They Only Have to Hit You Once

To fully appreciate this story, you need to know a little about my dad. He's five foot three, Texan, and out of his damn mind. His nickname is Yosemite Sam, based on his penchant for muttering under his breath then breaking into loud cursing, and for his unfortunate facial hair choices. Plus, there's the gun thing (I did say Texan). He actually shot himself in the foot. Recently.
One of my dad's...hobbies, I guess you could say, is hunting rattlesnakes. He likes to catch them and make belts and hat bands and wallets made out of the skin. Like you do.
When I was around nine or ten...actually I may have been older. Sometime between age ten and fifteen. My dad took me, my brother Brian, my stepmom Toni, my aunt Linda and my cousin Danny on a camping trip somewhere in Kern County. We'd been there a few days, long enough that Dad had already caught a rattlesnake. Brian, Danny and I woke up early and wanted to go exploring. Linda was still sleeping off the night before, so my dad gave us the go ahead (Linda never would have let Danny go, she was way over protective).
The three of us set out up the nearby creek that ran down a pass between two mountains, strolling through the cold water and hopping from rock to rock. We hiked for a few hours, stopping to explore deep pools and catch salamanders. Once we got hungry, we unpacked our snacks and picnicked on some boulders, looking up at the mountains around us. As we were finishing up, one of us (I forget who) declared that they had seen a mountain lion on the top of the hill to our left. You don't take chances with that kind of thing, so up the hill to the right we went. We hiked about halfway up the hill and then started to make our way back to the campsite. We were up away from the cool water of the creek and quickly became hot and miserable, so we picked up our pace and in about an hour we were up on the hill behind our campsite, looking down on Dad, Toni and Linda, all of whom appeared to be freaking the fuck out. Dad was cursing and throwing things around while Linda and Toni were packing things into the trucks.
The three of us looked at each other and as one started running down the hill even though it was precariously steep. Once we reached the bottom, we all went into emergency mode. We'd had plenty of practice with the dad we grew up with. I managed to sync my packing up with Toni's and asked her, "What did he do?"
"Your idiot father got himself bit by that rattlesnake. Dumbass!" That last was directed at Dad.
"Hey, it's not my fault!" he responded.
"What the hell did you think would happen? You were playing with the damn thing and you're drunk."
"I was not playing with it, woman! I was boxing with it!"

That's right. My dad had decided that it would be fun to take a rattlesnake, set it on the ground in front of him, and whap it on the head with his fist. To see who was faster. He lost.

Easy as One, Two, Three

I'm not sure that I want to post this. It's some pretty personal stuff that I'm not sure I feel entirely comfortable sharing in a public way. But I'm also not one to shy away from something out of fear. I do know that I need to write this all out. If you want to stick around and read, let me warn you. This is not funny stuff here. This is just me working things out.
Apparently I have anxiety. I probably knew that I did, somewhere in the back of my mind. Especially since I have a psych degree, after all. But my excuse for that is I focused on evolutionary and cognitive psychology. Now that I'm confronted with the fact, it's so obvious that I have anxiety. I have constant nervous behaviors (cracking knuckles, fiddling with my hair, tapping my feet, drumming my fingers, biting my lips, etc). And then there is what goes on inside my head. I overanalyze everything, to such a degree that I will have entire fictional conversations in my head based on an offhand comment.
I've always considered myself a fast thinker, joking that my hands can't keep up with my brain to explain my poor handwriting and typo-riddled typing. Is that part of my anxiety? Is that something I'll lose when my meds start to really work? I don't want to slow down my thoughts, I just want them to be more productive and let me focus on important things instead of reliving a conversation from two years ago and thinking about the things I wish I could have said.
I also wonder how much it will affect my memory. I've also always had a poor memory. I suspect that I have a short-term memory deficiency, but I've never been able to empirically confirm that. Most short-term memory tests utilize pattern memorization, which is something I'm quite good at, so getting an accurate assessment of my actual memory forming abilities is tricky. I do know from experience that I have a very hard time correlating events with when they happened. I can't say off the top of my head what year I graduated from college. I have to do the math, and even then I'm not positive. I can't tell you which year I moved to Florida, but I can tell you that I've lived here for a little over two years. But that sounds wrong to me, because I moved here in either September or November (that's another issue I have; keeping the months straight) so I've had three Christmases here and it feels more natural to say I've lived here for three years.
Are my issues with memory and time something that will be aided by medication? If so, I would welcome it. My life wouldn't be as entertaining, but I would be a lot more organized and functional.
It's not very likely that will happen though, since I'm pretty sure that I have mild dyscalculia and I'm equally sure that's unrelated to anxiety. I joke a lot about how I'm terrible at math, but the truth goes deeper than that. I can do quite well with algebra, because that is logic based. Any other math activities, like calculus or percentages or doing math in my head or even telling time on an analog clock just do not happen in my brain. I've tried to learn them over and over and they just do not make sense to me. I have never been able to do even simple addition or subtraction in my head. I have to use my fingers as an adult, which is beyond embarrassing. I've developed a very discrete way of doing it if I'm forced to in public, but if you watch closely you can see it. I can do most calculations if I'm given a pen and paper, but if you listen to what I say and compare it to what I write, nothing makes sense. I'll say "seven minus four" out loud, but I'll write "9 - 5" and either one of those can match what I'm supposed to be doing. Or not. Word problems are my nemesis.

So last week I fell in the cafe at my work. Yes, I know you're absolutely shocked. This wasn't you're run-of-the-mill fall though, I managed to fall spectacularly in front of at least half of the "Response Team," the ones who help out during an emergency and are all Red Cross trained. Paired with the fact that I actually hurt myself a fair bit, there was no laughing it off. I did draw the line when they tried to get me into a wheelchair though. That was just excessive.

I spent the rest of the day icing my ankle, which I was concerned about because of how many times I've managed to sprain it before. I had already been feeling achy in general, and this fall situation certainly didn't help. Some medicinal wine when I got home did though. The next day, my ankle felt fine, but the rest of my body was in a fair bit of pain. At least it was Friday and I didn't have to hobble around in heels.

