book for a manuscript review from the writing group I joined. Now not one, not three, but ten people are going to read it.

Will they point out errors? Absolutely. Will it make me doubt myself as a writer? Probably.

But my dream just made me realize something: this is part of the process. People don't just wake up and one day have a dream come true. It is a process of hard work, determination and, most of all, believing in yourself.

This is the difference between people who only talk about dreams and those who actually make their dreams come true.

I am in the process of making a dream come true. It is not always easy, and at times it feels like the climb to the top will take forever. All I know is, I'm not going to give up because I am going to do this no matter what.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-11-30T18:22:00.000-08:00

Something to consider:

I wear my label with pride.

Under This Old Hat

2011-11-29T05:28:00.000-08:00

Last night, I went to the first meeting of a writing group I'm now involved in. I went with no expectations, only excitement, curious as to what creative process would unfold.

The first activity was to pick an object from a table and write about it. I was drawn, of course, to a "cowboy" hate. I use the term loosely, because it wasn't at all a real cowboy hat. It was one of those type of hats that chicks in bikinis or daisy dukes wears, the kind that makes me call a girl a skank because, well, I'm a judgemental bitch about such things.

Anyway. Here is the piece I wrote about it:

It’s a pseudo cowboy hat, one used for decorative purposes and nothing like what God intended when he created the cowboy and therefore necessity for such a hat.

Immediately I think of home, my brother, and what it means to wear a real cowboy hat (not the kind of hat you see on beaches or city streets or most county fairs).

I grew up in a town of 631 people and approximately 10,000 cows, where farming is life and jerky, as well as manure, is fresh. I never really fit the mold there. I was way too into books and clothes and knew way too much about grammar to ever use a double negative in a sentence. I grew up dreaming of leaving. Ironically, I now dream of going back, if only for an extended stay. I do wonder when (if) I have kids if I will change my mind about the city vs the country.

So far, my vote is to stay in the city, if only because there is certain death from lack of, well, anything convenient in the country.

Now onto my brother. He is a cowboy to the core, more tough than 1,000 gym rats, more real than anything even remotely thought of within these concrete limits. He is the sum of every cowboy song, the quintessential man. He lives his life by the weather and is as likely to ride away into the sunset as he is to throw a saddle on a bucking bronc. He is strong and hard and entirely too ornery for his own good. He is also one of the most sensitive souls I know, at least when he’s not kicking the spirit out of a wild mare or cussing and trying to rope a stubborn stray. He will never be rich by the world’s definition, but in life’s terms, he is the only person I know who chooses the same activities for both his day job and his leisure. Perhaps he is the richest man of all.

To put on a cowboy hat—and again, I’m not talking about attention-seeking skanks or posers (I’m looking at you, Allen Jackson). Putting on a hat means riding til the job is done, regardless of the time of day or weather. Driving the herd means hours on horse back with little or no time for eating or potty breaks, and most likely the only conversation you’ll have that day will be with your trusty Australian Shepard, Wreck, and even then, it’s only to cuss at him for nipping the heels of a day-old calf. You’ll ride until you want to die, and then you’ll keep at it because the job isn’t done until you’ve pushed the herd to the next pasture or the next source of water.

A real cowgirl knows how to shape her hat just right so the sun never hits her eyes and the rain falls behind her. A real cowgirl would never pair her hat with a bikini or daisy dukes, and a clean hat? Is a sign of a wasted day.

A Change in the Air

2011-11-24T18:48:00.000-08:00

So...I said goodbye to an era in my life (living in a small house, dealing with too many boys) but hello to a new gig. See:

Although I haven't actually written anything on the site yet, but soon.

Stay tuned.

Goodbye, Casita

2011-11-23T16:46:00.000-08:00

So today, finally, finally, the sell of our old house went through. All I did was complain about that house, about how I lived there with three boys, about how it was too small, about how it was pink, for fuck's sake.

But part of me is going to miss that house, because I have lots of memories from that house:

Like the time I learned how to be a bitch

On being outnumbered by boys

Brainwashing my roommate to do chores

Thinking about leaving this glorious city

Where I learned to reign as queen of the Goddamn Universe, or at least my house.

Resigned to life in a house smaller than 1,000 sq. ft.

Dreamed about a house with a pool. Got a pool.

Contemplated having a baby

Started complaining about my new house before we ever moved.

So I dreamed up this new, big, house, and here we are, almost two years later, and we are finally letting go of our little, baby starter home, which is the only reason the two of us are still together (buying a house together is totally a bigger commitment than marriage), and life with roommates, hopefully forever.

Goodbye, house on Casita Way. You won't be missed, but I will forever appreciate the vaulable lessons I learned under your roof.

Christmas spirit(s).

2011-11-22T08:22:00.000-08:00

The other night, Scott asked me how I felt about not exchanging Christmas gifts this year.

After my initial reaction, which was blind rage involving flying objects and multiple variations of the word "fuck", I pondered the Holidays involving no presents.

And I realized something: he's right.

Christmas is not about gifts, at least not anymore. This is, largely, because Scott and I were raised with completely opposite values when it comes to the Holidays. In my house, Christmas was about a living room full of presents. In his house, Christmas was about boozing it up before seven in the morning.

Hard to say which of us had it better.

But I gave in and agreed that we could do without the mountain of presents, as long as Santa would leave some Kahlua in my stocking for my coffee.

There I was, feeling all proud of myself and grown up and Christ-like (no, really, I did feel the light, I'm not a total wanker), when Scott tells me the real reason he doesn't want to exchange gifts.

It's not because we're going to donate the money. He wants to save up to buy a travel trailer because he wants to go camping more.

What. The. Shit.

A little part of baby Jesus just died right then, as did all my warm fuzzy feelings.

Needless to say, my shit created a spread sheet on the pros vs cons of keeping me happy on the Holidays. Here's the part where we merge our two family values, a secret to keeping any marriage successful.

I expect to be drunk when I delve into that mountain of presents on December 25.

Living for the weekend

2011-11-13T15:42:00.000-08:00

You know why I love weekends?

The same reasons everyone who doesn't have kids loves weekends.

Because I can do whatever the fuck I want.

It's not that I think having kids ruins your life, it's that I think having kids ruins your...yes, I guess I did mean life.

I'm kidding.

I'm actually hiding behind my bitterness because the truth is, well....the truth is, we actually want to have kids. We've actually been ready for a few months now, but it hasn't (obviously) happened yet.
Sometimes I feel like a failure, but then I hear horror stories about kids and pregnancy and then I feel like a winner. Mostly, though, I feel like popping a beer because I hear that you can't spend weekends drunk when you have kids.

So they say.

Now that I'm married and, you know, my prime child-rearing years are staring down the barrel of a 20-gage (that's a shot gun for you city folk), everyone keeps asking about me getting pregnant. A friend saw me holding a baby and was all "oh, you're totally ready."

Um, yeah, pretty sure that's why I stopped taking birth control over a year ago.

No, I get it, people don't know the details of my life, people don't know that I alternate between being sad that it hasn't happened and being thankful that it hasn't. I'm not worried enough to go see a doctor, I figure if worse comes to worse I'll adopt a baby.

And then, you know, there's the email from my friend Graber that lists ways on how I can use "The Secret" to have a baby:

Tinkham (nee Graber) has done a fantastic job of pushing back my baby clock.

Pass me the mother fucking tequila, then.

You

2011-11-07T06:28:00.000-08:00

Okay, so did you know I write poetry? This is kind of dark, written after one of the many times the guy I was dating in my early 20s hurt me. What I realized, though, even then, was that all things happen for a reason. Though I went through hell and back with him, I am thankful he was in my life, because he made me explore myself to the very depths of my soul, and I would not be the bitch I am today if he had not forced me to evaluate myself.

Enjoy:

YOU

Exposed my weary soul
and Burned a hole right through
Shattered all dreams and Paradise
now scorned because of you

Vulnerable and naked now
defensive and oh so bare.
Afraid of occurring future--
Defenses take me there.

Sorrow Affords new strength,
learning a new expression.
Pandora has yet to learn
the Power of my depression

Through forlornness of all being
the light will soon awaken
Aurora will start her day
regardless of what night's taken.

A Soul can choose to die
and Atlas doesn't care
the Clock keeps ticking on--
leaving no time for despair.

faced With choices now
Prosperity bouts with Grief.
How clearly the process knows
the System of soul's relief.

though naked and exposed;
my armor stronger yet.
Paint still clouds the Heart
sadness won't let me forget

but Being is also living
in growing and in strife
as Pain grows, euphoria deepens
Each waking day of life

So thank You for the Hell
Nirvana's closer still
for opposition of all things--
allows extremes to feel.

Though tears still fill my eyes
my gift from you can bear it
Advanced and searching still--
in your Betrayal lies all merit.
November 16,2003

Fashion Friday

2011-11-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

In the 80s we had Madonna.

In the 90s we had Kelly Bundy and Blossom.

In the new mmillennium we have Snooki.

What the shit.

Snooki?

Since when is it okay for a skanky orange midget (I'm sorry, "little person") more annoying than anyone in this world (I'm looking at you, Tila Tequila) to be a fashion influence?

I have a super hot cousin in Utah. She is constantly posting cute pictures of herself and her 18-year-old friends. I love looking at the pictures of her and her young friends.

And then she posted this:

At first, I thought it was a Halloween costume, but then I found out it was just real life.

Snooki is now influencing our youth.

Jesus.

Maybe its that I have issues with bitches wearing shorts and any sort of Ugg-type boot, or maybe it's that I am completely jealous that Snooki has a New York Times Bestseller and I don't.

Or, you know, maybe it's that the boots look like someone cut a hole in a shih tzu, painted it bright pink, and called it footwear.

The boots--and I use the term loosely--are hideous.

They also worry me, because have I finally reached the point where I am too far removed to understand trends?

Or am I just too paranoid of looking like the bottom half of a yeti to follow in the footsteps of a trashy reality star?

Regardless, I will never, ever wear anything remotely close to what Snooki or her friends are wearing.

If this means my days of being trendy are over, then so be it.

Happy Friday!

In which I am naked

2011-11-01T05:27:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know, my first complete novel has been sent off to the land of the editors, where they will read it, rip it apart, and tell me I suck as a human being.

I am ready for that.

What I am not ready for is...the rest of you.

Recently, a male friend of mine told me he couldn't wait to read my book. This is a friend who knows the jokester, sassy (read: bitchy) side of me. We share endless laughs, even if we're telling a serious story.

So when he told me he couldn't wait for my book, I immediately grew alarmed.

The thing is, the book represents a different, more heavy side of me (insert fat joke here). It is not written in the same voice as my blog or my Facebook status updates or even the tone I use for my day-to-day life.

It's a serious book, exploring the depths and struggles of the main character, and there is far too little cussing (don't worry, I managed to slip the word "fuck" in there a few times, against my editor's advice). In its place is a lot of soul-searching. Don't expect to do a lot of laughing, this book ain't that.

I occasionallly touch upon this reflective style of writing here on my blog, though it is not my main voice.

But it does reflect a part of me, and that is that part that came out with this book.

I guess you need to know that this side of me does exist, that I'm not as shallow as you would think, and that I'm scared to show this serious, vulnerable side of me..

I am naked without sarcasm and bad jokes, and yet here I go, stepping out into the world with nothing but the depth of my soul showing.

I am in big, big trouble.

Top 5 Reasons Halloween Blows

2011-10-31T20:18:00.000-07:00

What's the Halloween version of Scrooge, because I am just not feeling Halloween this year. Here are the top reasons why:

5. I made an effort to dress up, which is to say I wore this:

All day long, people asked me what my costume was. Um, if you don't know what this costume is, you're stupid. See also: I'm stupid. I have no idea what I was supposed to be, I just really like the headband, okay. But it sure did get annoying trying to explain that.

4. I bought an essload of candy. I ate an essload of candy. My tummy hurts and my pants won't zip.

3. Unfortunately, Halloween is not an actual holiday from school. Trying to teach distributive property to a bunch of wankers hyped up on sugar? Not a good Monday.

2. I don't do pumpkin carving. It smells weird and takes way too long, and I suck at details.

1. Passing out candy to strange kids? Meh. Back in the country, it's cool because you know everyone and you're genuinely excited to see their costumes. Here? They're just random free loaders in half-assed costumes that have no business trick-or-treating (seriously, shouldn't there be a law passed about cut-off age?) who are judging you by how good your candy is.

Good god, since when am I so angry?

Halloween Style

2011-10-31T05:19:00.000-07:00

If I can't dress up like a slut, I'm just not going to dress up.

I can't remember the last time I actually had a Halloween costume.

Actually, that's not true. I do remember. It was probably five years ago, and I dressed as a cheerleader (like the professional slutty kind with long white boots, not the high school kind with pigtails) and went to the bar with my friends, Slut Bo Peep and Slut Red Riding Hood:

We had lots of shots.

From what I remember, it was fun (I don't remember much).

Last year, I sat at home and tried not to eat all the candy.

At least I decorated nicely.

I love fall, mostly because I love to decorate and burn cinamon and pumpkin candles so we can all pretend I just baked an apple pie (I mean, I do make a mean apple pie. I used to make them every day and get baked with friends and eat it with ice cream and not gain any weight because those were the days. I miss college).
I walk around the neighborhood and spot the occasional tree with non-green leaves. I think about how much I love this time of year and the onset of winter.

And then I change into my bikini and work on my tan because this is fall in SoCal and it's hot as a motherfucker.

But I digress.

The point is, someone in my hood has this hanging near the front of their house:

I would have crapped my pants, but then I saw this, mere feet from the scariest monster of my dreams:

And then I judged the people, because Halloween can't be both scary and cute. Pick one.

You see, I totally pick scary:

What's scarier than spiders with sequins and pumpkins that look just right against a fire on a cold (I wish) fall night?

If you answered "um, everything, bitch!", you are dead to me.

Happy Halloween!

Saying Goodbye

2011-10-29T09:06:00.000-07:00

I have issues with finishing projects.

Like the time I tried to take up sewing.

Like any time I've ever painted (taping+ touch-ups=the devil's work).

Like anything I've ever done...I start off strong but get lost in the details.

I blame it on my ADD.

The thing is, I have commitment issues. I mean, it took me seven years to get married. I was engaged for two years before I set a date, and even then, I only set a date because I found a dress I liked.

And we won't even talk about how many pairs of grey boots I own (okay, yes we will, I own five pair of grey boots) because I can't decide which style I like best.

So now here I am, having actually finished something and having to say goodbye to a project that has consumed the majority of my free time for the past two years.

My book.

It's done.

