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?

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.