Baby Love.

I'm sitting on the floor watching you play with, of all things, the cheap black plastic holster from my cell phone. You turn it over on your chubby little hands, oblivious to the piles of toys and books that lay scattered around you. Every now and then you glance at me, hold out the holster, and say emphatically, "Dat! Datdatdat!" You don't actually give me the thing. You just wanted to show me something about it that I, in my two years of owning it, have obviously missed.

"Check it out, guys! This asshat still has a Blackberry! Lolz!"

I still remember coming to see you when you were all of two weeks old, all wrinkles and skinny limbs, weighing barely more than a whisper. Babysitting was a breeze. You fit perfectly in the crook of anyone's arm, and after a bottle, some rocking and a story, you slipped into dreamland.

Then you got bigger.

Today, you weigh about as much as a Christmas ham, and your arms and legs closely resemble stuffed sausages. Any attempt to "rock" you to sleep results in flailing chorizo limbs and indignant shrieking.

Sometimes you yell, too.

Frankly, you have ruined me, kid. Ruined. Lucy was supposed to be the one all crazy about babies. I've always proclaimed that it would be irresponsible of me to reproduce. What if I leave the kid at the grocery store? What if my kid turns into a douchebag with an emo haircut? Or worse? A vegetarian?

On second thought, maybe I'll just have my tubes tied.

Yet, as uninterested in kids as I previously was, I find myself cooing like a twit at your pictures (many of which I took. I'll be the first to admit it. You're too effing cute.), applauding your simplest achievements (Hey! Look at you not chewing the drywall!), and jumping at every available opportunity to babysit, even if it means sitting through an hour and a half of traffic to get there. I will (and have) driven on the 57 at a 5 mph crawl just to play hide and seek and read The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Don't worry though. I'm not that far off the deep end. There are certain cues that let me know that my biological clock is not yet ticking relentlessly, signaling the rotting of my ovaries.

1. You flipped over and sorta landed on your face once and in response, I laughed a little. You didn't hurt yourself, but you did cry a little bit. I felt bad but hey, that's what you get for not crawling, buddy.
2. While changing your diaper once, I was hit with the sudden urge to pee so badly that I picked you up off your changing table and put you in your crib with your diaper half on while I ran to the bathroom. I felt like a jerk hearing your confused wails because I obviously forgot a few crucial steps in the diaper changing process.
3. Hearing you cry sucks. Not because it hurts me that you are somehow suffering (which, considering the many people around you at all times, chances are you're not.), but because it's annoying.

And yet. There's a few things you learn when one of the most important people in your life is an infant.

1. A child's giggle is the most awesome sound on the planet.
2. Once in a while, we should all stop and just gaze at the trees.
3. Naps are awesome.
4. So are swings.
5. Fruit is way better than candy (Especially when you stuff it in your mouth squirrel-style).
6. Just keep singing.
7. Datdatdatdat, and nananananananana (As soon as Sean tells me what these mean, I shall translate).

Happy birthday, little dude. I couldn't love you more than if you were my own flesh and blood.
Now gimme some of that pretzel.

"NO."

Fightstarter Karaoke

People ask me why I still seek a career in law enforcement, despite unceremoniously being tossed out on my ass two years ago.

I was faced with the same question when I was trying to get into law enforcement in the first place, when I was fluffy (FATTYCAKES!) and I struggled with something so simple as scaling a 6-foot solid wall. I distinctly remember being in an aunt's kitchen not too long after I graduated from college, covered in bruises from one of my many failed attempts at a physical agility test. Her son Sam, my cousin, graduated the same day as I, same school, same major.

(Sidenote: At graduation, they had us form two lines and come up on either side of the stage to receive out diplomas. We were to give our card to the announcer and then walk across the stage. We did not plan this - we didn't know where the other was sitting - my name was announced, I walked across the stage, and from the other side, I heard the other announced call Sam's name directly after mine. It was pretty cool.)

Sam was apparently going through the same struggles, but because of injury, not any type of shortcoming. As I sat with my aunt telling her my woeful tales of bruising and walls, she leaned across the table and asked me, why do I kept doing it? Maybe something so difficult is best left alone, if all I seemed to be getting out of it was an impressive set of bruises and scars. While I appreciated her sympathy, she was essentially telling me to quit.

Some people are satisfied with just...being. They don't aspire to be great, they are content with mediocrity. And that's totally fine. But I've never been one of those people. I'm not happy with the status quo.

During my brief stint in the business world, my old boss once told me I had no head for business. And at first, I was highly insulted. How dare he imply that I'm actually not good at something! I'm good at ALL THE THINGS!

(Except swimming, being quiet, sitting still, being politically correct, video games, shopping, typing, putting on makeup, painting my nails, plucking my eyebrows, rollerblading, skateboarding, drawing, math, science, anything technological, remembering things, driving, washing lettuce, staying awake past 11 p.m., paying attention, watching a tv show for more than 3 episodes, talking, most activities requiring coordination...

But I digress.)

Now however, I choose to take it as a compliment. In truth, I have no interest in seeking advancement in any type of corporate setting. I am driven by a desire to be an instrument in doing something for others. I keep trying, I deal with the scars and bruises because the only contribution I made to law enforcement is a few months as a drone.

That's not enough.

And yes, I know, you have to start at the bottom and work your way up to the top. I get it. But most people start from the bottom and have no idea how to work their way up. A lot of people (myself included) use the phrase, "get your foot in the door". Which is a good idea...short term. What happens after the foot (and hopefully, the rest of you) is in the door? Do you stare forlornly up at the top of the pyramid and wonder how the hell to get there? Do you putter around, hoping you'll get noticed and get ahead that way? Or, once inside, do you take out the tools you came in with, and get to work?

I refuse to allow a few fights and some reports to be my only legacy as a public servant. I have a hard time telling people, "I am a former sheriff's deputy" because I only did so much. Does a year and a half as a jail deputy really count, in the long run? What did I really accomplish? I want my name to be synonymous with...something. Something more than a misspelled name on a Starbucks cup.

So, going back to my aunt's question: why do something that is causing you so much pain, so much suffering? Wouldn't it be easier to just give up?

