A Public Service Announcement

*clears throat, taps microphone*

My fellow Americans.

While at the mall today with the parental units and Mohair Sam, I came upon one of those sights that makes you sad for humanity.

A heavyset, youngish woman, completely empty-handed, perusing the eyeglass display at your friendly neighborhood Lenscrafters. Close behind, looking oblivious, was her husband or boyfriend, clutching her Coach purse (which he likely paid for) in his left hand.

He looked at me through the glass, and we locked eyes. I glanced down at the purse in his hand, then back at him, shaking my head with a sad smirk.

Ladies: unless your hands were eaten off by a shark and you as yet do not have your bionic claws or hooks, or you are so intoxicated you're talking to shrubbery or a fire hydrant, or are otherwise so completely incapacitated you cannot do so on your own, there is NO reason, ever, that you should make your man carry your purse for you.

Gentlemen: When your wife or girlfriend hands you her bag and says, "Baby/Sweetie/Schnookums, hold my purse?" You are fully within your rights to say, "No, bitch. Carry your own shit." Then go do something manly. Like bicep curls, or bear wrestling.

Carry a woman's purse for her, and you might as well remove your testicles and put them in the bag next to her lipstick so she can keep them safe, as you obviously won't be needing them.

Recalculating Route...

It’s my first day. I report to my duty station, my nerves are frayed and on edge as I prepare to meet my FTO who will hopefully make me into a stellar, polished officer, effectively finishing the job that the academy started. When I get there, I realize I have no uniforms, no equipment, not even an issued duty weapon. An officer meets me in the crowded hallway and tells me he is my training officer, but I don’t catch his name. I’m supposed to follow him. I do my best to keep up as he walks away, it’s difficult because there are people in uniforms – my now brothers and sisters in blue – scurrying up and down the hall, rushing to get everything done before briefing. It’s difficult to navigate; I’m so short I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of navy. My FTO carelessly hands me my uniforms over his shoulder, letting me know that they are secondhand. I look down at them, and realize the name embroidered on the shirt is not mine.

And then I wake up.

I had this dream several weeks ago. For the last few days I’d been waiting with fear, trepidation and excitement for word from the latest agency I had applied to, even going so far as to dig my old boots out and keep them in the garage until I needed to dust them off and shine them up. I hadn’t made it to the background process with any other agency yet, so I was excited and nervous, but confident that this was finally it. The last 3 years, the sleepless nights, tears, disappointments, test after test after test, were finally over. Now all I had to do was wait (impatiently) for the letter I was told to wait for.

I was rejected.

I admit I made the mistake of putting all my eggs into this one basket. But to be perfectly honest, I’d lost track of how many departments in southern California I’ve applied to. Hell, the list of the ones I haven’t applied to is much shorter. I was loath to start the process all over again, especially the much dreaded physical agility test. I do not exaggerate when I say I’d rather take a Taser, OC and gas at the same time rather than do a PAT. That test is the bane of my existence.

But now, sitting on the floor in my ratty, smelly gym clothes (why don’t these intense moments come when I’m freshly showered and clean and my hair looks nice? I always look like a hobo. It never fails. Maybe it says something about my hygiene and poor fashion choices), I’m thinking that probably wasn’t the wisest course of action. My unemployment benefits have long since run out, and my bank account is slowly dwindling at the cost of my bills. It’s time to consider other ideas.

You know that phrase, “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”? That’s a lie. The truth is, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a broken fan belt and a flat tire. And on the way there you keep running out of gas, and you either drive too far over the speed limit, or you’re going too damn slow and everyone else is passing you while giving you the finger. After making the drive for 3 years (even pausing once in a while for the scenic route), I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s finally time to stop, look at the map, and find a new route.

(Just as long as I don’t use Apple maps. HAHAHA!! Get it? GET IT? Cause apparently that app sucks. Lolz.)

I’ve resisted the idea of alternatives for a long time. I felt like if I looked for other types of careers then that meant I was quitting.  The naysayers had won, and that the time I spent in the academy was wasted. The academy was no cakewalk, especially for a small, soft, out of shape oompa loompa like me. It had its fun times and the people I met there are awesome sauce. But yeah. That shit was like, way hard, yo. AND THERE WAS NO CAKE.

Plus, I feel like I used to be part of this super elite, exclusive club of law enforcement personnel, and for the last three years I’ve been desperately trying to get back in.  Recently I had to watch (via Facebook) as my former classmates geared up to go to their patrol stations, a milestone I once looked forward to. Can I really turn my back on a profession that I had worked towards for more than 6 years? The idea, once, was ludicrous. 

Not Ludacris. This ain’t the durrrty souf.

The truth is, this entire time, I’ve been afraid to set aside the idea of law enforcement because it had become my very identity. If I set it aside, who am I truly? The fact that I don’t know the answer to that is terrifying.  When I had a badge I wore it with pride, whether outwardly on my uniform or secretly tucked in my purse. When I left, well, it was obviously only a matter of time until I was rehired. Until then, I was a graduate student. Then I was a-grad-student-in-the-background-process, implying that I’d have a new job any day now and I wasn’t some loser living with her parents.

