V-Day

Buenos Diaz! It’s Valentine’s Day, that day on the calendar that makes singles sick, lovebirds swoon, and people with kids wonder whether they bought enough Valentines for everyone in Timmy or Jenny’s class and whether they’re bad parents for choosing the store-bought cupcakes over the homemade and Pinterest-inspired. Today is also confession day here at Buenos Diaz. Gather round now, come in close. Can everyone hear me? OK, here goes.
I, Vanessa Diaz, am a girl, and sometimes I act like one.

Honest to God, 97.6 percent of the time I don’t mind and even enjoy being single. Knowing how to be alone and relish it is something I’m quite proud of, really. I like that I can go see a movie, take a trip to the Farmers Market, sit at a restaurant or coffee shop or lay out in the park all by my lonesome and not feel a desperate need to be accompanied if company isn’t in the cards that day. I’ve been very independent for as long as I can remember, so tell me why this year there is something about this saccharine-soaked, commercial concoction of a holiday that for whatever nonsensical reason really has me thinking deeply about my life choices. It feels pathetic. I will elaborate.

I hate having to admit this because it makes me sound like one of those girls, the ones who bitterly denounce “Singles Awareness Day” by sulking on their couch listening to Adele and eating Godiva. Maybe it’s the flower deliveries to people not named Vanessa at work or the emotion bubbling beneath the surface of my composure every time I realize I am quitting my job in 3 weeks. Maybe it’s because my favorite of favorites is no longer a well I can draw from and that person is going away and shacking up with someone for the love-filled weekend while I’m sitting here noshing on Gourmet Inka Corn (corn nuts for the grown and sexy) with a glass of Nebbiolo (I wrote this Friday night, I’m not being a booze-hound before 9am).

I just suddenly miss… affection. I miss nervous first kisses, or warm, familiar ones that melt you; I miss butterflies, anticipation, cutesy gestures, intense bouts of eye contact; hands in my hair, hands on my face, eyes wide open, eyes wide shut. I miss hand-holding, flirting, passion, surrender. I miss hearing someone call me pretty. I miss feeling pretty.

The worst part though is the feeling of guilt, that sense of “I’m not supposed to feel the feelings!” that eats at me as someone who normally thinks of themselves as strong, independent and not at all why-aren’t-I-in-a-relationship centric. I feel like I should be impervious to these juvenile affectations, like its sacrilege to miss the warmth, the smell, the feel of a man and still call myself a feminist. This is especially true now that I’ve reached an age where I think I’m supposed to be enlightened and above all of this mess, so now I’m not only feeling out of sorts but feel dumb for feeling that way to begin with. I feel like I’m betraying my own ideals.

I’m not betraying anything though. I’m just a woman. I’m allowed to feel and need and want. So I will confess that I do in fact feel and need and want and that doesn’t make me any less self-possessed. Yeah, I allowed myself those thirty seconds (ok, minutes) of feeling sorry for myself, then I decided to get up, turn on the lights and think of V Day as just that: V Day. V Day as in Me day. I may not be in love, but I am loved and I do love. The rest of this blog post will focus on that love. Here are some people who aren’t obligated to love me out of a blood relation.

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I have a friend who shares my not-so-guilty pleasures plus love of steak, bright lipstick, beautiful white boys and getting on planes. We Snapchat our workouts and pics of food afterwards. In the young and ratchet days when on a crowded Vegas dance floor getting the bump-and-grind treatment from a brotha with plans, she motioned to me, pointed down at the guy and said, “V, do you want a hit?” because she didn’t want me to be left out. That poor guy looked at her hurt like, “Are you pimping me to your girl right now?” and I just about died from laughter.

I have a friend who calls me at 6am to tell me that she’s proud of me, who two years ago looked me in the eye over brunch and said, “So you’re not an author yet, but you ARE a writer, Call yourself one.” She’s black and from LA’s Valley and I’m a San Diego Latina but somehow, someway, she is my twin. We bond over books and beautiful words, delight in sarcastic wit and get into good song be it Jay or Jill or that trap music. She’s been telling me I was pretty since the day I met her and one of these days I’ll believe her.

I have a friend who for years now I’ve been calling the poster child for pursuing your passion. She pushes me in ways both overt and covert and though we may not speak often it’s meaningful when we do. She brought me to wine, let me lean on her at low points, and never made me feel stupid for loving someone I couldn’t have. She once put a slice of salami on my sangria glass because we were all out of strawberries and has dared me to dream recently in a very big and international way.

I have a friend who knows it all, the good, the bad, the ugly plus the emo, the insecure, the crazy and the expectant, all of it wrapped up in big hair and too much jewelry. He’s talked me off a ledge, showed me lightening in summer, sends me YouTube videos of hilarious throwback rap jams and tags me in stuff about books and pretty places. He’s brilliant and witty and maddeningly stubborn, pushing buttons and boundaries and schooling me in emoji warfare. He knows what I need to hear/feel and knows when things are hard for me, he tells me I’m important because I need to be reminded and even when we’re not agreeing are close in an atypical way. He encourages my honesty even when it isn’t easy, like he wants me to be sassier, louder, braver, a bigger pain in the ass if it means coming into my own.

I have a friend who reminds me that I’m talented and worthy of more than I’m sometimes brave enough to ask for, who challenges me as a writer and gets me to do things in the name of “research.” As undergrads we spent the night before final exams dancing to Afro-Cuban beats at Zanzibar, banking on my freakish memory to get us through the tests because sometimes you just have to dance. She’s shared a $300 bar tab, a stash of emergency chocolate and many life conversations with me and reminded me last night in a moment of “help, I’m a little lost” that I’m not busted. She gets my struggles and I get hers, and she’s the only person I’ll let speak cutesified Spanish to me so please don’t try it because one is enough.

You know what’s awesome- I could go on for DAYS. I have a ginger who frolicks on bays with me, who encourages me and laughs with me about words that rhyme and unattractive dance moves; I have a boss who’s a BFF who let me go supportively because she knew I’d found my passion and because she shares that passion too. I have a gypsy life-shift Sherpa who takes me on Baja adventures and tells me to keep on dreaming. I have so, so, so much love in my life that it almost seems silly to want more.

If today you find yourself madly in love with someone who loves you too, I’m truly very happy for you. I encourage you to revel in love because love is an amazing thing and even if it’s corny and cheesy to make a big deal out of it on Valentine’s Day- so what! Go for it! The world needs a little more love. Go be sappy and happy about it and let the haters hate. If you’re single like me, I salute you just the same! Love is probably all around you like it is for me, you may just have to make a list and write it out to remember that. Do it, you’ll surprise yourself.

I am now about to go enjoy my V-Day with a group of beloved friends that I am lucky to have in my life. I’m also going to lather on the SPF because I live in San Diego which has a blatant disrespect for winter. I will leave you with some wise words from Hugh Grant, a classic quote from a classic movie.

“It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”

Happy Valentine's Day!

Bookishly Yours,

Vanessa

That's What Friends Are For

Buenos Diaz! So, remember those awesome friends I touched on last week? About this one particular group of them...

It all started a couple of years ago in early December: a group of friends found themselves in San Diego on New Year’s Eve. This group of 10+ descended upon the Hilton San Diego Bayfront for a big fancy NYE celebration. After a few get-me-while-my-makeup-is-still-fresh photo shoots, bottles of 5 Hour Energy were passed around to rally the masses. The air was filled with shouts of “Dude, I only want a little bit! How about like 17 minutes worth?” or “Hey! Hit me! I need a full three hour swig!” Because once you’ve reached or are approaching the ripe ol’ age of 30, you need staying power to keep the party going till midnight.

Once adequately fueled, we entered the hip hop ballroom and got down like fools without cares or fear of camera phones and Facebook. We ate pieces of cold pizza and washed them down with tonics and liquors of choice.  At one point, someone set their drink down in the middle of the dance floor and we all danced around it Flamenco style to Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop.” Why? If you have to ask, you don’t know my friends.

Before anyone expected it to, the clock struck twelve. We went until our livers and feet allowed us to before heading to lobby where we found a giant line of people. Clearly someone was giving away some free shit, or a Kardashian or One Direction member was hosting a late-night meet and greet. Alas, no- this stupid queue that went from here to mother-effing Whoville was the line to catch a freaking cab out of this place. Neither my feet nor my spirit were prepared for this nonsense. My feet hurt. I was thirsty. I was tired. I wanted a bed.

Right when the crowd appeared to peak at both its inebriation and lack of patience, out rang like a shot in the dark, “NAAAANTS een-VEN-YAAAAAA ma-ba-GEE-chi-ba-va!!!!” A friend I’ll call Espiderman was belting out the intro to Circle of Life. You know what else? He sang the *whole* gosh damn thing. The rest of the group chimed in and at full throttle volume much to the amusement of some and the sheer and utter annoyance of countless others. Why? Again- if you have to ask…

It didn’t stop there. These weirdos transitioned seamlessly to “A Whole New World” then slid right into “Friend Like Me.” They crooned out “Part of Your World” then moved right on to “Under the Sea,” complete with some impressive onomatopoeia for the sounds of that steel drum intro. All the while a bottle of Fireball was passed around like a canteen. I tried to dodge the bottle but someone got me like one of those rude sombrero and zarape clad dudes in TJ, rudely tilting my head back and accosting my mouth and throat with cinnamon-flavored octane.

For reasons that should be obvious by now, I joined a group of these same friends down in Baja California for wine tasting in the Valle de Guadalupe for NYE 2014. A few of us headed down a day early to stay at the Rosarito Beach-adjacent home of my friend Celina’s family friend, who happens to manage 15 or so properties down in the Las Gaviotas community. The house was an amazing ranch-style home with gorgeous terra cota detail, a courtyard begging for an outdoor fiesta to be had, and views of the ocean could fool you into thinking you’d been teleported to Santorini. We dined on a delicious and simple meal of (AMAZING) beans, guacamole and quesadillas, all with locally sourced ingredients and with bottomless refills of a lovely red wine. I slept comfortably by a toasty fireplace on a very fancy air mattress with blankets aplenty. It was delightful- property managers are excellent hosts.

This courtyard tho...

 

 Santorini Poptla, BC, Mexico

   

 Hugs from Baja

 

The next day we headed to the wine valley and went in search of our B&B, a property out in San Antonio de las Minas. Right as we made the turn from the main drag on to the road that would lead us to our destination, it became apparent that the route to our destination involved a wet, uneven and muddy road. We braced ourselves and drove forward in Celina’s low-riding old school Lexus…

SKKRRRRRRRRR went Celina’s poor gas tank as it scraped against hard-packed dirt, reminding us that a Lexus sedan doth not an off-road vehicle make. Celi slowed to a mere roll and tried to maneuver around the uneven patches, but the weight of a driver, four passengers and all of their luggage was not helping the cause. There was only one thing left to do: lose some passengers. Imagine, if you will, the odd Chinese fire drill of sorts that ensued each time we came upon a puddle:  three of the five vehicle occupants getting out of the car then using sticks as puddle-depth measuring tools to determine which way to best navigate Celi’s car. Now throw in the appearance of some very hungry and fearless dogs that sent us running back to the vehicle every so often. Adventure time!

Still onward we went, only partially convinced that we hadn’t been sold a bill of goods. We drove for some time, proceeding semi-confidently only because of the occasional 8 ½ X 11 signs nailed to some fence or tree stump assuring us that the property was indeed still ahead. The terrain was rough and there just didn’t appear to be anything remotely resembling a bed and breakfast nearby, to the point where we half-kiddingly joked that an abandoned warehouse, a dilapidated shack or a Fisher Price playhouse by the side of the road might be our illustrious place of lodging.

We did eventually arrive and met up with the other 10 or so of our friends. Soon after checking in, we hopped on a shuttle en route to wine country, and though the number of stops was limited due to New Year’s Eve winery closures, a good time was had. I mean, with that many people and wine flowing freely, we were going to enjoy ourselves one way or another. I knew this when we were poured some Grenache and someone in our group said, “St. Grenache is a dog, right? Like what Lassie was!”

 Ready!

 

Really ready.

 

Remember us? La Gitana y La Bookworm

 

Celi enjoying a snack of Takis with her red wine, trying most unsuccessfully to convince my friend Leandra that this constitutes a delectable wine pairing.

"Quick, Vane! Before someone sees me!"

 

All the Single ladies.

        

After the wine tasting, we shuttled back to the B&B for a dinner prepared by the staff, which started around 6pm and was intended to stretch out course by course through midnight. We ate the soup appetizer and main dish but at 9pm ran out of enough patience to sit and wait around for dessert or midnight. We went back to our rooms for a little while and some of us made it back downstairs later for a toast and/or bachata dance-off at midnight. Several members of our group went on to stage yet another Disney Sing Along in the property’s communal dining room. I held on till around 12:30 before throwing in the towel.

It suddenly hit me that it was cold. SO cold. So gosh-damn bloody COLD! Colder weather than the property manager was prepared for, the kind of cold that made me, the girl who hates sleeping in bulky clothing, go to bed wearing leggings, two pairs of socks, a sports bra, a thermal top, and my big USC sweatshirt with the hood pulled so tight over my face that I looked like Kenny from South Park. I covered even my head with the blankets when I realized I could see my breath if I left my face exposed. When the girl I was sharing a bed with finally came to bed at 3am once she was all partied out, I thanked sweet baby Jesus for the gift of body heat. If she’d asked me to cuddle, I probably would have. Warmth is warmth, yo.

The next day, we all roused slowly but surely (I of course was up at 5:45 am reading on my Kindle) and enjoyed a delicious, made-from-scratch breakfast before parting ways. My friends were kind enough to get me back stateside by noon so that I could book it to the airport to hop a jet to Vegas where my girl Karina and I saw the second to last show of our boo Justin Timberlake’s 20/20 Experience Tour. Oooh child, that man can sang! I danced sexy in my seat to that little but of “Don’t Hold the Wall,” swayed in an emo haze at the outro to Love Stoned, screamed out “Yeeeeesssss!” to “My Love” (I STILL love that choreography) and closed my eyes and vibed to my beloved “Until the End of Time.” Karina and I sang our faces off the whole night and loved every minute off. JT can get it.

 V + K

Go 'head, be gone with it.

I caught a flight at 7am the next morning back to San Diego, which means that when all was said and done, I was in Vegas for about 12 hours, the same amount of sleep I’d had in a span of four days. Exhaustion is an understatement, but I’d do it again tomorrow. The lesson here is not to take yourself too seriously. These friends of mine are spread across the continental US but come together at random just when I might need to lighten up. They break up my tendency to overthink things and slap me in the face with some fun. They force me to delight in and appreciate the awesomeness that comes with laughing out loud and not giving a smooth f#%k about how you look to the world as long as you’re enjoying yourself. They also build me up and remind me how loved and supported I am at every hour of the day, I am so thankful for each and every one of these crazies. They’re the shit.

Do more of what makes you happy in 2015. It’s sometimes easier said than done, but MAN does it feel good when you pull it off.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

New Year, New Me... or Same Me, but Better

Buenos Diaz! Sooooo, it's 2015. New year, new me!!!! (That was for you, CAG). That phrase always makes me laugh. I will however be totally cliché and tell you that I am indeed so flippin' excited for this year (yes, excited). Know why? I will tell you. Then I'll throw in some caveats.

Possibility
There technically isn't anything magical that happens at midnight on December 31st. At the stroke of twelve just a few nights ago, I didn't lose twenty pounds or inherit a million dollars. A tall, green-eyed, full-lipped drink o'water holding a stack of books and the keys to a private jet didn't suddenly materialize to whisk me away, nor did a publishing entity ring my phone at 12:01AM to tell me they'd like to forward me a book advance and publish my first work. I didn't lose all of my insecurities, my heart wasn't suddenly free from any and all hang-ups and I still had worries and fears just like everybody else. My sore throat didn't even go away! Those things *could* happen though. Could. That little sliver of possibility is thrilling. It's sinfully delicious.

Change
We all know it by no but I'll say it again: I quit my mother effing job! I still can't believe I've done this. I'll be around until March but then shit is getting real, so I'm officially on the job hunt for something that will help pay the bills but be more in line with my passion while I pursue my writer dreams. This is a giant deal for me. I've worked for the same company since I was an intern in college which was almost 10 years ago. Ten years! Holy hell. I'm seriously insane for doing this but nothing has ever felt so right. I don't know what the future holds but I'm excited to find out. This change is welcome and supported by the most amazing group of family and friends. I'm lucky to be able to shake things up like this, which I recognize and celebrate every chance I get. Which brings me to...

Friends
This week I was reminded of what an absolute blessing a solid network of friends is. I started the week on a high, then it got a little low in the middle when I got inside my own head a little too much and allowed myself to feel some type of way about sharks, bats and girlish things. That little low feeling didn't last though, because I am surrounded by so much love and laughter that I have no choice but to remain hopeful, positive and appreciative. I have beautiful handwritten letters to read, photos to peruse and laugh over, memories to wrap myself in and smile about. Lucky me. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

Pero... on the flip side...

While starting a new year feels like a great thing to get excited about, let me make something clear. Yes, I am excited. I expect this will be a year of personal growth and new beginnings. However, the things I'm looking forward to aren't blessings I expect to receive passively as they fall from the sky just because the "4" at the end of the date I've written for the last 365 days is now a "5." Like I said earlier, I was the exact same person on 12:01 AM on January 1st as I was at 11:59 PM the night before. So were you!

There is a lot of promise and opportunity for fresh starts with the passing of a new year, but this restart button everyone can't wait to slam so emphatically is symbolic and not literal. If you're taking this opportunity as a jump start to better yourself, to better the world or just try a new hairstyle: awesome! I salute you. If you're expecting miracles from a fairy godmother to just start happening for you with no active effort on your part- you es crazy. Bad things do happen and sometimes its hard to shake them off. I get that. Really, I do. I've been a resident of Hang Up City. In fact, I still visit from time to time. In the last few years though, I mustered up the strength and will to finally pack up and leave that sad little hamlet. I have good days, I have bad days. I know I've grown as a person though when even on the bad days, I can look around and recognize the pack of blessings light upon my back. You can do the same, I'm willing to bet. Try to remember that and look on the bright side- for most of us, it really will all be ok.

One last piece of wisdom I will attempt to impart will be this: just like you shouldn't expect magic and miracles on New Year's Day, you also shouldn't beat yourself up with so many goals and resolutions to the point that you forget to live. This involves treading a fine line, one that I'm not always so adept at traversing. One the one hand, success and results come to those who hustle and stay on that grind. On the other hand, it's altogether too possible to set so many goals for yourself and make so many to-do lists that you lose track of time, space and the beauty of real-time experience. You forgot to look around and smell the proverbial roses because you're so wrapped up in your plans. You forget to be here because you're so focused on trying to get there.

So. I vow here and now to view the new year as a symbol but not as a crutch or as a panacea. I am pledging to get my daily exercise and eat well; but if I want to cheese or wine or chocolate with friends, I'm going to have it. I want this new career and I will strive tooth and nail to get it, but I'll be ok with rejection when I face it with the help of my support network and will not lose sight of the value that is my entire journey. I will be open and ready for love and work on being more approachable, but will still just let it happen to me when and where it needs to and not view the world through a desperate or time-sensitive lens. I will sip slowly, savor every bite, laugh harder, feel deeply and perhaps even use my eyes, ears, nose and skin instead of my iPhone to capture more memories. I vow to enjoy my life more now than perhaps I ever have just by being more present. I hope that in 2015 you will do the same- not because you have to, but just because you want to.

