hi, bob.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I went to Hawaii with my grandparents and other extended family for Thanksgiving. It was my first major holiday away from my parents, and though it was kind of scary to be off without them, it was Hawaii... so I pushed through the pain. Grandpa and I took a drive along the Maui coastline one afternoon, stopping at a scenic vista for a photo op. My grandfather was a newspaper reporter and photographer almost his entire adult life, and evidently he was well-versed in 'drive by shootings'. After a few clicks of the Canon, he got out of the rented convertible.

"What are you doing?" I called after him as he took off down the road. He didn't answer me, though it didn't take me long to notice the boy with a surfboard he seemed to be chasing after. A boy, who very well could have been my age... AKA a boy who Grandpa was not allowed to humiliate me in front of.

"Excuse me, young man?" Grandpa waved at him, beckoning him forward. "Yes, you. Come here."

The boy obliged, probably because he was confused, and also because he was maybe a little scared... My grandpa was not a slight man, by any means. He was 6'6", with an intimidating gaze and a gruff voice.

"May we borrow your surfboard for a moment?" Grandpa asked, pointing to the yellow, white and blue board under his arm.

"Huh?"

"Your surfboard," Grandpa grabbed at it, "may we borrow it? Just for a second."

The boy shrugged, handing it over. I watched, in horror- mind you, as Grandpa ambled back toward the car. He propped the board in the backseat, took a few steps back, and said to me, "Smile, Liz. This will make it look like you're a real surfer." He snapped a few photos, trying to get me to smile the best I could, even though I was mortified long after the board was returned. I was still red-faced hours later, reliving the moment at the Thanksgiving luau.

I was 15, and that's what 15 year olds do- they get embarrassed when any member of their family makes a noise, or move, or look- about anything, ever.

This Grandpa I'm speaking of is the very same who told me his appendectomy scar was a bayonet wound from the Revolutionary War. He's the same grandpa who was present for literally every other moment of my life. Who actually thought that I'd be a writer someday- he wondered if I maybe took after him, a little bit. He's the Grandpa who, when allowed to buy me a birthday present (rather than just sign the card Grandma picked out), bought me Tonka trucks. At age 6, I did not like Tonka trucks. I liked Barbies, and tea sets. I had several tea sets... and I had lots of guests so I could have used another... But he bought me Tonka trucks, and I played with them anyway, because he was the one who gave them to me.

Honestly, I would not be who I am today without my grandpa. I would not have gone to the college I went to, I would not drive the car I drive, and I would not have the job I have. I probably wouldn't have the friends I have, either, because I have a sneaking suspicion that half of them used me for access to his pool through most of our formative years.

Grandpa picked me up from school when I was sick, took me to plays and parades and the fair, and had I ever played any sports or done anything like that I'm sure he would have been a fixture in the stands...

My grandparents were my most frequent babysitters, and lived a few blocks away from me for a lot of my life. They bunked with my parents and I for a few months when they were building their new house, and I've spent several Christmas Eves sleeping beneath their tree- including last year. We had mimosas and tequila coffee all before the presents were opened. I was in Heaven.

All my life I have relied consistently and heavily upon my grandparents. Grandpa was a writer for the Herald and as influential as he was in our community- he was more so in our family. He was loud, opinionated, unfailingly sweet and incredibly generous. There are many things in my life... so many that I can't even really count that high... that I have because of him.

On that note, I suppose, I should mention that my grandpa passed away on Wednesday.

It was not expected. He didn't have cancer or heart problems, but he did have trouble with blood clots, so much so that on Wednesday he could no longer hang on.

Oh, God. It's so weird when someone close to you dies. You probably know this already, people go through this sort of thing every day. Every second, of every day. But I've never dealt with this before. My family is fairly small and fairly healthy and I have nothing to compare this to... this feeling.

One minute I was on my way to Coeur d'Alene on a mini-vacation of sorts, and the next I was being shoved into the quiet room; this suffocating little space within Kennewick General Hospital, with chairs lining the walls and multiple boxes of Kleenex strewn about.

Maybe these are the little pieces of life that create grown-ups- as if little bits of childhood are falling away. And here I am, trying again to understand the fact that he was an integral part of my life since it started- that I have never known the world without him in it, and now I have to. 

There's this one short story that I read in one of my creative writing classes, written by Walter Kirn. It's about a father-son relationship and that certain loss of innocence that occurs when a child finally sees their parents for what they are: human. We do this a lot, with friends, relatives, significant others... even celebrities and politicians. We put them on a pedestal and we know that they will never do anything wrong- that they'll never make a mistake... they couldn't. Until they do. And then, when that misstep occurs, when they show that frailty of humanity, the illusion is ruined. And it's devastating.

I don't think I ever had this realization with my grandpa. Sure, he broke more things than he fixed, had the patience of an ADHD-addled 8 year old, and sometimes spoke without actually thinking of what he was saying... but he was still kind of perfect. He was caring, and giving, and always held out a hand if ever someone needed help up.

But what Walter Kirn was talking about is entirely real, and even though my grandpa never lost his superhuman luster in my eyes, when I see blatant displays of emotion I can understand the feeling. It's like the facade is cracking, and beneath my mom, or dad, or grandma, there's a person. A person who isn't alive just to be related to me. A person who had a life before I existed, whose day continues even if I'm not a part of it... I realize this is stupid, but, even now it's difficult for me to wrap my head around.

In that moment in the hospital, sitting with what was left of my family- when we understood that this man who embodied the very blood that was within all our veins was gone- I felt a certain kind of disconnect. It wasn't my mom, or my uncle, or my cousin sitting there. During that small segment of time they were just very familiar people who were completely crushed. And I couldn't handle seeing them like that, so I left.

Driving through town, I really wanted to slam into people's cars. Why weren't they getting out of my way? Didn't they know? Couldn't they tell what had just happened? Why was everyone still carrying on as if nothing was wrong? I realize this kind of thinking is futile and idiotic, but it's where my head was at. My world had stopped- so why hadn't everyone else's?

Grandparents die. I understand that. They're typically a lot older than other members of a family, and as such, they are usually the first to go. My grandpa was 79, that's a decent age. Blood clots are serious- I know all of these things.

But, this knowledge doesn't make it any easier. It still fucking sucks. And for a few days I didn't really know what to do with myself and I still don't know how to act, or what to say. I feel silly, because I know people die everyday... but this is the first time someone's passing has invaded my every thought. He was my grandpa, you know? He mattered to me. He mattered to my family, and maybe he was just some old guy wandering the aisles of Fred Meyer to most, but in my life he played a really important part.

And, again, I know it's stupid and obvious, but being an adult is hard. And if this is what it entails, I'm not so sure I want to be one anymore. Work, bills, and now this shit? Seriously, no thanks.

Wow. This is such a gloomy blog entry, I'm sorry. I'll just leave you with this- the thing that gives me peace: My grandpa was loved, and he loved. And he was passionate about things, and he did what he wanted and followed through with what he promised- and he was a good man. The last time I saw him, 8 days ago today, I told him I loved him- and I meant it.

I will miss you forever, Grandpa, I promise- I have never been so sure of anything I've ever said.

And I will do everything in my power to make sure that I'm the person you always thought I was.

I love you, so, so much. And I want you to know that we will be okay, someday. Different, but okay.

And we'll take care of Grandma.

I love you.

they say i'm crazy but i have a good time

I write a lot. Not just on here, you know. I listen fairly well (when I want to), and more often than not people say funny things without knowing it- so I feel it's my duty to write their words down. Like the time I overheard a girl on her phone, shouting, "I DO NOT HAVE AIDS!" To her, this situation was probably not humorous. But it was to me. Very much so.