Well, maybe not actually done, done, because I'm sure the editors are going to rip it a new hole and I'm going to have to rewrite it, and it's true what they say, I am sick of it to the point where I almost hate it. I am ready to move on from it and yet...

Now that it's no longer in my hands, now that I've tweaked and rewritten and polished everything to the best of my ability, I'm sad.

Because it's time to move on to the next.

Though I've been waiting for this for a while, waiting to start focusing on the sequel, there is a big part of me that just doesn't want to let go of the first.

I miss it. I miss thinking of details for the plot, I miss trying to get into the heads of the characters, I miss the characters themselves.

It is going to be hard completely letting go of this story and moving on to the next.

But, like everything else in life, there comes a time when you have to move on.

And so it is.

(Not) Wordless Wednesday

2011-10-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

Last year on Halloween, I realized something: Scott and I are stuck in a weird phase where we feel too old to dress like sluts and go to a party get trashed for Halloween, yet we don't have kids so we're not at the point where we dress like the Flintstones and walk around with booze in a red plastic cup while our kids knock on the neighbors door and judge them by the candy they're passing out.

We stayed home last year and passed out candy, and after the 10,534th kid came to the door, I could no longer smile and tell them their costumes were awesome.

I wanted to punch the little fuckers, because it's such a pain in the ass to have to keep getting up from whatever rerun I'm watching to contribute to some kid I don't know's future obesity and Type 2 diabetes.

This year, we've been tossing around the idea of joining some of our parent friends while they take their kids trick-or-treating. I'm in charge of bringing the red plastic cups and vodka (not really a fan, but in this case, the less detectable, the better).

But then we realized something: we were going to be that house::

And let's face it, I'm far too lazy to have to worry about washing eggs off my house, and if our shit gets toilet papered, well, we'll just cross our fingers and hope for wind to blow it away.

It's looking more and more like we'll just stay home and make a drinking game out of it every time a parent comes to the door and asks for candy for their kid who is "sick at home".

I have a feeling the day after Halloween is going to hurt very, very badly.

If not verbal or physical abuse...what then?

2011-10-20T04:52:00.000-07:00

I have been trained by some of the world's best psychologists in behavior modification.

I have a bachelor's degree in psychology and have worked with the toughest of the tough--both kids and adults. I've seen results.

I pride myself on my skills. I judge others for their lack of (this is sarcasm, stop thinking I'm an asshole).

I dream about becoming a parenting consultant or a dean of a school or just a person others worship as being someone who knows what the fuck she's talking about when it comes to discipline.

I won't go into my philosophies, except to say that one thing I don't believe in, will never advocate, is using physical means to force someone to do something.

And so now?

I'm at a loss as to what to do with my dog.

The past couple of days when I've tried to leave for work, he runs out the door and barks at me. When I put him back in the house, he sits by the door, just waiting for me to open it so he can run out again, repeat the cycle, and give me a quasi-legit reason to be late to work.

But it has to be stopped, he thinks he's the boss. There's only one boss up in here, and she weighs more than 12 pounds.

Because I don't believe in using physical means to stop this behavior, and because my telling him I'm going to cut off his mother fucking tail or one remaining ball isn't working, I'm at a loss.

How do I communicate to my dog that he needs to enjoy the fact that he has free reign of a 2600 square foot house and is not spending his time in a crate or, worse, um, anywhere because OUR HOUSE IS AWESOME YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BRAT.

I don't want to hire a dog whisperer or take him to obedience school, so how do I communicate, without using physical or verbal abuse, that he needs to get over it and that, though I would love to be able to stay home all day and let me lick his face, until he either gets a job or learns how to rob banks, he's going to have to deal with it?

(Never) Wordless Wednesday

2011-10-19T05:14:00.000-07:00

I recently read a book on how the brain works, and the information that really hit home with me was that it is physiologically impossible for your brain to multi-task. You cannot concentrate on two things at once. Yes, you may switch back quickly from one task to the next, but you end up not really focusing on either task and it ends up actually being less effective than just doing one thing at a time.

Needless to say, I still believe I can do multiple things at once.

But this? Prime example of why you shouldn't. Or maybe you should....(look closely for my typo)

....

I don't know exactly what a slow cock dinner is, but it sounds like it would be fantastic paired with cheese, red wine, and some Marvin Gaye.

Lesson: Always proofread. Thank GOD this text was not sent to my mother. (Then again, she probably doesn't know what the word "cock" means.) (I hope she's not reading this right now).

Oh? And multi-tasking? Think about it.

Baby steps or giant leaps, either way, I've almost reached a life-long dream

2011-10-17T19:35:00.000-07:00

Some might say it's not a big deal.

I? Would punch those mo fos right in the junk if they said it to my face.

Yes, all I did was fill out a form and pay a fee and bam (!), I'm copyrighted.

But what it signifies is a big goddamn deal.

I am chasing a dream. I didn't wait for it to happen, I put the wheels in motion. I spent hours upon hours, drink upon drink slaving away over this book.

And then?

I put myself out there in a way I didn't know if I was ready for.

But I did it. And now, I have a piece of paper that makes my copyright official, that brings me that much closer to making a dream that a lot of people only talk about (actually, a lot of people accomplish, too, but you get my point) come true.

This piece of paper doesn't make me famous, it definitely doesn't make me rich, and it doesn't even mean I'm published.

But it means I'm one step closer to realizing a dream and that?

Is fucking awesome.

Reality

2011-10-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

It's not that words are failing me, that's not at all why I haven't been blogging.

Work is taking a lot of time, as is my book, as is, you know...LIFE.

I wake up at 4 each morning, edit 20ish pages (or dick around on Facebook, depends on my mood), hit the gym, go to work, walk the dog, cook dinner, clean and pack lunch for the day, then pass out and do it all over again.

It's a stale routine, and I've been considering becoming an alcoholic or starting some sort of crime ring just to stir things up.

But then, you know, who would take care of the dog?

I had a quasi-breakdown at the beginning of the week, on the tail end of a never-ending cold (I blame my recent trip to Utah, that shit doesn't fly here in SoCal). I woke up Monday morning, after a night of endless coughing, thought of everything I had to do that day, realized how tired I was and how shitty I felt, and thought, fuck it, I'm staying home.

I normally try to power through such days, but the will to push through just wasn't in me.

I called out sick for two days, parked on the couch to edit my book in between coughing fits, lay out in the sun, and let the dishes in my sink pile up.

I didn't even change out of my sweats. That? Is how you know I was sicker than I've ever been.

Basically, this is me:

Except, you know, with way better hair and cheekbones.

And way more drunk on my face.

Have I brought you down yet?

Don't worry, I'll buck up soon, because that's how country girls do.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-10-05T04:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know I'm a blog slacker.

Lay off, I've got a lot going on.

Also, if you don't get the following, we probably shouldn't be friends.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-09-28T05:42:00.000-07:00

Because if you can't have a sense of humor in life, well, the your life probably sucks.

That call in the middle of the night that has nothing to do with booty.

2011-09-27T17:12:00.000-07:00

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, what's the worst thing we all fear?

That fear came true for me this morning.

I woke up to several missed calls from family members (I sleep with my phone in another room). I didn't even notice said missed calls because I was too busy drinking coffee and doing book edits. It wasn't until my sister called at 5:30 (I almost ignored, I was in a hurry) that I heard the news: my dad had been in a car accident.

I reacted to the news the way any normal person would: I went to the gym and ran three miles. I ran faster and harder than I have in a long time, trying to make the scared, panicky feeling going away. It wasn't until almost an hour and a half later, after my workout, after I'd fed and walked the dog, that I let myself cry.

My family has been in this situation before.

He fell asleep at the wheel, woke up in time to try to steer back to the road, hit some sand and rolled. After trying (and failing) to get his truck unstuck, he called my brother to come get him. My brother insisted on calling the cops, though my dad maintained that he was fine.

He was not fine.

He, reaffirming my belief that he is the world's toughest man, said he wasn't going to ride in an ambulance to the hospital. Said he wanted to go home. My brother took him to the hospital, anyway.

He had broken (as in broken, not cracked) several ribs, front and back. The hospital in the country called the injuries "serious" and sent him via ambulance 100 miles away to a hospital in the city that would be equipped to deal with complications, should any arise.

I have been waiting all day to hear news.

So far, the doctors say all his vitals look fine, but he's too doped up to determine what the next step is.

As for my next step, I am unsure whether I will fly to Utah this weekend or next, but I do know I'll go. I also know that the next time I'm having strong feelings that I need to call or see someone (for the past few days, I've been having urges to call my dad, but I ignored them), I'm going to act on them.

You never know when it will be too late.

Fashion Friday

2011-09-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

His name is Hank (after Williams, Jr.), but we call him: Hank the Tank, Skank, Shank, Stank, Frank, or Shitbag, depending on our mood.

He is our new shih tzu terrier and he is the cutest thing ever.

Cute enough that I don't want to kill him when he lick-rapes my face. Cute enough that I didn't drop-kick him for chewing up my favorite pair of underwear. Cute enough that I don't take him on walks because everyone on the planet wants to stop me and comment on how cute he is, and who the hell has that kind of time where you can stop and talk to everyone?

If I had a nickle for every time someone has told me he looks like an Ewok (I didn't know what that was, had to Google it, I'm horrible with movie references), I still wouldn't even be close to being able to quit my job, but I might at least have enough for a Snickers.

He's a lot of work, but I like to think of him as prepping me for motherhood (NOT a pregnancy announcement, you dig?). I feed him twice a day, give him the occasional pat on the head--a bone if I really feel nice--and leave him to his own devices. When he's naughty I lock him outside until I've had enough wine and/or beer to love him again.

This is exactly how kids work, right?

And, since this is technically supposed to be a Fashion Friday post, I thought I'd show you the best way to pick out a dog:

One with a face you can't resist

Blends in rather nicely with the carpet

Blends in nicely with the couch

He is completely color-coded with the carpet/furniture, so that if the little fucker leaves hair (he's not supposed to, I was told there would be no shedding), it is totally unnoticeable. The OCD in me (remember, I'm the bitch who vacuums her patio) has yet to come undone.

Also, a couple of people have asked if I am going to buy a Louis Vuitton bag to tote him around in. First of all, no, I'm not, because I only buy purses made in America (side note: That's just a theory. In reality I have yet to buy a purse made in America, but only because I haven't purchased my fall bag yet). Second of all, um, I'm not Paris Hilton, and that dog/bag trend was over long ago. Besides, I don't even like the signature Louis. Brown is really not my thing, and neither is spending thousands of dollars on something I can't ride down a mountain.

I wasn't sure I'd like having a dog, but after three weeks, I'm completely in love. The little shitbag can stay, as long as I in no way have to change my life.

Happy Friday!

Losing it

2011-09-21T18:28:00.000-07:00

I might be losing it.

The cracks are definitely beginning to show.

I'm so, so tired. I am so, so annoyed. All the time.

One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. Two days this week I've felt as though I could burst into tears.

I'm not a crier.

What the fuck is going on with me?

Is it hormones? Is it an extended version of PMS? Is it eight years of giving myself 10,000% to my job and finally realizing that the answer to the problem is not me working harder? The answer is not me, not other teachers, pushing themselves more because we are chasing some goddamn unobtainable goal that was thought up of someone who knows nothing about what true education looks like.

But it's not just work, it's everything.

It's every time I turn around, the floor needs mopped. The laundry needs folded. Dinner needs to be cooked, lunches need to be packed, the dishes are dirty, Scott left the lights on again, the dog needs walked, it's Monday again, oh my god it never ends.

I might be depressed.

People laugh when I say this, because I don't look or act depressed, but it might be true.

That or my life is mundane. Boring.

Imma bouts to do something crazy, just to stir things up, just to prove that this can't be it.

I fear the cracks are a sign that I'm going crazy. Or, worse, stagnant.

What is this?

Wordless Wednesday

2011-09-21T04:53:00.000-07:00

You have approximately six weeks to make sure your kid is the "taker" and not the "takee"

And, um, if you haven't already checked it out and laughed your ass off, a great way to pass your time at work...errr...I mean, time when you have nothing better to do....go to http://www.bluntcard.com/ (thanks to my friend Tiffany for sending me that gem of a website). Hours will be spent. But have another window open you can quickly switch to in case your boss walks by. I am not speaking from experience or anything.

Fashion Friday

2011-09-16T05:28:00.000-07:00

My one regret from my childhood is that I never became a cowgirl.

Okay, that's a lie, I do have some regrets, like the time I wore those overalls from Old Navy with a red bandanna. That? Complete mistake. I'm neither a 60 year old farmer nor a blood (though, I totally have street cred elsewhere).

Regardless, I did grow up on a farm, and I can ride the shit out of a horse.

But....I was never a true cowgirl. Mostly because I never looked like this:

This here is Kailey Jade. She is the rodeo queen of...somewhere in Utah, but I like to believe she is the rodeo queen of the entire universe. I mean, did you SEE the coordination on this girl and her mare? The pink shirt/saddle blanket/boots, the purple socks/hair feather/halter on the horse? I am in complete awe. I have been ever since I saw her at the Scipio Rodeo.

It's settled. I'm moving back to the country to become a rodeo queen.

Then I'm going to buy this, this, and this (mad props to creator Lynzee Beach of SugaRein, LLC for blinging out horses AND keeping prices super cheap all while representing the little town of Richfield, UT!).

Or, you know, I might not want to give up the city life completely, in which case I just need to figure out a way to convince my cowboy brother that we need to bling out some of his mares so they look cute when I ride.

As far as I can tell, there only difference between a blinged out horse and a Porsche is the braying. And the farting (the horse, not the Porsche).

Now, Miss Lynzee Beach, I propose that you make some bling for other animals, like my little dog, Hank. Maybe you could also figure out a way for it to be acceptable for a male dog to wear a purple feather in his tail (I mean, not that I discriminate against animal transgenderism or anything, I just don't know if Hank swings that way).

Bling on, cowgirls!

Goal! Oh, wait, that's soccer, whatever, I love football!

2011-09-13T05:28:00.000-07:00

If you know anything about me, you know I love purple, football, and beer.

Sunday, the Vikings, my second favorite team, came to town to play the Chargers, my hometown and therefore--duh--favorite team.

I wore my Charger shirt, even though I was with a bunch of Vikings friends.

But I didn't completely ignore my second-favorite team.

Chargers shirt, Vikings horns. Budweiser vs Bud Light. I'M SO CONFUSED!

If I were an attention whore, I would've eaten up all the comments I get about my cross-dressing.

Most people were amused. One guy started talking smack.
"You want a piece of me?" I shouted.