In the words of the Dropkick Murphys.

You make the most of the hand you're dealt because a quitter never wins.

Wind is Just the Universe Farting on You.

12:02 a.m.

The wind howls outside my window, even though I’m trying to drown it out with songs about a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

I’ve never liked the wind; it is my most detested type of weather, followed by high heat. I especially hate it at night. As a child, I had this irrational fear that the strongest, most ferocious gusts had the power to push the house off its very foundations. Windy nights meant no sleep. I’d wander the halls throughout the night, frequently peeking out the window to ensure myself that all was well. By the time I was a teenager, personal CD players were all the rage and I would play every CD I had in an effort to drown out the noise.

I used to justify my fear of the night winds by saying that I was concerned the fences would be torn down, which was a legitimate fear. Without fail, the Santa Anas would knock our fences down as if they were matchsticks. I became quite proficient with a hammer and nails before I learned to put makeup on.

A few years ago, our fences were replaced by chain link, impervious to even the worst gusts. Even so, windy nights still find me up late, alternating between hiding under blankets or prowling the halls like some sort of shivering ghost in pink sweatpants and an old grey t-shirt (oddly enough, my t-shirt has the words ‘small but mighty’ printed on it. Which, given the current inane cause of my sleeplessness, I find hilariously ironic).

Even at my last two apartments, where there were no fences to cause concern, the winds caused a chill that went deep into my very bones, the kind of chill no sweater, blanket, or even a Snuggie can ward away.

(Sidenote. I totally wish I had a Snuggie. I’d wear it backwards and run up and down the halls saying I was a wizard. Did I just make that information public? Shit. That’s what sleep deprivation does to you.)

Aside from the noise, I hate what the wind ­does. The idea that a force outside your control just gets to show up and throw your life into a state of upheaval, and you have no choice but to wait it out so you can put everything right again.

Thanks to those wonderful inventions we know as the Ipod and noise-cancelling headphones however; I can disregard the inevitable disorder for now.

Instead, four Brits are calling me Little Darlin and saying it’s all right.

For here comes the sun.

You Fight Well, Young Grasshoppa.

In August, my sister and I spent a Sunday afternoon in West Hollywood for a friend's birthday. After hanging out for a few hours, in which we observed bad dancing and Lucy put money in a man's panties, we headed back to the OC.

I was behind the wheel, and as we made our way down Santa Monica boulevard, we talked of little else besides men's panties and possible dinner options once we got back. Right as I turned onto the 101 onramp, we took on a hitchhiker.

His thumbs were really hard to see.

This little guy jumped on the windshield of my car and immediately hunkered down for the ride. As we made it further and further out of LA, he made it clear that he had no intention of getting off until we had reached his destination. Impressed, we named him Duke.

We had a few close calls, at one point I even wondered if he had died. Every now and then one of his legs would come off the windshield and flail helplessly in the wind, then Duke would clamp back down again and hold on. He was kind of a badass.

"A car would have paid for itself by now."

Once I got to our freeway exit, Duke began moving as he sensed the car slow down. He crawled up to the top of my car, and promptly jumped off and went on his way. He didn't even offer me gas money.

Asshole.

Parsimoniousness aside, I was impressed by little Duke's determination. He held on for dear life on the windshield of a car going more than 70 mph for an hour. Unfazed by a sliding grip, he managed to make it the whole drive, knowing exactly where he wanted to go and how he was going to get there.

Just one of the many signs I have encountered on the journey.

Dropping Weights.

When I was younger, and things were much simpler, I just didn't give a shit about anything. I worried about me, and nobody else (besides my family). I didn't even start pulling decent grades until high school, and not because anyone told me I was headed down the shitty path (though plenty of people did). I simply started doing the work because I figured colleges cared about grades, even if I didn't.

I always wanted to just...be. Especially in the last two years....from mid-2009 to November 2010 I basically existed within the confines if a deep, dark depression. There were days that were so bad I didn't have the strength to get out of bed, let alone feed myself anything more than a bowl of rice. If I was lucky enough to get a Netflix that day, I'd lie on the couch and escape into a world that didn't exist for a while. Anything to get away from the despair I felt in my own life. I didn't sleep, I began to hate my own bedroom because all I did at night was stare at the ceiling and wish for the refuge of sleep that never came. Some nights I dragged my blankets out into the living room and just lay on the couch, channel surfing until I found something dull enough to put me to sleep. Not only did I give a shit, but I carried it all around with me, like some sort of ugly piece of heavy jewelry, that rattled with every step, reminding me of its presence.

I hated the fact that I felt anything, because all that I felt SUCKED. I had no job and kept failing at finding one. No boyfriend (which I don't mourn, but I did then). I had barely enough money to pay the rent, and some months I scraped by purely by the grace of God. And worst of all, Raul, a 19-year old boy with hopes and dreams and deeper faith than anyone I knew, was dead. Nothing made sense.

One early morning over a year ago, after another night of lying in bed and weeping, I got up and turned on the TV. There was nothing on (in English, anyway), but I clicked on, hoping to find something with at least some kind of storyline. I finally stopped on one of the many Jesus channels, on some sort of sketch act that actually seemed amusing. The two actors went through several scenarios depicting ways that people accumulate baggage during their lifetimes, and that in order to be productive and functional and happy, one needed to drop all the baggage (illustrated by actual heavy bags one of the actors carried around) and move on. Their main point was that one did this with the help of God. I wished to be someone who could simply drop it all.

Almost by instinct, I walked to my dresser, where in a top drawer, hidden by knick knacks, I had a small, hand-painted, heart-shaped box. Inside was a pair of earrings, in my birthstone. Anthony gave them to me for my birthday. As I stood there and gazed at the little box in my hand, I realized that I felt nothing for the box, nor the original gifter. I immediately felt that I needed to get rid of the box and its contents as soon as possible, but I didn't want to throw them away, nor did I want to be so heartless as to pawn them. On impulse, I grabbed my car keys and drove to the best place I could think of: Anthony's mom's house.

(I know what you're thinking. I'm kind of insane for driving to my ex boyfriend's mom's house at 5 o'clock in the morning. I probably was and I don't question my mindset at that time. I wasn't well and I don't pretend that I was. And that's that.)

