Floating Flotsam

Night all

2007-09-11T23:01:00.000-07:00

I recently attended a songwriters forum that Chris participated in, and the guy who organized it looked so familiar. I thought maybe I'd seen him in a movie or something. But now I realize he bears a striking resemblance to one of the rogue captains on the Discovery Channel's The Deadliest Catch.

Now that I've scratched that brain itch, I can finally go to sleep.

I have a new respect for pedestrians in America

2007-09-11T19:03:00.000-07:00

One way I don't want to die: In the middle of a crosswalk, hit by an SUV driven by an oblivious teenage girl who doesn't stop in time because she's bobbing her head along to the gangsta rap blaring from a Cadillac that happens to be driven by a heavily tattooed white boy in the lane next to her.

I don't know where to place that on the list of ways I don't want to die but it's definitely on the list.

...

2007-07-24T19:26:00.000-07:00

I love my new job. I hate my new job. I love my new job. I hate my new job. I love my new job. But I don't think I'm good enough for my new job.

And so life goes on but certain things about my personality, it seems, remain.

I went to the local coffee shop, where I get a discount because the counter guy knows I work at one of the businesses on the street. Today he asked me where specifically I worked. I told him and his eyes got big and his jaw almost dropped. Then he stammered that he has editing experience and if the paper ever needs any help...*

It's occurred to me before that I seem to have scored a job that many people in the town would covet. My editor is tough, but I don't dislike her. I almost like her more for being tough, except when it pushes me to the edge and I start to feel like the shittiest loser that ever crawled into the building. But perhaps that's a sign of self-improvement? Because my editor has exacting standards and several of her former staffers have gone on to bigger and better newspapers, including a guy who now writes for The New York Times. I like the fact that this newspaper I've landed at has an emphasis on actual news, not just arts and entertainment like the alt. weeklies in Albuquerque.

I've been trying to explain to myself what I think makes a good editor or boss but I can't put my finger on it. The last great editor I had, a guy I really enjoyed working for, was nothing like my current editor. He was loyal to a big corporate newspaper chain, but he never micromanaged. A stream of people would flood his office with complaints. He'd sit there and listen and then say something like, "Do I look better with my glasses on or off? On? Or off?" or "Would you like a V8? What? You don't drink V8? It's healthy." Eventually the flood of people would leave, in lighter spirits, and solve whatever mishap had occurred on their own. I think people just liked talking to this editor and found excuses to end up in his office.

I imagine my current editor would solve the same problem by slamming her door on the flood's face, so no one really bothers her unless it's a real crisis and instead everyone just solves their little mishaps on their own.

However, if either of the aforementioned editors ever found out about a crisis that you tried to hide from them, watch out.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is: I love my new job. I hate my new job. I don't think I'm good enough for my new job...And blah, blah, blah.

*Maybe next time I see the coffee shop guy I'll tell him that working here can be rewarding, but it's not always as fun as he might be imagining.

A Wal is never the answer

2007-07-04T09:12:00.000-07:00

According to an article in The Honolulu Advertiser, Wal-Greens is planning to open some 200 stores in Hawaii -- most of them next to or across the street from Longs Drugs stores. The Wal-Greens regional manager was quoted as saying Longs has 73 percent of the market share, a percentage so high it's "unheard of."

Of course, if you're from Hawaii not only is that percentage not "unheard of", you're probably surprised it's not even higher. We can thank Wal-Mart for that. I swear, there was always someone I recognized at the Longs, and if I was with my grandma she always bumped her cart into the cart of some other old local lady she knew.

I remember going to Longs one Sunday with my dad. We decided to pick up something inconsequential, like soap or shampoo, but when we got to the cash registers there was a long line and my dad said, "Shit. It's Sunday. What kind idiot goes to Longs for buy shampoo on Sunday?" In front of us in line was my driver's ed. teacher, Mr. Abalos. He was holding his Sunday Longs catalog and telling the person in front of him, "My friends go church every Sunday but I tell them this is my church (shakes his catalog) and this is my bible."

I remember Mr. Abalos best as the guy who taught me never to assume anything while driving because when you assume you make an "ass" out of "u" and "me." I also got pulled over by the police while in the driver's ed. car with him. The officer told us that the car's registration had expired but he let us off with a warning. Mr. Abalos apologized and explained that we were borrowing the car from the school in Lapahoehoe (or somewhere) so it wasn't really our fault. I guess we shouldn't have assumed that our car was legally registered.

I'm kind of bummed about Wal-Greens. I just can't imagine it will engender the same kind of stories/memories/nostalgia that Longs has. I mean, I live on the mainland now and there's a Wal-Greens on EVERY.SINGLE. CORNER. It'll always be generic to me.

Summer reading list, etc.

2007-06-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

I've always been a bookworm. You'd think I would have taken up surfing or swimming or something outdoorsy since I grew up in Hawaii, but nope. I was shy and enjoyed holing up in my room with the latest Stephen King or Dean Koontz novel. I haven't been reading as much lately, not sure why, but here are a few books I've finished so far this summer:

Over the Edge of the World: Magellan's Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe by Laurence Bergreen (stole this one from Chris and it inspired me to read the next one on this list)

1421, The Year China Discovered America by Gavin Menzies (This isn't exactly new information; I remember learning about it in one of my college history classes. Also caught the PBS special in which the author was hammered by a bunch of historians from both the United States and China)

Lipstick Jihad: A Memoir of growing up Iranian in America and American in Iran by Azadeh Moaveni

Here are the books I'm in the middle of reading:

Spunk and Bite by Arthur Plotnik (bought this one for the title alone, which is a play on the names of the authors who wrote The Elements of Style)

Animals in Translation by Temple Grandin (the author is autistic and while the book's observations are insightful they're also quite child-like)

That's about it. I officially have no TV now. Not that I want the latest Paris Hilton update anyway.

Catching the Deadliest Catch on TV

2007-05-19T18:47:00.000-07:00

I don't watch a lot of television anymore, but whenever I have access to a television with more than three channels, I always try to catch "Deadliest Catch" on the Discovery Channel. Even the Discovery Channel is giving in to this reality-TV stuff. Or wait, wasn't the Discovery Channel one of the originators of reality-TV? I mean actual reality-TV as in the stuff they're showing was actually real? Anyway. Deadliest Catch follows the crew of five or six crab fishing boats in the Bering Sea. It's all very dramatic. In one episode three of the fishermen went overboard and only one was fetched out alive.

In another episode, one of the crew members approached his captain to confess that he was hoping they could finish the fishing and go back to shore as soon as possible because he had a court date in Seattle coming up and if he didn't show he'd be put in the slammer for eight months. His captain, like all of the captains, seemed to spend most of the days estimating how much money he was going to make and barking out orders. Not exactly your sympathetic character. Or, as Chris put it: "Why that guy would ever think that captain would give a shit about his problems, I'll never know." In the end, they caught enough crab to get ashore in time for the guy to make his court date. By one day. Talk about cutting it close.

This show is addictive, but it has made me wonder if I should ever eat crab again considering the true cost.

...

2007-05-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

What a fucking night. Planned to go camping at Chaco Canyon, where the New Mexico astronomy club was hosting some kind of event and letting the public look through some pretty high-tech telescopes. I think there was going to be an interesting talk on the history of the area and the role astronomy played in the ancient civilization.

Instead, on the way there we hit a (relatively small) steer. Now part of Chris' car is damaged. Amazingly, we were able to turn around and drive it back the 2 hours it takes to get back to the city. Christ, I keep thinking of that steer. There were two of them in the road, each facing opposite directions so when he swerved to avoid one, he hit the other. I'm pretty sure it died. I can still see their eyes, staring at us right before we hit them. All I could see was their eyes because they were dark-haired. Chris said all he saw were their white hooves.

Then, on the way home we were passed by two speeding police vehicles and a fire/ambulance. Turned out to be a pretty bad accident. A SUV with a trailer had flipped over in the middle of one lane and it looked like another car had some front-end damage. I saw one of the firemen trying to get under the SUV, which made me think there were people trapped in there. *Shudder*

I'm so glad to just be home safe.