Gaaaah I ended a sentence with a preposition. Sometimes you need to do that.

So, about this NYE celebration and these friends of mine..... that tale will have to wait until Wednesday.

Thanks for following, for reading, for supporting my little pipe dream. Here's to 2015!

 

Cheerio Girl

Buenos Diaz! Can you believe it’s December already? It’s a little hard to believe considering I live in America’s Finest City and the weather has been in the high 70s and low 80s for most of the fall. We just last week got some cooler temperatures at last, including a couple of spots of rain that lasted all of 48 hours and backed up our traffic for just about as long.  Usually I complain about this sort of warm-weather-winter thing because I like my holidays a little less on the tropical side.  Really though…. It ain’t so bad living in paradise.

Today’s blog post was inspired by a friend of mine (who so happens to be a bitchin’ stylist in San Diego’s East Village). My girl Briana has somehow managed to pop out four adorable children by the ripe age of 30 and has perhaps even more impressively managed to stay, if I may say so, real as f*ck, even as she rides around in her swagger wagon Toyota Sienna. I went to see her just a couple of weeks ago and she reminded me of a story she’s told me already once before but that never gets old. To be perfectly honest I forget most of the details. All I remember is that her second youngest, a sweet and innocent little toddler, upon making his first black friend, proceeded to walk up to the child, lick his face and yell out, “Mmm! Chocolate!” I just about wet myself. Out of the mouths of babes, I tell you. The innocence, the simplicity… it slays me.

So this blog post is in homage to that simplicity, a flashback to my own childhood. It’s a trip down memory lane to when things were simpler and when I was still a nerd, just a slightly smaller one. I hope these little stories will serve as a happy interlude to your day and perhaps inspire you to view the world as you did as a child. Without further ado, I give you: Cheerio Girl.

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Once upon a time, I was but a wee little toddler, chubby-cheeked, white as snow, and with bangs for mother-effing days. I loved books (duh), Barbies and this raggedy stuffed dog, and I really loved to dance around the living room all dang day. I LIVED in particular for the VHS tape of Madonna’s The Virgin tour.  It was my jam.

I can actually recall these days quite vividly. I’d open my eyes, wipe the sleepies away, brush my teeth with bubble-gum toothpaste and then get dressed. Usually I chose a tshirt and pants, but if I was feeling particularly festive I’d throw on about 20 bangles and this sweet get-up that consisted of a crop-top with bottoms that looked like a skirt with leggings underneath. My grandmother used to sew back in the day and sold her goods at a local swap meet on the weekends. This particular outfit was one of my faves, so I’d happily model it at her swap meet stall if I got to take it home with me afterwards. Picture me walking up and down that asphalt with attitude in a variety of colorful 80s prints. Uh huh honey.  

So I’d put this sucker on and make my way to the living room where I would carry out the sequence of steps my mother had taught me to do on my own and not bother her for: “Press ‘On’ button on TV and VCR. Press number ‘3’ then ‘Enter’ on TV remote for Channel 3. Put tape in VCR. Press ‘Play’ on VCR.” Then the magic began. I believe the opening number was “Dress You Up,” where Madonna started off at the top of a small set of stairs and descended them two or three at a time whilst striking something akin to a Heisman pose. She was decked in a very colorful concoction of lace and studs and fingerless gloves and did that classics 80s arm-swing move as she belted out the chorus. Naturally, I followed suit. I twirled, I spun, I toe-tapped and sang my little heart out song after song after song.

I loved Dress You Up, Holiday (CELEBRATE!!!), Into The Groove and Lucky Star; I had signature dance moves for each that often left me dizzy and exhausted. My absolute fave however was towards the end of the tape. Right when Like A Virgin was about to wrap, I’d haul toddler ass to the kitchen and pour some Cheerios into a Ziploc bag then run back to my spot in front of the television screen in perfect time for the next number to start. I’d pop little handfuls of cereal in my mouth and dance furiously in place as the verse built up to the chorus. Then came my moment, so I screamed at the top of my lungs: “Cause we are living in a-a Cheerio world, and I AM A-A-CHEERIO GIRL! You KNOOOOW that we are…” Yeah. It was another cool five or six years before someone took the time to correct me, and I didn’t accept this correction quietly.

In telling this story to a coworker a few weeks ago, I made an interesting connection: I apparently felt compelled as a child to tie my snacks in with my chosen activities. For instance, I was really obsessed with a cartoon on Nickelodeon called David the Gnome. David was a little gnome doctor who lived in a forest with his wife Lisa. He had an awesome sidekick fox named Swift who would take him places when other gnomes or animals needed healing, and Lisa would always bake them a loaf of bread to take on their journey to save the world.

I thought this loaf of bread much resembled a particular type of pan dulce (Mexican sweet bread) called a puerquito, a golden brown pig-shaped pastry that tastes somewhat like gingerbread. Since we often had this in our house, I felt the need to bake one up to coincide with the loaf Lisa baked for David. By “bake,” I mean I’d use every ounce of my strength to heave our toaster oven from the lower cabinet onto the counter and would then place my puerquito in said oven for five minutes.  I’d take care to carefully pull it out with oven mitts when the timer went off and blew on it to make it cool enough to touch- even though I never actually turned the oven on or even plugged it in for that matter. I’d then sit in front of the TV and munch on my little pig while David and Swift went off to save the day. If there was no puerqito available to me, I’d settle for ripping the guts out of a loaf of French bread, smashing it and molding it into a smaller loaf and putting that in the not-turned-on toaster oven. I’m aware the loaf of bread was already, well, a loaf. But the guts were my favorite, so… leave me alone.  

I also had a food-related Cinderella-watching ritual. Remember that scene from Disney’s Cinderella where she’s doing her chores and goes out to feed the chickens? I was absolutely convinced that she was feeding them teeny tiny pieces of American cheese. So yes- I’d pause the film just before the chickens were fed and make my way to the kitchen. I’d grab a Kraft American single, peel off the plastic and then fold that cool, clammy slice over and over, creating little cubes that I thought looked just like the chicken feed. I’d pull out my shirt, or dress, or pajama like Cinderella did to her an apron and place my cheese cubes there for easy access. Cinderella tossed her feed to the chickens, I tossed cheese to myself and sang along with Gus Gus, Jaq and Cinderelly.

I could go on about my weird food obsessions, like how I freaked the hell out when my mom gave me cream of wheat for the first time because I thought she’s tracked down the fairy tale people and gotten the recipe for porridge (which I thought was a mythical food of sorts). But let’s talk instead about how inquisitive a tyke I was. I was that kid, the “but why?” kid. I was every bit as hell-bent then as I am to this day on finding a way to know things. For example, I asked my mother to explain what a maxi pad was. She bought them on a regular basis, seemed to try hide doing so, and these times were something she used and I didn’t. Naturally, I demanded to know what they were for and why they were only intended for adult use. My mother went with the little-white-lie route and told me they were really durable tissues for grown-up ladies. Fine. That sounded plausible. I mean, why would my mother lie?

It was most unfortunate (for my mother, anyway), that not soon after this incident, a gathering of women found itself at my parents’ home. My mother was hosting a bridal or baby shower, I believe, and one of the women in attendance sneezed. I’d been playing quietly in a corner when I heard this call to service, this opportunity for me to save the day and show how well I pay attention. I popped my head up like a mischievous meerkat then darted to my mother’s bathroom where I grabbed a “durable tissue for grown-up ladies,” peeled the plastic off that bad-boy and slapped in on my palm. I ran back out into the living room and beelined it for the woman who’d sneezed and with my arm stretched straight out and in front of me beamed, “Here you go!” Mama dearest walked in the room holding a tray of beverages and mustered every bit of her strength not to drop them or keel over from embarrassment.That’ll teach her alright.

So remember kids: sometimes made-up lyrics are just better. Fancy cheese is great but American just does the trick sometimes. Bread  of all kinds is amazing. Porridge is a real thing. Maxi pads are stupid. Don’t lie to a kid who remembers shit.  

Bookishly yours, 

Vanessa

P.S. so when I said I had bangs for days...

Ale looks thrilled. and hey- bangs!

I like Easter eggs. and bangs.

Me, a fake turlte, and my bangs.

Ballet and bangs. Lots of bangs.

Mother-Daughter bangs! This *may* just have been the maxi pad day....

Words Mean Things

Buenos Diaz!

I’d like to first thank each and every one that “Liked” my Facebook page! Last week I reached the 100-like benchmark (pops collar), which to a more seasoned page-owner may be kids’ stuff but for me was cause for a full blown dance party in my car (to Beyonce’s Grown Woman, in case you were wondering). I got the news from a weekly email from the good people over at Facebook reporting on the overall status of the page, i.e. number of likes, popularity of individual posts, and figures on reach and engagement. It made me think. Well, it made me dance, but then it made me think. 

As a good friend put it earlier this week, “Every post, every like, every share, every comment reflects its creator and become his or her brand.” That brand has enormous visibility thanks to the power of social media.  It would seem that more often than not, people are aware of their primary brand- i.e. the one they actively manage at work, at church, amongst loved ones in everyday life, etc. It is the secondary brand, the one created on social media whether consciously or not, that is too often not considered or given enough weight. 

It used to be just the young’ns that I thought needed reminding of this concept. I try to give these kids out here a lot of leeway because I was young and silly once too. I for sure posted more than a few questionable photos in my late teens and early twenties: pictures of my “face” or my (yikes, blonde) hair but hey! look! boobs!, shots of me getting’ low on the dance floor of some house party with a beer in hand and a giant sombrero on my head and other ratchetivity. I’ll also be the first one to tell you that a) I was young and young people do dumb things, and b) I had major self-esteem issues as I suspect many of today’s youth do as well. Still it seems like the images filling all of our timelines and feeds are increasingly revealing, attention-seeking and sexualized, each day a little more than the one before. It’s all about the “like,” all about the Vine, all about breaking the internet.

Case in point: after-sex selfies. Yeah, you read that right. Selfies. After the sex. Online. I spent several minutes last week asking myself whether or not it would be super creepy to look up the hashtag. Alas, a certain disgusted curiosity got the best of me, and as my mother would say, “Santa Madre!” It’s real, it’s disturbing, and it’s a good thing I’m not a mother with a kid trying to pull this crap or I’d be forced to coin #aftermymamakickedmyassintonextTuesdayselfie.  Go ahead- look it up. Behold aaaaaall the users who know nothing of privacy settings (or propriety, or life). You’ll find captions like “Guess what we just did?” and “Sorry not sorry.” You’ll also find some hilarious jabs at this stupidity like one of two cats lounging by a fire. As for the ones that truly appear to post-coital shots- Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. These kids need Jesus. 

It’s not just people’s own photos or videos either, but those of other groups or individuals that they turn around and share. I realize a lot of people spend their day gawking at adult film stars making real friendly with plumbers and pizza delivery guys.  I’m sure tons of folks got a kick out of Floyd Mayweather’s trashy-ass video where he’s posted up in his draws amid 10 strippers twerking. To the guy that came across a photo of three US soldiers who appear to be brutalizing a Middle Eastern woman, you should absolutely feel disgusted by this atrocity if it is what it looks like. 

It’s the part where you say, “By golly, I will share this with everybody else!” that demands a second thought. Yes , you are the scum of the earth if you violate a woman. Blasting the photo of the act on the internet to bring shame to the perpetrators, however noble your intentions, is insensitive on multiple levels. Would she want that photo to be seen, or would it force her to relive the horror and the pain and the shame? What about other victims of abuse that are unexpectedly accosted by this image in their feed between pictures of friends’ babies and cat videos? There are primary and secondary affects to our actions, as well as a time and place for them; just as we should think before we speak, so should we think before we share and know both our audience and platform.

Then there are the actual words that people post, and I’m not even talking about proper use of the English language (Girrrrrrrl, please. Don’t get me started). Some of this I write off to immaturity- the way too many drunk or soon-to-be drunk photos captioned with some variety of “turn down for what?!?,” the frequent rants airing out child-support woes or baby-mama drama; the “fuck this, fuck that, fuck you and your little dog too” tirades. I like to think that these are the follies of youth, but too many of the guilty here left youth behind many a moon ago.

This brings me to a major pet peeve, one that forces me to contemplate hitting that “Unfriend” button a few times a day: people who insist on sharing articles and commenting on them passionately when it is blatantly clear that they read only the headline and not the actual body of work. As a lover of words, this feels like an attack on my spirit. Leave my spirit alone please. What’s that you say? You did read it? Oh, then you just don’t care what words mean. Got it. Well, you and the folks who only read the headline can go sit in the same corner together because you’re both equally working my nerves.

An example- if you’re going to make political commentary, please, oh PLEASE try not to live up to the stereotype of the ill-informed American. Just a couple of weeks ago, I came across numerous posts slamming the hell out of Barack Obama, unleashing the sound and the fury on this man for saying that moms choosing to stay at home with their kids is not a choice he wants Americans to make. Pero…. no, dude. I watched that speech! What he really said was:

“… Moms and dads deserve a great place to drop their kids off every day that doesn't cost them an arm and a leg. We need better childcare, daycare, early childhood education policies. In many states, sending your child to daycare costs more than sending them to a public university.  And too often, parents have no choice but to put their kids in cheaper daycare that maybe doesn’t have the kinds of programming that makes a big difference in a child’s development. … And sometimes, someone, usually mom, leaves the workplace to stay home with the kids, which then leaves her earning a lower wage for the rest of her life as a result. And that’s not a choice we want Americans to make.”

Make no mistake: I am not telling you that you have to like ol’ Barack. I’m not saying you need to agree with his views or support his policies or get a dog like his or dress like Michelle.  I am only saying you should be well informed before you go on a hell-bent rant that holds no water. He did not say that mothers shouldn't choose to stay at home; he spoke on the unfairness of current policies affecting mothers, the often exorbitant cost and sparse availability of quality childcare, and the difficult choices that mothers are forced to make as a result of these contributing factors.  I respect any cogently formed opinion whether in line with my own or not, but please for the love of all things holy-think, read, digest and understand before you hit “Share.”

As Crissle from one my favorite Podcasts “The Read” will tell you- words mean things. Your words, other people’s words, words in general. And as my favorite blogger Vanessa will tell you, so does everything else you put out into the universe. You’re free to like what you like, hate what you hate and do what you do- these are some of the many wonderful rights afforded to you in this great albeit imperfect nation.  There is however a consequence to your every action, that’s just a fact of life no matter who you are, where you live or to what deity you pray. What you say and do on social media is a reflection of you. Not just the other party-goers, not just your deadbeat baby daddy, not just the lady at Sprint that may or may not have just been doing her job when you cussed her freaking face off- YOU. Craft thine image carefully, and don’t be afraid to make changes.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

Linked In

Buenos Diaz! So, it was a couple of years ago that a tall, slender, red-headed beauty in the state of Arizona joined an online community called for professional networking. A friend suggested she join to make some connections that might aid in her pursuit of landing a job in sunny southern California. This site seemed like as good a start as any in her search for new employment and a new direction, so join Linked In and cross her fingers Miss Ginger quickly did.

It wasn’t long before a strapping young specimen of the male and Polish American persuasion took interest in Miss Ginger’s profile. He was tall, he was dreamy, lived here in San Diego, and worked in a field related to her own. For the latter reasons alone and not at all because of his dashing good looks, she reached out to him via InMail and picked his brain about the job scene. The InMails became Face Time calls, then Face Time lead to texts. It started out platonically enough, but soon the tone began to shift. The convo became a little less “Have you seen this job posting?” and a little more “Hey sexy fox, how many baby foxlets do you want someday? What are your thoughts on Jesus and immigration reform? And do you like cats?”

He liked her, she liked him; he was moved by her passion, she found him endlessly hilarious. He played soccer, she wrote in journals. They both liked cats and country music. They agreed to meet in person and BOOM! CLAP! WOW! Sparks flew, angels sang and trumpets sounded in the distance. Ginger soon packed her bags and joined her beau in California. It was obvious early on that this shit was for real.

This weekend Ginger took another trip, this time down an aisle. There her lover stood waiting to make her a wife. She’s joined Linked In to find a job, she ended up with her soul mate. She’d wanted to connect, and connect she sure did.  

Inspired by their the love and commitment, I’ve reflected a lot on how I’ve come to feel about love. So, here we go: Ginger and Kulpa, this one’s for you.

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Lesson 1: Your love’s not my love and my love ain’t your love.

Whether you’re falling in love are deep in the throes of it, inherently someone (and probably multiple someones) will tell you what steps to take next. They’ll tell you what worked for them, or preach about what didn’t; they’ll tell you when it’s too early to do or say or want something, and also when it’s too late to consider such a thing. They’ll offer up a formula for how many days it takes to really know someone. Everyone has two cents to offer you if you want to be happy.

We’ve all been through this; one person will have a friend whose cousin’s dog walker married her husband after knowing him for 3 days and has been married for 50+ years, but someone else will know a girl who knew her man for a week when they walked down the aisle and was divorced quicker than Kim K dumped husband number two. The world will tell you there are certain rules, terms and conditions that you must adhere to and obey or else be destined for loveless misery and a life as a spinster with cats. This just isn’t the case, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m new to this like of thinking- love is truly different from person to person.

I myself spent years thinking people who get engaged before dating for at least a year were absolutely out of their effing minds. My philosophy has been that it’s easy to be dazed and googly-eyed in the first year. It’s what comes next that really sets the tone. Then I met Ginger Spice and the Polish Dream, and I was forced to eat quite the healthy portion of humble pie. They’d dated for a grand total of seven months when they got engaged and there is nothing about that which makes any less than perfect sense to me.

Now, do I think this whirlwind romance makes sense for everyone? Nah, playa.  What works for Couple A may spell disaster for Couple B. There are no universal rules, no blueprint or foolproof recipe that ensures a particular outcome in a relationship. Yes, there are certain truths about love that I think we can all agree on; overall though, I think that love is just too complex and delicate a thing to be or mean the same thing for the millions of people on this planet and their various DNA combinations. Love is too beautifully wondrous and mysterious a thing to be approached so methodically, so practically. I’ve vowed recently never scoff at love just because it’s packaged a little differently than the common ideal. Your love is different than mine, and that’s how it should be.

Lesson 2: Love is a choice.

How many times have you heard the words, “You can’t choose who you love?” If you’re anything like me, the answer is “a f*ck ton.” Your wording might be different than mine. Sorry about that.

Accepting that this adage is not indeed true has been one of the greater revelations of my life. It is a concept first brought to my attention by one of my best friends Daisy after attending a very spiritual wedding treat with her fiancé a few weeks ago. The realization that love is actually a choice has been sobering and at once liberating in turn. If you think about it, “you can’t choose who you’re attracted to” is far more accurate a statement. Chemistry, sparks, butterflies, chills- those are the feelings and sensations that you can’t fake or force. They may take time to develop but they’re either going to be there, or not. If they are, you may fall in love if the timing, lighting or alcohol by volume is right.