When I got there, I ran up to the porch and dropped the box in the mailbox on the porch. No note, no explanation for how or why they got there. I wasn't looking for drama or fanfare...I simply didn't want them anymore. I quickly ran back to my car and drove home. As I got back on the freeway questioning my sanity, I was overcome with a feeling of...weightlessness. Like I had just shed a 50 pound weight in the span of less than an hour. I couldn't quite figure it out. Was it truly insanity? Joy? Or simply sleep deprivation? No idea.

I got home, went back to my spot on the couch and laid down again. On my phone were a couple of messages from two friends; one old, and a new one that would change my life in ways I couldn't ever imagine (though I didn't know it at the time). They could wait. As I finally, finally drifted off to sleep, I drowsily smiled to myself as I realized what that feeling was.

It was the first inklings of freedom.

Warning: This might get preachy.

Who am I?

Someone very recently posed this question to me. I found myself unable to answer.

I can easily fire off a few defining characteristics.

-Family-oriented.
-God-fearing.
-Feisty.
-Educated.
-Female.
-Kitchen/Baking junkie.
-A daughter.
-A sister.
-A friend.

But who am I? No freaking clue.

Back when I was working, I was introduced as "a cop". But is that really all I want to be known as? If that were the case, I would have just folded myself up in my locker at the end of the day until it was time to go 10-8 again. I had a life outside of my job, outside of my uniform. Or so I thought.

After I lost my job, I felt like I had no purpose. Like I was just...there. I convinced myself that my life was on hold and that it once I was rehired everything would simply start over. "Ok, life sucks right now, but I'm going to get a new job and then everything will be right again".

In some ways, that is true. I never understood until now how vitally important a job is to the mental and emotional well-being of the psyche. The idea of going to bed because you to have something to go do in the morning. Getting off of work and getting to grumble and grouse about work even though, secretly, you love it.

Every time I tried for a new PD and failed, I was crushed. I saw each job possibility as that chance to press the restart button and if I couldn't, it was devastating. It got to the point where I stopped telling people about my next test dates, my next interview with such-and-such PD, because then I'd have to subsequently inform them that I had yet again let it slip through my fingers. I felt like I was letting everyone down. It's quite narcissistic when I think about it. Like everyone is going to base their hopes and dreams on whether or not I get a new job. It has taken me a while to realize that it wasn't their disappointment in me that I was seeing, but disappointment for me.

The only voice I was hearing say, "you are a failure" was my own.

I've always walked with a very quick gait. I've never been an 'ambler'. Even people much taller than me sometimes complain that I walk too fast and need to slow down. Part of the reason for this is simply that I'm shorter than everyone else, so I need to walk twice as fast to keep up. But another reason for this is that I have a goal to get to...I'm in a hurry and please move aside because come hell or high water I'm going to get to where I'm going, dammit. These last few years I've felt like I've been forced to slow down and go at a much slower pace. I can't say I've done so willingly. More like an imaginary hand is pushing me back by the forehead, and I'm mulishly plowing forward against it, only looking forward, and not stopping to look at what's around me right at that very moment. Push push push.

Today, I found a new store at the mall that sells nothing but 50's style clothing. Somewhat rockabilly, but a bit more authentic. Less skulls and tattoos, more full skirts, crinolines, even snoods. They had this incredible black velvet, curve-hugging dress with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was the last one in stock. What the hell, I thought. I'll try it on.

The sales associates handed me a pair of leopard-print pumps for the full effect, and even my dad (who usually doesn't have much to say on the topic of women's clothing) insisted that I buy the dress. Then I looked at the price tag. $129.00. How could I, someone on unemployment, justifiably make such an extravagant purchase? Unthinkable.

Push push push.

I cringe when I think of what I've missed by just pushing against that hand on my forehead, while neglecting everything else. The relationships I let fall by the wayside. How many other opportunities did I ignore? Why didn't I take this extra time to improve on the guitar? Go to Oregon? Read more books? Take a random road trip by myself? Always, always, the excuse was: I can't afford to do it right now. When I have a job. When I have the money. For some of those chances I didn't see or take, it may be too late.

Push push push.

The question I'm asking myself now is, why was I always seeing that hand as an obstacle? Why did I see it as the block to what I felt was my destiny?

Why didn't I realize sooner that it was actually the hand of God?

Believers have this idea that God has a hand in everything. That God is gently guiding us through life's journey. A very calming, comforting imagery, no? Not so much with me. Like any parent, He has had to take a bit of a firmer approach with one of His more...uh...obstinate kids. In my case, God has been trying to get me to stop and see what's around me right now, rather than allow me to just charge unabashedly through life without stopping to check a few things out. He practically had to hit me with a frying pan to get me to apply to grad school. All those times I tried and didn't get the job, I didn't fail.

He was simply telling me, "Not yet. I have some other things for you to see first".

The journey continues to answer the initial "who am I?" question.

Oh, and I bought the dress. And it looks damn good.

Git off mah lawn, you young rapscallions.

Occasionally, I feel like a cantankerous, ornery old man. Not because I'm evil (shut up) or a man. But because all old men have that old battle wound that acts up every now and then.

However, those old men with battle wounds are BAMFs who got those wounds committing various acts of derring-do. They have that bad knee that acts up when it rains. The itchy trigger finger when they think of all them Nazis (pronounced, "Nazzies") they did in. Faded tattoos that rest on now wrinkled skin.

I'm not comparing myself, by any means. I am not, nor shall I ever be, at the same level of those men. I have never committed any wanton acts of bravery. I don't even have any tattoos. All I have is one scar. Obtained through very modest means.

(Actually, being as graceful as an epileptic rhino, I have many scars, but we won't talk about those. At least not today.)

I have a scar on my lower back, a few inches to the right of where a tramp stamp would go. A scar that, ever now and then for some inexplicable reason, will itch like CRAZY, despite the fact that it has long since healed.

How did I get such a scar, you ask?

Watch. And cover your ears.

