Oktoberfest

Where has October gone?!? I feel like a broken record asking that question every time I sit down to add to this blog but seriously... who the heck sped the time up in 2013?!? The fact that I haven't unpacked my suitcase all the way in several months now is undoubtedly a contributing factor to this perceived sense that the world is turning more quicky than usual, and if I am indeed correct in this assertion then all is well with the world. Time may feel like it is marching on faster than I can guzzle down a glass of milk, but the time itself has been spent marvelously with good food, great friends, and the happy accrual of plenty o' airline miles. So to Father Time, I say "Ha! Thou hast not dulled my fun any."

So... October. This tenth month of our calendar year is one of my favorites for a variety of reasons, as I touched upon previously. For one, pumpkins. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin smoothies, pumpkin body scrubs, pumpkin pie, pumpkin lattes, pumpkin soup- that stuff is eeeeeverywhere. As a general rule, I am a happier person when there is pumpkin in my life, and October marks its seasonal debut. Secondly- fall wardrobe. Not that this makes me a particularly unique specimen of the female gender, but I find fall clothing options delightful. I get to dust off the boots, the scarves, the leggings, the cute coats and I love every moment of it. And for those of you non-Californians scoffing at me right now and telling yourselves that I couldn't possibly have any need for said items, just shut it. I get it- I live in San Diego where 96.7% of the time, the weather is most accommodating and wam by most standards. But despite what Katy Perry and the Beach Boys have led you to believe about SoCal weather, it is not actually sunny and warm 365 days a year over here. We don't walk around in booty shorts and bikini tops all day; it rains, it gets below 40 degrees, the wind blows and the sun does indeed play hide and seek for days or weeks at a time. Our cold may not be as cold as your cold, so you'll wear your North Face down-filled jacket while there's a significant chance my jacket was purchased from Forever 21. All I know is that If it's 40 out and its raining, I'm going to don my warm accoutrements and don't want to hear any lip about it. 

But back to the reasons October is awesome: so many birthdays! I have a dear friend or family member born on the 2nd, 5th, 6th, 10th, 14th, 17th, 24th, 25th, 26th and 30th of this month, then there's the 23rd which is my own date of birth. I like to make a thing of celebrating not just for the day but for the week or entire month if at all possible. I'm sure that sounds a tad prima-donna of me, but I promise it isn't. I don't expect the world to shower me with presents all month long or fan me with palm fronds, I just make it a point to fill the month with activities that I enjoy with the people that keep a smile on my face. I'll do the planning, you just have to accept the invite or tell me what airport to fly into and indicate whether you have a couch I can sleep on. 

That being said, Operation Birthday 2013 has been one of my favorite missions if not THE favorite. I have officially entered the last year of my twenties and I am happy to report that the "holy-expletive-I'm-almost-thirty" mania has not set in, at least not in a bad way. There is a healthy amount of goal setting and introspection being had, but I haven't signed up for an arranged marriage or made an appointment to have my eggs frozen yet. I did however spend every single weekend in October and a few select weekdays celebrating in one fashion or another. I've slept remarkably little, tested the efficacy of my kidneys and liver, consumed entirely too many calories and totally slacked on my usual gym routine. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat though, and here are some reasons why: 

October Week 1: Library Lust, Live Music, Love of Dance

- Several hours spent at the new Central Library in Downtown San Diego finishing some classic Agatha Christie, delving into some David Sedaris (and stifling my laughter whilst doing it), and adding to what I hope to be my first attempt at a published work, all while snuggled in a big, blue, comfy couch in the solarium/reading room with a panoramic view of the east village. Spotify mixes employed: "Strings" (classical jams and contemporary remakes), "Pensive" (make-you-think music), and "Invincible!" (girl power, inspiration, I'm-a-badass type selections).

I'm home.

Reminiscent of the Hogwarts staircases...

Dewey love.

- Kelly Clarkson/Maroon 5 Concert with my cousin Alexis; scored tickets for great seats on Ebay last minute for an absolute steal, then spent the evening belting along to Kelly and crooning over Adam. Seriously though- "Since U Been Gone" never EVER fails to make me sing at the very top of my lungs, as if I have one iota of that woman's vocal capacity. I've actually embarrassed myself on at least 10 occasions on the freeway or at a stoplight singing along to this song; some people start singing along, others chuckle or just shake their heads. The first few times I think I blushed, but after that I stopped caring and even turned up the volume and car dancing. To hell with it= YOLO. Anyway, Kelly actually has several of these "ooooh girl, tell em!" anthems, many of which live in my "Invincible!," "Ache," "Rockin Out," and "Voices" playlists. "Since U Been Gone" is just the ultimate one (just ask the kids fom Pitch Perfect). As for Adam Levine... I need to devise a plan to see how Jagger-like this man's moves really are. Some might call me a creepy, stalker wanna-be homewrecker as I have a smiliar agenda for Liam Hemsworth; I prefer to think of myself as a diligent seeker of truth and curious fact-checker. Yeah yeah, he's engaged to some supermodel and whatnot, but let's not go killing my dreams just yet. I don't need forever with that tattoed white boy, I just really wanna love somebody, I really wanna dance the night away. 

Family by chance, (best) friends by choice.

Adam- call me. 

-Trolley Dances with Alexis; this was an amazing production put on by Jean Isaac's San Diego Dance Theater that I'm as equally elated that I attended as I am utterly annoyed that I didn't discover sooner! As the program I was handed puts it, "Trolley dances began in 1999 with a unique and distinctly urban concept: bring dance to the people using public transportation and introduce people to new neighborhoods and places." It is a part walking tour/part trolley ride to a handful of carefully selected landmarks in a given neighborhood/territoy where members of the dance company then perform an original contemporary piece. The version I experienced was in San Diego and started at Northgate Plaza before moving on to Chicano Park, the new Central Library in Downtown's east village, and ending at the Monarch School. The performances were en plain aire for the most part and smack in the middle of the hulabaloo of a regular Sunday afternoon. The Northgate Plaza performance drew interesting looks from passersby on their way to buy their carne asada and Fabuloso from Northgate Market who were clearly confused as to why a throng of people had gathered outside the Tocumbo Neveria to watch a handul of people dressed in white were positioning themselves oddly by the fountain; library goers were startled when they tried to use the south exit and encountered five or six casually dressed individuals rolling up and down the steps in seemingly slow motion. It was such an amazing experience; if you live or find yourself in San Diego, Riverside or San Francisco, I urge you to look into this. 

Northgate Plaza

Chicano Park

"Artsy" trolley shot.

Library steppin'

Touching piece danced to live choral music. gasp.

 

Hearts to the sun.

October Week 2: Diego to the Bay

- Friday evening was spent in Oakland avec mon ami Dustin. We dined on beer, wine, lamb burgers and harisa spiced steak at a venue named The Spice Monkey. We spoke of yoga, of Folsom, of high school days of yore... I sat in the most comfortable %#&@ing chair covered in cowhide and met his new plant which is apparently of Latin American descent. Best of all, I slept in a closet-turned-guest room that we called my little cupboard under the stairs. Livin the Harry Pottern dream, y'all. Oh, and I locked Dustin out of his apartment. Guest of the year award goes to....

Dustin's digs.

Lake life.

-Saturday morning I met up with one of my college BFFs Maya at Brown Sugar Kitchen for brunch. Sigh... proof that time does nothing to erode the strength of true friendship, folks! The beignets and chicken/waffle foodstuffs were delectable- light and sweet and savory and wonderful. I learned my girl is kicking ass and taking names, travelling the world and killing the game over at Oracle. Look out for this woman, world. She may look like a chipmunk and/or Keroppi the frog when she smiles at you sweetly and calls you "hon," but make noi mistake- she could buy you and sell you. 

 

Maya (my chipmunk) and the ghost of my face.

