Goodbye 2013, Hello New Year!

Today is the last day of 2013, which makes it an auspicious date to reflect on our lives from the past year. Honestly, I am still baffled by the date of 2013, as I was pretty sure little more than a year ago that we wouldn’t make it here, being under the slight delusion that the world would end on December 21, 2012. All that happened that day, however, was that I received my first speeding ticket. Sort of a let-down for the apocalypse but also a relief because I wouldn’t have to figure out how to live in a world without electricity or tampons.

So after the Continuation of Normal Life on December 21, 2012, eleven days later came the New Year, 2013. At that time I was working full time in Salem, training our new legal assistant, and living in a crappy apartment in Tualatin. One year later, on the eve of 2014, I am living in a house in North Portland with three wonderful roommates (which turned out to be a better decision than I could have hoped for), working full time in downtown Portland, and that legal assistant I was training is now a bad-ass at her job and is not only an amazing co-worker, but a great friend. I have also worked hard this year at Getting Fit, to which I can say, I HAVE SUCCEEDED, mostly. Granted, I did not hit any specific "Life Milestones" this year (aka a graduation, proposal, marriage, child, or even a particularly enjoyable date), but I DID go to Hawaii three times… so there’s that.

This year on Christmas Eve, after we had opened presents and consumed several glasses of red wine, my step-dad suggested we do a solstice ritual. At first, I imagined dancing naked under a full moon and lighting sage to sweep out ghosts and braiding our hair with pine needles, but it turns out it was a simple reflection with a candle. We sat around our kitchen table fully clothed, lights out, one candle lit in front of each of us. “Reflect on the year, and when you are ready, say what you want to let go of for the New Year and blow out your candle.” We sat in a peaceful silence, and when I was ready, I said, “My intention is to let go of expecting too much too soon.” And I blew out my candle. After everyone had stated their intentions, we re-lit our candles using the fire from anothers candle, and stated what we intended to bring into the New Year. “My intention is to Be Heard.” I said.

Be Heard. Through writing, by developing my skills in this craft, and by finally being confident enough to send my work to publishers. But in other aspects of my life as well. If something bothers me, I don’t want to just ignore it anymore. I want to speak up. My thoughts and feelings are worth something, and knowing me, if I feel I am being rude I am probably just being honest. Though I don’t feel that conflict is something that presents itself too often in my life, I want to know that if it does arise, that I’ll be able to deal with it appropriately. By being heard and not silencing how I really feel.

On this New Year’s Eve, I am reflecting on the past year but looking ahead as well. What else do I want to bring into my life this year? For one, I know that I will be working on my Discovery Journal. Doing one new thing a week and really taking advantage of living in Portland. I am looking forward to this journey.

Additionally, I have decided to do an alcohol detox for the first two weeks of this year, for several reasons:

1) It will be healthy for me.

2) I will save money.

3) The holidays have created a booze-consuming monster out of me, and I need to get myself under control by practicing Self Discipline.

4) Also, Self-Deprivation is said to be a good thing to partake in by Buddha. Probably.

This is what I call a Challenge, and as we all know, Challenges are good for building character. Why two weeks, you ask? A month is entirely too long, and a week seems too easy. Last year my friend Julie declared that she wouldn’t drink for the entire month of January, and she did pretty well too… until we went out to one of our favorite restaurants and I ordered the sangria, and like a devil on her shoulder, convinced her that she wanted some sangria too. She was days away from meeting her goal, and I still feel a little bad about that. Sorry Julie… but wasn’t that sangria good?!

So here’s to building character, to going out in STYLE tonight – our last hours in 2013 – to wrap up an amazing year, and to bringing in a New Year with a fresh start. Also, we can’t forget a salute to another year without an apocalypse, and (hopefully) for many more years to come!

Happy New Year to you all, may it bring you everything you are looking for.

Christmas Cheer and White Elephants

This morning I got my first bout of Holiday Cheer. I was SPRINTING to the bus stop, heeled boots clunking down the sidewalk, extremities flailing, when I heard the bus arrive. I was still a block away, and it couldn't see me as I was running perpendicular to it. RUN FASTER YOU PANSY! Do NOT think about how ridiculous you look! And though I somehow upped the pace, the bus began pulling away and, defeated, I stopped and just stared as it drove away. Damnit.

But as I gazed dejectedly at the retreating form of my transportation, suddenly it's brake lights came on, it slowed down, and then pulled over. My eyes widened and I again was sprinting towards it, even more self-concious now that I KNEW the driver and perhaps even some passengers had seen my heeled-boot run. But it was hard to care when I was so elated at my good fortune.

I stepped on the bus and looked at my savior, a large black man, my Santa Claus. "You are the best." I panted as I tried to draw breath and get out my bus pass at the same time. "Thank you."

"Merry Christmas." He said almost smugly, as if he knew he was my hero. "I saw you stop running and I though, 'What is that girl doing? Why is she just standing there?' After awhile on this job you get good at reading people."

"Thank you so much." I repeated, trying to breathe normally and not sweat on him. How nice of that man, to pull over for someone he saw out of the corner of his eye, a sad little girl in boots. Merry Christmas.

As I sat on the bus staring out at the dreary morning, reflecting on the kindess of strangers, I began thinking about my upcoming Christmas festivities. Recently on my dad's side of the family, the generation above mine have stopped taking responsibility for organizing Christmas and lapsed into lazy passengers, and the burden has fallen on my cousins and I, or, as I like to think of us, "The Wonderkids." Actually it is my oldest cousin Caitlyn, who is married and even has two beautiful children, that wears the pants this year. She is exactly three life milestones ahead of any of the rest of us, and perhaps that gives her the authority to make Christmas Decisions. And as we are all very close in age, it seems that all other family members like to compare "The Wonderkids" against her; at times you can find older family members cornering one of us and asking, "So, gonna follow in Caitlyn's footsteps any time soon?" At which point our eyes glaze over and we smile vacantly until the topic of conversation shifts to something more appropriate, like shooting gophers with 22's, the benefits of campers, or Aggie the three-legged dog.

This is the year of the White Elephant. I am a bit confused as to why it is called a White Elephant, when "Blood-thirsty Gift Exchange" would be just as appropriate, but I suppose it comes down to tradition. In years past we have always just drawn names (there are now 26 people in our family), but this year we decided to try something new. We almost didn't, but I had to put my foot down. "We need an event that is going to force all of us together." I noted thoughtfully. Without some organized gift exchange, it would be just a bunch of people eating and drinking together... which, actually, doesn't sound that bad.

But the idea of making all of us sit in the same room and duke it out for presents sounded even more appealing to me, and I really cannot wait. This is an event we have never done before, I'm pretty excited to see what happens when we mix my family members, alcohol and stealable presents all in the same room. "GO PLAY DONKEY KONG!" My grandma will yell to the younger kids when they try to come see what the noise is all about, "THIS IS WAR!" And there will be an echo of drunken war cries from the rest of us and the kids will roll their eyes and go play Just Dance like winners, because Donkey Kong is so "last generation." Whatever.

Being young and hip, we discussed the plan of the White Elephant with "The Wonderkids" over a group Facebook message (we, unlike our older generations, have the imperative skillz to all communicate at the same time using the highest level of technology, Social Media, which therefore make us the ideal generation). After several messages of, "Stop this, you are all blowing up my phone," planning a mass text to our grandfather at 3:15 on his birthday, and an unstoppable ambush of large kitten stickers, we were able to actually figure out a solid Plan for Christmas. With only one, "I do not accept, I want all the presents" from one cousin ("No one cares what you think, Caralyn," being the general response), we agreed on a White Elephant for adults and a gift exchange for children. And then... I had an idea.

"You know what would be fun?! Energetically suggesting to the younger kids that they put on a Christmas play for us, and have them act out the Grinch. And tell them that we are withholding presents until they thouroughly entertain us. GREAT idea, right?!"
"Ash, I always knew you were brilliant." Cassy replied.
"Yea. And Caralyn could be the director." Kellen added.
"Brayden can be the Grinch, Bridgette can be Cindy Loo-Hoo, and Keylee can be that dog that rides around in a sled with the Grinch." I add helpfully.
"MAX is the dogs name! Ohhhhhhh Maxxx!! This would be my first work in theater." Caralyn replied.

I can see it now. Brayden will be dressed up in an old Santa suit, his face painted green, running around as only 8-year-old boys can, pulling little toddler Keylee (aka Max the dog/reindeer) in a red wagon without so much as a backwards glance at her well-being. We will make Bridgette put her hair up on top of her head, clasp her hands, and sing "Da-Hoo-Dora" as she learned in pre-school (probably), and... I'm out of characters, but really, that would be enough. Daniel and Matthew can be back-up singers. And Caralyn will be the narrator, "And his heart grew three times that day." She will say solemnly, as Brayden misses the steps into the living room, toppling himself and Keylee on the bright orange carpet, and Bridgette will be singing so passionatley that she will not miss a note, ignoring the chaos reigning at her feet.

Damn. I'd pay to watch that. Alright, Caralyn, time to get started.

Merry Christmas!

I Challenge You to DISCOVER

I have an idea. I want to present it to you, to see if you would like to be a part of a challenge that will make your life even more awesome... probably.

When we travel, everything is new and exciting. New places, new people, new colors and cultures and foods to try. These experiences are vivid because they stir our emotions: excitement, wonder, awe... or perhaps frustration, anger, or desperation. Whatever the experience is, it is not mediocre or apathetic. We remember the moments when the new unfurls a part of our soul that had laid dormant for so long in our comfort, in our stagnation. Looking back on these experiences, it is easy to see that the new stirs strong emotions, and because of that strength, these memories are more vivid. Memories thrive on emotion, and the stronger the emotion, the stronger the memory.

