Thursday, March 31, 2011

Whattup Houston

This last weekend my friend Sara and I went to visit our BFF (OMG!) Bex in Houston, where she's lived since August when her German boyfriend was placed there with his German company. I'd never been to Texas. Well, I've never really been ANYwhere, so if I go to the library and it has different flowers than in my backyard I feel like I'm on vacation.

The bummer part about taking trips to far-away destinations is that... you have to get there on an airplane. Ack. Ack ack ack ack ack. I was so nervous on the flight there. Any time I tried to close my weary eyes my evil psyche would crook a finger around my cerebrum and twist into it images of horrific airplane crashes and the reality of the vast air space surrounding us and the distance from us to the hard ground below. **shudder** This mental anguish coupled with the cramping in my bladder caused by trying desperately not to pee every twenty minutes (Sara woke up to me straddling her in the middle seat with my crotch on her knee and my cowgirl boots frantically kicking her shins in an effort to make it to the aisle) made for a fully exhausting three-hour flight.

And then we were in Texas. Whattuuuup!!!


My Top 3 Impressions of Houston:


1.) It is not Texas-y enough. Where the hell are the 300-lb cowboys waddling around in rusty spurs, smackin' on BBQ ribs and tipping their hats at the 300-lb denim-clad ladies, y'all? I saw more jogger traffic than I was used to seeing in Santa Barbara and Encinitas combined. I didn't realize that when they said "everything's bigger in Texas" they were in fact referring to people's calf muscles and stamina.


2.) It is HUGE. Driving through Houston is like driving through LA on repeat times five hundred. Apparently we only saw a tiny fraction of its enormity, but it was enough to humble me, turn me mute for at least an entire minute, and make me pray into my clammy Californian hands. If you ever dropped me off somewhere by myself in Houston, I am positive you would never hear from me again. I would be swallowed whole by the rows of grandiose buildings and the twelve-lane freeways and the towering billboards shooting up into God's armpits.

3.) I want to eat it. All of it. I was imagining that my veganism would be put to its hardest test in Houston. I was prepared for racks of ribs and smoky bacon and dollops of creamy mashed potatoes to smother every menu option, and I was banking on baked potatoes and grilled corn on the cob to be my saving graces. I couldn't have been more wrong. Granted, Bex is the healthiest person I know, and she took us to her tried-and-true favorite eateries, so I shouldn't have been QUITE so surprised to find myself in Ruggles Green-- an organic, local, vegan-friendly cafe with honest and brilliant nourishment for the body and mind. I was so happy about my "Vegetarian Special" of quinoa, purple kale, and veggies with a pomegranate reduction that I started motor-boating my plate's contents the second it was set in front of me. B-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw!!! (Um. Those are motor-boating mouth sounds.... If you were wondering.)

I would say there are two things that most impressed me about my trip to Texas: the houses, and the hot sauce. Bex took us down avenues crowned with giant oaks to see the breath-taking plantation homes on either side. Oh my God. These houses were all competing for blue ribbons in the contest of Best House to Showcase in This Year's Snow Globe. The pristine porches, immaculate lawns, and bleached-white pillars made me sigh with nostalgia for a life that I'd never known. I know I would never be able to keep a house clean like that for more than five minutes, but it made me ache a little for the simplistic and proud charm of it all. It was as if the houses themselves molded the people who would be deemed worthy enough to inhabit them. Maybe if I'd grown up swinging in the sun-dappled shade of that towering oak amongst the perfectly molded shrubbery and pruned roses... maybe I too would never wear sweatpants in public and would sneeze into handkerchiefs and would take pride in my appearance. hahahahahahahahahahah. That was a good laugh. But, boy, did  I enjoy those houses.

As for the hot sauce....