He didn't.
Good thing, because I don't know exactly what would have gone down, except there was a strong possibility of my pants ripping (soo tight) and me losing my balance because I drank so much beer.

The only other thing I really remember about the day is that, in the parking lot after the game, I ran in the middle of some dudes throwing a football.

I intercepted it, planned on throwing it back.

"You got this, sweetie?" one asked.

Oh, I got this. Patronizing douchebag.

The football flew in a perfect spiral straight over his head.

Unfortunate, since I'd been aiming for his balls.

Like I said, I had a lot of beer.

The Chargers won, my friends were sad, we drank more beer.

And that, my friends, is the perfect Sunday.

The day the lights went out in SoCal

2011-09-09T19:16:00.000-07:00

The thing is, you think you're prepared, and you're totally not.

I grew up harvesting the earth, I planned my life around the weather, I made shit grow.

I once owned a hunting tag.

I thought I was tough.

Yet I found myself at a loss when the lights went out in SoCal Thursday afternoon. I wasn't prepared for that noise.

I was sitting at work, bemoaning the fact that I have a mere two ceiling fans in a room bigger than my first house. With 47 pre-algebra students right after lunch.

It sucked. Hard.

I forced myself to suffer a little more and stay late to get stuff done.

At least I would have, but the power went out at 3:45. I was more than okay going home to my air-conditioned house. Finally, I have a house with central air.

The power was out there, too.

We walked the dog at the lake, heard the generators kick on, assumed we had electricity again, headed home.

Power was still out, neighbors were getting drunk on the front lawn. Our house was hot as balls.

We played Yahtzee, ate cheese, crackers, and rapidly melting Popsicles for dinner. Drank quasi-cold beer.

After losing two straight games, I was over it.

We grabbed our chairs and went to camp out on the lawn with the neighbors, who were three margaritas in (whores).

I only had a beer, I got discipline like that. Plus, I didn't want to get drunk in front of people I don't really know.

I met all of my neighbors for the first time (what, it's only been eighteen months, hardly time to get to know the neighbors) and contemplated life without modern technology.

We were forced to interact with each other. There was no TV, no computer (I totally still had Internet on my phone but only a car to charge it with, now we were roughing it), no lights...nothing but the bright moon, stars, and the sound of the neighbor's generator til the power came back on at one in the morning.

It was, oddly, intriguing.

But also? A piece of my country soul died today when I realized my life is not simple. Not at all.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-09-07T05:39:00.000-07:00

A year ago, this was my status update on Facebook.

And I was texting the word "porn" to some unknown person because...

Fashion Friday

2011-09-02T05:02:00.000-07:00

I recently made my first Gucci purchase. And, what was more shocking to me than the price was that when I looked in the mirror, my ass wasn’t any smaller.

Did I actually think buying Gucci would make my ass smaller?

No.

But maybe I unconsciously figured that after such a landmark purchase, something amazing would happen.

Maybe I would magically be able to fit in my pants again, or look in the mirror and not notice I no longer have a six-pack (fuck you, metabolism after 30), or my nomination for sainthood would be announced. Something…anything…should have happened.

But nothing, except my husband asking me why I went shopping again, did.

It’s a conversation he and I have had many, many times. He doesn’t understand my need for new boots, purses, dresses, whatever. He asks me why I need four (okay, maybe closer to seven) pairs of brown boots. I tell him no one will know how pretty I am if I don’t have all this stuff.

He rolls his eyes and tells me to take off my make-up and clothes and smile like a donut, and then he’ll tell me how pretty I am.

For the record, he’s kidding. I think.

All joking aside, it does make me wonder: why do I feel the need to shop? I have an entire walk-in closet filled with clothes, shoes and purses, and that is just for my summer wardrobe. The guest room closet is full of all my cold weather clothes.

So why do I still need more?

Why do we, as women (I know I’m not alone here), feel the need to have the most trendy purse, the highest heel…the newest car?

Why, once we have it, is it not enough?

I know, I know, being pretty is about being comfortable in your own skin, loving who you are just as you are, blah, blah, blah. I could write a book on where true beauty comes from.

And yet knowing all that doesn’t make me feel any more beautiful or shop any less. Knowing that my husband--or most other men, for that matter-- doesn't judge how hot I am based on whether or not I’m wearing the latest trend doesn’t make me any less apt to run out and buy a new dress for a social event, even if I have something perfectly suitable already in my closet.

If I don’t even understand it, how can I expect my husband to understand it?

He says unless I can come up with a reason why I need to shop, I shouldn’t do it anymore. I haven’t been shopping lately because “it makes me feel pretty” just isn’t reason enough anymore.

And, honestly, that’s just a big fat lie, anyway.

Wordless(ish) Wednesday

2011-08-31T17:30:00.000-07:00

The one thing I can say with certainty about myself: I am the worst decision maker ever. I cannot make up my mind about anything. This is why it took me so long to get married (plus, details make me crazy). This is why, a year later, I haven't changed my name. This is why, after a year and a half in our house, we don't have any art on our walls (because my cluster self can't decide what would look best).

Also, this is why we don't have pets. I don't feel like I can deal with all the hair, the slobber, the...responsibility.

But then....

I totally want one.

Last year at this time

2011-08-26T18:33:00.000-07:00

I was curling my hair, therefore extremely annoyed when my brother-in-law (sister's husband), Jon, came into the house and told me not to freak out, but that my future husband would like to have a word with me outside.

A year ago today, two days before my wedding, I stepped out the front door of my parent's house, saw Scott sitting in the passenger seat of our SUV, and immediately knew something was wrong.

I walked over to his side, trying to decide if I were more annoyed or worried that something had clearly gone wrong on his mountain biking adventure.

"Don't freak out," he said, "but Jon's taking me to the hospital."

"You don't have insurance," was all I could think to say. "For God's sake, if they ask you to get an xray, don't do it. We've just bought the new house and our car just broke down and, well, we haven't won the lottery yet and xrays are really expensive."

I went back into the house and finished curling my hair for the bridal shower my sister was throwing me, even though I'd told her repeatedly I didn't want one (I ended up having a great time, of course).

Scott, in the meantime, ended up getting a gazillion stitches in his knee and was awarded crutches and painkillers to get him through the next few days.

He passed out at our rehearsal dinner, and I'm almost positive he doesn't remember anything about our wedding.

I had to drive most of the eleven hours home because his leg hurt. He slept and played his PSP the whole way home.

The fact that I didn't divorce and/or kill him for all that tells me this here marriage? Solid as the fucking rock my husband busted his knee on.

Fashion Friday

2011-08-26T08:42:00.000-07:00

Something crazy happened to me during my summer vacation.

I found a soap box.

And because of it, I've banned buying any more Coach bags from my life.

Seriously.

It all started when I was reading the label in my bag. There, at the very bottom, it said "Manufactured in China".

Really?

I spend $XXX (those "X" represent digits and also the triple "X" rating on the vulgarity of the price) on a bag...meanwhile, Coach is paying some kid in China probably $5/week to make this shit so they can raise their profit margins.

No thank you, corporate greed, no thank you.

Besides, what's so special about a Coach bag, anyway?

I paid a ridiculous amount for my current bag, and really there are only two reasons I bought it:

1) I am ridiculously obsessed with butterflies.

2) The inside of the purse is purple and matches my wallet exactly.

In another month, I will have moved on to another bag, making the use of current bag a total of three months. Hardly long enough to justify the cost.

When I was in Washington, my sister and her friend Wendy were making fun of Angie's (Wendy's sister's) bag. She's had it for three years and they desperately want her to buy a new one.

She's not budging. She told me her bag is perfect, and listed several reasons why:

1) it's original 2) it's hand made 3) it's unique 4) it has a magnetic close feature
5) it's leather 5) it's made in Seattle 6) the should strap is the perfect length 7) it's water resistant

Far more than my two. I'll say it: I've been a label whore for far too long.

From now on, there will be only one label in my life: Made in America

I'm going to find a new brand, one that gives Americans jobs and helps our economy. I'm not contributing to the shitmess that is China's ownership of us any longer. Or at least I'm going to contribute a little less.

Here's the part where you all tell me of any brands you know of that meet my new criteria.

Thanks and Happy Friday!!!

I'll probably offend everyone on the planet with this post, but I'm so traumatized I don't care. Oh, let's be real, I wouldn't care, regardless.

2011-08-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

Public airports, like bathrooms, are full of assholes.

I flew to Washington (the state, not the DC) on Monday, and I have just now stopped shaking and scrubbing my body to get rid of the dirty, whoreish feelings it created in me.

First, let's talk about why it's a good idea to wear a maxi dress on a flight (unless you're a dude, because, even though I personally won't judge you for wearing a dress, there's a good chance there will be a redneck or a Christian on your flight, and then you'll either be flogged, talked badly about behind your back, or prayed for before you reach your destination).

I chose to wear a maxi dress because, duh, they're comfortable and also because they hide the fact that I've had more than my share of beer, margaritas, and cookies over the past couple of months. They also, apparently, are able to hide bombs or guns or whatever terrorists wearing last year's maxi dress can hide, or at least that's what the one-toothed former hooker/crackhead who felt me up...er, I mean patted me down (um, I just met you, can you at least take me to dinner first?) led me to believe.

I had to call my husband and tell him I might have unintentionally cheated on him, and then, because there was a lack of shower availability, I smoked a cigarette (or at least I thought about it) and congratulated myself on how awesome I am. That TSA worker will, obviously, never enjoy another bitch's pat-down quite as much as she enjoyed mine.

Next, let's talk about why it's never a good idea to fly on a public plane. The general public? It's full of kids. There's a very real chance you'll end up sitting next to one on the two hour (feels more like 10,000) flight to your destination.

It just so happens I ended up sitting next to the most obnoxious child in the world (seriously, I looked it up in Guinness Book of World Records, and there he was). It wasn't enough that the little fucker was all up in my grill the entire flight. He had to whine, scream, cry, and, during our final descent, pee his pants while sitting next to me. Normally, I judge the parent in cases like this (someday I'll tell you why I'm entitled to do this, remind me), but as far as I could tell, the only thing this poor lady did wrong was give birth to Satan.

Totally not her fault. Probably.

Anyway, I deboarded my plane, ran like a maniac through the airport (always fun in five-inch heels), and boarded my transfer just in time to take my seat next to some lady who had just smoked every last cigarette in the free world.

That bitch stunk like no one's business.

As if that weren't enough, before the plane took off, she started snapping her fingers, clapping her hands, and doing other crazy things that I swore I would never talk about again (the nightmares have just now stopped), probably caused by the fact that she hadn't had a cigarette in the last seven seconds.

Sitting next to an anxiety-ridden, phobic nicotine fiend who is going through withdrawals is, decidedly, not the most fun way to ride on a puddle-jumper in the midst of severe thunderstorms and turbulence. Perhaps they should rethink that whole no smoking on planes bit. Even I, the most anti-smoking bitch alive, needed a cigarette after that experience.

I settled for a semi-warm beer.

Pretty much I need a private plane to maintain my sanity when I fly. My husband is all for it, he just says I'm on my own to figure out how we can afford said plane.

If that no-talent asshole Soulja Boy can do it, then, theoretically, so can I.

Until then, pass the Xanax. Or Ecstasy, whatever, just give me something so I can happily drool my way home during the flight next week.

What this bitch has to say about that.

2011-08-11T05:27:00.000-07:00

I would like to take this time to address the following comment left on my latest heart-felt post:

Anonymous said...

I'm kinda worried about you.

You haven't used the self describing and pejorative "bitch" or "bitches" in quite some time.

HAVE YOU EVEN HAD A SIP OF ALCOHOL SINCE SCHOOL LET OUT?

What's next? A new wardrobe of prairie dresses you'll be wearing from now on?

Wuz up wit dat yo?

So, Mr./Mrs/Miss/Ms. Anonymous...do I know you? Because if so, and even if not, I'd like to buy you a fucking shot. But only if you tell me what pejorative means.

I haven't used the word "bitch" in quite some time because I've been hanging out/visiting with my mom, whom, despite my free-flowing use of the word, I can't quite bring myself to address in such manner. She'd probably start crying if I did and then, even worse, she'd start praying for me.

After I hung out with my mom, I hung out with my sister. I don't call her a bitch because I don't think she'd find it amusing. I do my best not to upset her, because she's mean and she owns lots of guns.

As for the alcohol, have you not seen the size of my ass lately? It's not that I wanted to give up margaritas and beer, it's that I wanted to be able to stay alive once I zipped up my pants. Seriously, a guy recently told me I looked "like Kirsti Alley, but better". I had on cowboy boots at the time and didn't kick his teeth in only because there were way too many witnesses around and I didn't feel like getting locked up just then.

So the drinking has to stop until I can successfully breath in my pants. Probably another few weeks.

And as for the prairie dresses, I can assure you that at some point in time, I will have one in every color. This will happen only when they're the hot item of the season, and, rest assured, I'll find some way to make it look slutty lest I be mistaken for a polygamist wife or, worse, a Christian.

And that's wuz up. And if you could please refrain from using the word "yo" ever again on my blog because it's worn out its welcome on the Internet, that would be fucking fantastic.

Thanks, bitch!

Wordless(ish) Wednesday--The Country vs The City

2011-08-10T05:20:00.000-07:00

Country commute (15 miles)

Sometimes, there is traffic

More traffic

City commute (five miles)

More traffic

The Real OC--and something different from me

2011-08-06T17:50:00.000-07:00

The truth about me is, I am a lot more sensitive than anyone knows. There are many layers to me, so many that sometimes I can't even figure myself out.

That being said, I wanted to share one of my favorite poems. It is a poem I had to memorize in high school, a poem that I inevitably recall when I am standing in the wide, open spaces of my hometown.

Take a moment to reflect on what this means to you, then enjoy the fabulosity of the country. All of the following pictures are taken in/around The Real OC (Oak City, UT, for those of you who think the OC I'm referring to is a county in CA).

The world stands out on either side

No wider than the heart is wide;

Above the world is stretched the sky,

No higher than the soul is high.

The heart can push the sea and land

Farther away on either hand;

The soul can split the sky in two,

And let the face of God shine through.

But East and West will pinch the heart

That can not keep them pushed apart;

And he whose soul is flat – the sky

Will cave in on him by and by.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)

I realize this poem is talking about our own personal schema with which we view the world, but being in the wide open country does make me realize how big this world is, how endless our possibilities are if we just recognize the potential out there...

Nesteled in the foothills of that beautiful mountain lies The Real OC, population 600.