I was in enough pain to look into the side effects of my new medications, and sure enough joint pain was listed highly for the stuff I had for RLS. So I called the doctor and we're going to reevaluate. Super. Then I read this:

You should know that some people who took medications such as ropinirole developed gambling problems or other intense urges or behaviors that were compulsive or unusual for them.

Fantastic. I already think gambling's a little ridiculous and only fun if I'm playing poker with fake money. Were I to develop a gambling addiction, I would be pissed. I've already got a touch of OCD, I don't need it exacerbated, thanks.

My joint pain finally subsided enough for me to get back into my running program yesterday, which I really wanted to do because I was cranky as hell and needed an outlet. I got about halfway before my knee (opposite leg from the ankle I was worried about) decided to tell me to fuck off with this nonsense. Looks like that's what I should have been icing after that fall instead of the ankle. So now I get to go try and find a knee brace that will fit on my short little leg.

25 Things About Me (The Food Version)

I already did the 25 random things thing on facebook, and this morning I was thinking that I could probably do an entire 25 things about me and food. I have a lot of weird food habits.

1. I prefer that items on my plate not touch each other. I used to be very bad about this as a kid, but I am much better now. There are still times when things touch and it bothers me. In that case I will not eat the part of the item that was touching something else.

2. I usually do not drink while I am eating. I drink after I am done with my food. The exception is spicy food. If I have a glass of milk, I will save it until the end and then gulp it down as fast as I can. I really like to drink milk fast.

3. I cannot stand bananas in any form. The smell makes me very nauseous. I can't even handle banana in other things, like smoothies. I have refused to let coworkers throw banana peels in my trash can.

4. I do not like most green vegetables. Exceptions are broccoli, artichokes and green bell peppers. I will eat other vegetables, but I really do not enjoy them.

5. I eat most symmetrical food in a circle. Like sandwiches. I eat all of the crust, ending on the top. Then I eat the rest in a spiral. Hamburgers too.

6. I don't like chocolate. I know this is one of the strangest ones, but it's true. I occasionally enjoy a piece of good chocolate, like one of those Ghiradelli's squares. But I don't crave chocolate ever. And I prefer my chocolate to include nougat, caramel, or toffee.

7. I love hard candy. Jolly Rancher's, lolly pops, Sweet Tarts, bring it on! Especially sour candy. I have eaten Sour Patch Kids until my tongue started to bleed. More than once.

8. I don't like nuts. Of any kind. I will eat cashews, but only a small handful. Wait, do water chestnuts count? Because those I love.

9. I occasionally obsess over whether something is technically a fruit or a vegetable. Like cucumbers and strawberries.

10. When I am drinking something other than milk, I find it very difficult to drink the last half inch of liquid.

11. I have to concentrate very hard while swallowing pills. If I get distracted, I will somehow only swallow the water and then I'm left with a melting pill in my mouth.

12. I do not eat mushrooms or onions. And yes, I can taste them. Yes, even if it's just a little bit. You can put them in whatever you are making if you want. I'll pick them out.

13. Bleu cheese freaks me out. Gorgonzola cheese it totally fine. I have no idea why.

14. I don't like Swiss cheese. It tastes like metal to me.

15. When eating french fries, I have to eat more than one at a time, but they must be of equal lengths. I will select two or three fries of equal length, ketchup them and eat them together.

16. I prefer regular, simple coffee with just sugar and milk. I don't like specialty drinks. They tend to leave some sort of film in my mouth.

17. I never add salt or pepper to my food once it is on my plate.

18. I like to have ice in almost all of my drinks. I have put ice in beer and milk.

19. I am left-handed, so I place my silverware on the left side. I also place my drink on the left side, but I reach across my plate with my right hand to take a drink.

20. If I am eating chips, I have to eat only one at a time. I cannot eat several chips at once, no matter how small they are.

21. I do not like pie. Of any kind. Fruit should not be cooked. I especially hate fruit syrups.

22. Once I find a dish that I like at a restaurant, I rarely deviate from that dish.

23. I have never met a potato I didn't like. I could eat potatoes with every meal. Including breakfast. I once had a stew in Ireland that had five different kinds of potatoes in it. I was in heaven.

24. I don't like eggs. I will eat them, but I really don't like them. One exception is California Eggs Benedict at Cajun Kitchen, but I think that is because everything at Cajun Kitchen is amazing.

25. In spite of all of my weird food rules, I will try anything at least one time. But if I decide that I do not like something, that's it. You can say "Oh, but you've never had it this way." I still won't like it after trying your favorite. I promise. And no matter what anyone else says, to me, tapioca pudding will always be fish eyes. End of story.

So, what do you think? Am I a total freak? Or are you even weirder than me?

Juxtaposition

I have some very contradictory values, which I somehow place equal importance on in my own personal morality. For instance, I think that individual rights are extremely important, but at the same time I think that killing one person in order to save many others is perfectly acceptable. Freedom of expression, to me, is the essence of humanity. At the same time, I often say that people who say stupid or irrational things should be hit with sticks. I think that abortion is a highly personal, individual choice that the government has no business regulating, but I also think that there should be restrictions on who is allowed to have children. I value rational and critical thinking above all else, yet I regularly make decisions based on intuition and impulse. I think that prejudice is irrational and inexcusable, but I believe that your appearance is important and frequently make fun of how people are dressed. I also do not dress that well myself. I am cognizant of the manipulation techniques of advertising, yet I buy a lot of name brand items even though the generic version is cheaper. I think that the amount of attention paid to idiotic celebrities is disgusting, but I frequent gossip websites and stay updated on the state of Heidi and Spencer's relationship and Britney Spears's mental health. I think that Dr. Phil gives psychology a bad name, yet I find myself watching his show.
How is it possible to have completely opposite beliefs at the same time? How do I contain these contradictions in my mind without them cancelling each other out? I can't even rationalize a way to hold these opposing beliefs at the same time. Maybe the sum of a person's personality is made up of their contradictions.