It all started when Bex took us to her favorite market in her Houston neck of the woods. I can't remember what it was called, but it was essentially Whole Foods on Crack. There were at least nineteen varieties of potatoes and an eating area with live music and multiple levels that made me confused and think I was in Ikea. We posted up in the wine and beer aisles to make our Texas selections and then high-fived each other when we saw all the tables set up with free samples honoring the advertisements all around for Hot Pepper Week or something in Houston. Sweeeet!!! I psshawed at Bex's watery eyes and cringing face after she tried the spicy peanut butter at the first station. We moved over to a hot sauce sample served on tortilla chips and I shoved one in or around my mouth, smirking and wrinkling my brow in condescension when Bex asked me if it was hot. Bolstered by my recent ability to drench anything and everything in Sriracha sauce without even batting an eye, I zipped excitedly over to the next hot sauce sample area and nodded distractedly when Bex said she'd be right back and left to get a cart. Sara and I helped ourselves to the basket of breadsticks and started dunking them in the row of little dishes set out side-by-side. There were about eleven different sauces, all in different colors and flavors, and we commented knowingly between mouthfuls: "Yum. This one. Ew. No. Oh barf. Oooh this one's good..."etc., etc. And then suddenly everything was not okay. I had about three sauces to go when it hit me. An army of ants invaded my tongue and took it upon themselves to sting each and every taste bud across its blistery surface. A cold flaming sweat started dripping from my eyebrows into my bloodshot eyes and beading up in a glittery mustache above my top lip. My tear ducts were flooded with peppery hatred and started streaming nuclear heat onto my burning cheeks. I tried to look through the red watery veil of my eyelids to see Sara, and judging by her hurried waving hands and jerky pacing back and forth, I decided she was in exactly the same shape as I was. Bex came back to find us poppy-faced, sobbing, and line-dancing back-and-forth between the aisle as we blindly stuffed bread sticks into our searing mouths to try  to absorb even one of the million hotspots of pain on our tongues. Bex didn't look too happy with us. Suddenly I saw Sara lurch out to the left and gasp hoarsely, "Ice-heh-heh-cream-heh-heh!" I spotted the free sample station next to us. There was a tiny African-Texas lady handing out meager spoonfuls of Strawberry Kiwi ice cream. Sara popped one in her mouth and melted in relief. I stared at the conundrum before me with my hot teary eyes. I don't eat ice cream. I haven't willingly eaten a dairy product in four months, nor have I had even a slight desire to do so. Then a satanic pepper seed thrust his blazing trident directly into the middle of my tongue, splitting my senses in two. I heard Bex saying that I could read the ingredients on the side of the tub, and that hey maybe there wasn't any dairy in there at all! as I lunged toward the woman in a perfect imitation of an aggressive lioness's attack on a gazelle. Mid-leap I heard the woman speak with fear in her eyes:

"Sheeeee's cryyyyyiiiing...." It was all in slow-motion. Her voice drawled in bass tones and my hand reached out... farther... farther... and grasped the white plastic spoon and the nickel-sized scoop of dairy upon it. And then it was in my mouth. And I could breathe again. And I opened my eyes. And I rejoiced in the Lord and hallelujah.

Sara grabbed my elbow. Her eyes widened in terror and she rasped, clutching at her throat, "It... comes... back...!"

We spent the next fifteen minutes drunk off of pepper seeds. Sara was pounding shots of cream at every coffee stand she stumbled into. I was shoving fistfuls of free bread samples into my parched mouth, hoping to snuff out the fire with whole grains and flour. I didn't even chew; I marched around lock-limbed like Frankenstein's monster with bread crusts hanging limply off my lips and my mouth gaping open to air out the dry heat. Eventually we stopped weeping, our sweat dried, and we were able to mostly function like human beings again.

In the battle of veganism vs. extreme situations that challenge veganism... well, I guess veganism lost this round.

Dear Texas: I will never underestimate you again. Love, (singlewhitefemale).

P.S. You know what Texas? I take that back. While I may have gotten my ass handed to me by your hot sauce, on the other hand I totally dominated you on the club dance floor. You couldn't handle my African-inspired head swoops and hip jiggles. In fact, you cowered away from me like a little bitch when I used the public handrail to give me the leverage to Zumba-stomp and whip my hair around into your horrified face. Yeah, that's right. Whattup NOW Houston.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

I spy you through my coffee cup

It's late, but Allison said I should write about this in here, so I shall. Tomorrow's (single white female) might have regrets about it though.

Let's see where to start.

Well, I have been Miss Relationship Girl from age seventeen to age twenty-four, pretty solidly. It's only been this last year that I've actually learned how to be single, and really only the last two months that I've mastered it.  And by "mastered it" I mean I no longer send out oh-so-desperate facebook status updates saying I want someone to cuddle with me or slip Roofies into people's beers at bars to get an arm around my shoulders. How far I have come.

I now look forward to going to my little home after work and listening to old music while I sip guava Kombuchas and ignore the offensive odor of my workboots. There's something so reassuring about not having to worry about anyone judging me for using torn up paper towels when I run out of toilet paper (what? It happens!!) or explaining to anyone that the reason my couch is blocking the hallway is because I needed to push it out of the way to have more dance floor for my morning Zumba spasms.

I've become comfortable with laughing to myself, talking to myself, crying at ABC.com shows to myself, and eating kick-ass vegan cuisine by myself and ENJOYING it even if no one is there to say, "Good job (single white female), you're eating aaaall the colors."

