See You Later

The saying goes that life is what happens to you when you’re busy making plans. Maybe you’re planning a wedding, a career move, a girl’s night out or just planning on making a sandwich. The point is that when you aren’t looking, when you least expect it to or even want it to for that matter- life intervenes and says, “So… this is what’s going to happen.”

Two and a half years ago, I was working as an Account Specialist at a claim center in Carmel Mountain Ranch when my supervisor called me; she let me know that I’d been selected to learn more about a position with a different department: Enterprise Fleet Management. Fleet was all but an urban legend to me shrouded in wonder and mystery. I knew little of what Fleet did or what it was all about, and because I was comfortable where I was, I turned it down.

A few days later, I got a call from a number with a 909 area code. He was a Regional Sales Manager in this Fleet division and wanted to pick my brain. I agreed to meet having nothing to lose and because I’d also forgotten my wallet. I also hadn’t packed a lunch, so.... hey, why the heck? Why not?  

We talked for over an hour in getting-to-know-you fashion, then came the questions he’d driven up there to ask: why had I said no? What were my concerns? Could he possibly change my mind? And because I am often awkward in these types of situations, what came out of my mouth was: “I don’t want to involve you in my mess. I’m medically fucked up.”

This friendly man with a shaven head and super blue eyes stopped chewing his roasted veggie salad, and he asked, “Like, psychologically, or… ?” and then came an awkward pause. I laughed out loud like a crazy person and then for reasons I cannot explain to you, I told private truths to this stranger who had the nerve to turn around and care. I told him I’d need to leave early on Thursdays. No one could know why. Little did I know that this man knew all about complications- cancer, divorce, single-fatherhood. That afternoon I called my boss and told her I’d had a change of heart. A few short weeks later I took up a space in a cubicle at 6330 Marindustry Drive.

Two and half years later, I look back and wonder what would have become of me had I not agreed to meet that man at Luna Café that summer. I wouldn’t have gotten a call from my new boss Melissa inviting me to Palm Springs for the weekend. I wouldn’t have been handed a pair of glasses, suspenders and drink tickets and told to show up ready to party as a Comic Con nerd. I wouldn’t have almost been abandoned in the desert by an employee with an agenda, or apologized to a thousand times the following Monday by everyone in the office.

I would never have met Michele, the blonde, human meerkat who speaks a different language known by only a chosen few: I wouldn’t know what a strippy truck is, or a Scooby or a ladybird or crotch monkey, how to jimmy-jammy something or kick someone in the kanicki. I might not know that “Kumbayashi” is actually Michele-speak for Kombucha. I might never have ordered root fries or met three Corgis as cute as can be.

I’d never have met Alisa, super stalker extraordinaire. I might not have stopped to smell the egg whites in the morning or else have missed out on her infectious laugh. I might also have never been stalked by her crazy customers when she and my friend Tara were out of the office, and someday I promise I’ll go ahead and forgive her for that.

I’d never have met Grumbles, who turned the word "mailers" to "mellers" and will put a smile on your face every SINGLE day come what day. I’d have missed out on his headstand while wearing a camo helmet, and never met his adorable daughters who will head-butt their way into your hearts.

I’ve never have Amy (aka Rosie or Ramy), whose dance moves are awesome and who always had high-protein snacks. I wouldn’t get Asian texts or have someone to talk Chanel to, or someone to scold for her shopping habits knowing full and well she will never learn.

I’d never have worked with Marty again, since I'd worked with her once before, she the queen of toast and talking to no-one-ness. I’d never have known what it’s like to have someone watch you from the next cubicle and have them creep you the hell out each time. I'd have missed her helpful nature and willingness to be a team player. I thank her for that.

I’d never have met Denise- the brave soul and big heart who will fill my shoes. The giver of fleet’s absolute worst news quiz, the badass who showed up with her own stock of Nerf weaponry.

I’d never have met Cheyenne, the most normal one of the bunch of us. My right hand, my cake-pop provider and my stable source of reality. I’d have missed out on a thousand “what the heck?” moments and not had someone to dare me to dream. I’d still have 42,000 driver name changes to do and an even bigger pile of files to reconcile.

I’ve never have met Kristin, the spider monkey and pallet-rider who laughs at dumbness with me like cats, owls and Kirimi-Chan. The girl who pushes me to dream bigger and aim a little higher, who got me to like country and taught me to replace the word “girl” with “squirrel.”

I’d never have met Tara, my dear sweet friend Tara, the world’s most friendly angry person whose laugh is possibly my favorite in the world. She taught me about “perry-meters,” crap holes, fudgesicles, monsties and daaaaaaark chocolaaaaate. I’ve never have learned to “do-do” song or how to sing your way through a shitty-ass day.

I’d never have learned that Fleet is pretty much Unicef from a guy named John that makes the BEST bruschetta, a real life Fun Hunter who trolls the halls with a stomp and a snap. He reads texts, said my face looks like chicken fat on my third day and never stops talking about poop. I’d never have met his baby who I secretly want to kidnap (just kidding , Maureen!).

