ehhhhhhhhhn

sick sick sick. fuck you too, world.

I'll get some Maui stuff up here. Soon.

the problem with self-disclosure

I never realize how much of a nerd I am until I meet somebody new.

When I start talking about myself, it always comes out. First there's student government. Orchestra. Plastic animals lined up on the dashboard of my car. Kites. Outer space. The fact that my Facebook has been in pirate English for almost six months. Music preferences. Calculator watch. The story about sticking my phone in the fan. Thrift store clothes. That thing about tall people.

Yikes.

If a person is normal, they look at me like I'm crazy. If a person is being a good sport about it, they smile and nod. If a person is beyond awesome, they listen and laugh and shake their head in good-natured disbelief.

I like the last type of person the best.

my dearest Paloma

Do you remember middle school Spanish class? I went through that strange phase in which I would often forget the "n" in words. Spanish became Spaish and Juanita (my name at the time) became Juaita. That was also the age of las vacas rajas, lorenzo come los pinguinos, and soy maldita. And Gberg put up with us beautifully, despite the fact that we were complete assholes.

Damn. What a ridiculous period in our lives.

Also, has anybody ever seen the PBS special Natural History of the Chicken? It's amazing. I need to find a copy.

baffling/perplexing/anomalous

This has been an interesting week. It has been filled, thus far, with physical trauma as well as other adventures.

Monday: As I readied my backpack for the day ahead, I glanced at my iHome. It told me that I had five minutes to get to my staff meeting. No problem. As I shoved another book into my bag and scanned the room for my jump drive, I glanced at my calculator watch. It told me that I had less than a minute to get to my staff meeting. Problem. My cell phone confirmed my predicament. Major problem.

I sprinted out my front door and toward the stairs that would lead me to my meeting. I was determined not to be late. Desafortunadamente, my right foot hit a patch of mud and slid from the path. My left foot followed suit by slamming toe-first into the pavement. Cursing loudly (especially for 9am on a Monday) I hobbled up the stairs as my toe bled onto my slipper.

Tuesday: Dress rehearsals for Da Freakshow had gone smoothly and we were preparing for our act. I wandered up to the dressing rooms on the third floor to say hello to Billy and we chatted for a minute as he played somebody's guitar. Nicole came out and congratulated me on our rehearsal, saying that Travis stole the show with his awkward attempts at dance. We both laughed and began down the stairs.

My right foot (I think there's something intrinsically wrong with it) landed a little too close to the stair's edge. It shot out from under me and down I went. Nicole screamed, concerned. Luckily, I'd had a hand on the banister so instead of flying down the stairs on my ass, I managed to catch myself with my upper arm. I painfully righted myself and cautiously proceeded down the stairs. The bruise began sprouting within about 15 seconds.

Wednesday: Da Freakshow was over and I could finally take a deep breath. I returned to my daily breakfast routine, something I had forgone in order to capture as much sleep as possible during our heavy rehearsal schedule. Toast, banana, and cottage cheese were nestled on my tray as I sat down at the table. I cut my toast in half and took a few bites. I was vaguely conscious of something in my eye (normal for having just woken up). Per usual, I used one finger to ease down my bottom lid and the other to eliminate the infringing debris.

As I removed my hand from my face, I was conscious that my efforts had been in vain, as my eye was blinking in an aggravated manner. I looked toward my hand and discovered the culprit: a glob of peanut butter was smeared on the end of my finger. I had just stuck peanut butter in my eye.

It is now Wednesday evening and I hope the rest of my week goes smoothly. We will see.

Yarr

Dear avid readers,

You may thank (or blame, your choice entirely) Ms. Whitney Westman for my return to this lovely little blagosphere.

Ahem.

There is a tendency in many people to dismiss the stories/knowledge of old people simply because they're old. This is something that has affected me as it has affected most people I know. Instead of listening intently and gleaning as much as possible from another person's stories and experience, we write them off, deeming their input not worth our time.

This is a huge mistake.

My grandpa Ollie passed away about three and a half weeks ago. Ollie was 95 years old and had been living alone for the last decade, since my grandma died. He was an absolute character and anybody he didn't offend couldn't get enough of him.

Unfortunately, I didn't spend very much time listening to him.

Ollie taught me to golf. He taught me to shuffle and play poker. He could not have been happier when I announced my shift from science to communications ("now there's a skill you can sell"). He cared about me, though I didn't always see it.

On the day of the funeral, Andy and I went over to Ollie's house. We entered through the garage, per usual, and meandered through the empty rooms. The decor of a 95 year old widower left much to be desired; the floors were still covered with orange shag carpeting and the living room furniture was upholstered in white leather.

As Andy and I went room to room, we didn't say much to each other. We simply looked around and remembered what we could. Andy went to the basement to take a look at Ollie's tools. As a (broke) sculptor, he can use any tools he can find. Meanwhile, I wandered my way into the den and sat in Ollie's favorite chair, whose dark brown leather is now cracked with age.

I looked to a corner where Ollie's globe sat. We had spent hours with that globe, spinning it around and pointing out where we'd like to live. Ollie would tell me stories about being a traveling salesman and I'd run my fingers over the countries, trying to say the names in my head.

That globe is outdated now.

The day after the funeral, Sunday, I came back to Hawaii. My mind was settled and I was feeling relatively at peace. I called my mom to tell her that I had arrived safely and that I loved her.

Before I hung up the phone, I asked her to keep that globe for me. I need something to remember.