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.

Buenos Diaz!

Buenos Diaz! Yes its 1pm here on the west coast, but hell, its morning somewhere.

So! I've been saying for years that if I ever opened a restaurant or started a blog (because the two are so closely related), I'd name it "Buenos Diaz" to play off of my last name. After talking about it ad nauseum for longer than I care to admit, I figured I should just shut up and do it already. 

See, I love to read and even more: to write. I have been a bona fide bibliophile since I was a little girl being read to by my parents at bedtime, memorizing each and every line of every single story and throwing a fit when those sneaky snakes tried to skip pages so I'd go the hell to sleep. Pssh. Scoundrels! I'm sure good ol' Mom and Dad rolled their eyes each time their toddler shook her head maniacally muttering "Nuh-uh-uh!" and turned back to the page they'd tried to pretend wasn't there. I just couldn't let them get away with skipping the part where Thing 1 and Thing 2 fly the kites inside the house. I felt it was my duty to make sure The Cat in the Hat's entire story was told. 

I think I was more excited the day that I got my first library card than I was when I got my driver's license. My entire class in montessori school took a trip to the tiny local library and learned all about the Dewey Decimal system and the immense responsibility that would be bestowed onto us when we were allowed to take gems like The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Clifford the Big Red Dog home. The night before the scheduled trip, I asked my parents to please sign a random piece of paper for me then stole away to my room and studied their signatures for hours. I wanted to concoct and perfect my own signature for the grandiose moment when I'd get to put my John Hancock on that little piece of plastic. I physically stressed about it and paced back and forth in my Snow White pajamas, weighing all of my signature options. Should I sign "Vanessa Diaz" or go for the Mexican long form and go with "Vanessa Diaz Garcia?" Should I take a crack at that cursive stuff people were talking about or stick to the block letters I'd only recently mastered? And if I didn't sign correctly, would the library turn me away? NOOOOOOO! It was kind of a big moment. 

My world was forever changed when the mousy librarian finally handed me the card. I was convinced no sweeter words had ever been uttered than "Congratulations, Miss Dee-azz. What book would you like to take home today?" I soon became that kid glued to the TV during Reading Rainbow with a pen and paper in hand, writing down the names and authors to all the books featured in each episode then begging my mother to take me to the library so I could check them out. The libraries in our part of town weren't particularly well stocked, so 7 times out of 10 the books I was looking for needed to be ordered from another library. We'd leave our name and phone number and wait for the book to come in, or if I'd been really good in school that week (i.e. I hadn't been put on time-out twelve times for talking in class), my mom would drive me across town to get the book from whatever distant library held it at the time. On those days, I almost wet myself with joy. 

Now at age 28, not much has changed. I may read books on a Kindle or iPad now and use the Goodreads app instead of a notepad for my reading list, but my passion for all things literary has lessened none. I am most content, most at peace with either a book or pen (or keyboard) in hand. Not having pursued a related career, I've channeled this obsession by devouring as many books as I can and keeping a journal, and by writing my friends novella-style emails when I'm introspectively tapping into my inner Carrie Bradshaw. What I hope this blog will be is a less private, more open and creative exploration of my love of not just books but so many other things: music, food, wine, family, travel, Harry Potter (you know, the essentials). With any luck my musings will be entertaining to some, or perhaps they'll simply serve as a cathartic outlet. In either case, I hope to use this blog as a snapshot of my life to look back on later, an indulgence of my love of the written word and an expression of my most genuine self. 

Promising to make future entries more brief,
Vanessa