Junior year while walking about campus (in front of Avery by the old Bookie, if you must know) I ended up behind a trio of sorority-ites. They were wearing Juicy fits and North Face vests and Uggs... and their hair looked like it had been styled the night before- though after downing an ungodly number of vodka crans and taking part in a sexual hook up that was probably consensual- it (the hair) looked greasy and matted and really pretty...

The girls chatted with each other, perhaps about their thoughts on the Nobel Peace Prize candidates or the latest ΠΚΑ shenanigans, when they saw someone walking toward them. Someone, I assumed, they knew. And liked.

"Ashley! Oh my God where'd you run off to last night!" The girls squealed, giggling with 'Ashley' for a few seconds before continuing on to class. Ashley seemed nice in a, she-looks-exactly-like-them-so-they-must-be-besties, kind of way.

As Ashley hurried out of earshot, one of the girls cackled. "Ohmigawd... I hate her."

"I know," another one replied, "and she looks like she's fucking retarded or something. That face. It's just like, blegh."

My class was in Bryan, so I had to leave my new friends just when I was starting to like them. I hauled my ass up like 27 steps to my Black Popular Culture class (honestly), sat down in the windowless clock tower room, and wrote exactly what I heard. And what they were wearing. Why?? Because these girls would make such good stereotypical college girl characters. And they make really great awful human beings, too.

Mostly I write about things and people that I've created in my mind, and while that sounds vaguely schizophrenic, it's what 'writers' do. And I'm a 'writer'. I tell myself that everyday- I stammer it internally so that maybe one day I'll believe it and lose the quotation marks... so that one day when I tell people about my chosen profession they won't just look at me, staring uncomfortably as if I'd just asked them to star in my latest porn flick.

I was at my parents house last week doing laundry, because it's free there and they have a pool. And, also, sometimes I steal things like food, furniture and jewelry. Anyway, on this particular occasion while I was lounging on the deck, my book got wet. This was really shocking, as even though I was near a body of water, I did not feel myself in danger of being dampened. I guess I was wrong. I tried to rally and overcome, but it became impossible to concentrate because I couldn't read without thinking every other second, "this would be sooo much more entertaining if I could see the words properly..."

It was then that I decided it was probably a good time to do that 'writing' thing I'm so fond of. I nipped down to the basement, where my parents locked me and my things for several years, and dug out some old notebooks.

After a few hours of scribbling in the sun, a gust of wind fluttered the pages, landing me on a free-write completed many a year ago.

For those of you who had normal classes, I will explain the purpose of a free-write. Free-writes are wastes of time that English professor's lean on when they're too high to teach, or for when they're bored. Or both. You sit at your desk, pen to the paper, and write anything and everything that you're thinking. Just as it comes to you. And if you don't know what to write, you write, "I don't know what to write... I don't know what to write... I don't know what to write..." until you do.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is what I 'wrote':

Places that scare me -


Circus
Fair
Principal's office
Large crowds
Airplanes
Crowded buses
Unfamiliar inhabited places


The circus is a frightening place. There are animals and outfits, make-up and beards, people who are not normal but instead are forced to be 'freaks'. Most of all there are clowns- big and small, each as frightening as the last. Elephants strapped and tied, whipped and saddled.


But those clowns. Fuck. What are they hiding? What do they want? Why must someone disguise themselves in ill-fitting, flamboyantly colored pant suits? Why all the make-up? And that HAIR!?! Why do they exist? They have no point.


It smells like a farm/fair/gym. Sweaty people watching parades of livestock, eating their corn dogs & breathing and sweating... in a tent.


I hate Barnum, Bailey, all 3 of the Ringling brothers, though if I saw them on the street I wouldn't know them from Adam... Is that a saying? Would I also not be able to tell Adam? Maybe if he was carrying his rib around, calling it Eve.


My leg is caught in my backpack, and I can't get it loose w/out stopping my writing. And now I'm plagued by the inability to think of anything else while my leg is practically suffocating!! I must try to break free.............


Eureka!


My hand hurts like a bitch. Now where did that saying come from? Are women (or female dogs) apt to cause pain? Oh Eve. I hope the apple was worth it.



I imagine this is how Samuel Clemens' notebooks read. He too was mulling around the horrors of Bozo and John Wayne Gacy, when all of a sudden he came up with Huck. And Tom. And his delightful rants centered around Mormons.

Flipping through the rest of the notebook, I found pages (upon pages) of notes from poetry class. The only reason I enrolled was because it was a requirement for my major. It was almost as exciting as say... a slow death. Or, hepatitis.

One of my best received poems was about The Little Mermaid and Barack Obama. Both of them. Together. He says yes we can, she just wanted to be a part of his world... and something else about whozits and whatzits galore... It seems bizarre now, I guess. I'd type out the whole thing for you, but to be honest it really is quite weird. I also once wrote a poem about Wiley Night, but that was for a different class. You see, this is why English majors are freaks! They make us practically vomit verbiage at all times, no matter how ridiculous... and we let them... because we (secretly) like it.

I'm a stand-back-in-the-crowd-and-watch-people-creepily kind of gal. I have hours of footage from high school stockpiled at my parents house. I tried to watch some a few weeks ago but the camera work gave me motion sickness. Elia Kazan I am not, evidently. Oh, and before my level of creep raises to 'uber' in your eyes, my friends knew they were being taped. Except for this one time Jevon and John set up the camcorder in the bathroom where people were changing into swimsuits... (Sorry ABA.)

When I meet someone, I immediately dissect their personality and actions and posture- wondering if they'd make a good 'fictional' character. When something weird happens to me, I make note of it... just in case.

I didn't turn 16 until the last month of my sophomore year of high school, and even then I wasn't allowed to drive because I was a fucking idiot. My friends usually took pity on me, driving me to and fro, making sure I got to school on time and seeing to it that I wasted just as many hours at the mall as they did. I usually hitched a ride to lunch with them as well, but some days... I didn't.

On this particular occasion, maybe I was late getting out of class. Maybe I didn't want to go to lunch. Or maybe... probably... someone forgot me, or didn't have room in their car... or just didn't want me to go. (You know, I doubt that was the case, because I was like a ray of freaking sunshine back in 10th grade when I was a total loser and had a suffocating fear of being my lame, lame self...)

So, I found myself in the cafeteria with Maci and Laura. We stood in line at the sandwich bar, watching with great interest as our lunch was fashioned before our eyes. Mine was on some delicious Kamiakin-cafeteria-sub bread (seriously it was good), with turkey, lettuce, black olives and cheese. I know... I was pretty bold back then, what with the olives.

We sat by ourselves, most likely pretending to be deep in conversation so we didn't have to socialize with the randos taking up the surrounding area. But then, somewhere in the midst of lunch, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

When this happened, I immediately assumed it was the love of my life finally coming to his senses. I figured he realized that even though he's a senior and like, captain of the football team and President of the school, and even though our only real contact were times he drove me home because he was sort of dating my best friend, and even though our lone moments of physicality were when he would pat me on the head saying, "aw, Liz..."----- that this was his come-to-Jesus moment. And right there in the middle of KaHS, he'd declare his love for me. I figured it was gonna be this kind of serendipitous situación... or that the hand on my shoulder was connected to someone I really fucking disliked- who may or may not also be declaring their love for me. Natch.

Before I could turn to see who was gripping my shoulder with such force (it had to be the love of my life... right?)... two things happened. First, the person gripping my shoulder pulled back, leaning across me. Then, the person (a he, I realized at this point) reached INSIDE MY SANDWICH, pulled out the two slices of cheese, let out a shriek, and ran away.

I stared at my cheese-less sub, looking up at Laura and Maci's expressions, their horror mirrored by my own. You know, they probably weren't horrified. Dumbfounded, maybe. But they weren't the ones whose lunch was just violated. No, my friends, I had to carry that burden all on my own.

Seconds after the sandwich molestation, a woman was at my side. "I'm so sorry!" she said, not actually laughing at this point but seeming like when she told her husband and kids that night, she'd be in hysterics... "Tommy's autistic... and sometimes he just can't control himself around cheese!"