It's the weather...

2007-05-10T17:35:00.000-07:00

Albuquerque can't make up its mind. One day its rainy and cold. The next day its hot and dry. One hour its blustery and your eyeballs feel like sandpaper from all that dust blowing at your face. The next hour the air is so still you can barely manage to walk to the mailbox. The weather here makes me nervous, mostly because I know I have to drive in it and I don't want it to suddenly hail or rain. I don't trust New Mexican drivers in the rain and the streets aren't built for rain. No drainage. A drizzle causes a river on the surface roads, which were dangerous enough to begin with because the sun had scorched the road markings to the faintest suggestions. And the local news stations are always going on and on about the state's horrible drunken driving problems.

A few days ago, it rained. I should be used to it, but I stared glumly out the car window and said, "I hate this weather. When will it end?"

Chris looked and me and said. "You do? I thought you liked this weather."

And I do recall saying I liked rainy weather better than sunny weather. I said that all the time when I lived in Hawaii. I'm not even sure if I truly meant it anymore, or if it was just something I said. As of late, I'm realizing I do that often. Just say things to say it without thinking about whether I mean it. That probably makes me a hypocrite since I'm sure I said I don't like small talk or I'm not good at small talk.

I think I'll shut up for now.

Just jammin'*

2007-04-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

More food talk. Even when I'm in the doldrums food can still get me excited. I went to the Farmers Market out in Corrales. It's just a small market compared to the ones in Albuquerque and Santa Fe but that's a good thing because otherwise I might not have found Heidi and her raspberry jam. People always say you can taste the difference when something is fresh, local and organic. Perhaps this is why her jam tasted so damn good. I don't know. It just tasted damn good. Like raspberries, not just sugar or cornstarch. I don't know how else to describe it, but according to her web site, she uses four different varieties of raspberries grown in Corrales. (I can't believe you can grow raspberries in Corrales). A lot of people at the market were selling fresh, organic eggs as well (which harkens back to the cover of this magazine, which I devoured from cover to cover) but since I already had eggs I decided to pass.

New Mexico is so dry and arid you wouldn't think there'd be much locally grown anything, but there's quite an abundance. There are a whole bunch of foodies out in Santa Fe. I swear you couldn't walk a block in Santa Fe without tripping into a pothole and landing in an art gallery or restaurant/cafe.I think Deborah Madison (author of The Greens Cookbook, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone and proponent of the Slow Food Movement) lives in or near Santa Fe. Hey, I just googled her and found her blog.

Off to stuff more jam in my mouth.

*Sorry for the lame title.

Evil eye

2007-04-25T18:24:00.000-07:00

Summers in New Mexico are hot. It sucks. However, I learned pretty quickly that I couldn't out-glare the desert sun.

All the way here in the desert

2007-04-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

Guess what I found at the local Asian foods market? Poi. It was frozen solid and stacked next to the frozen fish. So excited. I'll have to call my mom for her lomi salmon recipe or maybe this one will do. Hmmmm. On second thought, I don't remember there ever being pineapple juice in lomi salmon. I might have to do a more thorough recipe search.

2007-04-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

Person 1: You should feel sorry for me.

Person 2: Why?

Person 1: I'm a victim.

Person 2: Of what?

Person 1: Unemployment.

Person 2: How are you a victim of unemployment?

Person 1: I was just walking along, minding my own business one day when -- fooomp!-- unemployment swooped down and socked me.

Person 2: Actually, I bet that's how a lot of people feel.

Overheard at the office

2007-04-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

A lady in production, reading an article by the food writer:

"'Chocolate versus sex, that's a tough choice.' Not for me. I'm one horny bastard."

Speaking of fish...

2007-04-11T10:35:00.000-07:00

Oh, one more thing. All this talk about fish reminds me of the time Chris and I used a gift certifcate to Outback Steakhouse and spent most of it on the seared ahi appetizer because it reminded us of home. They served it with this mustard/wasabi sauce and forgot to give us utensils. That was fine. We just ate with our hands. Then Chris asked the server if he could find plain wasabi in the kitchen. And also utensils. The server just laughed and said he noticed we didn't have utensils and felt bad we were just using our hands. He also said he'd been trying to convince more patrons to try the seared ahi but no one in Albuquerque seemed to want to eat fish.

Their loss, I say.

I gave in, but hey it was the lunch special

2007-04-11T10:29:00.000-07:00

I ate fish tacos for lunch yesterday. Tilapia tacos to be exact. I felt a little bad about my earlier post/rant. Besides I grew up in the Spam capitol of the world (or is that now Guam) so who am I to turn up my nose at crappy food? I got the tacos at a burrito place that has proven to have decent enough food.

Thoughts? Well, tilapia tastes a lot like ruffey. Chris' boss gave him some frozen ruffey that she wasn't going to eat and he grilled it with some tobasco sauce, butter and other spices and it was OK. However, both fish are a far, far, far cry from, say, ahi. Or even salmon.

So there you have it. Not disgusting, perhaps, but not particuarly impressive or memorable either.

Kids say the darndest thing

2007-04-08T17:30:00.000-07:00

Chris' boss invited us to a family dinner at a fancy restaurant at a fancy resort. (There was a chocolate fountain involved) As we made our way to the buffet the boss' 12-year-old son asked me if I'd eaten there before. I told him no. Then he told me he'd eaten there before and also at the resort's bar.

"But I couldn't drink anything because I was too young," he added a matter-of-factly.

"That's probably all for the best. Someone had to drive your family home safely," I replied.

This kid is a pretty cool kid as far as kids go. He doesn't swear or throw food or call you stupid or give off any type of offensive attitude. He does, however, talk a lot. And since I was sitting next to him he talked to me a lot. Sometmes he'd run out of things to say and he'd resort to repeating, "It's really nice eating dinner with you. I've never eaten dinner with you before."

"Well, thanks, it's nice eating dinner with you, too," I replied.

He also asked, six or seven times, if he could play with Chris' dog.

"Hmmm, maybe," I replied. "We'll have to see, hmmm?"

The kid was dogged, though. I doubt he's going to forget.

He also brought me a chocolate cheesecake from the dessert buffet by the chocolate fountain. That was nice. I kept smiling and listening politely to him and out of the blue he told me I had pointy teeth. He's noticed it before, apparently.

Gross...

2007-04-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

I was at the Burrito Co. in Santa Fe some weeks back and fish tacos was the lunch special. The fish was tilapia. The description made it sound like this would be a delicious choice but I am from Hawaii and I'll tell you now: Kamaaina don't eat tilapia. We look at tilapia the way the rest of the mainland looks at Spam. It's junk, it's gross, it's crap. Now here I am at a Flying Star in Albuquerque and tilapia is on the menu again. This cracks me up. I think I need to do some googling and find out if anyone who grew up near the Pacific Ocean actually likes tilapia. I suspect it's a land lubber's fish.

I sank into a pothole and ended up here

2007-04-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

One of the car-driving questions my dad always asks me — besides whether I've changed my oil, rotated my tires or checked my wiper fluid — is the condition of the roads here. I never bothered paying attention to the state of the roads until he asked. But come to think about it, my grandpa always comments about that too. He always complains once the roads start to get the teeniest bit bumpy and worn. But wait, he complains about construction crews too.

Well, I can tell you that the roads in Santa Fe are by far the most pothole-ridden roads I've had the misfortune to drive on. That's a negative spin, I know. I'm trying harder: Someone should market the roads in Santa Fe as "modern cobblestone." It's not terribly unkept, it's part of the local character...

It feels like a workout but I'm not losing any weight

2007-04-03T19:25:00.000-07:00

I'm editing a informational manual about the city of Santa Fe. It's part of a project one of the newspapers there does annually and the editor hired me as an additional copy editor. This is, by far, the most copy editing I've done in one sitting. I never really realized that copy editing could be full-time work, heck, a full-time workout. I'm used to copy editing being part of a larger job — smashed between fishing wire copy and laying out a newspaper page. But boy, by noon the words were beginning to blur together and there was no end in sight. By 2 p.m., I was stumped. Was it pickup, pick-up or pick up? Well, process of elimination. Pick up is the verb. So is it a pickup game or a pick-up game? Well, according to the publication's style it's pickup, one word. And this was hours after I realized one of the writers had a habit of capitalizing the word "city" when referring to the city of Santa Fe and the two other writers did not. Which was the correct style? Well, apparantly not capitalizing. Even though "legislature" retains its capitalization even after you drop the state's name.