I’d never have met this Zack guy from Philly who buys me books and loooooves those spirit fingers, who means what he says when he cares and has no recollection of emphatically tearing some documents up; I’d never have met his alter egos, like the black minister from the Southern Baptist pulpit, or met his future musician son (age 3) who’d like to talk to our controller Gerges.

That guy that took me to lunch Greg- I’d never have eaten about a thousand dollars’ worth of sushi with him after one too many sake shots or Sapporos, or God knows what other things. I’d never have learned to absolutely love salmon or known that my Spanish sounds like an aggressive samurai. When I waived a white flag and reached for a Kleenex box, I’d never have gotten my pony, or my diamonds, or avocado pudding, or a single flower in a simple vase.

I’d never have met my superhero boss Mel who reads through life with me, who once took me to a library opening and had my back every. single. time. I’d never have laughed that hard at Mustang Sally, tasted Rumchata or been to random creepy fabric stores; I’d have paid $90 for a headband it took her kid 30 seconds to make. She made one of the scariest, biggest decisions of my life a little bit easier. She let me go even when it was hard to, because she understood that it was my time.

What about the Nerf battles? The sales meetings? The brownie bites? The CVI pens? The thirty second dance parties and closet where everything went to die? Creepy Kevin? All-caps guy and his slow march towards zombiesm? The feet guy, the Russian mafia embezzlers? The FedEx chick who can’t see glass? The Padres and Chargers games, the Basic pizza? The 8:08s that start off strong but always go awry? What about the costumes? The holiday parties? The video filming, the weirdness? The pouring of granulated sugar on a dude in a fishnet crop-top, and of course the Harlem shake? What about the kayaks and the twerking in a child’s XL onesie? What about “skrrrrrr!” or “No I don’t!” or the many renditions of “Smack That?”

What about the weirdos I consider my family and that it’s so gosh damn hard to leave?

I’ll carry them with me always like family, these crazies, the freaks of Fleet.  

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

Since you don't say goodbye to people you'll see again...

See you later,

V

 

 

 

 

 

 

Real Women Have Mitochondria

The day I got training wheels was the day I realized I was “curvy.”  

My dad came home with a set for me when I was 7 or 8 years old, just a few days after I’d ridden a bike for the first time down a hill with a speed bump at the bottom. My skinned knees, wrists, elbows, cheek, chin and ribcage were not at all amused when I lost my balance and made hard contact with concrete. I asked for a set of training wheels, post haste.

My dad sat down to affix the wheels to my bike while I pretended to supervise. He perused the instructions and muttered to himself that the wheels were not suitable for a child weighing more than 50 pounds. I felt my cheeks go warm with embarrassment since I knew for a fact that I weighed more than these wheels’ apparent max capacity. Dad took notice and said “Are you kidding me? You weigh more than that?!? Yikes!” He said it with a smile and meant no harm, but I still left the room with my head hanging low. I felt ashamed. 

Just like that, BAM! I was hyper-aware of my body. It dawned on me that 85% of my female classmates were indeed smaller than I was, and that the boys liked those girls better. An aunt had recently offered to pay me one dollar for every pound I could lose, because didn’t I want to be prettier? When puberty struck quite suddenly after an injury to my jaw did something wacky to my pituitary glands, my insecurity level reached a frightening peak that lasted well into my twenties. Body image issues followed me like a stage-five clinger with an axe to grind; I spent years trying to be smaller and employed unhealthy means to try and get there.  

So now curves have sort of made a comeback: joy to the world! You see it on TV, on the radio, on the internet and on t-shirts bearing Marilyn Monroe or some other curvaceous female’s image: real women have curves, it’s all about that bass, and anacondas don’t want none unless you got buns, hun. You’d think I’d be all about this refreshing mentality being of the curvier persuasion, right? Well… about that.

Here’s my first issue. The kind of “curvy” that’s lauded as sexy too often only refers to the Jessica-Rabbitesque shapes of women with voluptuous hourglass figures and not so much to that of plain ol’ fuller-figured women such as myself. I try so hard to identify with the “curves are hot” thing because frankly it feels like I should, and while I do appreciate society in any way embracing the concept of beauty being packaged in different sizes and shapes, it doesn’t always feel like my particular body type is the “right” kind of curvy. This is where social media can really make a regular girl want to pull her hair out; the Instagram models and Kim Kardashian types with their overabundance of self-indulgent photos make a great and maddening case for the fact that my curves are for the birds in comparison to theirs; not only my non-carved waist but my cup size, butt, nose, lips, eyes, pinky toe and gosh-damn nail beds are apparently the wrong shape, size, color or model year.

This brings me to my other problem with the “real women have curves” movement, and that’s that it does the exact same thing that the “skinny is sexy” ideal does: it defines beauty and sex appeal as only applying to a certain type of woman with a certain set of characteristics. It not only leaves out the women who don’t possess those physical traits but shames them into feeling like they aren’t feminine if they don’t. What I’m talking about is skinny-shaming, and it’s everywhere I look.