However, my little sister came to visit me last week and it was the first time I had someone here to do all of those things with in my little studio. And I remembered that it's fucking AWESOME when you have someone to share the things you like with. We had baked potatoes with salsa and salad for breakfast, she politely didn't run for the hills when she came out of the shower and I was shaking my elbows to Fergie's "My Humps," and we watched Arrested Development and laughed while I chugged really shitty tasting RiteAid wine. When she left, it reminded me that as much as I enjoy wearing my salsa-stained Disneyland princess pajama bottoms and leaving the bathroom door open... maybe... just maybe it would be cool to have someone around to share in my world.

But as soon as that thought crossed my mind, I also had this other, urgent thought rap at my skull with nervous knuckles. Uhh... (single white female)... you're weird. Oh yeeeeaaaah!! I forGOT about that!! I knew there was SOMEthing that kept me from having successful relationships in the past, despite love and all that other stuff. The truth is, I am the oddest person I have ever met. And whenever I show some sort of STYLE that has inherently become MY style, it's actually the accidental offspring of my eccentricity and trying to do what I deem as "normal." This is true for my fashion sense and my artistic endeavors, and pretty much anything else in life. I have no problem with this. I am quite used to people spontaneously bursting out in laughter that grows to a hoarse wheezing (*cough*cough* Sam *cough*cough*) when I'm merely trying to explain why I thought the mouthwash in the bathrooms at the tennis club was soap, hence my smelling so minty fresh. At work I've become the girl in army galoshes and ferocious head scarves. Not out of some sort of intent, but rather because I've developed this homeless/found object sense of style that causes me to put things on when I see them on the ground or find them in my purse. Or in your purse. Or in the trash. I've gotten all my sunglasses from the Lost & Found at my old restaurant. Stoooked!! As far as my behavior... well... when I'm most comfortable, I'd say the way I hold my mouth is most like a drunken trucker with a beard, and the words that come out of it are in low, elbow-nudging tones of cynicism and sexual jokes. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd do me. It's just that my most natural state tends to be the least attractive state I can imagine... for anyone. And when I am interested in someone, I tend to start washing my clothes and wearing makeup and paying attention to my facial expressions and yadda yadda yadda, so that ultimately I'm not even acting like myself anymore. I think that's been the major problem in past relationships. I lose myself, and then I feel at odds with who I'm becoming and I no longer focus on my own future or who I am at all.

So. I guess what I'm saying is that if I'm ever going to find happiness in a relationship, I'm going to have to find someone who loves me even when I'm running into the other room shouting, "I'm sorry, it smells so bad!" and reeking of sulfurous fumes, or when I'm so scared to learn to drive that I insist on walking five miles to get rice milk... or... when I strain my neck because the music was just DEMANDING tribal head swings... or that if I could have anything come true in life it would be to live in Harry Potter's world.... These things are just standard me-things, and all those around me who love me accept them as part of what makes me that super sexy awesome person that I am. As comfortable as I am with my friends and family... sometimes I just can't imagine being able to be truly myself around someone I want to find me attractive. So, that's where my head is right now about relationships. I am counting on my aforementioned fans to let me know if I am truly being ME around my next Roofies victim-- I mean, the next person I'm interested in-- or if I'm busting out the same ol' translation of myself that I've turned to in the past.

What am I talking about? Hahahah ohhhh life is so funny when you are the person you're entertaining. I'm eating up every word my self is typing right now, but it just occurred to me that you didn't really ask to know any of this in the first place. Ah yes, there was a POINT to this, I JUST remembered!!

Kind of.