Angry Blondie

The other day my dad said something to me that I've been unable to stop thinking about. He insinuated that I should be grateful to him for not providing anything for me while I was growing up and while I was struggling through college, taking a full class load and working at whatever job I could find. I should be grateful for that because I had to work hard for what I have and therefore I value it more. Which is true, I do value what I worked my ass off to achieve. But you know who absolutely does not get to take credit for that? The man who refused to pay any child support while I was growing up because he spent all of his money on whatever drugs he could get his hands on.
Yes, I had a hard life, like a lot of other people. And I am stronger for it. I know this. But I will be damned if he somehow makes himself out to be a good father because I didn't end up pregnant at seventeen or stung out on meth like half of my high school. If there is one thing that he absolutely is not, it is a good father. I can hear him now, protesting that he did his best and he loves me more than I know and things like that. To which I say, so what. I guess trying his best involved drinking himself into oblivion and getting high whenever he had the chance. Not to mention managing to not show up for any significant event I wished he'd gone to, or ever coming through with things that he promised. Which probably has a lot to do with me not knowing how much he loves me, since I never saw a trace of it.
"But he's still your father," you say? Well I say again, so what. Just because he and my mom had sex and oops here I am, that means that I am obliged to forgive every one of his shortcomings with a shrug and say "But he's doing his best..."? I do not agree. I owe him exactly nothing. Whatever time and energy he spends trying to convince himself that his monumental failure as a parent was actually better for me so that he can assuage his own guilt, will be exactly that. His time and energy. I am done being so angry that I can't see straight. I am done letting someone have such a huge negative impact on my life.

I Love...

the first sip of coffee in the morning
the smell of eucalyptus trees in the summer
buying the perfect pair of shoes
getting dressed up for something that is not really that fancy
the first tingle of spicy food
falling asleep reading a book in the middle of a lazy summer afternoon
the smell of used book stores and libraries
gulping down ice cold milk
looking at crazy things people sell on craigslist
putting together really hard jigsaw puzzles
watching trashy reality shows with Pamala
hearing waves crashing on the beach as I fall asleep
discovering a new beautiful part of Santa Barbara
playing with my cat
the smell of night blooming jasmine
changing into my pajamas right after I get home from work
laughing so hard that my face starts to hurt
looking at pictures of my friends and family
how cute my apartment looks
the feel of freshly washed sheets
collecting sand dollars on the beach in Mexico with Mama
magnolia trees in bloom
dreaming up cockamamie schemes with friends
taking extra long hot showers
chapstick
the smell of sunscreen
sleeping in until noon
the way sour candy makes the back of my tongue feel
burning candles and incense just because they smell good
rocking out to one of my favorite songs
curling up in front of a fire after taking a shower and letting the fire dry my hair
eating barbecued beef ribs with my Dad's special sauce
walking barefoot on the beach
earthquakes, as long as they are minor
drinking fresh lemonade
the smell of wet concrete when it is blazing hot outside
when soap bubbles float in the air while I am washing dishes
eating ice cream when it is raining
when the smell of a campfire lingers in my hair
hearing church bells ringing from a distance
standing on the edge of something very tall
crossing something off of my To Do list
thunderstorms and counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder
singing in the car
inside jokes that are still funny years later even though no one remembers what they were about anymore (water over there...)
sharing juicy office gossip
understanding what someone is thinking with just a look
getting a foot rub without asking for one
buying someone the perfect present
watching old movies over and over and reading old books over and over
sharing a comfortable silence
getting really excited
knowing random facts and spouting them to others
dancing in my living room with Ricardo
avocados
making other people laugh
learning something new and useful
watching young animals of any kind play
eating ripe juicy strawberries
when a song I really love pops up on my ipod on shuffle
cracking my knuckles, ankles, wrists, back, neck, and various other joints
freshly brewed iced tea
staying up really late talking to someone
picking nail polish off of my fingernails
having a clock ticking softly in my bedroom and counting the ticks as I fall asleep
sunlight filling up a room

finding a really good red wine

reliving my childhood by coloring with crayons and markers
eating sunflower seeds and salted peanuts
getting a phone call or email from someone I haven't talked to in a long time

I Don't Do Christmas Music

My Christmas was very mellow this year. I went to Pamala's family house for actual Christmas Day, which I think was funny, since they're Jewish. We had a really fun time, and Pamala made me this awesome scrapbook of our friendship with inside jokes. It was very heartwarming, brought a tear to my eye even. I felt a little bad, because I was like, "Here, I got you a shirt...", but it was a Hannah Montana shirt with her name on it, and she put it on right away.

Then Ricardo and I went down to Lake Elsinore to see Mama and Dennis, who were in town to see his family. We both stayed in the one nice hotel in my hometown, one Holiday Inn. I was looking forward to taking Ricardo to see the town I grew up in, because it would hopefully expel some impressions he has about me that are entirely incorrect. He seems to think that I am this delicate upper middle class white girl who has never even seen a Mexican before. This could not be further from the truth, but no matter how many times I tried to tell him, he wasn't getting it.

After spending three days driving around my hometown, however, he has yet to make any of the types of comments that he used to.

My hometown is...sort of like a conglomeration of all things trashy. There are trailer parks. There are hookers. There are crackheads. There are crackhead hookers. I used to work at a community center downtown, and one day someone taped index cards to the doors that read, "Watch out for the skinny black crackhead, she will STEAL YOUR MONEY!" I knew exactly who the note was talking about too. I once was accosted at a gas station by a three hundred pound toothless Mexican yelling "Ai, mami, call me papi!" My neighbor was arrested because he had a meth lab in his garage. My other neighbor had fried his brain with so many drugs that he used to walk around with a five gallon bucket that had no bottom in it. When my friends came to stay with me for a few days, they ended up with a used condom tied to their car door.

That is the town I grew up in people. Classy, right?

Where was I?

Oh yes. Christmas. So we saw Mama and Dennis. We got them each an ipod shuffle, and we also got them each a bigger looking, but cheaper gift. Mama got dark chocolate MnMs, and Dennis got a big bag of Cheetos. Because I'm awesome. I got some cool stuff too. Like a new ipod nano, which I love. It's so small! I'm kinda scared that I will lose it, but I got this nifty case for it, which helps a lot. Ricardo also hand made me a beautiful card that had three pages of writing in it that was so sweet and loving that I seriously cried. Because I'm a girl. I also got some nice teas from Dennis, since he goes to Thailand (or is it Taiwan? I think it's Taiwan. Crap.) for his job all the time. And a pretty watch. And a little diamond from Mama that I'm going to make into a nose ring.