Looking into town from the north

Looking into town from the west

Looking south from my parent's house

Random shot from a walk with my mom

Another shot from a walk with my mom

My parents' orchard

Main street (and my brother's dog, Vern, who only looks evil because of the lighting)

Looking North from my parent's house

Just east of my parents' house

This is where I run. I am told it is called Dutson Lane, though there are no signs to confirm this.

Looking down at the valley during my run

More looking down at the valley

More of my run

The farm I grew up on

The farm (looking east)

The farm (looking south toward town)

The farm (looking northwest)

The farm...my home. Always.

The pond on the farm

Next time you think you know me as some shallow city girl, think again. Next time you think I haven't found God just because I don't call myself Christian, think again. These are my roots, this is my home.

The day I got some Jesus energy

2011-08-01T05:53:00.000-07:00

Funny how something can be so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time.

Surprising us all, I decided to go to church with my mom Sunday morning.

Now, in case you didn't know, I did grow up Mormon. In fact, I was very Mormon until I was about 19. We won't talk about what happened after that. Suffice to say it's been 14 years since I've set foot inside a church.

For a while there, I didn't believe in Jesus at all. I thought those who did were...gullible. I mean, come on. Those are some stories right there.

Lately, I've been exploring my spirituality (don't laugh, I'm serious). And while I can't say I exactly believe in Jesus the way Christians do, I do believe that his is the kind of energy I'd like to accept in my life.

Don't worry, I'm not going to suddenly become Mormon again or start getting all religious. That just isn't me. (Plus, I like to cuss way too much and sometimes, or maybe most of the time, I have a hard time remembering to consider what would Jesus do in situation. Maybe if I had a bracelet or something to remind me....)

But what is me, or what I'm trying to make me, is that positive light and energy that spreads goodness through the world.

Stop laughing, I'm serious.

So this was the reasoning behind my going to church. Before we went, I asked my mom if it would be okay if I took the sacrament. In case you don't know, Mormons who have sinned are not supposed to take the sacrament until they have repented. Now, I consider myself neither Mormon nor sinner, but I still didn't know if I felt right offending the principals of the religion by taking the body/blood of Christ after has been blessed.

But let's be real. This is me we're talking about, and I do things my way. I took the sacrament, because, as I said before, I wanted that energy within me. I figured anyone who had a problem with it, because I don't think Jesus would, could take it up with me. No one did.

Once I got past the personification of God and Jesus, I found that the Mormon beliefs are a lot like my beliefs. (Um, seriously, is this the most you've ever laughed at one of my posts?) Praying is just a form of meditation, which I do daily, and singing in church is a lot like when I sing in the shower, except way more holy and a lot less hip-hop. And with more clothes, of course.

While I wouldn't go so far as to say it changed my life, I will say I now have a better understanding as to why people embrace religions as they do. There is a universal truth out there, and life is (or should be) finding out how that truth and light works for you.

Summer Vacatiom (Not sure which day, still in The Real OC) 2011

2011-07-29T17:45:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of failing on my intent to blog everyday while I'm on vacation this summer.

I'd like to say it's because I'm too busy, but that would mostly be a lie. Okay, it would all the way be a lie. I've been just too damn lazy.

I've taken more naps this week than all of last year combined.

I stumble out of bed in the morning all the way over to my brother's, where my morning coffee awaits. I then spend the next hour or so sitting outside by the creek, writing:

I have made some progress as far as the book goes...I've sent my baby out to 11 different agents, which means I'm now playing the waiting game. I suck at waiting. I suck hard. The standard waiting time is four to six weeks, and if I haven't gone crazy with anticipation by then, I'll call staying sane the biggest accomplishment of my life. Seriously.

Most agents don't respond at all if they're going to reject you, so that's fun. I get to wait to maybe not even hear back. Fuckers.

I did get my first rejection email yesterday morning, and I tried really, really hard not to get upset. I turned to some of my wisest friends, who reminded me that many people fail at many things, the point is to keep trying and have faith (which sounds a lot like a lesson I learned in church once, minus the cussing).

I felt sorry for myself for the better part of the day, but the miracle--and grossness-of birth distracted me late in the afternoon. My brother's dog had three puppies yesterday, and I was there to witness two of the births. Um, ewww.....

On the other hand, I forgot all about the rejection and am back in good spirits about my writing.

I'm also thinking my seeing the births was a sign I need to take one of the dogs home with me (well, I mean in, like, two months when they're weened), but I'm not sure I'm ready to have a pet. Pets are pretty much like kids, and we all know how I feel about responsibility.

So anyway, my time in the country has not been spent on the back of a horse, herding cattle, nor have I driven a tractor. I'm feeling a little too city here.

I'm going to go shoot something now to remind myself that I am, really, a country girl at heart.

P.S...said thing is probably going to be a can because I can't stand shooting animals. I wouldn't even kill a snail the other day, and when my brother got new piglets, I couldn't look at them because it made me sad to think one day I'd be eating them. I'm getting soft.

Days Two/Three Summer Vacation 2011

2011-07-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

After Sopko drove away on Sunday, dragging a remnant of the country with her, I was at a loss as to what to do with myself (I'm sure there's a good masturbation joke in here somewhere).

I wasn't at a loss very long.

My older brother informed me that my dad's new tractor was being delivered (kind of like a pizza, but way more expensive and without the assfat) and that he could use my help to unload it. We drove to town (because I guess even tractors won't veer off the main road far enough to come to The Real OC), pissed Mormon God off by purchasing a soda on Sunday, and headed out to the West Side Dairy (how gangster is that dairy farmer?) to unload the cargo:

Just in case you don't know, everyone is my family has an extreme aversion to John Deere. I have no idea why, except my dad bought a John Deere once and hated it, plus my brother-in-law is a farm equipment dealer and he says they suck (needless to say, I was banned from the house for a hot minute when John Deere trucker hats were trendy).

What was my point again? Oh yes, the new tractor. It's the blue one (Ford/New-Holland, in case you care).

My dad actually sold his farm about five years ago, but he still feels the need to buy a new tractor every year. He's like me with my shopping habits, except way more ballin'. His tractor habit puts my Coach habit to shame.

The new tractor was the highlight of Sunday, unless you count the fact that I ate way too many of my mom's rolls at Sunday dinner and am now officially in danger of being mistaken for a heifer.

Monday the only thing notable I did was run four miles, which I used to justify pure laziness for the rest of the day. Seriously, I did nothing for the rest of the day.

But that's the glory of summer vacation, because having nothing to do still beats the hell out of the alternative.

Day One of Summer Vacation 2011

2011-07-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

The actual moment of goodbye was a lot less dramatic than I had imagined.

(Let's just not talk about the weeks and days leading up to said goodbye.)

Early Sunday morning, Sopko drove away, out of my life, with a piece of straw hanging from her bumper. She messaged me this morning from Laramie, Wyoming (an eight hour drive away), to let me know the straw was still there.

That straw saved me from a meltdown. As she drove away, I didn't cry, but I laughed long and hard (TWSS) on how the straw got there.

After saying tearful goodbyes to Lisa (Sopko's twin) and Scott, we set out on our 10 hour drive to Utah, armed with gummy bears and the complete ten-disk collection of "Greatest Love Songs of the 80's".

We pulled into The Real OC after a drive that seemed more like two than ten hours, stayed long enough to eat the home-cooked meal my mom had waiting, then headed out to Scipio rodeo:

I had never been to the Scipio fairgrounds and was a little worried we wouldn't be able to find it, but, having grown up in a town with a population of roughly 600 people, I should have known better. All we had to do was look right when we entered town, and there was the rodeo. We pulled in to the parking lot, which is where the straw came from:

When I first met Sopko, she told me she was from a small town in Indiana. (For her, and many city folk, a small town meant 30,000 people. For me, and other country folk, a small town means less than 90 people) I assumed she was a country girl like me. But as we walked into the rodeo, she told me it was her first.

We walked into the arena, looking for seats, and I swear, the music stopped.

Everyone was looking at us, which is what happens when there are newcomers in town. (Maybe the fact that I was rocking some Gucci and she Armani made us stand out a little...)

We settled in, and, while I was excited because it's been a couple of years since I've been to a rodeo, Sopko was traumatized when the calf-roping began. The calves bawl when they are roped, and the animal lover in Sopko couldn't quite handle that.

She thought a rodeo consisted of cowboys running around on horses and nothing more.

We stayed long enough to watch my brother, Girl, ride saddle bronc:

Tired, we planned on leaving after that, but that was when Sopko spotted the world's hottest cowboy. We devised a plan for her to fall off the bleachers so he could come to her rescue, but in the end, we decided that, hot as he was, he wasn't worth a broken neck.

I don't know if she'll go back to the rodeo anytime soon. She's not as country as I thought. Actually, she's not really country at all, but she's still awesome as fuck, and she can rock the cowboy boots better than any actual country girl I've seen, myself included.

We headed back to The Real OC, where, rather than stay up all night talking, as I had thought we would since it was the last night we'll see each other for a long time, we both fell immediately asleep.

We woke up in the morning, and she stayed long enough to eat a home-made cinnamon roll and drink a cup of coffee, then she headed off toward her new life.

Maybe it's because I'm not in San Diego right now and I haven't fully digested what her leaving means to me, but I haven't really cried too much over this.

I do, however, still have the rodeo stamp on my hand:

I swear my not washing it off is to serve as a reminder of the last night I spent with my BFF, and NOT because I'm on summer break and don't plan on showering anytime soon.

The time I said something mean...as though there was just the one time.

2011-07-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

I said something this morning that has put some serious guilt in my heart today.

I was in the weight room at the gym, and in strutted a guy with nice biceps, tattoos...and serious booty shorts.

Now I get that there are certain men who wear short shorts...namely runners and/or men over 50, but this guy was neither of those.

The snarky comment I made to a friend about said shorts was totally justified in my head.

It was also a lot quieter in my head, because the guy did one set of pull-ups, then left.'

I'm assuming he went home to cry.

I ruined his day with an asshole comment that was completely unnecessary.

I really do try to be nice most of the time, and the only time I ever say something mean is if someone has been a dick to me or someone else.

(Or if they're wearing sunglasses indoors, because that is my pet peeve number one and I cannot be expected not to say something about that. And maybe that's not the only thing on the list of things I can't stay quiet about, but I digress...)

This guy did nothing to me except show a little too much leg first thing in the morning.

To cancel out the bad Karma, I sought out a random girl and gave her a compliment.

When I reported the compliment to the friend I'd made the rude comment to, he asked if I'd given the compliment on purpose. Yes, I had. Then he asked if I'd cussed immediately afterward or felt like I needed to shower.

So maybe people have the wrong idea about me...

Or maybe I'm really an asshole after all, but it totally doesn't count as long as I'm not being that way on purpose, right?

Riiight?

Fashion Friday

2011-07-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

In six days, I will say goodbye to another school year, a great group of eighth graders, and several co-workers that I have seen every day for the past seven years. In eight days, I will head out for a road trip to Utah with my Sopko. In nine days, I will say goodbye to her.

I'm having some severe issues with the passing of time right now. I've never not wanted summer break to start. But I don't want this school year to ever end. I don't want to say goodbye.

To any of it, but especially not this bitch:

I will miss coming to work, discovering that we have unknowingly dressed alike. I will miss the students accidentally calling me by her name, partly because, duh, she's smoking hot, but mostly because that bitch is a size 2 (or 0 on a good day), and HELL YES do I like being mistaken for that.

I will miss our long talks, our shopping trips, our beaching drink fests. Our ability to do absolutely nothing and still have the best time because we're together.

Everyone is asking me what I'm going to do without her.

I don't know.

But I do know that she can never, will never be replaced.

I hope she is miserable in Indiana so she'll come back.

I'm selfish like that, which is not news to anyone.

Happy Friday!

Once a cluster...

2011-07-11T13:02:00.000-07:00

Just in case anyone is wondering? I'm still a cluster.

My bills are all paid on time now, and I thought I was a grown-up, but it took the bouncer at a bar to point out the fact that my diver's license is expired. It has been for over a month. My stupid ass had no clue.

A hardcore day of drinking saved my life, or a least my summer travel plans.

I hate to think what would have happened if I'd showed up at the airport and tried to pass security with an expired license. Because, you know, being stuck all summer in San Diego with nothing to do but go to the beach sure would suck.

The thing is, I can't believe I missed that. I pride myself on being responsible and grown-up now. I don't throw away my bills anymore, I pay them on time. Mostly.

I always answer my phone when I don't know the number, because I'm not afraid of collectors (or ex-boyfriends, for that matter) calling me.

I hardly ever drink before noon anymore (unless it's a weekend and/or holiday, but that totally doesn't count).

I guess up to this point, I've only been pretending to be a real adult.

In actuality, I'm not quite there yet.

And actually? That is totally fine by me.

Fashion Friday

2011-07-08T11:08:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I love to shop. I have a giant closet full of clothes...and nothing to wear.

I've thought long and hard (haha, I just said long and hard) about my shopping habits, and I believe it's because I never had the opportunity when I was young.

I am the youngest of three girls, so my older sisters got all the new clothes, I got the leftovers. My farmer dad didn't care how much I wanted new clothes; he thought the hand-me-downs were just fine and didn't see a need to waste money on new clothes just because I wanted them.

The fashionista side of me was very stifled when I was a kid, hence my overcompensation of buying clothes as an adult.

So I'm left wondering, what the hell is this little diva going to be like when she grows up?

Look at that pose. She's either going to need designer everything by the time she's 16....or she's not going to care about clothes at all.

I'll let you know in a few years...

Happy Friday!

The parody of me

2011-07-07T05:23:00.000-07:00

This year, for the first time in recorded history, I remember my Fourth of July. Mostly.

Probably this is because I didn't drink (taking four jello shots doesn't count as drinking, right?).

We had a party at our house, during which I was coherent enough to make sure the neighbor kids didn't eat Popsicles on my sofa or, you know, do anything destructive--like breathe-- while in my house.

I also stayed sober enough to clean up after the party before I went to bed, which meant I went to bed just after midnight and woke up feeling way more hungover than necessary (four and a half hours of sleep will do that to you).

I'm still recovering from my "sober" Fourth.

The other thing is, someone, sometime during that day, did this on my front sidewalk, just a few feet from the front door:

Now, without knowing who the artist was or exactly what/who is meant to be depicted in this picture, I am just going to go ahead and assume that this is supposed to be me. The curves, dress, and boots (if you read that as "boobs" that's okay, too) are all spot on, but I only wish my hair had that kind of volume.

I am also a lot shorter in real life.

And, um, my waist is way smaller, at least in proportion to my chest and hips.