I think I made the mistake of saving the government section, by far the most tedious section, for last. By the time I got around to it, my blood sugar level was low and I had to make a quick iced latte break. Unfortunately the only iced latte joint within walking distance was overpriced and the latte was watered down.

Random Santa Fe thought: Why does everything look the same in the City Different?

Not in the city anymore

2006-08-13T00:42:00.000-07:00

It's all quiet in the office and suddenly the new guy, who's been reading wire stories for most of the evening, suddenly exclaims, "Holy shit! Three thousand five hundred people?!"

I whip around to face him, thinking there might have been another terrorist attack somewhere, or perhaps an earthquake or a tsunami. "What? What's going on?"

"Three thousand five hundred people went to this county fair?" the new guy said. "That's a lot of people, I can't believe they all went."

He's from Long Island, where, according to him, that many people would never go to a county fair. Wait until someone tells him that those 3,500 people consumed more than 5,000 pounds of brisket at the county fair's annual barbecue cook-off.

Piles

2006-08-05T13:07:00.000-07:00

This is how I learned my grandparents' marriage was arranged:

I snuck into my grandfather's office with my brother, knocking over the stacks of paper piled around the room, peering under the table that held his old typewriter. We were looking for a love letter that my grandpa wrote to my grandma during World War II. I don't know what we were thinking. My grandpa is a pack rat, and there was hardly any walking space in his office. The whole floor was covered with stacks and stacks of paperwork and folders. We were knocking things over and haphazardly replacing them, not paying attention to whether we were putting them back on the same stack we'd knocked them off from.

My grandpa caught us and he was furious. He said we'd messed up his whole system of organization.

Later, my mom asked me what I'd been thinking, going in there and snooping around. I told her my best friend's grandmother had a box full of love letters from her grandpa written during World War II, and I wanted to find the letters my grandpa had written to my grandma.

That's when my mom told me their marriage had been arranged before my grandpa enlisted, that perhaps there were no love letters.

She didn't say that my grandparents didn't love each other, but that was what hung in the silence: They didn't choose each other, that's for sure.

Ironman memories

2006-08-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

I'm watching the Ironman Triathalon on television. It's making me homesick, even though I remember how much of a pain it was to cover the triathalon when I worked for the newspaper there. How much the locals hated having all the streets closed off. The network is showing a lot of commercials designed to entice visitors. "The people of Hawaii want to share their islands with you," and blah, blah, blah.

It would just be nice, so nice, to stand beside the ocean right now. Take deep breaths and just be present in that moment.

Covet

2006-07-24T16:23:00.000-07:00

These bags are made of salvaged tires. The strap on the larger bag is part of a seatbelt. Sustainable, stylish and probably durable, too.

The rice bags in Cambodia are way cuter than any I've seen here. This messanger bag is made of recycled rice bags and sewn together by a women's cooperative in Cambodia.

These and more funky finds at Uncommon Goods.

Thinking

2006-07-23T23:48:00.000-07:00

Recently, Wal-Mart has been the scene of a few violent crimes here. The most notorious involves a man who was shot to death by a police officer after he snatched the police baton out of the officer's hands and refused to listen to the officer's commands. The officer shot him four times, twice in the chest, once in the shoulder and once in the head. The man had allegedly been beating his girlfriend in the Wal-Mart parking lot while their young daughter watched. She was reportedly crouched beside her father's truck when the officer shot him.

Other crimes include an attempted rape at a hotel neighboring the Wal-Mart and another domestic situation that escalated into a stabbing in (again) the parking lot.

A second Wal-Mart opened at the opposite end of town, and this has me wondering about a lot about Wal-Mart and crime. I saw a recent news broadcast about how police in Albuquerque respond to more calls from the city's dozen Wal-Marts than anywhere else. Most of the calls involved minor crimes and the police went so far as to arrange a meeting with Wal-Mart officials to discuss what constitutes a situation worth calling police for, versus a situation their own security could handle.

I think I still hate Wal-Mart but curiosity is urging to make a stop at one, to watch the parking lot fill up with people buying cheap plastic crap, to see the new things that are being sold their (a new line of organic products, I hear?) and perhaps spy some hint of just what it is about the place that draws such strong emotions out of people.

I think someone made a movie about this, and perhaps I should just rent the DVD and not bother actually entering the store.

O

2006-07-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

I just discovered the Vermont Organic Fiber Company. The founders seem to have a commitment to sustainability and all of the products are certified organic. Best of all (to someone like me, who likes to knit) they have a line of 100 percent wool yarn, O Wool Classic. If you head on over to the site, you can read about what it takes and what it means for a prodcut to be certified organic.

A little bit of whimsy

2006-07-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

Available at ReproDepot

Sometimes a certain something catches my eye and I have no idea why. I have no idea what I'd use the particular something for or what it says about my taste. I find my taste changes regularly and I worry that I'll have a hodgepodge of stuff that doesn't match and will end up contributing to a chaotic environment. I'm no interior designer, or any kind of designer for that matter, so I have no idea how to make all the divergent things that capture my imagination work.

I fear I'll become a pack rat, or a one-woman version of a Salvation Army Thrift Store.

I really like the fabric pictured above, but probably won't purchase it unless I can think of something clever to make with it.

Make me up

2006-07-18T23:55:00.000-07:00

I'm addicted to my new pot of Dr. Hauschka lip gloss. It smells like roses and doesn't contain petroleum. A nice change from the plasticky-fruity tasting glosses I'm used to. In fact, I bought a Dr. Hauschka trial tin to see if the products actually work. I like how smooth and soft my face feels after applying the Quince day lotion but I'm not used t the very organic smell of the cleanser. I remember having the same impression when I bought my first Burt's Bees product. I'm a big fan of the Burt's Bees hair care line now. The avacado hair treatment really does work for me.

I wasn't sure, at first, whether I would like all this hippie stuff. The hippie "look" is not a look I favor, but if the product works without all the chemicals, well then I might just convert.

Target, why can't I quit you?

2006-07-14T01:01:00.000-07:00

Shopping at Target is a bad habit I can't seem to break, like biting my nails and putting off doing the dishes. I think it's the trend appeal. How can a place that sells Mrs. Meyers hand soap and Sonia Kashuk make-up brushes be so evil? And the clothes there are so cheap...

So I caved and bought some of this Method hand soap. Totally taken in by the packaging: Clear liquid soap packaged to look like a drop of water. And the scent is called "sweet water." Sweet.

At least I wash my hands.

Blah

2006-07-09T23:50:00.000-07:00

I really don't need another shower gel. Especially since I broke my no-shopping-at-Target vow the other day and bought some shower gel that claimed to have been infused with nutrients from the Dead Sea and promised to make my skin stay young-looking. Hey, it smelled like the ocean -- without the rotting sealife, icky seaweed smell. You know how I'm being stupid sentimental about the ocean lately.

I already have a shower gel that smells like egg nog and one that claims to have been infused with sake and promised to make my skin stay soft and supple. And let's not forget the old staple, Cotton Blossm. And that bottle of Yardley's Lavender that is oh-so-close to be finished, and would have been if the sake one hadn't come along.

So, really. I don't need another shower gel. But I happened to cruise by the Bath and Bodyworks web site .... OK, I lingered for at least an hour ... by the way, have you noticed how that place has changed lately? All those swanky new brand names and candles? Almost like a Sephora? Anyway. The shower gel. It's by a company called 100 % Pure and the packaging is sumptuous (why else would I be tempted, right?) and Bath and Bodyworks is selling it. I first read about this brand in the May issue of Elle (dubbed the "green" issue) and was intrigued even then.

Must stay practical...or take more showers.

