Where Tedium Goes to Die...

Can I Get You Another Margarita?

sixfiftytwo — Sun, 05 Aug 2012 21:28:17 GMT

The baggage handler outside the hotel graciously loaded her bags into my Volkswagon. Sarah, no doubt as flustered as I was by the chivalry of a man, simply responded with a "ta".

Considering how commonplace a "thank you" is in normal, every day interaction, it took me an exceptionally long time to realize, while I was living in Australia, that "ta" actually MEANS "thank you", and that it wasn't just me feeling that everyone was so anxious to say goodbye. It was quickly unlearned when I returned home.

The adorable luggage boy had opened her door for her to climb in, and she bid him another "ta".

"It doesn't translate," I frankly disclosed once we were underway to the airport. "Ta. He probably thought you were just saying farewell."

Which is a beautiful way to end a lovely morning together of ceviche, margaritas, and some desperately needed time for our souls to intermingle.

Australia is too far away, darling. Love you.

Jesus and Ninjas

sixfiftytwo — Fri, 20 May 2011 20:38:35 GMT

I guess I'm way too trusting of online shopping. I made a few significant purchases the past week, mostly in preparation for my own apartment in a few months, and I got a couple of phone calls afterward.

My credit union ninja protection department flew in, stood in the wind with their cape waving, declared a wrongdoing, and saved me from nearly $1000 of fraudulent charges. And while I admire and respect their protection with desperate heartfelt gratitude, I also wonder if they are in their cube world somewhere, monitoring my account, muttering things like,

"Starbucks, three times in one day??"

"The movies alone again this weekend?"

"How can she spend sooo much at amazon.com every week?"

I don't ever want anyone to know me as well as the Bank Ninjas. I think the government might, but I'm in denial about them. I feel like I pay them taxes every year so I can continue the charade that I'm living below their radar. One can only hope (or turn a blind eye to the conspiracy).

It won't matter after tomorrow, however, because that guy in New York said the rapture is tomorrow at 3pm our time. Which is good, because I'll be asleep.

I hope my seat is close to Jesus... I love him, plus he pours the wine.

sixfiftytwo — Mon, 16 May 2011 11:39:30 GMT

I miss journaling.

The Goose is Getting Fat...

sixfiftytwo — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 18:52:44 GMT

My wonderful mother and her acute sense of what makes me happy... Even after being away from home almost as long as I lived there.

I opened a gift early, from the package she mailed for Christmas. It was a silver anklet, that at it's clasp was a pair of handcuffs.

Dammit, she's awesome.

Honestly...

sixfiftytwo — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 12:00:14 GMT

I just don't have anything to say.

Some Italian for Dinner...

sixfiftytwo — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 19:10:44 GMT

At a dimly lit table at the italian restaurant, my sweety leans over his pasta and takes a bite, having expertly utilized his spoon to twirl the long noodles. We'd just had a wonderful day together in Los Angeles, and it was winding down in a small, intimate booth. I picked up my glass of wine and sipped as I watched him.

And as he concentrated on twirling up another bite, he mumbled in a high pitched italian accent, "Boppity boopy? Bippity boopy bop..."

Having remembered a scene of Family Guy, where Peter thought he could speak italian, our two hours of conversation were sprinkled with random boops, much to my amusement.

He's so cute.

4th and F Street

sixfiftytwo — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 01:05:19 GMT

Stupid pots. They don't hold together, and they are making it very difficult to hold anything else as I make a few final trips to my car. Pressing the down button for the elevator, two lids make a leap for the mauve carpet and land with a clang. I clumsily crouch down to pick them up as the elevator arrives with a bing.

I'm standing at the window, looking down at my beloved city. Cars are passing by, the familiar tops of buildings stand proud in the blazing afternoon heat. I sigh. I've never been so sad to leave a place before. The charming studio looked impersonal and cold with all of my stuff gone. It almost seemed like it had turned its back on me; it's too good for me now, and someone with the fire and excitement to live downtown will inhabit it tomorrow. Good riddance to the girl that's returning to the suburbs.

