Alec is a Girl's Name

Call Me Nichole Parks

2012-02-09T23:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it's past 12am here. Which means plenty of girls across the Mountain Standard Time Zone are watching Rachael McAdams wake up in a hospital bed with no recollection of her undying love for Channing Tatum.

Some of the movie goers are likely already crying. But they should save their tears. Because, let's face it, it's probably only going to get more sad.

I am not watching this movie because:

1. I thought I would be asleep by now.

2. The last Nicholas Sparks movie I saw was such a disappointment that I vowed to think long and hard before I paid seven and a half dollars to see another movie based on a book by the man who loves dying characters.

I *now* realize this movie is not actually based on a Nicholas Sparks book. BUT I wrote this post before coming upon that knowledge, AND it's close enough to Nicholas Sparksish style for me, SO I'm going to leave this post as is.

Besides, if someone else can turn a based-on-a-true story into a quasi-Nicholas-Sparks sap fest, so can I.

Which is why I have decided to spend the next 20 minutes visualizing myself as the main character of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

--Not the one who dies. Obviously.--

Well that reason, AND because I am bored and am avoiding productive things. Like sleep.

I think if Nicholas Sparks wrote my life, this is how it would go--

(Note: I am changing my name to Nichole Parks for this post on account of using my real name for this display of unadulterated sappiness might make me gag.)

It didn't take long.

Nichole Parks rarely did things quickly. In fact, in fourth grade her classmates issued a complaint about her during circle time, citing her propensity to slowly eat lunch.

But when Nichole moved to a small town in the South and met Brady Bobby Billy Joe she fell in love faster than a kite catches the wind.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the movies and said "Nichole. I like you more than I like peach pie with sugar on top. And that's saying something."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the fair. And the fair was nothing like the temporary carnival set up in the Saver's parking lot that Nichole went to once. So Nichole rode the ferris wheel and nary even fretted for her life.

Then Nichole played the piano for Brady Bobby Billy Joe. After, of course, they walked a few circles around a nearby swimming hole that was filled with thousands of fuzzy baby ducklings.

It was love at first note. For both of them.

Two years later, after having been split by the great earthquake that divided the soft South from the real South, Nichole and Brady Bobby Billy Joe reunited in a trendy, metropolitan cafe where Nichole had started training to become a barista-- a day job, while she worked toward her real dream of being a teacher/crossword writer.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe ran to Nichole to sweep her up in his arms and apologize for not being on her side of the earthquake split (think Land Before Time if you're having trouble picturing the earthquake separation).

Unfortunately, Nichole had always struggled with names, and she stuttered as she attempted o remember all four of Brady Bobby Billy Joe's names.

"B.. b... b... Baby, it's good to see you," Nichole tried.

"You. You don't remember?" Tears filled Brady Bobby Billy Joe's eyes (and the audience sobs).

"I'm sorry. It's just, it's been so long," Nichole said, letting out a desperate sob. "But I'm so happy to see you. I just wish I wasn't married to your brother."

"I'm sick," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said, ignoring Nichole's confession.

"Say it isn't so," Nichole cried.

"It's true. Hundreds were affected after the earthquake. And I'm one of them. I have Valley Fever."

Another sob escaped Nichole's small mouth.

"Are you sure?" Nichole asked.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe looked sullen. "Yes, the x-ray confirmed what I already knew."

"I'll leave your brother," Nichole said. "I only loved him because he reminded me of you. I'll go to the doctor with you for check ups and make sure you get plenty of fluids."

"It's too late," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said. "It's too late."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe walked out of the cafe. And Nichole mixed tears into an otherwise perfect Frappuccino.

The End.

You Heard It Here First

2012-02-04T05:50:00.000-08:00

http://www.cnn.com/2012/02/03/living/overweight-pets/index.html

I'll admit though, their photos are better than mine.

My Side of the Bed

2012-02-02T21:17:00.000-08:00

Well guys, Roxy has decided she wants to sleep on my bed.

I spent the better part of my high school days trying to coax, convince and coddle Roxy into sleeping at the foot of my bed, so she could be the golden retriever from Homeward Bound and I could be... Oh wait, I don't want to be the teenage boy who goes on playing basketball even after he finds out his childhood pet got lost in the woods and was probably eaten by a MOUNTAIN LION.

But you get the point, I wanted Roxy to prove her unconditional love for me by sleeping at the foot of my bed.

Instead she slept in a corner, under my bed.

I was offended. But after years of self-consolation I finally decided it was probably more sanitary if she slept on the floor.

And now, suddenly, Roxy wants to be Shadow, the unconditionally-loving golden retriever from the movie I haven't seen in years.

So I'm letting her stay.

Sometimes compassion overrules sanitation.

Besides, she was recently bathed.

And I love her.

Until recently, Roxy was snoring away on my side of the bed. Which, incidentally, is why I'm writing in the first place. Because apparently I can only sleep on one side of the bed. And so I decided I'd open my computer and type something in my unsatisfied sleep haze. (You don't know what an unsatisfied sleep haze is? That's okay. Me either. I think it's when you're tired, but you can't sleep, because you have words floating around your head and your dog is on your side of the bed.)

Which brings me to my next point:

Kitchen Aids.

(I know, my ability to successfully transition from one point to the next is awe-inspiring.)

I want to own a Kitchen Aid.

I don't know. I guess it's because I think the red one is really pretty.

Maybe it comes from a subconscious desire to eat cookies.

And bake bread.

Someday I'm going to figure out how to know what I really want.

I'm going to learn how to be brave enough to want things bigger and more important than Kitchen Aids.

But for now, I'll look for a red mixer to sit on my counter.

Actually, on an almost related note, I have a lot of faith in hope. (And after much consideration, I have decided that does, in fact, make sense. So don't question me on it okay? I have faith in hope. So there.)

And, despite my better judgement, I believe dreams come true.

I mean, just look at Roxy. She is sleeping on my bed.

Dear SkyMall

2012-01-23T22:48:00.001-08:00

Dear SkyMall:

I want to take my dog on a walk.

I really do.

It's just that, you see, when I walk with the leash in my hand my fingers get so fatigued.

While I've been resting my phalanges, Humphry has grown fat and lazy.

I can't even look at him anymore.

Please help.

Sincerely,

There Must Be a Better Way...

To Walk My Dog.

Dear Lazy Fingers,

Let me assure you. You are NOT alone.

No one likes holding on to the leash.

This, sadly, has resulted in an exponential increase of dog obesity in the last five years.

Please refer to the chart below.

I'd say the data is conclusive.

Exponential.

Increase.

Fortunately for you, there are people--good people--people who want to help.

They're the people of SkyMall.

And they have a solution for you.

It's Name:

THE AERO LEASH

(Please refer to photo below. Which was taken from the www.skymall.com/shopping.)

For the tiny price of $19.99, you too can run with your dog attached to your bicep.

Say goodbye to tired fingers and fatigued hand muscles.

Now you can run hands free.

If you have a blue tooth, you can also talk hands free.

In fact, if you have the computer program that types when you speak, you may not need your hands at all.

Ever again.

Also, as a side benefit, if you're dog is a puller, you're going to get very muscled.

That's right.

Muscled.

Very Muscled.

Best of luck, lazy fingers.

Sincerely,

Monday Morning Reader of SkyMall Magazine

Never stop looking. For a better way.

Disclaimer:

This is not a real SkyMall ad.

It is also not a real letter.

In fact, nothing in this post is real.

Except, incidentally, the product itself.

The Aero Leash is very real.

This scenario is a product of the author's imagination. Anything, (except the actual product as previously noted) that relates to real life is purely coincidental.

This includes the author's dog Roxy.

I repeat. Humphry is not Roxy.

Humphry is not Roxy in an oversimplified shapes form.

Humphry is not even related to Roxy.

They're not even third cousins.

Over and out.

Pistachio Boat Races

2012-01-16T22:51:00.000-08:00

I've been eating a lot of pistachios lately.

And every time I see the empty shells, I think about pistachio boat races.

I don't know what pistachio boat races are, but I think I'd like them.

I think I'll write a book about pistachio boat races. It will be like Dr. Suess's Horton Hears a Who. Except it will be the story of a fuzz ball that goes on a grand adventure in a pistachio shell. In the end, he--the fuzz ball--will find out he never even left the kitchen sink.

Now you know.

This is what I think about in my spare time.

My sister says she catches up on my blog once every three months or so. Lately, she said, she's been disappointed, because even after three months, there's nothing new.

I'm writing about pistachios so three months from now she'll have something to read.

I think she's going to be disappointed.

"This?" She'll think. "This is what you came up with?"

In order to, I hope, dissipate some of her disappointment, I'll leave you with this story.

Two and a half years ago I went to Argentina. It felt crazy. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know why I was doing it. All I knew was I couldn't give up on going to Argentina.

So I went.

Before I left, I'm pretty sure my uncle told me I'd be fine as long as the airline people didn't think I was an unaccompanied minor.

They did.

Twelve. Unaccompanied minors are twelve.

I was 21 years old and the lady checking my luggage thought I was an unaccompanied minor.

And then I got on the plane and had the most wonderful flight.

Guys, I watched the sunrise from an airplane window as I flew into freezing Argentina.

They fed me eggs with cheese on them. I think there was basil or something, too.

And I should have been scared. I should have been thinking about everything that could go wrong. But I wasn't. I was thinking about everything that could go right.

I was originally going somewhere else with this story.

But I think I want to say this instead.

Sometimes it's okay to trust what you believe.

You can run around collecting opinions, trying to get everyone to agree with the decision you've made.

But in the end, it's you who has to board the plane. Possibly unaccompanied.

You have to decide where you're going to let life take you.

Now you know.

This is what I think about in my spare time.

Well, this and the pistachios.

Resolving

2011-12-09T00:09:00.000-08:00

Last January I decided not to make any New Years resolutions.

(I prefer working toward self-betterment mid-year, or in March, when I'm least expecting it.)

But then I decided, if I were going to make resolutions in January, when the rest of the world is out and about resolving, I would include, but not limit myself to, the following:

1. Wash car at least three times during the year.

2. Find new and creative ways to flatten out the wrinkles in my pants without ever touching an iron.

3. I'm pretty certain a third pseudo resolution existed at one point, but I can't recall what it was.

I know this is why you're supposed to write your resolutions down--so you don't forget them. But considering the third forgotten resolution was not an actual resolution, but rather a would-be, what-if, wouldn't-it-be-fun resolution, it seems it would have been somewhat purportless to write it down. In fact, I think it's standard procedure to forget pseudo resolutions.

Anyway, in the brief bout between January and March, I was feeling pretty good about my fake resolutions that I hadn't actually resolved to carry out.

I had already washed my car once (one down, two to go).

I may have succumbed once or twice to the ironing board, but I can say with almost certainty that the iron wasn't a frequent friend in my life.

And I was probably well on my way toward accomplishing the third non-resolution, whatever it was.

But now, it's the end of another year.

And unless you count wiping the rain water off my car with a micro fiber towel as a wash, I don't think I quite made it to the big three, zero. (And when I say three, zero, I mean three plus zero. Because even in my News Years almost optimism, I didn't think 30 washes was a realistic goal.)

I haven't really discovered new ways to not iron my pants. At one point this year I saw a travel-size de-wrinkeler. I thought about buying it to 1) avoid wrinkly clothes while traveling and 2) accomplish my resolution that I won't admit was a resolution, but then I decided to buy new travel lotion and hand sanitizer instead. In conclusion, I don't think I can count seeing de-wrinkler as an accomplishment.

I guess I can't say for sure whether I have failed or succeeded at the third and final resolution. If my final non-resolution was to have a fun year, enjoy 2011 and turn 23, then I can mark it off as a success.

But, let's face it, I probably non-resolved to stop eating sugar. (This post was powered by Captain Crunch cereal.)

If these were real resolutions, I would comfort myself with optimistic phrases like, "there are still three weeks left in December", and "you can accomplish anything if you set your mind to it".

Lucky for me though, I don't need my phony words of comfort.

All my real goals were set in March.

I still have three months to publish a book, train for a triathlon and fundraise for my irony awareness campaign.

I'll be just fine.

2011-12-08T02:11:00.000-08:00

Today I shook hands with Pearl Harbor survivors.

And I stood next to them as a band played the National Anthem.

It felt honest.

I don't know how to explain it other than that.

It made me want to love this country with more hope. And less cynicism.

Maybe that doesn't make sense.

But I was grateful to shake their hands.

Based on my previously posted plan,

I'm supposed to be highlighting December 2010 today.

I'm distracted though, so here is the (even more) condensed version--

Alec goes scuba diving in the ocean, and freezes in the 80 degree water.

Then she plays water polo with a family of strangers, rides a mechanical bull in the teen center and takes/ falls in love with step classes because she has decided to do every single activity the resort has to offer.

Alec falls victim to the on-site photographer of awkward family photos.

I'm not posting the photo here, in order to protect the innocent, and because I'm tired. But, just picture this

with my head pasted on it.

Then you've pretty much got it.

Some Stuff about Step Sisters, Christmas and Jello

2011-12-06T19:36:00.000-08:00

Today, I was walking along the street and a guy said to me:

"Did I ever tell you I love you like a step sister?"

I laughed and kept walking.

But then, I stopped to think. Because what does that even mean?

I wanted to turn around, go back, and ask the man a few questions.

" Does that mean you hate me?
Because, based on my most recent version of Cinderella, step sisters are not the most lovable creatures.

And if you love me like a stepsister (AKA hate me), why? How do you know? When did you discover this loathing?

I've never seen you before.

And, not that it ever comes up in the exposition or anything, but I bet Cinderella at least gave her step sisters a chance before she dived into the I'll-serve-you-and-try-to-love-you-but-mostly-you-make-me-want-to-vomit relationship she had going on with Anastasia and Drizella.

Too many Disney references?

Fine.

Point is. I don't know what you're getting at.

Next time you should be more clear when yelling to strangers on the street. "

I didn't say that to him. But it would have been cool if I did. Okay, maybe cool isn't the right word. But it would have been something for sure.

Anyway, as I continued on my walk down the street I realized I have a lot of stories to tell. And they're all bottled up.

Partly because I feel like if I'm going to tell a story I should have a reason for telling it. Kind of like, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. But instead, if you don't have anything life changing to type, don't even open your keyboard.

But that's just a generic excuse for my truer reason for not writing, which is: lately my brain thinks its too busy for story telling.

"No time for stories?" I asked myself. "It's like I don't even know you."

So in the interest of avoiding a second identity crisis, I'm going to write.

(The first identity crisis, in case you caught the reference to the second identity crisis, took place on a small business street near my office when I wanted to stop at Ulta just to buy nail polish. $10 nail polish. I'm supposed to be the type of girl with nails short enough to play the guitar. Not the kind of girl who spends time perusing the nail polish section at Ulta. Don't ask me why or how, but I'm pretty sure this is somehow Selena Gomez's fault.)

So. Ya. I'm going to write. Stuff. And it will probably not even end with a moral. Because not everyone can be Aesop, and maybe it's time for me to accept that.

Just so your in the loop, for the next 13 days this blog is going to feature the highlight reel from the last year (starting December 2010 ending December 2011).

Then December 20 through December 25 I'm going to write all about Christmas. And why I love sugar cookies. And why I think candy canes are overrated. And why I believe in Santa. And who knows what else could be in this Christmas surprise mix.

But before I get all Christmasy, I'm going to tell you about how I decided to make a Jello mold using only a bread pan, one packet of grape Jello and a toothbrush.

And other purposeless stories from 2011.

I just hope, that at the end of this all, you don't love me like a step sister.

Because that just doesn't seem like a good thing at all.

We Need to Have a Serious Talk

2011-10-25T19:39:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else noticed how more and more grocery stores are making it acceptable to offer immunizations under the same roof where I buy my bananas?

I am having flashbacks to elementary school.

Eight-year-old Alec walks into the cafeteria.

Stumbles back.

Looks around in what can only be described as fear-filled awe.

And thinks, "Dude. Who turned my lunch room into a blood drive symposium?

"Get those cookies away from that pint. Of BLOOD. I have to eat mashed potatoes and stringy turkey here in a few hours."

People. Please.

Let us not do that to our grocery stores.

At some point, we pay a price for convenience.

Case and point: Walmart.

Alternate case and point: Frozen green beans.

Thank you.

And goodnight.

Sometimes

2011-10-19T21:49:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up, and I said to myself "Alec, it's time for you to take control of your life."

By the time I was done brushing my teeth, I was ready to take on the world and clean my room, in that order.

So I marched confidently toward the kitchen to blend up some frozen strawberries and put them in some Greek yogurt, which I would controledly take to work and eat for lunch.

But then my plan was interrupted.

By a scorpion.

That just happened to be sitting in the very spot I was going to put my foot while I blended the aforementioned strawberries-- under the stove.

So I yelled at the scorpion.

Then I went to go get a shoe to kill the scorpion.

Because I like to blend strawberries barefoot.

And I like to use shoes, or nearby boys, to kill scorpions.

While I was on my way to find a shoe that I would never need to wear again (I hate wearing shoes with scorpion guts on them), I found a pee puddle.

I'm pretty sure one of the dogs saw the scorpion, got scared, and peed his pants, or rather lack thereof.

It doesn't really matter how it happened. One of the dogs peed on the floor.

So I yelled at the dogs.

And they looked at me expectantly. Like it was possible, at any minute, I might turn this attitude around and decide to take them for a walk.

I love dogs. They always expect the best out of you.

Except when you're carrying a towel and a shampoo bottle.

They may be optimistic, but they're not stupid.

So ANYWAY...

I stepped around the pee.

Got a shoe, which I've been meaning to wash because I spilt steaming hot liquid on it five weeks ago.

Found the scorpion.

Squashed it.

Felt bad for hurting it.

Squashed it again.

Cleaned up it's remains with 75 sheets of toilet paper and three paper towels.

Got a regular, old, blue towel.

Put the scorpion shoe in the laundry room, where it now awaits its fate. (Trash can or washing machine? Only time will tell.)

Cleaned up the dog pee.

Decided to put on some shoes and work pants, not in that order.

And walked out the door without any yogurt or blended strawberries.

And that's when I realized.

Sometimes, life takes control of you.

Sometimes, in eighth grade, you make a five-year plan that includes a husband and at least one child.

Then sometimes you turn 18 and think, "Dang. What was my eighth-grade self expecting? Sixteen and pregnant?"

And sometimes you decide to take control of your life.

And you decide step one is blending up frozen strawberries and putting them in yogurt that tastes like sour cream because this is saving money and eating healthy.

And sometimes, instead of taking control of your life, you just end up happy that you didn't get stung by a scorpion that likes to sit under the stove.

And sometimes, when it comes right down to it, you're just glad you didn't have to eat yogurt and blended strawberries for lunch.

A Gold Digger is Just a Prostitute with a Marriage License

2011-10-18T21:56:00.001-07:00

Words to live by.

That is all.

Becoming Self-Reliant, the Transcendentalist Way

2011-10-15T22:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I accidentally reflect on my junior year of high school.

It usually happens in October. I don't know why. It's just one of life's mysteries.

When I accidentally reflect on my junior year of high school, in October, mysteriously...

Things like this sometimes happen (see below).

It's an unfortunate side effect of October.