Given my life’s quest to be thinner, I’d never really given much thought to this side of the struggle. Think about it though. Being told or made to feel that I’m not beautiful or attractive because my body cannot fit into a size 6 is annoying, no doubt about that; my hips don’t lie and they say “we’re wide!” so I try and try to get their circumference down through healthy eating and exercise. Meanwhile a slew of other women wish theirs were a little less modest and a little more Minaj because in pushing the agenda for seeing beauty in a larger figure, smaller girls have become the new punching bag.

This is very evident in media and music which have begun painting women’s bodies as less desirable if they lack the certain curvature that has become so synonymous with sex appeal, like when Megan Trainor’s momma apparently told her boys like a little more booty to hold at night. I know a lot of people are giving her props for the message behind that song, but that message is sullied for me because it puts down the girls without said booty abundance. Then we have Nicki out here going so far as to say “f*ck you if you skinny, bitches!” This grinds… my… gears. It belittles women who don’t fit the big booty bill and is demonstrative of one of my major hot buttons: women’s body-shaming coming from other women. Enough already. A naturally slender, less curvaceous female is just as real a woman as Amber Rose, Christina Hendricks or Sofia Vergara are, and no one should tell her or me or you any differently.

I’m not setting out to tell anyone to rewire themselves in what they find individually attractive. What I do want is collective acceptance of the female body in all its variation. I want for all of us to be able to feel comfortable in our own skin, to be seen as perfectly beautiful, sexual, desirable creatures with appeal and worth and value that isn’t measured by our waist-to-hip ratio. I find it unacceptable to define beauty in exclusionary terms, and not just in how men see women but in how women judge each other as well.

So here is my own little body image manifesto: I think a woman should feel sexy whether she’s shaped like a Coke bottle or like a Coke can. She should focus less on being thicker or thinner and more on being healthy. No woman should feel pressured to wear makeup, nor should she be shamed if she happens to really like putting it on. Let a girl wear sky-high heels whether she’s 5’6” or 6’5” and don’t give her lip about it because that is her prerogative. Please, love the big boobs or full derriere of women who possess these body parts- but don’t make the women who lack these assets feel inferior either. Don’t assume that the skinny girl is healthier than the one shopping for plus-sized jeans, but don’t discount the slender girl, she might just teach you a few things. Gisele is a beautiful woman, so is Tess Holliday. Curves don’t make a real woman and neither do six-pack abs. You know what all real women have? DNA, cells, cytoplasm. Real women have mitochondria. Put that on a t-shirt.  

 

V-Day

Buenos Diaz! It’s Valentine’s Day, that day on the calendar that makes singles sick, lovebirds swoon, and people with kids wonder whether they bought enough Valentines for everyone in Timmy or Jenny’s class and whether they’re bad parents for choosing the store-bought cupcakes over the homemade and Pinterest-inspired. Today is also confession day here at Buenos Diaz. Gather round now, come in close. Can everyone hear me? OK, here goes.
I, Vanessa Diaz, am a girl, and sometimes I act like one.

Honest to God, 97.6 percent of the time I don’t mind and even enjoy being single. Knowing how to be alone and relish it is something I’m quite proud of, really. I like that I can go see a movie, take a trip to the Farmers Market, sit at a restaurant or coffee shop or lay out in the park all by my lonesome and not feel a desperate need to be accompanied if company isn’t in the cards that day. I’ve been very independent for as long as I can remember, so tell me why this year there is something about this saccharine-soaked, commercial concoction of a holiday that for whatever nonsensical reason really has me thinking deeply about my life choices. It feels pathetic. I will elaborate.

I hate having to admit this because it makes me sound like one of those girls, the ones who bitterly denounce “Singles Awareness Day” by sulking on their couch listening to Adele and eating Godiva. Maybe it’s the flower deliveries to people not named Vanessa at work or the emotion bubbling beneath the surface of my composure every time I realize I am quitting my job in 3 weeks. Maybe it’s because my favorite of favorites is no longer a well I can draw from and that person is going away and shacking up with someone for the love-filled weekend while I’m sitting here noshing on Gourmet Inka Corn (corn nuts for the grown and sexy) with a glass of Nebbiolo (I wrote this Friday night, I’m not being a booze-hound before 9am).

I just suddenly miss… affection. I miss nervous first kisses, or warm, familiar ones that melt you; I miss butterflies, anticipation, cutesy gestures, intense bouts of eye contact; hands in my hair, hands on my face, eyes wide open, eyes wide shut. I miss hand-holding, flirting, passion, surrender. I miss hearing someone call me pretty. I miss feeling pretty.

The worst part though is the feeling of guilt, that sense of “I’m not supposed to feel the feelings!” that eats at me as someone who normally thinks of themselves as strong, independent and not at all why-aren’t-I-in-a-relationship centric. I feel like I should be impervious to these juvenile affectations, like its sacrilege to miss the warmth, the smell, the feel of a man and still call myself a feminist. This is especially true now that I’ve reached an age where I think I’m supposed to be enlightened and above all of this mess, so now I’m not only feeling out of sorts but feel dumb for feeling that way to begin with. I feel like I’m betraying my own ideals.

