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?