Falling in love, however, is not the same as actively loving someone- that’s a horse of a different color. You fall without thinking or planning, you stay because you want and then choose to. Loving someone, especially after the gloss and sparkle of a new relationship has waned, is indeed something we can choose to either pursue or abandon. We choose whether to continue down that path, to give of ourselves, to make time for this other person, to consider their existence as it affects and fits in with our own. We choose to compromise, to listen; to forgive, to understand; to engage, to be present; to be honest, to be patient. It is not an accident or the result of dumb luck when love endures. It is a voluntary, physical practice that we have to work at, and it isn’t always easy.

This may sound burdensome at first; to me, it’s rather beautiful and empowering. If love is a choice, then we can choose to keep the flame burning. When two people make that courageous choice to say “Hey, so, you’re the one. You make me all kinds of stupid happy. So sit down and strap in, because we’re going to remember our love for one another even when the going gets tough,” that is invigorating and noteworthy. It is my sincerest hope that if I do find someone crazy enough to handle my particular brand of crazy someday, that he be brave enough to choose to love me, actively and honestly with all that he has to give.

Love is friendship on fire.

If there is one thing I know to be true, it is this indeed that love is friendship on fire. I have it engraved on a necklace and I tout the phrase every chance I get. People say this so often that it begins to sound banal, but your partner really should be your best friend. Love works best, in my observance, when it takes on the form on a deep, meaningful, laughter-filled friendship.  The couples I know who have persisted and continue to thrive are the ones who are notably each other’s most trusted companion. When my mother has some great and exciting news, my father is the first one she thinks to call. When my friend has a hilarious story to share, she can’t wait to call her boyfriend to tell it. That seems to be the key, to see in your partner not just a person to eat with, sleep with and go to the movies with, but as your favorite person in the world with whom you can’t wait to spend your day.

In closing, to my newlywed friends- I applaud you for daring to making your own rules. They are your own and no one else’s. Own them, live them, thrive in them off into the sunset. I hope you will choose to love one another every bit as much tomorrow as you do today, and every other day as much as the one before. Value your love and the friendship that exists at its core, then set it on fire and let it be the force that binds you. Remember the meaning of the bands you each wear on your fingers and the vows you spoke to each other but a short week ago; I salute your connection and wish you even more happiness that you’ve already known. You’re all linked in and ready to go.; go be happy forever.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

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They seriously give each other looks like this all the time.

Maids in Waiting.

This chick. Ugh. Making bridal look effortless.

Ginger and the Bookworm

Tricks, Treats and Turn Down

Buenos Diaz, and Happy Sunday! It is currently 6am, and most of you are probably in recovery from your Halloween weekend, that highly anticipated time of the year when kids get cute to beg for candy, chicks wear lingerie and animal ears in the street, pets get forced into ridiculous get-ups for photographs and my various social media feeds are filled with carved and candlelit pumpkins. The costume-donning masses pretend to be something they aren’t for a night, or on the contrary use Halloween to let their most genuine but hidden identities be exposed in a rare moment of Gaga-like abandon.  

In my early twenties, I rode *hard* for this Halloween thing. My friends and I spent the first four or five Halloweens of my 21+ years in Sin City, and I confess that we were some of those girls doing the most with our costumes. Our ensemble’s theme was always “sexy”  (isn’t it always?); sexy mechanics, sexy gangsters, sexy firefighters, etc. We’d start with a basic frock, hack away at it with scissors then add a crap-ton of props and accessories to make it clear that we were indeed in costume and not just wearing torn-up Dickie jumpsuits with colorful bras and glittery eye shadow for no good reason. Ah, to be young, wild and recklessly free.  

I was going to insert a photo of one of tose customes here. Then I looked at the photos. Haha. Nope.

Now as a grown and bookish woman, Halloween hath not the allure it once did. The only costume I concern myself with now is the team costume I have to wear to work for our annual day of marketing clients in full dress-up mode. I’m generally a good sport and go with the flow of what everyone else chooses, but I sure did put my damn foot down this year and demand of my Account Manager that our costume selection not require me to wear any kind of facial hair for once . Two years ago, she’d handed me a pair of lederhosen, a felt hat and a terrible adhesive mustache. It was hot as hell and the sweat beads began to form on my face even at 9:30 in the morning. I was meeting 95% of my clients for the first time that day and had the pleasure of doing so with this ugly patch of synthetic fibers clinging crookedly to my upper lip. How I’d wished the giant plastic beer stein in my hand was real and filled with some cold, delicious brew…

Then last year around mid October, this same woman approached my desk with this giant smile and “Eureka!” expression on her face to tell me that this year we would go as the cast from Duck Dynasty. She’d already bought everything we needed from Amazon, so all I needed to supply were a pair of jeans and a black top. All I got from all of that was, “you get to be a hairy dude.” Not only did I have to wear facial hair again, but a giant, terrible, itchy beard at that. That fluffy and poorly-made mass of what I can only describe as stretched-out chestnut-brown cotton balls hell-bent on looking like tentacles was a giant pain in my ass. I looked like a poor man’s Moses if you didn’t look too carefully, if Moses had worn camo and a beanie and liked Le Volume de Chanel mascara.

This year, we got to be Spanish dancers much to my delight. Red lipstick, a slick bun, a rose in my hair and a long skirt- done and done! We were making our rounds to see various clients and drop off baskets of treats when we drove onto the property of a client whose offices are in a large and beautifully designed business park and in a building with a gorgeous view of San Diego. As I got out of the car, a pack of little humans from a nearby daycare could be seen approaching the building in the distance, each toting orange pumpkin buckets on their trick-or-treating mission. As I looked upon these 20 or so children, I was reminded of a meme I’d seen on Facebook proposing a new drinking game wherein the participants take a shot every time they see a little kid dressed as Elsa from Frozen. It occurred to me that had I signed up for this endeavor, I’d have been drunkity drunk drunk by 10:30am off this little tyke sighting along.

There were a few other costume trends- among the boys, there were tons of Supermen, Batmen and Spidermen. A few of the kids with lazier parents wore black shirts and pants with a skeleton painted on them. There were a couple of DIY Minions and a pumpkin or two… then came the kid whose parents get a giant gold star. In a world where 95% of the kids you see are decked out to look like a princess or a superhero came this little gem, an adorable little boy whose parents has dressed him up as the Waste Management guy. He had a little cardboard truck painted dark green and affixed to him via some Velcro and suspenders. I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. He looked proud to play the part of the trash man, and for that I wanted to pick him up and hug him.

 

Oh the cuteness.

 

After the clients had been seen and a few hours of work had been squeezed in, we all left the office early and I went straight home. I drank some Nebbiolo and wrote partially in the dark for fear that kiddies would come knocking on my door asking for a trick or a treat. I’d completely neglected to buy any candy and all I had to give were some oranges, kale, Medjool dates or perhaps a Chia Pod. Not your average kids idea of a good time, at least not in the hood. Perhaps in the nice part of town, I could have blended up some kale smoothies and given those out in teeny tiny cups. “Here you go kids, get your fiber and calcium! No cavities in these here parts! Make good choices!”  

Alas, no childrens showed up, and even with the neighbors blasting "TURN DOWN FOR WHAT!!" next door, I turned down indeed and treated myself to an early bedtime. I was tired, dammit! Or perhaps this is thirty.... more importantly, I took my butt to bed early because I had an event to attend the following morning: the 20^th Annual Dia de los Muertos Festival in Sherman Heights. I woke up early, did a quick 30 minute workout that really just turned into dancing like a maniac in my living room to some hip hop and cumbias, then made myself one of those kale smoothies and was out of the house by 8:30am. I met my buddy Celina and her mother Sue at the Sherman Heights Community Center to set up Celina’s Gypsy Treasures booth for the event, and there I stayed until 7:00PM that evening. The event itself was incredible: live music from mariachi, Latin rock bands and conjuntos, performances from numerous ballet folklorico groups and Aztec dancers, tasty food and beverage items, and amazing altars in remembrance of those who have passed on.

There were of course also tons of amazing vendors like Miss Celina herself in all her Gypsy Treasures glory. It was an honor to be her gypsy elf at this event and work her beautiful booth. I will be detailing the event in an upcoming post that I hope you will read and enjoy- stay tuned for that! I must levae you now to go get pretty for a surprise I have planned for someone special. Ssssssh. For now, enjoy your Sunday, make it a fun day, and I’ll catch you all again soon.

 

The Gypsy and her Treasures

 

La Gitana y La Bookworm

 

 

Ready, Set, Write.

Buenos Diaz! Or "noches" really, as I am just getting around to publishing this post close to 9:00 PM. It once again has been months since my last post, but hold your horses before you dismiss me as a flake. I've been working on a few other things, mainly finding myself most proccupied with a hefty dose of self-evaluation. You see, a thought, a crazy idea popped into my head sometime this summer, one that grew and flourished and came to a full bloom in this month of my thirtieth birthday. A lot of introspection went on, folks. Here is how it went.

I'd taken the day off work some months back and was blogging in my backyard on a lovely summer evening. I had a glass (well, a thermos) of wine in hand, earbuds pulsing music in my eardrums and my laptop perched on my lap as I sat on a blanket in the grass. I'd spent most of my day this way, pausing occasionally for sustenance, to read a few chapters of a book and to do some laundry. I was dreading the sunset that was quickly approaching; no matter how beautiful the San Diego sky looked when it was seemingly set on fire, it meant my day of reading and writing was drawing to a close and the alarm to wake me the following morning for my real job was looming threateningly. I sighed as I sipped my Tempranillo and said out loud to the air, the grass, the pesky spider crawling towards my ankle: "If only someone would pay me to read and write all day." And like the cheesy "aha" moment in a predictable feel-good film, I was instantly changed as the next few words tumbled out of my mouth: "I want to be a writer, dammit. I am a writer." My jaw dropped at my self-confession, at the secret I'd apparently been keeping, though not very successfully, from my own self. I'd suddenly spoken these powerful words out loud, and that action was seemingly the catalyst that set a new life path in motion.

Go ahead, call me corny. No one will fault you for it, least of all me. I won't even be mad if you laugh at me when I tell you that I stood up and danced around a tiny bit- I couldn't help it, my playlist was set to random and Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" came into rotation. More importantly though, I'd made a decision then and there that despite not being very deeply thought out made me ultra giddy and elated. I kept the decision to myself for some time to really give it time to sink in, to make sure I wasn't just caught up in the wine-induced haze of a beautiful summer night or reacting to the increasingly stressful environment of my job. Two whole weeks passed before I breathed a word of my idea to a single soul, and that omission made me feel like the possessor of the most delicious and scintillating secret.

When I finally told my cousin Alexis the news that had been burning me up on the inside, I cried. Then I told my friends, then select members of my family, then of course my employer and the entire chain of command therein. Each time I read another person into the plan, I cried anew, and smiled most dorkishly. These have been the happiest tears I've cried in many a year, and it is this very emotional reaction that makes me trust implicitly that I am doing the right thing. Much like Jesse Spano in her caffeine craze, I'm so excited and I just can't hide it: I've decided to leave the job I've worked at for the past nine years to pursue this crazy pipe dream of writing for a living.

The funny thing about this plan is that I don't really have a plan, strictly speaking. I know that I will give my current employer until about February of 2015 before I officially depart, which is the amount of time it till take to find and hire my replacement, sufficiently train him or her and pass off my book of clients. I know I am going to focus on writing and that I will need to find a job to pay the bills whilst I figure out how to make this all happen. I know I want a job that is better aligned with my literary pursuit, to be more immersed in the world I love and in which I want so desperately to live. I know it will be difficult, I know I will have plenty of dues to pay and sacrifices to make- and this idea elates me to my very core.

There are a couple of projects in the works- a book I hope to publish next year as well as a bit of a joint venture with my good friend and world traveller Celina Rodriguez. The latter refers to my involvement in Celina's business; her online store, Gypsy Treasures, features handcrafted global accessories from her many travels. I am assisting her with the promotion of this endeavor, a *very* taxing one indeed that involves shopping, perusing her wares, photography, eating delicious meals and then writing about all of it. I cannot rave enough about the beauty of these handmade products! I myself have purchased a number of her treasures and a day doesn't go by where I'm not stopped by someone to ask me where I got my bag, my wallet, my scarf, etc. If you find yourself in San Diego this weekend, come on down to the Dia De Los Muertos festival in Sherman Heights on Saturday, November 1st where Gypsy Treasures will be a featured vendor. Come shop, observe or just come hang with Celina and I, or as we have dubbed ourselves: La Gypsy y La Bookworm. I'm thinking we need superhero capes, don't you think? I do.

So there it is, friends. It's time to take a risk! I have entered my Nerdy Thirties with a bang and hope you will join me on this journey. I appreciate all the support that has been so generously given already, for the encouragement of friends and family alike to pursue this passion and write my way through it. I'm excited! Here's to doing more of what makes you happy and daring to live the life you want to lead.

Bookishly yours,
Vanessa

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Check out Gyspy Treasures: https://www.facebook.com/GypsyTreasures619

Come visit Gypsy Treasures, La Gitana y La Bookworm at the Dia De Los Muertos Festival!
The 20th Annual Sherman Heights Muertos Festival, celebrating Day of the Dead art, culture and community. Come check out our booth featuring beautiful hand-made ‪Gyspy Treasures and enjoy community altars and food! 

Saturday, November 1st from 10am-6pm
Sherman Heights Community Center 
2258 Island Avenue
San Diego, CA 92102


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The bookish excitement was real even then:

 

 

La Gitana y La Bookworm

 

From Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain, via text from my friend and fellow bookworm Melissa. I am neither an introvert nor can I stop talking, but these words are just beautiful.

Guilt, Be Gone

Buenos Diaz, peoples!

It's been awhile- my usual excuse is that I've been busy (which I undoubtedly have been). I've been adding to my book more than my blog lately- I've got to tell you, it is no easy task figuring out what to put where. In my daily life, every element of the world around me sparks a topic for me to write about. I'm constantly jotting things down and snapping pictures like a maniac, then I sit down to write when I get off work and I'm stumped. Do I blog it, do I book it, do I do both? This is when I start to fantasize that I will be the next Carrie Bradshaw in that some random publisher will approach me in a fortnight or two to impart the good news that he or she would like to turn my blog into a book. Except Carrie had a column, not a blog, and she had an editor, and lived in New York City where she was getting paid to write in the New York star and could afford Roberto Cavallli and Manolo Blahnik on said writer's salary. Sooooooo... I'm thinking this will NOT happen for me. I'll keep working on that book separately though. The good news is I have a title and a good chunk of material! I'm excited. I think I'll need to give myself until the end of the year to wrap it up though.

Today's blog follows a lovely trip to Northern California to visit one of my best friends Carlos. It was a quick Friday-to-Sunday trip filled with chit chat and libations with a little bit of nature thrown in for goos measure, or as I like to think: because I'm obsessed with gorgeous tree-filled places. Honestly, we could have sat in his place all day eating pizza and playing video games. I would have been happy just to see this guy (ok that's not entirely true, but you get what I mean). It was great to catch up with him and get a dose of his unique brand of humor and sarcasm. I'm very proud of him as well- he's about to start his second year at Santa Clara Law. Go Carlos! You're doing us all proud. #certified

When I started this post, it was Monday morning and I was sitting back in San Diego doing laundry and unpacking & such. I decided to also indulge in my guilty pleasure: reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Some of you will chime in here going, "OMG! I watch that toooooo!!!" while the rest of you will come at me like torch-wielding villagers for this silly obsession. To you, I say: leave it alone! Put down your opinions and judgement for 6.7 seconds, this portion of the story is really more of a segue.

I wasn't paying attention to the first part of the episode, truthfully, since I was absorbed in the Nordstrom anniversary sale catalog and obsessing over a Vince Camuto skirt that I would never buy if it wasn't on sale and don't really need, but then again NEED. It's that awesome. I tuned in towards the end though, right when Kris Jenner had staged a semi-nude photoshoot for herself in her backyard- like with professional photographers and lighting, the whole shebang. Kim, Khloe and Kourtney then stepped into the scene mid-shoot to find Kris in the pool wearing nothing but a sheer cover-up and six or seven pounds of makeup, then proceeded to immediately attack her for not "acting her age." They heckled her a good deal and poked fun at her nudity until Kris, evidently hurt by their judgment, lashed back- she just wanted to show her daughters that "being 50 you don’t have to curl up and disappear, you can feel vibrant and sexy at any age." This got me thinking...

At first listen, I liked the positivity of that message (though I perhaps would not have chosen to express it via a Glamour Shots solo sesh in a pool with my goods being clung to by a flimsy wet fabric). After all, I like to think that in 20 years when I'm knocking on 50s door, I'll not be doing so as a mullet-permed hunchback wearing sweatpants with my cat posse in tow. I'd like to be a hot old lady, but classy. Think Helen Mirren, but Mexican.

Theeeeeeeeen I had a change of heart. When Kris Jenner dished that line about being sexy at any age, I quickly went from "good for you!" to "hold up a cotton pickin' minute, Kris" (and yes, I did say "cotton pickin." I watched a LOT of Looney Tunes as a kid). My reaction changed so quickly because I remembered that this same woman has had multiple face lifts and breast implants. So when she sat there touting "beauty at any age" as a lesson to her daughters, I thought to myself, "That is really easy to preach when your 'beauty' has been adjusted, added to and restored via a trusted plastic surgeon and your boundless checkbook." It angered me because in the end, the message there is a good one; the source is just not the most shining example of its veracity.

Then, because I play devil's advocate with myself all the time, I asked myself whether I was being a bit of a hypocrite. This is what lead me to want to blog- it's not a brand new topic, it's one we've likely all discussed before: what is beauty? Is it natural, or can it be arrived at through some creative measures and still count? Where do you draw the line between sensible enhancement and superficial modification? I dye my hair, even if it is close to my own natural color, and I style it to either enhance my curls or straighten & sexy them up. I wear makeup daily, and what's more: I can admit that I like wearing it. I don't honestly know whether I would feel the same if I was some beautiful, natural beauty, but as it stands now I find it rather fun. It's an element of fashion, an accessory. Now, I know better than to put makeup and hair under the same category as going under the knife; the former is temporary and is used to bring out what you've already theoretically got, the latter is permanent and adds or removes what your genetic code did or did not manifest in you. Still- both are used to "change" you. So am I any better than the Kardashian matriarch?

I started to think a lot about body image. Me, for example: I get up at 4:15-4:30 am five days a week to hit the gym before work. I'm no CrossFit champion, but I get in a good 30-40 minutes of cardio then add in weights, calisthenics or TRX work for another 30. I avoid carbs, not altogether by any means, but I do limit my intake and try to stick to lean protein. I juice daily, and beyond that my liquid intake is limited to regular water, coconut water, nut milks or regular milk. I'll have a soda once or twice every couple of months and while I enjoy my wine, I keep it to one glass every few nights. I'm not saying I never indulge in an unhealthy morsel- we all do sometimes. But I generally feel guilty about it afterwards and vow to add an extra circuit to my next workout.

The kicker here is that I am not as fit-looking as that regimen above would lead you to believe. I'm curvy, and no: I don't mean I have a tiny waist with big boobs and a butt to match, which seems to be what most people mean when they use that word. I don't know how to describe my body, honestly. I've got a decent cup size and wider hips that might be more enticing if my waist would listen and get smaller. Some days I like my legs, some days I don't. So I keep on hitting the gym and torturing myself to be smaller, fitter, thinner.