For New Year's, we went to the Roosevelt Hotel and rocked out. See how cute we were?

Ricardo was there too, I promise.

Girl, You Got Those Hands

The other day I picked up a pen to write something down, and I realized something rather startling. In the last year, I have rarely hand-written anything. It struck me as very odd that after nearly twenty years of writing with a pencil or pen all day long, as soon as I graduated from college, I pretty much stopped writing entirely. Don't get me wrong, I still pick up a pen to jot things down, since I can't remember anything unless I write it down, but it's nothing like the amount of writing that I've done on a daily basis for the majority of my life.
On the other hand, I do type much faster than I ever did before. I've even learned to type with both hands (get your mind out of the gutter!). I'm left-handed, but I use my right hand for a lot of things, like throwing, using scissors, and various other things. But there are a few things that my right hand is useless for. Eating for instance. I can barely pick up french fries with my right hand, let alone use some sort of utensil. If I have to cut up a steak, I often sit there with the fork in my left hand and the knife in my right, then switch, then switch back, then switch again. I once broke my left wrist and had to wear a cast that immobilized my whole left hand. That was pretty much the worst month and a half of my life. I couldn't do anything. I was in junior high at the time, and we were required to do P.E., but I had to go sit in the library and write essays about sports. My P.E. teacher was continually pestering me to write more neatly. I would tell her "I'm left-handed", thinking the neon green cast on my left arm would shut her up, but no. She kept on about it. One day, after I said "I'm left-handed" to her again, she said to me "That is not an excuse for this handwriting! It looks like a four year old!" So in response, I brandished my neon green encased arm directly in front of her face and yelled "This is my left hand!" She simply paused and said "Oh." But she left me alone after that.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Things I can't do with my right hand. So for a long time, I couldn't get my right hand to go where I wanted it to on the keyboard. I had a typing class in high school but it still just did not work. So for a long time I used my left hand for the whole keyboard. I got pretty fast too, like 50 wpm. I know! People would see me doing that and just stare. But after working at my office job for the past year, spending the majority of every day typing away, my one-handed method wasn't gonna cut it. So I now have my right hand under control and I type like a normal person. If I type excessively, it still hurts my right wrist a lot more than my left one, but that's the only lingering effect. I don't think I could even go back to the left-hand-only method if I wanted to. Crazy, no?

I'm a Nerd. No, Seriously.

Pure Nerd
82 % Nerd, 43% Geek, 26% Dork

For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.

The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendences associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.
Congratulations!

Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST

Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on Ok Cupid

Stupid Girl

I've been trying to think of how best to write about what happened in the next phase of my life, and so far I've come up with nothing. A large part of that is due to the fact that my memories from this portion of my life are cluttered, unclear, and full of gaps, the reasons for which will become evident.

After Jim broke our engagement, I can now say that I was legitimately depressed. And angry. I felt nearly every negative emotion you can think of, and I desperately wanted to be outside of my own head, away from the memories and the aching pain I felt.

I went from drinking occasionally on weekends to drinking every weekend and during the week. Given the amounts of alcohol I was consuming, it's really surprising that I remember as much as I do. My tolerance was so high that I once drank a 300 (or more) pound guy under the table, and then finished the handle we had been sharing. I regularly ditched classes, mostly first period. I didn't even really do anything while I was ditching, just hung out with whoever I had convinced to come with me. Usually it was Terra, but we would occasionally bring other friends with us. I'm not sure how to broach this, because I'm not really sure how it started, but here goes. Terra's mom was bipolar, and she was on a lot of different medications. I don't know at all how it started, but we would steal pills from her and take them. I usually didn't even know what I was taking. One time that I remember, I took a Klonopin at lunch. In the next class it hit me pretty hard. I was sitting at my desk when my head suddenly felt incredibly heavy. I collapsed forward onto the desk, hitting it with my forehead. A friend of mine in the class helped me sit back up and managed to prop me up at my desk so I wouldn't fall out. He asked me what I had taken, and then looked it up. Klonopin is a benzodiazepine, used to control seizures, anxiety, schizophrenia, and a slew of other things. My friend watched me the rest of the period, even walking me to my next class. I tell you this to demonstrate how other people cared much more about what happened to me than I did. I literally didn't care. I drank whatever was in my hand, took whatever pill was handed to me, and put on a mask and pretended I was fine. I laughed and joked and chatted, and no one was the wiser.

The summer after we graduated, Terra went to Ireland with her sister, and after she got back we had a weird falling out. I started spending more and more time with Joe. He was having problems or his own trying to deal with social environments that he had never encountered before, due to his home-schooled upbringing. He drank nearly as much as I did, smoke a lot of weed (which I never did, I hate the smell), and did a few other recreational drugs like acid. I didn't really ever pay attention to what he was doing though. I didn't really pay attention to much. At some point, Joe got himself kicked out of the house he was living in. He wasn't allowed to move back home, so, having no other options, he set up camp in a trailer park. That's right. A trailer park. He didn't even have a trailer, he was living in a tent.

After a while I started coming back to myself. I had been taking classes at a local community college, mostly because that was just what you did after you graduated. I wasn't taking random pills anymore since Terra and I weren't friends anymore. I was drinking less because I had to be at work and class more, which meant that I had to drive more. But I still managed to do something supremely stupid. I convinced my mom that it would be a good idea for Joe to move in with us.

Didn't You Love Me?

It was indeed years until I saw Joe again. When I did see him next, I was getting gas at a station that I typically did not go to, as it was on the opposite side of the town from my house. Think for a minute about how much time you spend at the gas station if you are only fueling up. I had already gone inside to get my change and was getting back into my car when I heard my name. I looked around and on the other side of the pump was Joe. He had literally just pulled up. In another ten seconds we would have missed each other completely. Every time I think about it, I wonder how many times I have missed someone by that narrow a margin. I was in a rush to somewhere else, probably work, so we exchanged numbers and I went off to wherever I had been going.

