The players

I suppose I'll jump right into the hike portion of my trip (as opposed to my favorite part-- the motherfucking delicious food).
I'm still amazed over how a situation like HIKING for five days can make a disparate group of 13 foreigners bond stronger than 13 years of grade school.
There were laughs, tears, plenty of vomit, falls, foreign language lessons, dance lessons, bruises, political debates, slips, broken nails, toilet paper drama... all sorts of shit.

Let's start this series of posts with an introduction of the newly formed family.

First, we had the father-daughter duo, ze Germans: Daddy Post and Jo.
This group was precious, and was where we acquired our adoptive father. They were from Hamburg, with the daughter residing in Dresden before she left for Lima on some study-abroad program. Living in Latin America made Jo realize she loves the family life and the tightness displayed by the culture. She now has plans to return with her folks and siblings to Hamburg, and be more open with her feelings. This of course, has made Daddy Post incredibly happy. They took this trip as a way to tighten up their bond before the big changes occur in the Fall.
From them, we learned our team mascot of sorts: the morgenmuffel. We were ALL morgenmuffels.
Just... angry, irritable, non-morning people.
"WHY ARE YOU TALKING?! We were all woken up at 3:30AM!"
Best. Word. Ever.

Second, we had the Dutch-Australian couple: Dave and T.
This couple had been traveling around the world for a year. Dave is a biology teacher, a year older than I, and the girl is a tiny pistol of a woman who... I'm not sure what her job was, but I do believe she has a kid or two? Anyway, they are a very well-traveled couple, super adventurous, and curious about the world. Dave was very friendly from the get-go, very quick witted, and T was a go-getter, brave woman. This couple had our adrenaline pumping within an hour of our hike when T FELL OFF THE MOTHERFUCKING SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN. YES. From the angle I saw her drop (completely different form everyone else, because I was a good chunk behind them. She fell at a bend of the road, while surrounded by 10 of the members. I had yet to reach the bend), I thought I had seen someone plunge to their death like a sack of potatoes. I literally started to cry, tears uncontrollably rolling down my face... the thought of reaching the horrific scene overwhelmed me. However, resilient little T made it with only a scratch on her left thumb. Had I taken the fall down the cliff, I certainly would have broken my neck with my bulky-ass-self, but she rolled like a pro and managed to climb back out of the ditch.
From this couple, we learned our motto: watch your fucking step.

3. The Iraqi siblings: Sam and Lita.
This brother-sister due was adorable. Sam, the young brother, is a recent college grad. Lita, his older sister, was joining her sibling on HIS grad trip around South America. I was surprised to learn she's only five years younger than I, her baby face made me think she was a recent high school graduate.
These two were always at the head of the pack, taking a wrong turn on the first day of the trek, needing to be rescued by our tour guide before they burned too much time (they burned about an hour and a half with their detour).
From this duo, we learned our second important lesson: ALWAYS listen to your guide's directions on where to stop.

4. The college grads: Casey and J.
These two boys were... boys. They were part of Sam's frat family... and it showed. Warming up to them was difficult, because they were stereotypical American youngsters. They always pulled too far ahead of the group, and hardly gave a shit to converse with the rest of the crew. It wasn't until the third day where J's love of rap music and basketball (the basketball was obvious, since he is well over 6'2"... but the rap thing was totally out of the blue, since he is as geeky, lanky white boy as you could ever imagine) came up in conversation when I mentioned NAS that he suddenly perked into life. J and I became pretty tight after that conversation, often catching him smiling sheepishly when I'd call out to him by his name... that was cute. Casey... that guy... he was the cold one. We had moments of warmth with him, but he'd suddenly revert to being that rebellious, somewhat unlikable American frat boy.
From this duo we learned: not all is what it seems.

5. The scientist couple: Cat and Alvin.
I fucking LOVED this couple! They were the most endearing Filipino-American couple who were initially hard to crack. Cat would speak up during lunch/dinner time, but in the shiest manner... we could hardly hear her. I would watch her gather courage to speak... and it would warm my heart. She always had awesome contributions to conversations, but she had to wind herself up in order to spit it out... or would have her boyfriend interject "Oh! Cat has something really cool to say about this subject. Go ahead Cat, tell them." Alvin was very stoic at first... finally cracking when he realized we had much more in common than we imagined-- he grew up in the same California town as where my uncle, we were both med school drop outs, we both liked Atmosphere, sports-team loyalties... and same level of sarcasm. After day three, we were like siblings.
From this duo we learned: quiet people are usually worth the patience (well, everyone else learned that... I've always known this, considering I'm part of that tribe).

6. My two friends: The Muppets.
These two ladies have known each other for a while. One of the girls... let's call her Bone, has been my friend since high school, and the other I met on this trip. Bone and... Spence have been friends for something like ten years or less. Anyway, they definitely have more in common with one another, since their friendship is fresh, and they live in the same city. They had many inside jokes, and a very similar sense of humor... really loud laughs. People in the group would often... sort of exclude them, because these two girls would be in a world of their own... not to mention, always the last two on the trail... by at least half an hour. The nickname was given to them by our hilarious German dad of the trip, and he meant it as a compliment.
From this duo we learned: quick wit can make tense situations into laugh-fests.