Pero, I'm healthy. Then in theory, I should be happy with my figure and call it a day, right? Well- I'm not. And this is the utterly vicious cycle I find myself in daily- the cognitive dissonance of wanting to appreciate my body the way God made it while also wanting to be thinner. I want, like any woman, to feel beautiful. I want to feel like I'm every bit as appealing and sexy and desirable as a girl half my size. As such, I've come to really appreciate the Honor My Curves movement for championing the expansion of the definition of beauty to include all shapes and sizes- not just the ones that you might find on the cover of LowRyder magazine, you know? My kind of curvy isn't the kind of curvy that I feel is traditionally labeled as attractive, and I'd like to think that maybe that could change.

You know what else? I'd be a bold-faced liar if I said I wouldn't be mother-flipping ecstatic if I could lose 20 pounds. I'd love to just pick clothes off a rack and be confident that they'll fit. I'd love to do a pull-up, or wear a bikini and *own* it. I'd love to know what it's like to turn heads. And sometimes I feel like this makes me a traitor to my "kind." I'm content to sit here on the board of the Girls with Curves Club but would rip up my membership card and run like I stole something if I could qualify for the Fit Girl Coalition.This is a confusing space to live in, my friends.

Many will argue that you can appreciate a fuller figure and still want to be more fit, and I suppose this is true. It's just hard to really embrace that fact if you're mid-struggle. I live in Southern California, and in San Diego at that. GEESUS PEOPLE, the pressure! The world would have me believe that in order to be my most beautiful self, I need to be lead a gluten free, dairy free, sugar free, calorie free lifestyle; I need to be a vegan and run in marathons and do pilates, all in between yoga sessions and organic food shopping. I do partake in some of these lifestyle mantras and activities, I enjoy them in fact. But sometimes I just want an effing burger. Not a soy burger, not a turkey burger- a buurrrrrgerrrr. Meat. Cow. And with cheese. Sometimes I want fries, or ice cream! I want more cheese! Sometimes I want to skip the gym. Maybe even for two days in a row. Still, I want to be thinner. I really do. I want to say I'm comfortable in my own skin, and I sometimes am... until one of those Kim Kardashian types walks by me, then I want to throw myself in front of a moving vehicle. Here we go again.

There's that guilt. The guilt is palpable. The guilt that maybe I've gained five pounds if I did have that cheeseburger or that stupid, sexy Salted Caramel gelato by Talenti (my kingdom for a scoop!). The guilt that I didn't get in enough cardio. Or there's the reverse guilt if I did eat super lean and hit the gym hard this week: am I taking myself too seriously? Am I forgetting to relax and enjoy myself a little? Am I becoming one of those annoying people who talks about their awesome workout every morning when the gal next to me just wants to enjoy her donut in peace (the answer here is yes, in case you were wondering)?

Where is the happy medium?!? Where do you find the confidence to live in your own body and just be, to know you're doing what you can and giving it your best effort? Because let's face it- we don't all have to work as hard to look a certain way. My brother can eat Doritos, pizza, garlic bread and chicken wings all day but has to lift weights and drink protein shakes to keep his weight up. He does 15 minutes of cardio at best and keeps his figure. I'm over here eating lean and running for miles just to fit in my jeans. And I ask myself daily- am I supposed to just accept that we're built differently but be ok with my fuller size, or am I supposed to dig deep and work three times as hard to try and ourtun my metabolism? I don't quite know the answer. Some days I feel like I've done enough. Other I wonder if I'm supposed to try harder. Again- the guilt.

Interestingly enough, I was really thinking hard about this topic and was on a writing roll when I had to stop and save this entry for later completion: I was off to a book signing for one of my favorite authors as of late, Jojo Moyes, who made an appearance at Warwick's Independent Bookstore in La Jolla in promotion of her latest work, One Plus One. She was absolutely, genuinely charming- witty, dynamic, warm and passionate. She spoke of the book of course and obliged the substantially sized crown in patiently answering all of it's questions, touching on everything from her writing process, sources of inspiration, her experinces as a writer over the years and her family life as well. Something she said really stuck with me: when asked how she is able to juggle being a writer with being a mother of three, she spoke of the difficulties in setting aside time to write. She said, "I try really hard not to feel guilty, I've always found guilt to be a useless emotion. So of course I feel guilty every day."

There it is, guilt. The very topic I'd just been writing about. I thought about that statement all the way on my thirty-minute drive home. The guilt she referenced was a different type of guilt, yes, but what she said about it was peculiar and interesting in it beinf described as a useless emotion. There are clearly instances where guilt probably does us all some good, perhaps when we're in the wrong and need to make amends. Still, if you stop to think about it, how often do you feel guilty for reasons that truly are of no good use to you? If you can honeslty say "not often at all," mazel tov. Send me your contact info as I should probably be paying you to be my life coach. I suspect thought that for more than a few of you, as with me, guilt creeps its way into your life and not only complicates it uncecesarily but also just makes you bloody miserable. In my own life, guilt has often been my reason for overthinking, the source of relentless indecision, the foundation of stress and anxiety, the cause of self-loathing and dangerous behavior. I.e., a certified pain in my ass.

So I'm going to trying this on for size- I will try to feel less guilt. I will aim to be healthy, I will aim to be strong. I will accept that my healthy and my strong may look different than yours. I will have cookiedough or a piece of manchego if I want to, and I'll enjoy it. Some days I'll make tofu and roasted veggies, but sometimes I'll allow myself a grilled cheese. I'll be the first one to yell from the rooftops if I ever fit into the freak-em' dress hiding in the back of my closet. I'll just try really hard not to obsess about it, which,if you know me, will be no easy feat. Still, I'm putting it out there in the universe where it's real and can't be unsaid: I'll strive each day to give up the guilt. Who needs it anyway?

-V-

Love Me Tinder

It. Has. Been. Too. Long.

I'm such a slacker! I've neglected my blog, which is silly since writing it is one of my favorite pastimes. It envigorates me, it pleases me, it should be a bigger priority! It just seems as of late that I a) have no free time, and b) the free time that I have managed to muster up has been sucked up by the book challenge I've embarked upon for 2014. I've pledged to read fifty books this year- and to whom did I make this pledge, you ask? I don't know- to the book gods. To Jesus. To my imaginary friend. Who cares? I love big books and I cannot lie. Twenty down, thirty to go.

Tonight though- I am finally going to finish a piece that I started over a month ago. It explores a topic that has come up in conversaton increasingly since I turned 29, that magical age where according to some, I should have begun to hear the ticking of an internal clock that for me personally appears to be broken. It's that thing you see all those commercials for, the thing that people like to hint at you needing to try, that thing I'm personally still very on the fence about...

Online dating.

First of all- I have to say that this stuff is getting specific as all hell. We've all heard of Match.com and Eharmony, perhaps you've heard of Christian Mingle or Our Time. That type of specificity seems to sit just fine with me; if you're a good Christian man or woman, I can understand your desire to weed out the druggies, hoochies and other unholy riff raff, just like I totally get that our single senior citizens don't want to consort with the young and the restless twerkers of America whose every other word may or may not be "I can't even."  However thanks to the occasional bouts of insomnia which lead to late-night TV perusal on my part, I have come across some hilarious and in some case ridiculous dating sites of which I question either the legitimacy or ridiculous ad campaign. To name few:

• Gluten Free Singles- I ask you, do you really need to bond with your mate over your wheat aversion? I have recenlty begun avoiding it myself to alleviate an annoying skin condition, but my scalp issues don't need to rob you of your pasta fix, or rob me of a perfectly fine man just because he likes English muffins or garlic bread.
• Farmers Only- This commercial features a talking cow, terrible graphics, and a really country voice-over.... yeah.
• Purrsonals- for people who love, you guessed it, cats. I guess all the cat ladies got together and decided that wanted to stop being the poster children for perpetual singledom?
• Clown Dating- STOP IT.
• 7 Or Better- I hope I don't have to explain this one. They require that you send in three pieces of photographic evidence. OMG, knock it off.

 Then there are the dating apps, and I'm using the term "dating" loosely here as several of these apps are quite clearly "down to the the deed if your profile pic is hot" driven more than they aim to help you find that special someone. One that's been recently brought to my attention is Tinder, which to be honest struck me initially as the mobile dating app equivalent of "Hot or Not." You upload your pic to a profile then narrow down a few things: what sex you're interested in, what geographic radius you'd like to search in, and what age range you'd like to include in your search. You can upload a few more photos if you like (the average I saw was five) and include a few sentences about yourself. You set your parmeters , then presto: you are presented with a list of potentials stacked like a deck of cards.

The app will tell you if the person whose profile you're looking at a) shares any Facebook friends with you, and b) shares any of your interests, data also pulled from Facebook (i.e. the pages you like).  If you like what you see, you swipe right on the screen; if you don't, you swipe left to pass. If you swiped right and that individual swiped right for you as well, boom! It's a match. What I do like about the app is that you don't find out whether the person passed on you, per se. If you "choose" the person, they will only show up as one of your matches if they "chose" you in return. In other words, you don't have to face any real rejection; if you choose a person and they want nothing to do with you, there is no nasty pop-up reading "You're kidding, right? Dream on." That individual simply won't show up in your list of matches. As one of my best friends Carlos described it, "it's efficient. Yes/no, chat if mutual. Now if my chat game isn't nonsense, let's get coffee."

I gave this thing a try at the behest of my friend Celina who had some formidable success with it. I explained my initial aversion to this type of stuff to her, at which point she suggested I give it a shot if nothing else as a social experiment. She pointed out the entertainment factor, i.e. the ridiculous things people have to say about themselves in their profiles and/or even more ridiculous selfies people post to entice that right swipe. She also introduced me to something we call the Live Tinder, wherein you narrow the search radius to less than a mile and can literally find people (very) near you in real time. No lie- the "live tinder" is a lil' mucho for me. But I did sign up to be a good sport, and because I am often criticized for not being open to trying new things when it comes to dating. So- I came, I saw, I Tindered. Turns out I suck at Tinder.

It would appear from my Tinder findings that 90% of the bachelors in San Diego have washboard abs, tattoos and spend all of their time snowboarding, surfing and running marathons. Honestly, I find that intimidating. I get it, I do live in America's Finest City and that fact alone is going to heavily shape the types of people I'm going to encounter. I'm not averse to fitness, in fact I love to work up a good sweat- I like hiking, yoga, dance, bootcamp, kicckboxing, etc. I am not however going to be on Sports Illustrated any time soon and am flat out put off by all the men with perfect physiques, megawatt smiles, all kinds of beautiful-hued eyes. You'd think I'd have swiped right repeatedly at the sight of these beautiful specimens, especially since that whole rejection factor is rather elimianted and because I'd be a fool not to feel some attraction....

Not so. I feel nothing for these beautiful people.

I'm trying to work out for myself whether that's normal or not. I'm reminded of something Carlos has told me on more than one occasion, which is that men fall in love with what they see while women fall in love with what they hear. He was referring to attraction more than actual love of course, and I'm beginning to see how right he was, at least from where I'm sitting. If I really sit down and think about it it, it's like there's a spell cast on me wherein I'm blinded/immune to physical attraction until my brain has fallen for a man's brain first (leave it to me to use spells in my analysis). The spell is lifted (or shall we say the blinders are removed) if and only if I've determined a man to be intelligent, kind, funny and, you know, not a douchebag. When that checklist is fulfilled, I suddenly notice that gorgeous set of green eyes that have been staring at me all along, or the beautiful skin tone, or the full lips, etc. Prior to me determing those things about you, you're kind of just a talking lump of clay and I'm a girl which a paper bag over her head.

So: if you are me, an ardent sapiosexual who has a "Talk Nerdy To Me" print hanging on her wall at work and who wants to know what books you've read and liked in the last five years before our conversation can go any further and I can become privy to your attractiveness, will an app like Tinder ever really work? Is it just a black-and-white fact that dating sites/apps don't work for people like me, or do "people like me" need to just be more open-minded, less uptight, more self-confident, etc and thus make dating sites/apps work for them?  This whole time I've justified my aversion to online dating with the assertion that I don't feel a sense or urgency to date or get married. And this holds true for me even now- I'm very much someone who prefers for things to happen to me organically, who subscribes to a kind-of laissez-faire relationsip economics theory wherein I assume that the things that need to happen for me will happen in their own time without too much active intervention on my part.

This predisposition on my part made it very awkward when I read my cousin Alexis in to my experimentaton with the app and showed it to her. I was explaining how it worked when she saw a guy in my feed who she thought might be good for me and swiped right- so of course, he was one of my matches. A whole little fanfare went off on my phone screen, like I'd just advanced to the next level on a video game and I was being congratulated for accomplishing this feat. I engaged in a little back and forth chat but didn't feel the need to take it any further (Sorry Mauricio). The whole thing felt contrived, and I couldn't shake that feeling hard as I tried to do so.

The question then becomes: am I TOO old-fashioned in my approach to romance or just old-fashioned enough? I want to be able to tell my kids that their father and I met when we bumped into each other at a bookstore or at a mutual friend's party, or hell, at a stoplight. For better or worse, I'm not all that enthused about having to tell them we met because my pic was cute and he swiped to the right, or even that my list of traits matched Daddy's set of traits according to an alogorithm on a site measuring 29 dimensiosn of compatibility. Is that old-school but admirable, or am I being a luddite, immovable ostrich with my head resolutely shoved in the sand?

The truth is that I don't think there is a right or wrong answer here because love, attraction and their other related states represent differet things for different people. Try as we may to boil them down to a science, I have the sneeking suspicion that they will continue to rail against out efforts to figure them out completely. We all have different triggers, different soft spots, different predilectons and predispositions; what makes me swoon may make you want to punch a bunny, and what makes you want to vomit may just make my heart flutter. Online dating will work for some and not for others- I'm not sure what category I land in yet. What I do know is that this entire line of inquiry exists because matters of the heart aren't logical.

I think that's my favorite thing about them.

Ever hopeful,
Vanessa

Drink.

Buenos Diaz, faithful readers! For those of you newcomers, bienvenidos! Have a seat and stay awhile. Take in the sights, soak up the sarcasm, chuckle a bit and perhaps even learn a little somethin'. Today's lesson is simple: when in Boston, drink. But don't just drink, Drink. 

Instinctively, you read "drink" and "Boston," and your mind likely wanders to that delightful brew of hops, malt, yeast and H2O first concocted and introduced to the world by one Mr. Jim Koch in 1985. That cold, refreshing Sam Adams lager and it's many varieties are indeed most pleasing to the palate and should by all means be experienced (especially since the tour of the Jamaica Plain brewery is $Free.99, is led by a comedic beer-lover and includes tastings of the snazzy stuff), but 'tis not what I refer to here. The juxtaposition of "drink" and "Boston" might even conjure up visions of a tall glass of Guinness or some variety of bold Irish whiskey as being in the confines of Boston seems to bring out everyone's drunk inner Irishman. Wrong again! What I'm talking about is Drink. It's not just an instruction or your favorite passtime, my people. It's a friggin' place.

- screenshot of Drink's website: www.drinkfortpoint.com

As their website states, Drink is:

"A bar entirely dedicated to the craft of the cocktail, Drink blends time-honored techniques and the classic cocktails of the prohibition era with modern innovation and the very best artisanal ingredients... Our goal is simple: To provide a welcoming spot at which to enjoy a memorable cocktail, some great conversation, and sustenance. Cheers!"

Cheers indeed. Drink was named the Best Cocktail Bar in America in 2011 and Best Cocktail Bar in the World in 2013 at Tales of the Cocktail's Spirited Awards. 

My dear friends the Negretes introduced me to Drink on the second night of my visit to Boston. I stepped out of the cab on Congress expecting to see some flashy sign, or hell- a sign in general- but Drink truly pays homage to the prohibition era with its understated modern-day version of a speakeasy entrance. It's one of those "you have to know it's there" sort of joints where you descend a random flight of steps and look for a dude with a clipboard taking names; it's not however so hidden that you'll never find it and you need not know a password to enter. If you see the sign below (sans the reflection of my ring-covered fingers and creme-colored coat) at the base of the steps, you're in the right place.

Fancy, right?

Señor Clipboard (who is apparently the GM!) permits you to enter only when there is room for you. This often means you're chillin' on those steps for a hot minute, but not egregiously so. The wait is well worth it when you're allowed in the door as you're pleasantly surprised to discover you're not in some overpacked club full of people either twerking, tweaking or taking too many shots. You need not scream your drink at a bartender whose ability to correctly fulfill your order is dependent on his or her supersonic hearing and/or ability to read lips. You need not push or shove anyone to get to the bar but rather casually saunter to an open seat. The decor includes exposed brick, wooden beams and overhead pipes. The lighting is thoughtfully dim but not deceptively dark; the music pulses pleasantly but allows for comfortable conversation. In short: it's the grown and sexy way to achieve dignified inebriation and on something more artfully crafted than an Adios Motherf*cker. 

Drink offers a simple but decadent menu of tasty foodstuffs to complement the libations served therein. Small Bites include Japanese street corn and ice cream sammies while the Big Bites menu features everything from grilled cheese and a jar of pickles to sirloin carpaccio and the most amazing thick cut french fries. Seriously, those fries... they're served with a malt vinegar aioli and quite literally just made my mouth water; they are starchy, salty perfection. Get them, get them now. Then there's the burger, the secret-but-not-really-secret selection not found on the printed menu. You have to know about it, be told about it, or just be inquisitive enough to inquire when you see a sign like the one below (yes, only a limited number of these are served nightly). If you're a hardcore or even occasional carnivore, the burger is five notches up from sliced bread and one notch short of Jesus. 

Delightful, n'est-ce pas?

Enough about food, let's talk booze. It doesn't seem appropriate to call the individuals you find here "bartenders," the word just doesn't do them justice. "Bartender" make me think of some bicep-happy dude or bustier-clad chick hurriedly throwing together a rum and coke or pouring out a Miller lite (you know the type; not universal by any means, but definitely the norm in a lot of nightlife). Some would call the folks at Drink mixologists, but if you ask me: they're straight chemists. They've traded beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks for shakers and martini glasses, but trust me- there is some serious science happening within those walls. You may scoff, but you won't once you watch someone make you a drink that involves singed fruit, pink salt and little droppers of liquid that for all I know contain sodium bicarbonate and hydrochloric acid. 

You will not find a drink menu as there isn't one. If you have a cocktail in mind, lay it on your chemist (I'm going with it). If you don't, splendid! Someone will pick a poison for you based on your given flavor profile. These chemists aren't adept at this alcoholic brouhaha by chance, either; as I understand it, Drink keeps it real O.G. when selecting who gets the privilege of getting you tipsy and adopts an apprenticeship approach in its hiring. Each of the lead bartenders is paired wih a barback who must apprentice for at least a year before earning the title of bartender themselves. Cocktails are their craft and you get to consume it, and in a pleasant atmosphere no less. 

Chemistry class.