Also, I know I've told myself this before, but nothing ever came of it: I want to eat a Loco Moco. Maybe it has something to do with calling home and finding out my brother picked up dinner at Cafe 100. Homemade Loco Mocos always taste better.

A taste of home

2006-07-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else eat avacadoes like this? Or is it just a Hawaii thing?

Recipe:
Mash up avacado with one or two spoonfuls of sugar (or as much as you prefer) and spread onto bread to make a sandwich

Yesterday it rained and rained and reminded me of home and I made myself an avacado sandwich and the taste reminded me even more of home. Ahhh, it was such a little thing but it made me feel warm and pampered.

!!!

2006-07-09T00:53:00.000-07:00

It rained! It rained today! It really, really rained! Can you feel my giddyness? My joy? Oh, how I've missed the rain. It rained so much it actually reminded me of Hilo, where everything is always a little damp. Of course, New Mexico is ill-prepared to handle moisture so the ceiling in my office leaked and cars were stalled in the middle of busy roads and I'm sure that added to the overall effect.

Time to wake up

2006-07-08T14:14:00.000-07:00

Almost a week and I'm stll living in a neat, roomy apartment. It's nice. Can I just say, though? This has seriously impeded upon my crafting urge. All my crafting supplies are stacked in neat, clear, plastic bins and I'm very hesitant to open up any of those Pandora's boxes for fear that the spirits within will once again roost on my floor, bed, tables and chairs. I'm no witch. I have no power to send them back.

In other words: I don't have faith in my ability to put things back where they belong.

So instead, I've taken up with another old pal of mine: Reading. One book at a time, from beginning to end. I'm already on page 243 of "Wild Swans" by Jung Chang. The mental stress of living in Communist China is mind boggling. I think I would have died of the pressure, or at least gone blind (if I lived long enough not to be killed off by the famine).

I think Chris is doing a secret happy jig now that I've returned to reading and talk to him about the books I'm reading. I was a voracious reader when I first met him, and since then he's watched me turn into a knitter/crafter who really had no desire to write. On a couple of occasions he's even asked if it was he who sucked away my desire to read, write and be ambitious. (Of course not, silly, that was New Mexico's fault).

Now that I'm grown up I can say, "Fuck" and not get into trouble

2006-07-07T07:33:00.000-07:00

What's it like to be a grown up? When I was a kid, I looked forward to the day I turned 18 because it meant that I could move out of my parents' house, make my millions, buy a mansion and a private island and look down my nose at everyone else. I imagined that when I turned 18, I'd automatically learn how to get health insurance and do my taxes. I'd learn what it was I was supposed to look for when buying a new car. I imagined that everyone would automatically treat me differently -- reverently.

Last night I trudged home to find an envelope stuck to my door. Inside was a notice from my landlord that she hadn't gotten my rent for July and to make sure she got it (plus the late fee) or to consider my rental contract terminated. I actually had mailed her the check, but it was late.

Really, this was the last thing I needed to see after a emotionally draining evening of work. Funny thing is, I couldn't even cry about it (and a day I can't cry about something is really A Day). I just put it down on the table and tried to go to sleep. Then I woke up this morning and called the landlady and told her I'd bring the rent, plus the late fee, by.

I feel like I'm living my life in slow motion, with my eyes glazed, totally exhausted and uninteresed. I wonder if this has something to do with the fact that I've stopped writing. Not just on this blog, but in general. I used to write (if you can call it that) for a living, but more importantly I used to write for myself. And most importantly of all, I used to think like a writer. Every situation was funny, or tragic, or poignant. Every situation was somehow worth writing about. What happened? Life?

Is this what it feels like to be a grown up? Cause if so, I'd much rather be a kid again. I know, it's cliche, but there you have it.

My heart hurts

2006-07-07T01:18:00.000-07:00

I miss the ocean.

When people find out I'm from Hawaii, they ask me if I dance the hula or surf. I do neither. Like a lot of kids growing up in paradise, I considered both stupid and counted the days until I got off the rock, preferably when I got accepted to a good west coast college.

My life didn't go like that, though.

Here I am in the desert southwest still. For someone who grew up around water and moisture (rain, ocean, puddles, waterfalls, mud) living in the desert is like living in constant thirst.

There's a "beach" in Albuquerque -- Tingley Beach -- that is made up of three or four large man-made ponds lined with that black plastic stuff gardeners line their koi ponds with. The locals gather to fish and sun bathe. I keep meaning to take a picture of the place because no matter how often I see it, it still seems unbelievable to me. The water doesn't even cover that plastic lining completely and it reminds me of a boy wearing too-baggy jeans with his underwear showing. A little embarrassing. And horrifying.

I want my ocean. I want to smell salt air. I want to smell a lot of things that remind me of Hawaii for that matter: Mochiko chicken frying on the stove, rotting fruit on the side of the roads, rain on the asphalt, coffee roasting in the afternoon.

I've been here more than a year now. I try, but I can't love New Mexico.

Satisfaction

2006-06-03T00:41:00.000-07:00

I couldn't sleep last night. I was anxious. I knew why. This morning, I woke up and called my family.

"Hello? Hello?"

"Grandpa? It's me. Karen."

"Oh! Karen! How are you? You doing OK? You alright? Are you happy?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm good. Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"OK. Right on."

In the background, the dog is barking.

"Hold on," Grandpa says. There is some fumbling noises, then a brief silence, then my grandma is on the phone.

She sounds like she's on the edge of a breakdown. The dog is too big, it's driving her crazy. The dog is too much. She wants someone else to take the dog.

But my mom tells me that Grandma is attached. She taught the dog to put its snout against her cheek when she says, "Kiss, kiss."

My cousin Kay graduates tonight. I can't believe it. I wish I was there to hug her.

Things are not perfect with my family, but oh how I miss them all.

It's all psychological

2006-05-20T11:05:00.000-07:00

I found a bag of cheap saltwater taffy at one of the grocery stores here and brought it to work to replenish our candy jar. The candy jar was the brainchild of one person and heretofore she was the only one to keep it stocked. However, considering the disproportional amount of munching I've done at her expense, I decided it would behoove me to contribute.

The saltwater taffy tastes cheap, not like the stuff my friend Natalie sent me one Christmas. But there's something about saltwater taffy. Maybe it's the name. "Saltwater taffy" sounds yummy and whimsical to me.

So. Cheap saltwater taffy tastest generic, but that doesn't stop me from finding some enjoyment in it.

2006-03-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

"Who did page A7?"

This is how my supervisor starts the shift, by asking who designed a particular page of that day's newspaper, and as soon as she says it I know I am likely in trouble.

Today it was the obituaries. Obituaries were the bane of my existence when I was a reporter typing them up on Saturdays and they are the bane of my existence now that it's my responsibiliyt to plop them all on the page. Don't get me wrong, I sympathize with the greiving relatives. I know they have to be grieving to include long paragraphs explaining how much so-and-so loved animals and how so-and-so's cats and dogs are going to be honorary pallbearers.

Home

2006-03-13T23:34:00.000-08:00

At dinner tonight Grandma reached across the table and slipped me a fifty. She is always giving her grandchildren money, and telling them to eat more, more, more. My brother headed straight for the car afterwards and she found him, rapped on the window and demanded a hug. Grudgingly, he came out and hugged her. I don't think my grandma can sleep well at night without a hug from her family after a get together. I imagine she feels unsettled. As much as it can be frustrating and smothering, it's also comforting to have Grandma. To know I can be gone for months and come home and slip right back in.

Well put

2006-03-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

The video montage has just ended, and the renewal of vows ceremony for Auntie Alice and Uncle Gary -- married 45 years to the day -- is about to begin. The music fades to silence. You could hear the person three seats down sniffling. Grampa chooses this moment to lean across me to address Auntie Ginny.

" 'Ey," he says, his voice booming in the sudden quiet. "Ginny, when we going eat?"

Seriously, though, I ended up enjoying the ceremony despite the fact that it took place at a New Hope Church and I found the whole thing to be ... sappy? OK, stupid. Pretentious. There was local food at the reception. A'ama crab, opihi, lomi salmon, sashimi, nishimei, squid lau lau. The list goes on and on and I tried to sample everything because I know I won't be here forever and I'll miss these tastes when I'm gone.