All those people watching are seasoned CHP officers. I can easily say it was one of the worst 5 seconds of my life. Not so much because it's painful (though it is), but because even though you are completely aware of everything going on around you, you can't do a damn thing about it. I remember screaming (inside my head), "Stop screaming. Shut UP, dammit. They are going to make so much fun of you when this is over. Wuss. You suck."

When it was over, what you can't hear is me laughing hysterically as soon as the ride ended. It was funny, yes, but I was so full of adrenaline I couldn't help but giggle like a moron.

The alligator clamps were attached to a belt loop on my jeans and the top of my right shoe. Both clamps left blisters. The ones on my foot disappeared, the ones on my hip did not. Every now and then, it will itch. Especially when there's a lot of static in the air...

Deck the Halls.

I LOVE Christmas music. For those of you naysayers who complain about hearing it everywhere, I have to say that that's one of my favorite things about the holidays. In truth, my college roommate and I used to start listening to it as early as September while we'd decorate our dorm/apartment for fall. In fact, she sent me a text the other day telling me she was decorating for fall while listening to Christmas music and no one else seemed to understand such bizarre behavior.

This past Monday I turned on the radio in my car and was thrilled to realize one of the local stations finally started playing nothing but holiday-themed music. YAY! Bring on Rudolph! Here comes Santa Claus! CHARLIE BROWN!!

But of course, there are those that occasionally come on that make my ears bleed. Worry not, the list is relatively short. But here it is, for your reading pleasure!

5. "Wonderful Christmastime" – Paul McCartney

Before you send the lynch mob after me, I LOVE THE BEATLES. “Something” is one of my favorite songs, I’ve considered the possibility of someday getting something Beatles-related tattooed on my body somewhere and as I write this particular paragraph, I’m listening to my ITunes on shuffle and “The Long and Winding Road” came on.

That being said, I have to be honest and say this is song SUCKS. It hurts me to say this. I feel like Paul, knowing full well that he is adored and has legions of fans, decided to experiment and write a truly crappy song to see if his followers would bite. As much as I love me the Fab Four, I can’t get behind the shitty synthesizers. And I’m sorry Paul, “ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong” does not constitute a credible song lyric. But I'll give you a pass and choose to believe that this song came as a result of some low-quality psychotropics.

4. "Do They Know Its Christmas" - BandAid

I applaud Bono’s charity efforts. I really do. But I don’t get how certain groups (cough-coughPETA cough-cough) seem to think the best way to get to people is to make you feel like an asshole for having a better lot in life. And when the original songwriter has gone on record saying it's a shitty song, that's when you KNOW it sucks. And if that doesn't convince you, check out the original album art:

"Who invited those shirtless dudes? Didn't they see the invitation said 'black-tie only'?"

With such eye-rolling lines as “Tonight thank God it’s them, instead of you”, and “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas” I really do have to ask who came up with this trend of writing Christmas songs that make you feel bad. And on that note...

3. "Christmas Shoes" - Newsong

My mom and I disagree every year on this one. She loves this song, and I hate it. For those of you not familiar with it (lucky you) I’ll give you a quick rundown: Narrator is doing some last minute shopping. Narrator is not feeling Christmas-y (what a douche). Narrator notices dirty kid in line in front of him buying shoes (taking pains to point out that not only is he dirty, but he is ‘dirty from head to toe’. Making him an even bigger douche).

Also, to me, somehow the 'dirty kid' is Pigpen.

Dirty kid is too poor to buy said shoes for his dying mom (who is dying on CHRISTMAS EVE. Are you suicidal yet?). Narrator plunks down a few bucks so mom can enjoy shoes for a couple of hours before she snuffs it. Narrator learns the true meaning of Christmas is not to spend time with your loved ones because life is so short, but that you must buy them as much useless shit as possible, like cheap shoes, right up until they die. Because that’s what’s important. Merry Christmas.

2. "Dear Mr. Jesus (Please Don’t Let Them Hurt Your Children)" - Powersource

(Note: Before you denounce me as a terrible human being, I just want to point out that I’m not making fun of child abuse. Just this song and the sanctimonious dick who wrote it.)

I first heard this song during the holiday season a few years ago, and it still confuses me. Not only is there no mention of Christmas anywhere in the lyrics, but every single line makes you hate yourself as a human being.

Dear Mr. Jesus, I just had to write to you

Something really scared me, when I saw it on the news

A story 'bout a little girl beaten black and blue

Jesus, thought I'd take this right to you

Dear Mr. Jesus, I don't understand

Why they took her mom and dad away

I know that they don't mean to hit with wild and angry hands

Tell them just how big they are I pray

Please don't let them hurt your children

We need love and shelter from the storm

Please don't let them hurt your children

Won't you keep us safe and warm

Dear Mr. Jesus, they say that she may die

Oh I hope the doctors stop the pain

I know that you could save her and take her up to the sky

So she would never have to hurt again

Please don't let them hurt your children..

Dear Mr. Jesus, please tell me what to do

And please don't tell my daddy

But my mommy hits me, too.

Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a 6-year old singing about how mommy hits her.

1. ANYTHING BY MANNHEIM STEAMROLLER.

This one-man band/atrocity came into existence in the 1980’s, and Chip Davis still hasn’t realized that no one gives a shit about synthesizer heavy music anymore. ALL of MS’ music sounds like someone drank too much eggnog, busted out their Casio SA-76 and then tried to play a crappy rendition of “Deck The Halls”. In the dark. Oh, and that person is deaf. If Christmas were a video game, the likes of Eartha Kitt and Bing Crosby would be Xbox (or Playstation. Or Wii. You get it), and Mannheim Steamroller would be Atari, or some other old-ass console whose video games all look like pixilated diarrhea.

Honorable mentions:

"Merry Christmas with Love" by Clay Aiken.

It’s Clay Aiken. Enough said.

"Santa Baby" by Madonna

Every time I hear Madonna’s whiny, pouty rendition of this Eartha Kitt classic, it makes me want to run over her with that ’54 convertible. Besides, someone like Madonna can’t get away with singing lines such as, “think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed”.

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Bruce Springsteen

The Boss blurting out “SANNA CLOTHES IS KAMANA TAN” does not get me in the Christmas spirit. Nor does the 10-minute intro where he seems to be unsuccessfully trying to get the audience all riled up for the band's next number.