I’m not betraying anything though. I’m just a woman. I’m allowed to feel and need and want. So I will confess that I do in fact feel and need and want and that doesn’t make me any less self-possessed. Yeah, I allowed myself those thirty seconds (ok, minutes) of feeling sorry for myself, then I decided to get up, turn on the lights and think of V Day as just that: V Day. V Day as in Me day. I may not be in love, but I am loved and I do love. The rest of this blog post will focus on that love. Here are some people who aren’t obligated to love me out of a blood relation.

-----

I have a friend who shares my not-so-guilty pleasures plus love of steak, bright lipstick, beautiful white boys and getting on planes. We Snapchat our workouts and pics of food afterwards. In the young and ratchet days when on a crowded Vegas dance floor getting the bump-and-grind treatment from a brotha with plans, she motioned to me, pointed down at the guy and said, “V, do you want a hit?” because she didn’t want me to be left out. That poor guy looked at her hurt like, “Are you pimping me to your girl right now?” and I just about died from laughter.

I have a friend who calls me at 6am to tell me that she’s proud of me, who two years ago looked me in the eye over brunch and said, “So you’re not an author yet, but you ARE a writer, Call yourself one.” She’s black and from LA’s Valley and I’m a San Diego Latina but somehow, someway, she is my twin. We bond over books and beautiful words, delight in sarcastic wit and get into good song be it Jay or Jill or that trap music. She’s been telling me I was pretty since the day I met her and one of these days I’ll believe her.

I have a friend who for years now I’ve been calling the poster child for pursuing your passion. She pushes me in ways both overt and covert and though we may not speak often it’s meaningful when we do. She brought me to wine, let me lean on her at low points, and never made me feel stupid for loving someone I couldn’t have. She once put a slice of salami on my sangria glass because we were all out of strawberries and has dared me to dream recently in a very big and international way.

I have a friend who knows it all, the good, the bad, the ugly plus the emo, the insecure, the crazy and the expectant, all of it wrapped up in big hair and too much jewelry. He’s talked me off a ledge, showed me lightening in summer, sends me YouTube videos of hilarious throwback rap jams and tags me in stuff about books and pretty places. He’s brilliant and witty and maddeningly stubborn, pushing buttons and boundaries and schooling me in emoji warfare. He knows what I need to hear/feel and knows when things are hard for me, he tells me I’m important because I need to be reminded and even when we’re not agreeing are close in an atypical way. He encourages my honesty even when it isn’t easy, like he wants me to be sassier, louder, braver, a bigger pain in the ass if it means coming into my own.

I have a friend who reminds me that I’m talented and worthy of more than I’m sometimes brave enough to ask for, who challenges me as a writer and gets me to do things in the name of “research.” As undergrads we spent the night before final exams dancing to Afro-Cuban beats at Zanzibar, banking on my freakish memory to get us through the tests because sometimes you just have to dance. She’s shared a $300 bar tab, a stash of emergency chocolate and many life conversations with me and reminded me last night in a moment of “help, I’m a little lost” that I’m not busted. She gets my struggles and I get hers, and she’s the only person I’ll let speak cutesified Spanish to me so please don’t try it because one is enough.

You know what’s awesome- I could go on for DAYS. I have a ginger who frolicks on bays with me, who encourages me and laughs with me about words that rhyme and unattractive dance moves; I have a boss who’s a BFF who let me go supportively because she knew I’d found my passion and because she shares that passion too. I have a gypsy life-shift Sherpa who takes me on Baja adventures and tells me to keep on dreaming. I have so, so, so much love in my life that it almost seems silly to want more.

If today you find yourself madly in love with someone who loves you too, I’m truly very happy for you. I encourage you to revel in love because love is an amazing thing and even if it’s corny and cheesy to make a big deal out of it on Valentine’s Day- so what! Go for it! The world needs a little more love. Go be sappy and happy about it and let the haters hate. If you’re single like me, I salute you just the same! Love is probably all around you like it is for me, you may just have to make a list and write it out to remember that. Do it, you’ll surprise yourself.

I am now about to go enjoy my V-Day with a group of beloved friends that I am lucky to have in my life. I’m also going to lather on the SPF because I live in San Diego which has a blatant disrespect for winter. I will leave you with some wise words from Hugh Grant, a classic quote from a classic movie.

“It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”

Happy Valentine's Day!

Bookishly Yours,

Vanessa

That's What Friends Are For

Buenos Diaz! So, remember those awesome friends I touched on last week? About this one particular group of them...

It all started a couple of years ago in early December: a group of friends found themselves in San Diego on New Year’s Eve. This group of 10+ descended upon the Hilton San Diego Bayfront for a big fancy NYE celebration. After a few get-me-while-my-makeup-is-still-fresh photo shoots, bottles of 5 Hour Energy were passed around to rally the masses. The air was filled with shouts of “Dude, I only want a little bit! How about like 17 minutes worth?” or “Hey! Hit me! I need a full three hour swig!” Because once you’ve reached or are approaching the ripe ol’ age of 30, you need staying power to keep the party going till midnight.

Once adequately fueled, we entered the hip hop ballroom and got down like fools without cares or fear of camera phones and Facebook. We ate pieces of cold pizza and washed them down with tonics and liquors of choice.  At one point, someone set their drink down in the middle of the dance floor and we all danced around it Flamenco style to Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop.” Why? If you have to ask, you don’t know my friends.