Nonetheless, I feel as though the anonymous artist (none of my friends are fessing up) did a pretty kick-ass job of capturing the essence of me. The only thing missing is my bitch attitude, which is fine, since whoever sees this drawing will no doubt enter my house soon after and experience me firsthand, anyway.

I am now officially the immortal guardian of this house. At least until it rains and/or the sprinklers turn on.

Wordless(ish) Wednesday

2011-06-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

I don't know the qualifications for getting a handicapped sticker, but I have to assume being able to use a ladder isn't one of them...

WTS?

Bittersweet

2011-06-22T05:06:00.000-07:00

There are approximately 20 days standing between me and the last day of school.

Summer break: six weeks of nothing to answer to except the sun.

A bit of Nirvana, if you will.

Normally, I am beyond excited about this.

With the end of the school year comes...the end of the school year. A joy from youth that my profession allows me to experience year after year.

This year, though, it will be hard to say goodbye. I will say goodbye to students who have been in my math class for three years. They are all exceptional in their own way. I don't like to think about them moving on, even though it's time. I foresee a lot of tears on graduation day.

Also this year, I will say goodbye to one of my best friends in the whole world.

Sopko is moving away. She is leaving San Diego for a little place called Hobart, Indiana. If you're wondering what the hell is in Hobart, don't worry, so is everyone who has ever been to or heard of Hobart, Indiana.

Obviously Sopko got issues.

Regardless, of her Crazy, I don't know what I'll do without her.

For the past seven years, she has been my constant shopping, drinking, and beaching buddy. Along with the good times, we have had some terrible arguments, some that lasted for months where we didn't speak at all (which is, BTW, completely awkward when you have to work with someone closely and see them every day). But through it all, we've emerged as strong, great friends. That bitch is like a sister to me.

And now she's leaving.

She'll be in another state just like my real sisters.

I want to hate her for it, but instead am gobbling up every second of her time that I can.

I don't know what I want more: the days to last forever or summer vacation to begin.

And I guess if the biggest problem in my life is learning how to enjoy every second of the day for now, I am lucky. No matter how much I want to feel sorry for myself.

Dad

2011-06-19T10:45:00.000-07:00

His way of saying "Let's spend time together" is him waking me up at 5 am and saying "I guess you can come to work with me today. I could use the help."

When I call him, he always answers with "now what do you want?"

I always reply with "a million dollars."

It's our thing.

A farmer to the very core, he has never been one to show much emotion. But he has a big heart. Most people don't see it, but he is very giving and would do anything for someone in need.

I've seen him walk through fire, save someone's life, and stand up for what he believes, even if it makes him the most hated man in town. He is strong.

His idea of teaching us values was to wake us up at 5 a.m. every morning during our summer break and make us do farm work. If we broke something, we had to learn how to fix it. If we wanted something, we had to work to earn it. If we didn't appreciate something, he took it away.

He made us strong, too.

He taught us the value of a dollar, the joy in fishing, and the importance of knowing how to operate big machinery...all before the age of 10.

He sold his farm to "retire", only to lease another farm which requires even more work on his part. He doesn't know how to relax; it's not in his blood. He will work the land to the end, and even then, he'll probably still be itching to put up one more crop.

He shows his love by teasing, so when it came time for him to walk me down the aisle, I told him "don't say anything nice to me, it'll make me cry." He didn't say anything, and I made it through the day without my mascara running.

He has told me a few times he's proud of me and the choices I've made, even though he thinks I'm crazy for living in the city. Even though he doesn't necessarily agree with the lifestyle I've chosen.

He has been tough on me, sometimes excessively so. But without him pushing, I wouldn't have been this strong, wouldn't have accomplished what I have.

I am forever grateful that my dad is my dad.

Fashion Friday: A closet in crisis

2011-06-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

It's a good thing husband wasn't home when the third (okay, fourth) package from Internet shopping arrived this week. While on the outside I've agreed to shop less, appreciate what I have more, there is a part inside me that will just never completely give it up.

In some cases, I can't be blamed. Like when Sopko had on the cutest shoes the other day, and they happened to be on sale for super cheap with free shipping, which is a deal that you should just never pass up. Plus, they reminded me of shoes I had when I was 20 and made me feel nostalgic. I really had to buy them:

The problem is, I have absolutely zero room in my closet for new shoes. And, while there are three other empty closets I could put them in, I feel as though that might be the "excessive" thing husband is talking about.

Therefore, I must sacrifice a pair of shoes I don't wear often (or ever) but hang on to for various reasons. Here are the choices:

Choice 1: These shoes are half a size too big and only reasonably comfortable, but I can't bear the thought of getting rid of them. They remind me of the time I was visiting my sister and wanted to shoot myself because she's crazy and does things like drive to three different stores in three different cities to find them in the right(ish) size for me.

Choice 2: I have no idea from whence they hail. Some random purchase, I guess. I only recall wearing them once or twice, but they seem to be the best fit for at least two of my sundresses and, therefore, do I want to get rid of them for the once or twice a year I wear one of those dresses?

Choice 3: Also no clue where the hell these shoes came from, but they are comfy and casual. I don't remember the last time I wore them--if I've ever worn them--but in theory, they'd brighten up an otherwise drab outfit.

So, um, if you could all vote for which shoe I need to ditch, that would be fantastic. If you could also think of ways to convince my husband that I'm always going to need to have a decent shopping budget (a nice, logical reason, because apparently "I need them to feel pretty" isn't good enough), that would also be wonderful. I'm losing this battle. Worse, I might slightly agree with him that there is no real purpose to shopping.

Parts of me want to tell him to shut it, but parts of me are also wondering if he doesn't have a point...

Regardless, Happy Friday!

Just asking

2011-06-15T19:50:00.000-07:00

Did anyone reading this blog find it by Googling "checking to see if I have a penis"? Because if so, you are not the first.

Someone actually found my blog by googling those exact words.

I am at a loss for words.

For once.

A house is a purse is a horse is a...what? No, that analogy doesn't work at all.

2011-06-15T07:22:00.000-07:00

It started with me saying we should really sit down and look at our finances, see how much money we can save each month, see how much faster we can pay off our house.

It ended with me in tears.

I had another comeuppance talk with Scott.

It was innocent enough, really, the idea of us finally combining our finances, over five years after we bought our first home together. Plus, we are married now, and married people share things.

Turns out? I don't like sharing. I don't like it at all.

Almost three weeks to the day after I turned 18, my dad and I got into a huge fight and I moved out on my own. That was 15 years ago, and since then, I've had no one to answer to but myself. (Well, that's not entirely true given the amount of credit card debt I racked up in my early 20's. I had a lot of creditors to answer to back in the day.) I've come a long way since then, worked my ass off for years, and, once the initial shock of going from being a renter to a home-owner wore off, I've pretty much been able to have whatever I wanted.

Until now. Now that Scott and I are joining forces in order to make our dreams of retiring before the age of 50 a reality, my spending is open to his scrutiny.

I had put myself on a budget a while back. I did a good job of sticking to said budget. (Okay, not really, but the important thing is, I never spent more than I had, so I figure that counts.) I doesn't count anymore.

Now, I have to actually stick to the budget that was MY IDEA. We set the final numbers on how much "frivolous spending money" I could have each month, and then I realized what the hell I was doing. I back-tracked and told Scott I should be able to have his half of the "frivolous spending money" because, in addition to his regular pay check which is much, much larger than mine, he also gets a monthly bonus, which I generously decided to let him keep.

It's therefore only fair that I should get the fun money out of our budget.

He told me no way. As we sat there at the dining room table, he gestured at the new Coach bag, the three packages that had arrived in the mail for me that day, and the shoes that I was trying to figure out where to store (all new purchases this week) and dared to tell me my clothes, shoes and purses habit is excessive.

He told me I don't need any new purses, and what is a purse, really? Something to put things into. He told me I have the biggest purse of all: a house.

I told him his analogy sucked.

But I didn't disagree with what he was saying about my shopping being excessive.

I told him I'd work on it.

And I will.

But I don't have to like it.

Any Given Weekend

2011-06-11T14:30:00.000-07:00

My purpose this weekend was to finish this round of edits and send them off to my editor so we could move on to the next round.

So far,though, my Saturday has consisted of everything but that. Today, I have: worked out, had a long financial discussion with my husband (yawn), an had even longer discussion on why the "mancave" should become my office (so far it's not working, I need more ammo for this one), rearranged the furniture in both our guest rooms (yes, we have two!), dusted every piece of furniture in this house, and drank two beers.

This all happened before noon.

At approximately 1:12 PM, we ran out of beer.

At 1:15 PM, I made Scott drive to the liquor store to get some more.

It's now 2:18 PM, and I'm sitting in the hallway with my feet up on the stairs, trying to decide if I want to tackle the room that's about to become my office (you know, as long as Scott's 'the mancave is staying and thatts final' statement holds strong). It (my office and/or the mancave) needs puttied, taped, and a bunch of other crap before it becomes an official office. Crap I don't want to do, but crap that my husband says we can do ourselves, so we're not paying anyone else to do it, FOR THE LAST TIME (refer to previous financial discussion).

My husband can be such a buzz kill.

So are my friends, who are all MIA. I've been trying to find someone to come pick me up and drive me around to go shopping, but so far, no cigar. Everyone is already doing something (or someone) else.

I'll be forced to clean my office and sober up.

Not at all how I want to spend my Saturday. Or any other day of the week, for that matter.

Um, anyone wanna go shopping? I just need a ride...

Fashion Friday

2011-06-10T04:54:00.000-07:00

In the past, I have not been great at admitting failure at anything. I was too afraid of people judging me to admit I was anything less than perfect. I realize this may seem ridiculous, given the attitude I currently walk around with, but the truth is, I used to care what people thought about me. I cared a lot. I used to be a giant doormat because of it.

I'm not a doormat anymore. I don't base how I feel about myself on the opinion of others. In fact, I firmly believe in the saying "what you think of me is not my business". It's not, really.

Which is why now I'll put out there that my reaching out to someone, anyone, to help me with Fashion Friday? BIG FAT FAIL. Not one response.

I don't love or hate myself any more because of it.

But guess what?

It means you get a double dose of me today. (Here's the part where you cheer wildly, because it's obviously what you wanted, anyway).

Today's outfit is, I believe, the last of the photos I had stockpiled for Fashion Friday. When next Friday rolls around, you'll either see something mediocre, a repeat, or nothing at all.

Lucky for me, though, I'm going out with a bang. This is one of my favorite outfits for Spring, as it is easily layered and looks good either with a cardigan (for work) or without a cardigan (for recovering from work, AKA Happy Hour):

The dress is from Macy's, the boots from Endless.com, and the cardigan is from...actually, I have no idea where the cardigan is from. Like you care, anyway.

Happy Friday!

Pimp your stilo

2011-06-07T09:05:00.000-07:00

If you know anything about me, you'll know that I'm pure, 100%, 33 years of selfishness. I've had only myself to answer to for a very, very long time. Even when I was young and still living at home, I was very independent. My parents generally left me alone to do my own thing because I was a "good kid" (don't laugh, it's true) and they said they didn't have to worry about what I was up to. Hence, my egocentricism was born.

My life has revolved around me and only me (and sometimes my husband) for a long time.

At some point in the future, that will change. Universe willing, I will have kids soon and life will not be all about me anymore. Theoretically, anyway.

That being said, I'm also...getting tired of me. Specifically, I'm struggling to come up with new/different content for Fashion Friday and my blog in general.

Which is where you all come in.

This idea has been festering in my head for some time now and was solidified this morning when Cat tagged me in a Fashion Friday (even though it's Tuesday) picture on Facebook.

It made me realize that I don't want it to be about me anymore. I have a certain stilo (style), but I do not claim to be a fashion guru. My "Fashion Friday" is nothing more than a desire to share looks I like and, occasionally, looks I don't like. I even posted a picture of my underwear once.

But I don't want it to be just about me anymore. I have to start learning to share things, and this, a very small step in the grand scheme of My Life, is the perfect way to start.

So. Who wants to be on Fashion Friday??? It can be something you love to wear, something you wear for a purpose (advertising your company, perhaps?), or something you want to make fun of. All I need is a picture. You can add words if you so desire, or I will write them for you. Guys, I'm looking your way, too. I need variety.

In case you're wondering, sometimes there's the random troll out there who will leave a rude comment, but, trust me, I will protect you at all costs. I can be mean as shit when I need to be, so don't worry about putting yourself out there. I got your backs.

I'm open to anything, and I NEED, NEED, NEED some new fodder.

Pretty please (look, I'm asking nicely, which never happens. You should totally be flattered enough to hook this bitch up) email me: kelthekel@gmail.com

Being a year older feels...hazy.

2011-06-06T09:26:00.000-07:00

This morning, I realized after mile three and an over-whelming desire to puke, is the first time in over a week I have been stone-cold sober.

A sign of a good week passed, that.

It's not that I am fighting the passing of another year by drinking my face off, it's that I am fighting the boring routine of life by drinking my face off.

My pants are now screaming at the seams.

Probably it's time for a new hobby.

I recognize that, which is why I went into the weekend determined to run a few miles and eat healthy snacks.

I realized, at 4 o' clock on Friday, while I was sitting at the bar, downing my third IPA, that some things are better in theory than real life.

In my defense, Saturday's beer-infused haze is not really my fault. Scott's BFF was having a back-yard party with a band, and it's just not okay to show up to these things sober. I popped my first beer just after noon.

Yesterday, I donned my painting overalls, grabbed a paint brush and a Karl Strauss and set to work on one of the guest rooms.

I don't remember much after that.

So far, the age of 33 has been a smashing good time.

My tight pants may not agree.

But fuck them. Pants are totally replaceable, care-free youth is not.

Fashion Friday

2011-06-03T09:17:00.000-07:00

The thing I love most about any random Friday, beside the simple fact that it's Friday (duh), is that it is the only day I'm allowed to wear jeans at work. (It's the only day I'm allowed, not necessarily the only day I do). Now, I'm supposed to wear a school spirit shirt along with the jeans, but I just can't bring myself to wear regular, boxy and t-shirts. Not my thang. And there's only so many times a month I can wear my "Wilson Tigers Cheerleading" fitted shirt.

Therefore, most Fridays, I end up wearing something to this affect:

This is my birthday outfit, courtesy of my older sister, which, so far, are the only clothes I have received for my birthday. I say so far, because as a birthday present, Scott let me go on a shopping spree last weekend.

Only I couldn't find anything I liked. Coach store? No go. Nordstrom? No go. Internet? I don't know, I got distracted by Facebook.