That does it for me, childrens. And to all a good night.

27

I've always found the idea of birthdays to be a little off. On the anniversary day that we made our debut, everyone stops and makes sure to congratulate and celebrate us on our "special day".

But technically, on that day, Mom did all the work.

Today, 27 years later, my mom is in the kitchen, hurrying to finish a large pot of posole and some tacos al pastor, my favorite foods, for the friends and family arriving later. She's been at it since yesterday.

She cooks for me in lieu of a birthday gift, despite the fact that 27 years ago she already gave me THE gift.

And yet, she still does all the work.

So while everyone else is sending me text messages and Facebook posts wishing me a happy birthday, I'd like the be the one who says,

Thanks mom.

Creating the Crazy

My fellow Harry Potter Nerds will enjoy this.

As many of you know, my Halloween costume last year was EPIC. I told no one of my plans, so when I showed up at my friend Cindy's Halloween party dressed as an Oompa Loompa, let's just say the costume was a hit.

Seeing as how I find myself still unemployed, I had plenty of time for this year's costume.

This year's costume was Bellatrix Lestrange.

This was no small feat. I went to costume shops in search of the right Bellatrix costume, but none amounted to what I had in mind. So I had to make it myself.

The inspiration.

The end result.

How did I do, my peeps?

The Final Countdown

(Note: Sorry I've been absent, y'all. I'm currently in week 5 of my MAS program, and it's kicking my butt. Not complaining. It's awesome! But it does take a fair chunk out of my week. I miss recreational reading.)

Everyone has a bucket list. That lift of Stuff To Do Before You Bite The Big One. And it occurred to me that I, too, have a list of stuff I want to do before I get murderized. Some of it might be a bit more unconventional (or boring) than others, but what do you expect from me?

Also, because I am an organizational freak, mine are listed by category.

Places To Go:
1. Ireland. Everyone has that European location they dream of visiting. Most people want go to Paris. Italy. Potheads go to Amsterdam. I want to go somewhere cloudy, with lots of green fields and sheep. And beer.
2. New Orleans. For the history. I'm weird like that.
3. Boston. Cook's Country is filmed here.
4. Australia. Possibly steal a dingo, and threaten bratty children with it. "This thing EATS BABIES!"
5. A taping of Saturday Night Live.
6. La Tomatina in Spain.
7. Oktoberfest in Germany.

People to Meet:
1. The Pope. Give him a high five. For no other reason than to be able to say, "I hi-fived the Pope".
2. Laurie Notaro. She is one of my favorite authors. She also happens to be one of my favorite authors who is still alive.
3. Hugh Jackman. Pure indulgence. The man is HOT. Plus I hear he's a nice guy.
4. Coldplay. This requires no explanation.
5. The President. Why the hell not?
6. The Dalai Lama. For a fist bump.

What I'd Like to Learn
(Those of you who tell yourselves you want to learn the meaning of life, I'll help you: The Meaning of Life is life itself. The good and the bad. Me writing this useless drivel? That's the meaning of life. Everything from getting the married, getting divorced, your car breaking down, getting the dream job, Being constipated, to picking your nose. The meaning of life is to LIVE IT. Ok I'm done.)
1. Modern Major General. I want to learn all of the words, and be able to recite them correctly. I would also like to learn the words to "It's The End of the World (As We Know It)".
2. Cheese. As you already know, my mom is the Cheese fairy. And I would like her to teach me how to make this wondrous dairy product so I can try it myself.
3. Quilting. I am beginning to think I am secretly an old woman. Shut up.
4. Learn to swim. Right now I can only manage to flop around like a retarded octopus before someone comes to my rescue.

Experiences:
1. Get married. (That's right, I have a sensitive side! Pick your jaws up off the floor. It's filthy.)
2. Produce a kidlet. Possibly adopt one.
3. See a musical on Broadway.
4. See the LA Philharmonic.
5. An actual white Christmas. With snow.

Things to Do:
1. Pet a goat.
2. Ride a horse.
3. Ride an elephant.
4. Get a Nikon SLR camera.
5. Zip line.
6. Cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner myself.
7. A mud run.
8. Have a Halloween party.
9. Own a house.
10. Be a speaker at a high school career day, preferably at my alma mater.
11. Write a book.
12. Run in a Zorb.
13. Take a nap in a hammock. (This would have been possible in Big Bear a few weeks ago, but it was cold as shit and the hammock was outside. Plus the cabin was situated on some kind of crow reserve or something. So it was either freeze, or get my really, really nice parka pooped on.)

Now that I've written and posted this list, chances are I'm going to find other stuff to do and will have to amend it, many times. What can I say? I'm fickle sometimes.

So what's on your list, my peeps?

And Of Course, Cheese.

A few months ago, I co-hosted a BBQ. T'was tasty and an awesomely fun afternoon.

Co-host took care of all barbecuing duties, while I took care of, well, everything else.

Now, before you lecture me on an equal share of responsibilities, keep in mind that I am an unemployed deadbeat who paid for none of the groceries. Plus, my culinary abilities notwithstanding, I move through a kitchen (as with life) with as much grace and poise as a drunk walrus wearing roller skates. Seriously. I’m clumsy and have a natural talent for dropping everything that passes through my hands. Add some knives and foodstuffs to that equation, set it all up in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and can you really blame the others for dropping the groceries and mysteriously disappearing?

I did have someone chop someone onions for me, though. Otherwise I would have gotten all weepy and boogerific. Sexy.

One of the dishes I made that day was a rice casserole-type dish made with white rice, canned corn, Cacique table cream, and cheese.

Not just any cheese, mind you.

My mom’s cheese.

Right now, you’re saying out loud (weirdo), “your mom makes her own cheese?” because that’s the inevitable question that follows the statement, ‘My mom’s cheese’, which you would think is self-explanatory.

My dad works at a dairy, which means we get all the sweet hookups in terms of beef and milk. Friends and relatives will frequently use my dad as a...I don’t know what...beef ambassador? Bovine liaison? Anyway, they’ll buy the beef directly from the dairy. Sounds like a great idea, right?