Kind of like Halloween costumes.

-----------------------------------------------

Things I would need for an extended camping trip in the woods:

1. A DIY tutorial from google on how to build a log cabin.

2. A shovel

3. A six-month supply of Kashi bars.

4. Carrot and broccoli seeds. Also maybe, an apple tree starter plant.

5. Dry milk.

6. 200 gallons of water.

7. A toothbrush.

8. A 12-month supply of hand sanitizer.

9. Besides what I'm wearing, 2 shirts and pajama pants.

10. Bear spray.

11. Bug spray.

12. Two boxes of printer paper and a mechanical pencil with extra led.

I would also consider bringing Thoreau's book Walden, Or Life in the Woods, if I didn't have time to read it before hand.

Am I missing anything?

I'd hate to get all the way to the woods just to realize I forgot something important, like a blanket.

Oh add that to the list.

13. Blanket. (Probably a solar one. Or just a good sleeping bag.)

Now all I need to do is find an appropriately self-reliant-able area of woodland.

I'll be transcending in no time.

On Being a Farmer

2011-10-08T19:08:00.000-07:00

Remember how the other day I said the chickens in my backyard don't lay eggs?

Well they didn't.

But that was the other day.

Today, I gathered eggs from the chicken coop.

So I'm pretty much a farmer now.

Which is why I'm wearing overalls.

Today and probably forever.

5 Quick Tips for Falling in Love

2011-10-07T23:59:00.000-07:00

That are historically proven.

Which have been reviewed and critiqued by professionals and amateurs across the world.

In other words, this is a pretty solid list.

NUMBER ONE

Learn a fancy ballet move.

1987.

2006.

2011

I'm pretty sure this works best if you listen to I Had the Time of My Life while dancing.

NUMBER 2

Just pretend you're in love.

1997.

2003.

2009.

Keep pretending.

Until you accidentally like each other.

Then have a fall out.

Then purposefully like each other.

NUMBER THREE

Pretend you're not in love.

1980.

You do not need more examples of this one.

It works.

Clearly.

NUMBER FOUR

Magically end up on a crazy adventure together. Where you almost die. Possibly get thrown off a waterfall. Almost get eaten by giant rats. But somehow manage to make it through.

Better.

Stronger.

And more in Love.

(Hello giant picture. I am not technologically intelligent enough to make you a normal size.)

1984.

1987.

2007.

2010.

(Note to the universe: this is my preference. Except I don't want to meet any giant rats. Please and thank you.)

I'm starting to see a trend here.

It's the only thing that has been consistent amongst these tips.

Did you notice it, too?

Ya, I'm pretty sure I didn't watch any movies in the 90s.

It makes sense though.

Those elementary school years were pretty busy.

Anyway,

have I missed anything?

*Pause*

Yes.

Have.

How could I forget?

1961

"Baby you're already in that cage. You built it yourself...It's wherever you go. Because where ever you go, you just end up running into yourself."

2004.

"I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you everyday for a year...It wasn't over. It still isn't over."

NUMBER 5

Well written lines.

They'll get you every time.

If We Were a Movie

2011-10-04T21:33:00.001-07:00

You know that part in a movie that comes right after the beginning and right before the climax?

If we were in freshman English I would call it the rising action.

It's the part that's basically just boring, but you watch it anyway because you trust that something good is about to happen.

It's the part when Gaston proposes to Belle.

It's the part when Rapunzel sends her fake mom searching for birthday paint.

It's the part when a lot of barking happens on 101 Dalmatians.

It also happens in non-Disney movies.

A Knight's Tale when they try to figure out what to do with the dead guy.

Batman when Christian Bale goes and lives in the mountain.

That's a lot of examples. You get the point right? There's a boring mountain part right before Batman becomes, well, Batman.

That's the part of life I'm in.

Except, my rising action is taking way longer than 15 minutes and a song about a provincial life.

Like, if this was a movie, I would have to say something--

"Hey Spielberg, no one is watching anymore. They've all lost interest. Everyone in the theatre is gone... Do you think we could wrap this up so I can cross make a full length feature film off my bucket list?"

But it's not a movie. And if my life was a movie, Spielberg would not be directing it. I respect him and all, but he seems to have a thing for aliens, and I'm not sure my life is really heading in that direction.

Anyway, I don't know what a girl has to do to get a little more climax around here.

Maybe it's time to ride my horse into the wilderness at the risk of being attacked by wolves.

Or maybe I just need to convince my friends to pitch in money to help me join a lancing club.

Or, I don't know, what happens in Batman? I stopped watching during the mountain training part.

The point is, usually you have to do something crazy to find your climax.

And the craziest thing I did today was stand barefoot in the street while it was raining.

It didn't work.

And it was cold.

So I'm going to go clean my bathroom now.

Not because cleaning the bathroom is the kind of crazy that will land me a climax.

But because I don't want to have a dirty bathroom when I decide to leave my tower in search of the floating lights.

I think I'll have enough to think about without having to worry about a dirty bathtub.

Besides, cleaning is almost always part of the boring part.

Snow White.

Cinderella.

Tangled.

27 Dresses.

Just to name a few.

I'm one bathroom bleaching and one far-off adventure away from the climax I've been waiting for.

I just know it.

I should have been a dancer

2011-10-03T22:18:00.000-07:00

Do you remember that episode of Charlie Brown when Lucy set up the psychiatric both and sold advice for a nickel?

Because I think I'd totally pay a nickel for advice.

Even if it was bad advice.

Well, maybe I'd only pay half a nickel for bad advice.

Anyhow, because I'm a golden rule type girl, I'd like to give you some unsolicited advice.

1. Turn off your TV. It is not as cool as you think it is. Even when it is playing Friday Night Lights. Even when it is frozen on a close up of Tim Riggins. Even when it is making you think Texas is your forgotten homeland.

2. Like the grandma stuck in a tree said on Pocahontas said, "listen with your heart, and you will understand." It's hard to say, for certain, what you will understand. But I think you will understand something. And I think that something will be important.

3. If all else fails, go to YouTube. Look up "I Hope You Dance." Press play. Dance. Keep dancing until you forget that you dropped out of dance class at five years old. Dance like everyone is watching. And keep dancing until you're convinced that Swan Lake will take you in, put you on stage and make you a star.

(If you want to leave some solicited advice in return for my unsolicited advice, please do. There will be no nickels involved in this exchange.)

In the meantime, I'm going to go take my own advice. Starting with the YouTube bit.

I'm pressing play...

"That's What Time is For, So Everything Doesn't Happen at Once" - Mozzie and Einstein

2011-09-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

This is my baby sister.

I usually don't call her that.

I just call her my sister.

She's 16 today.

I would make a joke about how everyone should stay off the road.

But that would be cliche.

I hate that joke.

And she's a good driver.

So everyone stay on the road, OK?

Unless you're a bad

driver.

Then get off.

Anyway,

Today, on her birthday,

I want my sister to know one thing--

I will never stop asking her to fly plastic-bag kites with me.

And no matter how old she gets, she will always be my baby sister.

My baby sister who's turn it is to drive next.

Happy birthday love.

Neva have I eva, in my whole life, met a baby sister as great as you.

"I don't want realism, I want magic" - Blanche

2011-09-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

This is a bad picture of a flamingo.

It has nothing to do with the price of rice in China.

Or anything, really.

I'm just posting it because my blog needs more color.

And because I'm avoiding writing about real things.

Because real things are muddled.

Real things are good.

But they're muddled.

And bad pictures of flamingos aren't muddled. They're simple.

They're just bad pictures of flamingos.

A girl, some eggs and the market

2011-09-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

I only like to write in the morning.

2 in the morning.

4 in the morning.

7 in the morning.

Anytime, really, in the morning.

This is highly inconvenient because:

1. I am asleep between 2 and 4 in the morning.

2. I feed the dogs at 7 in the morning.

Take away point-- there is not much time left in my morning for writing.

But this morning, between feeding the dogs and washing my hair, I started thinking about eggs. Because:

1. I need to eat more protein.

2. The dang chickens that live in the backyard and have three or four different names, each, will not lay eggs.

Anyway, I was thinking about eggs. In the morning. And because my mind is a wanderer, I started thinking about the girl who went to the market with a basket of eggs.

In case you were deprived of moralistic stories in your childhood, or in case you have no idea what story I'm talking about, let me tell you about the girl who went to the market with a basket of eggs.

There was a girl.

She walked to the market.

To sell her eggs.

But she put them all in one basket.

And she dropped the basket.

And all the eggs cracked.

And she was sad. And eggless.

So between making oatmeal and brushing my teeth, I started thinking about how you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. Because if your basket falls, and your eggs break, then you're just a girl with a basket full of vandalistic paint remover.

This led to full evaluation of my life via metaphor.

And what I concluded, between brushing my teeth and brushing my hair, is I shouldn't have been allowed to read fables as a child.

Because I have a tendency to over-think things. And sometimes people who hear stories about broken eggs and slippery basket handles, end up deciding to just collect 300 baskets and put one egg in each one.

But the thing about having 300 baskets, is that by the time you get half a dozen eggs to the marketplace, the sun has gone down, and all your customers are gone, and you're left with 300 baskets and a lot of eggs that might as well be vandalistic paint remover.

Are you with me?

No?

Well, what I'm trying to say is I'm indecisive.

And I'm blaming the basket story.

I also don't want to live in a log cabin.

Which is probably the fault of the Three Little Pigs.

And we can almost certainly trace my trust issues back to the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

So the moral of the story is:

Don't judge people;

You never know what nursery rhyme they heard as a child.

Also, buy chickens that lay eggs.

And finally, if you want to write in the morning, feed your dogs at night.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End.

Two Truths and Another Truth

2011-07-12T23:31:00.000-07:00

ONE

If I were a journalist, I would do an investigative, undercover report on Subway. First, I would pose as recovered drug addict teenager, then I would get a job at my local sandwich shop. Once outfitted with plastic gloves and a green apron, I would finally know the truth to my reoccurring questions--

a) Does Subway have a special training session on how to be successfully stingy with olives? AND does the winner of olive frugality win a plaque?

b) Do they have an opposing policy on mayonnaise?

TWO

One time I was wearing red shoes. And I tripped and fell down the stairs. At the Lincoln Center. In New York City.

Maybe someday I'll tell you that story.

But you'd have to promise not to feel sorry for me.

THREE

I want to go to Paris.

I don't know what I'd do once I got there. Probably sit on some steps and wonder why I didn't buy a map before sailing away to Europe. But I'd still like to go. Mostly for the change of scenery. I would appreciate a brief change of scenery.

I'd also like to go to Disneyland.

On account of it's the happiest place on earth.

And that's a true story.

If you like Pina Coladas

2011-07-11T22:20:00.000-07:00

So the other afternoon, I'm in the bathroom, trying to find an inventive way to tie my hair in a bun on the very top of my head without causing a headache, when my sister calls me from the living room.

"Hey Alec," she says, "Would you say your looks are average, above average, good or stunning?"

I know there is only one proper way to answer her question.

I walk out of the bathroom. Then I stare at her with a look only a girl who has just been asked to define her attractiveness while sporting a head muffin can give.

She, my sister, is sitting on the couch giggling at her computer screen. I, in the meantime, am still staring at her, failing to ask the obvious question: Why isn't there an option below average?

She checks a box, and we move on to question number two.

"How many children do you have?"

"Two," I say.

"How many do you live with?"

"One." Obviously.

"How romantic are you?"

"Not very, but I love to cook."

By the end of this conversation, we have created an online dating profile that can only be described as "fascinating and sure to be wildly successful."

Seriously, if someone were to write a review of my dating profile, I'm pretty sure those would be the exact words they would pen.

Long story short, by 4pm yesterday afternoon I was a STUNNING Russian lady from St. Petersburg with two children (this was especially impressive given my young age--21). I enjoyed singing in Broadway musicals, collecting snakes as pets and practicing potions. I preferred not to read.

My sister and I spent a few minutes perusing the potential online candidates before deleting Stella forever. I miss her already.

There are a few key take away points that I hope you get from this story.

1. There is a reason people sometimes quit blogging. And it is usually because they are busy creating alter egos and aliases and doing equally cool things.

It is not because they are busy eating bowls of cereal and are afraid of typing whilst eating because of the looming danger of spilt milk.

2. If ever your life becomes dull, you should resort to lying to poor souls who are just looking for life companions. Being Stella from St. Petersburg will do loads for your self esteem and overall happiness.

3. You should always remain leery about the information available on the internet. Be careful. Your Russian lady with stunning looks, two children and a Broadway musical career could, in all actuality, be a girl with muffin hair, a dog and a Justin Bieber song stuck in her head.

Just saying.

4. If your sister decides to sign you up for a dating site, on a Sunday afternoon, under the pretense that she has nothing better to do...

It may be time for you to Get. A. Life.

And a lover.

So...

If you like Piña Coladas.

And getting caught in the rain...

Just kidding.

I don't even like Piña Coladas.

June 21

2011-06-23T00:09:00.001-07:00

I'm changing my birthday to June 21st.

Not because I don't like the number 22.

But because I've always had better luck with birthdays that happen on the 21st.

I would expound, but my brain is foggy from the insomnia.

I think what I'm saying is that June 21st was my favorite day of this year.

And I'm also saying I'm tired.

And I'm also saying I'm weird.

And finally, I'm saying: if there are any hideous spelling and/or grammatical errors in this post, then we shall all accept the fact that I have been awake (with the exception of a few rocky hours of sleep on an airplane) since Monday morning at 5 am.

Which, in case you are wondering, was a long time ago.

And, IN CONCLUSION, my birthday shall henceforth be honorarily on the 21st of June, as I am fairly certain this will fix everything.

Okay, hugs and kisses.

Wait... I have Something to say

2011-03-23T23:17:00.000-07:00

It is 11:15 p.m.

I am sitting at a small table, on a hard chair, and watching the airport man clean the floors.

I think I'd like his job. He gets to ride around in circles on a blue cart. Also, he gets to wear latex gloves.

I don't know though, maybe it's not as glamorous as it seems.

My flight to New York has been delayed 4 hours.

I can't complain of course, because I was begging the universe not to let me miss my flight. As far as I'm concerned, the universe not only came through for me, but also gave me the opportunity to watch the man two tables over sleep sitting up and let me enjoy this small table and hard chair.

I feel thoroughly validated.

The only problem with having an unanticipated four hours in the airport is that there is plenty of time for thinking. I have become unaccustomed to the process, and all the thoughts that have been waiting to be thought about, are now giving me a headache.

To distract myself, I am watching the airport workers change the light bulbs. I think I would like to own one of the machines they are using. That way I could reach the cups on the top shelf without having to crawl up on the counter.

Side note: I'm fairly certain every single one of the airport workers must think I'm a stalker with a thing for blue shirts.

Because I keep staring at them. Then turning back to my computer and typing away.

Unfortunately for all parties, I am not a stalker. And I feel pretty unenthusiastic about their blue shirts. I say unfortunately, because I think all of our lives would be a little more exciting if I regularly frequented the outside-of-security section of the airport, at around midnight, in attempt to pick up airport night workers.

I bet you think I'm going somewhere with this.

But I'm not.

Wait.

I changed my mind.

I have something to say.

First, I'm not a stalker. I'll admit, in high school I displayed some signs of stalkerdom, but I have grown out of it almost entirely.

Second, I am a little offended that the airport worker didn't even wink at me, despite my seemingly obvious interest in his blue shirt.

And third, I would just like to stand up and say that I still believe in dreaming big. I mean look at me, I wished for a little bit of luck with time, and I ended up with four extra hours in the airport.

I think I'm probably the luckiest girl EVER.

I wish I could just flush these tweezers down the toilet

2011-03-15T01:46:00.001-07:00

I'm going to be completely honest.

When I woke up this morning, I did not think that by the end of the night I would ask my sister to comb through my hair, piece by piece, with her bare fingers to check for ticks.

I mean, that wasn't even on my radar.

And let's face it, I wake up with some weird ideas sometimes. (Most of these weird ideas are inspired by Katy Perry and her song about fireworks. Because for whatever reason, I wake up with that song in my head every. morning.)

But the point is, even Katy Perry couldn't make me think that by 11:59 p.m. I'd be standing in front of the bathroom mirror cringing everything my sister went in for a closer look.

But I was. Standing in front of the mirror. Praying that my sister would not see anything with eight legs crawling around in my hair follicles.

I hate arachnids.

A lot.

You'll be happy to hear though, that my sister did not find any ticks on my head.

Roxy was not so lucky. And after my sister finished checking me for creepy crawlers, I spent the next 45 minutes trying to dislodge one of the disgusting eight-leggers from Roxy's neck.

(That's where this whole thing started by the way. Cabo had ticks. Roxy interacts with Cabo. I like to let Roxy and Cabo sleep on my bed (because it reminds me of Homeward Bound). Homeward Bound failed to emphasize the realistic possibility of dogs carrying ticks, especially after having spent 2 weeks abandoned in the woods. And because of a groomer that likes to give poodle cuts and the civic irresponsibility of certain movies I watched as a child, suddenly I'm standing in the bathroom wishing that I had followed Brittney Spears example and just shaved the hair off my head.

Just kidding. There has never been a single second of my life that I wished I would have followed Brittney Spears example.

But I think I've made my point. Arachnids + bathrooms = trauma.)

So anyway, after I sat in the hall for an hour trying to kill one tick by pouring a half-empty bottle of Advantix on it, I finally pulled out a pair of tweezers and tickled the tick until it came out.

I couldn't pull it out, because 1) gross. And 2) the internet said it's head could get stuck in my dog's skin, which just didn't sound ideal.

So I just sort of poked at it until eventually it gave up its will to live and fell in my bowl.

It's been a long night. And, frankly, I'm exhausted.

But unfortunately, said trauma has resulted in the most unproductive all-nighter of my life.

I can't go to sleep - because if there are ticks in my hair, I will get them in my sheets, which I just finished washing.

I also cannot pack like I planned to do all night. Because if I touch my clothes, they will probably get tick germs on them. This is a completely rational thought--my belief that the tick germs will spread to my clothes. I know it is rational because I used tweezers AND latex gloves to remove the tick, and it it common knowledge that tick germs can infiltrate latex if said latex is used in conjunction with tweezers that were originally purchased so you could maintain your eyebrows.

Which brings me to my original point.

I wish I could just flush the tweezers down the toilet.

Goodness forbid I should accidentally use the tick-germ tweezers to try to clean up the excess hair upon my brow.

I threw those tweezers in the trash but still....

I would just feel a lot better if they were hidden deep, deep, deep, down in the sewer.

My phone will only let me type in the title so here's the short version: I'm holding a bucket of ice. In the hotel hallway. Can't sleep.

2011-03-04T22:16:00.001-08:00

The Fridge is making a loud noise that is distracting my thought process, so if none of this makes sense, let's blame the fridge. OK? OK.

2011-03-01T21:12:00.000-08:00

I have been waiting for this day all year long!

It's March.

Pull out your slip 'n slide and get ready for spring, because it's March and things are turning green.

(Okay, technically things have been green for a while now, because it's Arizona and because my grass is fake, but still...)

I love March.

I love it so much that I painted my toes at 11pm last night, so they'd be pretty for March. Then I promptly removed the polish because, as it turns out, I do not have a steady hand at 11 pm.