I don't remember who called who, but Joe and I did start talking again. It turned out that he lived quite close to my then best friend, Terra. An interesting thing to note is that both Terra and Joe lived on the same side of town that I did, and actually even farther away from that fateful gas station. One day Terra and I took a walk over to hang out with Joe and his friends. Joe had actually moved out of his parents' house, and into a tiny house one house down from his parents. We hung out, listened to music, drank, and had a general good time. Right away I noticed that, in addition to shaving off his hair, Joe had gotten the double earlobe pierced. We continued to hang out and kill the endless hours of our small-town youth. I was seventeen. It was during this time that I started smoking. Literally everyone around me smoked, including my mom. One day I just leaned over and took Joe's cigarette out of his hand and took a drag. It is nearly impossible to describe that sensation, your first drag from a cigarette. At first, all of the nerves in your throat react, almost like getting goosebumps in your throat. Then there is a tightness in your chest, almost as though your lungs are expanding. Your heart starts to pound as you exhale, choking a little from the acrid smoke. Then the nicotine hits your bloodstream, and your head suddenly feels light as a feather. Your scalp tingles. Your eyes widen as your entire body starts to feel like you are cushioned against the very air by some strange force, almost like being wrapped in silk. Is it any wonder that people spend years of their lives, thousands of dollars, and their own health trying to regain this sensation? The catch is that you can never experience that first drag again. It remains an elusive enticement, hovering on the edge of attainment.

During this time, Jim was in Monterrey. He and I talked on the phone about two to three times a week, and we were increasingly fighting when we talked. He wanted to talk about the things that he was doing and learning, I was more interested in using what little time we had to plan for our future together. He wanted me to take care of nearly everything. I wanted him to discuss things with me. We had a lot of those little nit-picky fights that are not about what we are saying they're about. We started talking less. Then one day I walked over to my usual place at lunch and Jim was there. I hadn't seen him in months, and the last time I had seen him was very brief and completely lacking any quality time together. Needless to say, I was ecstatic about his surprise visit. Until he took me aside to have one of the most devastating conversations of my life. He said that he felt the foundation of our relationship was lacking and that we needed to work on being best friends before we could go further in our relationship. What he meant was that he wanted to break off our engagement. I couldn't do anything beyond shake my head "no" while tears poured down my face. Then lunch ended and I had to go to class. He left with his ride back to Monterrey early the next morning and I never heard from him again. Much later I found out that the girl who gave him a ride down was pregnant. As far as I know they got married.

Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)

I had a dream about Joe last night. He looked the way he did when we were together the last time. In my dream, Mama, Dennis, Brian, Joe and I were all at some restaurant, celebrating something. I think it may have been my birthday. After some drama in the parking lot involving Brian and someone else's truck and a lot of blue paint, we all went inside to eat. Despite my best efforts, I ended up sitting next to Joe. Even in my dreams, he has that same magnetic pull on me. I know that I should stay as far away from him as I can, but I am still drawn to him like a moth to the flame. That's how it always was.

The first time I met Joe I was thirteen. He went to the same church that I did, and we both went to Youth Group on Tuesday nights. He must have been fourteen or fifteen when we first met. The first thing that you see when you look at Joe are his huge eyes. They are this blue-green color with flecks of gold that you can feel yourself falling into, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Absolutely mesmerizing. When I first met him, and for a few years after, he had longish hair, which frequently hid his eyes. Then he would turn and look right into my eyes and my breath would catch. The reason Joe grew his hair so long was because he had two complete earlobes on his left ear and he was embarrassed about it. I thought that it was cool and unique, and I continually suggested that he pierce them and show them off. This is important later. The second thing that you noticed about Joe was his height. Even then he was towering over nearly everyone.

Joe and I quickly became friends. There were a few other people in our Youth Group that we were close to, like Chris, Rachel and Rebekah, that changed over the years. But Joe and I were always the center. When we first met, I had a boyfriend (Ricky, who would soon move away to Virgina) and Joe was involved with a girl whose name I have forgotten. I disliked her intensely, that much I do remember, so I will call her Krystal. Joe was odd in quite a few ways, one of which was that he was home-schooled. His parents were very controlling and did not approve of their son having a girlfriend. So he and Krystal kept their involvement a secret, but they weren't very good at it and Joe was constantly getting into trouble with his parents. Through this time, I did my best to advise Joe without letting him know that I could not stand Krystal. They had a lot of intense fights and I eventually began to advise Joe that he should end their involvement. This sparked an argument between Joe and I, and we drifted apart for a while. During that time I dated a boy that I barely remember, and he and Krystal eventually ended things when he found out that she was calling someone else her boyfriend but still wanted Joe. After Krystal was out of his life, Joe and I became close again. We also became increasingly attracted to each other. I wanted everything to be open and honest, but Joe's parents still did not want him dating anyone, so he wanted to keep things secret. This didn't sit well with me, and I did my best to avoid becoming more involved with him, without much success. It's hard to explain exactly how I felt about Joe. It was like some part of my brain was completely attuned to him. Whenever he was anywhere near me, I knew exactly where he was. He was like a beacon, I could always sense his presence. So, even though I told myself over and over that we were just friends, that was far from true, and we both knew it.

One of the groups I was involved in with my church was the (aptly named) Drama Club. I convinced Joe to join it, since we badly needed a guy or two for some skits we wanted to perform. I'm not sure exactly why or how, but the Drama Club ended up going to Ensenada, Mexico to perform skits in parks around the city. The skits were bizarre, set to music and without any speaking. It was more like interpretive dance, really. Only not so much dancing as moving around. We spent a fair amount of time in the city center, eating tacos from stands and shopping for trinkets. There was a ring that I wanted, but I couldn't bargain the vendor down to the price I wanted, so I decided to pass. Later that day, Joe came up to me and handed me that ring. Things like that were what made it so hard for me to stay away from him. We would reach an agreement about the status of our relationship as friends only, and then he would do something incredibly sweet that would just shatter all of my defenses. He remains one of the few people who were ever able to break those defenses down. I was only able to finally leave him when he no longer had that effect on me. But whether that was due to the ways he changed or my heart becoming hardened against him, I may never know. Either way, it took years.