Before anyone expected it to, the clock struck twelve. We went until our livers and feet allowed us to before heading to lobby where we found a giant line of people. Clearly someone was giving away some free shit, or a Kardashian or One Direction member was hosting a late-night meet and greet. Alas, no- this stupid queue that went from here to mother-effing Whoville was the line to catch a freaking cab out of this place. Neither my feet nor my spirit were prepared for this nonsense. My feet hurt. I was thirsty. I was tired. I wanted a bed.

Right when the crowd appeared to peak at both its inebriation and lack of patience, out rang like a shot in the dark, “NAAAANTS een-VEN-YAAAAAA ma-ba-GEE-chi-ba-va!!!!” A friend I’ll call Espiderman was belting out the intro to Circle of Life. You know what else? He sang the *whole* gosh damn thing. The rest of the group chimed in and at full throttle volume much to the amusement of some and the sheer and utter annoyance of countless others. Why? Again- if you have to ask…

It didn’t stop there. These weirdos transitioned seamlessly to “A Whole New World” then slid right into “Friend Like Me.” They crooned out “Part of Your World” then moved right on to “Under the Sea,” complete with some impressive onomatopoeia for the sounds of that steel drum intro. All the while a bottle of Fireball was passed around like a canteen. I tried to dodge the bottle but someone got me like one of those rude sombrero and zarape clad dudes in TJ, rudely tilting my head back and accosting my mouth and throat with cinnamon-flavored octane.

For reasons that should be obvious by now, I joined a group of these same friends down in Baja California for wine tasting in the Valle de Guadalupe for NYE 2014. A few of us headed down a day early to stay at the Rosarito Beach-adjacent home of my friend Celina’s family friend, who happens to manage 15 or so properties down in the Las Gaviotas community. The house was an amazing ranch-style home with gorgeous terra cota detail, a courtyard begging for an outdoor fiesta to be had, and views of the ocean could fool you into thinking you’d been teleported to Santorini. We dined on a delicious and simple meal of (AMAZING) beans, guacamole and quesadillas, all with locally sourced ingredients and with bottomless refills of a lovely red wine. I slept comfortably by a toasty fireplace on a very fancy air mattress with blankets aplenty. It was delightful- property managers are excellent hosts.

This courtyard tho...

 

 Santorini Poptla, BC, Mexico

   

 Hugs from Baja

 

The next day we headed to the wine valley and went in search of our B&B, a property out in San Antonio de las Minas. Right as we made the turn from the main drag on to the road that would lead us to our destination, it became apparent that the route to our destination involved a wet, uneven and muddy road. We braced ourselves and drove forward in Celina’s low-riding old school Lexus…

SKKRRRRRRRRR went Celina’s poor gas tank as it scraped against hard-packed dirt, reminding us that a Lexus sedan doth not an off-road vehicle make. Celi slowed to a mere roll and tried to maneuver around the uneven patches, but the weight of a driver, four passengers and all of their luggage was not helping the cause. There was only one thing left to do: lose some passengers. Imagine, if you will, the odd Chinese fire drill of sorts that ensued each time we came upon a puddle:  three of the five vehicle occupants getting out of the car then using sticks as puddle-depth measuring tools to determine which way to best navigate Celi’s car. Now throw in the appearance of some very hungry and fearless dogs that sent us running back to the vehicle every so often. Adventure time!

Still onward we went, only partially convinced that we hadn’t been sold a bill of goods. We drove for some time, proceeding semi-confidently only because of the occasional 8 ½ X 11 signs nailed to some fence or tree stump assuring us that the property was indeed still ahead. The terrain was rough and there just didn’t appear to be anything remotely resembling a bed and breakfast nearby, to the point where we half-kiddingly joked that an abandoned warehouse, a dilapidated shack or a Fisher Price playhouse by the side of the road might be our illustrious place of lodging.

We did eventually arrive and met up with the other 10 or so of our friends. Soon after checking in, we hopped on a shuttle en route to wine country, and though the number of stops was limited due to New Year’s Eve winery closures, a good time was had. I mean, with that many people and wine flowing freely, we were going to enjoy ourselves one way or another. I knew this when we were poured some Grenache and someone in our group said, “St. Grenache is a dog, right? Like what Lassie was!”

 Ready!

 

Really ready.

 

Remember us? La Gitana y La Bookworm

 

Celi enjoying a snack of Takis with her red wine, trying most unsuccessfully to convince my friend Leandra that this constitutes a delectable wine pairing.

"Quick, Vane! Before someone sees me!"

 

All the Single ladies.

        

After the wine tasting, we shuttled back to the B&B for a dinner prepared by the staff, which started around 6pm and was intended to stretch out course by course through midnight. We ate the soup appetizer and main dish but at 9pm ran out of enough patience to sit and wait around for dessert or midnight. We went back to our rooms for a little while and some of us made it back downstairs later for a toast and/or bachata dance-off at midnight. Several members of our group went on to stage yet another Disney Sing Along in the property’s communal dining room. I held on till around 12:30 before throwing in the towel.