I just wanted to tie this in to the fact that I've decided that I really like all the people who work at my favorite artsy coffee shop down the street. It's called E Street Cafe, and every time I go there, I find myself smiling at some interaction I've had with one of the baristas. Not, like, one in particular, but ALL of them actually. They're those people who can wear page-boy caps and actually pull it off. They can call you "love" when taking your money and you'll stick an extra dollar in their tip jar. Today the guy who served me actually called me "love" not one, not two, notthreebutFOUR times, and also added in there a "sweetness." I actually had to call a time out and ask him hey did you really just call me sweetness? and he said yes and then I started laughing in his face, but I'm hoping it came off as cute flirtatious giggling instead of the Santa's bowl-full-of-jelly guffawing that it felt like. No matter, there are like ten of these people there, and I have decided that I am drawn to them and I am determined to develop a crush on one of them, so now I've taken to going in there for iced soy lattes with sugar-free vanilla to peruse the plaid shirts and headbands behind the counter to see if one of them stands out more than the others. What's funny is that I have to walk fifteen minutes out of my way to spend ten minutes acting nonchalant about my beverage order and hide the fact that I'm critiquing the exaction of each one's beard grooming (ooh that one has a lopsided sideburn, NO GOOD!) and taking mental notes about the creativity of pet names I'm given as I get out my wallet ("love" is the most common, but I've also gotten "darling" and "sweetheart." "Sweetness" kinda blew them all out of the water). Not to mention the fact that I am a victim of lifetime menopausal symptoms, so I have perma-hotflashes and by the time I get to the cafe doors I'm so sweaty that I have to sit outside and breathe slowly for five minutes before I'm even acceptable to be seen in public. Usually I spend this time pretending to be listening to something on my phone, because the people sitting outside always look at me quizzically and the effort of ACTUALLY talking on the phone would set me back about three minutes on sweat-stopping time. So uhh yeah. This is what I've started doing lately, and for some reason it makes sense to me. I imagine if you were here you would reach out across the table and rest your hand gently on mine and say, "Oh (single white female)... no." But HA! you are NOT here so I will carry happily on with my stalking agenda and continue to hop myself up on caffeine that leaves me stuttering aggressively at the innocent victims' ears I encounter throughout the rest of my day. Oh hey... that's probably why I'm wide awake at 2:30 in the morning I just realized.... Fuuuuc-- I mean-- TOTALLY worth it!

Monday, March 14, 2011

Thoughts on My Thunder Thighs

Oh, body of mine.

I've made a lot of changes in my life in the past few months. I became vegan, moved to a new city, started a new job, got my own place, and gained 512.37 pounds.

All of these changes have been crucial on my journey to becoming a better version of myself. Oh, yeah, all except for that LAST one, which just f-ing SUCKS.

I keep thinking that I don't get it. How on earth can I be getting heftier when I've cut out all the daily cheese and cream sauces from my diet? I no longer stuff myself with dairy products, so why is it that I'm starting to resemble an ample-uddered bovine myself?? What the fuck are they slipping in my daily rice-bean-and-salad concoctions??? Oh my God, THEY must be out to get me. They're fattening me up to slow me down because I'm becoming SO awesome that they see me as a threat. Fucking... bastards.

And then I remember the cups of guacamole I've been dipping my everything in... the vegan cupcakes I've been making out with regularly... the soy vanilla shakes I've been chugging like water in the juice bar at my restaurant... and that even though I'm not drinking as much as a Santa Barbarian, I'm still easily consuming at least a thousand Calories a week from alcohol. It all goes back to that simple equation of Calories consumed vs. Calories spent. You see, the problem is that I have never been good at math. And on top of that, I've never been good at dieting. Which, given the formula, means I need to be really good at exercising. **sharp intake of fearful breath**


So.... Exercise. Yeah.... Well, I walk everywhere, so that's good.... But wait a sec, I've been walking everywhere for seven years now. Sweet Lord in heaven, I don't ever want to think about the albino rhino legs I'd have if it weren't for my car-less endeavors. My problem with exercise is that I'm a quitter. Oooh, and I'm insane. About every two months, I go to the self.com website and select a workout regime. I then spend the rest of the day looking at all the recipes and sportswear and exercise equipment I'll probably be needing in the near future now that I'm a true worker-out-er and leading this different life and everything. For the next two weeks, I'm really excited about this new lifestyle, and the endorphins flooding through me from exercising are magnified ten-fold by the optimism that comes from believing I've turned my life around and will soon be frolicking through the Self magazine pages like all those fit broads in tangerine spandex. I'm so in love with this new way of life that after five minutes of it I truly feel like the weight is just melting off my body. If I could wink, I would wink at my insta-transformed reflection in the mirror. Alas I canNOT wink, so instead I squint and raise an eyebrow and give a cocky thumbs up to that rockin' babe squinting back at me. After five days... fuhgettaboutit. I can no longer even remember that slob body who used to house my brain. I can't even THINK about NOT jetting out first thing in the morning for a run or jaunt to the gym. The horror! If for some reason there is no physical way I can fit an exercise in on a single day, I feel like the equator just got bendy and my whole equilibrium is off. I once saw a comedian perform downtown in Santa Barbara. He said that before embarking on a mission to get in shape and join a gym, he'll psyche himself out with thoughts like, "I only have four hours before work... it'll take me ten minutes to get to the gym... half an hour to work out... then I have to stretch and shower and eat and get ready and THERE'S NO TIME I CAN'T DO IT!" and, "Okay I just have to exercise five times a week for thirty minutes each time. But wait a minute... I don't wanna get TOO in shape... I mean I don't wanna look FREAKISHLY fit...." and on and on and on. I'm paraphrasing his work, but I remember it striking so true within me that I was spitting up on myself from laughing so hard and everyone else started spitting up on themselves out of horror for my overzealous audiencing. Two weeks in to my life-changing go-get-'em routine, the fluke spark of inspiration in my soul dulls and I instantly forget about ambition and attaining personal goals. I go right back to just letting life happen to my body, like it's a blank canvas shoved in an artist's supply cupboard so the only paint to embellish it is accidentally spilled while grabbing that jar of glitter and buttons. This will go on for two months or so, and then my reflection gets sick of itself and uses a sliver of mirror glass to jam that spark back in my brain once again to repeat the two-week cycle.