For a moment my heart sinks. Hadn't I loved this life? Hadn't I meticulously chosen this beautiful spot, grateful that I had the money, had the resolve, and had the exciting saga that seemed perfect for this adventure?

Dammit, there's still food in this refrigerator. Why can't I be strategic and thorough?

It always feels strange toting random belongings away when you leave an old residence for the last time. I leave things that are important for last; a couple guitars, my computer, a box of fragile statuettes and a dried rose that Beuchert gave me the night my dad died. I left Bill Murray for last too, the faux gecko that I tack to random walls to remind me of life in Costa Rica. It's the things that confound me.

I found myself in tears recently, burying my face in the chest of a man I no longer loved, drawn only to his embrace by familiarity. He was moving out of the condo we rented together, and our things, his things, were scattered haphazardly around the living room, the room we toiled over for several summer nights, painting and bickering. Those things, that painting, that couch, that entertainment center, they were just so familiar. And seeing them in disarray, when I'd already started moving on with my life, crippled me with hysterical tears. He didn't know what to do but hold me, like he always did. It seemed to disrespectful to the memory of our life, to see it in such a mess.

But love always ends in a heap, doesn't it?

The city below me, as I looked out the windows of my downtown apartment this afternoon, seemed to charm me and beckon me, to the thrill of my single life, before him. Two blocks away, a community of habitual alcoholics await, regardless of the day, always in that corner of Gaslamp Tavern. I couldn't find that devotion to spirits, but to the community, I pledged my support. I know they are there still, even as I've left, shooting shots, sipping ales, and waiting for... well, for God knows what.

I'll miss it. I'll daydream wistfully now and again about that time I was living the single life, in the middle of everything, learning that I don't need anyone.

But as the lyrics of Jewel found me in my car in my last time pulling out of the parking garage, I realized that this downtown bliss was, indeed, me standing still. I need to move now, for progress, for love, or perhaps only for the sake of momentum.

Crap, I left the shower curtain...

Hoodlums

sixfiftytwo — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 14:48:00 GMT

Through no fault of my own, I'm extremely cognizant of vehicles traveling around me; make, model, color, driver description, number of occupants, etc. This is something that is required of on-duty me, and it's something you really can't shut off.

Stopped at a red light, I partially covered my face and muttered to Perez, "That's an undercover agent in the white sedan next to us..."

He didn't say anything as I stepped on the gas, zooming away from the light at a pace far exceeding the lazy saunter of the neighborhood's posted limit. The sedan immediately changed lanes to follow behind us, and tried to keep up as we pulled into the apartment complex.

"Park here really quick," Perez pointed to vacant spot, and we pulled in, killing the engine. We both giggled, hardly resisting the urge to head back out and screw with the overly suspicious intel guys in the cruiser. A white girl, driving around a mexican guy in her jetta, is CLEARLY a smuggler...

Dorks.

Refresher

sixfiftytwo — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 16:20:32 GMT

Every time I consider my journal, I get such a heavy heart. There are a million reasons why I neglect it lately, none more so than my suffocating and abnormal schedule. Coupled with the idea that I want to spend EVERY free moment with the man in my life, things fall by the wayside. Like playing guitar, authoring my thoughts, or even visiting my expensive downtown apartment.

He wonders sometimes why I haven't written about him, and I don't have a legitimate answer. I guess part of me thinks that if I write, just like I have before, I'll see it fall apart. I love that I have such detailed memories of the last decade, but some of it needs to be forgotten.

There isn't one person in my immediate life that was there last May. Everyone is a new character, save for the pings from facebook. It feels like my memories are lingering, checking in on me from time to time with a clever response to a photograph or update. I suppose relationships can still be forged through this kind of correspondence. I just remember that in Seattle, I used to spend face to face time with people OTHER than coworkers.

The ebb of my circle of friends is pointed and small, though for now, extremely fulfilling...

Swoonish

sixfiftytwo — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 18:23:55 GMT

I wish I could do this last year all over again.