You-know-what is a virtue I have yet to aquire

2006-02-16T00:53:00.000-08:00

Copy editing at a small newspaper has taught me something about myself. I'm impatient. I'm on the verge of throwing a very childish temper tantrum and cursing the I.T. person out loud before I even attempt to address and fix a problem on my own.

There are just so many steps, especially to the web site end of things. The stories on the page have to be "grouped" a certain way in a very specific font and saved to a particular version of the program in order to work. Then there's the waiting for the upload to go through and then editing the stories for the web site and saving the changes and making sure all the tags are correct. I could scream or tear my hair out.

Or make jokes. I told my co-workers that working in our department is like going through a 12-step program. Nothing, nothing happens seamlessly and simply, and if you skip just one step you'll find yourself choking on your tears of frustration and fumbling for a bottle, muttering something about being fired.

Of course if they fired just one of us that would be eliminating 1/3 of our department.

I think I've had enough of TV

2006-02-11T01:23:00.000-08:00

It's going to be Olympics all the time in Casa-Karen, because the only station I get is NBC. It's reason enough not to turn the television on. I'm not that old, but I seem to remember the Olympics being less sucky and All-American-centric in the past.

In fact, I choose not to concentrate to much on my crappy TV situation because that will just make me want to run off to Target and buy a new TV and DVD. So I just pretend that there's no alternative except NBC all the time.

I have no idea what's going on on American Idol or any of those other shows, except for when I go to work and have access to The Associated Press wire.

Cuba, N.M.

2006-02-04T00:26:00.000-08:00

New Mexico is vast. Vast and flat. Searching for beauty here, I find myself looking for trees, for water for something lush and colorful. Instead nothing but wide swatches of brown desert. I was looking wrong. Like trying to write the story without doing the interview. The beauty lies in the rock formations, in the sky, so wide and big you feel like you could just reach up and touch it.

Three miles and 167 miles between Farmington and Albuquerque. Nothing but desert and the occasional trailer until you hit the small town of Cuba. A blip on the map that you could speed right through in a blink -- but not literally, the police live for speed traps there. I never stopped willingly in Cuba. Fate forced me to when my car broke down on the Apache reservation and the nearest tow was in Cuba. Left my car at a garage, Chris picked me up and we drove to Albuquerque to buy the parts needed to be repaired. Drove back to Cuba the next day and had the garage owner install it. Nice guy, sick of living in the city so he moved out here. He told us we should take a trip up into the mountains while we waited for him to fix the car.

Everything was green up there, like I'd never seen in New Mexico before. There were streams and trees and I was wearing ballet flats that got caked in mud. Chris and I ran around like hippies. We stopped at an overpast that offered a view of Cuba.

There's a sign in Cuba that says Natural(ly) Wonder(ful). I wonder how many people bother to stop and investigate that. I'm glad I did.

2005-12-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

Did I ever tell you that when I covered the police beat back in Hawaii, one of the cops asked me out on a date? He was 36 years old but said he was 32, and was recently separated from his wife. And I did it. I went on a date with this guy. How naive I was, not even a year ago. Fortunately, it didn't go beyond one lunch date and I haven't thought of him sense. He had problems. His (now ex) wife being one of them probably. Another one could possibly have to do with this:

http://www.hawaiitribune-herald.com/articles/2005/12/11/local_news/local02.txt

He's the cop that got dragged. Incidentally, the accused murderer went to my high school. In fact, he was probably my classmate. I don't remember him though. Not surprising if his claim of having only a "ninth grade education," holds true.

A dog named Chance

2005-12-10T23:55:00.000-08:00

This is Chance (left) flirting with one of his girlfriends, Sasha. Sasha belongs to one of Chris' clients. That's her bone Chance is refusing to let go of (whadda gentleman). When Chris and I take Chance out to the dog park, we enjoy making up dialogues between Chance and the other dogs. It's fun. Sometimes we even assume character voices. OK, we do it all the time.

Mother

2005-12-10T22:11:00.000-08:00

I learned last week that my mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. She will most likely opt for the masectomy. She was also diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.

I remember the time, when as a surly teenager dragged along with her to the public library, I muttered, "Stupid bitch," at her under my breath. She heard me and turned on me in fury, clamping my cheek between her sharp nails and twisting until I shreiked, "Ouch!" and pulled away violently. The look on her face told me she wished she could have punched me instead.

I remember how she dutifully dragged me to piano lessons, even though I hated it because the teacher made me sing. The day I finally threw a tantrum and demanded to quit, she slammed the car door on my leg, not intentionally, but she didn't apologize either. The full-scale piano my parents bought me collected dust in the living room for years after I quit, and I never really used it anyway. Eventually they sold it, along with the flip-up bench with storage space for music books that came with it. Some other kid, more dedicated to the craft, got a cool piano and I shrugged it off thinking, Well, I don't give a shit.

For years, I have held memories like these against my parents, against my mother. But she called me to tell me she had breast cancer and diabetes. She called to tell me that she is calling to find out who else in our family may have had these diseases, especially the diabetes because her doctor told her that one was definitely heridetary. She called because she was scared and concerned, above all, for her children.

My memories can be skewed. They tell my truth, but not the truth.

Bombshell scare

2005-11-12T02:39:00.000-08:00

Driving back from an assignment with Dave, the photographer, and we see flashing police lights up ahead.

"Aww crap," I groan, enthusiastic as usual for the possibility of more work. "I wonder what happened."

"I don't know but it looks like there are a lot of cops." Dave keeps one hand on the steering wheel, and with the other reaches towards the back seat, groping for his camera.

We get closer to the flashing lights. There's a local police car and a state police car. Some sheriffs deputies are on the way. Standing on the side of the road, next to a car with no noticable damage, looking utterly distressed, is a bleached blonde, nicely tanned, her hair and sundress blowing in the breeze. Both the officers -- men -- are looking at her with sympathetic expressions. One has his notebook open.

Dave stops groping for his camera and we both laugh.

"Oh yeah," Dave says. "She looks dangerous." Then he does his best cop impersonation: "Uh, we're going to need back-up on this one guys. Now ma'am, could we get your phone number please? For the record?"

Destination journey

2005-11-12T02:12:00.000-08:00

Airports are amazing places. At the Honolulu International Airport, you can buy cans of macadamia nuts, Kona Coffee, even 12 packs of Dole Pineapple slices or whole pineapples. At the airport in Las Vegas, there are slot machines at every terminal so you can gamble until the last possible moment. I've seen airports that rent out DVD players for bored passengers, airports with weird laser art on the ceiling, airports that are nothing more than pavillions. It never ceases to amaze me how I'm never bored at an airport, no matter how long the layover is. I just stare and stare and stare while pretending not to.

I do worry

2005-11-12T01:51:00.000-08:00

Visited Grampa today. He gave me a guilt trip for not calling earlier, then went on and on about how he needs a caretaker, a senior companion he can talk to, someone who can "stop me from saying these things you don't want me to say."

He'd just come in from mowing the lawn. He was wearing pants held together with safety pins and full of holes. He had on a shirt, tied at the waist, ripped under the arms, and held together with safety pins.

He told me not to worry about him because soon he will be meeting St. Joseph. And he looked pointedly at the ceiling. Meaning heaven.

"Grampa," I said. "Don't you mean you'll be meeting Buddha?"

He paused. "No-o-o. I think it's St. Joseph who waits at the gate and decides who can get in."

"And if you get in you can meet whoever you want?"

"Yeah."

I don't think Grampa is headed for the ceiling any time soon. Despite what he says, he's pretty healthy for his age, and manages to be quite independent despite himself. Even though his kids call him pretty regularly and one of them even cooks for him at least twice a week and handles his bills, and even though he has grandkids flying in from the mainland to spend time with him, he still has the energy to worry about the oil industry.

"Hilo is so behind the times it's not even funny!"

"How is it behind the times?"

"In everything! In every other county they support...not gasoline...what you call the kind car Cousin Jim has?"

"Diesel?"