Looks like it’s time for me to find another way. This decision is by no means easy, I feel like I’m letting a little piece of me go. And regardless of what anyone says, it feels like quitting because I may not ever come back to law enforcement. That thought is, right now, absolutely heart-wrenching. I can’t help but wonder if my old classmates will still accept me, even though I’m no longer one of their own?

I’m venturing away from what was once habitual and comfortable (except the belt, when loaded. That shit was heavy), and wading into unfamiliar waters. I am a poor swimmer to begin with, literally and figuratively. Chances are I’m going to sink a few times, get water up my nose and wind up with swimmer’s ear. There are now other options to consider, options I never would have looked twice at in the past. Eight months from now, I will even be qualified to teach at the college level. Who knows. I may even go federal.

(Note: any reference to “the fuzz” made by me probably means I haven’t waxed my legs in a while. It has nothing to do with work. Just thought I’d let you know. You’re WELCOME.)

At the moment, I’m low on gas and need to stop and load up on Corn Nuts and a Slurpee (read: I’ve cried all day and my eyeballs are dry and puffier than a marshmallow Peep). Once that’s done though, time to keep going. The journey continues.

Although I should probably skip the 405.

Ashes and Wine

21.

The age we all wait anxiously for, in the meantime sneaking Boone's Farm Strawberry Daiquiri when you think your parents aren't looking (Arbor Mist, for y'all fancy people).

I had my first wine cooler when I was 12. We were BBQing for the All-Star Game, and my parents have always been of the mind that if alcohol is a verboten item in the household, that will make it all the more enticing once we're out of the house. Before this, all they let me have were a few sips here and there, but this time I got a whole bottle all to myself. 

Bartles and Jaymes, yo. Like Zima, only with more diabetes. 

I felt so grown up, despite the fact that B&J's are essentially Hawaiian Punch with a thimble of booze. WHATEVER. I was classy and shit.

When I got to college, I had to rely on 21 year-old friends to buy alcohol for me. Mind you, these instances were few and far between. As a full-time college student with a part-time job, I didn't have a whole lot of money to spare for drinking binges. The money my parents were kind enough to send me for food was actually spent on food. Imagine that!

But, the day finally came when it was finally legal for me to buy my own hangover-I mean, alcohol. Here's what no one tells you, though: If you've had alcohol before 21, 21 doesn't mean shit. Sure, you can walk into Ralph's and buy your Steel Reserve your damn self (or your Colt 45. Whatever your poison), but other than that, there's not much else to it. Especially when you turn 21 in good ol' Turlock, where the night life consists of 2 bars. Wellington Station, the cool bar, and Staley's, the dive bar. Guess where I went! 

(Hint: I am not cool.)

I went to Staley's not long after I turned 21 with some friends from a theater group I was in, Teatro Los Hijos del Campo (technically my dad was only a campesino for like, 2 weeks. But I didn't tell them that. Unless they read this blog. In which case, 2 weeks totally counts, guys). There, they got me moderately buzzed, but it being an entirely foreign sensation for me, I remember thinking, "WOAH. So this is what DRUNK feels like. RAD." One of the other members took me home, and he told me later that he thought I was upset because once we got in the car I went from giggly and happy to completely, dead silent. At that point my self-conscious buzz had kicked in, and I was acting all, "if I'm quiet, I can totally pass off as sober. Nevermind that I giggled at the napkin holders for five minutes". Once I got into my apartment, I was all DEFCON-1 so that I wouldn't wake Anne up, and Josh, who was visiting for the weekend. He woke up though. He told me in the morning that he could totally tell I was drunk because I was trying REALLY hard to look like I wasn't drunk. Mission failed.

There have been many, many booze-fueled funtimes since then. Like my friend Jose once told me on my 21st birthday: "It all goes downhill from here". And I am inclined to agree. Not that the birthdays that come after suck, it's just that there is no novelty anymore, at least not until I turn 55 and I get a 10% discount at Ross on Tuesdays. These days I think nothing of ordering a glass of wine at a bar, or buying a six pack of crappy beer at Food 4 Less for beer can chicken. 

That novelty, I'd wager, is lost on pretty much all of the legal imbibers. We forget the awesomeness that comes with being here from the age of 21 and beyond. We take it for granted.

Today would have been Raul's 21st birthday. Today, he would have finally gone out to buy beer, would have gone out with friends (and one of his thirty-seven girlfriends) to a bar to dance, drink and just have a blast. He would have bought his first gun, that he would have been saving for over the last year so he could buy himself the best one. Bear in mind, though, that this kid had his share of alcohol well before he ever turned 18. Be that as it may, he would have felt as grown-up as the rest of us did when we signaled the bartender for the first time and asked for a drink.

Raul is not here to engage in such tomfoolery, but today is not for mourning a death. Today is for rejoicing in a life. 

Today, join me in a toast. Raise your wineglass. Your beer. Your can of Old Milwaukee, or shit, even your bottle of Smirnoff Ice if you want. To a sweet kid with a great sense of humor, integrity and an unshakeable faith. He was a great guy, and would have made a great cop.

 Salud.