Not to make any different decisions or take things back. But because they were the most colorful months of my entire life, and they went un-authored, un-deliberated, blogless.

I spend every moment with him, learning who he is, dealing with the differences between us. We finally attended church together, something we've been wanting to do for ages. And standing there next to him, worshiping with strangers, the first inklings of home started to set in. I'm in love with California, in love with the job, and can't think of any good reason why I can't take steps toward normalcy. Because uprooting every few years, stumbling through big life experiences on my own, this doesn't seem normal anymore.

I want those other things.

If I could just get over all the crap his skeezy friend tells him about how he shouldn't be with me...

sixfiftytwo — Wed, 26 May 2010 16:14:38 GMT

Sometimes I think we are sent the same circumstance, over and over again, until we finally learn what we were supposed to. Like dating the wrong guy, losing a friendship, or hearing your voice crack at karaoke.

Maybe you're choosing the wrong KIND of man to date.

Maybe this person isn't who you thought.

Maybe you weren't supposed to sing anywhere else besides your shower.

Finding yourself is probably the most uncomfortable, confusing and scary time (or times) of your life. I find that I laugh a lot more, cry like a hormonally charged expectant mother (I'm not), and I get lost in my thoughts so often, people close to me have to ask me kindly to step outside my head.

My phone rang the other night. Glancing down, I saw that the phone calling me was that of my deceased step father. And though I was fully aware that it was probably my mum on the other end of the line, for a quick moment, I forgot. Forgot that February took him.

Only moments later, my adorable boyfriend presents me with a gift. He had no idea that Sock Monkey held sooo much sentiment to me, that my late grandmother had promised to make them for sister and I, though couldn't fulfill that before she was taken from us nearly a year ago. I giggled and laughed as I hugged my present from Perez, but seconds later I burst into tears. The poor guy apologized for the gift, not understanding what was going on with me, horrified that his seemingly thoughtful gesture had upset me so much.

And so that far-away look, the climbing back into my head to consider that I'm once again suspended in entropy, enveloped me. It pulled me away, and just like a lesson I have to learn again and again, I closed up. Screw whoever is there to care about me, I can disappear into these thoughts and be just fine...

Or can I.

Sock Monkey:

My other Monkey:

You're Cute.

sixfiftytwo — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 17:17:13 GMT

There's a cute boy at work.

I thought he was a jerk at first, but it turns out he's just shy. The contrast is endearing from far away. He's a hard worker, intelligent, respected by his colleagues.

He's got a kind smile, freckles for days, and is just an all-around, well made specimen. Kudos, God.

Except sometimes (read: a lot), he says (to himself or whomever is within earshot), in a crass impression of a German accent, "Snausages..."

For no reason.

And I find this so terribly obnoxious and unacceptable that I have pretty much sealed my fate as a spinster. Picky is lonesome.

Final Chapters

sixfiftytwo — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 21:10:04 GMT

Flyboy asked me to join him for sushi. It was my Friday night, I hadn't seen him in a while, and after a tough workout, all I really am craving is something light. We talked for a while, well into after all the other customer's had left the restaurant, and I was starting to realize something pretty paramount.

He's about to leave.

And with his departure, two things become fact. First, it will confirm that our story, spanning from nearly three years ago, is actually over. And second, I will be very much alone.

I crave a clean slate every four years, like clockwork. I'm only into about two years in San Diego, and here it comes again, a little premature. Like everything I've experienced since June, I will just consider the task before me, nod my head, and man up. Just because something is uncomfortable, it doesn't mean you should shy away.

You should watch it mold you into who you are supposed to be.

Hari Hari

sixfiftytwo — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 03:49:38 GMT

Friday night, and I walk in from work at about 7:45pm. It was an 11 hour day, but I don't think I noticed. I do a million right things and one very wrong thing, every single day. Hopefully it will weigh on the right when the review scales tip, and they'll say nice things about the effort I've put in. Because I'm still scrambling around under microscopes, and my-oh-my don't we all have an opinion on it...