- Saturday afternoon I headed to Campbell to watch the Dodger game with my friend Clara who was briefly my roommate whilst living in Burbank a few years ago. We're both LA fans living in cities that aren't particularly accepting of our fandom, so we watched the game together and lamented the loss. Still, it was nice catching up. She showed me around Campbell and also showed me the world's teeniest sequined cheerleader outfit... for her dog Bella. :)

#BurbankPorvida

- Saturday evening was spent in San Francisco with my lovely friend Julie and habitual dance partner Carlos Marroquin, otherwise known as DTF (Yes, it means what you think, unless you live in Orange County in which case you might be thinking Downtown Fullerton. That's so not it). He got stuck with that nickname years ago after a hilarious inebriated conversation and I don't think I'll ever be able to call him anything else. Lucky him. Anyay, I learned a few things Iin San Francisco: 1) it's freaking cold there and parking sucks. 2) Julie's father works on the Kendal Jackson/La Crema vineyard?? The basket of mini-muffins is as good as in the mail. 3) Salvadorans looooove to say "bien a verga!" 4) There exists a thing called a Victorian punch bowl, and said bowl is most definitly too large for consumption by three people, particulary when two outta three of these individuals are females who don't drink much. 5) Victorian punch bowl comsumption by three overachievers leads to storefront photoshoots, Macarena dancing in the streets, and awkward shoving followed by name calling. It also leads to Spanish love letters and the coining of the motto, "Simple Bitches!"  although If you ask Julie, it's "Plain Bitches." Don't listen to her.

Simple Bitches!!

I was thirsty.

The DTF Double Fist.

LIGHTS!!!! Some place called Murio's where I annoyed people with my incessant photoraphy.

The following morning... Captain Amnesia. 

 -On Sunday, after a quick breakfast with DTF and Simple Bitch 1, I made my way to Santa Clara to see one of my bestest friends Carlos (a different one, not to be confused with DTF, haha) living that law school life. It was a gorgeous day, perfect for a tour around the campus of Santa Clara University. SCU is much small than I imagined but altogether very nice; the mission in particular was beautiful in its simplicty and interesting layout, and I loved the great panoramic views from the study spaces at the library (you're shocked, I know). Carlos showed me all the hot spots where the SCU kid go for the turn-up (Mondo's and The Hut, you may have heard of them) then took me around Downtown San Jose. We then made our way to Santana Row, which as he said it would, struck me as Silicon Valley's version of LA's Grove or Americana. We walked and talked (well, mostly I talked.... it's usually 70/30 with me, right sunshine?) before brunching on Singaporan-inspired cuisine. After that... I honestly don't know where the rest of the day went! I know we went to Campbell and had Swirls (i.e. sugar-headache molotov cocktails) at a place called Aqui while watching Sunday night football and engaging in more of the chit chat, then before I knew it, it was almost midnight. I guess time flies when you're telling all the funny cuentos and strolling down memory lane. 

Splendor in the grass. 

A view from the top. Of the library, of course.

October Week 3: Faves of America's Finest City

- Kicked off this weekend by attending what I was told would be a mariachi festival with my cousins Alexis and Amanda as well as my maternal grandparents. I flew down to San Ysidro on a Friday evening after work looking for the San Ysidro Multicultural Complex, which I imagined to be some large, magnificent edifice rife with Latin American art and culture. Alas, after spending several minutes driving up and down the street that both Google and Apple maps assured me was the right one, I called Alexis and learned that this "Multicultural Complex" was the run down little auditorium at San Ysidro Middle School (ballin'!) and the term "mariachi festival" was apparently code for "hey, there will be a mariachi band in the building for about an hour while followed by a 'serious band' comprised of a bunch of glorified Mexican wedding singers and you can buy tostadas in the back for a dollar."  It was really more of a gathering and board member recognition for an organization called "Hearts & Hands Working Together." They are a non-profit agency whose primary mission is “to provide food, shoes and clothing to the ‘underserved’ and ‘at risk’ individuals/families, and, refer them to other resources that will lessen the threat for them, in the San Ysidro Community." Wonderful cause, not to wonderful event organization. I did however get to hear a great performance of my favorite mariachi song (Cascabel) and danced to the cumbia jams with my Abuela for the first time since she beat cancer. Priceless.

"Mariachi Festival"

Abuela will cut you.

-Saturday was a pre-birthday day of fun with Alexis and Amanda wherein we spent the day doing a few of my favorite San Diego things. We had Greek for lunch in Hillcrest (mmmmm, gyros), then went to Baked Bear in PB for a delicious dessert (funfetti cookie sandwich with mint chocolate chip ice cream = mouthgasm). We took a walk out onto the pier, which was Alexis' idea, when quickly walked back when Alexis started hyperventilating over her fear of heights. I tried to be helpful by jumping up and down on the pier next to her, which some of you will think was cruel as it makes the pier shake and scare her further. I was only trying to help cure her fear! Gees. Anyway, next we cut back to Liberty Station where we enjoyed a fruit & cheese platter and some delightful wine at Wine Steals. We wrapped it up with a drive down Harbor, my favorite drive in San Diego. To enrich the experience, we blasted M83's "Midnight City." This is my "zen" place- this drive calms me, it invigorates me, it comforts me all at once. There's just something about the lights, the skyline in the distance, the water, the Coronado bridge... it is beauty. Alexis shares my affinity for this drive, so we find a way to fit it in even when it means taking the long way home. Sometimes, you just gotta. 

My birthday present from Alexis and Amanda: it has a cape!!!!

Hillcrest is funny.

Oh yeah... I live in a gorgeous city.

My rare, unpremeditated smile says it all... perfect day.

Terror on the pier. That Vanessa chick was such a jerk for jumping up and down on the pier like that.

October Week 4: Dinners, Parts I and II 

- Birthday Dinner Part I was spent with my three #1s- my mother, father and brother. My birthday is an especially happy occasion because it's only one of a handful of times a year when I can pick one of "my" restaurants, one where in addition to wine, there are things like "braised," "bechamel," and "white wine reduction" on the menu, where pancetta, goat cheese or pine nuts are staples and there is at least one thing on the menun that sounds appaling but tastes like divinity. My father is a simple man who likes simple food like sandwiches and Rubios, and my brother thinks anything culinarily interesting "equals chorro." But on the anniversary of my birth, I get to pick and more importantly- no one makes a face. So: I picked Bencotto Italian Kitchen in San Diego's Little Italy. Twas delightful! in addition to the charm of my either authentically Italian or talented thespian server Giada, the Nebbiolo was delicious and the house-made tagliatelle with the summer sauce was perfection. Plus I was served a cute little tiramisu with a birthday candle in it, and that sh*t was decadent as hell. Aaaaaand they have good lighting. SCORE. 

Mother.

Father.

Brother.

Winer.

- Birthday Dinner Part II was spent with a lovely group of females; you've heard of Daisy, Karina and Jasmine from other blog posts, and I was also joined by Jamy, Heather and Cristal. For this meal, I drove up to LA since my 7am flight the following day was out of LAX. I chose 041 Bacaro in Culver City, an Italian eatery with Venetian influence thatb we stumbled across on a food tour (p.s.- Secret City LA food tours is a great time, look them up!! BYOB party plus plus amazing, lesser-known LA eats. What's not to like?!?). So.... really, I would have been happy with just the lighting. In case you haven't picked up on the obsession, I go gaga for interesting lighting fixtures. I have a particular affinity for chandeliers, and this place serves 'em up big and bright. But in addition to tripping the light fantastic, the food was molto bene. There was meat in a butter sauce, there was a chopped panceta, date and gorgonozola salad, there was gnocchi and branzino and all sorts of mouth-watering deliciousness. The only thing better than the taste bud explosion (and tasty dessert treats from Porto's) was the laughter. It was that amazing, racuous, incontrollable laughter that nourishes the soul and flexes the abdominals, the kind that makes you look crazy unattractive in photos and cements itself in your brain and heart as a treasured memory. I learned that I've been doing myself a disservice in not "washing the top," a shortcut to fabulous second-day hair without washing your entire head of hair. I also learned the many uses of baby powder and its effectiveness in avoiding what I'll just call inter-rack moisture. And on that note, I will take another sip of my wine.

OMG.

My loves.

Ebony and Eggshell.

We heart the vino, and cheekbones.

Jamy demonstrating proper powder application.

D plus V.

Oh... my.

-After very, very little sleep, I woke my butt up at 4am to get ready to fly to Boston... that trip gets its own blog post. 

How I Spent My Summer (non)Vacation: July edition

Buenos Diaz!! So.. yeah. Where the heck did summer go?!? One minute all the kids and teens in the city were running from campus singing "Schooooooool's oooooout foooooor summerrrrrrrr!!!!' and the next I was standing in line at Target with a bunch of tweens buying One Direction backpacks and sparkly headbands. My commute time has doubled, the seasonal margaritas are being pulled from the menu... yep, it's official. Summer has drawn to a close.