I think I nodded or something, completely disgusted. I never ate a sandwich in that cafeteria again, and I really love sandwiches, so, it was a huge blow. It's not that he stole my cheese- he stole my peace of mind.

So I wrote about him. The moment is forever immortalized in a notebook, and now, in the ether.

One day, if you're reading a book or watching a movie or something... and an autistic cheese bandit steals the scene... you'll know I was the one behind it. Either that or someone lifted it from my blog. I have a feeling Aaron Sorkin stalks my every word, so, we'll see.

Oh, and if you see anyone in your likeness, who's saying the things you've said, have no fear. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. :)

mathi, can you hear me?

Sixteen years ago I transferred to Ridge View Elementary, having spent kindergarten through second grade at a school called Lincoln. Looking back, I'm not entirely sure why this happened as my family didn't actually move into the Ridge View boundaries until the last month of fifth grade... I was an illegal alien, living in the squalor of Benton City, using my grandparents address in order to obtain a better education. And by a better education I guess I mean surrounded by fewer poor people.

On my first day of school, my mom escorted me to class. I think she made a habit of this because a.) I am an only child and she has nothing else to live for, and b.) I probably would have cried without her there. I wasn't much of an independent spirit back then...

We stood in line outside Mrs. Stewart's room, squinting in the glaring 9 AM sun. I squinted a lot in my youth, mostly because I thought sunglasses were for bitches. I was wearing some sort of denim dress ensemble, and my hair had recently been BUTCHERED by the very woman who stood by my side, assuring me I'd be okay at my new school- even though I had no friends whatsoever. I knew she was wrong, though. How could I make friends with terrible hair?!?

It was then that I saw her. About 4'9", blonde hair with bangs I would have killed for... wearing Umbro shorts. You know, those one soccer shorts with the shiny squares? I didn't play soccer, but I always wanted a pair of those shorts... because they were sporty and popular, two things I desperately wanted to be.

Maci, or Megan, back in those days, was way too cool for me. In truth I wanted to be her friend, but I masqueraded this desire rather well by acting outwardly hateful. I started a club (The Rainbow Star Club), and didn't invite her to join. I made her friend, Jennifer, cry. *I'm still not really sure how this transpired, and she ended up changing schools so I never really got to apologize. I'm also about 64% sure I am not the reason for the transfer... And even though I was horrible... it's not like she was inviting me to sleepovers, or wanting to be besties... or being kind, at all.

It seems she didn't like me, either. Says I was 'bossy'. Pshaw.

She sucked up to the teacher, something that I was VERY good at and took VERY seriously. I'm sure she did this to spite me. I caught her (along with John), washing ink residue off stamps one recess. I furiously beat on the window, stuck outside in the sunshine, wanting to be inside kissing ass... They laughed at me from the comfort of Mrs. Stewart's good graces.

Maci hated me so much, in fact, she tried to sabotage the rest of my tenure at Ridge View.

During the last week of school, we were instructed to request which teacher we preferred for the next year. For some reason, at this point in time, Maci and I were desk-mates. "Who do you want to be your teacher?" I asked.

"Mr. Burr. My brother had him, and he is SO mean," she sneered. I don't know if she actually sneered, but, let's just go with it. "I don't even want to be in that class, my parents are making me. I want to be in Mrs. Martin's. She makes snow cones every week."

"Oh..." I said, nodding. I did like snow cones... "He's really mean, though?"

"Yeah. Who are you requesting?"

I thought for a moment. A year full of snow cones was tempting. "Mr. Burr," I said smugly. Her face fell. I was going to make her life hell if it was the last thing I did.

By 4th grade, Maci and I had become friends. This was less because we had a shared liking for each other and more because we didn't know any of the other girls in class. And what brings people together better than mutual hatred? Nothing, that's what. We sat by each other during specials, hung out at recess, and soon we were eating lunch at each others desks, having sleepovers every weekend and being cruel to others whenever the chance arose.

We bonded over the Spice Girls, even though she always hogged Baby Spice. I was forced to make up my own 'Spice', because Caitlin was Posh, Nikki was Sporty, Bonnie was the other Baby (even though we all know there's only one!)... I didn't want to be Scary, and we all know how much I loathe Gingers. So I was relegated to something reminiscent of Anonymous Spice. Lame. We had an intense love for Hanson, and while our obsession was not quite to Bieber-fever levels, we cut up our fair share of Tiger Beats. She liked Zac, I liked Taylor- and because of them and their stylish ways we decided it would be cool to wear like, 14 necklaces. Stacked on top of one another. Tangling together so ferociously that we had to cut them off... Maci and I also collected Beanie Babies, and by collected I mean we hoarded them. Hundreds of them. We stood outside Hallmark and waited for them. We played with them at recess, we brought them to sleepovers and we built homes for them in extra desks posted around Mr. Burr's classroom... What a fucking waste of money.

And, also, I think Maci liked the fact that I was an only child and had pools and tent trailers at my disposal. In fifth grade I moved onto her street, and we were inseparable. Her family took me to Sun River, and I only cried hysterically because of homesickness for like, the first four nights. We rode bikes, and rollerbladed, scootered, and hopped the fence to Ridge View to play on the twirly bars. She even went and got my mom when my shorts got caught on the chain link and I was stuck, dangling four feet off the ground...

We made 'the goop of summer' which was a mixture of lotions, spices, grass, dirt, and more... We wrote with it on the street in front of my house, and the message "GOOP OF SUMMER" was stained on the asphalt for about four months. My mother was less than thrilled.

She introduced me to Jevon (something I'll never forgive her for), and together we mourned the loss of the tree farm behind her house. We always had plans to build a totally awesome fort, but they cut the farm down in favor of old people houses before we had the chance.

We'd walk to and from middle school every day and though it was only a mile, the way we bitched about it you'd think our parents were making us jog to Spokane and back. Sometimes we'd play our instruments on the way home, something I'm sure the neighbors appreciated greatly.

Freshman year of high school, we had the humbling experience of riding the school bus and being complete losers. Maci was an experienced rider, having been on the route in kindergarten. She tells a story of this one time when the bus driver forgot to let her off. She stared silently out the window, bangs taking up half her head, her mother running frantically after her. Poor little Deep Throat... Oh, that was her nickname when she was a small child. Evidently young Maci was a bit of a baritone.

Once we got our licenses we spent the majority of our time driving around aimlessly, usually ending up at the mall, AKA Mecca for all 'cool' teens. We weren't cool, but we hung around the food court enough that we may have, kind of convinced some people that we were. There were six of us girls, and this posed a problem since all of our cars only comfortably sat five. Naturally, this meant someone had to be in the trunk. On one particular occasion, Maci was delegated to the trunkal region. We stopped at the Bank of America in the mall parking lot, needing to use the ATM, when we noticed a car full of boys at the nearest stop light. These weren't just any boys- they were cute, foreign ones that went to our school, one of whom Maci was harboring an all-consuming, fanatical love for.

"Megan, we're here!" Bonnie yelled, unlatching the trunk. Maci came busting out, hands in the air- scaring the shit out of the boys looking our way. One actually screamed. And then they laughed at us. Or should I say, her... because I wasn't really doing anything other than getting money with my parent's debit. Like any 16 year old girl would have been, Maci was mortified. And like any 24 year old girl, I find it quite funny, now. She slinked back, lying down on the floor of the trunk. It was a '93 Corolla, and not the roomiest of hideouts, but she stayed there until we coaxed her out in the Barnes and Noble parking lot.

Maci is an interesting girl. Her nose flares when she laughs. She spends countless hours picking at her hair. She doesn't really listen when you're talking to her, and she likes to interrupt anyone at anytime. She cries when she sits in a chair and it breaks, but this is mostly because she had a terrible day and it was snowing and Jevon ruined everything (as he always does).