I started high school and met Amber, better known as Glytch. We became fast friends and I was invited to join her family on their yearly summer trip to some property they have in Mexico. It was the kind of place that is an hour from the nearest town and you absolutely cannot find unless you know where it is. I was looking forward to getting away from everyone at my church, especially Joe, who was again trying to have a secret relationship with me. It was an amazing place; miles of pristine beach that you could walk on forever without seeing so much as a footprint from another human being. It was the ideal place to ignore the world and sort out my thoughts without the influence of Joe's hypnotic eyes. It didn't hurt that the friend Amber's brother brought was very attractive. He and I flirted up a storm, much to the chagrin of Amber's parents, who have yet to forgive me my youthful transgressions. The third day of that trip took a strange turn. Late the night before, a large group had arrived and set up camp in the area. The next morning, Amber and I were walking down to the water to swim. I had taken out my contacts because I was paranoid of losing them in the water. As we walked along the path, two figures appeared ahead of us, walking towards us. I, being blind at that moment, was completely taken by surprise when I heard a familiar voice call my name. It was Kent, another guy from my church. The person walking next to him was Joe. It turns out that Joe had gone on a surf camp trip with a bunch of guys from church. They had been to two other spots previously that trip, neither of which had good surf. Someone in the group remembered going to the camp I was at a few years ago and somehow was able to find it again. So in all the miles of beach camps along the coast of Baja, Joe ended up in the same exact place I was.

Once I saw him, I threw a fit. I yelled at him that I had come down here to get away from him specifically. I told him to stay away from me while he was there. Amber and I went down to the ocean and I stormed about the unfairness of it all for a while. I decided that I was going to show Joe that we were just friends by ignoring him and becoming more involved with Kevin, Amber's brother's friend. I didn't realize it at the time, but what I was really doing was trying to make Joe jealous. It worked, and Joe talked to me about how he felt about me and that he truly wanted to be with me and that I had been right all along about not keeping our relationship a secret. I had thought that was what I wanted, but as he spoke, I found myself becoming angry. I asked him to stop telling me everything I wanted to hear, that I knew when we got back it would just be the same fears and restrictions again. He swore that it wouldn't. I told him I would think about it. Later that day Kevin told me that he had seen our exchange and that it was obvious that there was something between Joe and I. He asked me to choose either him or Joe. I have a huge stubborn streak, so I told him that since he was asking me to choose, I would choose Joe, who had seen me with Kevin but hadn't said a word to me about it. Yes, Joe understood me very well. He and I spent some time together the next few days, but I was still very wary of him and spent a lot of time with Amber or by myself. Amber was an incredible friend to me that summer. I was doing things that must have frustrated her to no end, but she was always there to listen to me and help me figure out what I was thinking, or to distract me from myself. She remains one of my greatest friends, in spite of a few years of asinine behavior from me.

Once the vacation ended it was time to return to the real world and see if Joe would live up to his promises. I soon found out that he would not, he was too used to his parents' control and, even though he chafed under it, he was unable to go against them for the time being. Joe began to change in other ways though. He met another girl whom his parents did approve of, and he openly dated her. I was bitterly jealous and dated a series of guy that I really cared nothing for. Joe couldn't exist without drama though, so one day he came to me with a problem. His girlfriend suspected that she was pregnant. There was a catch though. Joe confessed to me that, while they had some as closed as you physically can, they had never actually had sex. Once I gave Joe a proper biology lesson, he determined that she was a little too desperate and crazy for his taste, and they broke up. Shortly after that Joe was kicked out of the Youth Group after he was caught smoking weed. Amazing tactics at that church. A few months later I stopped going to Youth Group because I started working part-time after school. It would be two years until I saw Joe again. It was during this time that I met Jim, got engaged to him, and got unengaged to him.

To be continued...

One Fine Day

Every girl daydreams about being proposed to and how she most wants that moment to happen. Every woman who has ever been proposed to will remember that moment for the rest of her life. In some rare and magical instances, the girlhood daydream is transformed into reality by a man who cares enough about that dream to learn it and aid in its formation. More often, this event is a moderately close attempt at romance as re-imaged by a man being advised by at the very least four different people all at once (a friend of hers, a friend of his, a relative of hers, and a relative of his, all hopefully women). And then there are those who receive the type of proposal that is solely derived from a sense of obligation. I was one of those.

Jim and I met in high school through mutual friends at the beginning of my Junior year and his Senior. My high school had a few of the typical cliques, but it also had a fair amount of people like me, who were not associated with any one clique but tended to drift from group to group with friends in all of them. Jim was also one of these types; it seemed that everyone knew him and genuinely liked him. I'm not sure how exactly we ended up being "officially boyfriend-girlfriend", but we did and I quickly became known as Jim's Girlfriend. We did typical small-town couple activities, lots of movie watching and double dates and In-N-Out. We were each others first everything. We got each other into trouble with our parents. We went to Prom and Homecoming together. We were in love.

Jim enlisted in the Air Force.

I always knew he would, he was in ROTC and his father and his grandfather had been in the military. I didn't think that it was a fantastic idea, but I acknowledged that there were not many options open to a high school senior with mediocre grades and an average SAT score. I supported that it was his decision to make. We often talked about the future and being together through the hard times he would face. Then he found out that he was color-blind and would not, in fact, be able to become a military pilot. He would become a linguist, and his first language assignment was to be Mandarin Chinese. This meant that he would go to Basic Training (Boot Camp for all other branches of the military) for six weeks in Texas and then immediately start his linguistic training in Monterrey for six months, after which he would most likely be stationed in Japan. I would be graduating high school around that time, give or take a month.

One Sunday morning, Jim and I were discussing this very topic and I mentioned how difficult it would be to be apart for such a long time. He got an odd look on his face and fell silent. A few minutes later he said, "What if we weren't apart for that long?" I asked him what he meant, to which he replied, "If we were married you would move with me when I went to Japan." I agreed that this was indeed true, since being married meant living together and such. He asked me "Do you think we should do that?" I said I did and just like that I was seventeen years old and engaged to be married in less that one year.

Never Enough

Why do I have such a hard time enjoying something good happening?