I admit I'm nowhere near as sad about this as most people are; I am a typical girl (if I'm to believe a certain green-eyed buddy of mine) in that I love, love, love the fall. The boots and jackets come out, the weather is perfect for snuggling up with a good book or movie, and most importantly: there's a pumpkin explosion of yummy treats available at a retailer near you. Oh, and there's my birthday too. Fall = awesome, and don't you deny it.

This summer however was pretty great on my end, and I am indeed sorry to see it go. I stayed quite busy! In fact, last weekend was the first one in which I did not leave town since mid July. My suitcase was never really unpacked the entire time, it was kind of great. Allow me to try and recap it all from the slew of blog entries I have drafted and unpublished, starting with the month of July.

I kicked off July with a trip to Riverside to visit my cousin Johnny, his wife Loleta and my adorable toddler nephew Johnny Eli. So first of all- let me just clear the air here. I was raised in a Mexican household, and so to me, family structure is as follows: the people that made you are your mother and father. Any other kids they made are your siblings. Their parents are your grandparents; their siblings and sibling's spouses are your uncles and aunts (tias and tios); your tia's/tio's kids are your cousins. Eeeeeverybody else that shares a bloodline is a tia, tio, or cousin. That's it- simple. When all y'all start asking me if someone is my first, second or third cousin  and how many times removed- you've lost me. I bring this up because Johnny is my mom's cousin's son, so many of you like to point out to me that he isn't my first cousin and his son isn't my nephew. Know how I feel about that?

Johnny is my cousin, his son is my nephew. So zip it!

Back to my story: these are three of my favorite people in the world, and my little weekend trips with them are quickly becoming some of my fondest memories. Our routine is pretty standard: we play with the little one, Loleta and I might go get our nails done or else run a few quick errands, then we head back to their apartment for more toddler play before putting him to bed. Once he's slumbering peacefully, the adults share a yummy dinner and some laughs. My cousin Johnny is actually Pastor Johnny, so I admit that I was a liiiiiiittle nervous when I came up for my first visit about two years ago. I mean, I'm no heathen or anything, but there's something about being in the presence of a pastor that I think would cause many people to feel like they needed to be on their best behavior. Yeah... I relaxed about 15 minutes after walking through the door. Johnny is (still, as he was in our youth) the funniest guy, and his wife is an absolute sweetheart who I count among my closest friends. In fact I might like her better than you, Johnny. Sorry dude. And yes, they are people of God, but they're regular people! They have silly couple's arguments and watch Scandal like the rest of us. And they brought this little tyke into my life, so they're automatically awesome.

I concluded this weekend with a day trip to Temecula for wine tasting with two friends. We drank lots of wine and enjoyed a yummy lunch- perfect conclusion to a great weekend. 

I think I spent every other weekend in July in either LA or Orange County. I kicked it off with a trip to Huntington Beach for a beach clean up. The event was organized by my job's philanthropy committee, and God love 'em for trying, pero..... all I know is I got up at 5:30am on a Saturday to drive an hour and a half and go clean a really clean freaking beach. The event included all members of my division in our Southern California group plus any significant others and children; so please, if you will, envision 150 of us trolling this beach searching for trash with all of our might, and by "searching" I mean desperately looking for something besides seaweed. We walked and walked, cursed when we thought we'd spotted some litter that turned out to be a stupid seashell, got geekishly stoked when we came across the remnants of someone's water ballloon flight and fought over the shredded pieces of latex... it got so sad that my boss's daughter suggested we ask the regular beachgoers and picnic people for their trash. I mean, we were there for a beach clean up and all I had to show for it after an hour of scavenging was a few torn water balloons, a bottle cap and a stick that I threw in to make my trash bag heavier. I knew they'd weigh all the bags at the end and broadcast how much trash we'd collected. My bag was pretty pitiful, the stick was very necessary.

In any case, the trip was well worth it as my buddy Carlos drove down from LA and met me afterwards for dinner. The countdown was on for him to leave for law school in a little over a month, I'd soon be losing my coffee buddy! See, I use to bug him to meet up with me every time I drove to or through LA, it had become a bit of a tradition that I knew I'd have to let go of soon. We'd usually meet up at the Starbucks on Western and Slauson to sit around, laugh and talk about random nonsense. He'd have a soy latte, I'd have a passion fruit tea or iced coffee; he'd crack me up with his tales of galavanting around LA with his guy crew which many of know as "the squad" and I'd vent to him about whatever family or work issue was on my mind that week. These little chat session would soon be a thing of the past, so I was glad to spend some time with him in Costa Mesa where we met up. 

Shortly after my weekend living that OC life, it was time to head up to LA for the Legends of Summer tour; I could hardly contain my excitement- JT AND Hov?!? How could I not attend? I was initially a tad peeved when I discovered the show was on a Sunday, but it worked to my benefit as I made a whole LA weekend of it; I was working in Orange County that Friday anyway, so I made the drive up to LA after wrapping up my work day and spent the evening with my BFF Daisy. I said it then and I say it now like I say all the time: I love (and miss) LA. My evening with Daisy was a great curbing of my craving. We had dinner and drinks at an adorable and hidden gem called The Second Story tucked inside the Hotel Belamar. What a great little find! I was already sold when my drinks were a)strong and b)two for one, but the amazing lighting fixtures sealed the deal for me. Pretty lights are one of my obsessions.

Anyhow, we dined on this amazing cider-brined pork chop with a side of blue cheese mashed potatoes and some delicious apple salad then headed to a cute bar that's just trendy enough to attract a couple of hipsters but not enough to make you want to slit your wrists at the so-called "LA-ness" of it all. This venue is the one I described in my last post when I revealed what a terrible wing-woman I am. Ugh. That idiot guy and his warm salty nuts are still on my nerves, and that mess happened weeks ago.

The following day I met up with Carlos once again for a bite and some chit chat. And because we're uber classy individuals, we threw in some Twisted Tea as well for entertainment (never heard of it? Look it up. Only for the grown and sexy). After some good conversation and the best eggplant ever, his cell phone went off with an important message from The Squad. The text read something like "Where you at? Roll through, there's mad bitches!" I laughed and bid him adieu shortly thereafter then curled up with a good book for the rest of the evening. I was now down to just a few weeks before his big law school departure so I was glad to see him even if only for a little while. 

The next day was spent blissfully in the warm Pasadena sun... i picked up my girl Karina and we made our way to the Rose Bowl for a pre-concert picnic on the lawn of some unlucky golf course. We picked up a couple of five dollar footlongs and some mini-bottle of Barefoot wine then soaked up some Vitamin D sitting next to my Altima couple on the grass. We hid what bottles we couldn't finish in time in our cleavage and made our way into the arena, then bought a lemonade, pounded it, and dumped the bottles' contents into the plastic cup. We sipped on our White Zin happily and impatiently waited for the show to start.

Keepin' it classy.

With our stunna shades on. Hers are a few hundred and quality, mine are crappy $8 versions and were purchased in Costa Rica by the beach. 

"It's pink lemonade, honest!"

Suddenly, I spotted a couple dancing and singing out of the corner of my eye. I did a slight double take when I realized who i was looking at; it was Twitch and Allison from So You Think You Can Dance making their way to their seats. This is when I learned that I can never ever ever meet a "real" celebrity. I used to think that if Mr. Liam Hemsworth, Michael Ballack or other sexy light-eyed celebrity sauntered over to me, I'd be able to keep my cool. I didn't think I'd suddenly know how to flirt and land anyone's phone number, but I thought I'd maybe pull off a flirtatious hair toss or even an effortlessly witty comment. Let me be the first to say I was dead ass wrong. WRONG. Soooo wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong aaaaall over the place. Wrong to the umpteenth power.