I've just woken up from my two months of hibernation, so my recent internet history is lit up with self.com shout-outs. It's like the last big piece to the puzzle of me. I just KNOW that if I can figure out how to actually incorporate exercise in to my life in a lasting and healthy relationship... well, it's going to naturally help me to make better and healthier decisions all around. And if I still meet up for a drink with a cupcake after work, at least I will have an actual metabolism to burn it off instead of the dimply sack effect that is happening now-- you can see the shapes of whatever I consume because in true Blob style I have started absorbing food under my skin. I can smack my arm down on a sandwich and ta-da! Instant sandwich-arm!!

Well, here goes. My friend Sara (we call her Mawm cuz she's wise) told me I just need to find something I enjoy doing so that I'll WANT to do it instead of it being a chore. I'm thinking that might mean dancing tribal-style in my living room while intermittently doing Jillian Michaels cardio moves. The only side effect I've seen so far is the whiplash I got two nights ago from trying to share these dance moves with friends and family. Tomorrow morning I'm going to Zumba with my sister Shawnie (unless THEY threaten to kill me if I don't sleep in...) to beef up my tribal dance skills and beef down my hips. I hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hopepheopheopehopehopehoepohepop (dude that's fun) that in two weeks' time I'm not a stranger yet again to the optimistic person who is writing this. Now that I've put this out into the world, maybe it'll be a way to hold me accountable for making a change.... Or maybe I'll bite your head off if you ever ask me if I've been exercising. Nah, you should be fine. Unless your head happens to look like a chocolate vegan cupcake, in which case I'll Blob-swallow it whole. My bad.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Marching Band PTSD

When I was in the third grade, my mom initiated an intense mother-daughter moment. She brought out from hiding her treasured silver flute that she'd had since she was a little girl and had played in a marching band in Missouri. She presented me with the reflective wand and dubbed me suitable to carry on the second generation of her melodic legacy. Being a dramatic eight-year-old, I sobbed with honor and swore to her that I would practice 'til my fingers were bruised from the oppression of obsessive diligence and my airway had become a cracked canvas sucked dry by persistent pursed whistling-- so help me God. My mom said, "Oooh there's a hummingbird outside!" and I set myself to my purpose. My mom's experience back in Missouri was that it was not only socially acceptable to be in the school band-- it was necessary for popularity! Everyone who was anyone bumped elbows in the band room, giggling about B-flats and boys and passing notes over their trombone cases. That's great. In California, however, that just wasn't the case. I was joining a realm of social outcasts and future geniuses who would later credit their success to their lack of companionship throughout adolescence. But it was too late-- I was already decorating my flute case with stickers and scribbling "band practice" on the calendar on top of my former obligations of "school dance" and "event that people go to to try to be cool."


By the time I entered Junior High I was accustomed to the looks of disgust I received when my flute case butted into people's ribs in crowded hallways. I held my nose high with my distinguished stature of 5'4" because I realized something that they did not: we were no longer in elementary school. Nay, we were now members of middle school, which meant one thing: marching band. Yesssss! FINALLY a chance to literally follow in my mother's footsteps out on that football field of dreams.


I felt so confident in my first day of Jr. High band. The teacher was the same teacher I'd been receiving lessons from for years during elementary school. Take THAT, suckas!!! While everyone gulped at the instructor's commanding presence, there were only three or four of us who smiled warmly at him in familiarity. We had no idea that the Mister Music Teacher who clapped along with us to "Hot Cross Buns" and congratulated us on trying again when we fell flat on our bass clefs was only here in body. His soul had been consumed by a heartless beast who stomped on innocent aspiration and spat (literally SPAT!) in the face of failure.