Fifty Shades of Noma

The intense heat saps my energy and leaves me with little more ability than to lie on the floor and drool. So I cheated and googled one of those questionnaire things. Enjoy!

1. What is your best friend's Mom's name? Linda. Although a couple of weeks ago she got promoted to Grandma. She’s excited about that.

2. Where is the weirdest place you have a mole?  On my left foot, between two of my toes. And that’s all I’m going to tell you because that gets into the topic of my feet and feetsies are icky.

My best friend Anne has one on her back, and one time in college she asked me to rub her shoulders. I have this weird habit of picking lint off of things, and I felt a teeny lump on her back so I thought, “golly gee, that is a piece of lint. I should be a good friend and remove it for her”. I then pulled on it, VERY hard (HULK SMASH) through her shirt, but it didn’t come off. I am smart.

3. Who was the hottest teacher you ever had?  I’ve never had one...although there was one substitute named Mr. Monterroso who was only a few years older than us, and in my opinion this was the only reason girls lusted after his partybits. I couldn’t think of him that way cause he lived around the corner from me. I told a girl this fact once and she was all, “OHMAHGAWD you’re so lucky!” Which I thought was weird because I didn’t see anything lucky about getting to see him take out his trashcans on Tuesdays. My dog pees on his grass sometimes. I have nothing against the guy, that’s just where Baloo likes to pee and I’ve always believed in canine urinal liberty.

4. Have you ever made out in a movie theater? Nope. But I’ve fallen asleep, read and snuck in everything from Burger King to Coldstone to Doritos.

5. What body part do you wash first?  My hair. And I do it all in slow motion too with lots of moans and hair tossing like in the Herbal Essences commercial. Even though I use Dove.

6. Do you hover over the toilet in public bathrooms? I use like 12 toilet seat covers. If there are none I use toilet paper. Although there have been a few restrooms where not even a toilet seat cover made of lead would have protected me from the germies.

7. What's the strangest talent you have? I’m really good at convincing people that this blog is entertaining and/or funny.

8. Do you have an innie or an outtie? Innie, and it is pierced. I imagine that if I were ever to procreate, I would have to remove it. Until then, whenever I take it out it looks like I have 3 belly buttons. It freaks people out.

When I was a kid, one of my cousins tried to tell me that babies came out of your belly button. I was like, “No, stupid. They come out of your BUTT. Duh.” I thought I was a freakin genius. Belly button? Ridiculous.

9. What's your favorite flavored Pringles? I don’t eat Pringles, actually. I like Doritos. I actually got a bag of Doritos today that were called, Doritos: Jacked. While I ate them I felt all extreme and shit. RADICAL. I almost couldn’t handle the intensity.

10. Have you ever been tied up? When I was a freshman in high school, I had waist-length hair, and my friends wanted to see if it was long enough to tie around a basketball post. So they did. And then they left me there.

11. What was the last thing you ever got grounded for? I did shit all the time...I’m probably still grounded for something I did ten years ago and don’t even know it.

12. Do you parallel park or drive around the block? I am the shittiest driver ever. I’m like, one step above Asian driver status. But I can parallel park LIKE A BOSS.

13. Have you ever had two dates in one night?  Are you kidding? I have enough trouble securing one.

14. How many times have you been cussed out?  I worked in a jail. Enough said. One time this lady who was missing her front teeth and had a bowl haircut kept calling me white trash and a bad mother. I have no kids and I’m not white.

15. Which shoe do you put on first?  I don’t know, and if I try it now it will be forced and I will not have a true answer for you. And I strive for honesty in this blog. You’re welcome. I will say that I always take the right shoe off first, and I know this because it’s easiest to do that one because I nudge it off with the left. And then the left shoe is harder to take off because my right shoe is already off. This was a really long explanation, and I technically didn’t even answer the question.

17. Have you ever been to a gay bar?  I went to my very first gay bar when I was 18. There was this guy there who kept taking up the entire dance floor to do what I called techno-interpretive dance. He was dressed like he stepped out of the eighties, in tight sweatpants and a tucked-in t-shirt. He also had a Freddy Mercury style mustache. Every now and then he’d throw his hands up in the air like he was doing a one-man wave.

18. Girls  ? is that it? Girls...just wanna have fun.

19. Is there one thing all of your love interests have had in common? They all have restraining orders out against me. I just sent you an EAR. It worked for Van Gogh, guys.

It didn’t? Oh, shit.

20. Did you French kiss before you were 16? No. But my first kiss was at 14, with this nerdy guy who I only dated because I hadn’t mastered the art of friend-zoning yet. It was really awkward because he put his hand on the back of my head so I couldn’t pull away, all I had time to do was press my lips together really tightly like the dude was trying to slip me poison. Then I went to Mr. McAdams 2^nd period English and was like GAH WORST FIRST KISS EVER.

21. Have you ever been cow-tipping or snipe-hunting?  Oddly enough, no. Considering that my dad has worked in the dairy industry for 40+ years, I certainly had the opportunity to do so, since I used to go to work with him when I was a kid. As for the snipe hunt, I was in a play for an acting class in high school, called “Once Upon a Playground”. The premise was that we all made fun of the new girl because she had a funny nose, but we all had something wrong with us. Anyway, we sent her on a snipe hunt. Also, I played the fat kid.  I should note that I was not given any stuffing to make me appear fat.