I love this month so much that when my alarm went off at 6am this morning, I almost actually considered getting out of bed and enjoying the new month. Then I promptly hit the snooze button because, as it turns out, I was tired.

AND... I love March so much that I have decided to log on to this blog and give you an update about my life. (I'll probably promptly delete it because, as it turns out, my updates are lame and slightly nonsensical.)

Since I last wrote, A LOT has happened.

First, I have decided to carry out my destiny as the reincarnation of Jane Austen. So far my achievements in this category include-- actually there is only one-- I have learned how to braid my hair all the way around my head. Also, I have not gotten married, so I guess that makes two.

Goals for this month: write 12 letters to dear friends and relatives. Also, write a novel that will later be turned into a PBS special.

Second, a few weeks ago I decided that ironing is a blatant waste of time. Since then I have spent an immeasurable amount of time trying to come up with creative ways to avoid it. Most of these creative ideas involve a squirt bottle. Occasionally that squirt bottle is followed by a blow dryer. But usually I just use the squirt bottle.

Goals for this month: keep up the good work.

Third, I signed up for the gym.

Goals for this month: go.

Fourth, I have tried to quit sugar 17 times. You should know that these attempts to quit usually end with me shoving chocolate chips down my throat.

Goals for this month: complete attempts to quit sugar 18,19 & 20. And try to keep the relapse chocolate chips to a minimum.

Fifth, I've become a whale detective. I'm not sure exactly what this entails, but I think I'm supposed to encourage people to save the whales. So, if you are eating fish caught by fisherman who kill whales, then STOP! Because if I catch you eating dolphin un-safe tuna, you'll have to face me and the badge (and by badge I mean paper card that I got from the Arizona aquarium).

But seriously, let's save the whales OK? Buy wild-caught salmon from Alaska instead of farmed fish. It's better for everyone.

And that concludes this update.

Oh wait, one more thing:

I just wanted to remind you that it's March.

I love this month.

Thank Y-O-U

2010-11-30T18:00:00.000-08:00

It's the last day of November.

I am wearing blue.

And in the last two days, this side of Arizona has finally accepted that it's simply not summer anymore.

But let's go back to the last day of November bit.

Because this month I have written exactly two posts (the current included). And neither of them, up to this point, have said a single thing for which I'm grateful.

Which, on the bad person scale, puts me somewhere between a babysitter who steals a scoop of ice cream and kitten killer.

I like to stay as far away from the kitten killer side of that scale as possible.

So, I have decided to remedy this by telling you at least one thing for which I am grateful on this, the last day of November.

And here goes.

ONE. The Auto Zone.

When my car's engine light came on twice, in not so many months, I was saddened.

And I said, "Lola, the Corolla, what the heck? I know I called you akin to a low grade stripper, and I sometimes park you outside of the lines, but seriously. A battery, a 60k service and your very own bottle of Febreeze in just a couple of weeks? What more do you want from me? Why are you flashing that ridiculous-looking engine light in my face?"

And after that speech, I began picturing myself riding one of those engine bike things on the 60 freeway to work everyday. Maybe with a pink helmet and some nice knee pads.

But since my face is sensitive to the wind, I knew that would never work.

I prepared myself for the worst. I visualized handing over my Visa to a smiling mechanic with car grease stuck under his finger nails. And I practiced reacting to the news that Lola was simply not going to make it this time.

But then I found out that Auto Zone would tell me that Lola was dying for free. And I thought that sounded like a good enough deal, so I drove her to the store and parked her right up front.

Guess what!

Lola needed a new gas cap.

Not open heart surgery.

Thank you Auto Zone; I am grateful for YOU.

TWO. Vegetable Broth.

Needs no explanation.

THREE. Blankets.

Have I ever mentioned my affinity toward being warm?

FOUR. Blog posts without lists.

I must remember in the future that writing lists not intended for the grocery store or a busy Saturday irritates me.

FIVE. A lot of other things, for which I am even more grateful than vegetable broth and $12 car repairs.

And I would list them, one by one, except that I can't for various reasons, including, but not limited to, that it would put me too close to the hearts, stars and rainbows extreme of the bad person scale, and I don't want to give any false impressions or anything, and also, that's a lot of pressure, since no one can be a Lisa Frank explosion all the time.

Also, I don't know if you missed the bit a few paragraphs above about banning all future lists that are not meant merely for organizational purposes.

So basically, in conclusion, I would like to give a note to the other things, of which there are many-- I am grateful for YOU, all the time.

But especially today,

the last day of November,

on which I wore blue,

and it was cold outside.

I saw the bottom of Lake Pleasant. And it was dirty

2010-11-02T19:44:00.001-07:00

I am currently wrapped up in a fleece blanket that I stole from the living room, chewing on a KitKat leftover from Halloween, and it's starting to look like my plans to clean the bathroom tonight are going to fall through.

The bad news is: if I have any guests over that need to use the bathroom, I'm going to have to send them to the Chevron down the street.

The good news is: with this new opening in my schedule, I have enough time to tell you all about becoming scuba certified, and the lessons I learned along the way.

I'll start with the most obvious--

1 ~ I should never, under any circumstance, move to Alaska.

Let me explain with a series of statistics--

Day One of pool lessons.

Outside temperature: 96 degrees.

Water temperature: 80 degrees.

Wetsuit type: short - 3 mm

Normal reaction to circumstances: fine

My reaction to circumstances: unstoppable shivering.

Day Two of pool lessons.

Outside temperature: 94 degrees.

Water temperature: 79 degrees

Wetsuit type: long - 8 mm

My reaction to circumstances: mostly controllable shivering.

After day one in the pool, my instructors bumped me up to the thickest wetsuit there is. Because I am apparently the type of person who needs 4 extra mm of neoprene to stay warm in a heated pool.

I have been searching Craig's List for a drysuit ever since. But so far all I've found is a men's extra large. I am happy to report that if I continue to eat leftover KitKats at the rate I am now, I'll fit into that suit in no time.

2 ~ My mom wasn't kidding when she said, "Put on your lifejacket. If you don't, you might drown, and we'll never find you."

I thought she was exaggerating. But I saw the bottom of Lake Pleasant. And it was dirty.

3 ~ 'Tis better to pee in your wetsuit, than to not.

I'll tell you what, if you happen to be suffering from a mild case of OCD and/or germaphobia, you may want to consider diving.

It'll fix you right up.

Because when you're deciding between breathing out of that mostly unsanitary regulator that 5,000,000 other people have put in their probably-mono-infected mouths and taking in a big mouth-full of Lake Pleasant water, you're probably going to put the dirty regulator in your mouth and feel pretty darn good about it.

And... when your swimming in the 68 degree water thinking about how you really could use a bathroom break and a Snuggie right now, you might be faced with some hard decisions...(to pee, or not to pee)... And I'll just say that one option is like pouring a bucket of hot water into a cold bath and the other is like looking for a bathroom in a rainstorm.

And I'm not implying that I chose one thing over the other, I'm just saying that one option was clearly better than the other.

And, when it comes down to it, the most important thing I learned (besides to NEVER hold my breath and to try to avoid decompression chambers) is that "good stuff is good, pick it."

(Thanks to Alex B. for supplying those words of wisdom, which, just for the record, actually had nothing to do with staying warm in wetsuits, and almost everything to do with choosing not to give terrorists pencils.)

Now, I'm going to go see if I can reschedule my cleaning date with the bathroom. Because, like the bottom of Lake Pleasant, I have seen my bathroom. And it is dirty.

Barnyards, Blank Screens and Bad Dreams

2010-10-25T20:08:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I had a dream.

I was trying out stand-up comedy.

And, as is common for stand-up comedians, I was trying to think of funny things to say.

But, first of all, no one could hear me over the viewing of Jurassic Park on the movie-theater-size screen in the background. And, second of all, I just wasn't funny.

As it turns out, my subconscious sucks at stand-up...

Guys, I haven't been the same since.

Every time I sit down to write anything, my evil shoulder criticizer is all, "Don't even bother. You'll never be funny. Remember that time you tried stand-up comedy in your dream...?"

Then it, the shoulder criticizer, gives me a sad smile, and poofs away.

I, in the meantime, am left staring at a blank screen, knowing that my dreams of publishing a humor column in a half-rate newspaper are crushed... gone... broken.

I won't tame the truth here--it has been hard times.

Because of this, I have been bottling up all sorts of exciting news.

Like how I've been thinking of ways to revamp the theme song from Puff the Magic Dragon. It's time that song made a come-back, don't you think?

And speaking of Puff the Magic Dragon, do you think I could be Puff the Magic Dragon for Halloween. Because I need a decent-enough-that-no-one-asks-me-what-I-am costume by tomorrow, and I've got nothing. I promise to start liking Halloween once I can figure out how to make a costume out of jeans, a t-shirt and some cool diamonds by my eyes.

You know what, maybe I could be Taylor Swift. She wears diamonds by her eyes. And she probably wore jeans once...

Do you think if I curled my hair, carried a guitar and wore a shirt that said, "Steven, Drew or Taylor Lautner?" people would know who I was? If not, I guess I could just throw a sheet over my head and say I'm Casper. But I'm pretty sure Casper doesn't wear diamonds by his eyes, or jeans for that matter.

And hey, as long as we're on the topic of Taylor Swift... who likes her new song Speak Now? I do. In fact, I like it so much that I have worked it into one of my life plans.

I came up with this idea a few nights ago when I was sitting in the car thinking about how the most exciting thing I had done in the past month was sing an Ashlee Simpson song on the freeway.

After a few minutes of thinking about ways to add a little carpe diem to my life, I came up with the following--

(The excerpt below has been written in present tense for dramatic effect -- or something like that.)

I drive to Vegas. Once there, I sign up for one of those shotgun weddings. Then, just as I'm about to say 'I do' to some stranger, one of my past lovers bursts through the doors. He is singing the new Taylor Swift song. Then he looks into eyes, stands up on a plastic folding chair, and asks me to meet him behind the barn. He, my past lover, doesn't approve of me getting married to this stranger, because he doesn't like the pastel colors that my guests are wearing. I think there are bigger issues in this wedding than the hues reminiscent of Easter, but I say yes to his barnyard proposal anyway, and take off running.

Later, I buy the wedding video so I can show my future grandkids.

(End present tense.)

Upon watching said video, the aforementioned future grandkids, will think the whole thing was all very romantic.

In fact, they will be so busy asking questions about this mystery man who doesn't like pastels, that they won't even have time or thought to ask me why I never did anything impressive with my life. I, in turn, will never be propelled to explain to the future generations how my dreams of becoming impressive by writing humor columns for a half-rate newspaper were crushed once upon a time by a failed attempt at stand-up comedy in, what can only be explained as, a very bad dream.

2 plus 2 equals 4

2010-09-16T20:51:00.000-07:00

My life has been kind of weird lately.

Weird as in I have no sheets on my bed. Because they looked dirty. And I found a bug on them. So, I threw them on the floor. And I am not going to pick them up. I am going to buy new ones.

Weird as in I am considering pursuing a career in shampoo bottle writing. Because I would like to be the person who makes washing your hair sound like an experience. And I would like to be able to say to people, "Oh, you use Suave? Did you read the instructions? No big deal, but I wrote that."

Weird as in I am wearing mismatching socks, and yesterday I ate Dairy Queen. Because I couldn't find matching ones. And because I was hungry and I didn't want to go to Barros Pizza wearing the same outfit I had on last time I was there.

Weird as in when I was 12 and writing out my 10 year plan, it did not include sleeping on a bed without sheets or writing (on shampoo bottles or otherwise) or eating Dairy Queen. I think it included five kids and matching socks.

Weird as in I watch too much TV, eat cookies too often and spend too much time trying to flatten the bumps in my ponytail.

Weird as in normal. As in not stressful. As in fine.

...As in 2 plus 2 equals four.

That's one of the only things I knew when I was 12 and still know now: 2+2=4.

The other one is: I'm not going for 4. I'm going for 1000.

Hey,

2010-09-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

It has been a weird day.

I drank kale for breakfast.

That is all.

A Rationale for Hoarding

2010-09-14T18:24:00.000-07:00

If you have ever watched TLC's Hoarding: Buried Alive program, you have probably thought to yourself,

Dang.

And,

Seriously?

And,

Intervention! Intervention! Can we please get some intervention up in here?!

And when the program was over, before you changed the channel to Wizards of Waverly Place (or is that just me?), you probably took a moment to be seriously pensive and think:

How does that happen? Why do people become hoarders?

How does someone go from the sweet lady who likes shopping at Ikea and reading want ads to the crazy lady who has 54 dead cats buried under a collection of newspapers and pieces of furniture that were never assembled?

Well, as most things do, hoarding starts small...

(Disclaimer: I realize that this is a serious issue. I am about to make light of it. If that offends you, please stop reading. Because I hate offending people.)

...It's starts on a 105 degree Tuesday.

In a normal work office. On a normal work day.

The time is 10 minutes after lunch hour.

And the future hoarder is still hungry.

She is wondering how she can survive without 28 more grams of sugar.

Just then she sees a glint of silver glimmering from a pocket in her purse.

Just kidding, nothing's glimmering. Actually, I can't remember why she looked in her purse. But she did.

And in her purse was one very smooshed--that's right, smooshed--Special K Bar.

In fact, based on the state it was in, she probably should have thrown it away weeks ago.

But instead of following normal food rules of society, she ate it.

And it was the best 28 grams of sugar she ever had.

Just kidding. Actually, this potential future hoarder has eaten gelato in Uruguay and chocolate cake from Costco--she has had better grams of sugar. But the sugar was good.

She also found a mysterious $10 bill that she thought she had spent. So she will now probably associate hoarding with re-attaining spent money.

In case you haven't figured it out, the potential future hoarder in the story is me.

So if you see me on TLC in 10 years in a house full of kittens buried under piles of Special K wrappers, you won't have to ask how it happened. You won't have to wonder why. You won't have to ponder how a perfectly normal girl who just happens to have birthday cards saved from her 10th birthday, ended up in crazy town.

You'll know.

It was all because of a $10 bill and a smooshed Special K bar.

I Seriously Need a Cat

2010-09-12T12:39:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you know, but a certain gourmet cat food company is hosting the opportunity of a lifetime.

Which, incidentally, was not meant to be pun, but sort of is.

Here's why--

The other night I was watching re-runs of either How I Met Your Mother or Project Runway on Lifetime TV, when the commercials came on.

Usually, this would be the time when I hit the fast forward button on my remote.

But that night was different...

I was watching live TV.

Maybe it was fate. Or maybe it was just a coincidence.

But either way, that's when I saw it--the sign.

[Insert 1993 hit pop song by Ace of Base]

It was an ad for Fancy Feast's photo contest sweepstakes.

It told me to take a photo of me and my beloved pet cat, and I could be the winner of a big screen TV, year supply of cat food and...

A WALK-ON ROLE IN A LIFETIME MOVIE.

Ahhh!

Forget YouTube.

All I need is a picture of me and my cat. I'm going to be famous!

Not to mention, it's always been a life-long dream of mine to play a drug-addicted teenager with a propensity for spontaneous human combustion.

I'd even settle for a teenage runaway who sees ghosts.

And I'm sure that walk-on role is all I need to begin an illustrious career of playing distraught teenagers (preferably ones made famous by young adult literature) for the rest of my working life.

Obviously, I am already perusing Forbes magazine for the top ten places to retire at 28.

I've always wondered why, despite being a decade older, I still look 12.

And now I know.

It's so I can move to a retirement community in North Carolina while I'm still young.

There's only one flaw in my otherwise perfect plan.

I don't exactly have a cat.

I did once.

But that didn't really work out.

Don't worry though.

I have a back-up plan.

See, my neighbor had a cat that was not fixed.

And it was not kept indoors.

And it was a lady cat.

And, doing what lady cats do, it went and got itself all sorts of pregnant.

And so all I have to do, is walk down the street with some catnip, find the cuddliest of all the feral cats and take a photo with it.

In exchange for this photo, should I win the contest, I will give the stray a year's supply of a certain gourmet cat food.

You know, for helping me with the opportunity of a lifetime and all.

Brought to you straight from the bottom of my "School Stuff" Box

2010-08-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

For the last few days, I've been cleaning out my old school stuff box.

It's been fun.

And enlightening really.

For example, here are two template poems written 6 years apart--

"If I were in Charge of the World" - January 1998 (4th grade)

If I were in charge of the world

I'd cancel getting shots,

Tomatoes except for ketchup,

Violence

And also onions except for onion rings.

If I were in charge of the world

There'd be robots to clean for you and

Candy would be for free.

If I were in charge of the world

You wouldn't have spiders,

You wouldn't have scorpions,

You wouldn't have posin (poison??) snacks

Or sharks.

You wouldn't even have ants that bite.

If I were in charge of the world

A government would be fair.

All countries would be free.

And a person who sometimes forgot to turn off lights

And sometimes forgot to practice piano

Would still be allowed to be

In charge of the world.

"If I were in Charge of the World" - 2004 (10th grade)

If I were in charge of the world

I'd cancel early mornings,

Doctor appointments

Casserole

And stupid boys.

If I were in charge of the world

There'd be closer stars

Louder laughs

And more smiles.

If I were in charge of the world

You wouldn't have homework.

You wouldn't have bad hair days.

Or "don't stay out too late".

You wouldn't even have too late.

If I were in charge of the world

Dogs would be allowed to go everywhere with you.

All ice cream would be fat free.

And a person who sometimes was a little late

And sometimes tends to procrastinate

Would still be allowed to be in charge of the world.

After comparing these two poems, I have realized two things.

1. My general concern for politics and government disappeared upon exiting the fourth grade.

2. The only common string between 4th and 8th grade me, is my passion (read: strong feelings) for food. I mean, I devote entire stanzas to offing onions and casserole. And then five seconds later, I'm commanding free candy and fatless ice cream for all.

Not to mention, at 9 years old, I was very concerned about getting rid of those "poison snacks".

They just ruin it for everyone.

Somewhere along this journey called life I became a bad blogger

2010-08-23T01:55:00.000-07:00

Lately, I can't think of anything to say.

Or at least I can't think of how to say it.

That could be because I only blog after 12 a.m.

Which, incidentally, is after my brain turns to mush, but before it turns brilliant from a combination of exhaustion and lack of inhibitions.

Just so you know, I use the term brilliant loosely.

In fact, I use all vocabulary loosely when my brain is mush.

Also just so you know, I wish my can of V8 Fusion juice was not empty.

And finally, just so you know, there is a giant spider somewhere near or under my chair. And so I am going to bed before it eats me.

I hope someday I find something to say.

And then I find how to say it.

Because I like saying things.

'Night.

In Honor of a Certain Someone Who I Think is Awesome

2010-08-19T00:31:00.000-07:00

"At the coco, coco banana."

"Oh... that's not Alan."

Sort of like VH1, Except without the Comedians

2010-08-18T02:22:00.000-07:00

I'm sort of a liar.

Due to a few not-exactly-technical difficulties, my so-called summer recap is coming not as soon as I previously planned.

But not to worry.

I have thought of a way to make it up to all of you who were fooled into excitement by my brilliant marketing campaign and are now feeling a little let down.

I now bring you--

I Love the 00's.

FLASHBACK!