Oh, and some of you might be wondering why we call her Maci. It's simple really, as Maci is her dogs name, and Maci (the girl) has an unnatural obsession with Maci (the dog). With dogs in general. She almost never interrupts them.

My girl Maci was my roommate in college, and is my roommate now. It's fun because sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and digs for diamonds. Or rearranges her entire room. Or searches her bed for spiders. She's usually not aware of this, but Scott keeps me up-to-date with her latest midnight shenanigans, that is when he's not 'accidentally' sleeping in my room.

Maci waters my plants. I mention this because I didn't actually know she did this until very recently. I thought I had a magical fern that was desert-bred and needed water only but once a biennium. Now I know the truth... she's been watering it in secret since the day I brought it home. Maci's always taking care of things when I'm too manic to help myself. She has extra keys for when I lose mine. She knows the non-emergency number and she calls it when people try to break in through my bedroom window and murder me... though I guess I'm a little offended she considered this a 'non-emergency'...

It is not Maci's birthday today. Maci shares her birthday with Hitler and celebrated it a little more than a month ago. She didn't celebrate for Hitler, mind you, just herself. In fact, today is nothing special in the realm of Maci's world... But I wanted to write about her, none-the-less. Maci the girl is moving on Monday, to a land far, far away... and I am devastated. Who will I drink with every night? Who will hum along to the Sex and the City theme song with me? Who will buy garbage bags, because I sure as hell don't know where they're located in the myriad of aisles in Target.

I'll miss you Maci the girl. Neibs. Meegs. Moe Soup. Mace of Base. Mathhiiiii.

Grrbye, Mathi. You'll do wonderfully, and before you know it you'll be my roomie once again! I love you, and I'll miss you. And I'll make sure to remember to lock the doors. And I won't leave lights on when I'm not in the apt. And I really hope I don't get murdered before you get back...

Lurve ganats and hoors.

"Well that was a stupid choice." - Maci

no real problems we needed to drown, but we tried our best anyway

There are a few things that come with being an 'adult', like paying bills. Being responsible for one's actions, ie: actually fessing up when you hit someone's parked car. Having a job, or at least convincing someone that you should be compensated monetarily for the shit you do.

Adulthood is fun, I hear... but I still find myself missing college. I miss Pullman and the general feeling of debauched energy that rings through the air there. I miss people yelling obscenities my way as I shuffle down the sidewalk. I miss Wileys, Stubbys, the Ladder and all other means of over-consumption made available to Cougs. I miss my weekly tumble down B Street. I miss being six minutes from Idaho (not).

Mostly... I miss day-drinking.

Day-drinking, for those who are no fun whatsoever and don't know..., is drinking during the day. Preferably mid-week, when you should be doing something else, like going to class (or work...). Day-drinking happened to me quite often in college, because I went to WSU and to keep us numb to the complete and utter isolation we consented to by going there; they laced our water with vodka. Just kidding. Actually, I arranged my schedule one semester so that I only had classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And that ingenious course management, my friends, put me in prime position for day-drinking.

Once you're an adult, day-drinking doesn't generally occur unless you're taking secret pulls at work. If you're doing that, more power to you I guess, but for most of us drinking on the job is a fire-able offense... or at least frowned upon. So instead you're stuck sitting in your cubicle, day-dreaming of day-drinking in the sunshine-y outdoors on a Tuesday afternoon.

Or, in my case, you're actually drunk at 3:00 PM on a Thursday.

It all started when my friends Paul and Derick came back to town. One's in dentistry school and the other is off to Harvard Med in the fall. I know what you're thinking, but don't worry. They don't feel weird around me in the least, what with all my post-college successes... They're both really secure in themselves and the choices they've made thus far.

Since I don't work on Thursdays we all went out for drinks Wednesday night, hatching a brilliant beyond brilliant plan. We decided we would congregate again, the next day, and drink. Hey now, I didn't say it was a complicated or intricate plan. I merely stated its brilliance... and you can't deny that.

Who doesn't love drinking during the day!?

I woke up Thursday morning, vaguely remembering the conversation and our (brilliant) plan. It was already 11 and I hadn't heard anything from anyone except my mother, so I went into the kitchen and broke my coffee maker. (Btw- I didn't break my coffee maker because my mom's the only one who cares to see if I'm alive on a daily basis... though I could see why this fact would push someone over the edge. I broke it because it fucking sucks at making coffee and stuff.)

After throwing it (rather violently) into the dumpster, I wrote off the day as a bust. Angrily decaffeinated, I marched myself out to the patio, where the sun was shining even though the day was completely fucked... I scowled out over the golf course with a book in my hand, hoping that at least one polo/visor wearing asshole would hit himself in the head with his own club.

At about 2:00, I got the call. Paul and Derick were on their way.

Three minutes after their arrival we took our first shot. Looking back I'm a bit surprised they didn't hand me a double as I opened the door, as that is typically their style. I may have balked a bit at Paul's heavy handed pouring, to which I received what I can only categorize as a murderous stare. Since college, I'm not so much of a shot taker... I like drinks that taste nice and don't burn. Unless we're talking tequila, in which case... dame. (That's Spanish for "give me" rather than me just typing a synonym for lady, in which case I most certainly would have written, 'broad'.)

"Hey, so, what school did you go to, Booze?" Paul asked. It wasn't a real question. He and Derick knew very well what school I attended, as Paul visited me there a number of times and Derick is also an alum. Anytime my friends ask this particular question, they aren't looking for an answer. They're trying to shame you into drinking more... because obviously if you went to a school like WSU, you can handle a shot of vodka. Or as it turns out, four. In like, an hour.

Thirty minutes later, Derick had secured a bocce ball set, and Paul's friend Sarah joined us (as an alum of LCSC, she too was coerced into taking shots) for a battle royale of bocce fun outside my apartment. It should be mentioned that I am awful at sports, bocce-ish activities included. I'm not very competitive, I don't usually know the rules and I get anxious when people take games seriously.

Also, one time in seventh grade, I got hit by a softball on the shoulder during PE. I fell down and was pretty sure I was dying. Then to add insult to injury, one of my classmates yelled, "Hit her again!" I like to think he was joking... but he wasn't. He's just a dick.

Anyway, I always pity anyone who's stuck on my team. So I felt really bad for Sarah... and then Paul... and then Derick. Yeah. They probably did this so they'd all be equally handicapped when I was by their side.

I'm just inept. And also... I was drunk.

-There was the time I launched the ball onto the green and Paul and Derick refused to set foot on the fairway...
-A bit before that I heaved it as hard as I could and it hit a tree... and landed three feet from us.
-Toward the end of the game I thought it'd be awesome to toss it over the little river thing near the third hole. Paul said, "No offense, Booze, but I think that's a bad idea." I disagreed and he shook his head, continuing. "Have you seen you throw?"

It was at this point in the afternoon that things get fuzzy... I'm about 80% sure that we took a break from bocce, went inside, and poured ourselves a couple drinks. We then returned to the game, I think. Then... things got weird. I was evidently bored with the game, deciding to vent my frustrations with various friends via text:

"Ughhhhhhhhh I got attacked by a pine tree."
"You got attacked? Or did you attack the tree?"
"It was like stealing shoes and balls and shit!!!!!!!!! Ughhhp"

Hours after the bocce fun began, we retreated inside and righted ourselves with more drinks. Sarah went home to change and I decided to make myself look halfway presentable. This was a moot point, though, as by now I was too far gone. I was drunk. I couldn't figure out what clothes to wear. I didn't know where my shoes were. I poked myself in the eye with my mascara, then got pissed at the mascara and stowed it somewhere I have yet to discover. Seriously. I had to go buy new mascara.