22. Who is the last person you usually think about before you fall asleep? Not as much “someone” as “something” and that something is usually food.

23. Have you ever had a poem or a song written about you? No. But nerdy first-kiss guy once had some drama club initiates sing to me in my Lit class. They sang I Will Survive. He also once sent me a carnation gram with a note that said, “As this flower dies, so will you”. And sadly, that is the one and only time I have ever gotten flowers from a guy. WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER.

24. If you had to choose to not ever wash your bed sheets again or not wash your bath towel ever again, which would you rather not wash?  Would you rather scrape off your nipples, or chop off your hand? Exactly.

25. Have you ever found anything in your parents' bedroom that was questionable? Once, while snooping in my mom’s stuff (as usual) I found an already-taken pregnancy test. It was shaped like a square, not the long ones we see nowadays. Since in the commercials women always seemed to be holding them the same way, I assumed that there were some sort of sensors that picked up some sort of hormone from your fingertips to determine if the holder was pregnant or not. So I tried the same thing with this one and nothing happened. I assumed, as I always did, that I was correct and that the test was simply broken. This was also around the time I still thought that babies came out of your butt.

26. What was your childhood nickname? Every nickname I had was related to my being tiny. I was a skinny kid with a giant head. Although there is a famous singer from Spain named Paloma San Basilio, and people kept called me this so for the longest time I totally thought that my name was Paloma San Basilio Beatriz Garcia Oliveros. And I was like, “Dude, why did my parents give me such a long name? This shit’s hard to remember.” And my parents had to say, “No, stupid. That’s not your name. And put that pregnancy test back where you found it.”

27. When is the last time you played the air guitar? I have a REAL guitar, and I have been lousy about playing lately. Poor Klaus. He is neglected.

28. Have you ever peeked in the opposite sexes locker room? I walked into the boys’ locker room when I was in middle school. The teacher had picked a bunch of us to tidy up the locker rooms, or something like that. I just remember being in the boys’ locker room and feeling tres risqué. Also, it stank.

29. What's the weirdest thing you have done while driving?  Changed my pants.

30. Have you ever bitten your toenails? GROSS. No.

31. How do you eat your cookie? I don’t eat Oreos I eat COOL J COOKIES!!!

Name that song.

32. When working out at the gym, do you wear a belt? Too much effort. I already go to the gym looking like a transient.

33. Name something you do when you're alone that you wouldn't do in front of others. Change my underpants. Also, showering.

36. How many drinks does it take before you get drunk? When I was heavier I had a lot more fat stores to absorb all the alcohol, and I usually took about 6 drinks before I’d start to feel wobbly (unless it was something ridiculous, like an AMF). These days I’m lucky to make it through two glasses of wine. Tequila I can drink all day. Most of it.

37. Have you ever sniffed an animal's butt? If I ever tried that, Baloo would probably think I had lost my marbles.

38. How often do you clean out your ears? Every single gosh darn day. My ears produce an unnaturally high amount of buildup. When I was younger and less likely to clean my ears out, my mom would have to go in with a bobby pin and scoop all the gunk out. Yes, it sucked.

39. Do you scrunch or fold your toilet paper? I make paper airplanes.

40. About how many times a day do you pick a wedgie?  Depends on the type of underpants I am wearing. If I am wearing them. (evil laugh). Just kidding. I always wear undies. Because, ew.

41. Do you have any strange phobias? Mice, rats, or any other type of vermin. Hamsters, gophers, voles, and POSSUMS. Oh, God. POSSUMS ARE EVIL INCARNATE. I hate rodents and the sight of one will cause me to jump on high furniture and shriek like a banshee.

42. Have you ever stuck a foreign object up your nose? I stuck a Fiat up there once and then I sneezed and JLo came flying out of my left nostril.

43. What is the stupidest thing you've ever done at a bar? I was at a winery in Temecula with some friends, and I wasn’t drinking because we had already been to like, 5 wineries and I was now swaying like I was onboard the Black Pearl. So the guys went to go drink while I sat down outside, humming placidly to myself. When I came in, my brother in law, knowing that I am quite suggestible when drunk, offered me eight dollars to slap my friend Buckner in the face. I said no, and our other friend Wes upped it to twenty bucks. I immediately turned to Buckner (who is 6’2”, by the way) and walloped him hard across the face. I was wearing flip-flops so I still have no idea how I did it. Steve swears I jumped, while I remember being at eye level with Buckner. I got my twenty bucks, and Buckner has still not forgiven me.  

44. Have you ever been dared to do something you totally regretted?  No, but I was dared to do something and I didn’t do it, and THAT I regret. I was staying at a friend’s house once and I had a MAD crush on her older brother, and everybody knew about it. She dared me to go downstairs and tell him I thought he was cute, or something like that. I don’t regret not doing it because, OHMYGODWECOULD HAVEBEENSOHAPPY, but because now I don’t give a shit. I stood at the foot of the stairs for probably a half hour while my friend stood on the landing and chanted, “CHILI CHILI CHILI!” (she was going to make me eat hot sauce if I didn’t) while he watched us, totally perplexed, but too nice to say anything. My friend got so into egging me on she flipped over the railing and fell down the stairs. Which was HILARIOUS.