It suddenly hit me that it was cold. SO cold. So gosh-damn bloody COLD! Colder weather than the property manager was prepared for, the kind of cold that made me, the girl who hates sleeping in bulky clothing, go to bed wearing leggings, two pairs of socks, a sports bra, a thermal top, and my big USC sweatshirt with the hood pulled so tight over my face that I looked like Kenny from South Park. I covered even my head with the blankets when I realized I could see my breath if I left my face exposed. When the girl I was sharing a bed with finally came to bed at 3am once she was all partied out, I thanked sweet baby Jesus for the gift of body heat. If she’d asked me to cuddle, I probably would have. Warmth is warmth, yo.

The next day, we all roused slowly but surely (I of course was up at 5:45 am reading on my Kindle) and enjoyed a delicious, made-from-scratch breakfast before parting ways. My friends were kind enough to get me back stateside by noon so that I could book it to the airport to hop a jet to Vegas where my girl Karina and I saw the second to last show of our boo Justin Timberlake’s 20/20 Experience Tour. Oooh child, that man can sang! I danced sexy in my seat to that little but of “Don’t Hold the Wall,” swayed in an emo haze at the outro to Love Stoned, screamed out “Yeeeeesssss!” to “My Love” (I STILL love that choreography) and closed my eyes and vibed to my beloved “Until the End of Time.” Karina and I sang our faces off the whole night and loved every minute off. JT can get it.

 V + K

Go 'head, be gone with it.

I caught a flight at 7am the next morning back to San Diego, which means that when all was said and done, I was in Vegas for about 12 hours, the same amount of sleep I’d had in a span of four days. Exhaustion is an understatement, but I’d do it again tomorrow. The lesson here is not to take yourself too seriously. These friends of mine are spread across the continental US but come together at random just when I might need to lighten up. They break up my tendency to overthink things and slap me in the face with some fun. They force me to delight in and appreciate the awesomeness that comes with laughing out loud and not giving a smooth f#%k about how you look to the world as long as you’re enjoying yourself. They also build me up and remind me how loved and supported I am at every hour of the day, I am so thankful for each and every one of these crazies. They’re the shit.

Do more of what makes you happy in 2015. It’s sometimes easier said than done, but MAN does it feel good when you pull it off.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

New Year, New Me... or Same Me, but Better

Buenos Diaz! Sooooo, it's 2015. New year, new me!!!! (That was for you, CAG). That phrase always makes me laugh. I will however be totally cliché and tell you that I am indeed so flippin' excited for this year (yes, excited). Know why? I will tell you. Then I'll throw in some caveats.

Possibility
There technically isn't anything magical that happens at midnight on December 31st. At the stroke of twelve just a few nights ago, I didn't lose twenty pounds or inherit a million dollars. A tall, green-eyed, full-lipped drink o'water holding a stack of books and the keys to a private jet didn't suddenly materialize to whisk me away, nor did a publishing entity ring my phone at 12:01AM to tell me they'd like to forward me a book advance and publish my first work. I didn't lose all of my insecurities, my heart wasn't suddenly free from any and all hang-ups and I still had worries and fears just like everybody else. My sore throat didn't even go away! Those things *could* happen though. Could. That little sliver of possibility is thrilling. It's sinfully delicious.

Change
We all know it by no but I'll say it again: I quit my mother effing job! I still can't believe I've done this. I'll be around until March but then shit is getting real, so I'm officially on the job hunt for something that will help pay the bills but be more in line with my passion while I pursue my writer dreams. This is a giant deal for me. I've worked for the same company since I was an intern in college which was almost 10 years ago. Ten years! Holy hell. I'm seriously insane for doing this but nothing has ever felt so right. I don't know what the future holds but I'm excited to find out. This change is welcome and supported by the most amazing group of family and friends. I'm lucky to be able to shake things up like this, which I recognize and celebrate every chance I get. Which brings me to...

Friends
This week I was reminded of what an absolute blessing a solid network of friends is. I started the week on a high, then it got a little low in the middle when I got inside my own head a little too much and allowed myself to feel some type of way about sharks, bats and girlish things. That little low feeling didn't last though, because I am surrounded by so much love and laughter that I have no choice but to remain hopeful, positive and appreciative. I have beautiful handwritten letters to read, photos to peruse and laugh over, memories to wrap myself in and smile about. Lucky me. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

Pero... on the flip side...

While starting a new year feels like a great thing to get excited about, let me make something clear. Yes, I am excited. I expect this will be a year of personal growth and new beginnings. However, the things I'm looking forward to aren't blessings I expect to receive passively as they fall from the sky just because the "4" at the end of the date I've written for the last 365 days is now a "5." Like I said earlier, I was the exact same person on 12:01 AM on January 1st as I was at 11:59 PM the night before. So were you!