Okay people, it's 2006.

Lost is on TV. And people's minds are already being blown by the cast of characters that crash landed on a mysterious island.

What they don't realize, is that this show is actually Gilligan's Island with time travel.

They also don't realize that (SPOILER ALERT!) after 6 seasons of confusing plot twists and TV induced headaches, all the characters are just going to die at the end.

When Lost goes to a commercial break--since DVR is nothing more than a distant desire of the general public's imagination and since the general public is tired of watching commercials featuring insurance-buying cavemen--the people of 2006 switch the channel to their second favorite network: MTV.

There, James Blunt is telling them they're beautiful in abnormally whiny vocals while he empties his pockets during his music video that is playing between episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen and MADE.

Meanwhile, I, a ((currently)) blond girl dressed in a pink polo, am standing in a long line of fame-seeking high schoolers who are all auditioning to be featured on that very TV show (MADE, that is).

Soon, I will try to convince the man who is somehow associated with MTV, that I am shy and insecure. And, furthermore, only learning to salsa dance and then performing at my school's next cultural assembly will cure me of my social awkwardness.*

When the MTV man asks me where the nearest drinking fountain is, I will consider it a test of how well I know my school, so I will try desperately to give him detailed directions to the hallway drinking spot, in an attempt to prove my sound school spirit.

As it will turn out, the MTV man is just thirsty.

Some students will later conclude that the MADE tryouts were just an elaborate senior prank.

But I know they were real.

Because I'm watching it on the news--MTV searching for MADE participants at local high schools makes the 6p.m. lineup.

Also in this year's news--this just in--Pluto is not a planet.

And so begins a new cultural divide. Are you for or against Pluto??

While scientists argue over the differences between dwarf planets and jupiter, I am struggling with my own scientific discoveries.

Specifically, I am looking for a broken refrigerator.

After begging the workers to let us into the dump, my group and I are standing in the middle of a landfill, wondering where to look for appliances.

The workers point us in the right direction, and soon we are videotaping somebody else's trash as we explain the complexities of thermal physics.**

We later show our fridge presentation in class. And get an A.

I do not fall asleep that day.

Speaking of things that are cold, my favorite movie, Eight Below, comes out this year.

I watch it, with my friend that I have known since first grade, on free pancake day at IHOP.

A few months later, I get lost on my way to IHOP.

All I can find is an International House of Pancakes, so I settle.

This is the day I realize that IHOP and International House of Pancakes are one in the same.***

Shortly thereafter, I graduate from high school.

Yay!

A few days before graduation, though, I ask people to sign my yearbook.

They write about MADE and about how I dyed my hair, about the length of time we have known each other and about how I sleep in class.

They don't know that four years later I will read what they wrote.

And I'll miss '06.

And I'll write a flashback on my blog (which is kind of like Live Journal, except, as far as I can tell, slightly less emo).

And I'll say it's to make up for the not-exactly-technical difficulties.

But really, it will be because...

I LOVE THE 00's!

FLASHBACK

* Yes, this really happened.

** True story.

*** I am not kidding. I was meeting friends at IHOP and almost called them to say I could only find the International House of Pancakes. I was just about to make the call when my brain finally made this connection... I-International, H- House, O-of, P-Pancakes!

Early Morning Mumbo Jumbo

2010-08-17T03:27:00.000-07:00

It's 3 in the morning, and I am eating frozen pie and thinking it's a good thing that Netflix regularly adds new movies, because I am running out of romantic comedies to watch.

I am also thinking that I should seriously consider fixing my sleeping schedule, because it's weird that I wake up at 8 or 9 (p.m.), and then spend all night working on various projects that I like to pretend are worthwhile.

Anyway, weird or not, I can't fix my sleeping schedule. At least not tonight. On account of this pie is probably going to give me nightmares. And I prefer waking up from nightmares when it's light outside.

Besides, it's quieter at night.

Which is beneficial, especially when I'm watching romantic comedies made in the 70s and 80s on Netflix.

After all, I like to be able to hear what the talking babies are saying.

Anyway...

I'm writing mostly because I want to tell you that a real* update is COMING SOON**.

And giving you this information just so happens to have the fringe benefit of writing about frozen pie and talking babies.

Apparently.

Note:

If you're still confused regarding the purpose and meaning of this post, here's the picture version.

Disclaimer:

The picture version will probably not help with your confusion.

[Another Note: the pictures in column 1 are not mine and can be found here, here and here.)

Well, it's getting light outside.

And you know what that means.

It's time for me to fall asleep to the soothing sounds of 1980s romance streaming from my regularly updated Netflix instant play.

Good night!

* Real, as can generally be assumed on this blog, is a relative term here.

** I am working on my marketing skills, so I put this phrase in red and capital letters to excite you.

The Defense

2010-06-06T02:43:00.000-07:00

**** ALEC'S INTERROGATION REGARDING THE DAY'S EVENTS ****

Living Room Couch.

7:00 a.m.

ALEC: What were you doing at 7:00 this morning?

KYLA: I watched Nickelodeon shows from last night.

ALEC: What shows?

KYLA: The band one.

KENNA: Big Time Rush?

KYLA: Ya. And iCarly. This is embarrassing.

ALEC: How long did this go on?

KYLA: 5 hours.

Alec's Room.

10:30 a.m.

ALEC: Did you really wake up at 10:30?

ALEC: No. Yes. Sort of. I woke up at 5:30. Moved to my bed. Woke up at 7:30. Decided it was too early to start watching TV. Went back to sleep. And woke up at 10:30.

ALEC: Then what did you do?

ALEC: I think I read. A book. About fictional terrorists. Then I put on white shirt # 1.

Kenna's room.

11:30 a.m.

ALEC: Is it true you were the only one who slept in your room for the night?

KENNA: I did sleep in my room.

ALEC: So you aren't denying your disdain for Kyla's and my habbits?

KENNA: What?

ALEC: Repeats latter question.

KENNA: I am not denying that.

ALEC: What did you do throughout the morning/ afternoon?

KENNA: *Blank stare* I don't remember. (Henceforth I will use italics to refer to anything spoken in a British accent.)

KYLA: You watched Cadet Kelly.

KENNA: Two minutes of it. Then I watched MTVs Sweet Sixteen Biggest Bash Countdown, while also watching Extreme Resorts and Extreme Water Parks. There was also a countdown of Say Yes to the Dress.

Under the fridge.

11:32 a.m.

Scorpion: *Sitting*

Harkins Theaters.

2:10 p.m.

ALEC: Did you make it on time for Shrek?

KYLA: Yes. I even saw some of the previews for the previews.

ALEC: When was the last time you made it on time for a movie?

KYLA: *Thinks for a LONG time* March 18th.

ALEC: Do you have a witness that could confirm your alibi?

KYLA: Yes.

Yogurt Land.

2:11 p.m.

ALEC: I thought you were cutting back the sugar.

ALEC: Nope.

ALEC: Good to hear.

ALEC: Yep.

Kenna's Room

3:00 p.m.

ALEC: What were you doing?

KENNA: I'm pretty sure I was still watching all my countdown's at that time.

Under the Fridge.

3:02 p.m.

SCORPION: *Sitting. Planning.*

Kenna's Room.

5:30 p.m.

ALEC: What were you doing?

KENNA: Probably still watching my countdowns. Or I was on Facebook.

(Later adds she was cleaning her room.)

Living Room Couch.

5:30 p.m.

ALEC: What were you doing.

ALEC: I got a phone call. It was from Kyla. She needed me to bail her out of jail.

Just kidding. She needed me to pick her up from the mall.

So I put on white t-shirt # 2

Mall

5:45 p.m.

ALEC: Did you notice I was wearing a different white t-shirt?

KYLA: Definitely not.

ALEC: Great. Did you enjoy Shrek the 4th final chapter that may make a reappearance in year 2030?

KYLA: That's debatable.

ALEC: Do you have an alibi that could confirm you were not in fact in jail?

KYLA: Yes.

Under the Fridge.

5:45 p.m.

SCORPION: *Sitting. Planning. Scheming.*

**** ACTUAL DIALOGUE ****

Computer Room.

7:00 p.m.

KENNA: I'm Hungry. Let's order pizza.

ALEC: Let's not. Then I'll eat it.

Kitchen

7:30 p.m.

ALEC : Let's order pizza.

KENNA: What kind do you want?

ALEC: Vegetarian.

KENNA: No, what brand.

(Insert long conversation about the pros and cons of Hungry Howies v. Papa Johns.)

(Also, insert 14 fruitless games of noes goes.)

Computer Room

7:45 p.m.

(Kenna orders pizza. Notes that it will be ready in 15-30 minutes.)

Computer Room

7:47 p.m. - 8:10 p.m.

(Job Search.)

(Alec changes into white t-shirt # 3).

Blockbuster

8:15 p.m.

ALEC: Well these movies don't look interesting.

KYLA: Let's get a Mary Kate & Ashley movie.

ALEC: Well these movies don't look interesting.

KENNA: How about we get a Mary Kate & Ashley movie.

ALEC: Okay, how about Pirate Radio?

KENNA & KYLA: *Blank stares.*

ALEC: They don't have Prison Break here. Let's leave.

BLOCKBUSTER EMPLOYEE 1: Is there anything I can help you with?

ALEC: No. Thank you!

ALEC: Oh. They do have Prison Break here!

(Insert more annoyed chatter about movies that might be worth 2 hours of our lives)

KYLA: What about Definitely, Maybe.

KENNA: Winner.

BLOCKBUSTER EMPLOYEE 2: You have a $50 credit on your account.

ALEC: WHAAAA?

BLOCKBUSTER EMPLOYEE 2: You might want to look into that.

(Leave Blockbuster)

8:40 p.m.

Fry's

8:43 p.m.

KENNA: The pizza was ready 30 minutes ago.

ALEC: What do you want to drink?

KENNA: Rootbeer.

ALEC: They don't have Barq's. We'll have to get A&W.

KENNA: %$(*#Q*&$

Papa John's

9:03 p.m.

ALEC: Do you still have our pizza?

Papa John's Employee #1: Yes.

KENNA: It's under Jennifer.

PAPA JOHN'S EMPLOYEE #1: *Confused Stare*

KENNA: No wait. It's under Kenna.

KENNA (Cont.): Oooohhh they have Barq's Rootbeer.

ALEC: We'll take one of those, too.

Under the Fridge

9:04 p.m.

SCORPION: *Still sitting. Planning. Scheming. Getting ready to escape.*

**** To save on time, a brief description, rather than a word-for-word recount, of the evening****

We watch the movie.

Eat the pizza.

Drink the Barq's rootbeer.

Consider swimming.

Turn on Toy Story.

Bake a cake.

Frost a cake.

Try to convince in-convincible sisters to eat cake.

Throw away a different cake.

Change the channel.

Watch a show about a monkey with a disease.

Watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding on commercials.

Find a new book to read. One that is not about fictional terrorists.

Lose Kyla to sleep.

Lose Kenna to a messy room.

Lose Alec to a near sugar comma.

**** Back to Alec's Interrogation ****

Kitchen 2:00 a.m.

ALEC: What exactly happened before you screamed quote SCORPION unquote?

KENNA: I was walking out to get a garbage bag so I could clean my room, when I saw a scorpion.

ALEC: Could you please describe the location of said SCORPION?

KENNA: By the fridge.

ALEC: Did it look menacing? If so, please clarify.

KENNA: Yes. When I got close to it its tail went into attack motion. *Tears up* (Shows hooked finger to demonstrate position of tail.)

ALEC: Kyla, was it true you were asleep through this traumatic experience?

KYLA: No because I kept hearing AHHH!

ALEC: Is it true that you pretended to stay asleep so that you would not have to help with the situation?

KYLA: No. *Stalls* I woke up through the AHHHs! and fell asleep through the killing part.

ALEC: Likely story. Is it true, just a few weeks prior you found yourself alone with a similar perpetrator?

KYLA: Yes. It was scary. I was all alone.

ALEC: What did you do?

KYLA: Went to get a shoe. Got scared. Went under--well, it [the scorpion] went under the couch.

ALEC: Is it true Roxy may have saved your life by warning you about the invader?

KYLA: No, she just made me more scared.

ALEC: Is it possible that this was the same offender?

KYLA: Probably not.

ALEC: Is is true you were kind of a sissy through this whole scenario?

ALEC: No comment.

Kitchen.

2:02 a.m.

SCORPION: *Out from under the fridge. Possibly regretting its decision to escape on a night when everyone is hyped up on the caffeine from Barq's rootbeer.*

**** ACTUAL DIALOGUE ****

KENNA: SCORPION!

ALEC: Crap. What are we going to do?

KENNA: (Holding a shoe) Kill it.

ALEC: (Holding a shoe) It's never going to work.

KENNA: Maybe I can put on my running shoes and stomp it.

ALEC: What if it runs under the fridge. I think we should torch it.

KENNA: (Pulling a chair near the fridge) I don't think that's a good idea.

ALEC: Seriously. What do you think would happen if we just torched the tile a bit?

KENNA: What if we drop the shoe on it?

ALEC: (Leaves. Goes to the garage. Finds a hammer. Wonders if the hammer would break the tile. Goes back to the kitchen.)

KENNA: (Sits on the chair. Shoe raised.)

ALEC: We have to kill it.

KENNA: Yep.

ALEC: Maybe we could vacuum it.

(Later finds out that scorpions can crawl out of the vacuum.)

KENNA: I don't think we could get it fast enough.

ALEC: (Leaves. Makes second trip to garage. Finds a dirt devil. Brings it inside.) I don't know how strong it is. *Shrugs*

KENNA: I don't think that's going to work.

SCORPION: *Raises tail in the air menacingly.*

KENNA: *Slams shoes down on scorpion with great force.*

ALEC: *Makes a mental note to be more like Kenna.* Is it dead?

KENNA: I don't know. Its tail isn't moving. (Lifts shoe to see if scorpion is dead)

ALEC: (Screams)

KENNA: (Slams shoe down on scorpion again.)

ALEC: Is it dead?

KENNA: I don't know. Now I can't see its tail. The shoe is covering it. (Lifts shoe but flinches.)

ALEC & KENNA: (Scream)

Living Room Couch.

2:30 a.m.

KYLA: (Lifts head from couch). Alec, you're going to get arrested.

KENNA & ALEC: Laugh.

KYLA: No it's relevant.

((Side Note: It actually was relevant. Sort of.))

Kitchen.

2:32 a.m.

KENNA: I just want to take it outside.

ALEC: Do you want me to pull the chair while you pull the shoe with the allegedly dead scorpion attached?

KENNA: Kind of.

ALEC: (Pulls chair. Too far.)

KENNA: Push me closer.

Kitchen

2:35 a.m.

(Plan Fails)

Kitchen

2:37 a.m.

KENNA: Can we vacuum it up now?

ALEC: I don't know if we should. I'll Google it. (Googles.) Seems fine.

KENNA: (Tries to vacuum. Squishes allegedly dead scorpion to floor.)

Living Room Couch

2:42 a.m.

KYLA: (Offers to clean up scorpion with paper towel. Tries to throw it at Alec. Tries to flush the entire thing down the toilet.)

KENNA & ALEC: You can't flush the paper towel!

KENNA: Take it out to the big garbage.

KYLA: There's scorpions out there though!

ALEC: I'll go with you. Just let me wash my hands.

Trash Can

2:59 a.m.

SCORPION: *wrapped in a paper towel in the bottom of a black trash can.*

Alec's Room

3:00 a.m.

ALEC: (Realizes she has frosting on white t-shirt # 3)

Kenna's Room

4:29 a.m.

ALEC, KENNA & KYLA: (Finish Disclosure.)

- END-

See attached documents for photographic evidence.

2010-05-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

My name is Alec.

I am a lucky girl.

I know this about myself from years of observation.

***

When I was 8, I had life figured out.

Brush your teeth, say your prayers, get straight A's.

I knew who I was.

I liked pants from Gap. I was going to be a marine biologist. I was the smart one. The best swimmer in swimming lessons. An excited piano player. A good student. A good friend. A good person (who wondered if there was a summer break from church).

Some days I was happy.

Other days I was sad.

But I knew, if I followed the black and white rules of life, I would accomplish my dream.

And I would never fall into the dooming category of mediocrity.

***

As I got older, and met better swimmers, better students, prettier girls, more devout church members, and piano students who didn't ruin piano recitals, the image I had of myself slowly began to disintegrate.

And then.

I was too fat.

My eyes were the wrong color.

I wasn't smart enough.

I wasn't strong enough.

My teeth were too yellow.

My hair was too flat.

Some people had better skin than me.

My clothes from Target weren't cutting it.

My nails were too short.

My fingers were too long.

I wasn't outgoing enough.

Or studious enough.

Or brave enough.

Or respectful enough.

In short, I wasn't enough.

Suddenly, an 8 year old's secrets to life just weren't cutting it anymore.

And when I could no longer solve the world's problems--my problems--with straight A's and Koolaid, I lost myself a little.

***

Today, I remembered.

For a minute.

I saw myself as a person, as a dreamer, as a potential.

Today, I'm just a girl who thinks maybe, someday, people will remember that life is about love.

Finding it.

Sharing it.

Holding it.

Remembering.

Giving it.

Today.

My name is Alec.

I am a college graduate.

And a lucky girl.

***

There a few people who I need to thank for letting me have today.

First my parents.

I have cried to my mom so many times in the last four years.

I have cried about leaving.

I have cried about staying.

I have cried about writing.

About winning.

About losing.

About being lost.

About being really lost.

And I didn't know it for a long time, but when I hung up the phone and moved on after a good cry, she held on to the sadness.

I don't know if I would have finished those papers without giving her my sadness.

I don't know if I would have gotten over losing without crying on the phone.

Maybe I would have barreled through.

Or maybe not.

What I do know, is she--my mom--made it easier.

And I need to thank her.

For being a good listener.

For loving me.

For holding me.

For helping me make it through.

Day by day.

One "it'll all work out" at a time.

Thank you.

And then there's my dad, who multiple times has had to remind me about reality.

One day, junior year of high school, on a drive to Utah, he asked me:

"What do you want to do for the rest of your life?"

My answer was serious.

"I'm going to open an amusement park."

"Okay..." he said, in that way that means: you can if you want, but are you sure?. "So what are you going to major in?"

"Business."

After more discussing, I realized I loved to write. I realized I wanted a more exciting life than a business major could probably get me. And all of a sudden I had a life plan and a major I knew I wouldn't change--

Journalism.

And even though I question whether journalism is something I want to do with the rest of my life, I wouldn't change my major even if I have a free do-over card.

It taught me who to make a phone call.

How to talk to strangers.

And how to pull off being nosy while making it look professional.

It was exactly what I needed.

He also was the one who sat down with me, and bought me a plane ticket almost a year ago.

Argentina. July 28. 2009.

In the last year, I have looked back to that trip at least 5 times.

When I feel scared, I remember being brave.

When I feel unlucky, I remember being blessed.

When I feel faithless, I remember faith and its power and its unfailingness.

I need to thank my dad.

For believing me when I said I needed to go to another country, all by myself, with half-a-command of the language and barely a plan to speak of.

I need to thank him for helping me get there.

And, ultimately, for helping me get here. To today. To graduation. And whatever is next.

Thank you Dad.