45. Have you ever called your love interest by an ex's name? No.

46. Have you caught a guy/girl farting while on a date? No. Which is probably a good thing because I’d laugh so hard I’d pee myself. A match made in heaven, the flatulent guy and pee girl.

47. Have you ever played naked Twister? The only time I ever played Twister was with my sister and brothers, so no naked because HELLO AWKWARD. The game usually ended whenever Jose farted.

48. Have you ever been drunk at work? No, but I have been extremely, ass-draggingly sick, which is kind of the same thing in that your motor skills are nonexistent, but not as fun.

49. Have you ever found your date's/lover's brother or sister more attractive? No.

50. Do you want to bring sexy back? Ridiculous. That would imply that it was gone in the first place.

The Odd Couple.

Eleventy thousand years ago, when yours truly was younger, chubblier and a little less angry, I got it into my empty little head that I needed to go to school far, far away, perhaps to escape the hustle and bustle of a big city like Bloomington, California and all of its hectic SIX SQUARE MILES. I resisted comments such as, “But Chapman is so much closer...and nicer than Stanislaus!” and “Why do you want go so far away? Do you really want to escape your family so badly?” and in Fall of 2002, my parents packed up my crap and drove me the six hours to CSU Stanislaus, in California’s lovely (ha) Central Valley. I knew no one except some relatives who lived about 30 minutes South of Turlock, but I was determined to not run to Merced every weekend and be all grown-up and wash my own chonies and shit. This actually worked quite well, because I had no car and managed to get a 20-hour per week job on top of my full class schedule.

The friends front, however, was not going quite so smoothly. My natural expression is a scowl, and the fact that I usually walked around with headphones in my ears made it hard for people to approach me. I signed up for Newman Club and Swing Club on Move-In Day, Newman because my parents wanted me to, and Swing because I had seen Swing Kids and totally wanted to learn to dance like Robert Sean Leonard and wear Victory Rolls. Also, SWING HEIL.

Both decisions turned out to be AWESOME. Newman allowed me to continue going to church and I met a girl from Riverside (who turned out to be my neighbor in the dorms, oddly enough) who seemed nice enough to hang out with, even though she was a full foot taller than me and liked pink. Her proximity me both in the dorms and back home proved convenient; her roommate had a car and I was able to hitch a ride home for Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.

My roommates were friendly enough, but come Winter, there was strife because my roommate hated our other roommate (over some dude who was bowlegged anyway and kind of a douchecopter. Plus his friends found me less than entertaining because they couldn’t figure out how to get into my pantalones), and the third was having sort of personal crisis because she wanted to have sexytimes with her teammates on the girls' basketball team. Anyway, my roommate Tala moved out, leaving me with the other two. Winter semester was, in a word, quiet. The two roommates I had left hung out with each other, and I didn’t feel the need to force myself upon them. Plus, they didn’t know who Coldplay was. Whatever.

In the meantime, Anne (formerly known as Tall Pink Girl, even though I just made that name up and no one that I know of has ever called her that) and I were hanging out quite often, owing to the fact that my roommates were assholes and her roommate was riding the rails of the crazy train. Since I now had a double room to myself, I told her that anytime she needed to escape the asylum she was free to crash on my spare bed.

A few days later, I was at work when Anne showed up at my office, nearly in tears because she had had it with her roommate. I don’t remember what exactly happened; I think Kerry tried to remove her eyeballs with an ice cream scoop and feed it to her cat. Or something. I may be lying, though. Call it artistic license.

Anyway, I asked Anne if she wanted to stay with me, she hesitated and asked if she could just move right in. The appeal of having someone around who didn’t simply see me as “that girl who cleans and whose shampoo we can use” led me to say yes right away. She went back to the dorms and began moving her stuff, while I called my roommates to let them know. One roommate scolded me for letting her move in and not asking her first. I reminded her that neither she nor Jackie ever fucking speak to me, and Anne is moving into my damn room so no, I didn’t feel the need to ask her because she didn’t feel the need to ask when using my shit. Anne told me that later, this roommate came over, all smiles, welcoming her to our dorm and asking if she needed any help. The other, Jackie, was only slightly perturbed that I had taken the liberty to bring in another roommate, but in the end didn’t care.

The close proximity of a shared dorm brought Anne and I closer together. Which is weird, because we were as opposite as two people could possibly get. Anne was girly, vivacious, and loved romantic comedies. I was surly, loud and still watched Gargoyles on the internet when I thought no one was looking, because college girls don't watch cartoons anymore, duh. After my mom met Anne for the first time, she commented to me, “Anne is such a nice girl...why does she hang out with you?”

(Note: I still don’t know the answer to that question)

Throughout college, we lived together in the dorms with a parade of other roommates, most of them psycho slobs who got drunk and barfed on the living room carpet (sophomore year), or ate all our food and then bitched me out because I was hanging out with Anne when I should be hanging out with her because she was Raza (junior year) and therefore we’d be better bffs. Orale, homes.