What I'm trying to say is that when we experience something new, our life is enhanced. It becomes more colorful and exciting. And though we can't all travel the world to gain experiences of that magnitude, there ARE ways we can evoke these emotions right here at home.

My challenge to you is this: Do something new, at least once a week.

This can be going to a new restaurant or trying a new activity or visiting a new place or even something as simple as cooking a new dish or ordering a drink you have never tried. Whether you like it or not, whether you have fun or experience disappointment, you will be putting yourself outside of your normal, everyday habits, adding more color to your life.

The second part of this challenge is this: Document your new experience.

I think the best way to do this would be to buy a blank sketch book or journal. Let's call this our "Discovery Journal." Write about your New Experience, or draw a picture, or tape a photo in it. If you have another way in which you would like to document your journey, go for it! This is a creative experience. In some way, record it.

This challenge starts on January 1, 2014. I'm proposing this challenge at the beginning of December, 2013, so that we have a month to prepare: a month to buy a journal, a month to reflect on where your life is now, and a month to begin thinking about what experiences you would like to have in 2014. I have already started a list of ideas that I may want to tackle in the coming year: Take a glass-blowing class, learn how to make spiced wine, ride the aerial tram at OHSU, go kayaking... the possibilities are endless and exciting to think about. What do you want to experience in your life but you haven't made the time to do yet? Now is the time!

And if you think this is a good idea, tell your friends, tell your family! Get them to do it with you, and the experience can be shared with those you love. It may inspire some new trips and activities together, and what is more fun that trying something new with someone you can laugh about it with?

After a year, you will have had at least 52 New Experiences, and have enhanced your life in 52 ways, whether big or small. This challenge is for you. Our life is passing us by every day, NOW is the time to experience it.

Let's make it beautiful, yes?

Challenge extended!

Yes, I Can Be Fancy, But Only Until The Clock Strikes Midnight

"Would anyone like some wine?" The waiter asks. I throw myself across the table onto him and cling to his neck desperately. "YESSSS!!!" I shriek.

Except I don't. I politely raise my eyebrows without breaking eye contact with his face, finally succeed in catching his attention, and say, "The Malbec, please." This is the third time he has rounded our table to ask who wants wine, and failing to catch his attention during his last two passes, I was determined to be successful this time. At this point, I am surprised my manners are in tact: I have needed wine since the moment we stepped into this restaurant.

Wearing our finest (in Honolulu that means a pretty, light-weight dress with sparkling flip-flops), we had followed my moms roommates in through the heavy door after we dropped the car off at the valet. At the sight of the valet driving off, my mom smirked and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Well, whatever we've gotten ourselves into, we're stuck here now!" We walked confidently through the front door, but the atmosphere of the place had suddenly snuffed my adventurous streak and all I wanted to do was turn around and run to the beach.

The first thing I had noticed was the piano. It was black, sleek, and utterly alone, shoved into the cramped entry as though the designer had thought, "Pianos are fancy, right? There! Now everyone will know this place is fancy." The walls were painted a steely grey, the floor a shiny black tile that looked like a frozen lake in the dead of winter. The color scheme seemed to be a pretentious mix of black, white, and slate, though there was a huge red ginger plant flowering exactly in the center of the room, adding one singular explosion of harsh color. The lights hanging above were covered in jagged white paper, screaming, "We are modern. Feel how urban we are. Don't you feel powerful?"

All in all, not my kind of place.

I look across the table at my mom as she orders a sake from the waiter. I can tell she feels as uncomfortable in this environment as I do. She notices me looking at her and makes a face that only I notice, which says, "Sorry. I know this is weird. Did you see the menu? $35 for a piece of fish. Dear GOD."

After about ten minutes, my wine finally shows up and I reach for it gratefully. And suddenly there are some appetizers on the table, and because I have been sitting in this restaurant for about 45 minutes already and haven't even been able to order my dinner yet, I dive on the proffered food as politely as possible. I am so focused on this food that I am simply nodding and making agreeable noises to the people around me who perhaps are carrying on a conversation, but to whom I am becoming more and more oblivious as my food intake increases (as slowly as I can manage, so as to not look like a tiger pouncing on the carcass of a fresh kill).

There is a moment where my hand reaches towards the pita bread and brushes against my wine glass, and suddenly the glass is teetering from side to side. My heart stops as I dive for the glass and watch in horror as some of the precious wine spills over the side. Onto my hand, onto the glass, and worst of all, onto the tablecloth. The pure WHITE tablecloth.

I am horrified. "Oh shit." I mutter, and I feel like crying... this was a fucking $11 glass of wine, that is about $2 worth of wine on the table! Zamboni! I hear Claire yell in my mind, but resist the urge to swoop down and start sucking the wine out of the tablecloth. Barely. I remind myself of the need to be fancy, even in these desperate situations.

My mom is staring wide-eyed in shock at me. I stare in shock at her. I raise my hand to my mouth to lick the wine off. Mom keeps staring. "I don't belong here." I whine quietly. Her mouth twitches and I can tell she is on the verge of hysterical laughter but because she too needs to be fancy, she only chuckles politely.

The woman sitting next to me offers me her napkin and we both start dabbing at the tablecloth to get the wine out, but that works about as well as telling a dog to make a sandwich. There is a huge, accusingly red wine stain on the blindingly white tablecloth. So, as any mature and fancy person would do, I grab my plate and place it right over the top of the stain. THERE. No one will know.

I momentarily forget about my blundering act of stupidity as I review the menu, and decide it is high time we had some proper entree's in our vicinity. "We'd like to order!" I say to the waiter the next time I see him running by. He slows down enough to takes out his pencil, and, looking quite harassed, actually seems ready to write something down. "Mom," I say, pointing at her, as though I am coaching an intense semi-finals soccer game rather than ordering a stir-fry, "You first." This strategy seemed to work rather well and we begin another long wait for our food, during which time the waiter uncharacteristically pays some attention to me and asks, "Are you done with that plate?"

"Sure, yes, thank you." I say, and turn back to my conversation, but as he takes the plate away I realize that THE STAIN OF SHAME is under it and twitch horribly in my attempt to figure out what to do. Did he notice? Should I be embarrassed? Can people be kicked out of restaurants for spilling wine? As my mind whirs, I reach out and grab the next closest plate that could cover up the stain: the appetizer plate. Though it is almost empty, there is still a few pieces of food on it, and because it is now sitting directly in front of me, I look like a pig who ate all the appetizer. Fantastic.

My stir-fry arrives about a fortnight later, and though it is decent, it surely is not $22 worth of food, especially because I think I could have made this dish myself, and that is seriously saying something. I look up to hearing my mom having a conversation with the woman sitting next to her, "This isn't our normal type of place." She says, smiling apologetically.

"What do you mean?" The woman asks curiously. She is very well dressed and is wearing several pieces of jewelry that sparkle in the dim light. Though not upfront or pretentious about it, I can sense her wealth.

"I mean, we sometimes like to hang out at dive bars." Mom says looking at me. I nod in agreement but am a little off-put at my mother revealing our secrets like this. Is it safe to be talking about dive bars in this nice of place? I already feel like I am disguised as a member of the 1% by just being here, but she is quickly dissolving that illusion. "There is this place in Corvallis that we like to go to, The Peacock, and it's just really fun." She explains, and I feel that we are digging a hole that we may need to climb out later.

The woman looks vaguely amused. "Ahh... yes. But what is a dive bar?"

I can feel my eyebrows shoot up into my bangs, and my mouth drops a little. Yes, I know we are in a fancy restaurant with fancy people, but how can it be that she doesn't even KNOW what a dive bar is?! Is she mad?! Has she never played pool or video poker in a bar with fake wood paneling while listening to drunk people karaoke and drinking a PBR?! Worst of all, she hasn't even HEARD of this beautiful lifestyle?! I mean, there is a time and place for fancy restaurants, but there are more times and places for dive bars.

Again, my reaction is reflected in my moms face, but only for an instant before my mom says nonchalantly, "Oh, you know, pool tables and cheap beer, kind of hole-in-the-wall places."

"Ahhh..." The woman nods in understanding, but I don't think she does. Man, sometimes the rich really miss out on the best parts of life. Come down here to our level! The beer is shitty but the laughter comes from our stomachs! And the food... oh, the food... I would kill for a burger right now as I chew this mediocre mixture of vegetables and chicken.

By the time the meal is over my mom and I are so antsy to get out of there that we decide that instead of staying out downtown with everyone else and paying even more money, we just want to go home and drink a beer. So that is what we do. I fling my dress across the room and put on pajama shorts and a T-shirt, walk barefooted to the fridge and pull out some Newcastle Brown Ales. The sigh from the bottles when I pop the caps off makes me sigh too. I hand a beer to my mom and we cheers each other for getting through the night, for the comfortable solace we find in each other, and for being awesome.

Thank you, Mr. Bus Driver!

Riding public transportation is wonderful in many ways: I am saving the environment, no longer buying gas in the vast quantities I did before, therefore saving money, and I get a nice half-hour to 45 minute transition period from home to work, where I can sit and read while still getting where I need to go. The downside: it takes longer to get places and the bus may not come at the most convenient times. But generally the payoffs for taking the bus outweigh the potential issues, and I have embraced the practice gratefully.

If you are not familiar with the custom of riding the bus, let me take a moment to explain the expectations of participating in this practice. The bus is a strange social experiment in which a bunch of strangers are all forced into one small confined space, a place in which there are some very important unwritten rules. Rule #1: The bus fills up by everyone sitting as far apart as possible from each other. Once all the rows have one person in them, only then can you place a second person in the same row. Rule #2: No loud talking. If you are on the phone, you make it quick and you speak softly. Rule #3: No eye-contact. Rule #4: Everyone moves for wheelchairs and pregnant ladies. Rule #5: COVER YOUR GODDAMN COUGH. It is a simple set of rules, but there is generally a consensus to follow them dutifully.