The point is, I'm losing it. I had the opportunity to buy whatever I wanted...and I failed.

Rest assured, the money is still earmarked for me to use whenever I so desire.

>My husband rules. I get exactly what I want for my birthday (even though I don't know what that is), but HE thanked ME for making my birthday easy for him.

That's true love right there.

Happy Friday!

33 at 33: Stuff I know

2011-06-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

I just turned another year older. The jury is still out on whether or not I'm wiser. Nonetheless, here are some beliefs I have that I would like to share with you:

1. It's okay to judge people for not knowing which homophone to use, but it's not okay to judge them for the rest of their spelling. Spelling is not a skill, it is rote memorization. It is also not my strong point.

2. No one is too pretty to do math (Sarah, I'm looking at you, bitch!).

3. After the age of 27, it is utterly impossible to go to work after clubbing all night.

4. Tequila, whiskey, and/or beer fix just about everything.

5. Duct tape fixes everything else.

6. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but sometimes, finding your inner honey is just too damn hard.

7. It's okay to go after what you want, even when others tell you you're being ridiculous.

8. Feeling good looks good.

9. Adulthood blows.

10. If it doesn't feel right, it's probably not.

11. Knowing when to walk away is not as easy as Kenny Rogers made it sound.

12. If you handle every thing in your house just one time, it stays clean and you can spend your weekends doing irresponsible things instead of cleaning.

13. Having a job you love is important.

14. Your dreams and aspirations can change, and that's okay.

15. Sometimes it's okay to eat cake for dinner. Sometimes it's okay to do that every night as long as your pants still fit.

16. Women + Shopping= Necessary (get over it, men).

17. Family is important. And crazy.

18. What you put out there is what you get back.

19. You should never be mean. (Unless you're PMSing, and then anything flies.)

20. Always read between the lines.

21. Life is a lot less sucky if you know how to laugh.

22. Nothing gives anyone the right to be an asshole (see also: #19).

23. True character emerges in the face of adversity.

24. Facebook chat status is better left "offline".

25. Just because you're having a bad day, everyone around you doesn't have to have one, too. Get over it already.

26. God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy.

27. The hangovers hurt more than they used to.

28. Most things in life can be explained by a country song.

29. The above statement became true only after the release of "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk".

30. On holidays and some (read: most) weekends, it's okay to start drinking before noon.

31. Wherever you go, there you are.

32. Ignoring your problems doesn't make them go away; ignoring people does.

33. Life is what you make it. Learn from your mistakes, and never fail to point out the mistakes of others. Just kidding (see also: #19)

Wordless Wednesday

2011-06-01T04:58:00.000-07:00

Where my heart is...(the place, not my little brother. That would be gross).

.

Head up High (This is not a euphemism for drugs)

2011-05-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

My birthday is in two days.

Remember when you were a kid and that was exciting? Does anyone else not get excited anymore, or is that just me?

I've been dreading birthdays ever since I passed the age of 28. Somewhere along the way, I stopped telling people my age.

My name is Kelli, and I'm an ageist.

But why?

What did age ever do to me?

All it has done is give me wisdom and a slower metabolism, but I am in fantastic shape, and life has taught me a lot. Obviously.

Maybe age isn't so bad.

Maybe I'll share my age now.

This year, I turn 33.

The significance in this, for me, is that the number three is my lucky number.

I never used to have a lucky number, not until I began this journey of Actually Publishing My Book. So many things are happening in threes around me, I'd be remiss not to have noticed.

My lucky number has thereby been born.

And I don't feel the least bit hesitant about revealing my age.

This year, at the age of 33, I get a double dose of the threes. To me, it is a symbol that this will be my best year yet, the year some of my biggest dreams will come true.

It feels amazing.

Fashion Friday

2011-05-26T20:33:00.000-07:00

Scott and I have lived in our new house for a little over a year now.

Just recently, I reorganized our closet so that he could share it with me. This was not so much me being selfless as me being sick of the guest room (which is where his clothes lived) looking like a disaster zone. Now all his clothes are in our bedroom under my close supervision. They are all organized according to color. They are all hanging on white hangers.

And it WILL stay that way, husband.

The point is, I have so many clothes that I had to divide them into four seasons, and I had to park fall and winter in one of the other closets in the house.

This is the possible cause of my recent clothing crisis, in which I discovered I have nothing to wear.

To recap, this is one side of the closet (all mine):

this is the other side (mostly mine, you just can't see his stuff in this picture):

And yet, defying all laws of nature (except Murphy's), I still have nothing to wear.

Perhaps this is due to the realization that maybe I should stop purchasing such trendy clothes and start trying to look like a grown-up.

I realized this when my mini-me, who is 15 and has every inch of attitude I do, spent the night and needed something to wear to school one day. I dressed her head-to-toe in my clothes/shoes:

And realized that maybe the fact that a high-schooler rocks my clothes better than I do, it might be time for a change.

I said might, guys. Might be time for a change.

We shall see.

Happy Friday!

Wordless(ish) Wednesday

2011-05-25T08:19:00.000-07:00

This is how they get you:

I am soft right now. Is this the rapture they were talking about?

2011-05-22T07:33:00.000-07:00

My initial reaction was to cry.

I'm not a crier, but there the tears were, anyway.

I wasn't crying because I was sad.

I was crying because I was good enough.

She (the editor) said the book is good. She said I'm a good writer. (She also said I need to tone down the language, but what the fuck does she know, anyway?)

We started talking about publishing, and my eyes filled with tears.

Here is a dream I have had for a long time. A dream that, for years, I was too scared to share with anyone. A dream that I finally dared to act upon.

A dream that is happening.

I put myself out there, naked (not literally, duh, but metaphorically), vulnerable to be rejected. To be told that it wasn't going to happen. I was so scared that my dreams were going to be crushed. I was scared I had exposed the deepest part of myself for something that wouldn't come to pass.

But it is.

This is huge. I am proud, excited, and no longer scared.

I am making my dream happen, and, fuck yes, I am going to cry about it because it is a big deal.

Fashion Friday

2011-05-19T18:38:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, I wouldn't argue with God. Or, as I like to call Her, The Universe.

I try to pay attention to signs and adjust my behavior accordingly.

Except, you know, occasionally (or maybe most of the time), I don't listen, and sometimes, it's for the greater good. Take these boots, for example, which I bought after ignoring signs that I shouldn't:

They are perfect for pairing with Spring dresses, jeans or just, you know, NOTHING when you're home alone (I literally mean nothing) because they are that awesome.

The lesson to be learned here is that sometimes, you have to say "fuck it" to all logic and reason and do what you want, anyway.

And by sometimes, I pretty much mean all the time, because that summarizes the essence of "me".

Maybe I won't be ascending to heaven tomorrow with the "righteous", but I'll be wearing my cute boots, so I feel totally okay with that.

Happy Friday!

Pop Quiz

2011-05-18T12:02:00.000-07:00

True or False: Husband gets credit for making the bed this morning:

Hold me, I'm scared.

2011-05-17T13:45:00.000-07:00

I have a secret. A big secret.

Before I tell you what it is, I'm going to go ahead and assume you're thinking I'm pregnant, because every time I say anything remotely vague on Facebook about being excited or sick or bored or anything about anything, everyone immediately assumes I'm knocked up. The pregnancy jokes and comments just come pouring in.

It's like now that I'm married, the only thing anyone expects of me is to pop out kids.

There are other things in life, you know.

But the thing is, I do have a baby. It's just not that kind of baby.

I debated for a long time whether or not to make this public, because the truth is, I'm scared to make this official. Once people know, it's out there, and I can't make excuses anymore as to why I'm not moving forward.

Want me to get to the point already?

Too bad. I never do things just because someone else wants me to.

Going back to the baby thing...it was born a little over a year ago, and I have nursed it into full-grown adulthood (okay, maybe just adolescence) every morning since. I have been hesitant to show anyone my baby, because I honestly don't know if I could handle any negative feedback (insert vulnerability).

I have reached a point, however, where bringing this into light is the only way to progress, so here goes....

I wrote a book. A 500+ page novel. I am not going to tell you the story, because you'll have to wait for that, but what I will tell you is that it sprung from a dream I had and has been developing ever since. Also? It is NOT a romance novel (I feel the need to clarify this, because it's always the first thing people ask).

People also ask if it's the next Twilight series. I fucking hope so (my book is not about vampires, though), because that kind of success would be awesome.

For now, my baby, the book I have poured over every morning between the hours of 4 and 6 AM, is in the hands of...an editor.

She is going to rip it apart.

I know that, and I'm trying to brace myself for it. This is part of the process.

It is the first step...putting it out there.

I hit send on the email last night, knowing there was no turning back once it was in her hands. I have alternated between wanting to puke (again, this is NOT due to pregnancy) and wanting to scream at the top of my lungs that I am taking steps into making a dream come true.

This is going to be hard, I know it is. I am determined, though, to see this through and make it happen.

Hey, I've announced it to the world, so there's no turning back now, right? Defeat is not an option.

Graber

2011-05-16T09:36:00.001-07:00

That bitch Graber moved to Omaha. (I know, right?)

We met up for drinks on the beach 10 days ago (well, Sopko and I did. Graber is eleventy months preggars and couldn't partake). We said goodbye on the boardwalk.

I cried, surprising everyone. I'm not a crier, not in my own home and definitely not in a public place. Most people think I don't have feelings.

But I do, and I expressed them, and it was okay, because it was sad.

I met Graber almost eight years ago, the day I stepped foot onto the campus of WMS. She was the resident expert on all things speech and language, and I was the resident expert on all things tequila. We became fast friends.

Graber became a regular hiking/stepping/walking buddy. We would go on long walks at least once a week where we would talk about everything girls talk about (read: gossip).

Then she had to go and get hitched to a Navy officer, who got transferred to Nebraska. They bought a house by a cornfield and got pregnant, because I guess that's what you do in Nebraska.

The thing I will miss the most about Graber is how she would always tell it to me straight. She was not one to mince words, even if it wasn't what I wanted to hear. (Coincidentally, this is also the thing I miss the least about Graber).

She has not been gone long, but the void she left is big. She was my responsible friend, the one who started planning her wedding the day she got engaged (I didn't start planning mine...well, ever. My sister did it all for me). She changed her name at the DMV right away (yeah, don't ask me about that, either). She had return address labels made for her new address in Omaha before she even moved (I still have mail sent to the house I lived in a year ago).

Who will I turn to for guidance? Who will I ask to pray for me (she's fiercely Catholic and I'm almost positive she has a direct line to God)?

And, most importantly, who will walk the lake with me and tell me all the things I don't want to hear but need, anyway?

Graber, I miss you, bitch. Troy (husband of Graber), you are dead to me until you bring her back.

Fashion Friday

2011-05-13T14:11:00.000-07:00

Is there anyone out there who doesn't complain about the price of gas and want to cry every time you fill up your tank?

If you're raising your hand right now, please stay there and I'll come kick you in the face because you're crazy and you deserve it. Also, SHUT THE HELL UP, because you're a liar. We all hate the price of gas.

Are you doing anything about the price of gas other than bending over and taking it every time you pull up to the pump?

I am.

A couple of years ago, I decided that I would rather buy clothes than gas. This was when gas was hovering around $3/gallon. (The good old days.)

So I bought a scooter and decided I'd drive that or ride my bike to work. It didn't matter whether I rode my bike, scooter, or car to school, because I had to take side streets and it 25 minutes any way you sliced it.

But then I moved, and the convenience of my car on the freeway turned my commute into slightly under six minutes each way.

If I ride my bike or scooter, it takes 25 minutes.

Obviously I never ride my bike or scooter.

Or, I didn't until I had to pay $4.89 for gas the other day.

Fuck that. I refuse.

So I decided to start riding my bike again. I kind of gave up on the scooter, because, let's face it, people are jackholes and don't see things that aren't cars. At least with a bike, I can hop up on the sidewalk and scare pedestrians, while on the scooter, I can't do anything except get scared every time there is a near miss with a car.

My new morning routine is to ride to the gym (3 miles up hill), knock out a couple of miles on the treadmill and lift some weights, then ride to work (about 9 miles):

The new workout is killer, and, after two days, I've already lost a dress size.

(Okay, total lie, but now you're thinking about biking to work now, riiiight?)

It's bike month. Next week is bike to work week.

Are you biking to work for the week, and if not, WHY NOT? (Because I personally blame you for the high demand--and therefore high cost--of gas.)

I know not everyone is lucky enough to live close to work, or there are other factors that prevent biking to work, but, for bike week, can you please consider at least making an effort to cut back on gas where you can?

And if you can't or won't cut back on gas, can you please make an effort to share the road with those of us on two wheels? It's scary as shit riding on the side of the road. This morning, I came in very close contact with a Range Rover, Lexus, and Garbage truck. I have concluded that all drivers are assholes.

Lesson? Don't be an asshole. Share the road.

Happy Friday!

Fashion Friday

2011-05-06T05:16:00.000-07:00

In a recent conversation with Sarah, she told me she is not a friend who will "blow glitter up my ass". Rather, she is a friend who will tell me what she really thinks. This makes her my top go-to friends when I need advice.

I believe a lot of people tell you only what they think you want to hear. I'm not delicate or sensitive, and most of the time, I want to hear the truth. Unless, of course, I don't agree with the "truth". Then I'll tell you to shut it and figure it the fuck out. Because I, obviously, am always right. Usually. Sometimes. Rarely...

Which brings me to this week's Fashion Friday. Yesterday, I wore an outfit that looked straight out of 1987. I received comments that may or may not have been compliments.

You know what I'm talking about...those comments that are "Oh! You got your hair cut!" which are not followed by a positive statement. In my experience (because I, too, have done this), this is a girl's passive-aggressive way of acknowledgement without compliment. Which means she thinks your new haircut is fugs.

So this is where you come in. See, I wore this outfit yesterday, and, while I think it's cute, I think that may be the problem. I'm in my 30's, maybe it's time I stop trying to pull off "cute". Maybe I'm too old to partake in some trends.

I'm counting on you all to tell me the honest truth: am I too old to wear this? (Also, sorry for the fuzzy picture, but you get the main idea):

Hair accessory:

Also, me asking you to be honest is not me asking you to be mean.

You stay classy.

Happy Friday.

Spring Break 2011, Leg 1

2011-05-02T19:28:00.000-07:00

The day my plane touched down into Utah, the snow began.

It was the first week of April, and the snow continued for three days.

Having recently been struggling with bouts of homesickness, I straightened the fuck out and remembered why I left in the first place.

I don't do snow and/or cold weather.