I dorked out so hard! when they walked by me, I reached out and clutched poor Allison's thigh like I knew her or something and blurted out some rapid-fire nonsense about me being both of their biggest fan. They smiled and thanked me graciously, but it would have been well within their rights to call in a security incident. They shook my hand and headed to their seats, and only then did I finally get it together. Did I just clutch that girl's thigh?! Did I enunciate? Why hadn't I asked for a picture?! I soon felt better and simultaneously worse when about a hundred other people figured out who they were and accosted them for photos and autographs.  I sat there outwardly criticizing these mongrels for bothering these nice people when all they wanted to do was enjoy the concert like everybody else, but inside I was jealous and chastising myself for lack of gall and abundance of awkwardness. Karina finally had enough of my sulking and grabbed my phone from me to request a picture, and her timing was impeccable as the couple had stood up from their seats and was standing in the aisle next to me indulging another fan. I apologized for my awkward behavior earlier and they were once again gracious with me and were happy to snap a pic with me. All's well that ends well, I suppose, but I learned a valuable lesson: if I ever meet any of my hardcore celebrity crushes, I WILL get arrested. Someone please bail me out. 

          

Thank you. Just... thank you.

The concert itself was epic, trite as that partcular description has become. I honestly questioned what the quality of the experience would be because of the venue. I've seen JT at the Staples Center and that experience left its mark on me for several weeks, but that was an enclosed venue with great acoustics, lighting and staging capabilities. This time we were en plain air and at the Rose Bowl, and while I was clearly aware that these two artists are megastars and not some indie rock band promoting their first EP, I was a little skeptical. Those fears were soon assuaged but quick! The show began once the sun went down and thus began a two hour party. My quads were on fire the next day from all the dancing and my throat was hoarse from singing (read: yelling) along to JT and Jay's greatest hits. That was possibly my favorite element of the show- I love me some Magna Carta and 20/20 but laaaaaaaawd was I happy to hear all those older jams. Their sets were intertwined so I was swaying to selections from Justified and FutureSexLoveSounds one minute then BOOM! cuts from the Blueprint albums and Reasonable Doubt. 

And if the show itself wasn't enough, the people-watching was an absolute riot. Picture a Venn diagram: in circle A we have the JT fans, in circle B we have the Jigga faithful, and then we have the overlap in the middle. It would appear that the majority of those in attendance would fall into that overlap area, but there were of course a substantial number of individuals there who were strictly As or Bs. This lead to comedy for me. I got to observe uber-glam stiletto-clad diva types dripping in jewels and eyeshadow and groups of pre-pubescent tweens all sway awkardly in place during Jay'z songs and pretend to know the words. It was like watching one of those Japanese flicks dubbed in English where the timing is jus a few seconds off, only the characters were wearing Seven jeans or "Your Boyfriend Thinks I'm Hot" t-shirts. On the opposite end of the spectrum were the packs of manly men, thug types, and husbands/boyfriends posing under the guise of being there only for Jay. Those stood up and went buck when Big Pimpin' came on and then tried soooo hard to pretend they weren't enjoying the sh*t out of My Love when Justin took back the mic. We all had a good time, even if some pretended not to. 

If I go on, this entry will become a novella, so I'll end it here. I'll leave August's shenanigans for later in the week. 

Wishing you a happy Sunday Funday and hoping my Chargers please please PLEASE pull off another win,

Vanessa

Casual Obervances, Volume 1

Buenos Diaz! (Except now it's buenas tardes). Sometimes you have a story to tell, an inspring or at the very least thought-provoking message to share; other times, you just feel like writing about all the random things in your head. Today, fueled by a beverage called "Twisted Tea" on a lovely San Diego summer evening, I have opted for the latter. And because my spidey sense doth tell me that this will be far from the last of these musings, I have named this installment of random thoughts: "Casual Observances, Volume 1." More to come at a later date.


I Am A Terrible Wing Woman

So... I have no game. None. I'm a terrible flirt and I know it. my friends know it, my family knows it, Anderson Cooper know it and Edward Snowden know it. So you'd think I'd have some appreciation for those brave souls who do possess this elusive game-spitting talent. 

Haha- no. First of all, very few people truly do have this game thing down pat; it takes skill to communicate to another human being that you are interested in them without coming off as creepy, cocky or completely insane. And I get it, its challenging to try and decide in what manner to approach someone that you find attractive. But seriously, if you're going to hit on me (because soooooooo many men do), you should know that I hate pick-up lines and contrived attempts at "sexy" banter. Game for me is unnecessary, really. I respond well to intelligent and organic conversation (a piercing set of blue or green eyes and some full lips never hurt either), but not so much to some forced and flowery compliment about my plain brown eyes or some tired soliloquy about the feeling I allegedly gave you when you saw me from across the room. Blah. 

This is why I am possibly the world's worst wing woman. I just don't have a very high tolerance for bar pick-up situations. Yes, I am legitimately one of those girls who is out because I want to enjoy an evening with my friends. I live in San Diego and my five best friends live in Los Angeles, Boston and soon to be Santa Clara; when I go to visit them, we often do the dinner & drinks thing. Some will find this standoffish of me, and I won't claim that it isn't, but I become quite the eye-roller the minute some creeper begins the song and dance. 

I proved this point quite well last weekend when my buddy Daisy and I hit the town. We first had dinner at The Second Story, an amazing little gem hidden inside The Belamar Hotel in Manhattan Beach. It has a great happy hour and some amazing food- I highly recommend the pancetta-wrapped pork in the mustard and white wine sauce. We then headed over to Hudson House in Redondo for a few cocktails and promptly ordered a round of spicy watermelon margaritas (holler). It wasn't long before a slightly portly gentleman asked if the seat next to us was taken, and we politely advised him that the seat was indeed vacant and his for the taking. 

It's the part where guys don't read signals that signals a total shut-down in me. The second Daisy and I let this guy know that the seat wasn't taken, we turned inward towards each other and resumed our conversation. The message we were sending was clear: yes, you can have the seat because no one else's ass is sitting in it, now please kindly excuse us while we go back to talking about boys, work, and anti-wrinkle eye cream. It wasn't rude or obnoxious in any way, we just went back to dishing the dirt on each other's lives like we'd been doing before this guy got there. 

But the man not only couldn't take the hint, he was annoying in his approach. Daisy admits that the guy was a pain in the ass, she's just nicer than me and indulges people's annoyingness whereas I choose to loudly sip from my drink and look bored. I will always be polite at first- I'm not stuck up or anywhere **near** attractive enough to take for granted that anyone is hitting on me. But once I say "thanks, but no thanks" and establish that I am not interested, why can't we leave it at that?! At one point, the guy kept offering to buy us warm nuts, which we declined, but he bought the nuts anyway. Then not only did he say the word "nuts" about a thousand times and clearly try his hardest to get us to say it too, but he repeatedly tried to get me in particular to eat them. I'd politely advised him that while his gesture was appreciated, I didn't care for any since they were mixed in with a selection of olives which I happen not to care for at all. I hate olives, all of them. If you know me, you know this, I can't stand them in any of their varieties. I'd finally had it when the guy tried for about the 10th or 11th time to please, just try his warm, salty nuts. I ran all out of "no thank yous" and my polite smile (ok, polite lack of frown) vanished. I believe was flew out of my mouth was "I don't want the nuts. I told you I didn't want the nuts. I don't want your f*#%ing salty nuts that are soaked in some nasty bitter olive juice, so stop asking ok?" I received an epic under-the-table leg kick from Daisy, but I'd had it. It's a good thing Daisy has a boyfriend that she's madly in love with, because I sure as heck wasn't doing her any favors with this chump had she been single and interested. Sorry. Like I said: don't ask me to be your wing woman. You've been warned.

Selfie Nation

I recently posted on Facebook about my confusion and distaste for this odd phenomenon. I'm all about photos, I have no problem with you putting up 1,000 pictures- as long as they aren't all of your own face and you weren't the one taking them of yourself. Now I get it, we all do it sometimes. Like I said on FB, I see nothing wrong with you snapping and sharing a quick pic when you change up your haircut or color; when you've lost tons of weight and want to show off how hard you've worked to get there; when you're promoting a product or when you post occasional full-on "selfie" if you were just really feeling good that day. If you have a fashion or makeup or jeweley blog, then by all means post pics of your outfit! Tell your readers how you came up with the look, explain where you got each piece or product. It'ss this phenomenon of you constantly snapping photos of your face here, there any everywhere for no good reason that kills me! My criticism isn't aimed at one person in particular, tons of people that I do and don't know alike have latched onto this trend. And I just. Don't. Get. It. 

I really do try to be objective and see both sides of every argument, so I tried for a brief moment to convince myself that I should be envious of these people's confidence. Lord knows when I look in the mirror, I just don't see enough of a beauty staring back at me to merit posting pictures of, you know? I'd be concerned not only of being seen as dreadfully conceited but more of appearing pathetically deluded! I don't care what people think of me in a myriad of ways, but let's be real- I don't want people to think that I think I'm hotter than I really am. The phrase that comes to mind is "Que no tienes verguenza?!" Ha. 