Sometimes, however, someone enters the bus that either knows of these rules but chooses not to follow them, or they just are completely oblivious of them. There is an area of the bus that is technically called the "Priority Seating" area, but which I like to refer to as the "Ring of Crazy." This area is the front of the bus, where instead of the seats facing forward, there are three seats on either side of the bus that face inward towards each other, then the rows of two on each side start after that. And this, for some reason, is where all the crazy people congregate. I don't know why, maybe they feel that they have more room to move around.

I have seen many displays of crazy on the bus, but yesterday I had the experience that so far has topped all others. I boarded the bus and, following Rule #1, noticed that there was one person sitting in each pair of seats, except for the first pair on the right. Instead of pairing up with someone in the back, like I would normally do, I for some reason took the empty seat on the right, which I noted was on the Ring of Crazy, but decided to ignore that fact. Note to others: Don't ever ignore the fact that you are sitting on the precipice of the insane.

A man wearing headphones takes a seat on one of the inward-facing seats in front of me, and began to hum. I stared out the window, ignoring him. As the bus lurched forward, the man started banging on invisible drums and stomping one of his feet to the beat coming from his headphones.

".... naaaahhh na naaah AND THE EIGHT BALL ROLLS and I hear the call ann naah naahhhhh..." the man sang loudly. Following Rule #3, I ignore eye contact.

"The Blazers are awesome, I am a great fan!" He said as we passed the Rose Quarter. I felt him glance at me but I was busy staring out the window and pretending he wasn't there. "Yeah." He said, and again went back to singing what words he knows from his musical selection. Suddenly he stops singing and says, "Alcohol is bad, anyone who drinks alcohol is a demon. Naa na naaaaahhh." And a few minutes later, "Why would you sleep with a woman when you could sleep with a man?!"

I almost laughed out loud but quickly erased whatever hint of amusement that had appeared on my face and instead stared pointedly out the window, thinking that if I just ignored him, he might stop. I didn't feel threatened by him, mostly I was balancing on the edge of confusion and taking offense. I wished I could move but was sure he would notice if I stood up and went and sat next to someone else. Not wanting to create a scene, I stuck it out. But I crossed my arms over my chest. There, now I'm protected.

Suddenly, after about fifteen minutes of his crazy bubbling under the surface, it finally overflowed. "I have attitude!" He yelled to the bus. "I have slept with a lesbian, and I have a huge wanger! Ha! Attitude, people!"

Suddenly the bus slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, and we weren't even at a bus stop. The driver of the bus stood up, turned around, and stared menacingly at the man. "You need to STOP THAT." he said dangerously. "No one on this bus cares about your wanger, and I'm tired of hearing your crap! If I hear you ONE MORE TIME, I am pulling this bus over again and calling the COPS, and have you arrested for holding up public transportation!" And with that, the bus driver took one good, long stare at the man, turned on the spot, and walked back to his seat.

When his back was turned, the man held up his middle finger, and I felt like yelling, "HE'S FLIPPING YOU OFF! THROW HIM OFF THE BUS!" But I controlled my child-like impulse and decided to simply go back to Rule #3 and avoid eye contact.

"I don't care what you people think." The man said under his breath. He crossed his arms and leaned back. "I have attitude." And he was silent for the rest of his ride.

When he disembarked a few minutes later, I felt like the whole bus wanted to break into applause, but we restrained ourselves. The bus driver yelled back at us, "Did I handle that okay?" And a few feeble voices replied, "Yes!" You are our hero, Mr. Bus man. I would have been cool with you chucking his ass from the vehicle, but your severe father-like reprimand was pretty fantastic as well. Please let me hug you when I leave.

And I noticed that everyone on the way out said directly to the bus driver, or yelled from the back door, "Thank you," with such sincerity that I knew they were thanking him for more than just the bus ride. In that Thank You, I could hear Thank-you-for-handling-that-situation-because-it-was-making-me-super-uncomfortable-and-you-reminded-me-of-how-my-father-used-to-take-care-of-me-but-now-I'm-not-a-child-and-all-I-have-is-you, or something of that essence.

And now I have definitely learned my lesson, STAY AS FAR AWAY FROM THE RING OF CRAZY AS PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE. Even if it means I have to break Rule #1. People can just get over it.

The Joys and (mostly) Terrors of Snorkeling

My eyes closed, the hypnotic rasping of the ocean waves rinses from my mind any coherent thoughts, leaving me with simply half-formed words like "mimosa" and "exfoliation" floating lazily around in my subconscious. The gritty sand sticks to the back of my legs, momentarily making me ponder the effects that it will have on my sorry attempt for a tan, before the thought sinks back into nothingness. The warmth of the sun makes my skin lightly tingle. As I continue to lay there, with all the energy of a comatose slug, the tingle slowly becomes a prickling sensation, and not moments later my whole body twitches as the prickling transforms into a deep burn, as if someone had thrown freshly fried bacon onto my back. I can almost hear my skin sizzling. Obviously, time to flip.

I open my eyes and sit up. The iridescent, glowing blue of the ocean and the sky are barely distinguishable hues on the horizon, and for a moment I'm not sure which way is up. The green fronds of the palm trees sway softly to the beat of the ever-present folding of the waves. I look over and see my mom, wearing only her bikini, her sunhat perched on top of her mass of curling, blonde hair. She seems just as hypnotized by the ocean's lullaby as I do. She catches my eye and smile lazily at each other.

Suddenly I can see my mom has an idea, and I gaze warily at her as she stands up and shakes herself off. I am still feeling as if I may be sleeping, or high, but her sense of purpose has made my body decide that it may be time to come back to earth and perhaps DO something with my day. I'm not sure how I feel about this.

"What are you doing?" I ask her, gazing up at her silhouette against the blindingly blue sky. In response, she bends down to pick something up, and when she straightens, I can see that she is holding two snorkeling masks. A sense of foreboding envelops me, but I try to ignore it and smile anyways. I have only snorkeled once in my life, many years ago, and I don't even remember how it ended. I may not have snorkeled at all; perhaps I imagined it. My mom has been suggesting a snorkeling adventure ever since I showed up at her house a few days ago, so I figure the moment has come. Embrace it.

We walk down to the water and she hands me one of the masks, with snorkel attached. I fumble around with it in my hands for a few moments, not even sure how to hold the damned thing without the strap getting in my way, or the snorkel falling over on top of the mask. It is a ridiculously complicated thing that my still sun-buzzed mind can barely wrap itself around.

"First," my mom instructs, "spit in the mask. Then swish the spit around over the mask with your finger." I stare at her, bewildered.
"Spit?" I repeat, sure I had heard her wrong. "In the mask?"
"Yeah," she says simply, then leans over and, sure enough, releases two drops of saliva into each eye of the mask. My eyebrows arch in surprise, but as it is now apparent that she really did say 'spit,' I copy her, feeling like a poorly behaved kindergartner. "It keeps the mask from fogging up." She explains. Seeing my incredulity, she adds with a chuckle, "I know it's weird, but it works."

After playing in our own saliva by rubbing it all over inside the mask, we dip the mask into the water and wash it out (negating, in my mind, all the effort I put in swirling the spit around inside). Then my mom shoves the mask onto her face. "Breathe in and to see if there are any air holes." Her voice has become a nasal nightmare, but I copy her. No air holes. We then fumble with getting the strap around my head. Feeling very off-put with my source of air cut in half from my blocked nose, I shove the snorkel into my mouth.

Then, I dip my head under the waves.

And I enter a state of mild panic.

I can't breathe! my mind screams as I try and fail to breathe in through my nose. And then my mind registers that I still have my mouth, and I take short gasping breaths through my one, very limited, source of air - the snorkel. I can't decide whether to hold my breath or try to breathe through my mouth. My panic escalates as I am SURE a wave is going to wash over my life-tube and drown me. I can't breathe! Where is my nose?! I gasp, take a huge breath, hold it, then breathe out a tiny bit of air so my head doesn't explode with excess oxygen and suck in the air again, sure that with every breath in, I'll be sucking down some water at any second. My air tube is going to be flooded by these massive, life-threatening waves hurling me around. I am going to fucking DROWN.

I snatch my head back out of the water and hastily spit the snorkel from my mouth... and realize that I had been standing the whole time in the chest-deep waves; my feet hadn't even left the ground. My mom is staring at me, looking like some sort of warped seal with a horn on it's head with huge spectacles. Through her goggles she seems baffled at my reaction. Shut up, seal. She lifts the mask from her head and stares at me incredulously, realizes what she is doing, then erases her face like an etch-a-sketch and replaces it with a motherly look of pity. "Sometimes people have a hard time with it at first."

I glare at her. "I don't like it." I say, feeling slightly child-like. "I'm going to drown. Water is going to get in the tube and I'm going to suck it up and drown."
"No you won't." She assures me. "If water gets in you just blow and it spits it out."
What. The. Hell.
Not feeling that I want to take the chance to suck down some water, but reasoning that I should at least take a look around under the water while I have this ridiculous thing on, I put my face down into the water again. I barely have time to register that, no, there is nothing to see except rocks and sand and dirt swirling around, before I feel the panic starting to surface again and jerk my head back out of the water.
"There isn't even anything cool to see!" I whine to my mom while yanking the mask off my face. I'm done with this.
"Well, you have to get further out." She says kindly.
I just shake my head in defeat and make my way back to my towel. Snorkeling is obviously not for me.