***

I can't thank my sisters here.

I have too much to say.

I will say that I have loved hanging out with them this semester.

Whether that was at stupid, depressing movies 10 (okay 20) minutes late.

Or at 2 a.m. in the computer room as we laughed about our lives as students.

I loved the time I spent with them.

And I'm so glad we're friends.

***

I need to thank my 6th grade teacher.

For throwing a 6th grade reunion.

And for being a great teacher.

And for always, even now, being a teacher who cares.

Thank you, Mrs. Foster.

I need to thank my 11th grade English teacher, Mr. Sapakie.

Because he made me realized that I could write.

And he made me think.

And he was one of the first people who made me step outside of my box and see the world in a different way.

He also taught me that caring is being a Democrat.

Which is probably why I am registered as an independent instead of a Republican.

In his class I found a writing style.

And for the first time since third grade, I thought maybe this--writing--was something I could love.

And then there's Professor Wimmer.

Who put up with me more times than any one person should.

And who, whether he knew it or not, was my chosen mentor.

He made me love journalism when I wanted to hate it.

And, whether he knows it or not, that is the best compliment I can give.

There are also fifty-some other teachers that I need to thank. Mrs. Lindsay for advising Yearbook. Mrs. Madill for making me love school so much that I cried when spring break came. Mr. Yazwa for teaching me how to play chess and helping my group win Battle of the Books. Seventh grade teachers who made Willis less awful. So on and so forth...

Thank you.

***

Okay.

Chesca & Brett.

Thank you for staying my friends.

Since high school.

Thank you for inviting me, even though I said "no" more than "yes".

Thank you for waiting for me, even though you had waited enough.

Thank you for being my friends.

Thank you for riding X3 with me.

Thank you for not falling out on Goliath.

Thank you for wearing your halloween costume to Olive Garden on Halloween night.

Thanks for staying my friends. I know it was hard sometimes.

Alicia.

Thank you for letting me cry to you at 2 a.m. even though you had work the next morning.

I would list more.

But if that sentence doesn't tell people what a good friend you are, they don't deserve to hear the rest of the reasons.

Today I watched Grey's Anatomy.

Meredith built a room for Christina in her house.

I thought of you.

Because I think we'll be best friends forever.

Next I have to thank Melissa and Neha.

My first roommates.

Without them, I would probably still be trying to decide which university I should go to.

Thank you for making me believe I had already committed to going to U of A.

Thank you for going to orientation with me.

Thank you for making me feel like I wasn't in this whole lonely deal alone.

To my current roommates:

Jillie, thank you for reminding me to party every now and again. And for canceling cable. And for going to that terrible Mexican restaurant with me.

Kelsey, thank you for hot chocolate runs and midnight walks during finals week. I don't know where I would be without them.

Back to friends:

Troy thank you for texting me at 2 a.m. (You owe me $10.) Please come back to America. I will miss you otherwise.

Josh thank you for inviting me to things in Chandler even when I lived in Tucson. Thanks for coming later than me to church that one time. And thanks for that awesome letter you sent me while you were on your mission. (You may not remember it, but I do. It came at a time when I need it, so thanks.)

Pete, Chis, and Brad. Thank you for the parties. (Brad thank you for the eloquent and inspired words on Sunday nights.) (P.S. Happy birthday Pete and Brad.)

Steve and Brandon. Thank you for inviting me to my first concert as an adult. Drowning Pool. Great show.

Brooke, Brian, Scott. You were my first friends in Tucson. Thanks for introducing me to 30 Rock. Thanks for guitar lessons and sing-a-longs. And mostly, thanks for taking me in.

***

The graduation speakers today and yesterday reminded us to thank the people who got us here.

They let us stand up and applaud our friends and family.

I was grateful for a moment to cheer for the people who have never left my side.

I've often thought (usually in the middle of the night) that I owe the universe a thank you card.

I could write hundreds.

To all the people who have left some sort of mark on my life.

From Catherine Ryan Hyde (the author of Pay it Forward) to my kindergarten next door neighbor Jeff, so many people have helped me figure out who I am, and, who I want to be.

Tomorrow I might think I'm not smart enough.

Not brave enough.

Not outgoing enough.

But today, I'm just a girl.

Who is loved.

Enough.

So to all the people who have shown love somewhere along the way--

Thank you.

Thanks to you,

I feel really lucky.

I only said I wanted insomnia when I thought it would help me get good grades

2010-05-10T03:16:00.001-07:00

I can't sleep.

Because:

a. Roxy snores loud.

b. I'm ticked off.

And so I'm eating cereal and watching Parks and Recreation until it's a normal hour to start doing homework.

That's all.

Umm... Oops.

2010-04-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

RSS Feeders (who apparently get my posts, even after I delete them),

Please disregard that last post.

I was brainstorming. For this project I'm working on.

And I was brainstorming on my blog because, frankly, I'm sick of looking at Microsoft Word documents.

(Just FYI, Word is like the most judgmental program on the planet. Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: 2nd grade. Passive sentences: 105%. Word Count: 10. Thank you, Microsoft, as if I didn't already understand this paper is highly inadequate.)

Anyway, I pressed enter one too many times, and all the sudden my incoherent nonsense was posted on the internet.

And I did not mean to announce to the world in such an uncensored way that if I was ever handed a gun I would probably (accidentally) shoot myself.

(...That's embarrassing.)

It's not like I've never shot a gun before.

I'm just saying, if left unsupervised, the combination of me and a BB gun could be very dangerous.

And yes, Mrs. Parker, I would probably shoot my eye out.

I will no longer be using unpublished blog posts for the purpose of brainstorming.

Thank you and have a good afternoon.

Wireless 4.9.10

2010-04-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

Question:

Have you ever been sitting in your car, innocently listening to the radio, when a song comes on that you happened to be listening to 4 years ago when you were driving to school the day that you were going to Sunsplash in order to celebrate your seniorhood and impressive school spirit, and then, suddenly, you get taken back to that very moment and you feel like you're 17 again and like you should be wearing a bikini under 5 layers of appropriate coverups while carrying a beach towel and a calculus book?

Or you know, have you had some similar experience?

Because that happens to me every time O.A.R.'s song about love and memories comes on.

This isn't actually about O.A.R.'s song.

It's actually about the library.

And about how I came to the library to get bordering-on-obsessive amounts of work done.

And about how as I sit in the middle of this library working center, getting bordering-on-lame amounts of work done, I think I am experiencing what it might be like to have your life flash before your eyes.

(I hope this is not some sort of cruel confirmation of my hypochondriac fears that I am slowly dying with absolutely no symptoms of my pending doom.)

Anyhow, back to my happy reminicising at the library...

There is a kid outside the window. He is running along the low walls that were built as decoration maybe 14 years ago. At one spot there is a gap that separates two parts of the same wall.

The boy is running, full speed ahead, and then stopping right as he gets to the edge of the gap.

I did that when I was 9, too.

I only jumped once. And to that day, it was the bravest thing I had ever done. Except maybe hanging upside down on the monkey bars.

Unfortunately for anyone dedicated to reading this entire post, my library memories don't stop there.

Somewhere in a room upstairs, I attended a book club where I read some book that taught me to jump in the water should I be chased by a hive of bees. And that's important information. You never know when you're going to be chased by a hive of bees. Just saying.

We also read a book that did not contain important information, as far as I could decipher, which should have been titled "Hansel and Grettle on Crack." I don't remember the actual title. But I do remember it was a creepy book with demons and words that were way out of my vocabulary capabilities. I think, maybe, I eventually just read the last chapter and called it good.

Also, at that bookclub I was introduced to a person who was also named Alec. It was a baby. And a boy. I thought, well that's weird. And so began a life long pursuit to establish the name Alec as an acceptable girl's name. Just kidding. Nothing began in that moment except a vague curiosity as to what type of parents would name a boy Alec. Okay, maybe not that either. I just thought it was weird to meet another human named Alec, particularly since he was nothing like me. After all, he was a boy. And a baby.

Still not done. I spent a good portion of my childhood at the library. Apparently.

One time I went to a mineral show at the library. It was boring. I think, perhaps, my mother needed some quiet time that day. Or maybe she just remembered how much I loved rocks. She should have known I didn't actually love rocks, I loved those little black bags that you fill up with rocks at the grand canyon.

No wait. I loved rocks, too. I am now remembering a series of unfortunate years filled with rock pets and rock collections.

Maybe that library event wasn't boring after all. And maybe I should have been a geologist. Or an Etsy shop owner. (You might be thinking it's not too late for that last one. But you would be wrong. Turns out someone already has claim to the rock pet business.)

Then there were the hours I spent searching for the book called Fudge. (Not Super Fudge.) This Fudge is about a dog.

I love that book. It still gives me warm fuzzies. And I can't even remember what it's about. Except there was a puppy. And maybe a boy named Charlie. (Or maybe now I'm thinking about Charlie's chocolate factory...) Both were good books. But only one gives me warm fuzzies.

Moving on.

One of the happiest days of my life happened because of the library.

It was the day I lost my library card.

I was so sick of looking at the ugly signature on the back of that card that I signed when I was barely 6. When I lost the card, and paid a dollar, it was like a chance to start all over. To make a new name for myself. To no longer be the 11-year-old who writes like a first grader.

The second time around, I signed that card so carefully that I consider it something of a miracle that I didn't mess up. I still have that library card. Somewhere around here. It's really a beautiful signature. I would scan it for you all if I could find the thing.

The last memory on my trip to library lane is the hours my best friend and I spent studying for AP tests at the library, on the comfy chairs, with smoothies made mostly out of artificial fruit juice and whipped creme.

I feel like I should make this some sort of political statement about funding for libraries.

But it's not.

It's just about how it's weird to grow up.

I mean, one minute you're sitting in a library looking for a Junie B. Jones book that you haven't read yet, and a second later you're reading every book google has to offer about World War II journalism as you try desperately to finish a thesis and graduate college.

It's weird.

Like almost as weird as meeting another human named Alec. Who is a boy. And a baby.

Question:

Have you ever heard that song by Miranda Lambert about the house that built her?

She sings about how she just needs to go inside and get a memory. That a simple memory might be enough to set her back on track.

I know what she means.

I hope that library stays around forever.

Someday, I may need to go and sit in a big room and look out the window and see kids play on the wall outside.

And I'm might need to drink a mostly-made-out-of-corn-syrup smoothie.

And someday, when I can't remember how I got to where I am, I might need to sit in the library and spend some time trying to remember.

Because, you know, sometimes, I need to go back to that place where I'm 9-years-old again.

And remember.

A Note to my Immune System

2010-04-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry if you missed the memo, but this is go time.

Last month I gave you plenty of opportunities for head colds and flu symptoms.

Let's be honest, there were days last month when I begged you for a 24-hour sickness and a reason to knock myself out with NyQuil.

But last month is over, and now I need you to happily accept my offerings of vitamin C and whatever the heck is in cucumber juice, and get me through to May 14 on nine combined hours of sleep with minimal headaches.

Got it?

I promise to dig up some echinacea, if you promise to unfog my head for long enough to finish this story.

I don't know why, but the fact that my ears are clogged is seriously inhibiting my ability to form a coherent, 800 word story out of 20 pages worth of notebook scribbles.

So, since I've already spent most of the day lying on the floor, trying to type over my pillow and forget about the dull pounding in my head, I think we can both agree that three hours of smooth sailing is more than fair.

Also, I don't mean to be overly demanding, but I really need you to have this little mess cleared up by tomorrow.

My symptoms aren't severe and I've only eaten 379 grams of sugar today, so I think my request is reasonable.

If you'd like, I'll even throw some Zicam into the deal.

Even though it tastes like chalk.

Love always (seriously, you're the best immune system anyone could ever ask for),

Alec

Saturday

2010-04-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

No sudden movements.

Stay low to the ground.

And worse case scenario, run.

When someone left the house this morning, they set the alarm for "away" instead of "stay."

Rather than yell out, "Hello! I'm still here! In my bed! I'm NOT going away."

I decided to take this opportunity to test out the house's motion sensors.

I've been lying very still for the last 10 minutes. (Which, really, is no feat, since I would have done that anyway. I need a few minutes in the morning to ponder life before i plunge into it. It's one of my fatal flaws.)

Anyhow, things were just about to get interesting , on account of I have to use the bathroom.

But then whoever left thinking everyone was away, came home and unset the alarm before I even had a chance to outsmart it.

I know. Bummer.

I was really looking forward to doing some gymnastics down the hallway to avoid the invisible lasers.

And to crawling through the kitchen, pretending to talk to the CIA via an implanted cavity.

And then, when I inevitably failed to delude the evil motion sensors, I was excited about those 45 seconds I would have to defuse the beeping alarm system with a special code that only I could figure out in that short amount of time.

Oh well.

Maybe another day.

I'm a Granola Wanna-Be

2010-04-08T23:44:00.000-07:00

It's 11:30 at night.

I am standing in the kitchen, trying to rinse out a pan, feeling grateful for people who go to sleep early.

This may be the worst idea I have ever had. Which says something. After all, I am the girl who thought it would be a good idea to try waterless slip 'n slide with a trashed-up tarp and some baby oil.

I am hoping that my incessant, albeit accidental, banging of the dishes doesn't inspire anyone to walk out of their bedroom.

Because, well, they might want me to be quiet.

And after they ask me to PLEASE KEEP IT DOWN IT'S ALMOST MIDNIGHT, they might want to know why I have pieces of carrot all over my face.

In response I would shrug my shoulders, do a quick glance from the floor to the ceiling, and say, "Worst idea ever?"

Yes. That's a question, not a statement. I am still trying to decide if dipping my hand in a bucket of white paint at Youth Conference or putting chopped up carrots all over my face was the worse idea.

Why did I decide to put mashed up carrots all over my face?

Because I had two slices of cucumbers... DUH.

I knew about 15 seconds in that this was going to be a bad idea. But I was already committed. And if there's one thing about myself that I'm proud of, it's that I'm not a quitter.

Even when I should be.

There's one more factoid you need to know about me to understand how I ended up standing in the kitchen at close to midnight with orange chunks all over my face.

I pretty much think any problem can be solved with a homemade remedy, some organic fruit and the occasional bottle of vanilla coke.

This one fits into the homemade remedy category.

Problem: No relaxing facial to go with my Princess-Diaries-Inspired cucumber eye patches.

Solution: Carrot and Honey face mask.

(At least I didn't try the yogurt, strawberry, something-about-oatmeal, mask. Now that could have been embarrassing.)

Here's the thing about my organic, granola, bohemian, slightly hippie lifestyle:

I'm only in it half way.

Like, if the organic bananas cost the same as the pesticide-infused ones, then I'll buy organic. If natural costs me 15 cents more, I'm out.

And I'd like to go green and save the planet, except I really need to wash my hands 58 times a day. That can't be compromised.

Oh, and yoga. I love yoga.

For 10 minutes.

Every other day.

And so when the internet told me to cook the carrots and put some honey in, that's exactly what I did.

Did I wash the carrots?

No.

Did I pull out a pot that was actually big enough to properly cook them in?

No.

Did I in any way try to measure the correct proportion of honey to put in with the partially mashed, but still pretty chunky carrots?

That would be a no.

But did I still stick that mess all over my face anyway?

I sure did.

And then I walked out in the kitchen and thought, Dude, I am weird.

But I'm not a quitter.

And then:

Maybe the recipe said the prep time was 2 hours because carrots take a long time to cook.

Oh well, I'm sure 12 minutes was more than enough.

And finally:

These cucumbers feel nice on my eyes.

I wish I didn't have chunks of carrots on my face. They're kind of ruining this moment for me.

Wireless 3.22.10

2010-03-22T15:09:00.000-07:00

I have drank so much soda today that it is nothing short of a miracle that my bones are not crumbling to pieces as I type.

(Because that's why soda is bad right? It sucks the calcium from your bones?)

Anyhow, said soda has not gotten me very far. I half expected it to trigger some sort of story writing epiphany, but, it did not.

And so I have resorted to desperate plan numero 2.

Namely baked lays chock full of my favorite vitamin: letter B.

I know... You wish you could eat as healthy as me.

Currently, instead of focusing my full mind power on story writing, I am judging the woman by the drink machine who is filling up her water cup with some liquid that is clearly not water.

I am judging her less on the fact that she is stealing, and more on her poor choice of drink.

Obviously, she should have chosen something clear.

On an unrelated note, have I ever mentioned how much I hate eating in public places?

I prefer to eat in places where it is appropriate to spill.

Maybe if I was less of a judger, I wouldn't have to worry about people judging me and my propensity to spill.

That is going on my to-do list.

Become less of a judger.

I am feeling less judgmental already.

This is partly because I saw more people filling up the "water cups" with non-clear drinks, and I am starting to think that, perhaps, the lady was not trying to disguise iced tea as water after all.

Now that I have cleared that up, I can stop judging and begin focusing full mind power on story writing.

(Not that it will help, but it's certainly a step in the right direction.)

Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm just a few Lays away from a vitamin B-powered story writing epiphany.

Sometimes I Use a Recipe

2010-03-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

And sometimes I do not use a recipe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You may or may not remember a few months back when I decided to create my own version of a cooking blog.

You also may or may not remember that the cooking blog didn't make it very far in life. Two posts, and then it just sort of fizzled off. (Sort of like the 1/4 cup of water I boiled the other day and then forgot about. It kind of fizzled off, too.)

What you don't know, is I actually cooked a series of meals* for my cooking blog, but never got around to posting them.

I am posting them (well, at least one of them) now. But there are a few rules you need to know first.

Soooo... here are [some of] the rules of the cooking blog.

1) I cannot use a recipe.

2) The meal must use a vegetable.

3) I cannot make a special shopping trip to acquire necessary ingredients. I must use items that are already in the kitchen.

4) I reserve the right to take 5,000 photos of the meal from whatever angle I deem appropriate or inappropriate.

5) Said meals are not actually intended for reproduction. Despite this, I will provide you with step-by-step instructions followed by a rating of the food. If you feel an uncontrollable desire to re-cook the meal, please reconsider.

Now, back to some things you may or may not remember. In November, I asked for suggestions for future food ideas for my cooking blog.

I got one suggestion (which, honestly, is more than I was expecting):

"You should do the ramen noodles that has an egg cooked into it and then a slice of cheese

melted on top, with hot sauce. Talk about an abomination."

It was from my friend Colton, who, apparently, would like me to choke on my own throw-up.

I did not cook and egg into the ramen, or put cheese on top.

By I did create something of an abomination.

*Written with pride.*

And I did use Ramen.

And I was inspired by the Pei Wei commercial about Ramen getting a bad rap.

And I did do absolutely nothing that would refute the bad reputation of Ramen.

And with that lengthy introduction, I give you--

Nameless Ramen Creation.

It starts with frozen chicken. Simmered in Apple Juice (maybe--probably, that sounds like something I would do).

Then you stick this bag of Asian vegetables straight in the microwave.

I love Steam Fresh.

I do not love their idea of seasoning.

SO I decided to add chili powder, pepper, and the chicken seasoning included in the Ramen package in order to give the veggies a little extra kick.

Incidentally, chicken seasoning, pepper, chili powder, Steam Fresh Asian seasoning and apple juice do not combine that well.

Speaking of Ramen...

It looks like this.

