Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Colorful Colorado Part 1

Once again, I have failed to keep up with this thing. It's been nearly a year since I cataloged the pimple-popping Cornhusker lovers. By this time, they are likely broken up and well past the drunken "I miss you" texts and random post-break up make-outs. They may very well have moved on respectively. Or perhaps I shouldn't be so cynical. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they are just where I left them, sitting out by the fountain picking at each other like little monkeys. Their intimacy has likely increased over time so popping back zits just doesn't have the same bonding effect anymore (not to mention, after watching MTV incessantly he finally got a clue and ordered some Proactive). At this point in their relationship they are wiping each others heinies.

Enough about them and on to me. I graduated in May and instead of leaping into the real world I decided to take some time in the mountains, working a little and playing a little too. I will do my very best to write down my adventures as I have had many already. I am currently at a coffee shop downtown drinking a Dos XX while on my laptop. It's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Let's start with the ride here. I flew into the Denver Airport on the 13th around 9 am. I was scheduled to take a 3 hour shuttle ride to my destination, leaving at noon. I had 3 hours to kill all by my lonesome. I considered getting a cheap meal and watching the clock tick but instead treated myself to a lengthy french meal that took up a little under an hour of my wait and a little over half of the cash I had on me.

I enjoyed by own company at the airport and I was hoping I could have the same personal time on my shuttle out of there. I was exhausted from my brother's wedding the weekend before and was hoping to relax before beginning my job. Unfortunately, I was so fixated on every detail of my fellow shuttlers that I was unable to pay myself the attention I deserved. Instead I took notes via text, like a true blogger.

The van was made up of an eclectic group of people and two black labs named Java and Mocha. Their owner was a very high strung (likely a caffeine addict), confident, slightly masculine woman who spoke very matter-of-factly and very often and very loud. Because I was lucky enough to be the first one on the shuttle, I was also lucky enough to hear here explain to each add-on how poor Java and Mocha were doped up for the flight but the minute they passed Rabbit Ears Pass they were going to go crazy, just you watch! When introducing the pups to an older couple, the man asked her if she had another dog named Latte. The owner either didn't catch the joke or wasn't amused. Either way, the older woman found it to be quite the knee-slapper and her husband beamed proudly as if this was the first laugh he'd gotten out of her in all their 50-some-odd years of marriage.
Another guy by me was sporting a pair of silver sequin shorts, long shaggy silver hair, a brightly colored headband and was on his phone with various people tracking down his dog named Ruby. Incidentally, his new roommate let her out on accident. Idiot. He later explained to me that Ruby was not just a dog but his very best friend. Ha! Real original, man's best friend.

Two rows ahead of me was a young Asian man-boy called Sun ("like the one in the sky" he explained) who I was also lucky enough to snag a seat by in the airport. At the terminal he was laughing like a crazy person, hysterically and uncontrollably while watching Japanese YouTube videos on his laptop. He wasn't so lucky to find Wi-Fi on the shuttle so his laughter was quickly extinct after buckling up. It didn't take long for Sun to make a friend in a 15-ish year old boy who was a local and telling Sun how to "score some booze" underage. Sun looked both intrigued and confused.

Meanwhile, I am in the back row texting my mother about all of my new potential friends when I see Sun beckoning Java to come closer. My first instinct is that his tempt-Asians (get it?) had set in. Was it just me, or was there a look of hunger behind those dark eyes? After all, Sun was coming straight from the other side of the world and I had heard talk of dog-eating-men. Reluctantly and trying to spare myself doggie smell, I went into heroine mode. I must save Java! I summoned her to come to me in attempt to distract Sun and get him drooling over something more American, like some big fatty cow meat dripping in ketchup, heart failure, and Type II Diabetes.