My mom walks gracefully from the water and plops herself down beside me. "We will try it when there aren't such big waves, maybe in the bay." She assures me. I just nod my head.

"We should have brought ocean margaritas." I say.
"It's 9:00 in the morning." She reminds me.
"Pah. Next time, we will." Then we walk back up to her house. And I don't wear pants. Because this is Hawaii, and even if I can't snorkel, I can still walk around pantsless, and no one even looks twice. Thank you for that, Hawaii.

Happy Pumpkin Carving!

I'm spying on my neighbor. Well, actually, I am sitting at my desk, and it just so happens that from my window I can see into my neighbors back yard. He is carving pumpkins. There are five pumpkins on the table and he is scraping them out, but he is all alone in the back yard, which confuses me. Why would you carve pumpkins alone? That's really a social activity... I would never carve a pumpkin alone. To be completely honest, I barely want to carve pumpkins at all.

Since I was a kid, I have always hated the insides of pumpkins. It is disgusting in there. Trying to rip out the slimy innards make me feel like I am violating the pumpkins' wishes by tearing out its guts and babies. Also, the slime makes me cringe, and I hate touching it. I always need to use a spoon. Even then, the back of my hand sometimes touches the guts and then when I get it out I have to separate the seeds from it. It's terribly unpleasant.

So then after the pumpkin has been GUTTED, we carve designs into it. We try to get creative but usually fail, because sticking a knife into a squash is hard enough, and then maneuvering it around to actually create some sort of recognizable image is pretty much a success in itself. PS who came up with this idea? We seem to have a surprising amount of pagan rituals in our society that likes to think it is puritan.

Anyways, I feel better about this part of the process than the gutting part. At least I get to use a knife in a creative way, how often do we get to do that?

Yesterday Julie and I carved pumpkins. We put down some paper in my backyard, grabbed some knives and spoons (for me), a bowl for the pumpkin seeds, and some pumpkin ale for the occasion. I looked at the bowl.
"That's not a big enough bowl for all the seeds." I note.
"Yeah it is." Julie replies.
"No it's not! We are gonna have way more than that."
"Wanna bet?"
"Yes."
"Okay I bet you a shot of gin that this bowl will hold all the pumpkin seeds."
"Done."

So we carve out the tops of the pumpkins and begin the excavation of slime. I use my spoon, but Julie just dives right in with her hands. I can tell she was the kind of kid that played with the slime more than she cared about any other part of the pumpkin carving process. She probably threw the slime at people who annoyed her. I can just see it.

So the bowl starts filling up with seeds. More, and more, and more. I even put in the lame, not fully grown seeds because I can tell that I'm losing. This bowl probably WILL hold all the seeds. And Julie is right. When we get to the end, the seeds are about a half an inch below the rim of the bowl.
"Damn. You were right." I say.
"I know. I'm a really good judge of space." Julie shrugs. I stare at her.

It takes me awhile to figure out what I'm going to carve on my emptied pumpkin. Julie has her phone out and is googling images of jack-o-lanterns. "How the hell am I supposed to carve THAT?! How are people so artistic?" She shakes her head and continues to search on her phone for something suitable. I just stare at my pumpkin. What do you want to be? A face? A design? What face, or what design? Speak to me, gourd!

Julie finds something and soon she is totally focused on her carving. I am still staring at my pumpkin. As I'm brainstorming different ideas, Julie asks, "So, can you eat pumpkin?"
"Umm... yes. We eat pumpkin pies."
"I know, but can pumpkins be more than pies?"
"I don't know. I suppose so."
"How would you cook it?" Julie ponders.
"I don't know." I repeat.
"Maybe you can grill it or something. Why do we only eat pumpkins in the fall?"
"Because they're a seasonal thing, I guess."
"Why is no one in February like, 'So for dinner tonight we are going to have some chicken with a side of pumpkin.'"
"Uhh..."
Julie is still focusing on carving her pumpkin but I can see her eyebrows knit in contemplation. This is really baffling her. I take a drink of my pumpkin ale, have an idea, and start carving.

After a few minutes, I ask Julie, "What are you carving?"
"An owl. I found it online. What are YOU carving?"
"An ocean."
She looks up from her owl. "... ohh... okay..." She says, raising her eyebrows.
"Shut up." I tell her, and continue with my idea.

When we were done, hers was cute and did look like an owl. Mine looked ridiculous. I carved four waves on each side of the pumpkin, and then added a V that kind of looked like a bird in between two of the waves. I thought my mom would like it, at least. It's not often that you see an ocean on a pumpkin.

We take our pumpkins to the front of the house and set them up on the railing. "Claire!" I call. "Do you have any candles we can stick inside our pumpkins?"
"I think so! Let me check." She says, and minutes later she comes out with two tea candles.
"Can you tell what they are?" I ask, and Julie turns to look at Claire too, waiting.
"Of course I can. Julie's is an owl. And Ashley's is some stylized waves with a bird."
"... You knew." I say, crossing my arms. She must have heard us talking.
"Well, yes. But I would have been able to guess even if I hadn't known before!"
Julie and I look at each other. "Oh well Julie! Our pumpkins are awesome." I say, and nod to each other. Claire runs down into the yard.
"Ashley, turn your pumpkin a little bit, it kind of looks like boobs from here."
"Okay, which way?" I do not want my pumpkin to be mistaken for four boobs.
"A little to the left... a little more... there!" And nods her head in satisfaction.

She comes back up to the porch and we light the candles. "Oww, I probably should have lit the candle AFTER I put it in the pumpkin." Claire says wisely as she burns her hand. I shoved my candle in through a wave to the center, then stuck the lighter in and lit it. And you know, even if a pumpkin is ridiculously carved, everything looks cool with a candle glowing from its hollowed insides.

That One Time When I Peed On A Strangers Boat

"You girls want to come wakeboarding on our boat?" They yelled from a good distance away.

Brittany and I look each other, questioning. We have been sitting in our dads boat on the lake for several hours now, enjoying some Keystone Light, listening to some Foreigner, and generally having a wonderful time in the sun. Did we really want to get onto someone else's boat who we barely knew just to wakeboard, which we had done already that day anyways? We look to the boat and begin shouting back.

"I DON'T THINK -- " I began.
"MAYBE ANOTHER -- " Brittany says at the same time, until our dad cuts us off.
"Girls." He says softly, and we stop mid-rejection to look at him. "That's an invitation." Brittany and I look at each other, shrug, then turn back to the boat.
"YEAH, OKAY!"
"THAT WOULD BE GREAT!"

The boat comes over and we climb aboard in our bikinis, and our step-mom Laurie gets in as well. The sun is sinking slowly towards the horizon as we watch Laurie put on the wakeboard and get behind the boat. It's getting a little cold. I kind of have to pee. We throw a towel over ourselves and sit facing the back, watching Laurie. There are several other people on the boat who we have previously met back at the campsite, including three guys about our age, their friend, one of their girlfriends, and their mother. One of the boys is so good-looking that Brittany and I have to avert our eyes, and focus instead on watching the wakeboarders and listening to their mother's ceaseless commentary as each of them take their turns behind the boat. And that is when I realize, I really have to pee. But I shove it down. We should back soon.

These boys are GOOD at wakeboarding. My friends thought I was good because I could go outside the wake and jump it a little bit on the way back without crashing, but these kids LEAP over the wakes, can turn their boards 180 degrees flawlessly, do tricks while they're soaring in the air... I have to admit, I had never watched such good wakeboarders. Their mom is taking pictures every time they jump. And yet, I still have to pee.

The urge is getting stronger now, and I shift in my seat to try and get more comfortable. I should have jumped in the water and just got it over with, but it's so COLD now. And I'm so dry, and the sun is going down. I try to focus on something else, so I listen to their mother again.
"...wasn't going to buy a boat in the first place. I told my husband, 'I will not get a boat unless it has a bathroom,' and what do you know, we found this one! I am not the type of person to pee in the water, I need a proper toilet." Then she pointed to a spot on the boat I had assumed was just a storage space, but when she shows it off, it indeed is a very small space, you would have to crunch yourself in a ball and back into it, but there is a small toilet, and some toilet paper. Damn.

I stare at the cubby. My bladder is starting to cause me pain, just like the time I was driving home from Salem on 99W. I thought I could make it home, but I realized while I was driving through the farmlands and forests that there was NO WAY I could make it, but there were no towns coming up soon enough. I was sure I would have to pull over on the side of the road next to a tree and just endure the shame and hope no one drove by while my pants were around my ankles, but then I remembered there was a mini mart in Adair Village. When I pulled up, I laboriously got out of the car and hobbled into the store, afraid I wouldn't make it to the bathroom on time. As I walked in, I desperately asked the cashier, "Do you have a bathroom?!"
He stared at me suspiciously. "Are you a customer?"
"Yes, fine, fine. Whatever, where is the bathroom?" I grimaced. He pointed down a hallway and I practically ran to it, relieved that I had found a proper toilet and would not have to hike into the forest. When I came out of the bathroom, feeling so content after the stress I had just endured that I felt like whistling, I picked up some candy bars and set them on the counter. The cashier looked at me. "You need to buy at least five dollars to be able to use your debit card."
I glared at him. I then grabbed a couple chocolates to complete the transaction. This man was charging me $5 to use his bathroom. Rude. But worth it.

As I sit in the boat and reflect on the desperation of that situation, I decide that, NO, I will not use that little taunting bathroom. EVERYONE on the boat would KNOW I was peeing. On the same boat they were sitting on. I could TOUCH most of them while sitting on that mini toilet if there were no walls around me. No. I can hold it.