Senior year was easily the best, because we moved into a 2-bedroom apartment that can’t really be called “off-campus” because it was on the same block as the school.  Even better, no batshit roommates, and insanely cheap rent. For reals. I think we paid like eleven dollars and a rusty quarter per month. We’d drive to San Francisco on a whim for ice cream sodas at Ghirardelli Square, make 1 a.m. Slurpee runs, and, once we turned 21, engaged in the thriving nightlife that Modesto had to offer. Her then-boyfriend (now husband) Josh still likes to tell the story of when we went to Denny’s after a night of, um, checkers, only to have Anne and I disappear into the bathroom for half an hour. In fact, the next morning I woke up and was all, “WTF, weren’t we supposed to go to Denny’s?” and Josh was all, “We did go to Denny’s, dumbass,” and I had to sit and think about it until I remembered that I had ordered seasoned fries without bacon because it was Lent.

We decorated for Christmas, I made Anne real Mexican food and she’d pick me up from late shifts at Starbucks. In 2009, she asked me to be her maid of honor (with Felica) when she and Josh got married. It is a testament to how well she knows me when she called to break the news about the dresses.

Anne: So, I picked out the color for the bridesmaids’ dresses.

Me: I know it’s going to be pink dude. I have made my peace with it.

Anne: Well, yeah. But I need to tell you what shade of pink.

Me: (silence)

Anne: I’ve decided on fuchsia.

Me: (picturing myself as a bottle of Pepto Bismol with a head) Oh. Ooookaay.

At this point I reminded myself that this was Anne’s wedding and to just wear the dress and shut the hell up. I did put up a fight, however, when I was told that we had to buy shoes to match. When I brought up the idea of black shoes, Anne’s mom brought up the fact that we would look like a gaggle of Good n’ Plentys, which was a fair point. I still resisted the idea until Josh had to call me and tell me to just shut up and buy the damn shoes. At which point I was all, “Wow I’m being an asshole”, and bought the shoes without further argument. I gave them away after the wedding though. To a new owner who will appreciate their...pinkness.

I survived the pink dress (and the acrylic nails. WITH PINK JEWELS ON THEM. The nail lady was all, “you have-a preety nail!” and stuck them on before I could stop her. Oh, and the pedicure. I believe Anne still has photos of me with a little Korean lady hunched over my feet, and I look like I’m being interrogated using North Korean torture techniques), I had a KICKASS hairdo (held up with approximately ninety thousand bobby pins) and I even gave a pretty decent speech, despite having written it on hotel stationary the night before, REALLY FAST because Anne was in the shower and I didn’t want her to know I hadn’t done it yet.

(Note: For Lucy’s wedding, I wrote one sentence on a scrap of paper the day of. With Lucy in the room. I rule.)

There is no shortage of celebratory stuff. Just a few days ago, Anne and Josh entered the next phase of their lives, bringing their firstborn son into the world. Today is Anne’s birthday. She and I have officially been friends for 10 years. And I consider myself so, so lucky that I get to be here for all of it.

Happy birthday, dude. Here’s to another 10 years of friendship. 

Mudder Mudder, Peanut Butter

My alarm is set for 7:30, but I wake up at 6:00. Searching the fridge for suitable breakfast fare turns up a tortilla with a teensy bit of butter. I’m torn. Do I carb up, or do I eat light so as not to feel heavy and over-full? I decide not to risk it. Puking on the trail sounds kinda icky.

At the Shaw’s, I find a happy medium with half a wheat bagel and peanut butter. By now I have my Mudder shirt on, a compression top that highlights all of my bumps and rolls. Yuck. As everyone tapes their toes, brushes their teeth and signs the Tough Mudder waivers, we watch old episodes of Saved By The Bell on MTv2.

Finally, it’s time to go. We’re chatty and lively on the way to the grounds. Parking is horrendous. People are parking directly beneath signs that read, “NO PARKING ANYTIME”, and others are being bussed in from the San Bernardino airport. We take the risk and park by the side of the road.

After checking in, getting our numbers and having them written on our foreheads and arms, we congregate on the stairs, where we take a few pictures and contemplate the hours of pain and suffering we now have ahead of us. Meanwhile, teams in any costume imaginable are trotting by. We see a crew of Ron Burgundys, complete with stick-on mustache and wigs. A platoon of bumblebees, and more military than I can count. Closer to out start time, we check in our bags and begin to stretch. Already the first few mudders have crossed the finish line, wet and exhausted, having earned their orange bandanna.

Standing in line to get to start, it dawns on me that I am about to do a TOUGH FUCKING MUDDER. What the hell did I let myself get dragged into? I’m about to jump into ice baths and mud pits and all sorts of other tomfoolery. People are walking around me in stars-and-stripes speedos and short shorts, sporting six-packs and arms the size of my torso. Meanwhile I’m using my number label to hide my pauch. My compression shirt is doing me no favors.

