Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Poor wittle baby

Aaaand I'm back!

I managed to climb a fucking enormous mountain at... 6000+ m.a.s.l. but the part that kicked my ass was getting on a plane ride back home.
I managed to revert to toddlerhood and puked all over myself not once, but TWICE on the ride back home yesterday.

A five day hike across (more like around) the Andes didn't do much to me besides burn my skin to an unrecognizable toast (my Mexican tan and Greece tan are vastly different to the Peruvian tan)... but shove me onto a plane at four in the morning, and watch as I randomly barf my way out of sleep.

I should probably preface all that shit by saying I spent my Sunday afternoon and night in hot pursuit of some good Peruvian seafood. We drove up and down the city of Lima looking for our favorite eateries... which all turned out to be closed due to Sunday hours (super Catholic country... they definitely beat Mexico in their fundamentalism). Our tour finally ended with us defeated, settling for a local sandwich shop (sandwich shops are the fucking shit out there. Just like we Mexicans go for late night taco stands after a night of dancing and debauchery, Peruvians rush the sandwich shops). Since we had spent about eight hours searching for food, ONE of the girls in the group had bigger eyes than stomach... and since I'm such a penny-pinching cheapskate, I force-fed myself the dish homegirl left untouched. The dish consisted of chorizo, a fried egg, aji sauce (SO FUCKING DELICIOUS), tomatoes, lettuce, and thick-cut french fries.
I ate the fries after I finished my enormous sandwich (chorizo, sausage, three kinds of cheese, thin french fries, aji, and slow-cooked pork). THEN I went back to my hostel and drank a bottle of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon with the homegirl... and by 11pm, I was ready to run into oncoming traffic.

Homegirl felt guilty after watching me grimace my way through the airport... and was relieved when she saw we would not be sitting together on the one leg of the flight we'd be sharing.
It was about an hour into the flight when I was woken up by the heaving of my stomach... too late to grab the barf-bag, but fast enough to avoid the more projectile portion of the puke-fest. I was lucky enough to be sitting in the aisle seat, so I saved myself (and my fellow flight companions) the disgusting outcome of a puke-drenched row 8.
On the second/final leg of my trip, I once again woke up as my stomach was gearing up for round two, and I managed to maneuver my blanket (provided by the airline) into a puke-basket, and barfed into it. People on this six-hour flight were much more compassionate, and adopted me as the sickly baby that I was-- wiping my face of barf, and feeding me ice cubes to relieve the nausea.

I was feeling slightly better by the time my mother picked me up from the airport, and randomly fell asleep around 6PM as I tried watching game 7 of the OCK-Golden State game.
I woke up this morning tired as fuck... feeble as fuck... and highly confused as to my whereabouts.
I have yet to eat anything, I find that I'm still scared to add anything to my gut. Luckily my head is no longer in the clouds, so I'm just waiting on my stomach to give me the hungry signal any minute now.

I need to find a cure for this fucked up odor-induced plane-sickness. 

Monday, May 16, 2016

Jittery Broad

So, after much planning (that was not done by me), I'm finally heading out to Peru Wednesday night.

I'm fucking shitting bricks right about now.
This trip has been in the works since November... when May seemed like a fucking lifetime away.

Up until two weeks ago, I was the chillest of chill cucumbers. I had ZERO fear. I was downright careless.
Then I had to inform my work-out group I was leaving for Peru in two weeks-- THEY freaked out.
They have managed to embed all sort of doubts into my brain. I'm now thoroughly convinced I'm going to fucking die in the goddamn Andes.

"Do you have waterproof spray for your hiking boots?"
Me: I... don't have hiking boots yet.
"Do you at least have gel?"
Me: ... I need gel?
Me:... no.
"Do you AT LEAST have the Altitude Sickness pill?"
Me:... uh...
"Altitude Sickness can kill you!"
Me:... but... I'm... Native American... I think I can handle the altitude...

Everything is wrong, I'm going to fucking die, I'm a fucking idiot.

But GUYS! My mitochondrial DNA is Native American... My father's mDNA is as well. My motherfucking ancestral background is that of groups of human beings who fucking PLOWED through harsh terrain and fucking survived. That has to count for something, right? AND Hometown is located at an elevation of 6100ft... AND I've chilled in Mexico City, even RAN there, and that place is at 7,383ft... like... I'm going to fucking handle this shit.

I'm angry that despite all of these reassuring FACTS about myself (alongside the fact that I hit the gym 6 days a week... and I don't just fucking ride the goddamn elliptical for an hour-- I go hard), I have still allowed these hating-ass women to stress me the fuck out.
This past week has been horrible for me-- I have been restless as fuck at night, and my anxiety level is THROUGH THE ROOF. Saturday morning I was on the verge of a panic-attack... shallow breathing, trembling limbs, tears ready to burst any second. I had to force myself to take a nap, fearing I'd crack any second.

I've never been this uncomfortable before a trip. I'm not afraid over the fact that I'll be completely alone for the first leg of the trip, hanging out in Panama for 8 hours... I'm scared of actually BEING in Peru... with the other two chicks that will accompany me on the trip.