On our first day, we went around in a circle and each student had to perform a brief solo to demonstrate his or her talent. Mister Music's facial expressions carried the weight of the Emperor's approval in a gladiator ring. When it was my turn, I blacked out and only regained consciousness after my thirty-second spotlight was over. I looked up fearfully to see Mister Music's reaction, and was relieved to see his face sorta half-smile, half-wink at me. Either I'd done a good job or he'd just passed gas, but either way he didn't look upset about my performance, so it was all good with me. I was pleased to decide that I was one of the better flautists in the bunch. My biggest competition seemed to be that Bex girl over there, but she played trombone, and I couldn't see how we'd ever have to battle for a lead solo. I sized her up anyway and decided that in hand-to-hand combat I could totally take her if I just relied on the sheer width of my hips to trump her height advantage. I knew exactly who she was, but I hadn't spoken to her since kindergarten when I'd pegged her as my mortal enemy for drawing a better self portrait than me on Back to School Night. (Later that year she would become my best friend and would remain so for the rest of eternity.) Anyway, I eyed her warily but allowed myself to relax while the rest of the solos bounced off the cupboarded classroom walls. It was then time to attempt our first song together as a group. It went alright, but someone over there in that trumpet section sounded like he was blowing his nose into a microphone and--


"AGAIN!!" Mister Music glared across the room at the blushing trumpeter. "IT'S A C-SHARP NOT AN E-FLAT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! HAVE YOU NO EARS?!!!"


The silence of thirty-one jaws dropping in fear was heavy in the wake of the mid-life crisis that had just spewed explosively from Mister Music's mouth. You could hear a lone pimple push to the surface on the hormone-ridden face of the percussion guy in the back of the room as we all held our breath in terror. The white part of our teacher's eyes turned a venomous yellowish hue, and I found myself wondering as chills ran down my spine if the spiky hair now protruding from the tip of his nose had always been there or was just a side effect of mutating into the spawn of Satan. 
Mister Music shook himself from his Tourette's tantrum and tried to calm himself enough to announce at a normal decibel that we should "take it from the top." The effort of this restraint caused his arms to twitch at the shoulders and his jaw to grind against the fangs we all knew were growing under his thin reptilian lips. We prepared to repeat our efforts, willing the shitty trumpet guy to step his game up a notch so our adrenaline levels could normalize once again. It didn't work. We spent the rest of the first day wiping hateful saliva off our foreheads (well, at least we five flautists who sat in the front row did) as it flecked off his now-forked tongue with each berating bellow. When the bell rang to end the class, I clambered shakily to my feet, trying to tame the Something-About-Mary-reminiscent curl mohawk that had formed under the direct line of spittle fired at me from Mister Music's disapproving mouth.
Ten minutes to get to my next class on the exact opposite side of the entire campus. 
I collected my sheet music and stuffed it into my backpack, which I then threw over my shoulders as I clutched my precious flute case covered in smiley-face stickers to my chest. As I ran through the halls full of chattering teenagers I struggled to ward off the thought that was fighting to stake its claim on the opinion-forming portion of my brain. I tripped on uneven sidewalk mid-jog and the distraction caused me to drop my intentional mental block, allowing the creeping thought to take center stage: I hate band. My heart sank at the realization just as I rounded the final corner to my classroom. I plowed straight into one of those attractive I'm-bad-cuz-I-wear-my-hat-backwards boys, jousting him in the gut with my flute case. 
"Oh my gosh I'm so sorry!" I felt my cheeks' fluorescent red lights switch on and tried to hide my face under my Mary-bang-bob. He laughed condescendingly and spit at the pavement as he shoved his hands into his oversized pockets. Why do cool kids never care about being late?! The BELL is about to ring! I shoved past him just in time to grab the door handle as the bell chimed from the loudspeaker above and just in time to hear him smirk behind me:
"Ruuuuun, Foooorrest! Run with your trumpet!"
His voice echoed between the ears above my burning cheeks. It's a FLUTE, I thought sourly. I looked down at the cheerful smiley faces peppered across the case in my hands. The yellow circles just reminded me of the sickening color of Mister Music's angry eyes that day in class. I hate band. 

Needless to say, after an entire year of enduring verbal whippings every week in Mister Music's band class, I became less attached to the idea of fulfilling my genetic duty as a marching band flautist. Heck, by springtime I was counting down the days to when I could take the metal instrument in my hands and stake it into the instructor's blackened unbeating heart. My flute case sat in the corner of my room under piles of wanna-be-Shakira belts and fringe-y leather pants (don't worry I now wear pleather!)-- the yellow smiley stickers had faded to an unambitious pastel and I'd drawn angry eyebrows and frown lines across their faces with a hateful Sharpie. I switched my eighth-grade elective to art and prepared to forget all the musical-angst that had built up in my muscle memory over the last year. 

Boy was I wrong.