Maybe.

Many of you are used to seeing your meat (hee hee) all wrapped in pretty white paper, perhaps with an Albertson’s bar code slapped onto your order of beef tenderloin. Not so this way. When you buy your meat through the Dairy Emissary Program, your burger is still mooing.

Take a big bite outta that.

When we were kids, every now and then we’d wake up to find an adorable wittle calf all curled up in the garage. The first time this happened, our immediate reaction was “holy-shit-we-have-a-pet-cow-lets-pet-it-and-love-it-forever-and-ever-and-ever!!!”

Later that afternoon, we ate it.

Needless to say, after the first calf, every one we woke up to thereafter was treated with a more aloof manner. Think of it as being detached from the condemned.

Vaya con Dios.

Call it barbaric. I call it the Circle of LIFE, yo. Didn’t The Lion King teach you anything?

besides not trusting creepy uncles.

Anyhoo, like I said before, we got free milk, too. Every so often my dad will bring home 3 or 4 gallons of milk, and just leave it sitting on the counter. During the night, the Cheese Fairy would appear, wave her mozzarella stick-wand, and the milk would magically transform into...

Creamy, cheesy, crumbly, DELICIOUSNESS.

You know you want it.

I’m totally full of shit, by the way. My mom makes it. She is the Cheese Fairy. Did I just ruin the fantasy for you? I’m sorry. Sorry you’re so LAME!

Back to the cheese.

It can be crumbled, eaten fresh, melted into a quesadilla, or, if left to dry for a few days, roast it on the stove on a piece of foil for our own little version of grilled cheese. This stuff ROCKS. I keep telling myself I need to learn how to make it, but like so many of my mom’s recipes, I feel like this is best left to her expertise.

Plus I think she’d look way better with fairy wings than me.

Just another day in the IE.

First of all...

And to add insult to injury (because I'm just such a nice person)

The end.

Historia De Un Amor TRUNCADO.

When I was in high school, my first real crush was this guy I knew from church. He was tall, thin, and quiet, with large brown eyes and a warm smile. Best of all, he was an amazing guitar player. To this day I have not known someone who could play as well as he did...all he needed was to hear any song a few times before he could play it himself...he played guitar for the Saturday choir, of which his younger sister (a friend of mine) was also a member, so I saw my in. My plan in getting to know him better didn’t work out that well though, seeing as how he NEVER TALKED. I tried, I joked, I even tried to flirt (yes, try to imagine me ‘flirting’ at the age of 15. It wasn’t pretty. STOP LAUGHING!). This was your basic, run of the mill, HARDCORE crush. I daydreamed about, like, ohemgee, we would like date and be in luuuurve and...I don’t know...ride unicorns and file our taxes jointly and stuff. I thought I was all stealthy too, like, NO ONE knew about it and I was so smart and sneaky. I might as well have tattooed it on my forehead.

Or worn a sandwich board.

While he didn’t take the bait, he was unfailingly polite and never exploited my feelings or made fun of me (to my face anyway). Which is saying a lot. Like most high school crushes, it was pretty epically cringeworthy. Once, for Valentine’s Day, I sent him a Crush Gram through my AVID class. How it worked was you sent someone a bottle of Crush soda, then they could pay like 50 cents or something to find out who the sender was. I was a wimp and left it blank. So not only was I a tease, I cheated him out of his money.

Now that’s true love.

The next time I saw him I resolved to find some shit out with some mad sleuthing skills.

Me: Sooo, did anyone get a Valentine’s Day gram? Those are so lame. (nervous laughter)

Dude: Someone sent me one of those soda ones.

Me: reaaaalllly? (feigned shock) did you find out who sent it?

Dude: I went to look. They didn’t leave their name.

Me: oh, what a shame. (Recon mission TOTALLY nailed. I’m a ninja.)

The romance never came to pass, and my stalker-esque devotion remained unrequited. I moved away to school and life went on. On my visits home and when I finally moved back after graduation, we would periodically see each other, more frequently when my mom babysat for him for a few months. At one point we actually exchanged phone numbers, more out of necessity than anything else. This, along with the couple of times he pocket-dialed me or called (on purpose) would have been enough to send my 15-year old self into a fit of hysterics. By that time, however, he had taken up the spot in my mind as a casual acquaintance that I could actually have a normal conversation with, without blushing, smiling like a vapid moron or collapsing into nervous giggles.

What’s the point of my wistful recollection, you ask? There is a point. I was getting to it. Come in, sit down. Would you like a cookie?

Let me paint a picture for you. Of unrequited love, a story more romantic and tragic than Romeo and Juliet.

My youngest brother is somewhat of a metro. Seriously. He actually spent an hour in the bathroom yesterday complaining that he couldn't get his hair quite right. I guess we all have our battles. Anyway, a few months ago, a girl at school professed her undying love for my little brother, who we'll call Mr. Sexy.

Seriously, who could resist this dreamboat?

Not only is he not allowed to date (Damn skippy, yo), his schoolwork, volunteering at church and baseball leave him almost zero time for anything other than food, sleep and an occasional dump. It is my understanding that he told her as much, and let her down as easily and gently as he knew how. I believe this because we didn’t raise no fool.

This, apparently, did not go over well. Mr. Sexy is now this horrible heartbreaking Casanova who trifles with poor unsuspecting girls’ feelings and leaves broken hearts in his wake.

That trifling casanova!

Because I am nosy and can’t leave well enough alone, I went on trusty Facebook and sure enough, our forlorn and heartbroken heroine has poured her heart out to the Internet world. She ranged from song lyrics, her own poignant ramblings when she fancied herself a poet, to the purposefully misspelled text that these young’ns are so fond of.

Maybe I don't see how '"wonderful" he is because not thirty minutes ago, he admitted to me that he knew all the words to Rick Astley's " Never Gonna Give You Up". Followed by a full demonstration.

He then farted.

The bracelet in question. In case he ever forgets what his name is.

This girl is obviously destined for Mensa.

She is also a poet.

Ride on what?? The boy doesn't have a license. He has a bike. With a flat tire.

It's not his fault he's almost blind in one eye! He wears contact lenses now.