"Yeah, biodiesel. With the price of gas so expensive I don't see why the county doesn't encourage more biodiesel business. It just doesn't make sense. And every other county has assisted living for the elderly, but no more in Hilo. I need a caretaker."

Then he just looked at me with watery eyes. I wanted to hug him and shake him, promise to stay forever to take care of him and run out the door as fast as I could before he sucked me in to being his caretaker.

"Grampa, sometimes I worry about you," I said, meaning I was worried about myself, about how I would be when I was his age.

"Well, you should," he said.

Honolulu thoughts

2005-11-06T20:24:00.000-08:00

One thing everybody says about landing in Hawaii. You notice the air. The perfume of the air. I wanted to smell it, experience that when I landed at Honolulu International Airport. Sadly, I have to admit I didn't. I smelled cigarette smoke from all the smokers lining the outdoor walkway as I made my way to the baggage claim area.

I think this wonderful perfume scent does exist, but is for the most part manufactured in soaps you can buy at the ABC Stores in Waikiki or shampoos and body lotions you can steal from the resorts.

Or maybe you think you're smelling something tropical because you're listening to Hookena being piped over the PA system, or maybe Israel Kamakawiwaoole. Israel, he just makes me think of tropical forests everytime I hear his voice.

To get to my friend Dara, who was staying with her mom at the Ihilani Resort, I had to catch the bus from downtown to Pearlridge Shopping Center. I sat up front, and I really think the front bus window being so tall and big, affords you with the best view of Oahu in motion. The Filipinos sitting outside the Kalihi Health Center. The little crack seed shops and seafood shops and lei shops, the statues of Hawaiian royalty, the people in the cars stopped next to us, cool and comfortable in their air-conditioned vessels.

I had a copy of the latest Honolulu Advertiser with me on the bus ride and the top story was about how the housing market in Hawaii exceeded $5.38 billion in October. The lead was something like, "It's definitely a seller's market."

And across from me in the bus was an older gentlemen, probably Portuguese, wearing a blue ball cap and well worn black sneakers with only a sock on his right foot. Probably not part of that $5.38 billion market.

I kept looking at his one bare ankle, thinking of the pitiful wage I'm collecting in New Mexico, the feeling of panic threatening to wash over me, thinking I'll never be able to afford living here on my own, that it was stupid of me to have left in the first place.

At Pearlridge, I threw the newspaper away in a trash can outside the Longs Drugs Store because it was extra space in my backpack. Then Dara and Greta came and picked me up, we drove to Ihilani, and spent the next day sipping drinks by a glistening pool, the ocean a stone's throw away, and slept in a suite with a television in each of the two rooms.

Dara's mom got a discount at the resort because she was attending a conference.

Ahi overload

2005-11-06T08:43:00.000-08:00

Within hours of landing in Honolulu, I went into ahi overload. The first restaurant we went to, Irifune, was crowded on a Wednesday night. We waited an hour for a table that was handicap accessible (for my friend Dara) then I ordered the garlic ahi with a side of shrimp and vegetable tempura.

Then, the following day, I stayed with Dara at the Ihilani Resort (tourist-ville, but oh-so-relaxing) and for dinner we ordered the poki/sashimi platter and seared ahi for appetizer. For the main course, I ordered the seared ahi salad with sesame dressing. Yum. Yum. Yum.

Dara ordered a plantation iced tea and I ordered a virgin pina colada.

Once we got away from the resort (read: Pearlridge, Pearl Kai, Kaneohe, Ala Moana, The Bus, etc.) I got to sit and just silently marvel at how diverse this place is. I'd almost forgotten. And it's weird to come back after nine months of being away and realize Wow, this place really is diverse, everybody gets along without caring about ethnicity, for the most part. Of course, I know this isn't really true, or at the very least it's an over-simplified statement. There's a lot of disagreement under the surface and when people get upset, they usually invoke racial slurs.

Happier

2005-11-05T22:58:00.000-08:00

Made it safely home. Four days in Hawaii and I can already feel the urge to write returning.

While I was gone, my mom cleaned up my room. She spared most of my belongings, including my books. When I clean up, I usually discover that I can't find something I was used to seeing shoved partially under my mattress or I remembered pushing under a pile of papers. My mom cleaned up and I got to go shopping in my own room.

Those earrings! I forgot I had them. Wow, a blank journal! (Thank goodness I didn't give in and buy a journal in Albuquerque) Look at all those books I have yet to read.

I wish I was staying here forever. Or longer than I am.

Shit

2005-10-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

A bunch of us at the office today spent several minutes crouching at Ryan's window, watching a crazy, shirtless jerk in a van drive around our building. Just moments before, one of my co-workers had seen him screaming at his girlfriend. He then pulled out a pistol. My co-worker freaked out and called 911.

Less than a block away from where this scary confrontation took place, kids were trick-or-treating at local downtown businesses.

Neither, thanks

2005-10-27T02:15:00.000-07:00

Every day I tell myself not to spend money. Conserve, save, don't give it away for God's sake. Today, I even brought my own lunch to work--Amy Chan's instant miso soup--and ate in relative peace. Then my co-workers came around asking if I wanted to join them for lunch, and even though I'd already eaten, I was like, What the hell, I could use a break from this place. Next thing you know I'm sipping Dr. Pepper out of a plastic cup and picking at an over-sized plate of chili cheese fries. I ended up paying $7 -something for that meal that I didn't really need.

Then again, I learned a valuable lesson. Chili cheese fries is perhaps the only dish you can order in this state without the waitress asking, "Red or green?"

But maybe it was just this particular restaurant slacking off. I'm sure there are other restaurants where even the chili cheese fries aren't safe from red or green chile.

Phew

2005-10-23T15:48:00.000-07:00

Chris and I escaped serious injury last night, when a huge ass SUV ran a red light and almost T-boned us in an intersection. Chris stomped on the gas, but our car barely accelerated. So now I have to go get the transmission fluid changed. And, the asshole driver actually had the nerve to honk at us.

How far we come

2005-10-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

There were some major fuck-ups at work today (fortunately none of it my fault) and my co-workers are in considering mutiny against some of the management. It's all they talked about over dinner tonight: how much this one particular manager sucked and how we should all confront our boss to make him do something about it.

I found myself trying to be the positive voice, pointing out that managers have a tough job too, especially when they are basically the same age and experience level as most of their underlings.

Still, the idea of me-- Me!-- being positive. About work. Is too, too funny. When I came home and told Chris about it, the irony dawned on me and I almost laughed out loud. Just a year ago, I was the biggest complainer about work.

Positive my ass. I think I'm becoming a hypocrite. Don't tell any of my co-workers.

I guess I like my current boss better than my old one and ditto most of my co-workers. Doesn't make for much interesting blogging though, does it?

2005-10-06T19:40:00.000-07:00

Boy, do I need a financial advisor right now. I'm horrible at budgeting. It's frightening. I'm going to go read a book now.

dumpster diving

2005-10-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

the bums crawling through dumpsters of cast-offs from the thrift stores.
i always imagine as i walk by them to get to my building, that they will turn and approach me, dirty needles spilling like darts from their pants pockets.
and my key will get stuck in the door like it always does when i want to get in quickly.
at all hours of the day and night there are people at the dumpsters, pawing, clawing, crawling right in and loading up busted up cars with the loot.
druggies with mental health problems.

i am so focused on my disgust on them it hasn't occurred to me before how lucky i am to walk by them, go inside, be warm and safe.

this town is all black and white, stark contrasts.

For duck's sake

2005-09-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

Local news cracks me up.

On the six'o'clock news, one of the local reporters did a story about a community in Rio Rancho that's up in arms because a local golf course was alledgedly "poisoning," the ducks that call the golf course's ponds home. The disgruntled citizens turned out to be a group of kids who gathered in front of the camera and spoke in a loud chorus. One chubby boy spoke the loudest, saying things like, "They're killing them all! We saw them sprinkle this white, powdery chemical into the water!"

Then comes this middle aged Rio Rancho lady who looks at the camera and says, "This is just ruining it for all of the people who moved to Rio Rancho because of the ducks."