There is a lot of promise and opportunity for fresh starts with the passing of a new year, but this restart button everyone can't wait to slam so emphatically is symbolic and not literal. If you're taking this opportunity as a jump start to better yourself, to better the world or just try a new hairstyle: awesome! I salute you. If you're expecting miracles from a fairy godmother to just start happening for you with no active effort on your part- you es crazy. Bad things do happen and sometimes its hard to shake them off. I get that. Really, I do. I've been a resident of Hang Up City. In fact, I still visit from time to time. In the last few years though, I mustered up the strength and will to finally pack up and leave that sad little hamlet. I have good days, I have bad days. I know I've grown as a person though when even on the bad days, I can look around and recognize the pack of blessings light upon my back. You can do the same, I'm willing to bet. Try to remember that and look on the bright side- for most of us, it really will all be ok.

One last piece of wisdom I will attempt to impart will be this: just like you shouldn't expect magic and miracles on New Year's Day, you also shouldn't beat yourself up with so many goals and resolutions to the point that you forget to live. This involves treading a fine line, one that I'm not always so adept at traversing. One the one hand, success and results come to those who hustle and stay on that grind. On the other hand, it's altogether too possible to set so many goals for yourself and make so many to-do lists that you lose track of time, space and the beauty of real-time experience. You forgot to look around and smell the proverbial roses because you're so wrapped up in your plans. You forget to be here because you're so focused on trying to get there.

So. I vow here and now to view the new year as a symbol but not as a crutch or as a panacea. I am pledging to get my daily exercise and eat well; but if I want to cheese or wine or chocolate with friends, I'm going to have it. I want this new career and I will strive tooth and nail to get it, but I'll be ok with rejection when I face it with the help of my support network and will not lose sight of the value that is my entire journey. I will be open and ready for love and work on being more approachable, but will still just let it happen to me when and where it needs to and not view the world through a desperate or time-sensitive lens. I will sip slowly, savor every bite, laugh harder, feel deeply and perhaps even use my eyes, ears, nose and skin instead of my iPhone to capture more memories. I vow to enjoy my life more now than perhaps I ever have just by being more present. I hope that in 2015 you will do the same- not because you have to, but just because you want to.

Gaaaah I ended a sentence with a preposition. Sometimes you need to do that.

So, about this NYE celebration and these friends of mine..... that tale will have to wait until Wednesday.

Thanks for following, for reading, for supporting my little pipe dream. Here's to 2015!

 

Cheerio Girl

Buenos Diaz! Can you believe it’s December already? It’s a little hard to believe considering I live in America’s Finest City and the weather has been in the high 70s and low 80s for most of the fall. We just last week got some cooler temperatures at last, including a couple of spots of rain that lasted all of 48 hours and backed up our traffic for just about as long.  Usually I complain about this sort of warm-weather-winter thing because I like my holidays a little less on the tropical side.  Really though…. It ain’t so bad living in paradise.

Today’s blog post was inspired by a friend of mine (who so happens to be a bitchin’ stylist in San Diego’s East Village). My girl Briana has somehow managed to pop out four adorable children by the ripe age of 30 and has perhaps even more impressively managed to stay, if I may say so, real as f*ck, even as she rides around in her swagger wagon Toyota Sienna. I went to see her just a couple of weeks ago and she reminded me of a story she’s told me already once before but that never gets old. To be perfectly honest I forget most of the details. All I remember is that her second youngest, a sweet and innocent little toddler, upon making his first black friend, proceeded to walk up to the child, lick his face and yell out, “Mmm! Chocolate!” I just about wet myself. Out of the mouths of babes, I tell you. The innocence, the simplicity… it slays me.

So this blog post is in homage to that simplicity, a flashback to my own childhood. It’s a trip down memory lane to when things were simpler and when I was still a nerd, just a slightly smaller one. I hope these little stories will serve as a happy interlude to your day and perhaps inspire you to view the world as you did as a child. Without further ado, I give you: Cheerio Girl.

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Once upon a time, I was but a wee little toddler, chubby-cheeked, white as snow, and with bangs for mother-effing days. I loved books (duh), Barbies and this raggedy stuffed dog, and I really loved to dance around the living room all dang day. I LIVED in particular for the VHS tape of Madonna’s The Virgin tour.  It was my jam.

I can actually recall these days quite vividly. I’d open my eyes, wipe the sleepies away, brush my teeth with bubble-gum toothpaste and then get dressed. Usually I chose a tshirt and pants, but if I was feeling particularly festive I’d throw on about 20 bangles and this sweet get-up that consisted of a crop-top with bottoms that looked like a skirt with leggings underneath. My grandmother used to sew back in the day and sold her goods at a local swap meet on the weekends. This particular outfit was one of my faves, so I’d happily model it at her swap meet stall if I got to take it home with me afterwards. Picture me walking up and down that asphalt with attitude in a variety of colorful 80s prints. Uh huh honey.  

So I’d put this sucker on and make my way to the living room where I would carry out the sequence of steps my mother had taught me to do on my own and not bother her for: “Press ‘On’ button on TV and VCR. Press number ‘3’ then ‘Enter’ on TV remote for Channel 3. Put tape in VCR. Press ‘Play’ on VCR.” Then the magic began. I believe the opening number was “Dress You Up,” where Madonna started off at the top of a small set of stairs and descended them two or three at a time whilst striking something akin to a Heisman pose. She was decked in a very colorful concoction of lace and studs and fingerless gloves and did that classics 80s arm-swing move as she belted out the chorus. Naturally, I followed suit. I twirled, I spun, I toe-tapped and sang my little heart out song after song after song.