I can't hold it. WHY did I drink so much beer?? Beer is the devil! Yes, I can hold it. Think about something else. Think about deserts, and watch the wakeboarders. Look! He just grabbed his board in mid air! No, you can hold it. You are a strong woman who controls her bladder in social situations. You do not need to use this bathroom. Can bladders actually burst?? You can make it back to camp, we will be there soon! Wait... WHY is the boat turning away from camp?!  Oh my GOD, I HAVE TO PEE!

"I need to use your little bathroom." I say abruptly while standing up. The pain is just too much, and I'm afraid that with one little turn of the boat will cause a much bigger problem than having them see me back into that little cubby. I try to laugh and be cool about ducking down into a hidey-hole. The space is cramped and my knees are up to my chin. It takes me a while to figure out how to actually flush the damned thing. I generally hate the experience.

I eventually emerge triumphant from the potty cubby, but I feel awkward. I just peed in their boat.

"I just peed in your boat." I announce to everyone. Why did I say that? I think Brittany rolls her eyes at me, and everyone else chuckles. The hot guy raises his eyebrows. I ignore that. I sit back down next to Brittany. A changed woman. And finally not terrified that I would pee all over her. She doesn't even know the bullet she dodged.

Immigration Law... Who started this mess?!

I have learned an incredible amount of immigration law during my 2+ years in working as a legal assistant. I have heard stories about child brides and murder threats and women being raped in Morocco. I know how to file a family petition, a fiancee petition, how to turn in documents to the court, how to order police and court records. I have heard countless stories about domestic violence and victims of crimes. I know what evidence is necessary for a pre-hearing statement, and have worked with consulates all over the world. I have learned a lot, but the lesson that stands out most to me is this: Immigration law is arbitrary.

I mean that someone made up a law, and put it into action, and though it is not based on anything specific, for some reason we give it power and it means something and shapes how immigrants can live in our country. Though maybe it's not just immigration law that's so arbitrary, but law in general. Why can we drive at 16, become adults at 18, but can't drink until we are 21? Because someone in power said so, and people let that person have that power. It was enforced. It was obeyed, simply because a piece of paper was signed by the right person. It's baffling when you begin to think about it. Words have power. And words become law.

Anyways, let me give you an easy example from immigration law. Let's say an illegal immigrant marries a US citizen. It seems that they should be simply given a Legal Residency card, right? They married a US citizen, so that should give them legal status right away. But in fact, that's wrong.

There are three ways immigrants can become a legal resident from marrying a US citizen (Legal residents are not the same as citizens, but still have many legal rights in the United States. Almost all immigrants are residents for at least 3 years before they can become a citizen.). For two of those ways, the immigrant is allowed to stay within the United States during the application process as long as:
1. They entered legally, or
2. They have a previously filed family petition dated before April 30, 2001.

If, however, the immigrant does not have one of these two things, the immigrant must LEAVE the United States to process their petition abroad from their own country. BUT, as soon as the immigrant exits the United States, most become what immigrant attorneys like to call 212(a)(9)(C). 212(a)(9)(C) is part of the immigration law that states that if an immigrant enters the United States, stays illegally for more than one year, and then departs the United States, they are AUTOMATICALLY BARRED from re-entering the United States for 10 years. 10 YEARS. So, does that seem like a trap to you? It does to me.

These immigrants are not criminals. Their only crime is entering the United States illegally and then leaving. It does not matter if they were children when they were brought here. It doesn't matter if they are good people. It doesn't even matter that they are married to a citizen of the United States. They came illegally, stayed illegally for more than a year, then left. And because they left, they can't come back for 10 years.

So how do these illegal immigrants who are married to US citizens but leave the country and receive a 10 year bar ever COME BACK to the US to be with their families? They have to apply for a waiver of this 10 year bar by proving that their 10 year absence would cause EXTREME and UNUSUAL hardship to their US citizen spouse.

I have a US citizen friend who recently married an illegal immigrant. They were happy together. They both had jobs, she was not sick, her parents were healthy, she didn't have many debts. They were in a perfect position in their new life together... except that they did not have a good waiver case. Because they were doing well, they could not apply for the waiver of the 10-year bar. There was no hardship, besides the fact that she would be devastated to be separated from her new husband for that long. But does the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service care about that? No. They do not. They do not care if tearing a couple apart would be emotional agony. They need something more concrete than simply FEELINGS.

Good evidence for extreme and unusual hardship to the US citizen spouse would be that the US citizen spouse is ill; they have cancer, they have depression, they were abused as a child in the country they would be forced to return to. Additional evidence could be extreme debts that the US citizen cannot leave behind, US citizen children that have learning disabilities or medical problems, parents of the US citizen that they must support, extreme financial hardship were the spouse to leave... anything that proves that:
1. It would be impossible for the US citizen spouse to relocate to the immigrants country, and
2. The US spouse NEEDS the immigrant in the US with them.

So the worse someone's life is, the better chance they have that their waiver will be approved. It is a depressing thing to cheer because my client's mother has cancer, or because her son has autism. I am constantly baffled by being happy about terrible things.

My friend and her husband did not have any extreme or unusual hardship. They were a caring, healthy, dedicated, hard-working couple, but the simple fact was that her husband would not be able to become a legal resident because their life wasn't shitty enough.

The more my friend thought about this, the more she understood that if her life was more difficult, her husband could become legal. She needed to become worse so that her husband could get better. She agonized over how GOOD her life was. If only something were wrong with her, then maybe they could win their waiver case and she could live happily with her husband. The stress of never knowing if he hadn't picked up the phone because he was driving or because he was detained by immigration consistently wore her down. Would he come home that night? How long would it be before he was pulled over by a cop for not changing lanes correctly and asked to show his legal identification?

Her constant stress about her husbands legal status as well as knowing that she wouldn't have to worry about that anymore if only something were going wrong in her life finally took their toll. She became a victim of depression. She had to quit her job, see a therapist, get on medication. And therein was the cure to her husband's legal status; her life was finally shitty enough that maybe, just maybe, her husband could become a legal resident and stay with her in the United States.

HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT?!

My friend and her husband are the EXACT kind of people that we would WANT to stay in our country. I have met people that I thought should get deported, and I have met people like my friend and her husband, who love this country and treat it well, who work hard and contribute to society, who are intelligent and kind and caring. So WHY is it that because of a stupid, made-up, arbitrary rule, that these people are made to suffer so much? Why was it that my friend had to become extremely depressed before there was any hope for her case? The punishment does not match the crime.

So there is just ONE instance of how ridiculous immigration law can be. Tomorrow I will go back to simply shaking my head at this stuff, but every once in awhile it really fires me up to think about the injustice of it. I think a lot of people don't understand the immigration system because it doesn't apply to them, but the more informed people are about the issues our country has, the greater chance we have of actually fixing it... not taking recent governmental shutdowns into account. But we should always hope for the best for the future.

Ramble ramble

As some people may  have noticed (or perhaps not, that's totally fine), I took a small hiatus from writing in the last few weeks. That's because, a few weeks ago, I realized that I was constantly feeling stressed. I felt unsatisfied and frustrated and unfulfilled, and then one day I stopped and asked myself, WHY the HELL am I feeling like this?? I have a fucking awesome life! I live in Portland (The best city EVER, no matter what you think, Dad!) with amazing friends, and I have an awesome job and boss and co-worker, and I work downtown and I get to go out with friends and my little brother and family lives only a couple hours away, and my MOM lives in HAWAII, so, you know, free vacations!

And then I realized, the reason I was feeling stressed was because I felt that I needed to figure out how to become a writer RIGHT NOW. I was always trying to think of what to write and how to write it and how do I get it published? And should I take a class? Is that story good enough? And then I read something about blogs, and how you are supposed to write in them EVERY DAY. Are you kidding me?? Who has so much to say that they can write a blog that often? WHO EVEN CARES?! If I wrote a blog every day, I would run out of things to say. Like yesterday. I went to work, and I got a cappuccino for a treat. I went grocery shopping. We bought pears AND apples, because we were feeling adventurous. We made home-made micheladas, because they are the blood of a Mexican angel. A slightly crazy looking black man who was trying to sell me something while I was waiting at the bus stop told me I was beautiful and asked me for my name, to which I mumbled something, and he said, "Ahh, Sheri! You are a heart-breaker," and I thought, Sheri? I didn't say Sheri, but that's my moms name, HOW DID HE KNOW?!

But the point is, I was stressed out about a goal I had set for MYSELF. Meaning that I was creating my own stress! And when I figured that out, my mind was blown, because what right do I have to make myself feel like that? That is for the OUTSIDE world to do, the world I can't control. Reacting to stressful situations is one thing. Creating my OWN stress is ridiculous. Inside is where MY power is, and I am usually very calm and content, and feeling so powerless was new and unwelcome. So I kicked it out.

I also realized that my goal was not well thought out and also unspecific: "Get something published" is a terrible goal. So I did what I had to do. I let it go. I decided to just STOP IT. I decided to take a break from writing altogether. It used to be something that I liked to do, that made me feel fulfilled and valuable, but at that time it was bumming me out.

And lately I've realized that I miss it. I like storytelling. I like connecting to people in this way. I don't know if anyone hears me, but I like to think they do. I like to believe that people think I'm entertaining or at least interesting... perhaps not in a post such as this where I am rambling on without end, but generally.

So I'm going to stop putting so much stress on myself and just enjoy writing, and enjoy where I'm at right now. Because my life is AWESOME. Creating my own stress once was enough, and it was easy enough to move past once I realized what the hell was going on. I wanted to write so badly that I thought about it too much and messed it all up. I spoke to a psychic once and she said, "You over-analyze things way too much. Stop thinking about it, and just WRITE." Yes ma'am.