I HATE the fact that I allow others' doubt of my capacity and abilities seep into my mind, casting the self-doubt.
It SUCKS that others have such a low opinion of me... but it's fucking worse that I fall into the trap of believing them.


Monday, May 9, 2016

Jumbo Card

My sister made a surprise visit on Saturday for Mother's Day.
I knew of my sister's trip since Wednesday, when she purchased her tickets on a whim. My job was to remain quiet and make up a lie for when it came time to pick her up at the airport Friday night at 11:30.
So... I was dying inside keeping this lie from everyone. It took me about a day to decide what I was going to do (say I was picking up Kelley from the airport... Sorry, Kelley! hahaha), and next thing I knew, it was Friday and I had to put my acting into play.
I decided I would spend time with a friend, so as to avoid both my parents, come home just in time to head out to the airport, then surprise the folks.
As I was making the trek out to my friend's house (about 45 minutes away), I received the frantic, furious texts from my sister-- her flight was cancelled. "Crew issues" was the reason given.
After calming the kid down, she purchased another flight for Saturday morning-- 8:15AM.
I had to lie for ANOTHER day. That shit was killing me!
So... I put on my best acting face and... my folks believed it.

Saturday morning came around, I hit the gym at 5:30 in the morning, came home, had some breakfast, then casually rolled out to the airport.
In the car I had a giant Mother's Day card my mom had thrown a tantrum over WEEKS ago, thinking I hadn't purchased it, and I made my sister sit in the back with it so she could sign it.
I came home, made Sister stand behind the giant card, and surprised the fucking SHIT out of my mom.

"How did you... you... you little jerk!" Mom said.
And she cried.

"Oh my god, how did AnoMALIE do that? Why did she do that?" asked my mother's employee. "Had it been one of my kids, they would have thrown the card at me the first moment I complained about them being bad kids by not gifting it to me."
"That's just who she is," said my mother.

You see, for the last MONTH my mother had been hounding me, taking digs at me, after a tantrum she threw at a Walmart when she saw giant Mother's Day cards for three dollars.
She wanted me to buy her a card, right then and there, but I thought it would be tacky... thought it would be a better idea to buy it when she wasn't around and surprise her with it on THE ACTUAL DAY we're supposed to celebrate mothers. I was very much pulling a Santa Claus on her.
This, for some reason that day, made her go into the pettiest of tantrums, where she verbally insulted me in front of the Walmart cashier and other patrons.
HOURS later, I returned to Walmart while she was at work, and I purchased the fucking card... and I hid it behind my blank canvases.
For the rest of the month, I would not hear the end of her rehashing of the goddamn CardGate... she told the fucking story to ANYONE who would listen. I would stand there, quietly listening to her berate me as she went on her dramatic spiel of "NO ONE HAS APPRECIATED ME! All you do is GIMME GIMME GIMME! NEVER EXPECT ME TO GIVE YOU A DIME EVER AGAIN (this was a famous phrase she used at Walmart, that woeful day I turned down her request to purchase the card)!"
Mom took the bitching up to this past Thursday, when she recounted her story of woe to her sister as we all sat at work, killing time. I had to sit there and listen to both my aunt and Mom rebuke me for being so cruel and heartless... as I took my eyes off my phone's screen only to roll them with each self-pitying comment from these women.

Now Mom is going around telling everyone the story of how I'm a sneaky jerk... who quietly listens to people trash-talk her in public, just to smile the moment she gets the chance to prove EVERYONE WRONG.
'Cause I'm a sneaky bitch who LOVES teaching mean motherfuckers a lesson... uh... not that I'm calling my mom a "motherfucker" or anything.

But yeah, watch yo mouf, muthafuckaaas... I'm actually a nice, thoughtful girl. Most of the time.

Monday, May 2, 2016

Early 30s is too young

People retelling their "Where were you when 9/11 happened?" by now is downright annoying, I'm sure.
I've told my 9/11 story multiple times, almost every year... because it was so eerie.

Back when it occurred-- the day of-- I left school early because I had to drive out to Oklahoma for my brother's graduation from Basic Training.
I was scared out of my mind, because I had no idea what it meant for my brother's future. I remember my friends trying to calm my nerves, and the one that managed to do it the best was my "first HS friend." She was the first girl to bother to get to know me, and include me in her circle-- spoke to me in 10th grade, added me to her circle in 11th. Her father was in the military, so she proceeded to answer my very weird, nonsensical questions.
High school was a time I clung to her because we had six out of eight classes together... she comforted me. College came around the corner, and we parted ways-- she went off with architecture stuff, I went to science... we spoke two times in ten years.

Though we grew to be very different people, I will never forget the role she played in my life during the most excruciating moments.
I will always appreciate the kindness of this friend, the compassion she showed this quiet, awkward, timid girl.

Her oldest brother died today... and... I have no idea what to say.

This year is the absolute worst for the people in my life-- I'm so sorry, guys.