Apps like Instagram have made it sooo easy though. I see all these females (looooots of tweens, and a few dudes, no lie) posing, cropping and filtering their way into a Selfie Nation daily- why?! Like I also said on Facebook, don't kid yourself just because it's all in cyberspace- your selfie addiction is the modern day equivalent of standing on a corner and handing out Glamour Shots. "Excuse me, miss? Hi. Here's a sassy one of me in some Enzo pumps before dinner last week. Oh, sir! Yes, over here. I was on my way to the bookstore here. Hashtag: I love books, right? Ok bye!" They're everywhere- you on your bed. You in your car. You at work. You at the gym. You in class. You at the mall. You in court. You at the supermarket, at the gyno, in the hallway, in an alley. And I can't. 

Candy Crush and CrossFit

I have nothing against video games. If you have a powerful penchant for slinging chubby red and yellow birds at little green pigs or lining up jewels or candy pieces in groups of three, hey! More power to you. Enjoy. Nor do I have any problem with fitness. Whether you're trying to get in shape or stay in shape (or find a shape, period), I tip my hat to you for wanting to be your healthiest, strongest self. 

However. What the hell is wrong with you crazed enusiasts?!? I almost named this little segment "Candy Crush, Crossfit and Crack Cocaine" because for some of you, each of those things is exactly like the other. I get requests to play this candy crush chingaderas on the daily and hear people having these supposedly clandestine conversations wherein they beg each for lives. Tell me you don't look like a meth-head when you're cowering in some corner with your phone pressed to your ear and you're pleading in a lowered voice, "Hey, so like, look. I need some lives. Just a couple, man. That's all I need. I'll get you back, I swear. Ok cool. When?" My Facebook feed is full of frustrated status posts concerning this wretched game (apparently level 65 is a real bitch?) and everyone from my cousin to my manicurist has at some point checked out of a conversation because they've been engrossed with it. This status post had me rolling: 

I don't know what I find more appaling: the terrible grammar or the fact that this woman has been so persistently accosted for candy crush lives that she had been forced to make an announcement on social media of her inability to keep up with demand. In any case, let this be a fair warning (sorry for the f-bomb):

As for CrossFit- I don't even know what to say about this. I am indeed genuinely impressed that you can bench 67 million pounds, mazel tov to you. I just want to fit I to a smaller size jean, myself. You should be proud of your strength! But am I the only one who feels that entirely too many CrossFit junkies have begun to exhibit cult-like behavior? It's like Fight Club meets the Illuminati except you can talk about it and its not as hard to join. Me, I'm sticking to my trusty elliptical and Nike Training Club app. I'll throw in a little Zumba for variety.

Gymnasium Etiquette 

Speaking of working out... If you're at the gym, in particular at 5am when I'm there, I almost don't have the right to judge you. Getting to the gym five days a week and at that hour takes dedication and effort! It's a tough routine to keep up, one that I admit I abandoned for a while in the name of carpooling to work and saving myself a heck of a lot of money on gas. But I'm back at it again, and I really do applaud all of the early risers joining me in my pre-sunrise sweat session.

Buuuuuuut some people's gym behavior is just too odd not to be commented upon. There are the weirdo chicks who wear makeup at the gym. It's 5am, honey. Why do you have Katy Perry eyelashes on and why are your lips glossy? Then we have the people wearing flip flops and JEANS on the cardio machines. Why?!? You can't be comfortable. How about the women who wear a regular or even no bra to work out- are you flipping insane?! With the possible exception of the truly, absolutely, without a doubt flat-chested gals, you are bat sh*t crazy if you aren't wearing a sports bra while you hit that treadmill. It's not attractive, it has to be uncomfortable, and your stuff is sagging, lady! Walk your butt over to Target, they have some lovely options for you for $15. Finally- the gym locker room is not your house. You can undress and get in and out of the shower, but you don't need to *stay* naked. You especially don't need to stay naked if your nether regions are decidedly Amazonian or if you're going to sit on a bench, prop up your leg and clip your toenails! Please don't bust out the box of Clairol while I'm blow drying and proceed to color your hair- this tiny room is not and humid, now you want to kill me with the fumes from your hair dye?! 

Gees. I mean, glad to see you working on your fitness. But come on, now. 

Liam Hemsworth

That's a good looking dude. That is all. 

You all have a great rest of your Saturday while I go work on my Aussie accent.

Word Vomit, and Lots of It.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that today's blog entry may find you choking down the vomit induced from what you might initially perceive to be a contrived and banal attempt at introspect on my part. I kindly ask that if you've gone so far as to click on the link to get here, that you keep on reading. I mean you're already here. Stay awhile.

Today is July 18th, 2013. It's been a day like any other. I woke up, I went to work. I worked at work. Came home from work. I checked Facebook, checked Instagram. Opened my mail, ate some cheese and crackers. I started a new book, I looked up from the book. And then it happened. I started to think.

About what? Life (swallow the vomit!). This happens to me from time to time. Well, a lot of the time, if I'm being honest- which is what I said I would do with this humble little blog of mine. I'm in my head a lot, as the people who really know me will tell you. Today it started when I put on my "Pensive" playlist. Yes, that's what its called- any of my Spotify peeps can attest to that. So I've got stuff like this blaring in my ears:

- Temper Trap, "Love Lost"
- Coldplay, "Trouble"
- Macklemore, "Same Love"
- Florence + the Machine, "Never Let Me Go" (unplugged)
- Bloc Party, "Day Four"
- Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, "Stars"
- Carter Burwel, "A Nova Vida"
- John Mayer, "Belief"
- The Weeknd, "Wicked Games"
- Duffy, "Stepping Stone"
- Adele, "Hometown Glory"
- Bon Iver, "Roslyn"
- Lauryn Hill, "X Factor"
- Foo Fighters, "Everlong" (acoustic)

The list goes on, and there's no one topic or theme- it's not a sad, mopey playlist per se and it's not a list of heartbreak tracks (for that, you'll want to see to my "Ache" playlist). It's just music that makes me think, music that would play in the movie of my life in a scene where I'm staring out of a window while its raining and I have a glass of wine in my hand and am wearing a torn sweatshirt that falls loosely over one shoulder.

As for what I've been thinking about... like I said, about life. Specifically my life, and the people in it. It's the change all around me. A few people in my close-knit work family are leaving our team soon. One close friend just finished grad school, and one of my best friends is leaving for law school; 85% of my acquaintances and Facebook feed are either getting engaged, married or popping out their first born children. Everywhere I look, I see forks in roads and setting suns; revolving doors, new life chapters. Beginnings, endings. Choices, risks. Love, fear. Excitement, anticipation. Life.

So I look at mine. And I see... confusion. Not sadness, mind you. Let me be very clear in my assertion that this life I lead is rife with good fortune- family, friends, health, food, and a few bucks to spend on travel. But I'm not 100% sure that the pace, the inertia of my life is ... enough. When I get in these moods, I get restless and all I can do to assuage it is to write it all down. I decided that this time, instead of writing it in a journal, I'd put my thoughts in a more public place. It's a tad risky to put the contents of my overly actove brain where the world can see and scrutinize it, which is why I've been hesitant to write such a personal entry in the past. I fear being perceived as too self-indulgent, and you know, annoying. But I'm putting stock in the concept that there is catharsis in truly honest writing and that people respond well to genuine self-expression. So... here it is. Sheer and utter word vomit.

When I was younger, I was an obnoxious over-achiever. I had my hands in a little bit of everything because I knew there were places I wanted to be and being good at stuff was going to help me get there. I stayed up too late and studied too hard so I could set the curve and take home a college acceptance-worthy report card. If it was extra-curricular and looked good on a resume, I was there with bells on and likely got there 15 minutes early. I retook the SATs because my first score, which many envied, was not going to cut it in my mind. I took one more year of every subject in school than I needed to, which meant summer courses every year on top of my part-time job, and I practically lived in one of those AP testing booths my junior and senior years in high school. It all paid off when I landed a scholarship to my dream school, the University of Southern California. Everyone was so proud and so impressed with me, which I admit I loved. Everyone asked what my major would be and what I wanted to do with that, so I answered confidently.