The Yacht Club

Courtney called me last night, "Hey! Do you wanna go to the yacht club for some Oktoberfest thing?"

Of course I did.

We walked to the club from her house and upon entering I realized two things: Firstly, that I was slightly overdressed. I was wearing nice boots and a lacy top, while most people there were wearing much more casual gear. And second, besides Courtney, I was probably the youngest person there by at least 20 years.

Trying not to be conspicuous, we hovered around the entrance for a moment while Courtney looked for her friends. A man playing an accordion wearing what I assume was some sort of traditional German getup saw us and said, "Come on in girlies!" and waved to us while everyone in the vicinity turned to look at who he was talking to. Slightly embarrassed, we walked through the middle of the room towards the table where Courtney's friends were. As soon as we arrive, Courtney says Hi and then two small boys appear out of nowhere.

"Hi Courtney!" They exclaim, then give her a hug. I am introduced to everyone at the table including the kids, and then we go over and grab some food from the buffet style arrangement. Since there are not tables available in the main room, we head over to a more secluded area and sit ourselves down. The two boys immediately join us at our small table.

"Hi." I say. "What are your names again?"
"Jerome." Says the boy on my right. "I'm ten. I'm making mush, see?" And yes indeed, he is swirling his ice cream around in his bowl, making it into a soft serve consistency.
"Nice, that's how my sister used to eat ice cream. How about you?" I ask, looking towards the smaller kid.
"I'm Nolan. I'm eight years old."
"Ashley has a brother who's eight!" Courtney says to him. "But he lives far away."
"Where?" Nolan asks. "China?"
"Not that far." Says Courtney.
"South America?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"Philomath."
"Where's THAT?" Nolan asks. "Is it very far?"
"It's about two hours south."
"Oh." Says Nolan. "That's not that far." Then Nolan proceeds to spill a drop of ice cream on his shirt.
"Oh no dude! You got a little somethin-somethin on you." I say, pointing. Nolan notes the ice cream, grabs his shirt and brings it up to his mouth. He sucks on it until the ice cream is gone.
"Ahh, much better. You look good now!" I say.
"I can look even better! Hold on a second." And Nolan runs off into the other room. I turn to Jerome.
"What are you doing?"
"Playing Asteroids."
"What's that?"
"It's a game where you fly around space and shoot things."
"Cool. I play Candy Crush sometimes. Do you play that?"
"No, but my mom does!"
"Look!" Nolan returns to the scene and he is now sporting a clip-on tie under the collar of his button-up shirt and a cream-colored fedora.
"Wow! You DO look good!" I say, impressed. Nolan crosses his arms in front of him and drops his chin a little bit. The essence of cool. "I love your hat!"
"Everyone says that." says Nolan.
"That's because it's awesome."
"I know."
"Nolan, do you have any good game recommendations? I play Candy Crush, but I want more games."
"Yeah! Clash of Clams!"
"... did you say Clash of Clams? What is that?" I ask, confused.
"Nooo, Clash of CLANS." He says. "You fight people and make castles and join up with other people playing and raid villages, all my friends at school play it.You should get it and then you could play with them!"
"That's right, me and a bunch of 8-year-olds, battling others for glory."
Nolan giggles.
Courtney brings me a beer and I take it gratefully.
"Do you like beer?" Nolan asks. Jerome is still playing his Asteroid game.
"Yes I do."
"Me too."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah!"
"When did you have beer?!"
"My dad let me try it! But I don't like Boneyard."
"Yeah, me either, it's an IPA so it's really bitter. You would probably like a pilsner."
"Why?"
"It's lighter and not bitter."
"Ohhh."
"OR," Courtney chimes in, taking an interlude from her adult conversations with her friend, "You would probably like apple cider."
I almost say, "Yeah, hard cider! So good. You would like that." but then I realize that Courtney is trying to get this conversation back under control and stop me from discussing alcoholic beverages with an 8-year-old. So instead I say, "Yes, apple cider is great."
Nolan nods, and Jerome nods too, still looking at his phone. Then Courtney hears someone say something about playing the Chicken Dance. "Yes! Let's play the chicken dance. Do you guys know that song?"
"Yeah!" The both chime. Courtney and I then start singing it and doing the little dance. They follow along.
"Where is the music? I want to dance the Chicken Dance. Are they gonna play it or what?" Courtney says huffily.
I turn to the kids. "What kind of music do you guys listen to? One Direction? Selena Gomez?" Jerome instantly looks up and says, "I like Dr. Who."
"What is that?"
"It's this old BBC show from the 1960's."
".......and.... how do you know about that?"
"My dad showed me." Jerome then opens up YouTube on his phone and starts to play a weird, space themed and electronic song. "This is the theme song from the show, he travels through space in this purple phone box and has all kinds of adventures. This theme song is extended for just one of the episodes in 1963, so it's longer than the normal one" I am baffled. Jerome is staring at the swirling vortex of the purple phone box, which looks like it is traveling through a black hole, as though he's being hypnotized. Peeling my eyes away from the swirling effects, I turn to Nolan.
"And what kind of music do you like? I can bring a song up on my phone if you want."
"LMFAO."
"Nice. What song?"
"LMFAO, I like them."
"Okay, but what song?"
"....LMFAO."
I stare at Nolan. He stares back. "....What about Party Rockers?" I suggest.
"What is that?"
"..... an LMFAO song." This kid does not seem to know what LMFAO is.
"I like classic rock." Nolan says.
"Oh. Why didn't you say that before?"
Nolan shrugs.
"Okay here is a good song, Living on a Prayer."
"What song is that?" Nolan asks. I show it to him. "I've never heard that song."
"Well what song do you know?" I ask, slightly exasperated but amused by this kid.
"ACDC." Oh no, are we going to go through another LMFAO episode? Choose a song, kid!
"Ohh, I like ACDC too! Here's a good song." And I played Shook Me All Night Long. Nolans eyes light up. Thank God, he recognizes it! And not only does he recognize it, he starts dancing. But not just any dancing... we are sitting near a dance floor and Nolan takes full advantage of it by busting some moves and then running and sliding on his knees or on his stomach, then twisting around, standing back up and busting some more moves. I hold my phone out so he can hear the music better, and Courtney is filming the whole scene. "WOOOO!" We shout as Nolan wiggles his hips and kicks up his knees in time with the music. Then suddenly Courtney shouts, "WHERE IS THE CHICKEN DANCE MUSIC?!" I look at her incredulously. I have never heard someone so passionately demanding the chicken dance in my life.
"What is wrong with you?" I ask casually. She shrugs.
"I just want the chicken dance."
"Yeah, I got that."
We then grab some Shirley Temples for the kids and walk outside into the dark and look at the marina where all the boats are. That yacht club was FANCY. But without those two kids there to entertain me all night, it would have been just okay. But those kids were AWESOME. Sometime I have more fun hanging out with kids than adults... though I should really check the settings on my personal censor.

CAUTION: HANGOVER AHEAD. MAKE DETOUR TO BETTER DECISIONS.

"Being hungover is the best! I love feeling like a moldy half-baked hot pocket filled with cat vomit!" Said no one EVER.

Most people's mantra when hungover is, as we all know, "I am NEVER drinking AGAIN."

And then we go and do it again. Why is that? You think we would have learned the first twenty times it happened, right? You would think that, when someone suggests a third drink, you might sit back and think, Hmm. Let's take a step back for a second. Remember the last time you had more than two drinks? It turned into six and then you almost smashed your roommates computer with a stick and then tried to come in to your other roommate's room to hang out with her and her boyfriend, who very well could have been not wearing clothes at the time, though you wouldn't know because you were oblivious to your surroundings and to normal social conduct? Yeah. So maybe put that third drink down and grab some WATER, FOOL.

But no, by that third drink, we are having such a great time that for some reason that Good Decisions for the Future sensor turns off and has gone out dancing, leaving you alone to make your own decisions with no foresight. "Adios, muthafucka" it says as it waves to you from the back of Word Filter's motorcycle, and the two ride off into the dark together leaving you to fend for yourself, with only PartyRockerTime and Obliviousness as your companions. But you don't care, because Good Decisions for the Future has left you with nothing.

So you party, and you dance. And, of course, you drink more. And you say things you don't mean and you do things that are plain stupid. And the next morning, PartyRockerTime and Obliviousness have deserted you like an ugly one night stand, and you are left with your head in your hands while the other two are back, whispering in your ear, What the hell were you THINKING. We leave for a FEW HOURS and you do that?! You idiot. Here, you deserve this. It's called a hangover. HA. Good luck, sweetie. Bastards.

So I'm going to make a list, to remind myself of why I don't EVER want to get wasted AGAIN:

1. Acting like a fucking idiot. Examples:
          a. Throwing water on myself because I was mad at Julie.
          b. Texting my friend rude things that I really did not mean just because I couldn't find her at the bar.
          c. Eating soooo mannyyy fries.
          d. Showing my roommates my underwear a little too long because I thought they were cute.
2. Blacking out. Doesn't happen so much anymore because I'm a lady (mostly), but I want to remind myself of how shitty it is to wake up and think, Huh, how did I get into these pajamas? And how did I get this injury? And where did this taco come from?
3. Being unable to deal with unexpected and dramatic situations. When the night dissolves into drama, as it sometimes does (though rarely these days), being wasted and upset makes me resort straight to crying. That's pretty lame.
4. HANGOVERS. Specifically:
          a. Pounding headaches
          b. Being so dizzy it's hard to walk
          c. Severe dehydration
          d. Feeling like you want to PUKE EVERYWHERE, for HOURS
          e. Being unable to sleep because you are in so much pain
          f. Not being able to do anything but lay around all day because moving causes waves of nausea. That is a waste of a perfectly good day! Plus, weekends are meant for relaxation and fun, NOT the constant threat of barfing.
5. The feeling of being too drunk and not in control of myself. I don't like that.