Sarah reappeared, but only briefly. She told us that she knew her limit, and she was past it. So she returned home. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN MORE LIKE HER. But I wasn't. I was having so.much.fun. And I was really past the point of making intelligent decisions.

Minutes later (at least it felt that way), we were at Bruchi's. I do not know what I ordered. I'm not really sure if I ate. I was told later that I was, "out of control!" but I am very rarely in control, so this isn't news so much as the usual, for me.

All I know is that an hour and a half later, I was sitting at Lawrence Scott Park, watching a fucking softball game. I hate softball (mostly because of the aforementioned 'hit her again!' business), and I hate it even more when I'm sobering up. For most of the game I tried to figure out who was on what team, and about 20 minutes in I started bitching about the ten-run rule, which evidently does not apply to leisure softball leagues...

After spending much of the first inning losing 2-1, by the ninth our team was winning 40-2. Honestly. They won FORTY to TWO. And I'd venture to say that half our team was drunk.

Darkness fell, finally, and the never-ending game came to a close. The winning team headed to Sam's for a celebratory brew (40-2! 40-2!), and the losers probably went home to slit their wrists because they suck at life, and more importantly, softball.

Once we arrived at Sam's, I didn't want beer. I wasn't in a hoppy place. No... I wanted more vodka. And when they didn't put enough in my drink I was totally all right with that... not because I knew I was practically comatose, but because I had a pint in my purse. I topped off my drink, and offered my services to those surrounding me. Methinks I topped off my drink a few too many times, because before I knew it... the Skyy was gone. (Meanwhile I'm pretty sure I stole the Skyy from Paul, in which case, I owe you... How about a half G of Monarch? :))

After I drained the Skyy, I had a couple brews, to celebrate the victory, you know. And because I don't think I could find the bar and the beer was just, there, on the table... People filtered in, we may have chatted, and reminisced, and I made an ass out of myself (probably) when I went over to a neighboring table and spoke at them for a bit. I should remind that by this time I had been consuming for roughly 10 hours... and I looked it. As in my hair was fucking ridiculous, I'm sure, and my speech was most likely jumbled-at-best. And I wasn't wearing any make up because I was really too drunk to care, and my outfit was only briefly thought out during my post-bocce rush to get ready. So, natch, I was really pretty.

After Sam's (I know what you're thinking... AFTER Sam's? Isn't it midnight by now? Shouldn't you go home? You're especially saying this if you're Lawrence because not 3 weeks ago when I was at his apartment, he was begging for me to leave at this point, becoming surlier by the minute when I didn't oblige...) we went to a little place called Island's Casino, formerly known as Cleo's.

Instead of dabbling in my usual Spanish 21 or...whatever other games they have there, I bee-lined to the bar. I'm wondering now if sometime during the night I peed my pants, because I don't remember visiting the facilities at any of the frequented establishments... hmm. I guess that's a bit of a mystery. Well, anyway, while at Cleo's, I sat with some people and I think I talked... ish. I really don't know what else happened, forgive me. I know there were baskets of food... and I think some people were drinking but I'm pretty sure I wasn't. Who knows?

It wasn't until 2 AM that I started walking home. Really. I was that girl that you saw at 2 in the morning on Gage Boulevard, grinning like a fucking idiot because I was still drunk, all the while admiring the gorgeousness of fake-Richland on a crisp, spring morning. Paul was with me most of the way, until we parted about a block away from my apartment.

I skipped (literally) for a good 40 feet, reveling in the glory of the afternoon-evening-midnight-morning. I tucked myself into bed, got back out of bed and chugged some water, and then set myself into slumber once more. Also... I died a little bit the next day.

All in a good day's drinking, I suppose.


I hear they're coming back in July. I think I'll be ready by then.

cleanliness is next to... what now?

Hi, hello.

I should first and foremost state for the record, that I, Elizabeth C. Moss... am a mess. In a lot of ways, but for right now let's just focus on the fact that my room could have a disaster rating and that I'm not actually sure where my keys are.

I live with a boy now. I know, whoa.... slow down, lady. I should preface that with: he's not my boyfriend. Actually he's my roommate's boyfriend, but my roommate's moving out, so soon it'll just be Scott and I. Roomies. Soon to be besties... probably.

I've never lived with a boy, other than my dad, but from what I've heard about them, I imagine myself completely prepared. Other than my love for sparkly things, twinkly lights, Mark Sanchez (in more of a fantasy way than a fantasy-football way...) and purple, I pretty much am a boy. I, like them, am messy and completely worthless when it comes to organization and general household cleanliness.

What? Is this way of thinking archaic? Perhaps unresearched/stereotypical? Whatevs. So what if it comforts me to believe that half of the population also hates to make their bed... In all honesty, most of my guy friends are fantastically neurotic when it comes to household chores. Bravo! Good for you! You'll make a fantastic house-husband some day and your wife probably won't leave you in 35 years because she's tired of cleaning up your shit. And that's nice.

I will not be one of those cleaning wives...  so I figure I better make enough money to hire a maid, laundress and cook. Come to think of it I wouldn't mind a chauffeur, either, as I like to drink and also like to go places that are maybe not within walking distance...

I buy planners. I buy bookshelves and hangers and I'm pretty sure I've invested in more than my fair share of laundry accoutrements and Windex. I think I own a vacuum, or at least a Swiffer thingy. But do I use any of these things? Not on your life, sweetheart.

I am THE.MESSIEST.PERSON.EVER(other.than.Lawrence.)

I don't put things back. In general I don't really care when items are out of place. I take my earrings off and literally just throw them toward where they 'go'. How many earrings have I lost this way? Fifty-leven, I'd reckon. (What? I'm listening to some Usher. Inspiration can come from any number of sources, my friends...)

I leave cupboards open, pillows strewn about and my bed looks like it's been through gale-force winds and tornado-like conditions every time I roll out of it- which is almost always after my seventh press of the snooze button, mind you. I think vacuums are kind of frightening and I'm fairly certain the thought of 'tidying things up' is the work of the devil.

I've always been this way. My mother thought I'd grow out of it, or that one day I'd welcome the responsibility of keeping things neat and clean. She hoped and prayed that my messy ways would fall by the wayside. They did not. When I was younger I was forced to clean my humble abode once or twice a week as I had an uncanny knack for fucking shit up just about the second I walked in a room. I'd start cleaning and then conveniently fall asleep. Hours later I'd wake up, shove stuff in the closet or under the bed, and move on with my life.

For the people who've either had to live with me because of relation, or that have been tricked into it because of my ever-present allure, I should formally apologize. I especially feel sorry for Maci, because she's lived with me the longest and I'm sure she sometimes wants to strangle me while I'm fast asleep in my always-unmade bed. But, she puts up with me because I'm just so darn cute. And I have lots of DVDs and sometimes I bring home wine and other treats. I'd show pictures of my room, but frankly, I'm a tidge embarrassed. I live like a newby-hoarder with less order and a propensity to just throw shit around.

And while I'm in confession, I should admit that it's not just in housekeeping that I'm less than good. I don't really keep a set sleeping schedule, instead deciding to sleep and wake whenever the hell I want. I don't grocery shop because it's not very fun and I don't fancy cooking much... I'd rather live on Starbucks and meals I can bum off my parents and random passersby.

I will be a terrible wife and an equally inept mother. I'm selfish and idiotic with my money and my time, and when I try to be domestic, things get weird.

Case in point: A few weeks ago, my roommate(s) and I decided to make dinner for some friends. We were serving fajitas and like a good little housewife who didn't have to work that day, I was in charge of two things... the drinks (natch, I got that shit) and marinating the steak.


This is simple! Cut up the meat, put it in the marinade, and refrigerate. Shiiiiiiit, I got this on lock. Also: I'm kind of thug when I think myself competent.

It was about four seconds in that I realized something... our knives fucking suck. I may as well have been slicing the flank, or whatever it was, with a wet envelope. Worthless. As I finally made a cut, I looked closely at the steak. It was pink... but also, in the middle... not as pink. It looked gross.