GODDAMMIT! It's FATE!!!!

Finally, after roughly two months of trying to tactfully reject this girl’s advances, she laid it all out there. Via email. On Facebook. Romantic, ain’t it?

That’s right, kids. She was in love because she "can’t talk to other guys".

I can think of a few other countries she’d be right at home in.

At this point however, our young Romeo had had enough, and finally just gave her the cold shoulder. So she gave up and got a new boyfriend a week later.

I guess ‘forever and a day’ in teenager speak is a week and a day.

Dianetics.

A few weeks ago, my good friend Brian came over to hang out. We had pho, saw The Adjustment Bureau (don’t worry, we only paid $2.00) and, like most of our outings, ended our adventure with a trip to Yogurtland.

(By the way, they have Cinnamon Toast Crunch as a topping now. Awesome. )

It was a warm night, so we sat outside on the patio. We had just begun to dig into our frozen treats (did I mention Cinnamon Toast Crunch?), when we heard a random voice say in too friendly a voice: “Heeeey, Yogurtland!”

We both looked up to see a middle aged man with his hands folded behind his back, wearing a button down and slacks, and the look of someone awkwardly trying to inject themselves into your conversation. Brian and I quickly glanced at each other, wondering what this guy wanted. He sounded like P. Allen Smith, and if you know who P. Allen Smith is you’d know that he talks in a creepy child-molester way, like someone who probably has people buried in his garden and drives around in a van filled with candy and puppies. This guy even looked like an older version of P. Allen Smith, too. I briefly wondered if we were going to get raped.

“Hi, I’m P. Allen Smith, and I’m gonna murder you and eat your face”

Random White Guy: “Hey guys, I wanted to invite you to come see a movie with us. “

Me: (in my head) we are so gonna get raped.

RWG: “We’re going to be playing out movie here nearby, it’s totally free, you can even bring your ice cream if you want.”

(I’d like to take this moment to point out we were not having ice cream, we were having Yogurtland. With Cinnamon Toast Crunch.)

Random White Guy then put two tickets on the table. Right away I noticed the headline.

I don't hurt the people I love, I just trip them.

There was a young woman with him too, around our age, enthusiastically nodding and encouraging us to come, because it’s a Friday night, and all the hip young kids go to the movies on Friday night!

My mouth full of cake batter yogurt (with CINNAMON TOAST CRUNCH!! Did I mention this?), I automatically racked my brain for the best comeback.

• "I used to be an athiest until I realized I was God."
• "Nothing personal but God told me to set you on fire."
• "BURP."
• "Na na na na na na na na LEADER!"
• "I'm Catholic! HISS! Away, evil one!"
• Speak in tongues.

The last one would have been somewhat feasible if I knew how.

Being much quicker (and much more mature) than I, Brian quickly threw out an excuse.

“Oh, we can’t. She has to work tomorrow. Really early.”

Girl: “Oh, no! Where do you work?”

Me: “Sturbucsh. I haff tah be derr at 4 am.” (I’m talking with my mouth full because I’m such a classy dame.)

Girl: “Oh wow, that’s REALLY early! Well, if you guys change your minds, we’re just down the street, hopefully we’ll see you there?”

Brian: “Uh, yeah! Sure.”

Creepy McCreeperton and his sidekick, Mary Kay Letourneau's cousin, walked off in search of more schmucks to ambush and have awkward conversations with.

Brian: “Uh, did that really just happen?”

Me: “Yes. Can we go? Please oh please? Come on, it would be HILARIOUS!”

I tend not to think things through completely. It’s how I live.

Brian: (laughing nervously in that way he does when I suggest something stupid) “Uh, no.”

Me: “Fine. Guess not. They’ll probably stick an E-meter in my butt and sell my soul to Xenu.”

Oh, I’m sorry? Did I say soul? I meant Thetan.

Tom cruise would be so pissed.

I love a fat, lazy bastard.

This is Baloo.

Baloo is lazy.

and apparently, he is also a drunk.

Heart of a lion Baloo does not have. He basically has all the qualities no woman would ever want in a man-he's lazy, fat, needy, sheds hair like there's no tomorrow, eats constantly, has no sense of personal space, and has horrid breath. I love this useless lump beyond words.

Two days ago, he was scheduled for a check-up and a Rabies shot at the vet. Sounds simple enough right?

Nope.

First order of business was getting Baloo, all 105 pounds of him, into my teeny car. The easiest way to do this was to say his favorite word (second only to 'cookies' and 'Mom'):

"Walkies?"

The simple act of uttering these two syllables is enough to get Baloo all a dither. Despite the fact that he has a huge yard in which to run, sleep, pee, and poop, Baloo's favorite time of day is when we snap on his well worn, once-red leash (complete with grocery bag turned pooper scooper tied to it), and take him for a stroll around the block. A 'stroll' usually consists of letting Baloo drag you from mailbox to lamppost to fence to parked car so he can sniff and pee on it, all the while you're losing the feeling in your fingers from holding onto the leash so tightly, despite the fact that one good yank will pull your arm out of the socket.

I felt a tad guilty, deceiving my poor mutt, letting him think he was going for a walk when really I was about to shove his ample butt into my car and drive him to a scary, stagnant cold room where there is nothing to pee on.

In any case, it did the trick, and once I opened the back car door, he jumped right in. Before he could change his mind, I tossed in the leash and shut the door. Right away I could see a look of concern cross his face, as the wheels in his head began to turn. This was bad. Car rides led to The Bad Place which led to a nap which led to owwies which led to wearing the stupid cone, while everyone in the house laughed at your eunuch ass.

"Aww, shit. What are they cutting off this time?"

Once my backup (Chris) had gotten in the car, we headed out. The fact that Baloo was moving, not under his own power, was quite perplexing to him. When the car would stop, he'd peek out the window and try to make sense of where he was, and when the car moved, he'd hunker down like Dorothy in a tornado and whimper quietly to himself. I could see him coming in and out of view in my rear view mirror. It was like watching a Whack-A-Mole game.

Our arrival to the vet's office was the hardest part. Chris opened the door, and I nonchalantly tried to walk in without making a big deal out of it. As soon as Baloo saw where we were headed, he dropped to his belly and refused to go any further. I then did something I never do.