I'm excited to be home on a Friday night; in the next 15 minutes, the hari krishnas will parade down my street, banging tambourines and singing whatever it is they sing. I don't know what they believe, and I don't care, I just love when people get together to share something.

I hear them now, off to stand around on the sidewalk and smile...

Hello LJ, my old friend...

sixfiftytwo — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 02:37:32 GMT

I suppose rescinding my voice while I completely lose myself is to be expected. I lost someone terribly important, uprooted what I called home, and climbed up one more wrung at work, all while trying to maintain some sort of semblance of self. This led to many nights with too many beers, much quiet reflection, and a few poor choices that I knew were poor before I made them.

But such is death, such is transition, and we can adapt or we can fall apart.

The highlight of my days, the thing I think about most when I'm in my down time, is this job that found me. It found me, and may actually be the love of my life.

I hope I can grab onto it enough to find my writing voice again.

The therapy value is unparalleled.

Chasing Ghosts

sixfiftytwo — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 06:28:27 GMT

I saw his truck.

I knew it didn't make sense. I had no delusions that it might ACTUALLY be my dad, and I didn't know why, but I had to catch up to it. The blue pickup, tinted windows, speeding down the freeway. I gunned it, swerved around cars, trying to pull in behind it. It was so familiar, and I couldn't figure out why I couldn't reach it.

He finally pulled away from me, when it was my time to exit.

And, for no reason at all, I sobbed aloud, "Dad..."

It's all so ridiculous. Like calling his cell phone and asking mum not to pick up, just so I could call back and hear his voice on his voicemail... Like compiling songs that remind me of him, onto a cd that WRECKS me, while sitting at my desk in a heap, wondering why I can't breathe.

Oh elusive sleep, how I will conquer you tonight with melatonin...

With the songs of my dad looping quietly from the corner of my bedroom...

Imagine, a grown woman, chasing down strangers with her car. There must be a healthier alternative to this realm of grief.

The Finale

sixfiftytwo — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:43:20 GMT

The day was full of firsts, hurts and lasts.

To document it, I took a quick photo of my "office" to share with my pals (this is the crap I have to look at every day):

Wish you were here.

Honestly...

At the office...

sixfiftytwo — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 06:03:58 GMT

There was much dragging of feet and sweating as we made our way down the hill. I was particularly burnt out, having skipped breakfast for a protein bar, thinking no WAY would we hike twice in a short week.

Wrong.

We'd descended for a mile down particularly steep terrain, after three hours of hiking. Finally we made it to a dirt road that was mostly level, with the exception of one massive ditch down the center. I was following behind Chondo and Ben, watching their feet, content with our pace. Then, for absolutely no reason, Chondo stumbled toward the ONE ditch, and slowly fell toward it, mumbling profanities as he gradually slunk into it. Ben and I just watched, out of what may have started as compassion, but just morphed into curiosity...

"Shitshitshit," he muttered, rolling down into the crevasse.

Doubling over ourselves laughing at him, we pulled him out and tried to ask him if he was okay. I was giggling so hard, I don't think I even used words, I just kinda sputtered out, "hrm umma bab?"

A few moments later, descending again, Perez slipped on the only 4 inch patch of mud in the entire valley, and slid ungracefully into the rocks, landing hard. Ben, immediately behind him, laughed out, "Are you okay...", but before he finished, slipped down some sand and skid down the hill on his backside.

Me, being the eloquent friend I am, intended to lend a comforting word. But, instead, I cackled like a chicken, laughing so hard that I had to fight to keep my balance.

Fast forward but two more minutes, and the three of us in the back witness a most fantastic feat. Perez, still shaky from the prior fall, slipped on more rocks below us, and flew (with decidedly anti-gravitational grace) into a tree at the bottom of the hill. Such was his momentum that he actually couldn't free himself for quite a while, a fact that the three of us in the back enjoyed immensely as his expense.