It didn't take but 30 minutes for Sequin Shorts to introduce himself. He explained the lost dog, which I already knew far too much about from eavesdropping on his phone calls. Then he got to telling me how lucky I was to have landed the entire back row all to myself. I knew what he was fishing for, I'm no fool. He wanted me to offer him up a sliver but no such luck, Bucko. This seat was all mine. He told me how hungover he was and how he just needed some space to spread out and sleep it off. I told him he would be home soon enough and I bet he had a big bed waiting for him (even if Ruby wasn't). He told me he always slept well in moving vehicles. I told him it really wasn't all that cozy back here by the engine. He told me noise never bothered him. I told him it was hotter here and he would likely break into a sweat. We went like this for awhile, speaking in code: his hinting at joining me in the back, and my rejecting the idea altogether. Well, I thought I was strong but when the words came out of his mouth I just felt cruel saying no to the poor shiny shorted hippy.
aHe tried a new attempt and acted as if the idea had just occurred to him he said, "Hey, how about if I squeeze back there with ya? We can both nap?"
Me: "Uh yeah that's fine, just no footsie ok?"
Him: "Haha!!!! Oh yeah, of course.'
Moments later, I am curled in fetal position with Sequin Shorts on the opposite end. Our toes were mere centimeters from each other and he kept wiggling his trying to get cozy. I was trying to act like this didn't bother me but come on, I just met the guy.
Welcome to Colorful Colorado, I thought.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

My Shot as a Paparazzo (or Stalker, you choose)

I flew up to Lincoln this past spring to visit the ole Cornhusker nation and visit my many friends and many many lovers past. One afternoon, my friend Addie and I went to sit outside the fountain and chitter chatter- you know about the usual stuff (meaning of life, her teetering sexuality, etc.). Whilst our friendly chatter, I spotted a couple sitting across the fountain from us reading and studying together. They both had their shoes off, feet in the water and the sun shone at just the right angle on these two particular lovers. At first we commented on how cute they looked together. They were very affectionate and both looked genuinely happy to be with with one another. It didn't take long before this observation made a 180. The events went something like this, I decided to take footage in case anyone had the nerve to doubt me.
Scene 1. Happy couple flirts and toys with one another while studying. The scene of them together looks like a romantic Nicholas Sparks film or novel excerpt.

Scene 2. The sun brings in more heat than Romeo can handle, thus he decides to remove his shirt. I can understand this. In fact, I'm growing a little steamy myself, perhaps I'll remove an article of my own clothing. Who can blame the guy? Heck, Addie here is already down to her loins!

Scene 3. Romeo and Juliet decide to put their relations on hold and get some worthy studying out of the way..that way they will have more time for their shenanigans later.

Scene 4. All this temperature increase really causes things to heat up. Romeo goes in for the kill and he and Juliet begin a soft core, ever so sensual make-out session. At this point I'm beginning to feel only slightly uncomfortable. I'm not one to look away when people kiss, instead I prefer to study them like my own sexual specimens. I watch their every move and critique their form. His hand on her face, her hand on his leg- they've really got this scene nailed..while still keeping their study materials at hand.
Scene 5. Juliet thinks that just because she and Romeo have shared one hot public make-out this means they are comfortable enough around each other (and the rest of the public world) to do some self grooming. So, like any other college student, she pulls out her Swiss army knife and begins trimming up her leg hairs. Who wouldn't do the same thing? Afterall, the less hair the easier it is to breath in this weather. Romeo doesn't seem to be bothered by this at all. I, on the other hand, am absolutely fascinated. "What kind of creature does this?" I ask myself. "I haven't shaved my upper lip today, perhaps I should ask her if I can borrow these mini-scissors and do a little trim-up myself?" "Am I missing something in Texas? Is this a normal Nebraska grooming technique that I failed to pick up on in my first 2 years of undergrad?" This leads me to reexamine my entire existence as an ex- fellow student of this hooligan.
--This is when things really take a turn for the worst. I decide to get a better angle. I crouch down in the bushes behind Romeo and his betrothed to get a closer look.--

Scene 6. After running into a friend's boyfriend politely asking me what the hell I'm doing, I catch the star crossed lovers engaging in a dermatological experiment. Just a little pimple popping- never hurt nobody!
Scene 7. This really revs Juliet's engine. Kiss kiss.
Scene 8. Back to the blackheads, let us move on to the right shoulder blade.


Scene 9. Mission accomplished- Juliet's leg hairs are in tact and Romeo's bacne has been taken care of- who needs proactive? (please notice Romeo's welts on his back from Juliet's picking and prodding)

Scene 10. Well, my job here is done. I leave Romeo and Juliet, lost in the moment.