On the occasion in which I found myself at Drink, I sat in a section tended to by chemists Ezra and Sebastian. At first, I admit I was unsure about Ezra. There is an air of mystery about this fair, thin-framed woman with an almost elfin quality in her bone structure and facial features that makes you want to know more about her- and I'm not alone here (L. Negrete and J. Vidaurrazaga, lookin' at you). I am the consummate Chatty Cathy and curious cat rolled into one, so I immediately attempted to make conversation with her in between the rounds of science-in-a-glass she pushed in my direction ("How long have you been bartending? Where are you from? What does that tattoo on your forearm mean?) She revealed where she's from but otherwise gave evasive and ambiguous answers (to my tattoo inquiry- "I don't know, one day it just showed up there"). Her replies were seemingly curt and disintersted, but I'm persistent and she makes a mean Bohemian (who knew elderflower liqueur, gin and grapefruit could be so delectable?). 

I quickly learned that my initial analysis of Ezra (who buy the way is the bar manager) was cursory and ill advised. She's reserved, yes. She's also incredibly talented. She throws herself into her work and it's amazing to behold. She may not say much, but there's an art to her method when she starts tossing and chopping and mixing and pouring like the bottles, knives, glasses and other barware are extensions of her own extremities. She may appear dry, and perhaps at times she is! If you look closely though, you'll catch the slight upturning of her mouth on one side, a sneaky little smile that betrays her otherwise cool façade. Don't let her fool you, she likes what she does. She may not chat you up but she will keep pouring. So I say, pour away lady. And thank you. 

Ezra plus grapefruit.

Chemist #2 Sebastian is pint-sized fun. This super cute five-foot-something character originally hails from Colombia. He bartended there for a few years before bringing his South American flare to Drink where he apprenticed under Ezra, and get this- he's the ripe old age of twenty one. If you're like me, you're thinking "Twenty one?! What the hell do you know about craft cocktails at twenty one?" Pssh, plenty. While the rest of us may have been knocking down Jose Cuervo, Kamchatka and jungle juice out of red cups when we were his age, this guy knows his stuff. The combination of his tenure abroad and tutelage under Ezra have served him well as his craft is finely honed. He didn't miss a beat while tending to us that evening, serving us a variety of tasty and potent potions pleasing to both the eye and palate while also engaging in a bit of levity.

The aforementioned levity.

As for the actual drink... For my first round, I kept it simple and asked for something that was both spicy and sweet. I was served a tequila based beverage with cassis, ginger and lime, I believe it was called an El Diablo. It's a bit of a taste bud awakening- your tongue is hit with both bitter and citric notes that cut through the initial sweetness of the drink; the last thing you taste is a smokiness that's unexpected but pleasant. I then had a Bohemian, the gin/elderflower/grapefruit combo I mentioned earlier which was recommended to me by my BFF Leandra. Easily a new favorite! I've historically loathed gin with a fervor, but this just works. The grapefruit is the perfect sweet and sour balance to accompany the floral injection of the St. Germaine. It's served with finely crushed ice and tastes as elegant as it looks. Order this, please. Do it for me. 

Double Diablos (and Victor and I)

Bohemian on the left, El Diablo on the right

Then my pal Victor decided to be that guy and aimed to challenge our chemists' creativity: he asked for something that tastes delicious but looks obnoxious. He got this: hollowed out grapefruit with singed edges dipped in pink salt filled with I don't even know what, perched most unceremoniously atop a basic glass as seen below. 

Check out the guy behind Vic giving him the "This guy..." face.

Then Vito asked asked for something "even more obnoxious." So this happened:

Yup--- a porcelain blender.

Aaand then this happened. 

The drink went in that weird monkey, not to be confused with Sebastian.

By the end of the night with warmth in our cheeks and smiles on our faces, we were all singing the praises of this dynamic duo. So much so that Leandra found crayons (?!? I came back from the ladies room and they were just there) and drew Sebas a picture. 

Who knew Crayola had a bar presence?

Apparently gin makes my Lulu artistic. 

We finally left Drink shortly after the masterpiece above was fashioned (but not before half of our foursome sang the first verse and chorus of "Under the Sea" to dear Sebas). I knew even as I floated back to Beacon Hill that I'd want to blog about this place- excellent food, excellent cocktails, excellent service, and above all: crayons. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Because you clearly MUST go: 

Drink 

348 Congress St, Boston, MA 02210

617-695-1806

www.drinkfortpoint.com

Open nightly from 4pm-1am

To purchase your very own  "Team Ezra" tshirt, please contact Leandra Negrete at... Just kidding :) 

I Think I'll Go to Boston

As I mentioned towards the end of my last entry, I boarded a plane the day after my birthday en route to Boston. Two of my best friends Leandra and Victor moved out there a couple of years ago, and shortly thereafter I made my first trip to Beantown. I fell in love with the city, to put it mildly. There's just a certain je ne sais quois about it- the energy, the architecture, the seasons, the people... I love it! I love it all! And so it came to be that I planned my second trip out to their neck of the woods to soak up some more of the Boston vibe.

Leandra and Victor, first of all, are quite the little power couple- but in a classy, understated, not-shoving-it-down-your-throat kind of way. They are the poster children for the whole " pursue your passion" concept, having both made major career shifts in the name of this pursuit and finding a myriad of success as a result of this courageous choice. After spending years in management for the largest rental car company in the world while living in LA (which is how I met both of them and several of my best and closest friends), Victor decided to fulfill his goal of achieving military service and enlisted in the Army reserve with the intent to eventually pursue a Master's degree. He left for basic training, came back a leaner, meaner Victor, and began the application process. I remember the day he called me to tell me he'd gotten into USC, my own Alma Mater of which I am only sliiiiiightly proud (now blaring USC Fight Song). We had ourselves a little phone celebration, one which was quickly trumped when a few weeks later, I got the call saying Victor had also been accepted to some rinky dink institution called Harvard. And so the acceptance letter from my belowed USC got tossed in the fire, and Victor packed up his bags and moved out east. Two years later, he officially earned himself a Master's degree in Urban Planning from jolly ol' Hahvud, then came the time to find a job. Low and behold, the guy landed a position as Regional Planner for the State of Massachusetts. I mean... what a slacker. 

My Lulu (Leandra), has a story no less impressive; she too worked for this same rental car company and at a higher rank, managing the three brands of the company at an airport operation and doing so quite successfully. Whilst having lunch with a friend she hadn't seen in some time on a random weekday, she explained what her position entailed and was faced with an interesting and unexpected dichotomy; the friend sitting across from her was most impressed with and excited by Leandra's achievements, while she herself was... not so excited. She wasn't unhappy; she held no grievances or complaints. She was proud of the success she'd worked so hard for, but she'd reached that point where she craved the ability to do what she loved and not just what she happened to be good at... (sound familiar?) On a whim, she applied for a position with an assisted living facility mere blocks from the house I once shared with her; she'd studied human development as an undergraduate at UC Davis and always knew she wanted to work with the elderly but otherwise had zero experience in the field. She interviewed for the position on her lunch break and assumed it was a long shot. Later that week while visiting for a friend's birthday, I found myself helping her her empty out her office; the following Monday, she stepped ino her role as the Executive Director of Belmont Village in Burbank, California. 

I'm not done though; she hadn't been in that role for yet a year when it came time for Victor (then her fiance) to move to Boston. It was time to find another job! She found a few positions that again seemed like pipe dreams, so she crossed her fingers and rubbed her little teacup chihuahuas for luck. Applications were sent, interviews were done, then she waited, and waited, and waited some more. Enough time had passed that she assumed she'd been passed up... but then the call came. She was now the Executive Director of Neville Place in Cambridge. BOOM. Aaaaand about two months ago, after approximately two years in that role, she was offered a newly created position as the Director of Operations for this facility and ten or eleven others. BOOM, squared! Like I said- power couple. 

My visit with them was phenomenal! They have the most adorable apartment in Beacon Hill, my favorite neighborhood in Boston. I spent a lovely four days in their company and enjoyed the perfect intinerary- Thursday we went out for a birthday dinner at Lolita's (please, go there: try the Naughy Pineapple cocktail and the guacamole trio. Didn't think bacon went well with guac. Guess what? It effing does) followed by a trip to Fenway during the World Series. We had a few beers at a bar near Fenway where I had an amazing pumpkin ale (I think it was called UFO?), took pictures of a sexy waiter with a resemblance to Chris Brown, and sang along to Sweet Caroline with the throngs of Red Sox fans. Friday we did breakfast at the Common (actually, the Public Garden) then took a trip to the Sam Adams brewery. After guzzling some delicious and FREE beer, we hopped on a party bus (complete with stripper pole) en route to Doyle's, the oldest bar in Boston. After chowing down on assorted Boston specialities and trying some other Sam Adams variteties not previously tasted, we embarked on the party bus once again. The bus stopped at a liquor store where we all purchased our poison of choice then got back on the bus to booze while driving around Boston. That evening, we went to a an establishment called Drink- holy mother of all that is good and pure. Please see my next post where I review (read: rave about) this place and why you need to take your happy ass there, post haste. 

Saturday, we recovered from Friday night and made breakfast at home. We then went to a bar in Cambridge to watch Barcelona beat Real Madrid in El Clasico, then walked around Harvard and lunched in Cambridge. We hit the town for some dancing and drinks at a club that evening where there I learned that mechanical bulls and stripper poles are a bicoastal commodity. Despitethe fact that Halloween was almost a whole week later, we found several people in costume that night. In fact, we found someone's abandoned angel costume at the club and distributed the parts among us. I vaguely remember getting handed the angel wings at the end of the night andn wearing them as we stumbled through the Common at 2am. I took pictures with a guy and his stick horse, sand Under the sea with Leandra, and watched Victor try to swing from a tree with the greatest of wease and land on his coccyx instead. Sunday we went to Vermont (!!!! I heart trees) where we grabbed lunch at a cute farmer's market, toured Sugarbush Farm then walked the Quechee gorge. First of all- I did not buy enough cheese from Sugarbush. Second- I didn't think I liked maple syrup, then I tried the real deal. Oh snap! That stuff is great when it's legit! Please look up Sugarbush Farm if you're ever in Woodstock, Vermont and get yourself some cheese, syrup and other tasty goodies like their many spreads and preserves and smoked sausages. In the meantime, order from their website! They ship just about anywhere in the US and the product is superb. I highly recommend the extra sharp 18 and 36 month aged cheddars, the Mountain Jack, and the Cayenne Jalapeno cheddar. Go get some, now! Then come back and finish reading. www.sugarbushfarm.com 

We finished up the day with dinner and a movie at home. I came home Monday and missed Boston the second I left. Good thing I have some airlines miles saved up... I will return. Now, about this Drink place.... 

Lolita Cocina & Tequila Bar

Leandra, her cousin Alyssa and yours truly outside Fenway

Case Negrete by night...

... and by day

Chihuahuas roasting on an open fire

A room wih a view (that room being the kitchen)

Beautiful Beacon Hill

Make Way for Ducklings, and the Sox

Coffee in the Common (ssssh, mine is milk)

Beerducation.

That Boston lager!

Le party bus

Drink.

Two little Mexicans drinking ginger and cassis

Lovely day at Harvard 

Harvard or Hogwarts?

Put your right foot in...

Let there be light.

Yo what time this train coming?

All black everything...

Only YOU can prevent forest fires!

Turns out red bull does give you wings. 

"Go pose with that guy and his stick horse!"

"Ok!"

Woodstock, Vermont: no filters need apply

Love at the covered bridge crossing.

Making road kill look good.

I have dimples in Vermont, apparently.

Cute little Cota girls

Look ma, no hands!

Enchanted forest.

Reached rock bottom (of the Quechee gorge)

Quechee Gorge in all it's glory.

The gorge was poochie friendly.

Last day in Beantown... Last look at the colorful trees.

I met a guy.

Please don't make me go! 

Oktoberfest

Where has October gone?!? I feel like a broken record asking that question every time I sit down to add to this blog but seriously... who the heck sped the time up in 2013?!? The fact that I haven't unpacked my suitcase all the way in several months now is undoubtedly a contributing factor to this perceived sense that the world is turning more quicky than usual, and if I am indeed correct in this assertion then all is well with the world. Time may feel like it is marching on faster than I can guzzle down a glass of milk, but the time itself has been spent marvelously with good food, great friends, and the happy accrual of plenty o' airline miles. So to Father Time, I say "Ha! Thou hast not dulled my fun any."

So... October. This tenth month of our calendar year is one of my favorites for a variety of reasons, as I touched upon previously. For one, pumpkins. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin smoothies, pumpkin body scrubs, pumpkin pie, pumpkin lattes, pumpkin soup- that stuff is eeeeeverywhere. As a general rule, I am a happier person when there is pumpkin in my life, and October marks its seasonal debut. Secondly- fall wardrobe. Not that this makes me a particularly unique specimen of the female gender, but I find fall clothing options delightful. I get to dust off the boots, the scarves, the leggings, the cute coats and I love every moment of it. And for those of you non-Californians scoffing at me right now and telling yourselves that I couldn't possibly have any need for said items, just shut it. I get it- I live in San Diego where 96.7% of the time, the weather is most accommodating and wam by most standards. But despite what Katy Perry and the Beach Boys have led you to believe about SoCal weather, it is not actually sunny and warm 365 days a year over here. We don't walk around in booty shorts and bikini tops all day; it rains, it gets below 40 degrees, the wind blows and the sun does indeed play hide and seek for days or weeks at a time. Our cold may not be as cold as your cold, so you'll wear your North Face down-filled jacket while there's a significant chance my jacket was purchased from Forever 21. All I know is that If it's 40 out and its raining, I'm going to don my warm accoutrements and don't want to hear any lip about it. 

But back to the reasons October is awesome: so many birthdays! I have a dear friend or family member born on the 2nd, 5th, 6th, 10th, 14th, 17th, 24th, 25th, 26th and 30th of this month, then there's the 23rd which is my own date of birth. I like to make a thing of celebrating not just for the day but for the week or entire month if at all possible. I'm sure that sounds a tad prima-donna of me, but I promise it isn't. I don't expect the world to shower me with presents all month long or fan me with palm fronds, I just make it a point to fill the month with activities that I enjoy with the people that keep a smile on my face. I'll do the planning, you just have to accept the invite or tell me what airport to fly into and indicate whether you have a couch I can sleep on. 

That being said, Operation Birthday 2013 has been one of my favorite missions if not THE favorite. I have officially entered the last year of my twenties and I am happy to report that the "holy-expletive-I'm-almost-thirty" mania has not set in, at least not in a bad way. There is a healthy amount of goal setting and introspection being had, but I haven't signed up for an arranged marriage or made an appointment to have my eggs frozen yet. I did however spend every single weekend in October and a few select weekdays celebrating in one fashion or another. I've slept remarkably little, tested the efficacy of my kidneys and liver, consumed entirely too many calories and totally slacked on my usual gym routine. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat though, and here are some reasons why: 

October Week 1: Library Lust, Live Music, Love of Dance

- Several hours spent at the new Central Library in Downtown San Diego finishing some classic Agatha Christie, delving into some David Sedaris (and stifling my laughter whilst doing it), and adding to what I hope to be my first attempt at a published work, all while snuggled in a big, blue, comfy couch in the solarium/reading room with a panoramic view of the east village. Spotify mixes employed: "Strings" (classical jams and contemporary remakes), "Pensive" (make-you-think music), and "Invincible!" (girl power, inspiration, I'm-a-badass type selections).

I'm home.

Reminiscent of the Hogwarts staircases...

Dewey love.

- Kelly Clarkson/Maroon 5 Concert with my cousin Alexis; scored tickets for great seats on Ebay last minute for an absolute steal, then spent the evening belting along to Kelly and crooning over Adam. Seriously though- "Since U Been Gone" never EVER fails to make me sing at the very top of my lungs, as if I have one iota of that woman's vocal capacity. I've actually embarrassed myself on at least 10 occasions on the freeway or at a stoplight singing along to this song; some people start singing along, others chuckle or just shake their heads. The first few times I think I blushed, but after that I stopped caring and even turned up the volume and car dancing. To hell with it= YOLO. Anyway, Kelly actually has several of these "ooooh girl, tell em!" anthems, many of which live in my "Invincible!," "Ache," "Rockin Out," and "Voices" playlists. "Since U Been Gone" is just the ultimate one (just ask the kids fom Pitch Perfect). As for Adam Levine... I need to devise a plan to see how Jagger-like this man's moves really are. Some might call me a creepy, stalker wanna-be homewrecker as I have a smiliar agenda for Liam Hemsworth; I prefer to think of myself as a diligent seeker of truth and curious fact-checker. Yeah yeah, he's engaged to some supermodel and whatnot, but let's not go killing my dreams just yet. I don't need forever with that tattoed white boy, I just really wanna love somebody, I really wanna dance the night away. 

Family by chance, (best) friends by choice.

Adam- call me. 

-Trolley Dances with Alexis; this was an amazing production put on by Jean Isaac's San Diego Dance Theater that I'm as equally elated that I attended as I am utterly annoyed that I didn't discover sooner! As the program I was handed puts it, "Trolley dances began in 1999 with a unique and distinctly urban concept: bring dance to the people using public transportation and introduce people to new neighborhoods and places." It is a part walking tour/part trolley ride to a handful of carefully selected landmarks in a given neighborhood/territoy where members of the dance company then perform an original contemporary piece. The version I experienced was in San Diego and started at Northgate Plaza before moving on to Chicano Park, the new Central Library in Downtown's east village, and ending at the Monarch School. The performances were en plain aire for the most part and smack in the middle of the hulabaloo of a regular Sunday afternoon. The Northgate Plaza performance drew interesting looks from passersby on their way to buy their carne asada and Fabuloso from Northgate Market who were clearly confused as to why a throng of people had gathered outside the Tocumbo Neveria to watch a handul of people dressed in white were positioning themselves oddly by the fountain; library goers were startled when they tried to use the south exit and encountered five or six casually dressed individuals rolling up and down the steps in seemingly slow motion. It was such an amazing experience; if you live or find yourself in San Diego, Riverside or San Francisco, I urge you to look into this. 

Northgate Plaza

Chicano Park

"Artsy" trolley shot.

Library steppin'

Touching piece danced to live choral music. gasp.

 

Hearts to the sun.

October Week 2: Diego to the Bay

- Friday evening was spent in Oakland avec mon ami Dustin. We dined on beer, wine, lamb burgers and harisa spiced steak at a venue named The Spice Monkey. We spoke of yoga, of Folsom, of high school days of yore... I sat in the most comfortable %#&@ing chair covered in cowhide and met his new plant which is apparently of Latin American descent. Best of all, I slept in a closet-turned-guest room that we called my little cupboard under the stairs. Livin the Harry Pottern dream, y'all. Oh, and I locked Dustin out of his apartment. Guest of the year award goes to....

Dustin's digs.

Lake life.

-Saturday morning I met up with one of my college BFFs Maya at Brown Sugar Kitchen for brunch. Sigh... proof that time does nothing to erode the strength of true friendship, folks! The beignets and chicken/waffle foodstuffs were delectable- light and sweet and savory and wonderful. I learned my girl is kicking ass and taking names, travelling the world and killing the game over at Oracle. Look out for this woman, world. She may look like a chipmunk and/or Keroppi the frog when she smiles at you sweetly and calls you "hon," but make noi mistake- she could buy you and sell you. 

 

Maya (my chipmunk) and the ghost of my face.