Before we can cross the start line, we need to scale a 10-foot wall. Once on the other side, we are told to take a knee. There, the Master of Ceremonies reminds us why we are doing what we’re about to do. We are doing it for those who give everything they have to protect the freedoms that are given to us by simply living in this country. For those who went overseas to defend us and never came back, or left part of themselves there, never to return as whole and hale as they were when they left. For a moment, I look down at my shoes. My old, worn, first pair of running shoes. They are the shoes that carried me through countless miles in the sheriff’s academy. This is their last run, their last jaunt before I give them a Viking sendoff to the shoe gods. I think of the wives, husbands, sons, daughters, fathers and mothers, who send their loved ones off to war and prayed that they would get to come home. Some did. Others were not so lucky. As they play the national anthem, I am assured once again that I’m about to suffer for a worthy cause.

 We cross the start line at an easy jog, not wanting to spend all our energy too early. This proves to be a wise choice as we quickly begin a steep ascent up the side of the mountain. Already beads of sweat run down my face, bringing with it the ink from the number scrawled on my forehead. After walking up the mountain (THAT SUCKED), we had to double back and go back down. The decline proves to be just as crappy. The hill is soft, the sand is dry and our shoes sink to the ankle with every step. I resort to crab-crawling a few times rather than risk flying headfirst down the mountain before I finish a mile. Once we get to the base, we encounter our first obstacle, the arctic enema. A creative word for what basically amounts to, “Hey guys, let’s jump into a giant ice bath”. Without giving it a second thought, I jump in. the water comes up to my chest, and I instantly go numb. In the middle is a giant flat board, with only two inches of space between the wood and the surface of the water. We are expected to dive underneath to get to the other side.  I take a few quick breaths (I sound like I’m doing Lamaze) and completely submerge myself into the freezing brown water.

I can’t see, there is water in my ear and there is ICE IN THE WATER. As I make my way to the edge I hear, “I got you, I got you” and I’m hauled out of the water by my teammate, Jensen. My whole body feels like its being poked and pricked by needles, but I am now full of adrenaline. But not for long.

Other obstacles are not as challenging. The kiss of mud (dragging ourselves through muddy water under barbed wire) proves easy for me; I am small enough that I can crawl without fear of touching the wires. Same with the boa constrictor, where we are made to crawl through muddy pipes. It is the inclines, walking up and down the freakin mountain that is getting to me. One incline is so long; once we get to the top we can see the entire valley of Big Bear below. One girl comes up the slope weeping, her teammates pat her back and assure her she is done. I don’t feel near tears, but I don’t blame her. I spent the entire climb either hunched over or on my hands and knees, refusing to look up to see how much I had left to climb or to look down and see how far I was from level ground. As we stand at the top and wait for our teammates, that’s when I see him.

A team of young men, presumably military, wearing nothing but black shorts and vibrams, come trudging up the hill. One of them stops to adjust his right leg at the thigh, but instead of flesh and bone leg, there is a prosthetic jutting out from beneath the fabric wrapped around his thigh. He is in impeccable shape, and shows only the same level of exhaustion as the rest of us.

As the day wears on, I am becoming more and more aware of the sun baking my shoulders, face and legs. The water and mud has long since washed away any sunblock. My lips are dry and burning. But as we pass each marker telling us we have passed mile 2, then 3, 4, etc. we force ourselves to ignore out burning skin, our aching limbs and the mud caked around out shoes. I have to skip the diving portion because I am a lousy swimmer, and I would rather not be a burden to be dragged through the water by my teammates. No matter. They end up doing that later anyway.

At around mile 6 or so, we come upon a huge, manmade pool surrounded by black tarp. We are to stand at the top and slide down into the water, about 30 feet below. Looking down, I see that several other participants only have their heads bobbing above the water. Oh, SHIT. I insist on at least three teammates going ahead, and beg them to stay at the bottom to catch me as I come down. I take a hold of Lisa’s hand, and together we slide to the bottom. Right before we hit the water my anxiety gets the better of me and I let out a shriek, taking in dirty water in my mouth, up my nose and in my ears. I’ve let go of Lisa. For half a second I have no support, but right away several hands reach out and pull my head above water. Omar and Matt support me between the two of them, assuring me that they’ve got me. Underwater, my legs kick uselessly, unable to find the bottom. It must be obvious that I’m freaking out, because other mudders sitting on the edges of the pool assure me that I’m okay. Once I reach the edge and can stand, I make my way out of the pool and we wait to move on.

By this point, the only time I run is on downhill slopes. Every time we turn a corner and find another incline, I die on the inside a little. Finally, on the second-to-last descent, we can hear the MC and the music from the starting line. We’re almost there.

Twice on the course (not counting the one before the start line) we encounter the Berlin Walls, a set of two 12-foot high wooden walls. While a 6-foot wall is easily manageable, a 12-foot wall is, for many of us, impossible. This obstacle, more than any other, encourages participants to help each other out in order to get up and over to the other side, regardless of what team we are on, what uniform or costume we wear. The camaraderie is heartening.

Unfortunately, the Funky Monkey and Hanging Tough (basically monkey bars in one obstacle, hanging rings on the other, both suspended over muddy water) both show my limits when it comes to my height. Even with a shove from Christy, the second ring is still a foot away from my reach. Someone on the sidelines shouts, “JUST JUMP IN!” and I am more than happy to oblige. Same with the funky monkey. While my teammates hang in the air above me, I wade my way to the other side, already feeling the end of the race.