Backstory that you've probably already heard:
I used to work on campus at UCSB in the main kitchen and the entire time I worked there, I had a mad crush on one of the chefs, Ricardo. We were friends and hung out a few times, but nothing ever came of it and we fell out of touch after I graduated.
Flash forward seven months to the Gunther concert, where I ran into him on campus. We chatted and did our How've-You-Beens and then he had to go. No big deal. Another few months go by and then one day out of the blue he called me up and asked me if I'd like to have dinner and see a movie. A month of schedule juggling later, we finally went out. And we still are.
It's all very Sixteen Candles.
So here's my deal. I keep thinking that it's a set up or something. I don't know how to explain myself completely. I just keep anticipating everything to crash and burn. Which I am well aware is Crazy Talk. But it's in my head and I can't get it out. It is seriously starting to bother me. He does these great and unexpected things, and I can never just relax and fully appreciate it. I mean, he knew I liked wine, so the other night when he came over to watch a movie, he brought a Riesling for christsake. Not to mention the fact that he loved Serenity.
So what is my problem? Why do I always have this vague sense of dread whenever something good is happening in my life?

The Trouble With Love Is

I've been thinking about past relationships a lot lately, and I've come to the conclusion that I have a bad habit of dating guys that either a) have little to no future or b) are assholes. Sometimes they were a combination of both, like a sliding scale (but not like a Lazy Susan, Shawn). Now the asshole thing would be somewhat understandable, if I were talking about guys that are assholes in that "bad boy" sort of way, where they secretly have a heart of gold and all they need is the tender love of the right girl to reform them. Unfortunately, that is not the case. I am referring to the more sinister type of asshole-ness, the type that sneaks up on you. These guys seem normal when you first meet them, and for a while after they remain in that normal category. However, slowly, very slowly, you begin to witness jerk-type behavior. And you make excuses, "Oh, he's just cranky" or "He's stressed out" and the like. After a while though, it becomes undeniable that this guy is a full-fledged asshole. At which point, you shake your head and sigh at wasting so much time, and you move on. Hopefully.

Much more prevalent in my life have been guys that have little to no future. This trend is more disturbing as well, and the reason is two-fold. One, it preys on my nurturing side. I know that I try to come off as a cold-hearted bitch, but the reality is that if I truly care about someone, I'm very generous with them. Two, aside from being a general asshole, my father was great at not having a future. Sure, he's got his shit together now, and he has a nice business out in Texas, but when I was a kid, it was one job after another after another. Not to mention being in and out of rehab. Not that I think that he's lazy, in fact just the opposite. The man can't stop doing things. Even on his days off, he would constantly tinker in the garage on a variety of projects. The problem was that none of his ideas and projects spanned beyond the moment of conception. Sure, it might take a few months to follow through and complete whatever he was working on, but it was only to be able to say that he had accomplished whatever it was. There was never any thought to the bigger picture, no plans or projects with real staying power, nothing that would improve his mode of living above its current state.

This worries me, since I seem to have an affinity for guys with the same type of mentality, a sort of lack of ability to act toward to future. I have been getting better about this. I've gone from dating a guy living in a tent in a trailer park (no joke) to a really great guy who just doesn't have the level of motivation that I'm looking for. But this trend really makes me wonder if I will always choose guys that need some sort of care-taking. Would I recognize a guy who could share the care-taking burden equally?

I've Got To Admit, It's Getting Better

I got back home about two hours ago. I had quite an unusual weekend, as only one spent visiting The Ex can be. It wasn't as awkward as I had feared, but the odd thing was that I was much more comfortable with his parents that I was with him, in particular his mom. She talked as much as ever, but I found it much more endearing than irritating, like I used to. I wasn't even all that irritated by his dad either, which is highly unusual since he used to make my head hurt. In fact, the only person I was irritated by was Chris himself. He just seemed to be in a funk the entire time I was there, always whining about something or other. All he wants to do is move back to England. He hates the heat, he hates the traffic, he hates California, he hates the U.S. He is only waiting on his funding to go through, and then he's headed back to England. Which, ok, fine, he can be a little depressed when he is stuck in that hell hole we grew up in when his girlfriend and most of his friends are in England, but come on. At least make the best of the situation you're in. I mean, I drove my ass three hours down there to visit him for the first time in a long time, and he was bitchy and whiny the whole time? No thanks. At least it did serve one good purpose, which was to completely and utterly destroy and vague lingering romantic notions I might have had toward him. We can be the kind of friends that email each other randomly and chat online occasionally, but that is it. What I find most amusing in all of this is that the only reason we are even friends in the first place is because he was adamant about remaining friends. It took me a long time to come around to the point where I am even able to be his friend, and now that I'm there, he could apparently care less.

You Wanna Meet the Real Me?