I had no idea that was what I was coming into. I hadn't even packed a jacket, because cardigans and boots were supposed to be appropriate attire, it (allegedly)being spring.

I cuddled up on the couch for three days with my Sarah, several layers of blankets, and my weight in wine. We watched horrible movies and ate all three meals a day based entirely around chocolate.

Oh, yeah, and there were her pugs, who were smelly and stalker-ish. In case you were wondering about her puppy Rosie Finlinson being as assholeish as Sarah makes her out to be, um, yes, she fucking is.

In the end, I came to endure the damn dogs and definitely enjoyed the hell out of seeing Sarah's new house and drinking her wine. Bitch also drove me around town in search of the perfect margarita (PS...I think we found it. At the pub. Go figure), so it was pretty much the best weekend ever.

I don't know if I stopped shivering for the entire 15 days I was in Utah, but, Goddamn, did I kick it off right.

(More on the rest of my trip to come...)

Obligatory first Monday back at work post

2011-05-02T05:18:00.000-07:00

I just had a month off. An entire month of pure, honest-to-goodness NOT WORKING. It was the best month of my life.

For many, many reasons--the biggest of which being the fact that my birthday is rapidly approaching, taking me further from my 20s and closer to saggy balls (if I had balls)--I never wanted my month to end. And yet here it is, Monday morning, and I'm stressing over what to wear to work.

I could go on about how vacation should last forever and blah, blah, but the truth is, I'm actually a little bit excited about going back to work, back to normalcy.

Because, while being on vacation is like an orgasm on wheels, I'm not a person who can ever get used to sleeping in (I mean, it was madness, there were some mornings I didn't wake up until 6!), shopping incessantly (what budget?), and eating whatever I want because "I'm on vacation and it doesn't count". (For the record, calories on vacation totally count. I've got two new dimples in my ass to prove it.)

The point is, I don't know how normal people function in daily life, life without a teacher's schedule. Scott has only 3 weeks of vacation a year. I shit 3 weeks of vacation. I never work longer than 14 weeks without then having a month off.

I love my job for other reasons, too. I love it for bringing me fulfillment, purpose, and the belief that I am making a difference (or at least trying to).

And now I'm back to the grind and hoping someone will remind me of that whole "fulfillment and purpose" thing in, say, two weeks, when I'm stressed out. Because it's a lot easier to love my job when it's been a month since I've had to do it.

Gratitude

2011-04-26T16:40:00.000-07:00

Gratitude.

I struggle with it.

I mean, I don't walk around and act like an asshole...blatantly, anyway.

But two separate conversations today have made me realize that maybe the energy I'm putting out there seems ungrateful. That maybe, to the Universe, I am, indeed, an ungrateful brat. The worst kind of asshole.

Like the fact that I want a new kitchen. That I talk to Scott about in constantly. That it's the first thing I tell people when they come into my house, just so they know that it is not the kitchen I want.

Because the kitchen I have, which is in perfect working order and clean and cute isn't good enough?

Like the fact that I hate my thighs.

Because the fact that I have perfectly working,strong, healthy muscles is not enough?

I looked through my dresses today and decided I need more. Because 100 (yes, literally, 100--maybe more--)is not enough?

So I'm having this epiphany. Again.

Gratitude isn't simply being grateful when someone is nice to you, when you get something, when something makes you feel warm inside.

It's about feeling warm inside with what you have. Right now. It's appreciating that what you have, who you have, who you are...is perfect. And great. And just as it should be.

Perhaps this is not the best time for me to be thinking these things...I'm about to board a plane for a girls' trip with my mom and sisters. Undoubtedly, this will involve a lot of shopping and lust over the new trends for spring and summer. Undoubtedly, it will involve some anxiety for me because, even if I return with 10 shopping bags full of new clothes, it will not be enough. I will still need more. I still won't look as good as I think I should.

Perhaps this is exactly the perfect time for me to be thinking about how I already have enough.

More than enough.

I should be ecstatic.

I'm working on it.

blogging from my phone, watch out for errors. did not proof read.

2011-04-12T07:57:00.000-07:00

They say animals and babies can sense what most humans cannot.

Evil. Fear. A kind soul.

I was on a walk in The Real OC last night with my mom when I noticed a very pregnant heifer across the fence. I pointed her out to my mom, and as I did so, she waddled herself over to the fence. I knew she was trying to talk to us, so I went to the fence and held out my hands to her. She licked me.

If you know anything about our bovine friends, you know they tend to run away from humans (I don't know, maybe the whole eventually I am going to eat you thing). Cows, especially, are shy when they're about to calve.

It was a very strange experience, then, that this random heifer who has never met me, licked me.

Obviously she sensed something in me.

As did Sarah's asshole puppy who, during my 3 day stay at her house, stalked my every move, licked my shoes and jacket, and demanded my attention in a manner that left me feeling as thouh I had been emotionally raped.

Anyone who knows me know that I have severe issues with animals. I love them, but from afar. They smell, have germs, and are better left anywhere that they will not contaminate my space.

Something, though, has changed in me. I don't mind the licking like I used to, and I have found myself having converataions with about 3 dogs and a cow in the past 3 days.

I would call myself crazy, but the truth is, I just don't have a problem with any being who obviously senses how awesome I am.

happy wife, happy life.

2011-04-04T08:19:00.000-07:00

Compromise is of the devil.

When I want something, I want it now.

I'm not good at waiting, I never have been.

It's never really been a problem in the past, because when I get something in my head, I make it happen.

Like the time I woke up and decided we needed a new house. Scott said it was impossible, I made it happen.

Which was awesome, because I love our new house, but...

What it now means is that I have a walk-in closet filled to the brim with clothes...and limited disposable income.

I want a new car. My car is almost 10 years old. It's paid off, which is nice, but I don't entirely trust it. Last time we drove it to Utah, there were three separate incidents with that damn thing.

For months I've been trying to talk Scott into a new car. The hurt of having a car payment is far outweighed by the visions of how hot I'd look driving an Escalade.

He told me no fucking way, so I decided to compromise and look at Tahoes.

No fucking way, again.

He wants to get a truck.

A truck that is 10 years old. Um, remember that little thing I said about not trusting it to drive? Yeah.

And, duh and/or hello, I don't want a truck, remember? I'm settling for a Tahoe. What part of me lowering my standards does he not get?

He has a long way to go with this compromise thing.

Plus, I don't think me wanting a car with fewer than 80,000 miles makes me a diva...I think it makes me financially responsible. We have spent thousands of dollars this year fixing my car. I would have rather spent thousands on new car payments. Or lipo. Or Botox, whatever, just not fixing a car that has almost 100,000 miles and a crack in the fender from the time I may or may not have tried to drive over a gigantic rock just to see how much clearance that thing had.

He says we will not get a new car until we can pay cash for it.

Have you seen my spending habits?

I've done some calculations, and he starts to pay my half of the mortgage, then I can start saving and have the car I want in less than a year.

Obviously a win-win situation.

I'm happy, so by default, so is he.

Because, after all, marriage is all about compromise.

Fashion Friday

2011-04-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

I've been going through a...process lately. Trying to re-find myself, do a little re-inventing. I've decided that, while I am okay with being labeled a bitch (again, I'll remind everyone that I used to be a doormat, so this is progress!), and while I am okay with people not liking me (winners are not afraid of what others think (winning)), I don't want to be thought of as...mean.

I also thought about not wanting to be called narcissistic...but I must own that. I am. I can be. I don't have kids yet, I only have to worry about myself, so it is what it is.

My life centers around me (and sometimes, when he's good, my husband). I know this will change eventually, so I'm taking a step in the right direction now.

Fashion Friday is not all about me today. I have taken pictures (I was hoping for more, but I ran out of time) of shirts I'd like to wear but won't because why..(say it with me now)...I'm too self-obsessed.

I don't do regular t-shirts. So, until the following come in baby doll or skin-tight varieties, I will admire them from afar:

I mean, how cute would this shirt be if it were on a chick? The current owner of this shirt is my gym friend Rob, who drives for UPS. He says the UPS mechanics give you the shirt if you break down and don't have to call them because you can fix the problem yourself. Clearly, Rob is a manly man.

And this? So funny. Saw it on an episode of Always Sunny and promptly ordered one for the hubsters. I ordered him a size too large, which just means there's more room for beer. As in the drinking kind, not the mythical animal kind.

It's Friday, it's Spring Break (a month for me, hollllla!), and I'm out.

Life is so much easier when you know how to laugh

2011-03-31T09:50:00.000-07:00

I have come to believe you never know a person's true character until shit hits the fan.

For some, it doesn't even take that.

The other day, I was turning right at a red stoplight. The chick who had just crossed the intersection failed to use her blinker, thereby failing to let me know she was turning into the gas station on my right. I came somewhat close to hitting her.

I mean, thank God I have the reflexes of a...wait, what has good reflexes? Well, whatever has good reflexes, let's compare me to that. The point is, it's not like I was that close to hitting her or her precious 1981 Honda Civic.

Now, we've all had this happen. But take a second and think about how you reacted (or would react) in this situation, whether you're the would-be hitter or hittee.

My normal reaction is to shrug it off, wave to the other person, and go about my business.

But this cow...she started cussing at me, gesturing wildly, and letting me know under no uncertain terms that I had ruined her day, indeed, her life. She continued to say whatever she was saying as she pulled up to the pump.

I drove by slowly, smiled, waved happily, and made sure she saw me laughing at her.

Get over yourself, trick.

I mean, right? We all space out at times, and sometimes, accidents happen. No one plans them. It's not like I was maliciously thinking, "oh, hell yes! Here's an opportunity to ruin someone's day AND the grill of my car."

The fact that this chick couldn't shrug off what was clearly unintentional on my part tells me that she got issues.

The fact that I drove away laughing tells me that I have learned to laugh at mine.

Ugly truths

2011-03-30T11:23:00.000-07:00

You may or may not know that before I was a teacher, I worked in rehab. My job was not as a therapist or drug counselor, but I learned a lot about addiction, anyway. I learned a lot about why people choose to use drugs. I learned that everyone has a story, and that everything is relative. And, while I definitely went through my wilder days in my 20's and took some time to figure things out, there was a definite line I never crossed. I had enough wisdom or support or whatever to get it together without fucking up my life in a major way. Some people learn from their life's lessons, others avoid them. Some continue in a pattern of fucked-up relationships. Some find God. Some take drugs. Hard-core drugs. Drugs that I would have never, in a million years, dreamed of doing. But some close to me have. Last night, someone close to a family member of mine was found dead. By his father. He died of a heroin overdose. I do not know the circumstances that led to his addiction. What I know is, whatever it was, he chose to deal with it through escape. And now his family, my family, and others around us are devastated. We cannot escape this ugly reality. What I know is, through having studied psychology, addiction, and behavior for the past 15 years, is that problems don't go away until you deal with them. The healthy way. What I know is, drugs are bad. I feel like Nancy Regan. But I'm not saying no to heroin, I'm saying FUCK YOU.

Part of the "Happily Ever After"

2011-03-27T17:23:00.000-07:00

Perhaps we should have discussed the whole name-change thing before we got hitched.

We didn't.

I didn't think about it. I don't usually bother with the details in life, I usually just figure things out as I go. And sometimes, yes, this results in me being a cluster, but at least I don't have to worry about shit all the time.

After we got married, it occurred to me that I didn't actually want to change my name. I mean, sure, my last name of Anderson is generic as hell, and due to my name being so damn common, I'm totally un-Googleable. Which is a good thing, considering the amount of nights I don't quite remember from my 20's.

Ahem.

So at first, I said I would change my name, but the more I thought about it...or, more importantly, the more recently married friends told me about what a pain in the ass it is to change your name (social security, DMV, banks, credit cards, blah, blah, blah)....the more I realized I didn't want to. And not just because it sounds like way too much work.

I don't want to give up my family name and take on a new one. I am proud of my family and where I come from.

Also, why does my sharing a life with a man have to mean literally giving up my identity?

Scott was pretty pissy about all this for a while, but the other day, he told me, fine, just keep your name.

He is so good to me. Spoils me, really.

He only wants to make me happy.

So how can I be so selfish as to not take his name?

I've decided to hyphenate. And, someday in the future, I'll make it official. Someday, when I'm ready to deal with the cluster that is the DMV, the state of California, and everything else that goes along with it. I love my husband, but I don't think that day is happening anytime soon.

Boundaries

2011-03-26T10:42:00.000-07:00

My ex used to phone stalk me.

Once I told him it was over, he continued to call me. He would call me over and over, sometimes up to 15 times in a row. I would ignore him every time.

I was content to just let him keep calling. I knew I would never answer.

But that wasn't good enough for Scott. He wanted me to let this guy know that it wasn't okay for him to keep calling me. That, after what we went through, he should know that he didn't deserve to think he could call me.

I knew that, at some point, if I didn't pick up and say something, Scott would.

So, one Saturday morning, almost a full six months after I told him I was in a committed relationship, that there was no reason for him to call me, I picked up after the third call.

"Stop calling me. I don't want to hear anything you have to say."
"But...." some cussing and name calling.
"Stop calling. Goodbye." I hung up.

He called back, and I sent him straight to voicemail. He left a message, but I erased it without ever listening to it. I'm sure he was trying to have the last word, but I didn't care what he had to say. I took all my power back.

I set up a boundary that he will never, ever cross again. A small part of me felt guilty, that I had hurt his feelings.

The fact that he'd crushed my heart a million times was irrelevant.

My inherent nature is to nurture people and make them feel good, sometimes at my own cost emotionally, financially, or physically.

I am being phone-stalked again, this time by some solar company who, no doubt, wants an essload of money from me.

They call my phone sometimes ten times in 20 minutes.

Straight-up stalking.

Which pisses me off. I haven't been able to answer any of the times, because I'm always at work, but when my phone rang this morning, a Saturday, at 8 AM, I vowed to deal with it.

"hello?"
"May I please speak to Mr. or Mrs. Anderson?"
"this is Kelli."
"Hi, Kelli, do you still own your home on XXX Street?"
"Yes I do. And your company keeps calling me incessantly. Please stop. Thank you."

I hung up. I knew I hadn't been rude, but I still felt a little guilty, because I know that woman was just doing her job.

Then again, sometimes life is about putting up your own personal boundaries, no matter what. I wish I didn't have to feel guilt over that, but I do.

As stubborn and bitchy as I can sometimes be, I still worry about other's feelings more than my own. Usually.

Whether this guilt will ever abate or disappear completely, I do not know. What I do know is that I want to be healthy and comfortable, and sometimes, that means sometimes telling people no.