I haven't touched my mother's flute since that year. But to this day, I wake up drenched in sweat from a recurring band dream starring Mister Music and a present-day me who doesn't remember how the fuck to play the flute. In this dream, I'm always pulled from the audience to spontaneously perform in Mister Music's band despite years of musical negligence. l try to explain that I don't know how to play anymore, but he hears none of it and drags me by a haggard claw to take my place as lead flautist. And, invariably, I attempt to sight-read the piece and I hack it to pieces with my murderous lack of practice. Everyone in the band whips around to face me with pale faces of panic and Mister Music's snout opens to belch out his fiery outrage-- and then I wake up. 

I have this dream so often that I'm wondering if I'll EVER be rid of the trauma caused by that one year in marching band. It's been over TEN YEARS, brain!! Although I think I'd prefer the nightmares to the other side effects that still linger over from my band days: any time I'm not using my hands, I compulsively tap my fingertips to my thumbs and breathe in-and-out to the beat of whatever song is in my head. This isn't an entirely unnoticeable motion, and my measured breathing isn't EXACTLY silent... so it just adds one more bullet-point to my list of Reasons that I'm Socially Awkward. God, I hate band. 

Why you should never hire me as your bartender

So we all know I'm a bit of a drinker. I think I've sold myself out on that front. What you probably DON'T know is that I was a massive lightweight (oxymoron?) all throughout college, and that it wasn't until AFTER I graduated that I decided to treat my liver like a punching bag.

It all started at the smoothie shop where I worked through most of my time at UCSB. I mean sure, I had my fair share of vodka bottles hidden in the deep freezers in the outside office, but for the most part--and this is important-- I knew when ENOUGH was ENOUGH. I would get tired of drinking liquid before my brain had a chance to get tired of functioning, so it always worked out that I would end the night in a stable state and wouldn't make too much of a fool of myself. I was certainly never the one who woke up with a giant penis Sharpied across her forehead, to say the least.

And then... one fated day... that all changed.

I was working the night shift at the smoothie shop. My friend Tim invited me to grab a beer with him at the bar down the street during my dinner break, and of course I agreed because nothing makes mixing fruit together more fun than a belly full of Hefeweizen. We sat down at the bar, and I was still wearing my T-shirt uniform with the smoothie company's logo on it. Okay fine, and yes, I was still wearing my bright red Crocs (you asshole). Anyway, I was sitting there chatting away with Tim when the bartender-who-was-also-the-owner-of-the-bar interrupted with, "Hey, you work there at that smoothie shop?" I nodded, and laughingly said that I was guzzling booze on my break. "So... you gotta job? Well... how about working here too? I'm looking for another bartender. Lemme know when you can start."

I was caught off-guard. Not only did he not seem concerned about my soggy work ethic weighed down by two pints of beer, he actually seemed to think that having a job automatically qualified me to work for HIS business. I let the second half of my second beer do all the talking, and before I knew it I was committing to a trial shift at the bar later that week. I returned to my smoothie shift, optimistic and excited to become the newest cast-member of Cheers. 


Ahh... so naive.

I showed up to my first shift full of anxious butterflies and self-doubt. There was no training paperwork or methodology whatsoever to help new employees learn drinks or bartending etiquette or whatnot. Instead, there was just Jake. Jake was the stalky martial artist/ bartender who cackled raucously and poured out heavy drink orders... and had a slight reputation for taking all his clothes off by the end of his shift. I did not know this at this point, however, so I followed him around like his every breath dictated the Law of Tending a Bar. Within five minutes, it became apparent to me that the only education I would be getting that night was how every single fucking drink tasted that any fucking customer ordered. It was like losing at an aggressive game of dodgeball. Everywhere I looked a shot of something swerved toward me, the alcohol slapping me abrasively in the throat and eyes and soul. I remember sampling my first Johnny Walker Black, Adios Mother Fucker, and Cosmopolitan within the first hour. By the end of the night, I'd tried every form of liquor under the sun, and I was pretty sure my name was Natasha. Thank goodness my same friend Tim had come to cheer me on my first night, because he suddenly became crucial to my survival. He insisted on walking me home despite my slurred protests that I would be fine.

"Alright, (single white female), it's time to go. What street do you live on?"