I begged.

Me: (patting my leg and trying to sound a sickeningly cheery as possible) "C'mon, Baloo, c'mere boy! Come on!"

Chris: (doing the same) "Go on, Baloo, it's ok! It's ok!"

Baloo: (in his mind) BAD PLACE! BAD BAD BAD PLACE! DO NOT WANT! NO LIKE!!!

Random Lady In The Corner: "He looks like I do when I have to go to the dentist."

This went on for quite a bit. Finally, he inched his way in far enough that the door closed, but he shook like a leaf and waited for the next time someone would open the door so he could bolt out again. Resigned and feeling like a major asshole, I finally grabbed him around the collar and dummy-dragged him across the linoleum floor to the hallway. This proved to be both good and bad. We had made progress, but now Baloo knew that I would do all the moving for him and he wouldn't have to do anything but quiver like a chihuahua in 70 degree weather.

Thankfully, the nurse was kind enough to give us the room closest to the waiting area, where Baloo got his exam (healthy dog!) and a shot in the rump, which he barely noticed. We then dragged him back out of the office, where he cowered by my feet while I paid the bill. Chris then opened the door and called for Baloo. He didn't move until I gave his leash a little tug and said, "let's go home". At the mention of 'home' he bolted out the door like he was escaping from jail, and desperately circled my car, smart enough to know that the Big Red Thing would magically take him back to where Mom and food was.

He then spent the rest of the day sulking about the terrible, horrible, no good very bad morning he'd had.

Worst. Adventure. Ever.

Hooray for not being dead.

Is there an award for Worst Blogger?

If not, I'm going to invent one. Right now. But I'd probably still not win it. That's how bad I suck at blogging.

Simon Cowell says I suck. My life is now without purpose.

Enough with the self-flagellation. Time to get back on the bloggin-wagon.

Oh my god, I just invented a new phrase. I'm awesome.

ANYWAY, for those of you who actually read this tripe, I had an asscrapload of stuff to do in the last month. Observe.

1.) I MOVED!

My lease ran out, and in order to go month-to-month I would have had to pay an extra $200 a month. Considering the fact that I lived in Da Hood, Sunday mornings I'd get woken up by the old lady who thinks she still lives in Mexico and yells, "tamaleeeees" as loud as humanly possible while slowly ambling up and down the next street, and I'd lost count of the number of times I nearly shit my pants from when the maintenance guy slams the door shut on the storage garage, on top of which my apartment was so conveniently located, terminating my lease and going back to Chateau MomandDad was an easy decision.

So one grey and overcast morning, I rented a UHaul, called a few friends who still like me for reasons unknown, and packed all of my stuff into a storage unit like so many bits of Tetris blocks. I kept only a couple of suitcases of clothes (I have since gone shopping. I swear my mom just needs to be my personal shopper FOREVER. Otherwise I'd be running around in a burlap sack), some shoes (I will not say how many. I luuurves my shoes), my bike and my laptop. It does suck because now I'm far from Orange County (land of Botox and bolt-ons), Boyfriend, and there is not one day that goes by that I don't wish I had [some random item that's in storage] on me.

2.) I got tested.

Thankfully, I don't have herpes.

:P

A few days ago, I headed out to one of the many industrial parks in Anaslime to take the GRE. Once there, I followed the obvious signs to the testing center (they obviously don't think much of the people taking the test), where I was met by a 30-somethingish dude who had obviously rolled a fatty to go with his morning Frappachino. For medicinal purposes, obviously.

Breakfast of champions.

Anyway, I spent about 3 hours slogging through math problems I haven't seen since 9th grade and reading essays about the evolution of the lungfish for reading comprehension. I felt like my brain was the quiet little village with thatch-roofed huts and this stupid test was a boatload of vikings washing onshore to pillage and burn the whole fucking place to the ground.

What's in your wallet?

With the knowledge that my essays were going to be read by dry, stuffed-shirt professor types, I wrote my argumentative essay on...wait for it...Harry Potter.

Is my nerd showing? Sorry...it slips out from time to time. Satisfied that I had stuck it to the man (heehee) for making me PAY to sit through that bullhonkey, I submitted my scores and made my way to my favorite coffee shop to read the inspiration behind my GRE writing.

2.) I has boyfriend now.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the biggest factor behind my falling off the bloggin-wagon (it works on so many levels!). Boyfriend and I met back in November through a mutual friend, initially because I had applied to his company and I needed pointers for the interview. We met at a Starbucks, I asked questions, he answered them. I took notes. We shook hands, wished each other luck, and I left. I don't think either of us even removed our sunglasses. I was more preoccupied with getting to Long Beach afterwards for drinks at Tequila Jack's with Ig, Uli and Rudy.

I have my priorities, after all.

Needless to say, I failed the interview. Dismally. I texted Not-Yet-Boyfriend-Still-Just-Platonic-Acquaintance as soon as I walked out, bemoaning how badly I had done. We met, picked apart the interview, and just decided that I wasn't meant to work there. Texting correspondence continued, and in December he for some reason decided to take me out in public. He asked me to go with him to his company's party, and I said yes, thinking he just needed a dance partner. I obviously didn't think much of myself at this point.

After said outing, Not-Yet-Boyfriend decided to hang out with me. Again. And again. And again. It took a few weeks for me to convince myself that this really was dating and he wasn't just using me as a research subject (he's a Ph.D. student). Now he's just Boyfriend.

Fear not, my ickle beasties. This doth not meaneth that I will wear big girl pants and act like a grown-up. In fact, in the last seven months, Boyfriend has had to come to terms with the following:

• If someone burps, I will laugh. Especially if that someone was me.
• He has to refer to my car as a 'he'. And call him by his name.
• I will frequently forget to fully charge my Ipod, leading to a dead battery in the middle of a work out, leading to a very angry Hobbit.
• I hate talking on the phone.
• I am always willing to make an ass out of myself in public. Especially when sober.
• Instead of slutty Girlfriend-In-Her-Skivvies pictures, he will get this:

*breathes heavily* Luke, this is your girlfriend.