Here's the thing, and I'm literally only being honest with myself about this at age 28- it was all a crock of absolute bullshit.

I wasn't lying- I meant it all the time. I really did want to be a physical therapist when I graduated high school; I'd volunteered for hundreds of hours at a local hospital and found the concept of improving and rehabilitating a life a heady one. I wanted to be a hero, wanted to make a difference like every sappy heroine you've even been annoyed with in a nauseating after-school special or Lifetime movie. Then I started taking those college courses and realized something: I was sooo hosed. I didn't really like science, it turns out. I'd apparently neglected to really think about the 24 letters of the alphabet between A and Z, the steps you take between getting accepted into college and teaching paraplegics how to walk again when no one thought they would. I freaked out, I talked to school counselors, and they all agreed I was in the wrong major. So what next?

I chose business school. It seemed like the next logical step. I could do whatever I wanted with business, right? When word got out that I'd changed my major, the "what are you going to be when you grow up?" questions resumed. Again, I had confident answers: I was going to open up my own restaurant, or possibly a dance studio. I might try to be a buyer for a major retailer or possibly go into the music business. Whatever I did, I was going to RUN THIS SH*T. And everyone seemed to agree.

But... I didn't. Not because I tried and failed- but because I didn't quite try to realize any of those pipe dreams at all. I claimed to have all these passions but couldn't seem to muster up quite enough passion to put all my eggs in one basket and give it hell. Instead I put just a few little eggs in the closest basket at hand took on a summer internship that led to a full time job in sales, which I was good at because I tend to find a way to be good at things on mere principle. I was promoted once, twice, and a few more times, changed departments a few times, got another pay bump here and there... and at the end of the day, I have nothing bad to say about any of that. I made some of my lifelong friends along the path I chose to pursue, created some amazing memories; I spent my early twenties gallavanting around the City of Angels, that giant ball of craziness everyone loves to hate but that stole a giant piece of my heart that it refuses to give back. I was happy to have a job that paid the bills and came with benefits and a 401K match. That I could also squeeze in weekend wine-tasting trips, nights at The Room and Zanzibar, USC football and the Getty made me more than content.

BUT. Where the hell did my passion go? I swear, I had it here somewhere. But wait, wait- more importantly- what the hell IS my passion? A few years ago I thought I was onto something when I made the bold move of leaving LA and moving back to my hometown in the name of all that "fresh start" stuff. I had one plan, then another, but again and again I found myself changing my mind. I've detected this pattern wherein I pick a goal, an activity, a path to pursue that I think sounds really cool, sounds impressive, sounds impactful and noble and worthwhile. But the passion, again, is lacking. Therein, my friends, lies the rub.

I've spent way too much time analyzing this "passion" shenanigans in the last several years, in particular because I've made a habit of surrounding myself with go-getters who are making moves, kicking ass and taking names at an alarming rate lately. In what I refer to (in my head) as my Fab Five of best friends, one is the executive director of a senior living residence in the greater Boston area, and she and her Harvard-graduate husband just scored themselves an apartment in my beloved Beacon Hill; one is off to law school next month after crushing the LSAT; one recently got her Masters in education and is teaching at a private school in Calabasas; one is really hitting her stride in the commercial real estate business and the last but not least of them is a counter manager and makeup artist for Chanel. Let me be clear- I feel no jealousy, only pride and appreciation of their formidable accomplishments. I am my friends' greatest champion, probably more so than some of them are comfortable with (yeah I'm looking at you, Batman). But all this movement inherently causes me to take a look at my own life's direction. I think after a lot of walks in the park and glasses of wine, I've honed in on what I think is my problem: I do not for the life of me know how to stop guessing, how to stop giving so much consideration to the concept of what I should want to do or accomplish, or what would be nice to say I achieved on paper. It only makes matters worse that I happen to work somewhere where I love the team I work with, where I have fun and have tons to keep me busy- it makes it so easy to stay where I am and keep doing what I'm doing. There is nothing wrong with where I am- it's just all very ordinary. For a kid who everyone expected to see sitting pretty as a CEO someday, this is a sobering fact.

Except for the fact that it isn't. Here's another big "aha" moment I stumbled upon in the last couple of years- I have zero desire for power or prestige. None. Itried to be that kind of person, and I pretended to be motivated by those factors for a long time. But the fact is, I don't want to be the one in charge and I don't care if I ever top (or even make it onto) the Forbes list. I just don't. Do you know how exhausting it is to fight that sensation? To constantly wonder where the abberation in your deoxyribonucleic acid is that makes you NOT want to be THAT chick? I do. But I'm done with all that. I've come to terms with the fact that my measure of success is not the same as yours, just as yours differs from the guy or girl sitting next to you. And what's more, there is nothing wrong with that. There really just isn't. I repeat that mantra daily, and it sinks in a little bit futher each day.

The other epiphany that I'm fairly certain NO one is surprised at but me is that I FREAKING LOVE BOOKS. 100%. I love to read, I love to write, I love to write about the things I love to read and love when people read (and enjoy?) the things that I write. The only thing surprising about that is that I've failed to explore these concepts further or really let the idea of them floursh in the light. I sit in bookstores constantly, and I have to touch the books. I find the smell of an old book comforting. I have the grand opening of the new library in downtown San Diego in my calendar with a pop-up reminder for the day before (you now, so I can pick out an outfit to be seen reading in). I carry my Kindle and iPad mini with me everywhere, because they're good for reading in different light and I'd die if I didn't have both within arms reach. I write in a journal that I also carry with me at all times- and yeah, my purse weighs about a thousand pounds. I light up when people want to talk about books. And this is not a new thing- I've explored my bibliophilia in this very blog. I've been this way since I was a child.

This is why I'm so annoyed at myself. I've spent all this time telling other people and myself that I've just never truly known what I was passionate about or what drove me, but deep down I kind of hate myself for knowing that it just ain't true. In so far as big life decisions, I've been afraid to take risks (well, in my career, anyway. In stuff like love and relationships, I go in hard and reckless!) I hate saying that out loud, because who wants to say they're a safe, boring person? But I really have been scared to admit that I want to write. I do write, actually. I just don't share it very often even though I tell myself all the time that *today* is the day I sit down and make progress towards becoming a published author. I'm not entirely sure why this is such a daunting subject for me, why the heck I find my passion a source of potential embarrasment or humiliation. Don't most people shout this type of stuff from the rooftops? Am I just wired wrong? Is it too late to rewire? I sure as heck hope not.

How appropriate: my "Pensive" list just played itself out so I hit the shuffle button on my "Hodepodge" mix. First song to come on? Beyonce's "Girls." Yeah. You can't make this stuff up.

That's all for now. Good night, world.

OS101

Sooo, someone near & dear to me is going through a breakup right now and maaaan, I feel for him. I remember those days when heartbreak was an unwelcome and unruly resident in my heart. A few years ago I was the absolute definition of a hot mess. I'd cry so hard that I'd give myself a migraine, then I'd cry because I had a migraine. My go-to iPod playlist was called "Hang Myself from the Shower Curtain" which I'd blast on high while going for angry tear-soaked runs. Wine & ice cream were my BFFs. Harry Potter and The Golden Girls were my sources of comfort. 

It was however my writing that became my most potent form of solace. Sometimes I'd write letters that I knew I'd never send, other times I wrote emails to friends or entires in a journal. I wrote and wrote and wrote just to try and get my sadness out of my body and out onto paper where I might perhaps set the words on fire and symbolically purge those gut-wrenching feelings once and for all. Alas, I decided against the whole pyro thing and kept a record of my musings. There is one piece in particular that I've always been proud of- not because its particularly profound or groundbreaking but because its very- me. It's real, it's quirky, it's honest, it's sarcastic. It seems appropriate to post now, because sometimes we all need a reminder that we aren't born knowing exactly how to love. I give you "OS101."