At Everest, we run full-tilt towards a quarter pipe (muddy and wet, natch) and basically throw our arms up in hopes that a good Samaritan will catch us and haul us up to the top. Three of the guys go first, and then it’s my turn. It’s easier than I thought, but I still only manage to give one hand before I sink like a dead weight. Matt has my right hand, and for a second he’s the only one holding onto me until Jensen grabs my left. I contemplate letting go and falling when I see the strain on Matt’s face as he struggles to lift me up. After what seems like an eternity, I finally make it to the top. One by one, the rest of the team runs up the pipe and is hauled to the platform, except for John.

That morning, John had told us that he would be wearing his Vibrams for the mudder, shoes that he had only worn once before. By the time we got to Everest, he was feeling every step he had put in. Still, he soldiered on, forcing himself to finish though every muscle in his legs were screaming in protest. At the quarter pipe, he tries repeatedly to get to the top, to no avail. We find him on the sidelines, catching his breath. Cory, Matt, Ernie, and Omar are still at the top, waiting for him to give it one last shot. Finally, John makes his way to the starting point, and runs towards the pipe. He makes it just enough that they grab him, and they struggle for a bit while we cheer him on wholeheartedly from the sides. Finally, he makes it to the top.

Just before the finish, there is one last obstacle: Electroshock Therapy. I dread this. I don’t like electric shocks, and my mind immediately goes back to the taser and how awful it was. But we are just feet from the finish line. I have no choice. Without stopping to think, we run headlong into the obstacle, a setup with ropes holding electric shocks. There is water below in order to carry the current, and a bale of hay in between. I can feel every shock. Each one feels like a hard fist being driven into my tired, doughy, sad little body. I have a metal bridge in my mouth, and every shock carries into my teeth. For one wild moment, my brain screams that all of my teeth are going to fall out. All I can concentrate on is getting the hell out. The ropes give my teeth one last shock before I throw myself out of the obstacle, screaming obscenities at everyone and no one. I turn, and see the last of my teammates push themselves through the ropes. The shock (pun intended) and dislike of the obstacle is evident on their faces. Once all nine of us come through, we take each other’s hands and cross the finish line as one.

It is over. We are done. 

Math is a Dick.

Greetings, freakanauts. Looks like I have to go on the lam again, otherwise known as Spring Quarter. The quarter I was looking forward to the least during my grad school career.

Applied Statistics. Accompanied by Research Methods.


So it is safe to say that I may not be posting anytime soon. On the bright side, it's only 9 weeks or so. After that I will be FREEEE for the summer. And I can pelt you with useless posts about why adulthood does not suit me. Also, I would like to apologize ahead of time for being a rabid, raging bitch during this quarter.

Cheers!

To Insanity, and Beyond.

I was a Space Ranger as a kid.

Try not to be surprised.

When I was around four, I used to stick a belt in the back of my pants, then crawl around on all fours and head-butt people until I had their attention. Then I'd announce I was a tiger and they needed to pet me. Sometimes I was also a cow.

I also had an imaginary friend named Chito. To this day I can't tell you what he looked like, only that he had black hair. All I could ever picture was the back of his head.

I guess I just don't have that much imagination.

Anyway, I used to take an old phone, sit in the closet, and talk to him. For hours. About what, I can't remember. Politics? Scandinavian horror films? Possibly which one of the New Kids on the Block I liked best?

I liked the gay one.

After a while, I got tired of the whole Chito thing. The problem is, no one picked up on the fact that I stopped talking about him. All the grown-ups kept asking me about Chito, and I couldn't figure out how to tell everyone that I didn't give a shit about it anymore. It's kind of like when you break up with someone, but your 87-year old aunt has the memory span of a goldfish, and every time she sees you keeps asking where the nice young boy with the harelip is.

(I've never dated a guy with a harelip. I don't even know what that is...I just wanted to use 'harelip' in a blog post.)

Obviously, the adults were having a good har-dee-har-har at my expense because of Chito. Fed up, I put the final nail in the coffin.

Literally.

Grown Up: Paloma, how is Chito?

Me: Oh. I don't know. He's gone. I don't talk to him anymore.

Grown Up: Where did he go?

Me: He's dead.

Grown Up: *disbelieving silence* Oh..well..what a...a shame. How did Chito die?

Me: He went to the war and exploded. He died. So he's dead.

Oddly enough, people didn't just stop talking to me about Chito...people just stopped talking to me. How rude.

Update: My friend Vanessa brought up an interesting point: I never notified Chito's imaginary next-of-kin of his passing. Even though I was the one who sent him off to war. Which makes me the worst friend EVER.

Sound Advice.

Just another conversation in the Garcia household.

Mom: The school called.

Chris: I know. Apparently there was some stranger over by Smith and he tried to lure some girls over. Teachers were telling us the usual stuff. Report suspicious activity, don't talk to strangers.

Me: But why? Strangers have the best candy!

Mom: And the cutest puppies.

Best advice ever, no?