I furrowed my brow, but not in the cute way women furrow their brows in misogynistic novels. More like the way an ogre would furrow his brow while taking a dump, I think. "Uhhh... yeah... it starts with a 'P'?" My question mark made Tim's face drop. As he rattled off various street names beginning with "P", I schmammer-staggered in some direction that felt like home. We eventually found my abode, which Tim realized humorlessly was located right next to what was known (also humorlessly) as Kill-Whitey Park (multiple gang stabbings and such had given it a bloody reputation). I hazily recall being led to my door and the immense feeling of relief I felt when my hand wrapped around the handle, safely home, teeter-tottering on the brink of unconsciousness. I also vaguely remember Tim asking if he could use the bathroom really fast before he had to walk home through Shady McShadersonville. And I remember, as if witnessing through a fog machine, pushing the door closed on his bursting bladder and trying to mumble something of a thank-you, but all that came out was a whoosh of vodka-saturated oxygen particles. And then, the next thing I remember was waking up to myself sitting up in bed, projectile-vomiting all over my dignity and humanity.

And thus began the avalanche of booze-infested nights where I was tipped hundreds of dollars to trip uncoordinatedly around the shelves and build a relationship with Cazadores. Some of my bigger fans started making tally-marks on my arm to keep track of my nightly tequila intake. It totaled eleven shots per shift in the time known as the Dark Ages, and I would be coherent enough at the end of the night to close the bar down and go grab a beer with some friends. For some reason I feel proud of that fact, although I know I should probably feel shame or something else equally degrading.

It didn't matter that I didn't know HOW to bartend-- that was the best part about it. If I didn't know how to make something, I'd discreetly look it up in the cheater's drink book we always kept on-hand. And if it didn't show up in the book? I'd ask the customer directly, which usually lost me a little respect. It wasn't my fault though-- I'd spent my college years mostly drinking beers from my brother's fridge and $4 bottles of wine. I wasn't familiar with even a basic selection of common liquors, so every drink ordered was "New to Me!" for the longest time. I'll never forget when a snobby blonde chick ordered a lemon drop and I smeared sugar-looking salt all over the rim of her glass. Or when someone ordered a Wild Turkey shot and I frantically looked through the cheat book before loudly declaring that I didn't know what was in that, could you please tell me? Shoot me now. Or when I was blushing and trying to figure out how to make a "77" instead of a Seven-and-Seven.

Once I got the routine down though, an even giant-er obstacle crashed in front of me and my dream of being a successful bartender. This was the fact that my boss was a clear-cut cokehead. Now I had never had experience with this form of drug-abuse before, but even to innocent ol' me it became apparent that something. was. up. The man cruised in to his bar during peak hours, wiping his nose furiously with his pointer finger while sniffling dryly and rapping out orders to me like a sergeant in heat (just... pretend that made sense). His most infamous move was to get behind a bar full of already-served customers and start pointing gun-fingers at them while shouting "WHAT CAN I GETCHA?!!!" and pulling on the imaginary air-triggers. Whenever a customer's feathers were ruffled by my boss's service, I would have to shove cardboard coasters in my mouth to avoid hysterically laughing at the explanation of "It's just business because I have to run this business and you know keeping up with business is always hard when you need more business--" etc., etc., that always ensued. "Business" became the blanket term for every sketchy thing that went on in that bar. Paychecks written in hand from his personal checking account? Just business. Cockroaches playing leapfrog along the rows of clean shot glasses? Eh buddy, just business! That drunken bastard peeing in the cesspool known as the "mop bucket" that we clean the floors with later? Don't even worry about it! It's business, my friend!!!

I continued my stint as bar mother of this glorious dive for about six months after I graduated. It took roughly that much time to kill all the brain cells that enjoyed the pointless dicking around that had become my life. I got into restaurant managing and have since been on a journey to reconnect with the artist within me that used to direct all my attention. That journey has led me to Encinitas, where I am living alone and managing a vegan-friendly restaurant with environmentally-conscious values. The hours I have allow me the time to write this silly blog I've taken up and actually start to create the million-and-one artistic ideas I've been carrying around in my head ever since I gave up art and took up drinking. I feel, finally, for the first time in a long time, like myself. Like the curly-haired girl who would crank up the ballads on Jewel's latest album and get lost in the eyes of the portrait I'd spend all day painting. It is this reconnection with my former and greater self that causes me to frighten customers: whenever someone asks if we serve wine or beer, I jump up and down and loudly shout, "HELL MUTHA FUCKIN' NO WE DON'T!! HALLELUJAH!! PRAAAAISE THE LORD!!" and punctuate my gratefulness with excited fist pumps that jostle the customers' comfort levels out the door. They may not understand my zeal, but I am content because every time I feel my liver giving tiny little liver fist pumps right along with me. Hallelujah, praise the lord! I hear its tiny little liver voice squeaking, and that is all the encouragement I need. Well... that and the fact that my beer belly has grown its own moon to orbit its inflated circumference.... But that's just business.