-------------------------

OS101
   You know, when I first enrolled at USC and was browsing through the list of majors available through the College of Letters of Arts and Sciences, I came across several interesting selections: say, Multidisciplinary Activities, or Slavic languages. What does one do exactly with a degree in Slavic languages? I fully comprehend and acknowledge that in this day and age, an undergraduate major does not necessarily have any bearing whatsoever on one's career path. Scholars from both organic chemistry and comparative literature alike are our future neurosurgeons and college professors. But still: Slavic languages. Think about it. That one really narrows the scope, n'est-ce pas?
   So I say to myself, as long as we're choosing random majors, I can think of a few useful ones that I have yet to see in any college catalogue. How about "OS101: The Opposite Sex?" And I don't mean gender studies; that discipline has more to do with actual gender roles in society and whatnot. Psychology and human development come closer, but they still don't get to the meat and potatoes of the interaction that for our purposes I'll refer to as "dating."  Where are the classes on how to date, how to read mixed messages, how to know when to call and when to text, when to keep talking and when to shut the %*#$ up, when its ok to sleep with someone, when you can know for sure that a man likes you -and I don't mean "like" as in "I like ultimate cheeseburgers." I mean LIKE, as in "I'm going to remain faithful, share the remote, tell my friends about you and be considerate of your feelings even if I don’t understand them.” When to pursue a romantic endeavor and when to keep it pushin’, when to bow out and accept the end of a love and when to fight tooth and nail to salvage it... I want to know if chicks in the caveman days were facing similar debacles to those that I am confronted with today: I mean yeah I have electricity, vaccines, a car, a cell phone, In'n' Out and Pinkberry, but did Cathy the Cavegirl much like yours truly have to wonder whether Tommy the Troglodyte's one grunt versus two meant he just wasn't that into her?!?! In the Elizabethan era, did women walk around with their asses wound up as tight as their teeny tiny corsets, frustration coursing through their veins because the Duke of Devonshire or some other mother!@%#er didn't send a letter with his manservant this week or signed his parchment "I loveth ya" versus "I loveth you?" Was the Spanish Inquisition really just a cover up for more wily intentions? Did Queen Isabel need a nice governmental way to pretend she wasn't just interrogating broads to see which one of those heffers was being knocked off by King Ferdinand??!?! These are the things I want to know. This is the knowledge from which I feel I could reap true benefit. And I have PLENTY of ideas for curricula: I'm thinking lab practicals, group presentations, powerpoints, focus groups... the whole enchilada. And not the Taco Bell version, the grandma-made-it-from-scratch, this-tastes-so-good-its-got-to-be-sprinkled-with-crack kind. 
   The truth is probably that no one, not Albert Einstein, not Marie Curie, not Bill Gates, not even Dr. Phil or Oprah or (gasp) Maury Povich would have been or ever will be able to figure out the opposite sex. None of them can with absolute certainty and unequivocal terms explain to me why women annoy the bejeezus out of men with their emotional outbursts and yet slay them with their passion and their kindness and the look they get in their eyes when he walks in a room. They can't map out for me why men have insensitivity programmed in their genetic code but then show moments of mind-blowing tenderness and comforting strength. Why someone's scent and giggle stay engrained in your memory like they were branded there with hot iron and why someone's kiss can so perfectly mimic the effect of a potent hallucinogenic. No one can tell me why fools fall in love, why unrequited love has to hurt SO much, why I'm so stupid over light eyes and full lips... and no one ever will. I suppose that's part of the beauty, the magic, the illustrious, overwhelming, all-consuming and let's not forget downright sexy quality that love encapsulates. I think maybe it is because it is shrouded in mystery and so difficult to attain that love continues to be chased by millions with a consistence and fervor rivaling the pursuit of the Holy Grail. Maybe someday, whether with a man I presently know or with one waiting in the shadows, I'll get it. Maybe I will be so all consumed with a love that for once is felt in return that I'll finally believe my own assertion that the purpose off all the shitty relationships that went awry is to make The One truly stand out from the crowd. Maybe you really do have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the prince, as tacky and cliché as that sounds. Maybe someday soon the male that continues to capture my heart and slay my senses will reach out and hold my hand. Maybe he's the one but doesn't know it yet. Maybe he's not and I don't know it yet. Maybe I'll meet a hottie at the bar scene tonight and he'll confess that I'm the most stunning woman he's ever seen, and he'll want me to bring my friend Jazzy along for a date with his homie who happens to be Chris Brown look-alike (side note- this was written pre-Rihanna beating. Chris Breezy can now pound sand). Maybe we'll have a dance-off atop the roof of the Bank of America building in Downtown and discover we've found our soulmates amid the wind blowing our hair while the bass of "Forever" pulses in our chests.
   Or... maybe my life in its present state isn't so tragic, and with a few tweaks in a few select departments, happiness and self-possession might well be within reach. Maybe it's up to me to find validation within myself and not through an external source. Maybe the ball is in my court. Maybe it's time to make a move. Maybe.... juuuust maybe.

~ Broken-hearted Vanessa circa 2009

About my Papa..

So I recently realized that my last five or six blog posts weren't published properly. Grrrr. I know, you're all disappointed and you've written angry letters to Obama. I'm sorry for letting you down. Gees. I'll re-post this week. Today however is not about me, it's a day for all the fathers out there. I happen to have a pretty fabulous one so I've decided to pay him homage on this humble little blog. 

Alejandro Farias Diaz was born on December 23, 1959 in the gem of all cities of Tijuana, BC Mexico. He was pretty much jipped out of a proper birthday for at least the first third of his life, getting hit with the "this present counts for both your birthday and Jesus' birthday!" bit on far more that once occasion. I would have been bitter as all get out- I mean I get it, the birth of the Messiah is kiiiind of a big deal. But when you're a kid, all you know is you're getting 50% less presents and a whole lot less hooplah on your alleged special day.

My dad is the oldest of five immediate siblings not counting his older half sister. He's almost 15 years older than his youngest sister and has become somewhat of the patriarchal head of that side of my family since my grandfather's passing 30 years ago. That being said, my dad is also... what's the proper word here... Oh yes, weird. He is without a doubt living out his repressed childhood.

See, a lot of parents like to tell you tell you this epic lie to make you feel like an a$$h*le when you've done something wrong, and that lie is the suggestion that your parents never ONCE in their youth made the mistakes you did. They'd like you to believe they were always well behaved: they ate their vegetables, avoided swear words, drugs & alcohol, had their first kiss on their wedding night and never EVER wore white after Labor Day. Well, guess what? My father really was the perfect child and teen, and that's not by his own admission so much as everyone else's. 

My father did what he was told from a very young age and became the poster child for self-sacrifice. On top of being raised in a rigid household, his upbringing was dotted with tragedy and disappointment that I have only come to understand as an adult. I remember the first time I realized that I didn't know my father as well as I thought I did- I was in high school when Dad and I went for a drive and ended up at UCSD where he'd been taking a few extension classes for work. As we walked around the campus, there was a nostalgia in his expression, a sadness even, that I couldn't quite grasp. He then began to speak, not necessarily to me but to the universe; "I was supposed to go here, before. I got accepted. I had a scholarship, actually. A full ride. I was so excited, I even toured the dorms and everything." 

Whaaaa? How didn't I know this?! As far as I knew, he'd graduated from high school then enlisted in the Marines. He served his four years, married my mother and then had me. He'd been a carrier in the US Postal Service and worked his way up to management. I thought that had always been the plan. But it hadn't- he'd wanted to be, should have been the first in his family to go to college. Instead, he enlisted in the USMC because my grandfather wanted him to. I don't expect any of you to understand the dynamic shared by my father and grandfather- let it suffice to say that it was complicated. Very, very complicated. So even though it killed him to do it in, my daddy cancelled his enrollment at UCSD and left for boot camp. The regret in my father's eyes that day affected me profoundly- I vowed then to go to college and let my dad live his dream through me. 

And I did. In May of 2006, I received my Bachelors degree in Business Administration from the University of Southern California's Marshall School of Business. I donned my cap and gown and got ready to walk the stage at the Shrine Auditorium with one of my best friends Daisy Gonzalez right behind me. I was standing behind the curtains in a waiting area of sorts while hundreds of graduates in front of me were slowly called by name when I noticed a rapid succession of flashes just to the left of me. This area was closed off to photographers, press and parents alike, but I could have sworn I just saw- FLASH FLASH FLASH!!! There it was again. I was still trying to make the spots in my eyes go away when I heard Daisy laugh out loud- "V! That's your dad!!!" Sure enough, there he was- his prized SLR with extended lens in hand- taking dozens of pictures when he wasn't supposed to be- having crossed  several security guards and red tape to get there. He'd been doing this all my life at school plays, Christmas pageants, dance recitals, etc. and it had always been so embarrassing. That day, however, it made me cry. He was proud, so proud. I got flashbacks to those stressful nights at the dinner table when we didn't think we could afford to send me to school; the trips to the many schools he hauled me to when I insisted on touring their campuses; my interview at USC and the first photo I ever took with my Dad in front of Tommy Trojan- how my dad hugged me and kissed the top of my head and said "This is your school. We'll figure it out;" the traditional trip to the school bookstore whenever my parents visited because my Dad was clearly trying to amass every last piece "my kid goes to USC" memorabilia in the joint. My dad had worked his whole life to get me here, and I couldn't have been more thankful.