I am in the mood for some shenanigans. I have been on some good behavior since I graduated, and I'm starting to get that itchiness that makes the trouble-causing start. I'm having the wicked thoughts and brilliantly evil ideas and general deviousness is afoot, ladies and gentlemen. So if you are down for some shenanigans, drunken or otherwise, you might want to be hanging out with me in the near future. My neurons, they are a-firing, my brain, it is a-scheming.
People always see me as the good girl, but those of you who have known me for a while (Hi Terra) know that this is so far off base as to be laughable. I am so the girl that says or does the shit that you only think in your head. And if you dare me? Oh, it is ON, bitches. I grew up with some hooligans and some crazy motherfuckers. I can roll out the badasserey like you would not believe. This only comes out in tidbits nowadays, being that I'm older and wiser. Things like walking across campus with Sierra and hearing children chanting some children song, and then hearing them bust out with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and turning around and screaming "IT"S AUGUST!" at said children. They shut the hell up though. Don't tell me you've never wanted to do that. I know you have. Difference is that I will actually do it.
Ever since I was little, I've been that kind of girl. When I was about four years old, maybe five, we lived two houses away from this woman who had those cute little chickens with the feathers on their feet. Like this:
And so my little four-year-old-self went all the way to the back of our acre backyard, to the very end of The Aqueduct of Doom, and through the fence into our neighbors yard. I then went across their acre back yard and climbed the fence into the next neighbors yard. One of those adorable chickens was running around, so I picked it up and took it home. When I got home, Mama asked me where I got the chicken, and I totally lied and said that the neighbor gave it to me. That is how I roll. She made me take it back, but the point is I was chicken-napping before I went to school.
The odd thing is that as I approached teenage-hood, I became increasingly shy. In sixth grade, I only talked to one person in my class. I knew everyone, everyone knew me, but as far as actual friends, I only had one. Junior High was just basically two years of really painful awkwardness, pretty much the score for everyone. I had the opportunity to change myself and I did, but I was so concerned with what other people thought of me that I didn't actually change into what I wanted to be, what I saw myself as. And at the end of those two years, I was once again without friends, this time not even the one.
I lucked out though. The way that the district was set up, I ended up going to a different high school than all but four people from my junior high. So once again I had the opportunity to change who I was. That time I did it mostly right. I was still concerned about how I was perceived, but in a different way. I wanted to make sure that people knew who I really was, what I was really about. So I started to speak my mind. And the most amazing thing happened. People respected me. Sure, some people didn't like me, but they still respected me. From that, I gained courage. I spoke out more, I dared more. And I really found out a lot about myself. It was hard, and I made some enemies, but I became myself in the process. I learned that fear was holding me back from doing a lot of things. I learned to conquer that fear often meant that I would achieve something or experience something that would make the fear just totally fade out of the picture.
So if you have something that fear has kept you from doing, for whatever reason, and you are ready to give it a try, I'm so your girl. Hell, I've probably already done it. And if not, I sure as hell want to try!

Scar Tissue

I have a lot of scars, but only a few of them are large enough to be readily visible. One of my biggest scars is hardly visible at all actually. This troubles me a bit, because each scar has it's own story. The scars are reminders for things that have happened to me. My most painful scar-story doesn't have a visible reminder, but it does still twinge and let me know it's there. I'll start with that one.

It was the night before New Year's Eve when I was ten, and my brother and I were wrestling in the living room. I don't remember exactly what happened, but somehow he was at the end of the hallway and something made him rush at me. Probably I did or said something mean to him, I remember that he looked angry. He ducked down as he ran into me and heaved up with his shoulder. I flew backwards and stuck my right arm out to break my fall, but that didn't work out so well. I ended up landing with my full weight on that arm, and that arm was extended behind me. So, go like this. Stick your right arm straight out from the shoulder, parallel to the ground, with your palm turned out, perpendicular to the ground. Now, keeping your arm level, move your arm behind you so that your palm is facing out as far behind you as you can. Keep your elbow straight (there's an elbow-locking family trait). Now imagine falling backwards and the palm of your hand hitting the ground first. I broke both bones in my forearm. On the night before New Year's Eve. I broke them so badly that they had to call a specialist to fix it. However, since it was the holidays, I had to wait three days until he was available. With a broken arm. What was even worse was when they set my arm. They never told me what was happening, and they wouldn't let Mama in with me. There were two nurses across my legs, one holding my shoulders down, one holding my elbow and the doctor had my forearm. First, they shot painkillers directly into my bones when the break was. Then they re-broke my arm and set it.

My biggest scar is the one that is barely visible. It starts on the top of my right calf and runs down the outside of my leg. I was riding a BMX style bicycle, with one of those little tiny seats. I stood up to pedal harder to get going faster, and like an idiot I wasn't careful when I sat down and I missed the seat. I sat on the back tire, which then pushed me underneath the seat. This made the bike tip over on the side, also known as my right leg. I slid up the street about fifteen or twenty feet. On my leg. I limped back to the baby sitter's house only to have my leg attacked with peroxide and a wire brush to get out the gravel.

I can skip a few scars and tell you that my elbows are mangled for almost identical reasons, except they involve a big hill and losing control of my bike.

My next biggest scar is smack dab in the center of my left shin. It's about an inch long and maybe a quarter of an inch wide. At the house I grew up in we had a pool. The pool had a jacuzzi attached to it, separated from the pool by a wall that had tile across the top, not rounded tile, we're talking right angles here. The top of the wall was below the water level, so water could flow in and out from the jacuzzi. Well, we used to play King of the Wall. I was up there one day and I was winning too. But then Mama came out and said "You better knock it off, some one's going to get hurt." At that exact moment, someone grabbed my arm and pulled my backward into the jacuzzi. My left foot slipped and my shin scraped its way down the edge of the tile on the wall, neatly slicing of a chunk of my flesh.

My oldest scar is on my right arm just above my elbow. When I was in second grade we were playing some racing game in the Multi Purpose Room. There was that heavy industrial carpet that is like plastic in there. The rules of the game dictated that shoes were illegal, so I was running full speed on this carpet in my socks. When I went around a turn, my feet slid out from under me and my elbow slid across the carpet. The scar is from the rug burn I had as a result.

My hardest-to-see scar is right at the edge of my bottom lip, right in the middle. I was riding one of these:

Except mine was red, not purple. And I think there was only one front wheel, and it was smaller. If you never had one, they were a death trap. The way you rode it was to kneel on the triangle part, kick off with your foot, and hold the handles with your head about a foot above the ground that was rushing beneath you. I was doing just that when those little bitty front wheels hit a crack in the sidewalk and stuck there. My scooter stopped. I, however, hit the ground lip-first. The scar was actually made by my tooth.

Hello, Mother...

Ok, I know that I just posted, but I had to share this. Mama just sent me an email, and I am still laughing at it.
And I quote:

So- I went and shopped with Sheila and Nanci yesterday at a nursury and got pretty flowers that I need to plant today.. then nanci and I went towards rosarito and shopped for hanging things to put on the gigantic orange wall between our house and the neighbors- over the bird bath. For some reason I got little suns with faces on them and now that I think about it- I don't like faces looking at me so why did I get them? I should have gotten little dolphins, turtles or frogs or anything but faces! Well the frogs and turtles would have had faces too wouldn't they? So - guess I'll try the sun faces and see if I can stand them- if not- I'll put them on the front wall facing the street so they can look at people walking by and not at me.. my brain has turned to mush... Have a good day hon love mom

This is the woman who raised me (and I love her dearly).
Perhaps this answers a few lingering questions some of you have...