The chuckles that accompanied the rest of our hike almost made me forget how hard we'd just worked, and that I really just wanted a nap...

Here and Gone...

sixfiftytwo — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 02:41:28 GMT

Stomping around the mountains this morning for work, we turned a corner and the wind stopped, upping the temp 10 degrees, and further UNreminding me that it is the holiday season. It's easy not to get swept up in the "I'm alone during the holidays" musings when it feels like summer vacation every day.

I put my friend on an airplane very early this morning, so very thankful for the decade of friendship we have, and the company I got to keep during Christmas. A familiar face in this city (that ISN'T someone that was paid (or is paid) money to co-mingle with me five days a week) is truly fulfilling. It was the first peek out of this dark funk that I've been nursing since arriving back in San Diego. We drove, we laughed, we sipped wine, we held hands, and we talked about everything that two people could ever possibly talk about, all in five days. If I have to be without my family, if I have to be without Torrie and Tommy and if Flyboy never wants to speak to me again, this is the perfect way to do it...

Find someone I adore and be near them.

I don't think I've laughed so much in several years.

That's all I really wanted for Christmas...

sixfiftytwo — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 17:24:38 GMT

The second Christmas ever without my family, and my first on my own.

I've upgraded my traditional lonesome Christmas Eve (with Mexican food and two rented dvd's) to dragging a friend around my fair city, finding some extraordinary oysters, and engaging in long-winded, soul wrenching conversation. I'm pleased with the upgrades. I'd like to add love, a group of friends, or maybe some decorations one day. But for now, I'll cross my arms and sigh at what I've made, and look fondly back at my first Christmas on my own.

Right now, my family is sitting around the adorable Christmas tree in my folks' house, someone is playing Santa and passing out presents, dad is preparing to go peel potatoes for the salad-shooter (Christmas hash-browns are my favorite thing of all time). Every year that I can remember, we'd clean up, get dressed, and head to Grama's house for family dinner with the droves of relatives that would show up.

This is the first Christmas without Grama. And the last Christmas with dad. And the only Christmas left before the grand entrance of baby, which will change the look of Christmas forever (it'll be SO much easier to shop!!!).

I woke up this morning and turned on the television to the fireplace channel, where they play 24 hours of a flaming couple of logs, set to the tunes of yule. It's freezing in my apartment, but the idea of the fireplace makes it quaint and cozy. One year, Joel (sister's first hubby) had purchased the fireplace dvd, but their television was the size of their wall. So instead of quaint and cheery, it looked like a blazing inferno.

I giggled to myself at the memory this morning...

Merry indeed.

Lingering on the Fringe

sixfiftytwo — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 01:58:19 GMT

It isn't lost on me, the humor of following our instructors around through the mountains. We are learning more every day, gaining more and more responsibility. But the picture of the line of us, being led around like ducklings by our mother duck...

Our swearing, moody, tobacco chewing mother duck.

There is no sign of Christmas in my house. No tree, no decorations, no annoying holiday music that suffocates me when I walk into any Starbucks. It's just neutral and unimposing, the way that holidays alone should be. The idea of raising a glass of wine to a tiny tree with three ornaments, late, alone on Christmas Eve makes me want to dance in the highway.

The apartment is feeling a little more like home, but I'm still waking up, a month after moving in, and I momentarily forget where the hell I am. Nobody is next to me, the sun is on the wrong side of the room, and the realization that Flyboy is gone settles sharply into my grog, the way my horrible alarm (or the stupid rooster next door) assaults the stillness and quiet of unconsciousness.

I intend to document more (resolution anyone?), but the universe took to shifting, and there was no room (or motivation) for creating. I write. I just need to remember that I write...

Trudge

sixfiftytwo — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 02:23:55 GMT

It's not as if there is nothing happening... There is so much filed away in the "I totally need to journal this" archive in my head, it's beginning to spill out my ears. But it might actually be too much. The confusion and difficulty of the job is consuming me, and thank God. Because when I leave that place, I have to deal with a new apartment, living without Flyboy, separation anxiety from academy, dad's failing health, sister making adult decisions on her own... I took myself to a movie the other day, thinking a date with myself (and Edward, from "Twilight 2") would alleviate some of the angst. Instead, it just became glaringly obvious that I was at a movie alone, and then I dug the hole deeper. I just wanted to go back to work.