Excuse me? This is Rio Rancho, New Mexico. The rico suave suburb of Albuquerque where everyone drives like they're in L.A., rhapsodizes about living the simple rural life then promptly builds a Chili, Outback Steakhouse and a Hooters.

I think lady, that perhaps the golf course was a bigger selling point for the Rio Rancho transplants than were the ducks.

The golf course people, by the way, insist they aren't poisoning the ducks although they admitted they are discouraging the ducks from living on the greens.

Broke da mouth leftovers

2005-09-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

Getting off the rock

2005-09-28T12:18:00.000-07:00

The texture of cold cuts, even the expensive kind they sell in the deli department of Safeway, makes me want to retch. So today I just had a cheese sandwich, sans the gross cold cuts. Luckily, Chris chooses good cheeses. This time smoked gouda.

Before I fell asleep last night, I thought about being a little kid again, tumbling on my neighbor's front yard. Me and Shari were best friends and practiced all these gymnastic tumbles. That's how I fractured my wrist, doing what's called a "backwards bridge from standing position." Ouch. So sore I couldn't even hold the pen to write. I was so ashamed to go to school with a cast on, I stood against a wall with my arm behind my back before school started. Jennifer was the first to notice. Everyone wanted to sign my cast, and I let them even if I hated some of the stupid shit they were scribbling. I was too shy to protest.

Hawaii and home are such a big part of me, I guess I never realized how much when I was actually living there yearning to get "off the rock." Now I find myself dropping Hawaii references in the most random conversations and being disappointed by the reactions I get. Hawaii is not as important to the people who have just visited. It's palm trees and beaches and fancy hotels and helicopter tours over the volcano.

It's also James, 300 lbs., used to play football for Konawaena, now living in a trailer home in Farmington with his wife and two kids. At the Hawaii club gathering I asked him if he ever went to Durango and he said, "Yeah. Last Christmas time we went. We nevah know they no sell beer in Farmington Christmas-time. Had to drive all the way to Durango just for find one six pack."

I would have been scared of James in elementary school. I would have let him write whatever he wanted to on my cast. Now he's driving trucks through the oil fields while the poi his family sent awhile back sits in his freezer.

James. Maybe it's better he got off the rock. Some people, if they stay, it's like any other place, they fall into the wrong crowd and end up in prison.

2005-09-25T20:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend I:

• Met Kathleen Clarke, director of the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, watched her pick up trash for the camera and then sneeze like someone allergic to the environment. (She was here for a local clean up in conjunction with National Public Lands Day, but ironically spent most of her visit in an air conditioned SUV).

• Watched Born into Brothels, which I thought would be incredibly sad, and it was but it was also funny and hopeful and refreshing

• Went to a gathering for Hawaii people in Farmington. There's a whole dozen of us apparently. We ate Spam musubis, commiserated about how cold it gets in the winter and shared our disbelief about how hard it is to get a Steinlager here.

New Mexico, west

2005-09-22T23:13:00.000-07:00

So, a couple weekends ago Chris and I hopped in the car to find ourselves a good sunset. The sunsets are so pretty here, prettier than the Kona sunsets that were so famed back home. We drove west from Albuquerque, briefly joked about gassing it all the way to Los Angeles, pulled over on an empty lot and waited.

It got kind of boring, so we ended up driving aimlessly for a few more minutes, then heading back to the city.

Well, we tried.

Can this really count as a sky light?

2005-09-07T20:48:00.000-07:00

The City of Aztec has built a new public library, one twice, no three times, as big as the current public library. My favorite feature is the tower in the children's area. From the outside it resembles a Navajo hogan, but the foreman of the construction company said it was designed with more of the idea of a "modern castle," feel. There's a skylight in the ceiling of the tower, through which you get a clear view of the blue, blue New Mexico sky.

The foreman saw me looking and informed me that the crew is awaiting an order of green, blue and white opaque screens which they will suspend just below the sky light to mimic sky and clouds.

As opposed to the actual sky I'd been admiring.

Pointless, as usual

2005-09-02T20:45:00.000-07:00

Over here they say "Rock, Paper, Scissors."

When I was a kid, we said, "Jan Ken Po."

Or, sometimes Chris' version, which was, "Jan Ken a monk and a socka socka Po."

It's all the same thing though. While talking about it at the latest work meeting, I slipped and said, "Oh Jan Ken Po," and my boss looked at me all puzzled.

"Drunk in the pool?" one of my co-workers ventured, equally puzzled.

Jan Ken Po! you fools.

Good night

2005-09-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

My apartment looks like a big person's play pen, with yarn and clothes laying all over the place. It's like a bachelor pad gone bad. Other than the knitting kick, I don't think I have a domestic bone in me.

I need to clean this sty up.

Ugh

2005-09-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

It used to seem like so much potential living on "the mainland." As much as I whined there was always the promise of the open road. Driving through state borders. Seeing the country. What an opportunity for an island girl.

Well, before gas reached $3.19 a gallon. Before it cost, like, $30 to fill up a Honda Civic.

But we're not going to stop driving. One person per car. We can't stop driving we're addicted.

I met this lady, she says the wacko environmentalists are to blame for the rising fuel costs. She and her husband are hauling ass in a 30-foot RV, and even though they don't like the rising prices, they're not going to stop traveling. Oh, no. They worked too hard all their lives and it's their right to travel. Once the wacko environmentalists go away and the U.S. government is allowed to use its own oil resources instead of depending on foreign oil everything will be ok.

As she spoke I let my gaze drift over the stark San Juan mountains looming in the background. Those mountains, I thought, they're just an obstacle. If it gets in our way, well lets just knock it down, flatten it, run right over it.

Lady, I wanted to say, you're a whore to manifest destiny.

It's enough to make you sick

2005-08-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

I was just watching this re-run of Fear Factor, the one where this girl has to down a glass of scorpian martini and eat the scorpian carcus at the bottom. She managed to get the liquid down, but gagged on the scorpian and ended up throwing up.

"I tried," she told her partner who was also her boyfriend. "I tried."

"I know, I know you did," he replied. Then he kissed her. On the mouth. Right after she'd barfed up scorpian guts.

Sometimes, when you have the right boyfriend, it's great to have a boyfriend. Like Chris. I know he would kiss me even if I'd just thrown up.

My first boyfriend, he showed up on my porch with roses and asked me out literally the night after I'd thrown up in the middle of a restaurant. He told me even when I was ralphing into the plastic bag my hair still smelled good. I really can't hold alcohol.

I guess I've been lucky like that, to mostly have been surrounded by good people.

Living in fear

2005-08-19T19:38:00.000-07:00

As a person living in this particular county in this particular state with only a fuzzy NBC station to watch on television, I am beginning to think that the whole world is crawling with sex offenders.

Punked

2005-08-19T19:24:00.000-07:00

Meet Rhys. He's my Welsch co-worker from Illinois. Blonde, on the short side, cute as can be. Pothead in sharp slacks and a tie. All day he's been chain smoking cigarettes and pacing the office in anticipation.

Johnny Lang is supposed to call him. He's interviewing Johnny Lang at 3 p.m. Johnny Lang is a god with a guitar and endless inspiration to Rhys who confessed to almost peeing his pants when he found out that in addition to covering Johnny Lang in concert, he would get to interview Johnny Lang beforehand.

Four car accident? Helicopter crash? Somebody else is gonna have to be cops reporter cause Johnny Lang is gonna call. Rhys ain't leaving the office.

He spent lunch break meticulously penning a list of questions, just in case he got so nervous his brain froze during the interview.

Rhys' phone rings and Rhys, mid-pace by the water cooler goes scrambling for it like a dog after a frisbee. I can't hear what he's saying, but the tone is nervous but official. The tip of his nose is turning red with pleasure.

"....yeah, yeah that's cool. Hey man, I was at one of your concerts last April and it was really cool...oh yeah. heh, heh, heh."

Rhys is really blushing now.

Then from around the corner comes Lucas, the photo intern, pointing and laughing.

"Man, you're a jerk!" Rhys exclaims. "Asshole."