That means that, next time the Mormon missionaries come to my door, which they will, because they always find me, that I will be more forceful about telling them to leave me alone.

Boundaries. It's not about being a bitch, it's about molding life the way you want it.

Still trying to find my balance with that one.

fashion friday (on Saturday)

2011-03-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

My feet are almost always cold.

My armpits are almost always sweaty.

Thus, my pairing of Ugg boots and a tank top the other day. Now, I have been known to mock bitches who wear Uggs in SoCal, but that is only on days that are 70 degrees or higher. And only if they looked better in them than I would have.

Kidding about that last statement. Obviously no one looks better in Uggs than I do. (sarcasm)

I realize this picture has nothing to do with Uggs. This post was actually meant to talk about these jeans. They are comfy, perfect for pairing with boots or flip-flops,and, more importantly, I can actually breath while wearing them. They are one of two pants in my closet that fit right now.

But you know what?

Oh well. So I've had one too many margaritas, ate one too many girl scout cookies.

It's not the end of the world.

I can't believe I just said that. More importantly, I can't believe I actually meant that. The older I get, the more I am realizing what is important in life.

Being a size 4, though it feels (felt--I guess I should use past tense for now) great, doesn't make me a better person. The size of my pants has nothing to do with the beauty of my soul.

At the age of X, I am finally learning about true beauty.

Happy Weekend!

There's a party up in huuuur.

2011-03-24T14:05:00.001-07:00

Frustration.

I don't do it well.

I've been known to throw temper tantrums when frustrated. I've thrown things, hit things, destroyed things.

Needless to say, I generally avoid situations where I will become frustrated. If I'm trying something new and it's not easy right away, I generally give up.

I know this is not the most healthy or adult way to handle things, but I actually have come a long way. I'm learning to stay calm in crazy situations, and I'm learning to calm myself when frustrated, to realize that it's never the end of the world...or at least it hasn't been up to this point.

I recently read an article in Newsweek (thanks for the subscription, anonymous friend((BTW, I totally know it was Sarah, though she has yet to fess up)) ) about a woman who decided to row solo across the Atlantic Ocean. She said there were definitely times she wanted to give up, but in the end, the only thing worse than continuing on was quitting.

This has inspired me, because recently, I have become frustrated at my job.

Quitting my job is not an option, but caring about it--or, more importantly, caring about the quality of my work-- is. I want my students to do well, I want to feel as though I'm making a difference. Sadly, "the difference" I make is judged by how well my students do on their assessments.

These scores, as of late, have not been pretty.

It is frustrating beyond belief.

I am at the point where I don't know what else to try. I feel that after seven years, I should be an expert at this. Instead, I just realize how far I have to go.

I am not the only one in this situation, I know a lot of us are feeling it. A lot of teachers are now feeling immense pressure to see their students perform on tests. A lot of us do not necessarily agree with the way we are judged. None of us have a choice.

And, while I am frustrated, while a part of me wants to give up, I know I cannot. It has nothing to do with the job and everything to do with the kids.

So I'll keep plugging on...and tomorrow, maybe I'll actually feel like I'm doing something right. For now, my pity party and I are going to try not to take it personal.

Ignoring the signs

2011-03-23T09:17:00.001-07:00

Oh for fuck's sake.

Apparently, I don't get it at all.

The Universe has spoken to me and, while I was all, yeah, I'm listening, I saw the sign (Ace of Base tune here)...I opened up my eyes, and I was still standing, but fashion is just too demanding.

I bought the boots.

Remember last week when, because of donating some yen to Japanese Red Cross the ordering of my new cowboy boots was canceled because my card was frozen due to suspicious activity (how dare you judge me, Chase credit card. I can be a giving person and donate, there is nothing "suspicious" about that, you banking assholes!)? And then I tried to re-order the boots and they were out of stock?

Well, I checked the website once or twice.--okay, I stalked the website-- until I discovered the boots were back in stock and I ordered some.

I mean, like I said, I needed those boots. They were to replace the two pair I just donated.

Plus, I'm going to the ranch in a couple of weeks and I MUST have some fabulous boots to wear.

But...as my co-workers pointed out, the Universe TOLD me not to buy the boots and I bought them anyway.

Here I thought I was paying attention, being grateful for what I have, for what is around me...and I made the most novice mistake of all.

I chose fashion over The Universe.

My soul is in trouble.

At least it's fashionably dressed.

Affirmations.

2011-03-22T20:32:00.000-07:00

I would be wrong not to acknowledge the signs (positive, I think) the Universe has thrown at me today.

Before 8 AM, two separate people, with regards to separate situations, repeated almost the exact same phrase to me, "I support you, I got your back." While this was enough to make me feel appreciated and grateful, it didn't strike me as anything out of the ordinary until I received an email that said "thanks for always having my back, I feel supported". The email, not meant for me but for one of the other gazillion "kanderson" bitches that work for my district, was signed "Kelli".

A strange coincidence that it was the third time I'd heard the whole support/got your back thing, especially weird that the sender of the misguided email had the exact same and not entirely common spelling of my name. Surely this means something, but I have no idea what...other than I feel compelled to say a huge THANK YOU to all those that support me.

I got your backs, too, bitches.

Let's talk about how the rest of my day was weird...as I was leaving work, I ran into a former student who, it hit me as I saw him, had been in my dream the previous night. In my dream, we had been playing football together, but in real life, we discussed his basketball career. This kid is amazingly talented and will be doing big things in life--if he uses his powers for good.

Not five minutes later, I ran into another former student, one of the sweetest, most caring kids I've ever run across. A student who, upon his promotion last year, looked at me with his big doe eyes and told me thanks for always helping him and caring about him (choked up over that one).

I am a big believer that things happen in threes, but I never ran into a third former student today.

Lastly, after a fantastic workout, I walked out to the gym parking lot to discover I'd left the car lights on the entire two hours I'd been in the gym.

Sure I was going to need a jump, and a little weary because my husband is out of town, I turned the key in the ignition...and the car started.

I feel there was no way in hell that car should have started, not after having the lights on for two hours.

The Universe is looking and out for me today, and I just want to give a shout-out and say "I HEAR YOU." I got your back, too.

Today, I am grateful.

What happens in Vegas should always start before noon

2011-03-21T18:51:00.001-07:00

A Vegas weekend.

Expensive, fun, and blurry.

I started drinking at noon, which wasn't early enough when you consider the fact that my plan had been to start at 9AM. I had one of those "yard" margaritas which, while huge, barely gave me a buzz.

My budget for the day was $60, and the margarita cost half that. Naturally, I decided to blow the rest on gambling.

Scott and I sat down to roulette (which, BTW, is NOT the same as Russian roulette). I was a roulette virgin, but my husband is a pro. You know, as professional as one can be playing a game that requires pure luck and absolutely no skill.

He won, I broke even.

We stumbled our way back to the room after consuming even more drinks. In case anyone is wondering, it's pretty much NOT a good idea to wear boots with even the smallest heel while walking around the strip, no matter how cute and comfortable you think they are.

My damn feet were killing me, and the fact that my husband and his friends thought the perfect ending to our night would be to go to--wait for it--a nightclub, was killing me even more.

We went to a buffet which is a fabulous thing in theory, unless you have no appetite. I don't know why my body chose that moment to not want to eat, but I took one for the team and ate a shitload, anyway.

Then we were off to the show, Le Rev, which is totally amazing. Not amazing enough for me to forget that my feet were killing me after changing from my boots to 5" heels, but still pretty fucking cool.

After the show, we headed to back to the room to pre-party. I curled on the sofa, drank some more, and convinced myself that we weren't really going to a club.

I was wrong.

I was also wrong in assuming that changing from one pair of heels to the next would help my aching feet, so I rolled up to the club in leggings, a long shirt, and flip-flops.

A far cry from the slutty mini-dress days of my 20's. Also not like my 20's were: refusing to pay $20 for a drink at the club, not leaving more sober than when I arrived, and waking up in the morning next to a guy whose name I definitely remember.

I still love to dance, but I am seriously over the whole club scene.

I still love to gamble, but right now, I am also over Vegas.

Just one day is not enough to recover from such a place. It's Tuesday morning, and my head still hurts.

Someone pass the tequila....errr....Tylenol.

Fashion Friday

2011-03-18T04:52:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, I parted with a good amount of hair. After, I felt naked and pathetic. I wore my hair in a bun for days because I couldn't stand to look at it.

Once I wore it down, no one even noticed it was shorter. Ah, vanity, you tricky little devil.

So I found another way to make my hair feel pretty. Sopko did it first (of course. I don't know how that bitch knows immediately about every trend before it even starts, but she does), and then I saw some random hottie with one.

I immediately got one, too.

I recognize this makes me a complete biter, but look how cute:

Love, love, love the latest in accessories.

Have you been feathered?

Happy Friday!

They say Karma is a bitch, and in this case, I agree.

2011-03-16T09:28:00.000-07:00

Well, that backfired.

Right after I ordered a fabulous pair of boots yesterday, I donated money to the Red Cross. Only, taking advice from Sarah, I didn't donate to American Red Cross, I donated directly to the Japanese Red Cross. Thousands of yen.

I felt so good about doing it, I almost forgot about the new boots that were surely on their way.

Until they weren't.

Until my credit card company saw a "suspicious" purchase on my card and froze it. Before Steve Madden had a chance to ship the goods. Before Steve Madden had a chance to charge my card, so when they tried to charge, it was declined.

I received an email from them today saying my purchase didn't go through.

I called the card company, straightened things out, then logged on to the Internet to re-order the shoes.

Which are now out of stock.

Fuck.

Those shoes defined me. I needed them. And now, they're gone. Because I was trying to be a good person.

I suppose I could look at it as though maybe it wasn't meant to be. But if it wasn'tt meant to be, why does it hurt so much?

Is this what I get for trying to give back, Universe? Because if so, this bitch is not amused.

What makes me feel prettiest

2011-03-15T16:44:00.000-07:00

And so the guilt sets in.

About a month ago, I sat down and put myself on a budget. I gave myself a minimal amount of money to shop with every month because, let's face it, I'm never going to give up shopping completely. (Plus, there are some holes in my closet to fill after I donated a bunch of clothes and boots to the Goodwill.)

Before you ask, yes, I realize that maybe I haven't come that far, that even though I put myself on a budget, I failed to include a category in my budget to "give back". Don't worry, I'm completely prepared to create a category for that by cutting into my weekly grocery budget. I can definitely do without so much food every month (for reals, none of my pants fit), but I will positively die without being able to buy shoes.

Shoes aside, the real point of the story is that I suddenly realized on Sunday that I haven't spent any of my shopping money this month. I promptly scoured the Internet for anything remotely interesting and ended up ordering these and these. I realize I was buying just to buy, but really I needed some new dark brown boots (and they're cowboy, so they'll always be in style) and something to keep my feet warm the 4 days a year I'm in cold weather. The purchases were totally justified.

Then Yahoo had to go and put all those sad tsunami videos on one convenient website, and I had to go and spend a good portion of last night staring at my computer screen with tears in my eyes and guilt in my heart.

Previously, I had every intention of texting to that 90999 number and donating my $10, but after seeing all those videos...well, I couldn't possibly rest easy donating only $10 to help the people whose lives have forever changed while I spent so much more than that on boots in order to meet my shopping quota for the month.

So I asked FB, got a link,thanks to my BFF and good Samaritan Sarah and donated just as much as I had spent on shoes to the Japanese Red Cross.

I feel more pretty inside now than any boot could ever make me feel on the outside.

Perhaps I've learned something, after all.

Have you?

Fashion Friday

2011-03-11T08:32:00.000-08:00

All I know is, when shit hits the fan, I'm heading back to the country. This earthquake/tsunami thing in Japan has everyone here on the SoCal coast a little bit worried.

All the earthquakes have us all a little worried. Is 2012 really it, then?

Back to my roots, where I can grow my own food, hunt my own food, and ciphen my own fuel.

Even though I have lived in the city for 14 years, I have held on to my roots.

I maintain that I am a country girl, even though I can't quite remember how to saddle a horse. I still, however, know how to drive a tractor, a semi truck, or a truck hauling pretty much anything.

You know what they say: you can take a girl out of the country....and the country will never get over the loss.

Anyway.

Today, , I am rocking the shit out of these cowgirl boots. I don't know what that means, but I love these boots, which belong to my sister, who is in town visiting:

Needless to say, as soon as my weekend starts, I will be scouring the Internet to find my own pair. In purple, of course.

Happy Friday!

A random post about my car and the price of gas

2011-03-08T14:16:00.000-08:00

I change vehicles the way some people change underwear: daily.

Which car I drive depends on my mood. If I need to feel tough, I drive the Xterra, which is rugged and has enough clearance to allow me to drive over pretty much everything (trust me, I've done it). Also, if it's raining, I take the Xterra, because people in SoCal do not know how to drive in "Weather" and if I'm going down, I'd take the bigger of the two cars to go down in.

On a day I need to feel pretty, I drive the Audi (I drive the Audi almost every day). I don't know why this makes me feel pretty, other than to say there's something about putting the car in sport mode and zooming past everyone else on the freeway that makes me feel hot. Maybe driving a car to feel pretty is the female version of the male need to drive a big truck to prove that he has a big...heart.

On a day I want to feel compassion, I drive my scooter (this rarely happens). While I feel all sorts of green and environmentally-friendly for driving something that gets at least 80 mpg, I feel all sorts of scared at the same time, because there are a lot of jackholes out there who don't know how to drive and who don't see motorcycles. I don't want to be on the losing end of that situation. Plus, I can't take my scooter on the freeway, which means I have to take back-roads, which tacks on about 20 minutes to my otherwise 5 minute commute. It's kind of a no-brainer.

When I want to feel really good about the environment, when I'm feeling cheap, and when I'm feeling lazy, I force myself to ride the five miles to work on my bike. I don't do this as often as I used to, because, as with my scooter, I don't take that shit on the freeway, and my commute becomes 25 minutes instead of 5. Also, I have to ride my very nice, very expensive bike though gangsta territory to get to work, and I have heard more than one story about gangsters taking peoples' bikes. While in theory I think I'd win a fight against a gangster, the truth is, I can't be 100% sure I wouldn't just pee my pants and hand over the bike willingly.

I used to pride myself on being able to go a month or more without putting gas in my car, because I would ride my bike or scooter everywhere. But now, pure laziness and a lack of being willing to leave my house 20 minutes earlier in the morning has me, along with the rest of America, filling up my tank almost weekly. With gas prices expected to soar, I may have to rethink this, but for now, I choose to bask in the laziness and convenience that is uniquely American.