God Bless Cornhusker Nation.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Maybe, Maybe So, Harriett, & Anne


Yes, yes I am in fact still alive and ready to blog. For all of my loyal 10 followers, please forgive my 5 and a half month hiatus. I have no doubt that you have been checking this blog day after day, hour after hour, to see what enchanting adventures I have been on lately. After rummaging through some old photos and videos today on my laptop, I wiped a thick globby tear from my eye after coming across the following pics.

It was the summer of 2008 when my first maternal instincts began to set in. Prior to this time- spring of '08 and earlier- I never saw myself as a very "sweet" person. Not to say that today I would describe myself that way (I would probably opt more for adjectives like alluring, ravishing, stunning, racy, titillating etc.) but after this particular summer I took one bound closer to being so sweet I could give you all (my 10 followers) a toothache. Long story short I started babysitting the most precious little being I could ever get my hands on. I rocked him to sleep, wiped his stinky little bottom, fed him messy mashed up carrots, and breast fed him from my very own teet. My falling in love with him led me to fall in love with humans and animals alike..which leads me to my blog plot.
When I was a sophomore at Nebraska I decided to try my hand at caring for another small creature in the same loving manner in which I cared for my almost-child from the summer before. Since I was living in the Theta house I would not be able to have a puppy or pussy cat, so instead I took a trip to PetSmart and purchased myself a gerbil and promptly named her Maybe (after Arrested Development).
Momma and baby. She slid out like a wet bar of soap!

Day 2 of Maybe's life: my dad surprised my homesick little self in Lincoln and when I took him up to my room to show off the newest member of the Munguia family, we found her corpse in the corner of her cage. (tear tear)
Well, thank goodness Petsmart has a 14 day exchange guarantee...(which came in handy more than once)
Gerbil 2: Maybe So. Maybe So lasted a good 4 days before death became her. After two down, I decided I better try my luck once more, this time using only bottled water and none of that tap-water crap.



Quite the exerciser! She's got her momma's thunder thighs..and flexibility!

Gerbil 3: Harriett Tubman (who dug fluff-tunnels like nobody's business) followed by Gerbil 4: Anne Frank (the sneaky, hidden one). Harriett and Anne had a three story loft with pink and yellow floor adornments and colorful walls.
The bottled water worked wonders as Harriett and Anne both survived the Nebraska fall and harsh winters. Like the baby from the summer before, I rocked them to sleep, sang them lullabies, and attempted to breast feed them to no avail. My love for them was unwavering...that is until their nightly racket kept me awake and forced me to take them to the Humane Society.

Oh sisters! As you can see, Anne was clearly having a fit over my snapping pictures as she got ready for their prom. Harriett was a nervous wreck, she resorted to chewing cardboard (like her Momma!)

Sisters quarrel. Go to your rooms!
Posted above are photos of my lost loved ones, the closest things to bearing (and losing) my own children. If you look closely, each of my little gerbils has a feature or two of their mothers.--Anne has my eyes, Harriett-my cute little tush, Maybe- that dreadful birthmark, and Maybe So, well she looks like her father.

RIP Maybe and Maybe So
I like to think Harriett and Anne are both still alive and well in the arms of some delicate little child of the corn.

Below is a video of myself lulling sweet Anne Frank to bed after a night on the town. Notice I delicately place her in the third floor loft, or "annex" as I called it after it became her favorite place to hide from me. Hiding from mom, what else is new? Kids will be kids!
video