If you add oddly seasoned vegetables and almonds...

It looks like this.

Rating: Not terrible. It tasted like ramen, with seasoned snap peas in it.

But I felt like I needed to shower post eating it.

(If you just thought, WHAAA? Why did you need to shower? Then go eat some Ramen. You'll understand.)

*Meal is a relative term in this post. (Which is why it is usually, if not always, italicized in this post.) The word meal, for my purposes, implies something you can consume. Nothing more, nothing less.

Like the Stupid Girl I am

2010-03-14T23:57:00.000-07:00

About once I year I go through this phase where I decide that I should probably just delete my blog.

(And for that matter, I should probably cut the cable lines, deactivate my facebook account, make sure my myspace isn't mysteriously floating around the internet still, and while I'm at it, throw my cell phone in a dark drawer where it cannot a) convince me that Arizona has decided to try out daylight savings time b) play embarrassing music in inappropriate situations and c) allow people to call me who I will ultimately ignore and feel bad about later. AND maybe become a Quaker for a year or two.)

But back to the blog thing, I have almost deleted this blog 3 times in the past week. Mostly because my brain in failing to come up with proper words, and I don't even own a thesaurus that could help the boring word situation.

And if I did have a thesaurus, that might make it worse, since I have a tendency to overuse cool new words, like country radio stations have a tendency to overplay that song about dancing down the hall and straight up the stairs.

(For the record, I like that song, but if I have to hear it one more time while I'm stuck in traffic on the 10, I might just have to put in a CD. And we all know that could be Dangerous. With a capital D. Because my CD case is way out of my near reach, and would certainly require me to take my eyes off the road.)

So, why am I here writing a hardly followable flow of words instead of hitting the delete button?

First, because I can't necessarily remember how to delete this thing.

And, second, I don't really know.

I think it may have something to do with the stupid girl I am.

The stupid girl I am likes writing.

She thinks a few good words can change the world.

Annndddd....The stupid girl I am likes complaining about overplayed country songs where the phrase "cut a rug" is actually used.

Where else would she complain about tacky lyrics in otherwise good country songs?

To Do

2010-03-07T23:21:00.000-08:00

1. Write 50 page thesis.

2. Visit an art museum.

3. Learn something new.

4. Write an incredible story that makes someone cry.

5. Iron your freaking shirts, dang it!

(Do you want to come visit me at work tomorrow? I'll be the one wearing the 5-year-old homemade Finding Nemo t-shirt. Unless, of course, I can find something in my sister's closet.)

6. Become less of a judger.

a Post that Manages to Make me Sound incredibly Lame but Is supposed To be About serendipitous Moments and The smell Of books

2010-03-05T17:39:00.001-08:00

I love books.

Not library books. Those ones don't smell good.

I love bookstore books.

And today I bought a book I'm afraid is going to make me cry until my tears run out.

I know the ending is sad.

And I hate sad endings.

But I bought it anyway.

Because on K-Love the other day they defined a God-shaped hole.

Which reminded me of this book that my best friend from freshman year loved, and told me I should read, but also shouldn't read--due to some raunchy situations.

And when K-Love was talking away on the radio about holes and such, I was already planning to go to the bookstore. I've been planning to go for a few weeks now.

Because my head gets straight there.

AND, because I thought maybe if I sat in a bookstore's Starbucks long enough, I would find a friend who wanted to talk about novels and life and philosophy with me.

I'm not kidding. I really thought that. Probably because I watch too many chick flicks. And also because I think it would be fun to have a bookstore friend. We could bond over our common love for the smell of books.

Anyhow, when I found the book today, I couldn't put it down.

Even though I already had two books to buy.

I tried to put it back, but it wanted me to read it.

And then, in a moment of indecisive despair, I called my sister and asked her if I should buy it, and she said yes.

And that's pretty much all I need to call the whole situation fate.

Well that, and this:

Chapter one, first line--

"If your intentions are pure, I'm seeking a friend, for the end, of the world."

Do you know what's even better than a bookstore friend?

A friend for the end of the world.

If You Have Received this Message, It Probably Means I'm Not Available to Talk Right Now. It Also Probably Means I Will Forget to Call You Back. BEEP

2010-02-18T21:44:00.000-08:00

I'm really bad at returning phone calls and text messages.

Not that those of you who have known me longer than 5 minutes aren't wholly aware.

But what you probably don't know is, I think it may have something to do with my occasional habit of talking to myself.

Which reminds me, I need to sign up for ventriloquism classes. That way I can talk to myself in the car without getting weird looks from the Civic driver next to me. This, of course, would be particularly useful when I need to vent but don't want to bother anyone with my petty drama and don't feel inclined to hold the phone to my ear in a pathetic attempt to pretend I'm actually talking to someone on the other end of a phone line. Note to self.

Anyhow, back to the topic at hand: failing to return communication attempts.

Here's the basic process I follow when receiving a text or voicemail message.

1) Listen/Read.

2) Respond, out loud, with what I actually would like to say to the caller/texter.

Usually my response is something to the effect of, No I can't hang out with you this weekend. What if I'm too tired to leave my room? What if I need to cover a breaking news story? What if my future husband comes to my house selling bug spray, WHILE I'M GONE? Besides, I have important plans for this weekend--plans to sit on my couch and bite my nails.

3) Then I try to be rational. And realize that hanging out would probably be better than watching another Dora the Explorer re-run.

4) That's when my commitment-phobia kicks in and screams, Don't Do It!--Whatever you do, do not make a plan in advance.

5) I, without fail, listen to the crazy voice, and think of a nice way to say: I'd love to hang out, but I have to bite my nails--they're getting somewhat long, after all.

6) Then I look at my phone, willing myself to respond to the message. Just type that nice response you came up with into the little text box and press send, I think.

7) And finally, I put my phone down and promise to get back to the person when "I'm less busy."

Before long I forget that the person ever sent me a message, or sometimes just forget that I didn't respond. I did, after all, spend a very long time responding with my mind, and sometimes my mental to-do list thinks that counts.

So, my point is two-fold--

First, if you have left me an unanswered message within the last week, I'm sorry. I've been even worse than usual at getting back to people the last few days.

Second, I'm wondering if I should try to provide a brief explanation when I finally set up a voicemail recording for my phone.

Like, for instance, "Hi, this is Alec. Leave me a message. But please don't expect me to respond. Unfortunately I have in my possession one of the few remaining phones that only works one way." BEEP

Or, "Hi, you have reached Alec's answering service. Alec will be out of cell phone range for the next 2 weeks (or possibly 2 years), but will be returning calls upon her arrival. Please leave a message so she can call you just as soon as she has exited the Galapagos Islands." BEEP

Or something simple like, "Hey, this is Alec. Please state your intentions. Your name and phone number would also be appreciated." BEEP

And then there's always the honesty route, "This is Alec. If you are calling to try to schedule something in advance, please hang up and call back later. I am scared of most things advance. I feel it is somehow an infringement on my freedom. I like to have the right to choose. And I tend to make plans in 5 minute increments. If you are a recording, I don't even believe that you're going to book me a cruise. If you're being serious, please mail me the ticket. If you are calling for a reason not mentioned above, please leave a name, a number and a brief list of reasons why I should return your call." BEEP

Or how about this, "Please understand, if I don't return your call, it does not mean I hate you. Leave a comment after the beep."

BEEP

Tobacco: Smelly, Teeth Staining, Puking, Etc. Etc. Etc.

2010-02-17T21:54:00.000-08:00

There is a squashed up, already-smoked, cigarette in my room.

I guess it's time to teach Roxy about the harmful effects of nicotine and tar.

Oh Roxy, if the reason for your old woman hacking is an addiction to the Camel brand, I am going to be so disappointed.

First of all, because I spent five dollars on off-brand, human allergy medication that was advertised as dog and cat meds.

Second of all, because I don't brush your teeth everyday for you to go ruin those pearly whites with nasty cigarette smoke.

(Okay. Whatever. So I don't really brush your teeth everyday. But that is still not a reason to take up smoking.)

Third of all, I can't condone smoking. There are certain things that you have the right to choose, like whether you will sleep 6 or 8 hours per day. But other things, like the brand of dog food you eat, how much dog food you eat, whether we go to the park on any given day, what route we take when we go on a walk, the time of night that you can go outside and use the grass for business-doing, how often you are dressed up in my build-a-bear's cheerleading outfit, when you get a Milkbone and, most importantly, if you are allowed to smoke, are completely up to me.

Roxy, I realize that you are probably not smoking, nor addicted to nicotine, nor aware that there is a cigarette brand named Camel.

I also realize that that nasty little cigarette is near the area where I keep my shoes, and it probably just got stuck to the bottom of one said shoe before I walked inside.

But, this is still a serious problem.

That squashed up cigarette is seriously grossing me out.

And I made a vow to myself a long time ago that I would never pick up a cigarette, even while doing community service in the park when the purpose was to pick up litter.

And so now, until I get the vacuum, that cigarette bud will just live in my room, perpetually grossing me out and somehow making me feel like a bad person. Like a bad person who probably subconsciously smokes cigarettes. Or a bad person who smokes cigarettes while she's asleep.

That would, after all, explain all those guilt-ridden dreams, from 10 years back, in which I smoked because it was the only way I could land a role in an episode of Full House...or something like that.

Just so you know, Mr. Full House casting director, I won't smoke OR even pick up the nasty, squashed-up cigarette on my floor--not even for a role as the third Mary Kate and Ashley.

You want to know why?

Because Tobacco is a smelly, teeth-staining, puking, etc. etc. etc. habit.

And probably just picking up that wadded bunch of nicotine will stain my teeth.

Current Issue #1-- Are E-Friends Ruining Your Life?

2010-02-15T15:29:00.001-08:00

There's been a lot of hype lately about the potentially destructive nature of replacing real relationships with electronic ones.

Just the other day I was watching some high-quality television on Disney Channel when a public service announcement caught my attention.

On the screen, my two favorite funny-nose cartoon characters were spitting out internet relationship rules like, "Don't say anything on the internet you wouldn't say in person," and "Once you put something on the internet it's there forever." Beware.

I was like: Holy heck, if Phineas and Ferb are saying it, this must be serious."

So I did a little research.

Last April Facebook celebrated its 200 millionth friend. Just three months later, that number jumped to 250 million.

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, in 1995 there were 34 million people with cellphones. By 2003, 159 million people were carrying around cellphones.

And let's talk about texting.

More statistics from the Census say that in Dec. 2007 Americans sent 48 billion texts. The next year, in December, 110 billion texts were sent. That's more than a 100 percent increase.

Some guy, Castronova, who wrote a book, Exodus to the Virtual World, said there is going to be a gradual migration to virtual land. (This tidbit brought to you by the sometimes correct and barely credible source Wikipedia).

Virtual land, in case you are wondering, is that place in front of the computer where you're mind goes blank and you spend hours talking to pictures of best friends' heads.

You can also get to virtual land by sliding the arrow on your iPhone and immersing yourself in the city of apps.

Some people create a new identity in virtual land. Others go there simply to find acceptance for who they are.

Whatever your reason for taking a trip into virtuality, it's making some people concerned about losing reality.

You might have heard about facebook replacing face time.

Or about text messages replacing voice messages.

As a self-proclaimed speed texter, myself, I'd like to offer my 2 cents on the matter.

Do I think it's disconcerting that if I'm feeling particularly needy or attention-deprived I log onto my facebook account every 5 minutes and cross my fingers that someone has written on my wall?

Yes.

But, would it be less disturbing if I showed up on my neighbor's porch every time I felt the need for some good, old fashion validation?

That's a rhetorical question. Think about it.

And, here's a more important question-- Did we have the same kind of alarmed conversation when telephone calls replaced horseback rides to the neighbor's house?

Was the world suddenly like, "We're going to lose face-to-face social interaction because we can now talk via this plastic handle; now we'll be confined to this corner of the kitchen because the cord only reaches so far"?

Or did that conversation wait until the invention of the fax machine ruled out personal deliveries?

Either way, my point is, if there was worry, it was moot. Phone conversations are practically extinct now, driven out by the climate change called text messaging. Fax machines can barely hold a candle to scanners and email addresses.

Soon all we'll do is text and type. People won't even know what our voices sound like. Girls with man voices and boys in puberty can breathe a collective sigh of relief.

And to those of you who are right now thinking, "That is exactly my point--how can you get to know a person via electronic communication wherein you don't even hear the other person's voice?" I say this--

First, E-Harmony marries off somewhere around 236 people every day.

Show me a face-to-face conversation that does that.

And second, chill out. Soon texting will go away just like horseback rides to your neighbors' farms and phone calls confined to kitchen corners.

Enter Bluetooth mind readers.*

Just put this small cockroach device in your ear and the whole world can know what your thinking in real time. No dial up necessary.

And sure, at first, everyone will think the new social networking design is really distracting.

But soon we'll adapt, and like human versions of Edward Cullen, the constant status updates will just become a subtle buzz in the back of our brains.

And we'll all laud the brilliance of the mind reading blue teeth, because, after all, they will completely relinquish the need for iPods, cellphones, and television sets.

Like you can hear anything else with all that buzzing--

Status: I like Jimmy and I think he likes me.

Reply: BAHHHH! I'm so excited.

Reply: How could you? You know I have always loved Jimmy.

Reply: Jimmy here, you thought wrong. I mean, I think you're nice. I don't want to ruin the friendship? (And I would rather makeout with a shoe.) *Awkward Moment of Silence* I didn't mean that.

*Jimmy logged off mind-reading blue tooth*

Time lapse: 3 seconds.

Now imagine 30 of those updates happening all at once. Fun right?

Guaranteed to provide a constant stream of reality-TV-type, high quality drama.

Like Twitter, but chirpier.

Because people think things all the time that they would never type.

You know that last thought you just had?

BAM! Status update sent to all 385 of your friends who are currently logged into their blue tooth mind reader.

Best part about it, as long as you're wearing your mind reading blue tooth, you'll never be alone. You'll be socially networked to three thousand of you closet strangers from all over the world.

And you'll know them on a deep and personal level--granting that you can understand the language of their thoughts.

As a side perk, it would completely rule out the whole sex offender ordeal.

Jack from the next city over is sending you a mind message...

"Hi, I think you're cute. (And I want to rape you.)

D--- this mind reading machine."

* The mind reading blue tooth is not an actual product. It exists only in the imagination of Alec. And, possibly, the future.

It is an unpatented vehicle to virtual land.

Pancake Soup for the Soul

2010-02-11T21:38:00.001-08:00

I've never seen the movie The Breakfast Club, but if it's anything like The View from Saturday, then I think I'd like to have one--

A breakfast club, that is.

Or a View from Saturday.

Or maybe a Saturday breakfast club with a view.

All I need are a few eccentric characters who like talking about philosophy over pancakes on Saturday mornings.

Interestingly, that reminds me of this website named Soul Pancake.

It's kind of like a digital view from Saturday.

I prefer my pancakes to be of the real-life brand, though.

(Actually I prefer not eating pancakes. Unless I am at I-HOP.)

So, if you know any interesting people with thoughts, who do or do not like pancakes, please send them my way.

In the meantime, I think I'll rent The Breakfast Club.

I'm hoping it will give me some pointers on how to run a thought-provoking, Saturday breakfast club with a view.

Addiction, A History

2010-02-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

Sit down and settle in kids, this is going to be a long one.

And I'm listening to piano music whilst writing it. So if somewhere in the middle I start waxing poetical about love, life and laughter, please know it's not my fault. It's Paul Cardall's fault.

I didn't even know who Paul Cardall was until 2 seconds ago, and now I am almost crying to his music in the middle of a newsroom.

There are only two words adequate for this situation:

That's Embarrassing.

But it's been a weird day.

Probably because I'm hungover.

Sort of.

(Not really.)

Anyway...

Chapter 1:

Previous to turning 16, I had maybe 2 sips of caffeine. Those sips came from my aunt's Pepsi when I was somewhere around the age of 7.

This is because I was a good, church-going girl, who wanted to live the highest quality life I could, without succumbing to addictive substances like coke and marijuana.

That all changed (well, not all of it--just the coke part really) when I was 16 because I was in Costa Rica and I had to choose between water, a sketchy fruit smoothie and a bottle of coke. I like to consider this time in my life, the time I chose between 2 evils--the devilish caffeine monster and the potentially more devilish diarrhea monster. (Sorry to be crass, but I need you to understand the seriousness of this situation.)

Long story short, I chose the coke, out of necessity, and barely questioned my morals for doing so.

Chapter 2:

The next time I drank myself some caffeinated beverage was in my freshman year during the time known as the Best Buy days.

Those were good days, the Best Buy days. Never again have I felt so efficient and appreciated for doing so little.

It was the night before Thanksgiving. And I was in the blue-shirt crew that had the pleasure of organizing bins and boxes for dead day. I think I spent the whole night typing up signs on powerpoint.

And then it was 1 a.m. And I had a two hour drive toward home. It was just me, an open stretch of road, and 5,000 semi trucks.

My mom wasn't thrilled about this plan of mine, to drive home at 1 in the morning. But we worked out a plan. I'd buy a Mountain Dew from Taco Bell, and she'd stop trying to convince me to sleep another night in Tucson.

And I drank it. And I blamed it on my mom. And it tasted good. And I made it home. And I went back to my pre-costa rica days of sobriety.

UNTIL, that camping trip that I went on where I let the boys buy the food without any input from the girls.

I am usually all for letting the boys make the decisions--I find things end up less complex and less irritating that way. But in this case, I really should have diverged from my usual tendencies.

Case in point: they brought sunflower seeds for snacks, eggs, sausage and onions for breakfast, AND a case of Mountain Dew and a jug of water, with no cups in sight, to drink.

Yet again, I was caught in a catch 22. And, due to my poor planning, I had to, once again, choose between two evils--

Caffeine or Boy slobber.

I chose caffeine. Because every time I picked up that water jug, all I could think about was backwash. Backwash and mono. Backwash, mono, and spit.

Chapter 3:

I was clean for 2 years after that. Minus 3 sips of Rockstar somewhere in the middle.

Nobody's perfect, okay? The Rockstar was free. And it looked fun. And it wanted me to JUST TRY IT.

It tasted like Sweet Tarts. And I was bouncing before it even touched my digestive track. And then I quit bouncing, because I realized the caffeine hadn't even had time to sink in yet, and I was seriously over-crediting the energy-giving powers of the Rockstar.

So the next time after the Rockstar slip was last October. I was really tired, and I was about to go on a ride-a-long from 9 p.m. to 7 a.m. where I needed to be alert enough to take detailed notes that I could later turn into a compelling story about the life of a policeman.

You may remember this night, when I decided it would be a good idea to, running on about 3 and half hours of sleep for the past 2 days, drive to Phoenix at 2 in the morning.

Somewhere along that early morning drive I decided it wasn't a good idea. In fact, I decided it was a VERY bad idea, and that I hated caffeine, and that it just wasn't natural that my body felt like it should be collapsing but my mind was very awake and, what's more, alert.

I kept expecting the caffeine to wear off. And I knew once it did, my brain would be an empty shell. I figured I had used up all my brownie points, and without the caffeine the only thing keeping me from running off the road into Picacho peak, would be a potentially amazing autopilot, established from the years I spent driving home every. single. weekend.