And then I started to panic.

I texted my Dad. And my boss. I sent them photos, saying, "Is this normal? Will I die if I eat this??"
 It should be mentioned that I have a cloying, unnatural fear of dying in an embarrassing way... ie; by tainted food... or poisoned gatorade... or being trampeled in a mosh pit at a Justin Beiber concert...

I waited for their response, and as the minutes, nay, seconds, ticked by, it became clear to me that the steak was POISONED and that I had to get rid of it. I uncerimoniously threw it into the trash, tossing the knife into the sink, along with anything else it had come into contact with.

I scrubbed my hands for about 4 minutes, and then thought out my next move. I'd go to the store, I'd get some new meat, as well as some bleach. I thought about getting a new knife, too, but how serial-killer-esque would that have looked?!

Back from the store 20 minutes later, I set upon sterilyzing the entire kitchen. And then the bathroom, because I washed my hands in there. And then doorknobs, and the counter, and the trash can and ANYTHING ELSE I'D EVEN LOOKED AT.

You may think this a bit out of step with my whole, "I'm the messiest person ever..." thing I was talking about earlier. While the two do conflict... I get really scared about food germs and tend to overuse Clorox products every time I cook (which is almost never...).

After I had properly disinfected all surfaces with three times the recommended amount of bleach, I started in on my task of creating a fantastic meal. I sawed into the new steak with my sterilized-yet-still-dull knife and gasped. It looked exactly the same as the poisoned variety I just disposed of! It was a conspiracy! Someone must have gone to several stores in the Tri-City area and laced the steak with strychnine!... or some other poison that I know not of

Just as I was pulling out the trash can, my phone came to life with a text from my dad, saying it was fine. LIES! I figured him a co-conspirator. Then, my boss called, and succeeded in talking me off the edge, explaining that I wasn't going to be poisoned. I took her word for it, simply because she would not want me to die. If I did she'd have to find someone new to work in the tasting room, and good help is hard to find, evidently.

Almost two hours after the marination should have started, I finally got it into the fridge. Maci came home shortly after, sniffing around as she entered the kitchen.

"It smells like bleach in here."

Before she arrived, I'd resolved not to tell her or anyone, about my psychotic break. They don't understand my rampant neurosis, and, I wasted a ton of food and everyone gets touchy about that because of Africa or something. "Right, well... I thought the steak was poisoned..." I said. She raised an eyebrow, probably figuring I murdered someone and then flit about the apartment, bleaching out the blood splatters.

I continued to explain the sitch and she pretended like she understood, God bless her. In case you were wondering, dinner went off without a hitch and the food was delicious. I did get kind of drunk, but that's another story entirely.

I guess maybe I'm just not meant to be normal, in the picking up after myself, doing my laundry consistently, fashioning dinner out of 'ingredients', kind of way. I might be one of those people who has obscene amounts of tchotchkes and worthlessness scattered about in complete chaos. The girl who has to buy new clothes because everything else is crumpled in the closet, or on the floor, or draping the vanity... worn and discarded. The girl who uses her stove as a planter, or something.

Or, maybe I'll grow up someday. I am 24 now, after all.

And I live with a boy.

and i will always love you, vegas

I got an e-mail today. I get e-mails all the time. Most are deleted without being read because I have no need for male enhancement pills or help refinancing my yacht... but some of them do give me pause. Like last week, when my Mom forwarded me a picture of my Grandpa in a "WSU Grandma" sweatshirt. A few things you should know about my Grandpa. One, he is not a woman, ergo he should not be wearing a woman's sweater. Two, he is not a slight man... he's 6'6", and any blouse from my Grandma's closet should fit him like a crop top. And three, he is a die-hard Husky. Which pretty much settles it. All those who root for the purple and gold are cross-dressing illiterates.

Anyway, I digress. As stated before, I got an e-mail from the New York, New York hotel in Las Vegas.  Two years ago I was a guest there, celebrating St. Patrick's Day in style- and now they want me back.

It's natural for The Vegas to miss me, I suppose. We have an intense, mutual love. We, (The Vegas and I) are soulmates.

While I've only been twice, and both times swore never to return whilst downing Dramamine at a McCarran terminal... I will most definitely make another trip to the high desert. This is because my word pretty much means nothing, and also because I LOVE THE VEGAS. It's arid and bright, glitzy and trashy at the same time, and no one looks down on you if you have a Tequila Sunrise at sunrise. Except for that bitch at the Coffee Bean. Who was she to judge me? I was on vacation! I told her that, too.

Vegas is Disneyland for non-churchgoing adults. Even homeless people are more friendly in The Vegas. One man told me I was a rose amongst thorns. I was walking with Jevon and Seany so he must have been one of those prophetic poor people, or else, how would he have known? Like a modern day Nostradamus...

When I'm in Vegas, I'm a different person. A better person, I daresay. I wake when I feel like it, I sleep when the drinks run out (which is never!) and I throw hundreds of dollars away in cute little noisy trashcans shaped like slot machines. I'm very nearly fun... most of the time.

Since I'm a seasoned Vegas visitor, I never make any of the beginner faux-paus I succumbed to during my first jaunt. Gone are the high heels that I regret as soon as I reach the hotel lobby. Well, they're not gone, but I put flats in my purse. Speaking of purses, I don't even bother taking an obnoxious little one that doesn't actually hold anything... where will I put my shoes and extra liquor? And a winter coat? Banished from my sight!- this is Vegas, not Pullman. Checked luggage? Pshaw. A carry-on will suffice.

We have a routine in Vegas. We check into the hotel and then dabble in the complimentary cocktails on our way to the room. If you've never had any complimentary cocktails when you've stayed with me, I might have consumed them without your knowledge (my apologies go out to Bonnie and Lawrence, in particular). Also, I may have had a drink on the plane, and maybe one at that Florentina's place at the Pasco airport. I'm a very uneasy flyer...

Once settled into the room, we break out the Kamchatka. I don't know if it's that we thought Vegas wouldn't have enough cheap liquor or that maybe we were worried they didn't carry our Pullman select brand... but on our inaugural trip we were packing. So now, it's tradition. Shots, shots, shots.

We then wander to the strip in wide-eyed wonder. I like to make an investment in one of those obnoxious yard-stick drinks right away, as I feel they pay for themselves almost immediately. Would I like a shot of Everclear for an extra dollar? Need you even ask...

During our last trip I opted for a football shaped drink, as it had a handle and I'm a bit dropsy. This was a good effort, but at the end of the night I spiked it to the ground, shattering the bottom. I don't remember why this happened.

In Vegas there are no liquor laws. I'm sure they have them, but I have yet to come across any. You can drink anywhere; sidewalks, streets, casinos, rooms, restaurants, pools... the possibilities are endless. There's no closing time. They actually sell Everclear. And, last but certainly not least, ladies drink for free almost everywhere. In Washington state the only way to get a free drink is if it's your birthday, or to make up for a service error. In The Vegas, so long as you don't have a penis, you're good. Even if you're not a lady, make friends with one. I grabbed more than one rum and coke for my Y-chromosome addled companions and I'm not even that nice of a person.

Typically our first night in Vegas is spent "drankin' forties on tha strip" and smoking cigarettes because, well, we're allowed to. You know, it seems I wrote "our" when I really meant, Jevon. Jevon's first night in Vegas is spent swilling 40 oz. malt liquor up and down the sidewalks all the while chain-smoking cigarettes and collecting those weird porn cards. It's as if he wants to play an adult-only version of Go Fish.

"Do you have any Tiffanie's?"
"Tiffany with a 'y', or Tiffani with an 'i'?"
"With an 'ie'."
"Nope. Go fish. For sluts."