Sunday, January 31, 2010

my day as a faux bride




After hours plopped down in front of the tv watching shows like Bridezillas, Rich Bride Poor Bride, Say Yes to the Dress, and Platinum Weddings, my roommate (Mary Anne) and I decided it was high time to get involved in all of this wedding hoopla. Now don't you be mistaken, we are not trying to get hitched. We are simply taking advantage of all the wedding resources around us. Like any starved college student, all we wanted was some free food, a little roommate bonding, and a dash of improv. And so it began. We printed off directions to a wedding show thirty minutes away, I slipped a faux engagement ring on my finger, and we were ready to go.
We decided I should keep my name and story as close to the real thing as possible so that we wouldn't get our story wrong. So my fiance's name was Joe (after my darling boyfriend) and we had known each other since we were in fourth grade (also true). Mary Anne would be my Maid of Honor. She continued to say things like "it's your day, this is all about you" (something I could get used to). Despite our expectations, the showing was much more personal than we had imagined, which meant more chit chat between vendors and thus more thinking on our toes. It was a small room filled with caterers, photographers, videographers, and florists all asking the same questions: Which of you is getting married? When's the date? (we're thinking fall) What are your colors? (my what?) How many guests are you planning on having? (oh, about 200 give or take)And so on.
The chocolatier in the back has the nerve to ask me where my fiance is. Who does she think she is? I mutter something along the lines of "oh, he's just out doing whatever". I'm not entirely sure what that means, but she gets the hint. Mary Anne then backs me up by saying "boys will be boys". It worked out well that my betrothed is doing "whatever" because Ms. Chocalate-pants gives me a miniature wrapped box of chocolates for me to bring him to sample. Unfortunately, the chocolates didn't get that far. In fact, they didn't even make it past the valet stand on the way out.
Each photographer pulls us aside and first asks who is getting married (Mary Anne tells them all matter-of-factly that I am and I smile shyly, trying to look pleasant and wifely) and then launches into why they are the best photographer for my wedding. I 86 the first man due to his bad breath. No one wants a man suffering halitosis to breathe right up their nostrils in the close-ups. I like the second photographer because he tells us he and his wife work together and I think it's cute. But eventually I decide to get rid of him after he fails to laugh at one of my jokes. Who needs a photographer anyway?

Interaction with the balding, portly videographer:
Mary Anne and me at once: Hello
Videographer: Did you two rehearse that? You two must spend a lot of time together. (Chuckles to himself)
Me: We've been practicing.
Mary Anne: She is my roommate, but not for long! (M.A. nudges me with an excited Maid of Honor's touch)
Videographer to Mary Anne: Are you getting married soon?
(Mary Anne holds up her bare left hand and shakes her head)
Videographer: Got a boyfriend?
Mary Anne: No
Me: We were hoping maybe she would find one here.
Videographer to Mary Anne (whom he has taken quite a liking to): So when are you going to get married then?
At this point we begin moseying away.
Mary Anne: Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Me: Story of your life.

Some cake samples, truffles, and a plate of barbecue later, we decide it is time to head out. With our stomachs full, a bag of flyers and freebies, and the rock on my ring finger causing my left hand to ache (oh,who am I kidding? It's a cheap and plastic tar-jay purchase), we head home. On the ride back I read off the wedding checklist I was handed at the door and peruse the rest of our gatherings. Among them: a heart shaped cookie, 2 "Just Married" luggage tags, 1 bridal bumper sticker, a couple bridal magazines, and plenty of business cards to look over with my husband-to-be...whoever he is. Ahh, a successful day as a mock-bride.

Monday, December 14, 2009

The Sweat-ster

Since I got home a good week ahead of most of my friends, I have gotten into a routine of utter laziness. So, when I rose this afternoon from my slumber I decided that today was the day to turn my Christmas break around, turn over a new poinsettia if you will. I grabbed my ipod and phone and trekked my way to the YMCA. I had forgotten how great it feels to actually do something of use with my body. I started off with some stretches, then moved on to weights. I figured a good finale would be some cardio on the stationary bike. I did a couple loops around the workout area and found an open bike. I was seated next to an older man who looked to have been doing his cardio far longer than the recommended 30 minutes a day. He had headphones on and a book in front of him that I was sure he was not reading because I could see his eyes fluttering open and shut. I wasn't too concerned because he was still pedaling away. And even if he did seem to be entering a near comatose state, he was still getting the workout he came for. He clearly had no idea I was there (in fact I'm not sure he even knew he was there) and he continued to pedal and sweat away. As our workouts progressed, a rancid smell began to make its way to my nostrils. I knew it couldn't be me because what I was doing would hardly constitute as a workout, plus I wasn't sweaty at all and had applied more than enough deodorant before going to the Y. I had no doubt the rank scent was coming from my friend the next bike over. Once I was aware of the smell, I couldn't think of anything else. I tried with all of my might to think about something, anything pleasant but my mind kept drifting back to that scent. Never in my life had I smelled anything like it, and I live with all boys. If I had to describe it I would say it was one part sweaty jock-strap, two parts mayonnaise, and a dollop of expired Daisy. I promised myself relief if I could just finish the mile I was on. About the same time I was finishing up, so was he. With a good dozen grunts he managed to maneuver himself off of the bike as I watched attentively. He picked up his towel and began wiping off his seat. How respectful, I thought. He then continued wiping not only the seat but the bike itself. My eyes followed the rag as it made its way down the seat-adjust and the base of the bike, all of which were drenched in sweat. It looked as though he had spilled a gallon of water all over the bike and himself. Instead of being grossed out, I found this absolutely fascinating. How could a human make such a mess? Does he have some sort of condition? Is it contagious? I do feel a bit faint, perhaps I have developed it myself. I could feel my mouth getting dry, it had been wide open the entire three minute period it had taken him to clean up his (and now my) area. I decided I best leave before the aroma clung to me, after all I had a reputation to uphold. So I promptly shut my gaping mouth, hopped off the bike, and left the Y. Luckily, I was able to maintain balance and avoid slipping in the sweat puddle. Perhaps tomorrow I will make my way back to the Y and if I am lucky enough the sweat-ster will be there as well. And if I keep it up the two of us just may have a future together.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Tiger's Woods (and Irons)