Luckily for me, this stuff doesn't happen much anymore. Mostly I just have a few nice drinks with my friends and get a little happy buzz going on. But every couple of months, for some absolutely unknown reason, I seem to feel the urge to PAR-TAYYYY and end up paying a pretty big price (see 4. HANGOVER). But hopefully the NEXT time I say, "Let's go out and get drunk tonight!" someone will wag their finger at me, shove this list in my face and say, "Read this, you MORON." Let's just hope that Good Decisions for the Future hasn't already fled the building.

Sangria + a bag = Profit!

"You know what we should do?" I ask.
"What?" Julie responds.
"Sell this sangria in a bag."
"Brilliant! This sangria is so good. It will be like an adult capri sun!"
"Yeah, we would have to charge like $50 dollars though because after we buy all these glasses of sangria for $6 we probably won't even fill up a bag... we need to make a profit you know."
"That's not really BARGAIN alcohol though, that's kinda what we were going for... We will have to ask the restaurant to sell it to us at a good price. Or we could make it ourselves."
"Are you kidding? We can't make this. Nothing could compare to this. We are amateurs."
"Ahh, you're right."
"We would have to empty out a bag of boxed wine and pour the sangria in."
"We should probably just drink the wine then, rather than dumping it out."
"That's very economical."
"I know."
"We could call it 'bagaria!"
"...Uhhh... we'll work on the name."
"Fine." I say. Bagaria is a great name! She doesn't know what she's talking about. It's better than Claire's idea for a name... "Sag." Yeah, right.
"Remember when we ordered a whole pitcher of sangria at Salvador Molly's for just the two of us?" Julie asks, reminiscing.
"Remember when we paid for a whole box of wine with just quarters?"

Back when Claire and I were living in Tualatin and Julie lived in Lake Oswego, Julie would come over and we would have wine nights. Unfortunately, that night we were out of wine. We sat dejectedly at our kitchen table, trying to think of a solution.

"...How many quarters do you guys have?" Claire asks. Our eyes light up and Julie begins to empty out her purse while Claire and I rush to our rooms and collect as many quarters as we can find. We then drive 2 minutes to the Fred Meyers, grab ourselves some Chardonnay in a box (because we're classy like that), and rush to the self check-out. We figure that it would be more polite to pay for the box of wine in quarters ourselves rather than make some poor check-out person do it.

So we start shoving the quarters in the machine, but it doesn't take long before we realize...
"The thingy isn't taking our quarters!" Julie cries mournfully.
"Yes, it is, but like only every other time... look," Claire says, shooting a quarter in with her finger. It falls through to the coin return. Then she shoves another one in, and it stays.

We all look at each other, then start shoving in as many quarters as we can, grabbing from the Ziploc bag we filled and alternatively from the coin return as quarters shoot out, the poor little rejects. Unsurprisingly, this process takes much longer than it would normally, as we are paying $12 with coins and only half of them are actually being accepted. We are uncontrollably giggling as we continue with our frenzied attack against the self-checkout machine, making a huge racket.

We all look up as we hear a sales clerk comes over, stare at us for a few seconds, then states, "Wow, you girls really want that wine."

"Yes ma'am. We really do." Claire says. We all grin at her, then return to our assault against the coin sucker. After about 5 whole minutes of this, we are finally successful in paying for our boxed wine, and we indulge in our reward for such fine, hard work.

Anyways, I actually need to mention that a place in Portland already makes Sangria In A Bag... Hoorah for Portland! Did I mention how much I love this ridiculous city?

Tooth Torture: The Story of How I Escaped Being a Hillbilly and Other Dental Horrors

"Oh, I can feel you are tensing up when I get around this area," the dental hygienist says, poking the gum around my front tooth. "Don't worry, the crown won't fall off." I resist the urge to reach up, snatch his metal torture sticks out of his hands, grab the front of his shirt and yell, "Well stop touching it then, little man! YOU know my dental history! YOU should know how I feel about this! GET. AWAY. FROM. THERE." Then I shoot him in the eye with his little water sprayer and shove the air sucker up his nose.

I instead make a non-committal noise, as his hands are still stuffed in my mouth, and close my eyes. I may have slight PTSD from previous dental experiences. But there have been far too many of them for me to escape without developing some sort of irrational fear. It all started with a surgery on the skin between my two front teeth when I was in middle school. I had to miss school for a few days while my mouth was healing and I was on pain medication. I cuddled with a purple teddy bear to get me through it. Then I had a root canal on a dying front tooth (which, if you don't know, is when they drill up into your tooth and take the nerve out. Not pleasant... and surprisingly bloody), then I got the crown on that same tooth. Then braces. Then I had my wisdom teeth taken out, and I think most people can agree that this is a crap-tastic experience.

Then, last summer, my dentist found out that three of my molars were decaying under the sealant that had been on there since I was a child, and I underwent four hours of cavity filling, in which I had to be re-numbed three times because one was so deep. Three. Goddamn. Times. This is something I would not wish on anyone, not even Justin Bieber, not even Rush Limbaugh... maybe. But that guy does deserve a massive wedgie at the least. Anyways, I am laying in the chair having to deal with a deep vibration coming from the drilling tool; it is uncomfortably rattling my brain around so that I have to close my eyes because they might jiggle right out of their sockets. Then suddenly a shooting, electric, overwhelming pain zaps through my whole body from my tooth and I flinch horribly... and that is the moment when I think, "No wonder so many people died from tooth problems before there were anesthetics! I would rather die than let someone continue doing that." And this happened THREE TIMES. By the end of it I was so tense, bracing myself for another Zap of Horror, that I had fingernail marks in my palms and I was sweating from how fast my heart was racing. Just when I would start believing that the anesthetic was actually working and start to relax a little bit, ZING! "DON'T GET TO COMFORTABLE," the pain was screaming at me, "BECAUSE I WILL RUIN YOU WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT." It nearly did.

But the reason I cannot stand someone messing around with my crown is because that tooth stars in some of my worst nightmares. I have had horrendous dreams about my front tooth falling out. In middle school a kid smacked my tooth with his elbow in volleyball and consequentially murdered it. The root canal done afterwards couldn't save it from turning a sickening grey color, so in the summer before my senior year of high school it was decided that I would get a crown.

This didn't seem so bad at first; they took a mold of my real tooth so they could have a model to build my new one from before they drilled my front tooth down to a stub. Then they placed a slightly rubbery, fake tooth around the stub, which looked pretty much like my real tooth, to temporarily hold the spot where my real crown would be while they constructed it. It took about two weeks to make the smooth, beautiful crown that would look exactly like my real tooth and stick there (hopefully) forever. But those two weeks in between were HELL.

The first time the fake tooth fell out, I cried hysterically and shut myself in my room, because I had made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror and learned to NEVER, under ANY circumstances, look at my tooth stub again. "I'M HIDEOUSSS!" I screamed to my mom through the door, but the missing toothy parts made me have a slight hiss when I spoke. "I look like a HILLBILLY!" It was truly a scarring experience, and though I imagine my mom was laughing on the inside, she kept it cool in front of me. The image of my face in the mirror with the tiny tooth stub is still burned into my memory like a sunspot... I can almost see the hay sticking out of my hair and the denim overalls as I ride a cow to pick up the newspaper.

The second time it fell out, I was working my shift at the local Dairy Queen. I was horrified. I felt it coming loose while I was making someone a blizzard. No no no no, not here! Not now! Not in the peanut butter cups! But I knew it would be falling out at any moment, so I frantically rushed to my purse, grabbed my retainer and shoved it into my mouth. Thankfully it held the fake tooth in place long enough for me to finish my shift and barge into the dentists office for a second time, demanding a new tooth-stub cover with a slight tone of hysteria.

It fell out one more time before I got my final crown put on. This time when I went to the office to get a third temporary tooth, I was on the verge of tears and of going slightly crazy. I felt constantly paranoid and twitchy and was careful not to eat ANYTHING that would disrupt it, sure that it would fall out at any time and I would be left looking like a freak yet again. "WHERE'S YOUR COW?" I could hear townspeople yelling already, "DID IT GET LOST IN THE COTTONSEED? OR DID YOU KILL IT FOR IT'S HIDE?" Stupid townspeople, cows don't play in cottonseed, GROW UP. There is only so much time I can spend looking like a hillbilly, and I had exceeded my life limit in those two weeks.

When I finally got my crown put on, I was cautiously relieved. As the days went on I realized that this tooth was here to stay, and I slowly became more confident that it wouldn't be popping out at any random time. This tooth is a BAMF, this tooth has my back, this tooth will not desert me! But since that time I have had dreams where I am thrown into a state of panic as I feel my tooth fall out and I wake up clutching my mouth in horror.

So YEAH, Mr. Dental Hygienist, even though you are probably totally correct in your assessment that I have nothing to worry about in regards to my crown jumping ship, I can't help but be completely and irrationally paranoid when you go poking around my cure for hillbillyism. Just leave it alone! It's doing a great job; I'm so proud of it that I just sucked my lips inside of my mouth to give it a backwards kiss. It's not every day someone gets one of those! Well done, tooth!