Last time we stayed, Jevon woke up to discover his cigarettes missing. "Lawrence!" he said, astonished by their smoking prowess, "we smoked the whole pack last night!"

Lawrence shook his head. "No, you smoked the whole pack. You were lighting one with the end of another, bitch ass." I added that 'bitch ass' in, because for some reason I don't remember Lawrence's reply having any curse words in it... and we all know how unreasonable that is.

This kind of chatter is one of my favorite things about Vegas, or any vacation, really. I call it the 'morning recap'. Most hotels are equipped with nifty blackout curtains, and I relish every time I get to throw them open and greet the day.  I love it so much that I go into the rooms of everyone I know and open their curtains for them. They don't seem to like when I do this, but, I don't care. Sun pours in, stomachs churn, and thoughts like, "Oh shit..." stumble around the minds of my loved ones. They usually complain, or yell... but deep down I know they're just as delighted as I. I force them to congregate in one room as we piece together the shitshow that was the night before. Questions like, "How did I get this large bruise on my hip?" turn into answers like, "Somewhere between The Flamingo and Paris you decided you could fly, and by the time we got to Planet Hollywood, you jumped off the steps and landed face-first on the sidewalk. I'm sorry for laughing and letting that porn-card flicker be the one to help you up..." (still sorry, Bon...)

The next day, or two, or three (our first Vegas experience was four nights... also known as twice as long as any person should be in Nevada) are spent poolside, or shopping, or gambling; all of which are coupled with, you guessed it: drinking. We make a point to visit Diablo's Cantina at least once, and also make time for a couple Washington Apple's prepared by a swarthy blackjack table waitress named Darla... Or Sheila... Or Ruth...

And, as traditions go... the night before we leave is usually when I go crazy.

The first time was at about 3:30 AM, 12 hours before we were set to board the plane back home. I was abandoned by the girls, who were smart enough to be asleep, and had taken refuge at a Mexican karaoke bar with Jevon, Lawrence and Omar. I was watching some guy do a magic trick in which he was turning fuzzy little balls into... other things while Omar was trying to wheel some girl by singing her Garth Brooks... or Enrique Iglesias... or Boyz II Men...

After the magic show commenced and our yardsticks were empty, the five of us (me, the boys, and some chick in a pink dress) headed home. Except, there was one problem... I couldn't figure out how to put my shoes on. Why I had them off, is also a mystery, but in the grand scheme of things neither here nor there. They were strappy sandals, and the clasp was, at that moment in time, beyond my comprehension and patience. I ended up looping the strap around my ankle and letting them flap all over the place as we made our way down the strip.

Nearing the crosswalk in front of our hotel, I noticed something. "The street's closed!" I yelled, starting to hyperventilate. "Why the fuck is the street closed!?!?" It was then, that I started to cry. Seriously.

Jevon and Lawrence, surprisingly serving as the voices of reason, encouraged me to follow them. "They're cleaning the street, we'll just go to MGM and walk across the skywalk."

"The skywalk?!?!" I wailed, continuing to bitch, bitch, bitch until we reached MGM. "Why are they cleaning the streets?" I asked. "Why can't we just walk across, to get to the hotel we paid for?" I grumbled. "Why are my shoes broken?" I sobbed.

At the skywalk entrance, Omar looked back at Jevon and Lawrence with a laugh. "Have fun with Booze..." he said, continuing on to his pink lady's hotel. Which, I believe, was the Tropicana... :/

Jevon asked if I wanted pizza. "No!" I spat. "I want to go home and never come back here!" I meant it, too. The next morning, when I was scheduled to finally ride the NY roller coaster, I couldn't... because of the bottle flu. I'd been waiting the whole trip for the roller coaster, and now I couldn't bear the thought of standing awkwardly, let alone careening gleefully. It was icing on the pissed off cake. On the flight home I swore up and down that I would never again vacation in the land of "the debauched and stupid."

6 months later, this time after a three night stay, I had that similar feeling of fear and loathing in Las Vegas. My companions were different, and the construction on Aria/Cosmo/whatever else had made considerable progress... but like clockwork, the night before our return home I was about ready to kill someone.

I didn't cry this time, instead deciding to sneer at anyone and everything. I was in bed and tucked in by the time Fred Armisen uttered, "And live, from New York, it's Saturday Night!" Seriously. It was when Ryan Reynolds hosted.

The next day, while waiting for our broken down plane, I got a text from Jevon. "I just took my jacket out of my suitcase to go outside and wait for my shuttle and like 15 of those naked girl cards fell out on the floor haha." I wrote back a few hours later with this,  "Everytime I leave I'm like, "oh thank god i can't handle this anymore" and then I reflect and am like, "shit, i love that town!" I'll need 6 months to recup, but I'm excited as hell to go back."

Vegas is a hate it or love it kind of town, and I'm one of those people that simultaneously hates and loves things, ergo we are a match made in Heaven. I miss you Vegas. I love you. And I am sure I will see you again.

allllll you sucka MCs ain't got nothin' on me....

I think I'm wise. The fact that I think this probably negates the thought in the first place, but whatevs. I practically radiate wisdom. But, I'm not so egotistical to think that I was born this way. Many things and people have contributed to my special brand of ingeniousness, though there is one thing that has impacted me above all else.

Rap music.

You may be sitting there, scratching your head, saying to yourself, "Bitch be crazy." But you're wrong. I'm not crazy, at least in the conventional sense. Rather, I am so open-minded that I can gather smarts from even the strangest of sources. Don't let my Wonder Bread upbringing fool you. Rap is my life.

I rap in my car, in the shower, and anywhere else people can't hear me. Rhymes flow through my head all the time, and the 21st most played song on my iPod is, in fact, rap. The song's by a white guy, though, so I'm not really sure it counts. And the other rap in my top 25 is by Koreans... Oh boy...

But anyway, I'm as urban as they come. I am entirely thuggish. Once I even walked into an Urban Outfitters, ready and willing to get my groove on. I think I must have ended up in the wrong place though, because when I got there it was just a lot of plaid and folksy-looking shit, with a ton of fake Ray Bans strewn about... I didn't see one single pair of Timberlands.

My years spent as an adolescent were difficult, but, I made it through those tough times because of my love and understanding of hip-hop. Above all else, I remember the 5 rules-to-live-by that hip hop has instilled into the core of my being.

These rules are as follows:


#1 - Learned from the classic ballad, BITCHES AIN'T SHIT, by Dr. Dre.

When I was in junior high, I walked to school everyday. And by 'everyday' I mean any day that I couldn't convince my parents or someone else's parents to take pity on me and drive me the half mile to Desert Hills.

On one such jaunt, while cutting through some random ass park on my way to campus, I saw something glittering in the grass. Inspecting further, I came to find a CD. A compact disc! Yahoo! I thought, flipping it over to see what great music I stumbled upon. Britney Spears, perhaps? Maybe it was the new N*SYNC album... or even a throwback like Hanson or Spice Girls.

My face fell. Alas, it was not Britney, Christina or Jessica-, and it was most certainly not made by a band of boys...

I looked at it, wondering what kind of music could be on a cd that had a big green leaf emblazoned on the front? I'd seen the leaf before, scribbled on the binders and forearms of bad kids. Putting the disc in my backpack, I marched on, stutter-stepping for 10 yards. Was having this disc on my person, illegal? Could I get into trouble? Would I be expelled for bringing marijuana contraband to school?!? I ran back to the yellow and blue garbage can that sat near the slide everyone peed on, and shoved Dr. Dre's masterpiece in the trash. I was all set to forget about Dre.

If only I'd kept the CD, and listened to it secretly in my room, quietly enough so that my parents couldn't hear the dull roar of FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-RACIAL SLUR-BITCH-HOE-FUCK.

I would have learned earlier, the golden rule: bitches ain't shit.