I'll start by saying I am not a golfer. Sure, I have a set of clubs that I got on my eleventh birthday, and yeah I played in the Dallas Morning News Junior PGA tournament the following summer, and oh yeah I scored a 75 but that was a whole decade ago. These days although I am no Annika Sorenstam, I do turn the Golf Channel every now and then to watch everyone's (ex) favorite, Tiger. Was I as surprised as everyone else to hear about all of his slutty little shenanigans? Well, no. And I'll tell you why. I, too, was one of el Tigre's many lovers. Meow. Actually that’s hardly the truth; we merely shared an innocent little make out session, but let’s not get too personal. Any way, after hearing about all of the women coming out and saying they too had slept with Tiger, I decided to do some exploring. Now I don't want to be too grotesque (oh who am I kidding? Of course I WANT to be grotesque, but I'm going to be PG here). Of all the various sex kittens Tiger involved his woods and irons with, my personal favorite was erotica star Holly Sampson. Now, I am not going to list her filmography myself (though I do have plenty of my own personal commentary to add), I will instead encourage all four of you, my followers, to look over it yourself- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0760175/. And for those of you whose chins are still on your desk after hearing of my 75 at age 11, it’s only fair (and humbling) to tell you that it was on 9 holes.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Clanging in the Season

I woke up bright and early this morning to root my oldest brother on in the White Rock Half Marathon. My parents and I met up with my cousin, Charlie and Aunt Leslie at about the 5 mile marker. Although I was sleepy and groggy I did manage to muster up plenty of enthusiasm for those scampering by. I hollered the few names I could make out from their bibs and I made up some names of my own. I whooped and "way to go"-ed. While most of the other onlookers cheered and clapped for the runners, my dad thought it would be a good idea to bring a bell. I understood this, that way you don't grow hoarse from all the screaming and it makes plenty of noise, so the runners know you are cheering them on. A cowbell would have been the perfect instrument. Or not. Instead, my dad picked up the only bell he could find: a Norman Rockwell glass Christmas bell. It looked to me like some sort of antique passed from generation to generation, like something we should have kept in a vault of some sort (or maybe just thrown away with last years mince meat pie). It didn't clag or clatter consistently, but it did manage to ding and dong every four or so flicks of the wrist. That way, as a runner you had about a 25% chance of being cheered on. For the first hundred or so runners that went by I thought the bell was a real hit. I was loving it! It was just the thing to get someone in the Christmas (or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa) spirit. This didn't last long. Once the second and third hundred started coming through, the clanging seemed to be getting higher and higher in pitch. It was becoming increasingly irritating. I started feeling myself tense up, first in my neck and then my clapping hands began to form two tight fists. As my knuckles were turning white, I noticed Charlie was beginning to voice his opinions on the bell, too. I was about ready to take the Christmas bell and stomp on it until Norman Rockwell's little kissing characters were shattered into pieces. Luckily, by this time my brother had already passed us. We were ready to leave our little cheer perch and make our way to the finish line. On the way to the car my dad continued to ring the bell. I asked him to nicely "can it" with the bell. I didn't want to be a Scrooge, but com'on, we (the family, the onlookers, the runners) had all had more than enough. If it's true that every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings, then please do not be alarmed if you see an angel this Christmas season that looks to have some sort of angelic gene mutation with say, four sets of wings.