- Saturday afternoon I headed to Campbell to watch the Dodger game with my friend Clara who was briefly my roommate whilst living in Burbank a few years ago. We're both LA fans living in cities that aren't particularly accepting of our fandom, so we watched the game together and lamented the loss. Still, it was nice catching up. She showed me around Campbell and also showed me the world's teeniest sequined cheerleader outfit... for her dog Bella. :)

#BurbankPorvida

- Saturday evening was spent in San Francisco with my lovely friend Julie and habitual dance partner Carlos Marroquin, otherwise known as DTF (Yes, it means what you think, unless you live in Orange County in which case you might be thinking Downtown Fullerton. That's so not it). He got stuck with that nickname years ago after a hilarious inebriated conversation and I don't think I'll ever be able to call him anything else. Lucky him. Anyay, I learned a few things Iin San Francisco: 1) it's freaking cold there and parking sucks. 2) Julie's father works on the Kendal Jackson/La Crema vineyard?? The basket of mini-muffins is as good as in the mail. 3) Salvadorans looooove to say "bien a verga!" 4) There exists a thing called a Victorian punch bowl, and said bowl is most definitly too large for consumption by three people, particulary when two outta three of these individuals are females who don't drink much. 5) Victorian punch bowl comsumption by three overachievers leads to storefront photoshoots, Macarena dancing in the streets, and awkward shoving followed by name calling. It also leads to Spanish love letters and the coining of the motto, "Simple Bitches!"  although If you ask Julie, it's "Plain Bitches." Don't listen to her.

Simple Bitches!!

I was thirsty.

The DTF Double Fist.

LIGHTS!!!! Some place called Murio's where I annoyed people with my incessant photoraphy.

The following morning... Captain Amnesia. 

 -On Sunday, after a quick breakfast with DTF and Simple Bitch 1, I made my way to Santa Clara to see one of my bestest friends Carlos (a different one, not to be confused with DTF, haha) living that law school life. It was a gorgeous day, perfect for a tour around the campus of Santa Clara University. SCU is much small than I imagined but altogether very nice; the mission in particular was beautiful in its simplicty and interesting layout, and I loved the great panoramic views from the study spaces at the library (you're shocked, I know). Carlos showed me all the hot spots where the SCU kid go for the turn-up (Mondo's and The Hut, you may have heard of them) then took me around Downtown San Jose. We then made our way to Santana Row, which as he said it would, struck me as Silicon Valley's version of LA's Grove or Americana. We walked and talked (well, mostly I talked.... it's usually 70/30 with me, right sunshine?) before brunching on Singaporan-inspired cuisine. After that... I honestly don't know where the rest of the day went! I know we went to Campbell and had Swirls (i.e. sugar-headache molotov cocktails) at a place called Aqui while watching Sunday night football and engaging in more of the chit chat, then before I knew it, it was almost midnight. I guess time flies when you're telling all the funny cuentos and strolling down memory lane. 

Splendor in the grass. 

A view from the top. Of the library, of course.

October Week 3: Faves of America's Finest City

- Kicked off this weekend by attending what I was told would be a mariachi festival with my cousins Alexis and Amanda as well as my maternal grandparents. I flew down to San Ysidro on a Friday evening after work looking for the San Ysidro Multicultural Complex, which I imagined to be some large, magnificent edifice rife with Latin American art and culture. Alas, after spending several minutes driving up and down the street that both Google and Apple maps assured me was the right one, I called Alexis and learned that this "Multicultural Complex" was the run down little auditorium at San Ysidro Middle School (ballin'!) and the term "mariachi festival" was apparently code for "hey, there will be a mariachi band in the building for about an hour while followed by a 'serious band' comprised of a bunch of glorified Mexican wedding singers and you can buy tostadas in the back for a dollar."  It was really more of a gathering and board member recognition for an organization called "Hearts & Hands Working Together." They are a non-profit agency whose primary mission is “to provide food, shoes and clothing to the ‘underserved’ and ‘at risk’ individuals/families, and, refer them to other resources that will lessen the threat for them, in the San Ysidro Community." Wonderful cause, not to wonderful event organization. I did however get to hear a great performance of my favorite mariachi song (Cascabel) and danced to the cumbia jams with my Abuela for the first time since she beat cancer. Priceless.

"Mariachi Festival"

Abuela will cut you.

-Saturday was a pre-birthday day of fun with Alexis and Amanda wherein we spent the day doing a few of my favorite San Diego things. We had Greek for lunch in Hillcrest (mmmmm, gyros), then went to Baked Bear in PB for a delicious dessert (funfetti cookie sandwich with mint chocolate chip ice cream = mouthgasm). We took a walk out onto the pier, which was Alexis' idea, when quickly walked back when Alexis started hyperventilating over her fear of heights. I tried to be helpful by jumping up and down on the pier next to her, which some of you will think was cruel as it makes the pier shake and scare her further. I was only trying to help cure her fear! Gees. Anyway, next we cut back to Liberty Station where we enjoyed a fruit & cheese platter and some delightful wine at Wine Steals. We wrapped it up with a drive down Harbor, my favorite drive in San Diego. To enrich the experience, we blasted M83's "Midnight City." This is my "zen" place- this drive calms me, it invigorates me, it comforts me all at once. There's just something about the lights, the skyline in the distance, the water, the Coronado bridge... it is beauty. Alexis shares my affinity for this drive, so we find a way to fit it in even when it means taking the long way home. Sometimes, you just gotta. 

My birthday present from Alexis and Amanda: it has a cape!!!!

Hillcrest is funny.

Oh yeah... I live in a gorgeous city.

My rare, unpremeditated smile says it all... perfect day.

Terror on the pier. That Vanessa chick was such a jerk for jumping up and down on the pier like that.

October Week 4: Dinners, Parts I and II 

- Birthday Dinner Part I was spent with my three #1s- my mother, father and brother. My birthday is an especially happy occasion because it's only one of a handful of times a year when I can pick one of "my" restaurants, one where in addition to wine, there are things like "braised," "bechamel," and "white wine reduction" on the menu, where pancetta, goat cheese or pine nuts are staples and there is at least one thing on the menun that sounds appaling but tastes like divinity. My father is a simple man who likes simple food like sandwiches and Rubios, and my brother thinks anything culinarily interesting "equals chorro." But on the anniversary of my birth, I get to pick and more importantly- no one makes a face. So: I picked Bencotto Italian Kitchen in San Diego's Little Italy. Twas delightful! in addition to the charm of my either authentically Italian or talented thespian server Giada, the Nebbiolo was delicious and the house-made tagliatelle with the summer sauce was perfection. Plus I was served a cute little tiramisu with a birthday candle in it, and that sh*t was decadent as hell. Aaaaaand they have good lighting. SCORE. 

Mother.

Father.

Brother.

Winer.

- Birthday Dinner Part II was spent with a lovely group of females; you've heard of Daisy, Karina and Jasmine from other blog posts, and I was also joined by Jamy, Heather and Cristal. For this meal, I drove up to LA since my 7am flight the following day was out of LAX. I chose 041 Bacaro in Culver City, an Italian eatery with Venetian influence thatb we stumbled across on a food tour (p.s.- Secret City LA food tours is a great time, look them up!! BYOB party plus plus amazing, lesser-known LA eats. What's not to like?!?). So.... really, I would have been happy with just the lighting. In case you haven't picked up on the obsession, I go gaga for interesting lighting fixtures. I have a particular affinity for chandeliers, and this place serves 'em up big and bright. But in addition to tripping the light fantastic, the food was molto bene. There was meat in a butter sauce, there was a chopped panceta, date and gorgonozola salad, there was gnocchi and branzino and all sorts of mouth-watering deliciousness. The only thing better than the taste bud explosion (and tasty dessert treats from Porto's) was the laughter. It was that amazing, racuous, incontrollable laughter that nourishes the soul and flexes the abdominals, the kind that makes you look crazy unattractive in photos and cements itself in your brain and heart as a treasured memory. I learned that I've been doing myself a disservice in not "washing the top," a shortcut to fabulous second-day hair without washing your entire head of hair. I also learned the many uses of baby powder and its effectiveness in avoiding what I'll just call inter-rack moisture. And on that note, I will take another sip of my wine.

OMG.

My loves.

Ebony and Eggshell.

We heart the vino, and cheekbones.

Jamy demonstrating proper powder application.

D plus V.

Oh... my.

-After very, very little sleep, I woke my butt up at 4am to get ready to fly to Boston... that trip gets its own blog post. 

How I Spent My Summer (non)Vacation: July edition

Buenos Diaz!! So.. yeah. Where the heck did summer go?!? One minute all the kids and teens in the city were running from campus singing "Schooooooool's oooooout foooooor summerrrrrrrr!!!!' and the next I was standing in line at Target with a bunch of tweens buying One Direction backpacks and sparkly headbands. My commute time has doubled, the seasonal margaritas are being pulled from the menu... yep, it's official. Summer has drawn to a close.

I admit I'm nowhere near as sad about this as most people are; I am a typical girl (if I'm to believe a certain green-eyed buddy of mine) in that I love, love, love the fall. The boots and jackets come out, the weather is perfect for snuggling up with a good book or movie, and most importantly: there's a pumpkin explosion of yummy treats available at a retailer near you. Oh, and there's my birthday too. Fall = awesome, and don't you deny it.

This summer however was pretty great on my end, and I am indeed sorry to see it go. I stayed quite busy! In fact, last weekend was the first one in which I did not leave town since mid July. My suitcase was never really unpacked the entire time, it was kind of great. Allow me to try and recap it all from the slew of blog entries I have drafted and unpublished, starting with the month of July.

I kicked off July with a trip to Riverside to visit my cousin Johnny, his wife Loleta and my adorable toddler nephew Johnny Eli. So first of all- let me just clear the air here. I was raised in a Mexican household, and so to me, family structure is as follows: the people that made you are your mother and father. Any other kids they made are your siblings. Their parents are your grandparents; their siblings and sibling's spouses are your uncles and aunts (tias and tios); your tia's/tio's kids are your cousins. Eeeeeverybody else that shares a bloodline is a tia, tio, or cousin. That's it- simple. When all y'all start asking me if someone is my first, second or third cousin  and how many times removed- you've lost me. I bring this up because Johnny is my mom's cousin's son, so many of you like to point out to me that he isn't my first cousin and his son isn't my nephew. Know how I feel about that?

Johnny is my cousin, his son is my nephew. So zip it!

Back to my story: these are three of my favorite people in the world, and my little weekend trips with them are quickly becoming some of my fondest memories. Our routine is pretty standard: we play with the little one, Loleta and I might go get our nails done or else run a few quick errands, then we head back to their apartment for more toddler play before putting him to bed. Once he's slumbering peacefully, the adults share a yummy dinner and some laughs. My cousin Johnny is actually Pastor Johnny, so I admit that I was a liiiiiiittle nervous when I came up for my first visit about two years ago. I mean, I'm no heathen or anything, but there's something about being in the presence of a pastor that I think would cause many people to feel like they needed to be on their best behavior. Yeah... I relaxed about 15 minutes after walking through the door. Johnny is (still, as he was in our youth) the funniest guy, and his wife is an absolute sweetheart who I count among my closest friends. In fact I might like her better than you, Johnny. Sorry dude. And yes, they are people of God, but they're regular people! They have silly couple's arguments and watch Scandal like the rest of us. And they brought this little tyke into my life, so they're automatically awesome.

I concluded this weekend with a day trip to Temecula for wine tasting with two friends. We drank lots of wine and enjoyed a yummy lunch- perfect conclusion to a great weekend. 

I think I spent every other weekend in July in either LA or Orange County. I kicked it off with a trip to Huntington Beach for a beach clean up. The event was organized by my job's philanthropy committee, and God love 'em for trying, pero..... all I know is I got up at 5:30am on a Saturday to drive an hour and a half and go clean a really clean freaking beach. The event included all members of my division in our Southern California group plus any significant others and children; so please, if you will, envision 150 of us trolling this beach searching for trash with all of our might, and by "searching" I mean desperately looking for something besides seaweed. We walked and walked, cursed when we thought we'd spotted some litter that turned out to be a stupid seashell, got geekishly stoked when we came across the remnants of someone's water ballloon flight and fought over the shredded pieces of latex... it got so sad that my boss's daughter suggested we ask the regular beachgoers and picnic people for their trash. I mean, we were there for a beach clean up and all I had to show for it after an hour of scavenging was a few torn water balloons, a bottle cap and a stick that I threw in to make my trash bag heavier. I knew they'd weigh all the bags at the end and broadcast how much trash we'd collected. My bag was pretty pitiful, the stick was very necessary.

In any case, the trip was well worth it as my buddy Carlos drove down from LA and met me afterwards for dinner. The countdown was on for him to leave for law school in a little over a month, I'd soon be losing my coffee buddy! See, I use to bug him to meet up with me every time I drove to or through LA, it had become a bit of a tradition that I knew I'd have to let go of soon. We'd usually meet up at the Starbucks on Western and Slauson to sit around, laugh and talk about random nonsense. He'd have a soy latte, I'd have a passion fruit tea or iced coffee; he'd crack me up with his tales of galavanting around LA with his guy crew which many of know as "the squad" and I'd vent to him about whatever family or work issue was on my mind that week. These little chat session would soon be a thing of the past, so I was glad to spend some time with him in Costa Mesa where we met up. 

Shortly after my weekend living that OC life, it was time to head up to LA for the Legends of Summer tour; I could hardly contain my excitement- JT AND Hov?!? How could I not attend? I was initially a tad peeved when I discovered the show was on a Sunday, but it worked to my benefit as I made a whole LA weekend of it; I was working in Orange County that Friday anyway, so I made the drive up to LA after wrapping up my work day and spent the evening with my BFF Daisy. I said it then and I say it now like I say all the time: I love (and miss) LA. My evening with Daisy was a great curbing of my craving. We had dinner and drinks at an adorable and hidden gem called The Second Story tucked inside the Hotel Belamar. What a great little find! I was already sold when my drinks were a)strong and b)two for one, but the amazing lighting fixtures sealed the deal for me. Pretty lights are one of my obsessions.

Anyhow, we dined on this amazing cider-brined pork chop with a side of blue cheese mashed potatoes and some delicious apple salad then headed to a cute bar that's just trendy enough to attract a couple of hipsters but not enough to make you want to slit your wrists at the so-called "LA-ness" of it all. This venue is the one I described in my last post when I revealed what a terrible wing-woman I am. Ugh. That idiot guy and his warm salty nuts are still on my nerves, and that mess happened weeks ago.

The following day I met up with Carlos once again for a bite and some chit chat. And because we're uber classy individuals, we threw in some Twisted Tea as well for entertainment (never heard of it? Look it up. Only for the grown and sexy). After some good conversation and the best eggplant ever, his cell phone went off with an important message from The Squad. The text read something like "Where you at? Roll through, there's mad bitches!" I laughed and bid him adieu shortly thereafter then curled up with a good book for the rest of the evening. I was now down to just a few weeks before his big law school departure so I was glad to see him even if only for a little while. 

The next day was spent blissfully in the warm Pasadena sun... i picked up my girl Karina and we made our way to the Rose Bowl for a pre-concert picnic on the lawn of some unlucky golf course. We picked up a couple of five dollar footlongs and some mini-bottle of Barefoot wine then soaked up some Vitamin D sitting next to my Altima couple on the grass. We hid what bottles we couldn't finish in time in our cleavage and made our way into the arena, then bought a lemonade, pounded it, and dumped the bottles' contents into the plastic cup. We sipped on our White Zin happily and impatiently waited for the show to start.

Keepin' it classy.

With our stunna shades on. Hers are a few hundred and quality, mine are crappy $8 versions and were purchased in Costa Rica by the beach. 

"It's pink lemonade, honest!"

Suddenly, I spotted a couple dancing and singing out of the corner of my eye. I did a slight double take when I realized who i was looking at; it was Twitch and Allison from So You Think You Can Dance making their way to their seats. This is when I learned that I can never ever ever meet a "real" celebrity. I used to think that if Mr. Liam Hemsworth, Michael Ballack or other sexy light-eyed celebrity sauntered over to me, I'd be able to keep my cool. I didn't think I'd suddenly know how to flirt and land anyone's phone number, but I thought I'd maybe pull off a flirtatious hair toss or even an effortlessly witty comment. Let me be the first to say I was dead ass wrong. WRONG. Soooo wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong aaaaall over the place. Wrong to the umpteenth power.

I dorked out so hard! when they walked by me, I reached out and clutched poor Allison's thigh like I knew her or something and blurted out some rapid-fire nonsense about me being both of their biggest fan. They smiled and thanked me graciously, but it would have been well within their rights to call in a security incident. They shook my hand and headed to their seats, and only then did I finally get it together. Did I just clutch that girl's thigh?! Did I enunciate? Why hadn't I asked for a picture?! I soon felt better and simultaneously worse when about a hundred other people figured out who they were and accosted them for photos and autographs.  I sat there outwardly criticizing these mongrels for bothering these nice people when all they wanted to do was enjoy the concert like everybody else, but inside I was jealous and chastising myself for lack of gall and abundance of awkwardness. Karina finally had enough of my sulking and grabbed my phone from me to request a picture, and her timing was impeccable as the couple had stood up from their seats and was standing in the aisle next to me indulging another fan. I apologized for my awkward behavior earlier and they were once again gracious with me and were happy to snap a pic with me. All's well that ends well, I suppose, but I learned a valuable lesson: if I ever meet any of my hardcore celebrity crushes, I WILL get arrested. Someone please bail me out. 

          

Thank you. Just... thank you.

The concert itself was epic, trite as that partcular description has become. I honestly questioned what the quality of the experience would be because of the venue. I've seen JT at the Staples Center and that experience left its mark on me for several weeks, but that was an enclosed venue with great acoustics, lighting and staging capabilities. This time we were en plain air and at the Rose Bowl, and while I was clearly aware that these two artists are megastars and not some indie rock band promoting their first EP, I was a little skeptical. Those fears were soon assuaged but quick! The show began once the sun went down and thus began a two hour party. My quads were on fire the next day from all the dancing and my throat was hoarse from singing (read: yelling) along to JT and Jay's greatest hits. That was possibly my favorite element of the show- I love me some Magna Carta and 20/20 but laaaaaaaawd was I happy to hear all those older jams. Their sets were intertwined so I was swaying to selections from Justified and FutureSexLoveSounds one minute then BOOM! cuts from the Blueprint albums and Reasonable Doubt. 

And if the show itself wasn't enough, the people-watching was an absolute riot. Picture a Venn diagram: in circle A we have the JT fans, in circle B we have the Jigga faithful, and then we have the overlap in the middle. It would appear that the majority of those in attendance would fall into that overlap area, but there were of course a substantial number of individuals there who were strictly As or Bs. This lead to comedy for me. I got to observe uber-glam stiletto-clad diva types dripping in jewels and eyeshadow and groups of pre-pubescent tweens all sway awkardly in place during Jay'z songs and pretend to know the words. It was like watching one of those Japanese flicks dubbed in English where the timing is jus a few seconds off, only the characters were wearing Seven jeans or "Your Boyfriend Thinks I'm Hot" t-shirts. On the opposite end of the spectrum were the packs of manly men, thug types, and husbands/boyfriends posing under the guise of being there only for Jay. Those stood up and went buck when Big Pimpin' came on and then tried soooo hard to pretend they weren't enjoying the sh*t out of My Love when Justin took back the mic. We all had a good time, even if some pretended not to. 