I made it home that night. And I hated caffeine.

And I was done with it.

Chapter 4:

Then one night, 2 weeks ago, I stayed up late and had to wake up early.

--Somewhere around 1 a.m. my usually over-reactive resolve turns into a pansy.--

And that's when I decided maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have my mind awake when the rest of my body would really prefer to slump over in the chair.

In fact, I thought this could be particularly useful as I sat through committee hearings that sometimes cause me to nod off when I've gotten 10 hours of sleep.

So I bought a vanilla coke the next morning.

And I felt guilty. Because I was using a chemical to omit what would otherwise be the natural consequences for staying up until 3 a.m. facebook chatting.

Yes. I was facebook chatting. Until 3 a.m.

So what?

I've always been a sucker for typewriting communication.

And, like I said, after 1 a.m., very little resolve.

(I think there may have been a church sponsored admonition on that--the after 1 a.m. thing--as well.)

Anyhow, I took one sip of that vanilla coke and it was like magic.

All my problems fleeted away, replaced with the pleasant aftertaste of artificial vanilla.

And just like that, I was addicted.

Here's the thing. I spent most of my high school days, almost seriously considering the possibility of being narcoleptic. People would ask frequently why I was so tired all the time.

I didn't know.

Now I do.

YOU TRY STAYING UP UNTIL 2 a.m. AND THEN WAKING UP AT 5 a.m. WITHOUT YOUR EXPRESSO SHOTS.

All I need is 2o ml of caffeine and I'm set for the whole day. If I drank expresso, I WOULD CONQUER THE WORLD. Probably.

Or die from a heart attack.

I'm not sure which.

Anyhow, I didn't need to eat, I didn't need to sleep, caffeine seemed like the magic potion that would take all my problems away.

By the time I was driving home, I was practically bouncing in my seat.

Actually though, that was because I had to go to the bathroom SO bad.

So I stopped at a Wendy's, bought a chicken sandwich, and used their sketchy bathroom.

Then I set a guideline, 1 coke every other week.

If nothing else, I would keep this addiction in control.

Chapter 5:

Yesterday--

I tried diet coke this time.

Because my stomach hurt. And because I needed some magic.

And it was good.

And I stayed awake.

And I felt accomplished.

And I got in my car, and I was happy with my day.

And I had to pee SO bad.

So I stopped at a Jack in the Box.

And walked past the homeless men, while wearing my high heels and dress shirt.

And I ordered some Mozzarella sticks.

And I used their super sketchy bathroom that didn't even have soap.

And then I ate those stupid Mozzarella sticks that I only bought and paid for so I could have an excuse to use their super sketchy, soapless bathroom.

And, in conclusion:

I have realized, for a second time, but from personal experience this go-around, that coke is bad for your health.

If for no other reason than it results the consumption of fatty fast food and the bladder control of a pregnant woman jogging.

Since it is also magical, I still have not decided what to do about it.

I should probably quit.

And try to make it illegal.

This, my friends, is a gateway drug if I've ever seen one.

Just Another Day in February

2010-02-06T12:29:00.000-08:00

Positive Thought #4:

What say ye to this, Mr. Groundhog? --

I'll see your 6 weeks of winter and raise you a peach blossom.

In Which I Compare Dating to Fast Food and Alcoholic Beverages (Or Something Like That)

2010-02-04T19:57:00.001-08:00

Let me tell you something about meeting people--

It's like doing long division when someone should just invent the calculator.

I have been thinking about this a lot lately, what with my current situation of being in a new city with thousands of opportunities to meet new people.

Positive Thinking to Get Real Translation:

I have been thinking about creating a dating profile under the screen name Friendless in Phoenix.

Or should it be "Phriendless" in Phoenix.

And in the all about me section there will be three words and a punctuation mark:

I am phat!

Just kidding.

ANWAY, the point is, I don't know every single person at church, at school and at work anymore, SO I have to, you know, meet people.

And here's the problem with meeting people--

A little thing I call "Bar Culture Mindset."

Here's what I know from pop culture and reality television--or, as Jane Austen would put it, this is a truth universally acknowledged:

If I want to meet someone, I should dress up in my most designer looking outfit, do my hair like Selena Gomez from Disney channel, squint my eyes and pretend to be sexy, and then stand in a corner until some guy offers to buy me a drink--or you know, for all us non-alcoholics out there--offers to take me out for McDonalds sundaes.

Pop culture fail.

You want to know why?

Because:

a) When I try to do the squinty sexy thing, I just look tired.

b) Selena Gomez has a hairstylist. I have 15 minutes with a straightener plugged in next to the toilet.

c) Sometimes I just want to skip the small talk over sundaes and head straight for the best friends forever, we can talk about anything, or just enjoy the quiet, stage.

This is why, I think, it's time to change society and adjust our culture.

Into...

GENERATION: Subway.

Think about it.

It's Friday night and you're looking to meet some new people, find a new crush, step into the scene.

What do you do?

Throw on a pair of Target jeans, sweep your hair into a messy bun, and, with a combination of florescent lighting and open eyes, you might actually see what the person standing across the room from you looks like.

Here's the best part though. When you walk in the room, there will be a shop clerk. And he'll be like, "Welcome to Subway, what can I get you today?"

And the rest is up to you.

I for example would ask, "Can you point me in the direction of the twenty-something-year-old boys who pretend like they're looking for a serious relationship but really just want to take me four-wheeling and watch movies like dumb and dumber?"

But if you're more of a ham and cheese person you could say,

Funny and outdoorsy with blond hair.

Or if you like wheat bread,

Smart and thoughtful with just a little bit of nerdy.

And, if you're into bologna,

Totally designer, hott and charming.

Don't you think that would make it easier for everyone?

It's like E-Harmony with a drive-thru window.

GENERATION: Subway.

Cutting the long division and calculating positive relationships.

One customer at a time.

Just Another Thing to Add to My Repertoire

2010-02-03T19:41:00.001-08:00

I was so mad today.

Can you be mad whilst thinking positively?

If not, pretend it's March for a second.

Because I was SO mad today.

I woke up, put on my dress pants, decided not to drive to Phoenix, and then went and punched the crap out of the couch.

I haven't been that mad since high school, when I went out to the garage, sat in my car, and repeatedly hit the steering wheel with my wrist.

I don't have anger issues. I promise.

I just like hitting things. Sometimes.

Anyhow, after the little steering wheel incident, I had to wrap one of those brace bandages around my wrist and wear it to school as I tried to dodge questions about why I was wearing it.

"I got mad and hit the steering wheel, OKAY?"

Although, telling the story was kind of fun since it was out of character, and, in general, I am a fan of shocking people.

(Note: Out of character--No anger issues here.)

BUT today, after jumping around in my dress pants while hitting every cushion on the couch, my hands and wrists are both fine, and the couch is more comfortable.

(Hey. Look at that. POSITIVE THINKING!)

I'm adding this into my workout routine.

2 pushups. 7 sit-ups. And 20 minutes of beating up the sofa.

Win. Win. Win. Win. Win. Win. Win.

Kind of, Sort of, About Canada

2010-02-01T22:09:00.000-08:00

Happy Thought of the day:

This morning I changed the month on my calendar.

Do you know what day it is?

February-freaking-first.

In case you are missing the implication, that means I changed my calendar prior to it being April.

This may be a first for me.

Or at the very least, a second.

Speaking of my calendar, it's a travel calendar, that makes me think I should leave my room and see the world.

This month, it is telling me to go to Vancouver Island, Canada.

And I do want to go there. To see the killer whales.

I especially want to see the killer whales after my dream last night, in which I swam with a pod of partially trained dolphins. In a lazy river.

That, my friends, is the kind of dream that makes you think, Wow. My subconscious is awesome.

That having been said...

Goodnight.

And Sweet Dreams!

Off to Neverland!

2010-01-31T22:18:00.000-08:00

I have unofficially declared February as POSITIVE THINKING month.

Because, probably, a combination of organic food and optimism is the cure to life.

So Kashi bars and happy, little thoughts, here I come...

Seriously.

As in, there is a Kashi bar in my purse right now.

If you'd like to join in this unofficial POSITIVE THINKING month, please, grab a box of Kashi cookies and join right in.

If you'd like to join in this unofficial POSITIVE THINKING month, but are having trouble coming up with merry thoughts, here's a few that Peter Pan recommends--

You Can Fly!

You can't really fly.

But, you can think of sleigh bells and snow.

Which is also awesome.

Oh, and if you'd like to really feel part of a big, happy community, then post your positive thoughts in the comments section everyday.

And if 5,000 people join in on POSITIVE THINKING month, well, then I'll see what I can do about finding us some pixie dust.

Time to Deadline

2010-01-27T22:02:00.000-08:00

One hour: no lede.

52 minutes: I don't think I have stopped biting my lip since I ate a saltine cracker at lunch. My nails have undergone similar abuse.

40 minutes: 26 words, and nowhere to go.

34 minutes: I have written the same amount of words for this blog entry, as for my paper.

19 minutes: I am setting a new deadline.

1 hour, 19 minutes: ... Sigh.

1 hour, 14 minutes: re-writing the third sentence for the 5th time.

1 hour, 10 minutes: sentence 3, DELETE.

3 hours from original one hour deadline: done.

I will keep working at this until I am not so pathetic.

In a Very Dangerous Position

2010-01-26T21:14:00.001-08:00

I am on a bench in the memorial park listening to the classical music coming from my iPod.

The music is on for everyone to enjoy because:

1. No one else was around when I started playing it

2. I forgot my headphones

3. There is an entire swarm of obnoxious birds squawking in the trees around me. And when I say swarm, I mean Alfred Hitchcock style.

(This, of course, is the disadvantage of working outside. The advantage is that my brain is no longer melting in front of a computer screen, and I am no longer shivering in the bottom of the basement. Cease whining, now.)

Suddenly, I hear a car engine ignite, and the incessant squawking stops.

"That's nice," I think.

And it is-- until the silence is replaced by little plop, plops, hitting the cement around me.

And now, I am less concerned about the noise and more concerned about returning to my basement with bird poop in my hair.

Lucky for me, the birds seem to have missed all but the sidewalk below and now are back to their reassuring chatter.

I think I'll turn on some Beethoven.

Storms & Superstition

2010-01-21T16:06:00.000-08:00

Sometime in elementary school my best friend informed me that if the first words I said when waking up in the morning were "rabbit, rabbit," I would have exceptionally the best day of my life.

Naturally, I spent the next several years trying to whisper rabbit, rabbit before saying else in the morning.

One fine morning, I did it. Groggy and half asleep, I whispered,"rabbit, rabbit," and then rolled back over and fell promptly to sleep.

Believe it or not, that day was unexceptional.

Do you know why?

Because rabbit, rabbit is a SCAM. That's why.

And so are black cats, broken mirrors, open umbrellas and, most importantly, chain mail promising either despair or magical powers contingent on whether I pass on the message.

So today, I have decided something:

There is no reason to continue my superstitious tendencies.

Henceforth I will feel free to break mirrors, spill salt, walk under suspicious looking ladders and, most importantly, fully realize that even if i do send forward that chain letter, my long, lost true love will not, I repeat, WILL NOT, spend every night building a bubblegum shrine and pining over me.

You want to know why?

Because chain letters and broken mirrors have nothing to do with good luck or bad luck, great days or terrible, no-good days.

Here's what actually has an effect:

The Sun. And all that vitamin D packed inside its beautiful, warm rays.

And that's why I live in Arizona.

It is also why I didn't cringe, even a little bit, when in the living room this morning, my mom opened and closed every umbrella we own.

Additionally, I am not blaming those umbrellas for the bad hair day that resulted in at least four different failed hairstyles and, ultimately, a flat ponytail OR for me dropping 50 percent of the four posters I was carrying back to the office OR for the instant when I decided to pick up my open computer bag, which proceeded to spin in a circle and drop everything I own, including my computer, on the wet cement driveway OR for the acme event, me slipping on my boots and falling down the stairs.

Instead, I am blaming the rain.

And the fact that Arizona has forgotten who she is and has replaced the sun with rain and a tornado watch.

Now, for those of you concerned about me falling down the stairs, don't be. It was one of my more graceful moments. In fact, I think I fell down those stairs more gracefully than I could have walked them. (Although, I don't know if the kid standing at the top of the stairs would agree.)

I am attributing this stroke of luck on such a rainy day to the years I spent whispering rabbit, rabbit in the morning.

Just so there's no confusion, rabbit, rabbit is still a scam.

But I suppose enough elementary school belief in good fortune can save you a little bit of luck for a rainy day.

And if you ask me, there's nothing unexceptionable about a little bit of luck on a rainy day.

Get-Fit and Flood Plan. (Also, an unrelated bit about Burn Notice.)

2010-01-20T21:02:00.000-08:00

I don't really like gyms.

Even in elementary school, I didn't like the P.E. gym/cafeteria/spontaneous blood drive center.

I've always preferred private lessons with professional trainers like Tony Horton and Richard Simmons.

See Tony and Richard don't surround me with mirrors and make me look at my stringy hair while I'm doing high kicks that are disappointingly low.

Also, they don't let other people into the class who are probably judging me and my bleach-stained pants.

Tony just tells me to do my best.

And, from what I remember from my 6th grade workouts with Mr. Simmons, he just let me know I can cry if I want to.

And really, as far as life lessons go, you can't get much better advice than that.

In conclusion, I might make a few trips to the gym to listen to Shakira and learn how to shake it like a salt shaker, but aside from that, I think I'll stick to the television for my get-fit program.

P.S. Speaking of television, there are only two reasons I like having cable again. 1. I don't have to watch an entire movie every time I sit down to eat dinner. And 2. Burn Notice starts tomorrow, and now I can watch it in real time, commercials and everything. So. Excited.

P.S.S. Speaking of tomorrow, supposedly there is going to be rain. Lots of rain.

Should said rain result in a flood, I will fulfill my childhood dream of riding the jetski down the street to school. Except I won't drive it to school. I will drive it through the flooded park. Which will probably be even cooler than riding my bike through dirty rain water in the park. Besides, the bike thing, been there, done that.

Some Stuff about Exploding Lotion

2010-01-19T19:50:00.000-08:00

I'm driving down the street.

That car in my lane is going the wrong way down a one-way street.

I think this complacently, although technically, I am only a few minutes away from a head on collision.

Then I check my mirrors and get ready to move into the next lane, so the driver of that white SUV can continue it's path down the wrong way of the street.

Hmm... I guess the next car over is going the wrong way, too.

And then it starts to click.

There are four lanes of cars all headed at me. Which means...

Oh! I am driving the wrong way down this one-way street.

I swerve right where there is a welcome double yellow line.

And then I have time to think.

How did that happen? I am still absurdly complacent.

It must have had something to do with that sudden merge to the left instead of to the right.

Only when I think the white car behind me may be a police officer, do I start to worry about the fact that I almost ran into a whole street of cars going the opposite direction as me.

And by opposite direction, I mean, the right direction.

Call me apathetic if you must. But before you do, you should know I almost cried and, probably did, stamp my foot this morning when my face lotion exploded in my hair.

So I don't know if lacking in emotion, really, properly defines me.

There is probably a lesson to be learned from all this, although I'm having a hard time putting my finger on it.

I think it may be, don't spend an entire yesterday wishing for something to blog about.

Because something to blog about, well evidently, that can be arranged.

Vagueness Deleted

2010-01-18T08:25:00.000-08:00

Have you ever gotten on facebook, scrolled through the status updates and then suddenly stopped because apparently your one time acquaintance who you haven't seen in 3 and a half years is "baby coming in 3 weeks" or is "29 days" or is "seriously thinking about just giving up, this just isn't worth it"?

If you're anything like me, next comes a flood of questions about this person who is either that one girl who sat behind you in language arts, you're little sister's friend who is trying to reach 1000 friends by February or some creeper from Austria that sits on facebook searching for random people to friend.

All the sudden, I'm like OMG(osh) is Nicole preggers? (That's right, I divert to Seriously, So Blessed lingo upon hearing such news about practically strangers.)

And then I think, well maybe her boyfriend or niece is just coming into town.

And I move on.

And then I STOP again. Because, Frank, what is happening in 29 days? Are you getting married? (Should I have been sent an invite?) Are you going on a cruise in the Caribbean? (Should I be jealous?) Did you randomly make a paper chain for 29 days? (Should I make one, too?)

And then I think, well I suppose something significant in Frank's life is happening in 29 days. Maybe someone will comment and hint as to what it is. Maybe tomorrow, on 28 days, this will be all cleared up.

And I keep reading.

But then I get all uncomfortable because Susie G. may be posting her suicide note on facebook, and suddenly I'm wishing I would have taken notes when the commercial about suicide awareness came on the radio.

But, then again, maybe Susie G. is just giving up on a particularly difficult math problem. After all, those 7th graders I'm friends with have tendencies to give up on math problems.

In the meantime, facebook has created this convenient little comment box that allows you to ask questions about vague status updates. Unfortunately, I can't use that for a few valid reasons:

a. I can't remember if this person is from Austria or my language arts class. Is it really appropriate for me to ask if she's about to pop out an offspring?

b. Maybe I should already know what's happening in 29 days--wouldn't want to come across insensitive or forgetful.

c. Everyone wants to know; I just don't want to be the one to ask.

My point (besides to complain about vague status updates) is to recognize that my blog has been kind of like one big vague status update lately.

Alec is "sad to leave Tucson."

Alec is "packing everything into boxes."

Alec is "acknowledging politics."

I don't want to bore you, but for the sake of some people who might be thinking, what the heck is going on, and was this girl in my English class?, I'll try to help you out.

1. My letter of sadness to Tucson was not a suicide note.

2. I don't know if I was in your English class. Get a yearbook.

And 3. I'm finishing my last semester at U of A in Phoenix, doing an internship. For said internship I am reporting on the Arizona legislature. The FAQ, who's the internship with, is a little harder to explain. But basically it's with the U of A, but I work in a pressroom with awesome people like Arizona Republic, AP and Arizona Public Radio reporters.

So far I love it.

When I applied, I thought I hated politics. (Don't ask, I rarely understand why frequently my actions conflict with my feelings.)

It turns out, I am very interested in politics. (One point for the actions.)

And for honesty sake, I am also intimidated.

I've always depended on grades for validation, and now they're gone. (I think I'll apply for grad school.)

And that's about it.

Oh, except for my vague facebook status.

Which says, "it's never too late."

My cousin made me write that when I told him it was too late to turn me into a rebel.

Don't worry, I didn't have an epiphany or anything.

No, I just am holding out hope that I can still be a rebel someday.

Let's Talk Politics

2010-01-13T12:04:00.000-08:00

If the bill passes making May 1st Cold War Victory Day, will it be a school holiday? Or will it just be one of those fairly useless holidays that sit on my calendar and do nothing for me, like Canadian Thanksgiving and Presidents' Day?

This pertinent political thought coming to you live from my desk a mere 50 steps from the capitol building.

(Henceforth I will cease posting my pertinent political thoughts, as it might discredit my position as a sort of real-life political reporter.)

Thanks for tuning in.

Alec, signing off.

A Post that Exceeds 100 Words

2010-01-12T21:28:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time I realized my fashion foolishness.

I think it may have been after 3 years of sitting next to my fashion-conscious coworker who I only once saw wear the same skirt twice.