In the Heart of the Gorge

I never knew how interesting it would be to look at my city from a tourist perspective. The other day my boss, my co-worker and I took the day off and went on a "company-wide outing." I had found some discount tickets for the Heart of the Gorge tour through the Portland Spirit and convinced Rachel that we should use them for some bonding time, to which she agreed. For some reason I had assumed that we would be on the actual Portland Spirit, a nice little cruise ship that goes up and down the Willamette, but when we got there we realized that we would instead be on a jet boat called The Explorer, with speeds up to 45 mph. Our little group and another couple were the only people from Oregon on the boat; Everyone else was from other cities, like Austin, Texas, or even other countries; there were three girls traveling together who were from France, Switzerland and Thailand. I then realized that this was a very tourist-y activity for us to do; I don't know how I didn't realize that before, but we decided to just roll with it.

In true Portland fashion, just as we were beginning the boat trip we had to stop and wait for a moment while the captain called the police; someone was hanging off of the wrong side of the waterfront railing over the Willamette River. He may have taken the "Keep Portland Weird" motto a little too seriously, but I've seen weirder. One time during a single lunch hour I saw a midget in a suit, a man carrying two parrots, and a guy holding a fishing pole with a plastic cup hooked to the end, holding a sign that said "Fishing for a buzz" while wearing a toadstool hat. Also, one time an old dude asked me out to lunch because I said "Hi" to him on the MAX (I politely declined). ALSO, someone once begged me to marry him while I was walking by to catch my bus. "Will you marry me? PLEASE??" I said, "No, sorry." Hopefully he wasn't too put out. One time a woman walked by my house yelling, "He'll be sorry he cheated on me! I poured bleach on all his clothes, that'll teach him!" as she dropped the ruined clothes all over the neighborhood. The guy came by later with another girl (the mistress?) to pick up his "wannabe gangster clothes" (his words, not mine), cussing and shaking his head the whole time. This city baffles me less and less the more time I spend here. Does that mean that I'm getting weird too? I DID spend last Sunday sitting on a blanket on my lawn drinking mimosas with Claire. But that's not weird, that's just awesome.

The St. Johns Bridge.. the prettiest bridge in Portland!

Anyways, as we floated up the Willamette River through downtown, our tour guide talked all about each different bridge and some of the city's history: the three towns that eventually banned together to make the Portland we have today; the brothel owner who had her business on a boat because that was technically not within city limits, where prostitution was prohibited; the incident where two streetcars didn't realize the bridge was up and crashed into the river below. However, what I found most interesting was the story about crimping, or shanghaiing.

There was a point in the river where a large tube was sticking out into it. "That there is one of the only remaining entrances into the underground tunnel system that Portland used to use. The tunnels came straight from the docks and went to the basements of many of the businesses and shops in downtown; it was much easier to bring merchandise to the shops this way, rather than trying to bring them up and navigate them through all the streetcars on the roads above." The tour guide explained.

However, it was quickly discovered that not only could these tunnels move products, but people as well. At this time in history there was a huge shortage of able-bodied men because of the war as well as the gold rush, so to bring sailors aboard, the captains resorted to "crimping," or kidnapping men and forcing them onto ships using the underground tunnels. Most of the men were taken from bars in the middle of the night. And, the most incredible part was that this was LEGAL! No one criminalized it because the ships needed sailors THAT BAD. And once the men were on the ship, it was illegal to leave it during a voyage; if they did, they could be incarcerated. Portland became one of the most popular cities for crimping on the West Coast.

I know there is a bar in downtown Portland called the Shanghai, and they offer tours of these underground tunnels upon request. I think I'm going to have to contact this bar and report back on more details I discover about this crazy-ass practice.

As we went further down the Willamette River, we left downtown and began going through the industrial areas of Portland, including all the ship yards. From this point out, this trip baffled me with the incredible things humankind has invented and built. Ships alone are an impressive feat, especially ones as huge as those that are docked in the Port of Portland. To work on and repair these ships, someone invented this sort of air dock; huge boxes of metal shaped in a U so that the boat can ride into it, where the metal boxes are pumped with air, lifting the boat right out of the water to grant easy access to every side of the ship. Who thought of that?! Brilliant!

The tour went up the Columbia River and ended in Cascade Locks. Since the fourth grade, I've heard about the lock system on the river when we did our Oregon History unit, and this just topped off my human-invention-fascination that I had been experiencing that day. We actually went INTO the locks! Okay let me explain: they have created dams on the Columbia River for one reason or another. To get up beyond these dams, boats go into this chamber which is filled with water and let out on the other side when the water is equal to the river.

So that is what we did. Our little jet boat slowly entered the chamber, which was HUGE. These massive concrete doors, probably 100 feet high, admitted us into this enormous concrete box measuring 665 feet long by 84 feet wide. We went into the chamber and the doors shut slowly behind us, trapping us in. The damp walls rose up eerily on either side of our little boat. The vastness of the chamber and the high concrete walls trapping us in made me feel as though we were awaiting some terrible fate. Then we sat. We waited. And suddenly, we were rising. Millions of gallons of water flooded into the chamber from somewhere underneath us, and in about 10 minutes we had risen 75 feet and were floating at an equal level to the river on the other side of the walls. As impressive as that was, it was a relief to be up in the sunshine again with only a few feet of concrete separating us from the open air.

The door shutting us in!

The same doors, after we floated to the top.

 

From there we went just into Cascade Locks, had some lunch, then headed back. If you feel like you would like to experience Portland in a different way, I would suggest this tour. It was really informative, and since I've only been living in Portland for a few years it was nice to actually learn about the history involved. Now I feel like I know my city a little better, and even though this place is a little crazy, I do love it dearly.

I am what I am and I am a writer!

Do you ever just sit down, put your head in your hands, and think, What the hell am I doing with my life? Where am I GOING?

I do. All. The. Time.

I want to be a writer. A REAL writer. But I don't really know how to go about doing that. There are no clear steps to becoming a successful writer, so I figure it's just about throwing stuff out there and seeing what happens. Kind of like this blog. If I pretend to be a writer, maybe I will actually become one.

Like my boss. She is a lawyer. Many years ago when she was first starting out, she would take any case she could get, but she really wanted to be an immigration attorney. One day, someone called her and asked, "Are you an immigration attorney?" And she said, "Yes. Yes I am." Even though she had never taken an immigration case in her life and knew basically nothing about it. But because she SAID she was an immigration attorney, she stepped into the role of BEING one, and then she was.

So maybe I'm going to have to start doing that. Hi, I'm Ashley. I'm a writer.

Also what I've noticed about writers, and people in general, is that if you feel invested in them, you tend to want to keep up with them. Take, for example, the Bachelorette. When I first start watching the Bachelorette, I think: Ha ha, this is such a ridiculous show, let's watch these men all fight for a girl they barely know. Let's see what kind of crazy-ass drama will happen to this girl, because what a weirdo to put herself in this position.

But then I start to have feelings. After I watch the show for awhile, I get to know this girl. I've watched her struggle through the chaos created by inevitable assholes that try to sabotage her quest for love, I've seen her get all giggly and excited about some of her suitors, I've laughed with her as she's put her boys in ridiculous situations just to see how they react (making rap videos, playing games of dodgeball, pretending to be cowboys... you know, normal date things). (Sidenote: I always think that it would be a really good idea to put the contestants in real-life situations. I mean, of COURSE you will fall in love if you are surrounded by hot men and you are travelling all over the world together. There is the drug of being in love, and THEN there is the drug of travelling, and both give you a high and make you feel giddy and excited. I say they should see how these guys deal with stressful situations, because THAT'S when you find out someone's true character... have someone steal the girls purse, or have their car break down, or have someone throw tomatoes at them. You know, real life stressors.) I've watched her make out with all the hot boys and try to imagine myself in her position. I watched her heart break when the guy she thought she loved left the show because he didn't feel the same way. I've seen her joy and her tears, and by the end I am crying in happiness with her when she finally chooses the man of her dreams.

Damn you, ABC. How did you make me care so much about a stranger on a dating show? Because you grabbed my head and forced me to sit in front of the TV and learn about the stranger. And then she was no longer a stranger to me, she was like a cousin who I just wanted to see succeed in life. I just want Desiree to be happy.

The point of this story is that once I got to know Desiree, I wanted to see what she did next. So maybe if you feel like you know me, you will want to keep reading what I write. And maybe that's one way that people become successful writers: People want to read your stuff. I'd say that's a success.

But my next question would be, what do people like to read? Are people entertained by these rambling stories I have of my life, or should I actually have a POINT? Some people blog about specific things, like being healthy, or photography, or travelling the world on a panda, but I don't do any of those things enough to be able to write a whole blog about it. What I have are stories about photo wars and tortilla-wrapped protein bars and getting mugged... and you know what? I actually think that's enough. I think that's why people love shows like How I Met Your Mother and Friends, because it's based on people living life and the weird quirks that come along when you bust out on your own with your own friends and own struggles. I know some of my friends get tired of me quoting these shows all the time, but it's because I can relate; I know what it's like to make bets at bars and have terrible dates and fill my wine glass up to the brim after a hard day. I too have friends who would order two pizzas for dinner and drink margaritas at girls night and stay outside wrestling for a football because they are THAT serious about winning. Both of those shows are at set at a time where each person is trying to figure out what the hell is going on in their lives, but really, they are already living the best times of their life. Right now.

So yes, I will write about my random life because everyone needs to be reminded that the future will come, someday you will become the person you want to be, but right now is the perfect time to love what we have going on because someday we won't have this anymore. Right now I live in an amazing city in a house with my friends and I have a job downtown with an incredible boss. I exercise and explore and eat yummy food and drink delicious drinks and party with all sorts of friends and spend fun times with my family, and I think that is all worth sharing. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy experiencing it. Now, I'm about to go eat some yummy tacos so actually this is one instance that my experiencing it and your reading about it will probably not be equal, and to avoid creating any further jealousy I'll just leave it at that!