I loved Dress You Up, Holiday (CELEBRATE!!!), Into The Groove and Lucky Star; I had signature dance moves for each that often left me dizzy and exhausted. My absolute fave however was towards the end of the tape. Right when Like A Virgin was about to wrap, I’d haul toddler ass to the kitchen and pour some Cheerios into a Ziploc bag then run back to my spot in front of the television screen in perfect time for the next number to start. I’d pop little handfuls of cereal in my mouth and dance furiously in place as the verse built up to the chorus. Then came my moment, so I screamed at the top of my lungs: “Cause we are living in a-a Cheerio world, and I AM A-A-CHEERIO GIRL! You KNOOOOW that we are…” Yeah. It was another cool five or six years before someone took the time to correct me, and I didn’t accept this correction quietly.

In telling this story to a coworker a few weeks ago, I made an interesting connection: I apparently felt compelled as a child to tie my snacks in with my chosen activities. For instance, I was really obsessed with a cartoon on Nickelodeon called David the Gnome. David was a little gnome doctor who lived in a forest with his wife Lisa. He had an awesome sidekick fox named Swift who would take him places when other gnomes or animals needed healing, and Lisa would always bake them a loaf of bread to take on their journey to save the world.

I thought this loaf of bread much resembled a particular type of pan dulce (Mexican sweet bread) called a puerquito, a golden brown pig-shaped pastry that tastes somewhat like gingerbread. Since we often had this in our house, I felt the need to bake one up to coincide with the loaf Lisa baked for David. By “bake,” I mean I’d use every ounce of my strength to heave our toaster oven from the lower cabinet onto the counter and would then place my puerquito in said oven for five minutes.  I’d take care to carefully pull it out with oven mitts when the timer went off and blew on it to make it cool enough to touch- even though I never actually turned the oven on or even plugged it in for that matter. I’d then sit in front of the TV and munch on my little pig while David and Swift went off to save the day. If there was no puerqito available to me, I’d settle for ripping the guts out of a loaf of French bread, smashing it and molding it into a smaller loaf and putting that in the not-turned-on toaster oven. I’m aware the loaf of bread was already, well, a loaf. But the guts were my favorite, so… leave me alone.  

I also had a food-related Cinderella-watching ritual. Remember that scene from Disney’s Cinderella where she’s doing her chores and goes out to feed the chickens? I was absolutely convinced that she was feeding them teeny tiny pieces of American cheese. So yes- I’d pause the film just before the chickens were fed and make my way to the kitchen. I’d grab a Kraft American single, peel off the plastic and then fold that cool, clammy slice over and over, creating little cubes that I thought looked just like the chicken feed. I’d pull out my shirt, or dress, or pajama like Cinderella did to her an apron and place my cheese cubes there for easy access. Cinderella tossed her feed to the chickens, I tossed cheese to myself and sang along with Gus Gus, Jaq and Cinderelly.

I could go on about my weird food obsessions, like how I freaked the hell out when my mom gave me cream of wheat for the first time because I thought she’s tracked down the fairy tale people and gotten the recipe for porridge (which I thought was a mythical food of sorts). But let’s talk instead about how inquisitive a tyke I was. I was that kid, the “but why?” kid. I was every bit as hell-bent then as I am to this day on finding a way to know things. For example, I asked my mother to explain what a maxi pad was. She bought them on a regular basis, seemed to try hide doing so, and these times were something she used and I didn’t. Naturally, I demanded to know what they were for and why they were only intended for adult use. My mother went with the little-white-lie route and told me they were really durable tissues for grown-up ladies. Fine. That sounded plausible. I mean, why would my mother lie?

It was most unfortunate (for my mother, anyway), that not soon after this incident, a gathering of women found itself at my parents’ home. My mother was hosting a bridal or baby shower, I believe, and one of the women in attendance sneezed. I’d been playing quietly in a corner when I heard this call to service, this opportunity for me to save the day and show how well I pay attention. I popped my head up like a mischievous meerkat then darted to my mother’s bathroom where I grabbed a “durable tissue for grown-up ladies,” peeled the plastic off that bad-boy and slapped in on my palm. I ran back out into the living room and beelined it for the woman who’d sneezed and with my arm stretched straight out and in front of me beamed, “Here you go!” Mama dearest walked in the room holding a tray of beverages and mustered every bit of her strength not to drop them or keel over from embarrassment.That’ll teach her alright.

So remember kids: sometimes made-up lyrics are just better. Fancy cheese is great but American just does the trick sometimes. Bread  of all kinds is amazing. Porridge is a real thing. Maxi pads are stupid. Don’t lie to a kid who remembers shit.  

Bookishly yours, 

Vanessa

P.S. so when I said I had bangs for days...

Ale looks thrilled. and hey- bangs!

I like Easter eggs. and bangs. 

Me, a fake turlte, and my bangs. 

Ballet and bangs. Lots of bangs. 

Mother-Daughter bangs! This *may* just have been the maxi pad day....