If I go on, this entry will become a novella, so I'll end it here. I'll leave August's shenanigans for later in the week. 

Wishing you a happy Sunday Funday and hoping my Chargers please please PLEASE pull off another win,

Vanessa

Casual Obervances, Volume 1

Buenos Diaz! (Except now it's buenas tardes). Sometimes you have a story to tell, an inspring or at the very least thought-provoking message to share; other times, you just feel like writing about all the random things in your head. Today, fueled by a beverage called "Twisted Tea" on a lovely San Diego summer evening, I have opted for the latter. And because my spidey sense doth tell me that this will be far from the last of these musings, I have named this installment of random thoughts: "Casual Observances, Volume 1." More to come at a later date.


I Am A Terrible Wing Woman

So... I have no game. None. I'm a terrible flirt and I know it. my friends know it, my family knows it, Anderson Cooper know it and Edward Snowden know it. So you'd think I'd have some appreciation for those brave souls who do possess this elusive game-spitting talent. 

Haha- no. First of all, very few people truly do have this game thing down pat; it takes skill to communicate to another human being that you are interested in them without coming off as creepy, cocky or completely insane. And I get it, its challenging to try and decide in what manner to approach someone that you find attractive. But seriously, if you're going to hit on me (because soooooooo many men do), you should know that I hate pick-up lines and contrived attempts at "sexy" banter. Game for me is unnecessary, really. I respond well to intelligent and organic conversation (a piercing set of blue or green eyes and some full lips never hurt either), but not so much to some forced and flowery compliment about my plain brown eyes or some tired soliloquy about the feeling I allegedly gave you when you saw me from across the room. Blah. 

This is why I am possibly the world's worst wing woman. I just don't have a very high tolerance for bar pick-up situations. Yes, I am legitimately one of those girls who is out because I want to enjoy an evening with my friends. I live in San Diego and my five best friends live in Los Angeles, Boston and soon to be Santa Clara; when I go to visit them, we often do the dinner & drinks thing. Some will find this standoffish of me, and I won't claim that it isn't, but I become quite the eye-roller the minute some creeper begins the song and dance. 

I proved this point quite well last weekend when my buddy Daisy and I hit the town. We first had dinner at The Second Story, an amazing little gem hidden inside The Belamar Hotel in Manhattan Beach. It has a great happy hour and some amazing food- I highly recommend the pancetta-wrapped pork in the mustard and white wine sauce. We then headed over to Hudson House in Redondo for a few cocktails and promptly ordered a round of spicy watermelon margaritas (holler). It wasn't long before a slightly portly gentleman asked if the seat next to us was taken, and we politely advised him that the seat was indeed vacant and his for the taking. 

It's the part where guys don't read signals that signals a total shut-down in me. The second Daisy and I let this guy know that the seat wasn't taken, we turned inward towards each other and resumed our conversation. The message we were sending was clear: yes, you can have the seat because no one else's ass is sitting in it, now please kindly excuse us while we go back to talking about boys, work, and anti-wrinkle eye cream. It wasn't rude or obnoxious in any way, we just went back to dishing the dirt on each other's lives like we'd been doing before this guy got there. 

But the man not only couldn't take the hint, he was annoying in his approach. Daisy admits that the guy was a pain in the ass, she's just nicer than me and indulges people's annoyingness whereas I choose to loudly sip from my drink and look bored. I will always be polite at first- I'm not stuck up or anywhere **near** attractive enough to take for granted that anyone is hitting on me. But once I say "thanks, but no thanks" and establish that I am not interested, why can't we leave it at that?! At one point, the guy kept offering to buy us warm nuts, which we declined, but he bought the nuts anyway. Then not only did he say the word "nuts" about a thousand times and clearly try his hardest to get us to say it too, but he repeatedly tried to get me in particular to eat them. I'd politely advised him that while his gesture was appreciated, I didn't care for any since they were mixed in with a selection of olives which I happen not to care for at all. I hate olives, all of them. If you know me, you know this, I can't stand them in any of their varieties. I'd finally had it when the guy tried for about the 10th or 11th time to please, just try his warm, salty nuts. I ran all out of "no thank yous" and my polite smile (ok, polite lack of frown) vanished. I believe was flew out of my mouth was "I don't want the nuts. I told you I didn't want the nuts. I don't want your f*#%ing salty nuts that are soaked in some nasty bitter olive juice, so stop asking ok?" I received an epic under-the-table leg kick from Daisy, but I'd had it. It's a good thing Daisy has a boyfriend that she's madly in love with, because I sure as heck wasn't doing her any favors with this chump had she been single and interested. Sorry. Like I said: don't ask me to be your wing woman. You've been warned.

Selfie Nation

I recently posted on Facebook about my confusion and distaste for this odd phenomenon. I'm all about photos, I have no problem with you putting up 1,000 pictures- as long as they aren't all of your own face and you weren't the one taking them of yourself. Now I get it, we all do it sometimes. Like I said on FB, I see nothing wrong with you snapping and sharing a quick pic when you change up your haircut or color; when you've lost tons of weight and want to show off how hard you've worked to get there; when you're promoting a product or when you post occasional full-on "selfie" if you were just really feeling good that day. If you have a fashion or makeup or jeweley blog, then by all means post pics of your outfit! Tell your readers how you came up with the look, explain where you got each piece or product. It'ss this phenomenon of you constantly snapping photos of your face here, there any everywhere for no good reason that kills me! My criticism isn't aimed at one person in particular, tons of people that I do and don't know alike have latched onto this trend. And I just. Don't. Get. It. 

I really do try to be objective and see both sides of every argument, so I tried for a brief moment to convince myself that I should be envious of these people's confidence. Lord knows when I look in the mirror, I just don't see enough of a beauty staring back at me to merit posting pictures of, you know? I'd be concerned not only of being seen as dreadfully conceited but more of appearing pathetically deluded! I don't care what people think of me in a myriad of ways, but let's be real- I don't want people to think that I think I'm hotter than I really am. The phrase that comes to mind is "Que no tienes verguenza?!" Ha. 

Apps like Instagram have made it sooo easy though. I see all these females (looooots of tweens, and a few dudes, no lie) posing, cropping and filtering their way into a Selfie Nation daily- why?! Like I also said on Facebook, don't kid yourself just because it's all in cyberspace- your selfie addiction is the modern day equivalent of standing on a corner and handing out Glamour Shots. "Excuse me, miss? Hi. Here's a sassy one of me in some Enzo pumps before dinner last week. Oh, sir! Yes, over here. I was on my way to the bookstore here. Hashtag: I love books, right? Ok bye!" They're everywhere- you on your bed. You in your car. You at work. You at the gym. You in class. You at the mall. You in court. You at the supermarket, at the gyno, in the hallway, in an alley. And I can't. 

Candy Crush and CrossFit

I have nothing against video games. If you have a powerful penchant for slinging chubby red and yellow birds at little green pigs or lining up jewels or candy pieces in groups of three, hey! More power to you. Enjoy. Nor do I have any problem with fitness. Whether you're trying to get in shape or stay in shape (or find a shape, period), I tip my hat to you for wanting to be your healthiest, strongest self. 

However. What the hell is wrong with you crazed enusiasts?!? I almost named this little segment "Candy Crush, Crossfit and Crack Cocaine" because for some of you, each of those things is exactly like the other. I get requests to play this candy crush chingaderas on the daily and hear people having these supposedly clandestine conversations wherein they beg each for lives. Tell me you don't look like a meth-head when you're cowering in some corner with your phone pressed to your ear and you're pleading in a lowered voice, "Hey, so like, look. I need some lives. Just a couple, man. That's all I need. I'll get you back, I swear. Ok cool. When?" My Facebook feed is full of frustrated status posts concerning this wretched game (apparently level 65 is a real bitch?) and everyone from my cousin to my manicurist has at some point checked out of a conversation because they've been engrossed with it. This status post had me rolling: 

I don't know what I find more appaling: the terrible grammar or the fact that this woman has been so persistently accosted for candy crush lives that she had been forced to make an announcement on social media of her inability to keep up with demand. In any case, let this be a fair warning (sorry for the f-bomb):

As for CrossFit- I don't even know what to say about this. I am indeed genuinely impressed that you can bench 67 million pounds, mazel tov to you. I just want to fit I to a smaller size jean, myself. You should be proud of your strength! But am I the only one who feels that entirely too many CrossFit junkies have begun to exhibit cult-like behavior? It's like Fight Club meets the Illuminati except you can talk about it and its not as hard to join. Me, I'm sticking to my trusty elliptical and Nike Training Club app. I'll throw in a little Zumba for variety.

Gymnasium Etiquette 

Speaking of working out... If you're at the gym, in particular at 5am when I'm there, I almost don't have the right to judge you. Getting to the gym five days a week and at that hour takes dedication and effort! It's a tough routine to keep up, one that I admit I abandoned for a while in the name of carpooling to work and saving myself a heck of a lot of money on gas. But I'm back at it again, and I really do applaud all of the early risers joining me in my pre-sunrise sweat session.

Buuuuuuut some people's gym behavior is just too odd not to be commented upon. There are the weirdo chicks who wear makeup at the gym. It's 5am, honey. Why do you have Katy Perry eyelashes on and why are your lips glossy? Then we have the people wearing flip flops and JEANS on the cardio machines. Why?!? You can't be comfortable. How about the women who wear a regular or even no bra to work out- are you flipping insane?! With the possible exception of the truly, absolutely, without a doubt flat-chested gals, you are bat sh*t crazy if you aren't wearing a sports bra while you hit that treadmill. It's not attractive, it has to be uncomfortable, and your stuff is sagging, lady! Walk your butt over to Target, they have some lovely options for you for $15. Finally- the gym locker room is not your house. You can undress and get in and out of the shower, but you don't need to *stay* naked. You especially don't need to stay naked if your nether regions are decidedly Amazonian or if you're going to sit on a bench, prop up your leg and clip your toenails! Please don't bust out the box of Clairol while I'm blow drying and proceed to color your hair- this tiny room is not and humid, now you want to kill me with the fumes from your hair dye?! 

Gees. I mean, glad to see you working on your fitness. But come on, now. 

Liam Hemsworth

That's a good looking dude. That is all. 

You all have a great rest of your Saturday while I go work on my Aussie accent.

Word Vomit, and Lots of It.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that today's blog entry may find you choking down the vomit induced from what you might initially perceive to be a contrived and banal attempt at introspect on my part. I kindly ask that if you've gone so far as to click on the link to get here, that you keep on reading. I mean you're already here. Stay awhile.

Today is July 18th, 2013. It's been a day like any other. I woke up, I went to work. I worked at work. Came home from work. I checked Facebook, checked Instagram. Opened my mail, ate some cheese and crackers. I started a new book, I looked up from the book. And then it happened. I started to think.

About what? Life (swallow the vomit!). This happens to me from time to time. Well, a lot of the time, if I'm being honest- which is what I said I would do with this humble little blog of mine. I'm in my head a lot, as the people who really know me will tell you. Today it started when I put on my "Pensive" playlist. Yes, that's what its called- any of my Spotify peeps can attest to that. So I've got stuff like this blaring in my ears:

- Temper Trap, "Love Lost"
- Coldplay, "Trouble"
- Macklemore, "Same Love"
- Florence + the Machine, "Never Let Me Go" (unplugged)
- Bloc Party, "Day Four"
- Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, "Stars"
- Carter Burwel, "A Nova Vida"
- John Mayer, "Belief"
- The Weeknd, "Wicked Games"
- Duffy, "Stepping Stone"
- Adele, "Hometown Glory"
- Bon Iver, "Roslyn"
- Lauryn Hill, "X Factor"
- Foo Fighters, "Everlong" (acoustic)

The list goes on, and there's no one topic or theme- it's not a sad, mopey playlist per se and it's not a list of heartbreak tracks (for that, you'll want to see to my "Ache" playlist). It's just music that makes me think, music that would play in the movie of my life in a scene where I'm staring out of a window while its raining and I have a glass of wine in my hand and am wearing a torn sweatshirt that falls loosely over one shoulder.

As for what I've been thinking about... like I said, about life. Specifically my life, and the people in it. It's the change all around me. A few people in my close-knit work family are leaving our team soon. One close friend just finished grad school, and one of my best friends is leaving for law school; 85% of my acquaintances and Facebook feed are either getting engaged, married or popping out their first born children. Everywhere I look, I see forks in roads and setting suns; revolving doors, new life chapters. Beginnings, endings. Choices, risks. Love, fear. Excitement, anticipation. Life.

So I look at mine. And I see... confusion. Not sadness, mind you. Let me be very clear in my assertion that this life I lead is rife with good fortune- family, friends, health, food, and a few bucks to spend on travel. But I'm not 100% sure that the pace, the inertia of my life is ... enough. When I get in these moods, I get restless and all I can do to assuage it is to write it all down. I decided that this time, instead of writing it in a journal, I'd put my thoughts in a more public place. It's a tad risky to put the contents of my overly actove brain where the world can see and scrutinize it, which is why I've been hesitant to write such a personal entry in the past. I fear being perceived as too self-indulgent, and you know, annoying. But I'm putting stock in the concept that there is catharsis in truly honest writing and that people respond well to genuine self-expression. So... here it is. Sheer and utter word vomit.

When I was younger, I was an obnoxious over-achiever. I had my hands in a little bit of everything because I knew there were places I wanted to be and being good at stuff was going to help me get there. I stayed up too late and studied too hard so I could set the curve and take home a college acceptance-worthy report card. If it was extra-curricular and looked good on a resume, I was there with bells on and likely got there 15 minutes early. I retook the SATs because my first score, which many envied, was not going to cut it in my mind. I took one more year of every subject in school than I needed to, which meant summer courses every year on top of my part-time job, and I practically lived in one of those AP testing booths my junior and senior years in high school. It all paid off when I landed a scholarship to my dream school, the University of Southern California. Everyone was so proud and so impressed with me, which I admit I loved. Everyone asked what my major would be and what I wanted to do with that, so I answered confidently.

Here's the thing, and I'm literally only being honest with myself about this at age 28- it was all a crock of absolute bullshit.

I wasn't lying- I meant it all the time. I really did want to be a physical therapist when I graduated high school; I'd volunteered for hundreds of hours at a local hospital and found the concept of improving and rehabilitating a life a heady one. I wanted to be a hero, wanted to make a difference like every sappy heroine you've even been annoyed with in a nauseating after-school special or Lifetime movie. Then I started taking those college courses and realized something: I was sooo hosed. I didn't really like science, it turns out. I'd apparently neglected to really think about the 24 letters of the alphabet between A and Z, the steps you take between getting accepted into college and teaching paraplegics how to walk again when no one thought they would. I freaked out, I talked to school counselors, and they all agreed I was in the wrong major. So what next?

I chose business school. It seemed like the next logical step. I could do whatever I wanted with business, right? When word got out that I'd changed my major, the "what are you going to be when you grow up?" questions resumed. Again, I had confident answers: I was going to open up my own restaurant, or possibly a dance studio. I might try to be a buyer for a major retailer or possibly go into the music business. Whatever I did, I was going to RUN THIS SH*T. And everyone seemed to agree.

But... I didn't. Not because I tried and failed- but because I didn't quite try to realize any of those pipe dreams at all. I claimed to have all these passions but couldn't seem to muster up quite enough passion to put all my eggs in one basket and give it hell. Instead I put just a few little eggs in the closest basket at hand took on a summer internship that led to a full time job in sales, which I was good at because I tend to find a way to be good at things on mere principle. I was promoted once, twice, and a few more times, changed departments a few times, got another pay bump here and there... and at the end of the day, I have nothing bad to say about any of that. I made some of my lifelong friends along the path I chose to pursue, created some amazing memories; I spent my early twenties gallavanting around the City of Angels, that giant ball of craziness everyone loves to hate but that stole a giant piece of my heart that it refuses to give back. I was happy to have a job that paid the bills and came with benefits and a 401K match. That I could also squeeze in weekend wine-tasting trips, nights at The Room and Zanzibar, USC football and the Getty made me more than content.

BUT. Where the hell did my passion go? I swear, I had it here somewhere. But wait, wait- more importantly- what the hell IS my passion? A few years ago I thought I was onto something when I made the bold move of leaving LA and moving back to my hometown in the name of all that "fresh start" stuff. I had one plan, then another, but again and again I found myself changing my mind. I've detected this pattern wherein I pick a goal, an activity, a path to pursue that I think sounds really cool, sounds impressive, sounds impactful and noble and worthwhile. But the passion, again, is lacking. Therein, my friends, lies the rub.

I've spent way too much time analyzing this "passion" shenanigans in the last several years, in particular because I've made a habit of surrounding myself with go-getters who are making moves, kicking ass and taking names at an alarming rate lately. In what I refer to (in my head) as my Fab Five of best friends, one is the executive director of a senior living residence in the greater Boston area, and she and her Harvard-graduate husband just scored themselves an apartment in my beloved Beacon Hill; one is off to law school next month after crushing the LSAT; one recently got her Masters in education and is teaching at a private school in Calabasas; one is really hitting her stride in the commercial real estate business and the last but not least of them is a counter manager and makeup artist for Chanel. Let me be clear- I feel no jealousy, only pride and appreciation of their formidable accomplishments. I am my friends' greatest champion, probably more so than some of them are comfortable with (yeah I'm looking at you, Batman). But all this movement inherently causes me to take a look at my own life's direction. I think after a lot of walks in the park and glasses of wine, I've honed in on what I think is my problem: I do not for the life of me know how to stop guessing, how to stop giving so much consideration to the concept of what I should want to do or accomplish, or what would be nice to say I achieved on paper. It only makes matters worse that I happen to work somewhere where I love the team I work with, where I have fun and have tons to keep me busy- it makes it so easy to stay where I am and keep doing what I'm doing. There is nothing wrong with where I am- it's just all very ordinary. For a kid who everyone expected to see sitting pretty as a CEO someday, this is a sobering fact.

Except for the fact that it isn't. Here's another big "aha" moment I stumbled upon in the last couple of years- I have zero desire for power or prestige. None. Itried to be that kind of person, and I pretended to be motivated by those factors for a long time. But the fact is, I don't want to be the one in charge and I don't care if I ever top (or even make it onto) the Forbes list. I just don't. Do you know how exhausting it is to fight that sensation? To constantly wonder where the abberation in your deoxyribonucleic acid is that makes you NOT want to be THAT chick? I do. But I'm done with all that. I've come to terms with the fact that my measure of success is not the same as yours, just as yours differs from the guy or girl sitting next to you. And what's more, there is nothing wrong with that. There really just isn't. I repeat that mantra daily, and it sinks in a little bit futher each day.

The other epiphany that I'm fairly certain NO one is surprised at but me is that I FREAKING LOVE BOOKS. 100%. I love to read, I love to write, I love to write about the things I love to read and love when people read (and enjoy?) the things that I write. The only thing surprising about that is that I've failed to explore these concepts further or really let the idea of them floursh in the light. I sit in bookstores constantly, and I have to touch the books. I find the smell of an old book comforting. I have the grand opening of the new library in downtown San Diego in my calendar with a pop-up reminder for the day before (you now, so I can pick out an outfit to be seen reading in). I carry my Kindle and iPad mini with me everywhere, because they're good for reading in different light and I'd die if I didn't have both within arms reach. I write in a journal that I also carry with me at all times- and yeah, my purse weighs about a thousand pounds. I light up when people want to talk about books. And this is not a new thing- I've explored my bibliophilia in this very blog. I've been this way since I was a child.