The years have gone by and I've moved back in with my parents since moving to San Diego after my eight year stint in LA. And with each year that passes as my dad gets closer and closer to retirement, I see the screws in dear ol' dad's head loosening further and further. Several of you know that one of our prized possessions is our Vitamix blender: some of you also know that months before pulling the trigger on the purchase, I was roused most unceremoniously from a nap to the sound of what I thought was our home being broken into by a chainsaw-wielding murderer. How are the two related, you ask? Because my dad couldn't bring himself to buy the damn blender but instead made a pastime of watching YouTube videos of the freakin' thing cranked on high volume. I stormed into the hallway to see his guilty face and his hand on the mouse looking like a kid who'd been caught red-handed looking at dirty pictures. And it doesn't stop there- we've had to have many tough conversations about my day's habit of blending his smoothies at 5 am on the weekends and screaming out "yeeeeeehaaaw!" all the while. He apparently feels the need to goad the thing on while it shreds through his spinach, carrot and oranges, and also feels like Vitamix is a reincarnated cowboy.

His list of eccentricities goes on: 

- At least two or three times a month, he puts on a blue lucha libre mask before opening my bedroom door and whispering "One day I will reveal my true identity!" Why? Hell if I know. 

- He gets a wild hare up his ass at the most random times and decides to do random things. Like when he walks into a room, plants one foot on the ground then pushes off with the other one over and over so it looks like he's going round in circles on an invisible scooter. Or how for no good reason and always when I'm eating or drinking something, he runs at me from across a room and side-tackles me. I go flying, he often cracks a rib... No big deal. Then we go on with our day. 

- He insists that my mother and I give him too much food for dinner, not because he can't finish it or the portion sizes are obscene but because he refuses to be too full to snack on tortilla chips or peanuts afterwards. It would be like a day without orange juice if we didn't hear the pantry door opening followed by the familiar rustling of plastic wrapping after dinner. And he wonders why my mom started calling him Snacky Gonzalez.

- Speaking of tortillas, don't serve that man a meal that doesn't have at least two out of three of the following: rice, tortillas and beans. He's the one guy I know that has a mild panic attack if there are no tortillas warmed up when we decide to get Shakey's Pizza, Fried Chicken and Mojo potatoes to watch a sporting event together. 

- When we watch sports, my dad is the quintessential jinx. It's maddening when in a tight game where my team desperately needs to make the next shot or get that first down, Dad chimes in with "He's gonna blow it, he's gonna blow it. See? He blew it." 

- Then there's his expert commentating: "Man, if we don't win this game, we're gonna lose." Howard Cosell, Marv Abert, John Madden... And my dad. Prolific sports commentary at its best. 

- My dad sings in the shower... Ok fine, you might argue that a lot of people do this. Yeah, we'll not at ungodly hours of the morning on weekdays and weekends alike. And the songs themselves are a constant five or six songs from what I call "Dad's Greatest Hits," which is a complication of one liners from verses or choruses (always the same parts, but never entire songs) that he has been singing since my brother and I we were kids. Our bathrooms share a wall, so I get the second loudest concerto in the house after my mom. I'll be brushing my teeth and hear "IIIIIIII'VE BEEN CHEATED! BEEEEEN MISTREATED!!! <gargles mouthwash, spits outs mouthwash> SAID IIIIIII'VE BEEN CHEATED!" Other favorites include "My momma once told me, when I was a baby!!," "God bless America, laaaaand of the freeeee!" (Yes, I've corrected him), and some Spanish selections from Vicente Fernandez. 

In short, the man is an odd bird sometimes, but I love him just the same. I've seen the true identity behind that creepy blue mask, and what lies beneath is a model son, brother, uncle, husband and of course father that I'm proud to call my dad. 

Celipalooza

Well then! My second blog has come a little too long after my first. That was not at all my intent, however a combination of familial obligations, a packed work schedule and a few nights of my world famous killer headaches conspired to keep me from writing. Alas, here I am! Back and ready to type my little heart out.

I returned this morning from a trip to see my friend Celina in Northern California; said friend has sold the home she purchased in the small city of Woodland years ago and now has plans to travel the world for an undetermined amount of time (in her words, "until the money runs out"). Given the uncertainty of when many of us will see her next, a motley crew of Celi's friends was assembled for a grand farewell. We travelled from all over to partake in "Celipalooza," a weekend of debauchery and good natured frivolity in not only Woodland but Davis as well. UC Davis being the alma mater of a few folks in this circle of friends, it was a trip down memory lane for some, and a chance to make memories for the rest. Oh, and the theme for the weekend: the 90s. We were a big heaping pile of neon hats, printed pants, pagers, troll dolls, backwards dressing, flannel and light-up kicks with some Motown Philly on the side. Picture THAT walking up and down the streets of Davis. Need a visual? Keep reading, I shan't disappoint.

Now, this motley crew I speak of... I'm not entirely sure that there are words to describe the dynamic and overall energy that this group embodies. We are a melting pot of personalities that run the gamut but share a certain je ne sais quoi. I suppose you could call it a lust for life, a carpe-diem, balls-to-the-wall, we-don't-need-no-water-let-the-mutha-f*cka-burn type of quality. As soon as I get an invite, I instinctively wonder when I last had a tetanus shot then hurry to amass several bottles of water, some penicillin and an alibi. You just never know!

Par example: dinner turning into several very competitive rounds of flip cup...a guy lighting votive candles on Celi's patio preparing to do a tarot card reading... back and forth trips to the same bar twice in one night... Wicky Wacky Woos and an entire box of glow stick bracelets... a 1am photo-shoot in a red phone booth and then with a mosaic parakeet... three people-sized dents in an innocent by-standing bush... someone sipping ranch from pizza slice via straw... a Swiss watch seemingly lost but found in a more distant bush... a guy hanging from the attic then becoming a human lampshade... bowling in 90s couture on the UC Davis campus... narrowly avoiding the Death Star... rocking mock piercings all over our faces... choking down a disgusting concoction known as a Four Loko... staircase photoshoots... setting out to fly a kite... posting aforementioned kite for sale online when the wind let us down... bare chests and clavicles (awwww snap!) blackouts of a non-alcoholic nature and a heartwarming camaraderie as a result... bringing My So Called Life and Baywatch to a local dive bar...learning we are indeed not the only fans of 90s music... ghetto chick fights and Harlem shakes... playing with Hot Wheels at 2am... angry drill sergeant yoga with the garden snake and lazy baby poses... reviewing all the photos and hilarious videos, and farewells with a promise to reunite soon... in short: love, laughter, life.

I'm sure it goes without saying that I had many a reason to smile (and shake my head, and wince at my bruises) when I boarded the plane back to my beloved 619, so I got out the ol' iPad mid-flight and decided to record all I could remember of this weekend. As I started writing what I thought would be just a comedic walk down short-term-memory lane, I found myself becoming a tad introspective. I got to thinking how I've only known most of Team 90s for two or three years at the very most; several I've known but a year and others for months or even just these 72 hours. Each is a friend of a friend, and through that friend we each became friends. None of it feels new or awkward, its like its been there all along. Together we embark on these crazy, ridiculous adventures that to most onlookers are probably annoying as all hell. We're in your face and in your ear (and bushes) whether you like it or not, and the beauty of it all (at least from where I'm standing) is that I find myself caring less and less about what people think in the process. Yes, we're annoying, we're obnoxious, we're loud, we're shameless, but we're living. We're making the most of the time we've been given and demand to make it as remarkable and (mostly) unforgettable as possible. The real world will always be waiting with bills, politics, headaches, and disconcerting news headlines. So gather your friends, tell those friends to bring their friends; travel the world, toss back a Wicky and celebrate. Take pictures, be spontaneous; revel in your own personal version of escapism, and live.