The good doctor puts it a bit more delicately than I, but, let me break it down for you. Friends are gonna turn on you. Tricks and hoes aren't the greatest of people. They're going to lie, cheat and steal-- and you might be the victim. But that's okay, because they ain't shit. Don't worry about it. Turn the other cheek, walk away, and be a better person for it. Through out the album, Dre, Snoop and the gang repeatedly mention poppin' caps in asses and passin' glocks... but I'm pretty sure they're painting a picture of violence as a deterrent- they don't want you to actually commit heinous acts of murder. They're saying, "Hey, yeah, you're gonna be pissed, that's for sure... but don't shoot anyone, even if they deserve it. Because jail is not a good time. You won't like it. Listen to the words that we tell ya..."

I did listen to the words that they told me. And I'm better for it. Up next-

#2 - Learned from the motivational magnum opus, JUICY by Biggie Smalls, or whatever his name is...

The life of an unpublished, unrespected, unknown writer is not as glamorous as one might assume. There are many a day when I don't hear a single line I've written escape a fan's mouth. I never get recognized in the mall... and I've yet to receive a residual check. Or any checks, really.

According to the Notorious BIG, the life I live is a bit of a negative, but not for long. If I reach for the stars, and don't let anyone hold me down... it will soon be all good, baby, baby.

While my struggles aren't necessarily the same as his... I have no daughters and have yet to hustle below their bedroom window for Hamburger Helper funds, I find myself identifying with every bit of the song. Well, every bit except for the parts after the intro that chronicle his rich, fabulous, Super-Nintendo-Sega-Genesis filled life... I've yet to hit the big time and splurge for any gaming systems, let alone two obsolete ones.

But Biggie inspires me, and all those who listen to him when he talks of 'Welch's grape' and of all the other fun things he can do now that he's successful... like turn on the heat. Who doesn't want that!?


I can not WAIT until the day that I'm sipping champagne when I'm thirsty. This water I've been downing is bland and for poor people. Speaking of poor people...


#3 - A seminar in upward mobility called, BRENDA'S GOT A BABY by Tupac/2pac.

I would think the life lessons from this song are entirely obvious, but, sometimes people are dense about poetry, and thus, I will explain.

The picture Tupac paints is grim, and rightly so. Some say this song is about urban poverty, ghetto life, and children's belief that they can't rise above the struggle to prosperity because of the terms and conditions they've been handed by their parents and most of all, society.

This is all well and good, but, rather far-reaching. You don't have to look so hard into Brenda to see the big picture. In my opinion, Tupac is simply saying that incest is bad, and so is being poor.

Just like in the song, if you're poor, you'll be forced to marry your cousin. I think this is maybe because then your collective family only has to pay for one wedding. Once you marry your cousin, you'll get pregnant by him and you'll have your three-armed baby in a bathroom, because poor people like giving birth in Wendy's restrooms. It's where they feel at home. Your baby will be quite gross, so naturally you'll want to get rid of it, and where's a better place than a dumpster for baby-tossing?

Being the totally decent/misunderstood young chippy that you are, you'll take pity on the poor, misshapen creature and bring it home. You'll start selling drugs for Kindercare funds, but you'll get robbed of your crack. Soooo typical. This usually happens because crack-heads are not so polite to their dealers, especially when their dealers are poor girls who had a baby by their cousin... Even crackheads judge incest... After the crack's gone, you'll turn tricks to pay for special shirts for the little three-armed nugget, and you'll end up getting killed. This is because hookers get killed like, all the time. Hazard of the job, I guess.

So, your life will pretty much suck, because of the aforementioned suckery, and also, because you're under the age of 50 with a name like Brenda.

Now that I think about it, Tupac's lesson is three-fold. Don't be poor, don't be incestuous, and don't be a matronly-named hooker.

You can curb at least one of these inevitabilities (the being poor one) by heeding the following advice:

# 4 - Economics 101 with Ludacris and his 2001 hit, AREA CODES.

This song, in its core, is about diversification. And who doesn't need a lesson in that?!

In 'Area Codes', Ludacris, in his catchy, smoothly rhymed way, tells us of a number of different conquests. In his mind, though, it isn't enough to be a whore. You must be a well-traveled one. If you're going to have 38 girlfriends, you best put them in as many area codes. You don't want them running in to each other, causing a ruckus and setting fire to your car.

This wisdom can carry over into many things. Would you buy 38 houses in the same zipcode? No, not so long as your name isn't Warren Jeffs. Normal non-polygamists would post those houses all over the globe, so they had a place to stay regardless of their location. If you had 38 million dollars, would you invest all of it in one place? I don't know. Maybe? I've never been good with money.

Luda's scripture, at the core, echoes with the same sentiment as a well-known proverb of yore: "Don't put all of your eggs in one basket." Or all your booty calls in one town. What if that town was struck by a natural disaster?! Where would you be then!?!? Sex-less, alone, and probably dodging calls from the Red Cross about donations for disaster relief, which is the worst place to be.

Finally, we've reached the most important lesson:

#5 Thoughts on... something, I guess, as taught by a whole mess of people in the song, GHETTO COWBOY.

The lesson in this song, I'll admit, is somewhat meandering. It's a historical epic, set in the old West, where evidently black people were running the town, robbing banks and chasing 'damn indians'. And we whites always get blamed for that... how unfair.

Krayzie 'Big Bad Ass' Bone, who is wanted up North for all the gold that he stole, meets a few friends during his quest to Tucson, Arizona. He's headed there because there's like, a couple banks in town that ain't been held up, yet... or something. They're rustlin' up cattle, robbing banks, and being rootin' tootin' shootin' damn fools... AKA, by definition, ghetto cowboys. Now, where is the lesson in this?

I'm glad you asked. The lesson hides in the chorus, with the oft sung line, "You better count yo' money." Aha! Brilliant! On so many levels!

Counting your money not only lets you know how much you have, but also keeps your math skills in check. At least, useful math skills, like addition. All that other shit they said we'd use, like Trigonometry and other -ometrys?? Worthless. Especially when you're on the run from the law, a la Krayzie Bone.

Knowing how wealthy you are also helps in determining whether or not you're going to end up like Brenda, in rule number 3, or like Biggie, in rule number 2. Will you die a sad hooker death because of the lack of money you counted, or spend days at a time playing Super Mario because of the abundance you've accumulated? The possibilities are endless.

Rap is, in my eyes, a catchy way of imparting knowledge to the minds of our idiotic youth. Sure, they can't remember their times tables and have no idea who the 16th president was, but they all know the words to Eminem's latest album, and if Lil Wayne rapped the Gettysburg Address, you bet your sweet ass they'd be singing along in their sleep.

Who needs parents when you have rap?

And... I know I said I only had five rap rules to live by... but I think I lied.

#6  A lesson in womanly empowerment, as told in I DON'T NEED U, by Trina.

Rap, like all areas of life other than childbirth and incessant nagging, is dominated by men. Think of the great rappers: Snoop, Easy E, Q-Tip, Jay-Z, and Vanilla Ice. What do they have in common? Almost all of them can rap.

As an impressionable young girl who had Britney Spears and other young ingenues constantly thrust upon her, it was distressing to turn to rap for a role model and come up empty handed. That is, until I heard Trina's shrill voice come over the radio. Or, actually, not the radio, as her songs are so completely innappropriate that no broadcasting station would dare play them... I think I probably downloaded them illegally on Kazaa.

I Don't Need U is just that... an anthem telling girls that they don't need anyone! The song is derogatory, discriminating and disgusting, among other things. I clearly remember driving down the road with my friends, yelling the horrifying lyrics at the top of my lungs, uncaring of the passersby that I was offending- which would have been anyone with ears.

Trina had a number of hits, all filled with advice for young girls like don't rely on men, make sure people respect you and always remember to charge for your services. Her prose, along with all the other poets mentioned, molded me into the self-sufficient, albeit warped person that I am today.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pour bleach in my ears.