This is why I'm so annoyed at myself. I've spent all this time telling other people and myself that I've just never truly known what I was passionate about or what drove me, but deep down I kind of hate myself for knowing that it just ain't true. In so far as big life decisions, I've been afraid to take risks (well, in my career, anyway. In stuff like love and relationships, I go in hard and reckless!) I hate saying that out loud, because who wants to say they're a safe, boring person? But I really have been scared to admit that I want to write. I do write, actually. I just don't share it very often even though I tell myself all the time that *today* is the day I sit down and make progress towards becoming a published author. I'm not entirely sure why this is such a daunting subject for me, why the heck I find my passion a source of potential embarrasment or humiliation. Don't most people shout this type of stuff from the rooftops? Am I just wired wrong? Is it too late to rewire? I sure as heck hope not.

How appropriate: my "Pensive" list just played itself out so I hit the shuffle button on my "Hodepodge" mix. First song to come on? Beyonce's "Girls." Yeah. You can't make this stuff up.

That's all for now. Good night, world.

OS101

Sooo, someone near & dear to me is going through a breakup right now and maaaan, I feel for him. I remember those days when heartbreak was an unwelcome and unruly resident in my heart. A few years ago I was the absolute definition of a hot mess. I'd cry so hard that I'd give myself a migraine, then I'd cry because I had a migraine. My go-to iPod playlist was called "Hang Myself from the Shower Curtain" which I'd blast on high while going for angry tear-soaked runs. Wine & ice cream were my BFFs. Harry Potter and The Golden Girls were my sources of comfort. 

It was however my writing that became my most potent form of solace. Sometimes I'd write letters that I knew I'd never send, other times I wrote emails to friends or entires in a journal. I wrote and wrote and wrote just to try and get my sadness out of my body and out onto paper where I might perhaps set the words on fire and symbolically purge those gut-wrenching feelings once and for all. Alas, I decided against the whole pyro thing and kept a record of my musings. There is one piece in particular that I've always been proud of- not because its particularly profound or groundbreaking but because its very- me. It's real, it's quirky, it's honest, it's sarcastic. It seems appropriate to post now, because sometimes we all need a reminder that we aren't born knowing exactly how to love. I give you "OS101."

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OS101
You know, when I first enrolled at USC and was browsing through the list of majors available through the College of Letters of Arts and Sciences, I came across several interesting selections: say, Multidisciplinary Activities, or Slavic languages. What does one do exactly with a degree in Slavic languages? I fully comprehend and acknowledge that in this day and age, an undergraduate major does not necessarily have any bearing whatsoever on one's career path. Scholars from both organic chemistry and comparative literature alike are our future neurosurgeons and college professors. But still: Slavic languages. Think about it. That one really narrows the scope, n'est-ce pas?

So I say to myself, as long as we're choosing random majors, I can think of a few useful ones that I have yet to see in any college catalogue. How about "OS101: The Opposite Sex?" And I don't mean gender studies; that discipline has more to do with actual gender roles in society and whatnot. Psychology and human development come closer, but they still don't get to the meat and potatoes of the interaction that for our purposes I'll refer to as "dating."  

Where are the classes on how to date? How to read mixed messages? How to know when to call and when to text, when to keep talking and when to shut the %*#$ up; when its OK to sleep with someone, when you can know for sure that a man likes you?  And I don't mean "like" as in "I like ultimate cheeseburgers." I mean LIKE, as in "I'm going to remain faithful, share the remote, tell my friends about you and be considerate of your feelings even if I don’t understand them.” How do I know when to pursue a romantic endeavor and when to keep it pushin’, when to bow out and accept the end of a love and when to fight tooth and nail to salvage it? 

I want to know if chicks in the caveman days were facing similar debacles to those that I am confronted with today: I mean yeah I have electricity, vaccines, a car, a cell phone, In'n' Out and Pinkberry, but did Cathy the Cavegirl much like yours truly have to wonder whether Tommy the Troglodyte's one grunt versus two meant he just wasn't that into her?!?! In the Elizabethan era, did women walk around with their asses wound up as tight as their teeny tiny corsets, frustration coursing through their veins because the Duke of Devonshire or some other mother!@%#er didn't send a letter with his manservant this week or signed his parchment "I loveth ya" versus "I loveth you?" Was the Spanish Inquisition really just a cover up for more wily intentions? Did Queen Isabel need a nice governmental way to pretend she wasn't just interrogating broads to see which one of those heffers was being knocked off by King Ferdinand??!?!

These are the things I want to know. This is the knowledge from which I feel I could reap true benefit. And I have PLENTY of ideas for curricula: I'm thinking lab practicals, group presentations, powerpoints, focus groups... the whole enchilada. And not the Taco Bell version, the grandma-made-it-from-scratch, this-tastes-so-good-its-got-to-be-sprinkled-with-crack kind. 

The truth is probably that no one, not Albert Einstein, not Marie Curie, not Bill Gates, not even Dr. Phil or Oprah or (gasp) Maury Povich would have been or ever will be able to figure out the opposite sex. None of them can with absolute certainty and unequivocal terms explain to me why women annoy the bejeezus out of men with their emotional outbursts and yet slay them with their passion and their kindness and the look they get in their eyes when he walks in a room. They can't map out for me why men have insensitivity programmed in their genetic code but then show moments of mind-blowing tenderness and comforting strength. Why someone's scent and giggle stay engrained in your memory like they were branded there with hot iron and why someone's kiss can so perfectly mimic the effect of a potent hallucinogenic. No one can tell me why fools fall in love, why unrequited love has to hurt SO much, why I'm so stupid over light eyes and full lips... and no one ever will.

I suppose that's part of the beauty, the magic, the illustrious, overwhelming, all-consuming and let's not forget downright sexy quality that love encapsulates. I think maybe it is because it is shrouded in mystery and so difficult to attain that love continues to be chased by millions with a consistence and fervor rivaling the pursuit of the Holy Grail. Maybe someday, whether with a man I presently know or with one waiting in the shadows, I'll get it. Maybe I will be so all consumed with a love that for once is felt in return that I'll finally believe my own assertion that the purpose off all the shitty relationships that went awry is to make The One truly stand out from the crowd. Maybe you really do have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the prince, as tacky and cliché as that sounds.

Maybe someday soon the male that continues to capture my heart and slay my senses will reach out and hold my hand. Maybe he's the one but doesn't know it yet. Maybe he's not and I don't know it yet. Maybe I'll meet a hottie at the bar scene tonight and he'll confess that I'm the most stunning woman he's ever seen, and he'll want me to bring my friend Jazzy along for a date with his homie who happens to be Chris Brown look-alike (side note- this was written pre-Rihanna beating. Chris Breezy can now pound sand). Maybe we'll have a dance-off atop the roof of the Bank of America building in Downtown and discover we've found our soulmates amid the wind blowing our hair while the bass of "Forever" pulses in our chests.

Or... maybe my life in its present state isn't so tragic, and with a few tweaks in a few select departments, happiness and self-possession might well be within reach. Maybe it's up to me to find validation within myself and not through an external source. Maybe the ball is in my court. Maybe it's time to make a move. Maybe.... juuuust maybe.

~ Broken-hearted Vanessa circa 2009

About my Papa..

So I recently realized that my last five or six blog posts weren't published properly. Grrrr. I know, you're all disappointed and you've written angry letters to Obama. I'm sorry for letting you down. Gees. I'll re-post this week. Today however is not about me, it's a day for all the fathers out there. I happen to have a pretty fabulous one so I've decided to pay him homage on this humble little blog. 

Alejandro Farias Diaz was born on December 23, 1959 in the gem of all cities of Tijuana, BC Mexico. He was pretty much jipped out of a proper birthday for at least the first third of his life, getting hit with the "this present counts for both your birthday and Jesus' birthday!" bit on far more that once occasion. I would have been bitter as all get out- I mean I get it, the birth of the Messiah is kiiiind of a big deal. But when you're a kid, all you know is you're getting 50% less presents and a whole lot less hooplah on your alleged special day.

My dad is the oldest of five immediate siblings not counting his older half sister. He's almost 15 years older than his youngest sister and has become somewhat of the patriarchal head of that side of my family since my grandfather's passing 30 years ago. That being said, my dad is also... what's the proper word here... Oh yes, weird. He is without a doubt living out his repressed childhood.

See, a lot of parents like to tell you tell you this epic lie to make you feel like an a$$h*le when you've done something wrong, and that lie is the suggestion that your parents never ONCE in their youth made the mistakes you did. They'd like you to believe they were always well behaved: they ate their vegetables, avoided swear words, drugs & alcohol, had their first kiss on their wedding night and never EVER wore white after Labor Day. Well, guess what? My father really was the perfect child and teen, and that's not by his own admission so much as everyone else's. 

My father did what he was told from a very young age and became the poster child for self-sacrifice. On top of being raised in a rigid household, his upbringing was dotted with tragedy and disappointment that I have only come to understand as an adult. I remember the first time I realized that I didn't know my father as well as I thought I did- I was in high school when Dad and I went for a drive and ended up at UCSD where he'd been taking a few extension classes for work. As we walked around the campus, there was a nostalgia in his expression, a sadness even, that I couldn't quite grasp. He then began to speak, not necessarily to me but to the universe; "I was supposed to go here, before. I got accepted. I had a scholarship, actually. A full ride. I was so excited, I even toured the dorms and everything." 

Whaaaa? How didn't I know this?! As far as I knew, he'd graduated from high school then enlisted in the Marines. He served his four years, married my mother and then had me. He'd been a carrier in the US Postal Service and worked his way up to management. I thought that had always been the plan. But it hadn't- he'd wanted to be, should have been the first in his family to go to college. Instead, he enlisted in the USMC because my grandfather wanted him to. I don't expect any of you to understand the dynamic shared by my father and grandfather- let it suffice to say that it was complicated. Very, very complicated. So even though it killed him to do it in, my daddy cancelled his enrollment at UCSD and left for boot camp. The regret in my father's eyes that day affected me profoundly- I vowed then to go to college and let my dad live his dream through me. 

And I did. In May of 2006, I received my Bachelors degree in Business Administration from the University of Southern California's Marshall School of Business. I donned my cap and gown and got ready to walk the stage at the Shrine Auditorium with one of my best friends Daisy Gonzalez right behind me. I was standing behind the curtains in a waiting area of sorts while hundreds of graduates in front of me were slowly called by name when I noticed a rapid succession of flashes just to the left of me. This area was closed off to photographers, press and parents alike, but I could have sworn I just saw- FLASH FLASH FLASH!!! There it was again. I was still trying to make the spots in my eyes go away when I heard Daisy laugh out loud- "V! That's your dad!!!" Sure enough, there he was- his prized SLR with extended lens in hand- taking dozens of pictures when he wasn't supposed to be- having crossed  several security guards and red tape to get there. He'd been doing this all my life at school plays, Christmas pageants, dance recitals, etc. and it had always been so embarrassing. That day, however, it made me cry. He was proud, so proud. I got flashbacks to those stressful nights at the dinner table when we didn't think we could afford to send me to school; the trips to the many schools he hauled me to when I insisted on touring their campuses; my interview at USC and the first photo I ever took with my Dad in front of Tommy Trojan- how my dad hugged me and kissed the top of my head and said "This is your school. We'll figure it out;" the traditional trip to the school bookstore whenever my parents visited because my Dad was clearly trying to amass every last piece "my kid goes to USC" memorabilia in the joint. My dad had worked his whole life to get me here, and I couldn't have been more thankful.

The years have gone by and I've moved back in with my parents since moving to San Diego after my eight year stint in LA. And with each year that passes as my dad gets closer and closer to retirement, I see the screws in dear ol' dad's head loosening further and further. Several of you know that one of our prized possessions is our Vitamix blender: some of you also know that months before pulling the trigger on the purchase, I was roused most unceremoniously from a nap to the sound of what I thought was our home being broken into by a chainsaw-wielding murderer. How are the two related, you ask? Because my dad couldn't bring himself to buy the damn blender but instead made a pastime of watching YouTube videos of the freakin' thing cranked on high volume. I stormed into the hallway to see his guilty face and his hand on the mouse looking like a kid who'd been caught red-handed looking at dirty pictures. And it doesn't stop there- we've had to have many tough conversations about my day's habit of blending his smoothies at 5 am on the weekends and screaming out "yeeeeeehaaaw!" all the while. He apparently feels the need to goad the thing on while it shreds through his spinach, carrot and oranges, and also feels like Vitamix is a reincarnated cowboy.

His list of eccentricities goes on: 

- At least two or three times a month, he puts on a blue lucha libre mask before opening my bedroom door and whispering "One day I will reveal my true identity!" Why? Hell if I know. 

- He gets a wild hare up his ass at the most random times and decides to do random things. Like when he walks into a room, plants one foot on the ground then pushes off with the other one over and over so it looks like he's going round in circles on an invisible scooter. Or how for no good reason and always when I'm eating or drinking something, he runs at me from across a room and side-tackles me. I go flying, he often cracks a rib... No big deal. Then we go on with our day. 

- He insists that my mother and I give him too much food for dinner, not because he can't finish it or the portion sizes are obscene but because he refuses to be too full to snack on tortilla chips or peanuts afterwards. It would be like a day without orange juice if we didn't hear the pantry door opening followed by the familiar rustling of plastic wrapping after dinner. And he wonders why my mom started calling him Snacky Gonzalez.

- Speaking of tortillas, don't serve that man a meal that doesn't have at least two out of three of the following: rice, tortillas and beans. He's the one guy I know that has a mild panic attack if there are no tortillas warmed up when we decide to get Shakey's Pizza, Fried Chicken and Mojo potatoes to watch a sporting event together. 

- When we watch sports, my dad is the quintessential jinx. It's maddening when in a tight game where my team desperately needs to make the next shot or get that first down, Dad chimes in with "He's gonna blow it, he's gonna blow it. See? He blew it." 

- Then there's his expert commentating: "Man, if we don't win this game, we're gonna lose." Howard Cosell, Marv Abert, John Madden... And my dad. Prolific sports commentary at its best. 

- My dad sings in the shower... Ok fine, you might argue that a lot of people do this. Yeah, we'll not at ungodly hours of the morning on weekdays and weekends alike. And the songs themselves are a constant five or six songs from what I call "Dad's Greatest Hits," which is a complication of one liners from verses or choruses (always the same parts, but never entire songs) that he has been singing since my brother and I we were kids. Our bathrooms share a wall, so I get the second loudest concerto in the house after my mom. I'll be brushing my teeth and hear "IIIIIIII'VE BEEN CHEATED! BEEEEEN MISTREATED!!! <gargles mouthwash, spits outs mouthwash> SAID IIIIIII'VE BEEN CHEATED!" Other favorites include "My momma once told me, when I was a baby!!," "God bless America, laaaaand of the freeeee!" (Yes, I've corrected him), and some Spanish selections from Vicente Fernandez. 

In short, the man is an odd bird sometimes, but I love him just the same. I've seen the true identity behind that creepy blue mask, and what lies beneath is a model son, brother, uncle, husband and of course father that I'm proud to call my dad. 

Celipalooza

Well then! My second blog has come a little too long after my first. That was not at all my intent, however a combination of familial obligations, a packed work schedule and a few nights of my world famous killer headaches conspired to keep me from writing. Alas, here I am! Back and ready to type my little heart out.

I returned this morning from a trip to see my friend Celina in Northern California; said friend has sold the home she purchased in the small city of Woodland years ago and now has plans to travel the world for an undetermined amount of time (in her words, "until the money runs out"). Given the uncertainty of when many of us will see her next, a motley crew of Celi's friends was assembled for a grand farewell. We travelled from all over to partake in "Celipalooza," a weekend of debauchery and good natured frivolity in not only Woodland but Davis as well. UC Davis being the alma mater of a few folks in this circle of friends, it was a trip down memory lane for some, and a chance to make memories for the rest. Oh, and the theme for the weekend: the 90s. We were a big heaping pile of neon hats, printed pants, pagers, troll dolls, backwards dressing, flannel and light-up kicks with some Motown Philly on the side. Picture THAT walking up and down the streets of Davis. Need a visual? Keep reading, I shan't disappoint.

Now, this motley crew I speak of... I'm not entirely sure that there are words to describe the dynamic and overall energy that this group embodies. We are a melting pot of personalities that run the gamut but share a certain je ne sais quoi. I suppose you could call it a lust for life, a carpe-diem, balls-to-the-wall, we-don't-need-no-water-let-the-mutha-f*cka-burn type of quality. As soon as I get an invite, I instinctively wonder when I last had a tetanus shot then hurry to amass several bottles of water, some penicillin and an alibi. You just never know!

Par example: dinner turning into several very competitive rounds of flip cup...a guy lighting votive candles on Celi's patio preparing to do a tarot card reading... back and forth trips to the same bar twice in one night... Wicky Wacky Woos and an entire box of glow stick bracelets... a 1am photo-shoot in a red phone booth and then with a mosaic parakeet... three people-sized dents in an innocent by-standing bush... someone sipping ranch from pizza slice via straw... a Swiss watch seemingly lost but found in a more distant bush... a guy hanging from the attic then becoming a human lampshade... bowling in 90s couture on the UC Davis campus... narrowly avoiding the Death Star... rocking mock piercings all over our faces... choking down a disgusting concoction known as a Four Loko... staircase photoshoots... setting out to fly a kite... posting aforementioned kite for sale online when the wind let us down... bare chests and clavicles (awwww snap!) blackouts of a non-alcoholic nature and a heartwarming camaraderie as a result... bringing My So Called Life and Baywatch to a local dive bar...learning we are indeed not the only fans of 90s music... ghetto chick fights and Harlem shakes... playing with Hot Wheels at 2am... angry drill sergeant yoga with the garden snake and lazy baby poses... reviewing all the photos and hilarious videos, and farewells with a promise to reunite soon... in short: love, laughter, life.

I'm sure it goes without saying that I had many a reason to smile (and shake my head, and wince at my bruises) when I boarded the plane back to my beloved 619, so I got out the ol' iPad mid-flight and decided to record all I could remember of this weekend. As I started writing what I thought would be just a comedic walk down short-term-memory lane, I found myself becoming a tad introspective. I got to thinking how I've only known most of Team 90s for two or three years at the very most; several I've known but a year and others for months or even just these 72 hours. Each is a friend of a friend, and through that friend we each became friends. None of it feels new or awkward, its like its been there all along. Together we embark on these crazy, ridiculous adventures that to most onlookers are probably annoying as all hell. We're in your face and in your ear (and bushes) whether you like it or not, and the beauty of it all (at least from where I'm standing) is that I find myself caring less and less about what people think in the process. Yes, we're annoying, we're obnoxious, we're loud, we're shameless, but we're living. We're making the most of the time we've been given and demand to make it as remarkable and (mostly) unforgettable as possible. The real world will always be waiting with bills, politics, headaches, and disconcerting news headlines. So gather your friends, tell those friends to bring their friends; travel the world, toss back a Wicky and celebrate. Take pictures, be spontaneous; revel in your own personal version of escapism, and live.

Buenos Diaz!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Promising to make future entries more brief,
Vanessa