7. Me: The narrator.
I was given the title by the dad, since he said I was more of the calm portion of the trio, responsible for translating the humor of The Muppets to the rest of the group.
I was the tallest female... as well as the meaty-est (the "chubbiest" was Spence, but she is about 5'5" so it wasn't as... intimidating as my corpulence). Trust me, this will play a mean role later on.
From me they learned: having someone capable of translating from Spanish to English and English to Spanish is goddamn priceless in Latin America.

And so, add our magnificent five-foot-tall trek guide to the mix, and you get a group of 14 folks who endure all sorts of shit and form a peculiar bond.

Poor wittle baby

Aaaand I'm back!
Alive!

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. 

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?
"FOR SHAFING!"
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.

DAAAAMN IIIIIIIT!

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.

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.

MEme

I'm chatty today... as well as currently avoiding people who have managed to piss me off.

We're on the eve of the fifth month of the year, and I can say, I'm still riding pretty damn high. The further we get into the year, the clearer the picture becomes of the goddamned mess that was 2015. The huge discrepancies in feelings and behaviors and... everything-- the magnitude of the depression, it's so much easier to spot, to describe them... to know I have finally cleared that stretch of seemingly-never-ending hurdles.

My body has also bounced back. My face is clearing up and my exhaustion is almost non-existent. I find myself with a renewed enthusiasm and energy for the gym. While last year it seemed as though just sniffing a fucking cookie made me gain five pounds, this year I've been dropping inches off my waist without my body putting up much of a fight (I haven't been weighing myself in years, since it made me extremely neurotic).
All of these discoveries I'm sure have a lot to do with my fantastic mood. Seeing my face return to looking like MY face brings a joy to me I thought was lost forever. Forget getting my work-out body back, that shit is fleeting... but my face? The face I know can be sweet and innocent and... my fucking face? I was scared it was going to be scowling, wrinkled, and reddened for life-- an angry, bitter face... that ISN'T me.

I am more ME now than I have been since 3rd grade.
I have done and said things I haven't done or said in decades. It's not like it's a new behavior, it's an OLD behavior I thought so many years of torture had killed.
My family members have noticed the return of KidAnomalie, often times smiling and staring at me, usually remarking on how I used to do or say what I just did-- a glint of happiness at the return of the witty, silly little girl I used to be.

It's almost May and I'm STILL happy... fucking unbelievable. 

Bolt

Today marked the Ninth anniversary of my grandfather leaving this place like a lightning bolt.

There are days when I miss him terribly... when I remember funny little moments I shared with him. I'll think about riding my grandpa's horse, playing with his assortment of cuddly farm animals, and see the images in my mind with the rosiest of filters.

There are days when I still feel incredibly angry and resentful towards him... even if he is dead.
I still have moments where I feel my blood boil, and my head feel lighter, from holding in my rage when someone speaks of him as though he were the greatest human to have ever lived.
There is no doubt in my mind that he was a good guy, that he had his great moments... but it makes me angry to know he placed me in this predicament... where I have the power of completely annihilating this image others have... to taint his memory in the minds of others... but I choose to shut up and walk away. I HATE that I have to deal with that. I WISH I could be like everyone else and whole-heartedly say "That man was such a fucking badass, that fucking amazing HeMan," without the back of my mind screaming "BULLLLLSHIIIIIIT!"
I also hate that I bite my tongue, shrug my shoulders, or raise my brow when others wonder why the fuck I'm such a weird, quiet girl.
WHY the hell can't you be normal? What the fuck is so terrible?
Well, fuck me if I know...
But I know... and I choose to stay quiet... and not blame others... and wonder if others can really be THAT fucking stupid to not put two and two together... to figure that "Well, someone hurt this poor chick."

But I'm not here to talk poorly of my grandfather.
It still feels weird to know I can no longer see him, or hear his stories.
It scares me to think that he could be out there, unable to rest his soul because I'm still so resentful of him.

Everyone has a story, and my grandfather certainly had one that is worthy of a movie saga. The amount of suffering he had to endure is something we continue to learn about to this day, with discoveries of all sorts of historical data.
I've learned to forgive, and sort of understand that he was a damaged person... that had numerous redeeming qualities.
He was my grandfather.
I possess many of his traits-- I have his skin tone, his smile, his explosive temperament, his stubbornness, his susceptibility to fall for a sob story, his charitable tendencies. Thanks to him, I love animals, I'm adventurous (really, I am), I love scary stories, I love nature, I know about farming, I love music... I love storytelling... I have thicker skin.
He prepared me for this world. He prepared me for the harsh realities this life slams upon others-- whether we looked for them or not, whether we deserved them or not.

I miss him.
Besides that night nine years ago, the first night after he died, I haven't dreamt of him.
I'm not sure I'm ready to see him again... but this entire month I kept thinking about today, his anniversary. I kept thinking "Like a lightning bolt... death came for him and took him out with a flash... a quickness... like he wanted."

As I walked outside to head out earlier tonight, I looked to my right and saw a storm brewing in the city's south side... lightning bolts lighting up the sky.

Fucking lightning bolts.
I see you.