After our hike the other day, the first one of many that we would take together, I found myself worn out, completely unprepared for hiking. Turns out, running around a track six times for the duration of academy does not prepare one to scale mountains... who would have thought?

"If you were falling behind," one of my instructors barked, eyeing me specifically, "Maybe you should reconsider whether this is the job for you..."

The corners of my tired mouth turned down, and my eyes welled up. 'Maybe he's right', I heard my head say.

"You were made for this job," Sutton reminds me, certain that I won't take his advice to heart until I hear it from someone other than him. "Call Shane or someone and have them tell you that so you believe it."

"Okay, that's a good idea," I nod.

I find comfort in the dark, early morning glances at my equally apprehensive training unit companions, as we gear up at our vehicle trunks every morning. They've taken to calling me by my first name (which seems strange after only hearing my surname for so many months), but they draw it out in a southern accent, akin to Forrest Gump, calling his Jenny. It's annoying and sweet, which is how I prefer my peers. We stumble through the mountains together, and sometimes Chondo falls on his ass, and I think he does it on purpose to make me feel better about my perpetual lack of grace.

Re Emergence

sixfiftytwo — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 03:03:44 GMT

Sheesh, where did I go?

I'll tell you where.

From the top of one of the highest peaks in the southern mountain ranges of my fair city, I got cripplingly enamored by the fact that this is my job. Well, the crippling part could have been the four miles of uphill hiking for which I was totally ill-prepared. But still...

Cool(ish) California winter breeze, gently chilling the sweat-drenched hiking gear I'm dolled up in, the slight urge that I really have to pee, but fully aware that I'm at the TOP of a mountain, accompanied by seven men, the longing glance to the tiny bush across the way that I may have to become closely acquainted with shortly.

How can one not be smitten?

It's 8 or 9 in the morning, but I don't care what time it is. The fact is, I'm not sitting at a desk or making coffee or answering phones. I'm here, breathing clean air, getting in a brisk several-hour workout, and proving myself to... well, myself.

The view is quite lovely.

Minus Flyboy

sixfiftytwo — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 00:22:56 GMT

On the count of three, I want us to all chug down this $6.00 shot of "reality".

It goes down smooth at first, but when you start to think about it, I suspect you'll taste fear and sadness, with the rich finish of remorse.

Because, jumping back into the dating scene, after 2.5 years of being in the most incredible relationship I'd ever encountered, makes me want to down anything on a three-count, and just forget that I've made it this far in life, but have yet to find the one thing that eludes me more than fame, financial security and large breasts: Love.

I have to start new.

And I have to start without Him.

For someone who claims to be so independent, I sure spend a lot of time weaving an intricate co dependence with the man in my life.

Despite the big sigh of denial (my forté), I am trying to convince myself that I feel strong and motivated, and that my attitude will indeed determine the amount of resolve I find.

On the flip side, holy shit...

Buckies

sixfiftytwo — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 21:39:42 GMT

A repeated Starbucks conversation I WON'T miss:

Me: Setting enormous iced drink on the bar, "Vente extra carmel frappucino with two add-shots for Amy."

Random Girl: "Is this mine?"

Me: "Who are you?"

Random Girl: "Rebecca."

Me: Sighing, "What was your drink?"

Random Girl: "A tall, extra hot mocha."

Shaking my head, I resist the urge to climb up on bar, smack stupid girl twice, and ask her if the enormous frozen beverage in front of her, with someone else's name on it, LOOKS like a small hot beverage.

Instead, I laugh a salesman's laugh, nearly choking on my humility...

"Oh yes, Rebecca, I see your mocha is coming RIGHT up! (insert fake laugh and open mouth smile) How's your day going so far, friend?"

Gag.