And there I was in the corner, dressed down in my jeans and hopefully-not-yesterday's T-shirt, when I thought, I don't give a pile of crap about what clothes I wear.

And while aforementioned thought was not entirely accurate, it came pretty close to defining my sentiments toward the whole fashiony shindig.

Which leads us to this morning when I had a 30 minute debate with myself about whether or not to tuck in my shirt.

After consulting with google images, I decided it was the only proper thing to do. And so, disregarding my better intuition, I tucked in my shirt and reflected on the last time I purposefully tucked a shirt into my pants: kindergarten.

I hated tucking then, too.

So after work today, I went to the mall in something like a state of panic--the panic coming from the simple fact that I have already expired my two dress shirts and from the question I kept asking myself in the middle of the tucking crisis this morning, i.e. what the heck am I supposed to wear tomorrow?

So I did what I saw as my unfortunate and only option--I put my heels back on and bought everything in the mall that had stayed on and had sleeves.

By 9:15, I was limping out of the mostly closed mall, wondering if my car got stolen, and thinking I should probably ditch my shoes on the side of the street and spend the rest of my life walking barefoot.

I put my shoes back on though, because I didn't want to ruin the pants that I stole from my sister's closet.

That's when I started talking to the parking lot.

"I'm like an injured antelope!" I said.

Because I was limping and for all I knew my car was stolen. And I'm not sure, exactly, how that makes me an antelope, but I feel as though that's really beside the point.

The point is, after 3 hours of shopping, now I own more clothes.

But I still don't know how to wear them.

Or whether or not they should be tucked.

And that, people, concludes this post that exceeds 100 words.

Stuck in Traffic

2010-01-11T18:42:00.000-08:00

So, I'm going to cheat the system and drive in the carpool lane.

By:

- Purchasing a life size barbie doll.

"Oh, sorry officer. I thought she was real..."

- Feigning schizophrenia.

"What do you mean there's no one there?"

- Picking up hitch hikers and offering to take them wherever they need to go, and subsequently dropping them off in Phoenix.

"Hi, my name is Alec. What's yours?"

- Buying a car seat and a water baby.

"Hush little baby don't say a word."

- Meeting a friend who likes Phoenix and NPR.

No dialogue. Just awkward silence.

My Life is in Boxes

2010-01-09T18:54:00.000-08:00

And moving sucks.

I would say more but I have to find a way to shove a pair of roller blades, a DVD player, and 37 necklaces into a cardboard square.

That is all.

Next Would You Like to Know About My Undies?

2010-01-08T10:39:00.001-08:00

Here's a list of other things I think girls should post on the internet to increase awareness:

* Cost of favorite pair of shoes (overspending & debt)

* What you had for lunch (obesity)

* Preferred brand of tampon (frightening 5th grade puberty lessons)

* Date of last haircut (baldness)

* Descriptive adjective (self awareness)

* Game plan should a pack of wild dogs attack (self defense)

* Your favorite book (illiteracy)

* Favorite dessert (diabetes)

* Favorite desert (dehydration & heat stroke)

*An acronym made from the first letters of the names of every boy you have kissed (abstinence)

* And finally, the color of your panties (completing something you've started)

These are the Best Days

2010-01-07T17:12:00.000-08:00

I'm going to miss grocery shopping.

Especially the part where I look through all the bananas to find the partially green ones that are bite-size. I love buying bananas and lettuce and yogurt and apple juice.

I'm going to miss my room.

My room that happens to be large enough to house every single article of dirty clothing I own, while at the same time containing years worth of unsold school books, a pile of blankets, me and my dog.

I'm going to miss my grape plants.

Two of them have survived my poor gardening skills. They've stayed alive all the way since freshman year when I released my anger, frustration and sadness by shoveling holes in the ground in the backyard.

I'm going to miss my desk.

The same desk that I stared at while I lay on my bed typing thousands of words about pirates, Winne Dixie, water quality and Elizabeth Bennet.

I'm going to miss the pothole in the middle of Silverbell road.

But only because that pothole reminds me that I actually hate Tucson.

And mostly I'm going to miss the people who somehow made me miss Tucson.

Three and a half years ago, I couldn't wait to get out of this smelly city where sometimes the entire freeway closes down for extended periods of time. I didn't care if it had pretty mountains, fun hiking trails and great Mexican food. Nothing would tie me to this hole of a town in the Southwest.

But I was wrong.

Because Tucson has some of the greatest people I have ever met.

So I guess you can't judge a population based on the plot of land it sits on.

Because in this stinky place, I've met some really nice smelling people.

And I'm going to miss them.

Or I would miss them... If I wasn't coming back to eat Mexican food every weekend.

Successfully Losing Sanity

2010-01-06T09:21:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I write blogs in my head that never make it to the computer.

And because I have successfully lost my sanity, I occasionally feel like I owe it to my head to put those thoughts on paper.

This in turn, leads to days of stewing over how to include Christmas miracles, sand art sagas, snowboard how-not-tos, and New Years revelations all in one giant, jumbled, and yet well transitioned, super post.

I have come to an important conclusion.

I am not that good.

And so here I am, all out of order, ignoring beautiful stories about Christmas cookies, bath towels, and world travels.

And instead skipping ahead to the more boring topic that is riding on my brain today: running.

A few years ago, when my mom finished a marathon, and my dad nearly killed himself finishing his 500th marathon, I realized something--

I was going to have to run a marathon.

Like it or not. And despite the voice in my head that kept saying, "But Alec, you hate to run."

I told my family over and over in the months leading to the marathon that I would never, ever run one.

But I knew even then, deep in my heart, that my slipping sanity and over competitiveness would never allow both my parents to finish marathons without forcing me on that 26.2 mile path to stupidity.

Now, don't get excited. I may have successfully lost my sanity, but that does not mean I have yet gained some super will power that will wake me up every morning early enough to go outside and run for more than 5 minutes.

What was the point of that ten minute ramble then?

All I'm saying is I think when I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'm going to put in my i-pod and run down the street.

I think I'm going to need something steady this year. Something constant. Something like running.

Last year, as I stood on a beach in Mexico, dancing salsa to bring in the New Year, I knew it was going to be a great year. I didn't need the bag of grapes they gave me to tell me which months were going to be good, I knew they all would.

And I was right.

Just not in the way I expected.

I didn't think that ringing in the new year dressed in a white skirt and flip flops on a warm beach would be some sort of premonition of a year where I would spend my summer shivering in Argentina's winter, where I would start to love history on the cold streets of Boston, and where I would end the year shivering again under a fleece blanket in Colorado.

If the start of this year told me anything, it's that I should be excited because expectations are going out the window.

I have no idea what to expect from 2010.

I'm moving back home to finish up my last semester of school where I am taking 18 credits of writing classes.

Ha. That's all I have to say about that.

Sometime in May I should graduate. And then...

Ha. That's all I have to say about that.

Then I imagine I'll spend a couple of awkward months trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.

And then I'll probably start to figure it out.

Or maybe not.

Remember, this post is about now. Not about tomorrow or yesterday or sometime in May.

And now, I am putting on a running shirt. And trying something steady.

After all, as long as I'm successfully losing my sanity, I might as well run a marathon out of it.

2009-12-22T19:44:00.000-08:00

Apparently, Christmas shopping is stressful.

I didn't realize the severity of my stress until I finished the shopping and no longer felt like the world was coming to a swift end.

Dramatic much?

Yes. Yes, indeed.

I probably should have realized the stress factor when I wondered if jumping off the mall balcony would be considered a suicide attempt.

Or when I sent my dad a blackmail text, promising him if he didn't tell me what he wanted for Christmas I was going to buy him and algae biosphere and make him keep it.

But now it's over, and I have returned to thinking fondly of all things Christmas.

Also, now that it's over, instead of thinking of the rain as tiny water missiles sent to emphasize the fact that my windshield wipers are apparently broken, I think the rain is just lovely--almost like snow, but wetter and less dirty.

Here's to a few minutes of enjoying the simpler part of winter.

Happy Holidays!

Does it frighten you that I just found myself identifying with a Demi Lovato song?

2009-12-20T17:14:00.000-08:00

No I don't intend on telling you which one. Nor do I have any intention of giving an explanation to my title. Aside from saying, this is where I am in my life right now--sitting at my desk, surrounded by empty bowls of soup and ice cream, identifying with Demi Lavado's Disney channel music.

And that is that.

In other news, we are now less than a week away from Christmas and I have not even started my Christmas shopping.

Wait. That is a lie. I bought Roxy her traditional tennis balls, showed them to her, and then told her not to tell anyone, 'but these are your Christmas presents.'

((I am going to make a wonderful mother someday.))

Speaking of mothers, my mother told me if I was stuck on the blogging front, I could make a list of random things about myself.

I am going to do that for no other reason than because I am tired of my old blog posts, and because it will be in rebellion against the voice in my head that says everything in life ought to have a purpose.

1. I occasionally identify with Demi Lovato songs.

2. I talk to Roxy like she is a person, and make her unwrap tennis balls every year at Christmas. She, in turn, has become so accustomed to this practice, that when I wrapped my sister's birthday present and left it sitting in my room a few weeks ago, she started pawing at it, until I told her, in my serious voice, that is wasn't hers and she wasn't allowed to open it.

3. A Tucson area phone number has called me over 5 times in the last hour, and has left at least three voicemails with no content. Every time I pick up, the line just buzzes. I even called back once, but the voicemail box was full. They are calling me for the 6th or 7th time as I type.

4. I do not say swear words. But I do have a favorite swear word, which is the 'S' word. If I were to start swearing, I would only use that word. And the 'B' word, when it was especially called for.

5. The other night I watched the Julie/Julia movie and came to a few important conclusions: a) I have yet to see a movie in which I like Meryl Streep, and that makes me feel like a bad movie watcher (any suggestions), b) I would like to cook with a lot of butter, but I feel better when I eat bland foods that have no taste--it's a predicament, c) the movie made me lose some respect for blogging, d) that being said, I think a year long blogging project would be fun. I just hope it wouldn't result in me expressing my love to a famous chef, rather than my significant other.

6. Every time I make one of these lists, my mind automatically turns to my appreciation for socks. It's all "tell them how much you like socks." Which is weird, because when I was little, I kind of hated every type of sock, because they all felt dry and the seams bothered me. So maybe, I should instead express my appreciation for liquid fabric softener.

7. The Tucson area phone number just called again and left another voicemail. It says: swishhhhh-buzzzz.

8. I have realized recently that, really, there is no such thing as a deal breaker, because love is stupid and knows nothing about getting a good deal.

9. Last weekend, I had to be in a Spanish play for the class final. I was dressed up as a 'spirit of light.' In other words, I was wearing a white skirt, white shirt, white tennis shoes, a white, bobby-pinned, flower crown, and bright blue eye shadow. After I was done with the play, I needed to go to Walmart. But I decided not to. I didn't want someone to take my picture and put me on the creatures of Walmart blog.

10. I regret to inform you that I will not be editing this blog post. In fact, I regret to inform you that I rarely edit my blog posts. My blog is not about perfection or appearances. And it is accepting of [almost] all grammar errors. After all:

Okay, I could not even make sense of the first line without fixing typos, so I will sort of edit. (Take that, pessimistic blog picture)

I Know I Talk Often About How I Hate School

2009-12-04T22:36:00.000-08:00

Today I spent time on a ranch.

Ironically.

Anyhow, it didn't sway me in either direction.

I am still entirely indecisive about whether the farm life would work for me. That is, I am still waiting to see if the universe is going to supply a cow milker under 30 with an 8-pack. (Did I forget to mention that part yesterday--the 8-pack? Weird. Must have slipped my mind.)

Then, I went to take a picture of a river.

This was all for a school assignment by the way.

A school assignment that I was sort of dreading, but ended up being a breath of fresh air.

And I mean that literally.

Because I needed to breathe in some air different from the three week old, apple scented air, circulating around in my room.

The only problem is, fresh air tends to be out of cell phone range.

And I kept picturing myself getting lost, kidnapped or left in the desert, with nothing but a broken cell phone and my innate sense of direction.

And it just so happens, my innate sense of direction would lead me South, even if I had a perfectly fine compass pointing North.

And still, I couldn't help being excited by the idea of a little wilderness survival exercise.

This is a part of my psyche that no amount of therapy will help me understand.

Because, at the same time, I kept praying that I wouldn't so much as get stung by a bee while I was outside, not protected by metal or sheetrock.

By the time I got to the river, the sun was going down and I had pretty much convinced myself that I was going to spend the night in the woods.

Since I was alone and well out of cellphone range, I thought for sure I was going to get lost and have to spend the night by the river.

I packed a water bottle just in case.

And then I walked on the marked trail toward the river.

But it didn't take me there. And I was getting impatient. After all, I was losing my sunlight. And, when it comes down to it, a picture of the dark isn't very useful.

So I came up with a new plan.

I drove my car over the bridge, parked in a pull out, and crossed the barbed wire down to the river.

I wasn't sure if it was technically legal.

But I had a picture to take. And about 5 minutes of sun. And the patience of a hungry cow.

That's when I remembered the permission/forgiveness quote, took out my camera, and carefully crossed the barbed wire fence.

After I took a few photos, I heard a sound on the hill above my head.

I wasn't sure if it was a mountain lion. Or a deer.

I just knew there was rustling down by the river, and I figured that was my no-cell-phone-service cue to go.

So I stepped through the muddy river, hiked back up the mountain, and crawled over the fence.

Sure enough, as I went to find my car, the border patrol car pulled into my personal parking spot on the side of the road.

I was a mess.

I was panting, due to the fact that climbing up that mountain--I mean hill--is the most exercise I have done in a semester.

My shoes were covered in mud from the river bank.

I had my camera bag slung around my neck so it would be out of the way. Half my hair stuck out frazzled from under the sling because I forgot to pull it out.

And I had just barely stopped talking loudly, out loud, to myself to make sure the mountain lion deer animal wouldn't chase me.

Ask for forgiveness. Plead innocence. Don't let him take you to Mexico.

See. Survival skills. I have them.

"Hello," I said smiling, as he rolled down his window.

He got out of the car.

"Are you just taking pictures?" He smiled back.

Phew. "Yep."

"Do you go to school here?"

Double phew. You're definitely not in trouble. "U of A." More smiling.

"Cool. I just saw the car. This is a big drop off spot."

"Ya, I'm not definitely not dropping anyone off."

"Okay. You're allowed to be here. Just, if other people show up, you should probably leave."

"Okay. I'm leaving anyway. It's getting dark." Besides, there's a killer mountain lion deer animal back there. "Thank you."

And that was that.

No wilderness survival night.

No shelters made out of pine needles and sticks.

Not even a surprise trip to Mexico.

For now, I'm just going to consider myself lucky that tonight my biggest challenge is figuring how to stay warm under three blankets and a fleece jacket.

But next time I go to take pictures of a river, I'm going to try to get a few of the mountain lion deer animal, too.

Unless of course the animal is less on the deer side and more on the mountain lion side.

In which case I will run. I will jump (over the fence). I will fly (into my car). I will accelerate (down the street). And I will cry.

If that happens, I will hate school again.

But right now, just for today, I guess, I sort of like it.

On Becoming a Farmer

2009-12-03T21:21:00.000-08:00

Recently, farming has been infiltrating my normal conversations quite frequently.

And by recently, I mean yesterday.
And by frequently, I mean three times.

But seeming as I usually steer clear of the word farm altoghether, three times is like a 300 percent increase.

Never one to ignore the signs, I'm taking this influx of the use of the word farm very seriously.

And by very seriously, I mean I'm lightly considering the idea of becoming a farmer upon graduating.

That is, if I can find a farm.
And a horse.
And someone under the age of 30 that can teach me how to milk a cow.

Let me explain:

Yesterday, my mom and I were having a conversation. And kind of randomly she said, "Have you heard about the magic vitamin, Vitamin D."

And I was like, "... No"

And she said, "We don't farm anymore. So we don't get enough sunlight."

And then I interrupted and shivered, "You're telling me."

So then I got to thinking, maybe if I was a farmer, I'd be warm and in the sun all the time.

And then, right after that, I went to my friends house, where the topic of conversation quickly turned to personality disorders and anxiety.

(That's what happens when you're friends with a social worker.)

So I said something about how I wanted to just leave all the stress behind and quit this busy, perfectionism culture that I'm a part of.

And she was all, "Ya, don't you just want to live in the countryside in a cottage."

And I thought, Yes, and be a farmer.

And that was that--

I figured the universe was telling me to be a farmer.

So, as soon as the universe supplies a farm, a horse, and a someone under the age of 30 who will teach me how to milk a cow, I will hide away my suburban tennies, and buy a pair of leather boots.

And when I'm done soaking up sunshine and planting carrots, then-- probably--the universe will want me to try Hollywood.

Someday I Will Graduate and Look Back with Fondness

2009-12-02T14:35:00.001-08:00

This morning I was all about shiny lights and Christmas trees.

I was cleaning my bathroom thinking, "I'm done with school ruining my life. From here on out I'm going to be a balanced person with a clean car, a yoga routine, and freshly baked cookies on the counter."

I had a long conversatioSn with myself. And I was serious.

By 12:30, I was like, "What the H and some hockey sticks was I thinking? I have 25 plus 5 pages to write by Monday. And what if nobody calls me back? Then what am I going to do?"

So, you'll be happy to know I'm back to my old self--sitting at my computer desk in my room, fighting off panic, not getting any writing done because it feels too permanent.

And trying to end this post is making me more stressed.

So.

The.

End.

I Have A Dilemma

2009-12-01T18:28:00.000-08:00

I love the idea of everything Christmas.

I'm talking: constructing gingerbread houses, placing christmas tree ornaments, decorating sugar cookies with homemade dough and frosting, delivering chocolate covered pretzels to the neighbors, wrapping presents, shopping for presents, watching Christmas movies, drinkinghot apple cider & hot chocolate, hanging stockings & lights, etc.

And every year when December rolls around I make big plans.

But by the time I finish finals and finish fighting the crowds at Best Buy on Christmas Eve, I barely have time to read Polar Express and put on my Christmas socks before bedtime.

And then I wake up Christmas morning, smile--and then frown, because I just realized I forgot to even make a freaking gingerbread man.

As for learning a complex version of carol of the bells on the piano...well, I didn't even buy the music.

And I know, I know, that's not what Christmas is about.

And usually come Christmas Eve, I'm not all that disappointed. I'm just happy to be home, curled up on the floor next to my sister's bed, laughing about Christmases past.

So I'm not that shallow. Okay? Okay.

It's just that I like baking cookies. Okay? Okay.

So, I have designated Saturday as decorating and celebrating day.

Which is good. Great, actually.

Except for one tiny detail.

I can't decorate, shop, watch every Christmas movie, read my favorite Christmas books, bake cookies, gingerbread, covered pretzels and chex mix, and drink egg nog, sparkling cider, apple cider and hot chocolate ALL IN ONE DAY.

Do you see my problem?

(Note: I recognize that this is starting to sound startling similar to a MCB post, but I can't help it. I can't reign in my obnoxious commercial-style Christmas spirit. In December, I can't fight the urge to hang scrapbook-style, decorated Christmas stories on my living room wall.)

I'll let you know how Saturday goes.