Lucas is holding his cell phone and laughing. "Hey man, i was at one of your concers last April and it was really cool...," he mimicks. "Rhys you're a fucking tool."

Rhys is laughing too now. "That's what he told me on the phone. I was all talking about the concert when all of a sudden Johnny Lang is calling me a tool. I was like, oh man, if Johnny Lang called me a tool I'm just gonna have to laugh it off."

Johnny Lang's publicist called later. Johnny postponed the interview until the following week.

dumpy

2005-08-18T19:32:00.000-07:00

boy, i've been neglecting this blog again. i feel down in the dumps a lot since moving here. not my normal bitchy/complain-y down in the dumps either. i don't bother dressing up for things, i just don't put much effort into anything anymore it seems and it's a cycle. the worse i feel the less i do, and he less i do the worse i feel.

anyway, i've taken haven here. for now anyway. who knows, one day i might want to spend more time here again.

Exhale

2005-07-29T22:33:00.000-07:00

I just vented to Chris about my crooked nose editor, and I feel much better. So much better, that I vow not to call her crooked nosed anymore. I just want to get along, and negative thinking and whining won't get me there.

Close talker*

2005-07-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

Me: The city editor likes to stand really close to you when she talks. Did you ever notice that?

Photographer: Yeah, she's kind of a close talker.

Me: Like, I noticed it and took a step back and she just took another step forward, so I took another step back and the next thing I know my back is right up against the pillar.

Photog: Yeah, and then you find yourself looking straight at her nose, wondering if it was always like that or if she was in some kind of accident or something.**

*Contrary to my initial post about this woman, I find that I do not like her. I am very close to hating her, in fact. She's like a pushy New Yorker with an annoying California Valley Girl lisp.

**Her nose is definitely crooked to the left.

February in Farmington

2005-07-28T08:04:00.000-07:00

I found this little gem, labeled, "farmington is weird," rotting away forgotten on my computer desktop. It's incomplete.

Now I get to be the tourist

About month ago, I walked into the Wal-green’s on East Main Street and walked out with a $10 rice cooker.
Outside, a cold, biting wind was brewing. I’d wake up the following morning to find my car covered in frost and I’d be sitting in it with the engine running and the defroster on high, wondering yet again, why I hadn’t walked out of the Wal-green’s with an ice scraper instead.
But that’s beside the point.
I came here from Hawaii, where snow is limited to the summit of Mauna Kea (white mountain) and people drive for hours to get there, load their pick-up trucks with snow, then drive several more hours to have a snow fight at the beach. Then they go surfing.
You can safely live your entire life without first-hand knowledge of ice scrapers, black ice, thin ice, or any other kind of ice you’d find outside a freezer. Except maybe shaved ice, a favorite dessert in which finely shaved ice is served in a paper cone and drenched in flavored syrup. As ice goes, shaved ice is not so bad, especially when eaten on a hot winter day at the beach.
Thoughts of Hawaii, where there is a rice cooker in every home, drove my buying decision that evening.

Books

2005-07-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

I'm back to reading all the time.
Went to Barnes & Noble and they had a sale on all the classics. I bought Call of the Wild/White Fang (compilation), Last of the Mochicans and Uncle Tom's Cabin. All books on my high school reading list that I never got around to reading. I finished Call of the Wild in one day, short and to the point. I understand now why that was so often read by middle school aged boys. Good story about freedom, though, I guess. I'm now getting into White Fang.

Not to mention Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. I've got some major time invested in that one already.

2005-07-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

I have downloaded some pretty cheesy songs in the past. The thing is, I've stopped "really" listening to music for so long (about two years, I just put up with whatever's on the radio now days) that I forgot just how cheesy.

Enter the I-pod.

I was listening to this alternative/heavy metal band from Puna, Hawaii called Living in Question (heh, I wonder if they have a myspace page) and their song, Sad Story: "Stabbed in the back, spit in the face, sad story, not sorry," was followed by Amy Grant's, "Baby, baby."

The thing is, sometimes I get a song stuck in my head, or I just feel an urge to hear it so I just download it (or at least I did back in the days when you could download for free from Napster without worrying about a lawsuit) without any thought to how embarrassing it might be to listen to later.

I should clue my dad in to I-pod and the I-tunes Music Store that way he can buy whatever he wants instead of trying to bully my mom into buying the 50 percent off "Culture Club" CD from the cheap music bin at Wal-Mart. (My dad has wide-ranging taste, but my mom refused to buy it for him. He could very well buy it himself, she said).

p.s. Hey, thanks. Now I know what funny man and his wife look like.

And good night everyone

2005-07-23T22:16:00.000-07:00

The more I listen to the Morning Sedition podcast, the less I like it. Maybe it's cause I think Marc Maron's arrogant and full of himself. Maybe it's because I heard him bash Al Franken and I actually like Franken's show (well the guests he gets are relevent and the interviews are pretty good).

Eh, Maron's funny enough in a way. I'm really curious about what his wife looks like since he's always talking about how hot she is and how all the other guys are jealous when they see her. I suppose I could just go and google "Marc Maron's wife," but I'm going to sleep instead.

Hee hee

2005-07-23T08:08:00.000-07:00

Flash. It gets ya every time.

oh happy day

2005-07-22T22:22:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I was thinking. Driving 61 miles out of Farmington on a near-empty tank of gas. Lindsey, the photographer, clearly thought I had lost my mind, or was at least guilty of irresponsibility in the planning department.

It didn't help that neither of us were familiar with the area. No gas station in sight foreva then down one wrong turn, and there it is: local gas station. Prepay only. So I go inside and let the lady behind the counter charge $20 on my credit card. Only to find out that the place has run out of gas cause the pump won't pump despite the lady's suggestion of "wait a little while and try again."

Then, I found out she didn't know how to void the credit card transaction. I waited impatiently, knowing we were going to be late, possibly that the people we were supposed to meet weren't even going to be there. The lady called four or five different people who might know how to void a credit card transaction. Three didn't pick up and the fourth told her to just give me the $20 in cash.

So we were on our way at last, already late. We ended up where we were supposed to be half an hour late, but able to accomplish what we'd set out to do. We even found a Mustang station to fill up at before the long ride back to town.

Ah, happy ending.

Stupid heat

2005-07-22T00:39:00.000-07:00

It's like fucking Arizona over here people.

It's so fucking hot none of those digital temperature/billboard thingies in front of all the banks can agree on just how fucking hot it is. 104 degrees hot. 110 degrees hot. 114 degrees hot.

Look, if the heat reaches the point where a normal person with a fever of the same temperature could possibly die, the differences in degree hardly matter. In other words, fucking hot is fucking hot whether it's 104 degrees fucking hot or 115 degrees.

But just for the record, according to the national weather service, it was 105 degrees of unbearable heat on tuesday, making it the the grossest, most unbearably hot week in 57 years--which is as far back as the nsw statistics for this place goes. the previous record for "feels like you might be roasting in hell" was 104 degrees set on Monday.

Did I mention the air conditioner in my car isn't working? Yeah. I'm going to have to remedy that somehow.

Anybody from Arizona happen to stumble across this blog? How do you do it?

It's 1:47 a.m. Friday and it's STILL hot, humid, sticky hot too. I feel a mean storm on the horizon.

Edit

2005-07-21T21:48:00.000-07:00

So there's this girl. She's the publisher's administrative assistant (read: secretary) and she's writing a column for the paper to chronicle her experiences in this self-help housing program called ECHO HELP. It's basically like Habitat for Humanity so her family and a bunch of other families are going to build each others' homes and the "sweat equity" will be their down payment.

So this column of hers. She turned in the first installment and I had to edit it. It was 56 inches of babble. At newspapers, at least the ones I've worked at, we measure stories in inches, not words or paragraphs. The average story or column is between 15-20 inches. Fifty-six inches is unheard of, especially if you're not breaking it up into sections. So I asked her to cut the column to half its length. She e-mailed me the revised version, which was 46 inches.

I ended up whittling it down to 14 inches. I tried to maintain some of her voice, sans the unnecessary filler, and then let her read the final copy. After briefly checking it over and pointing out a grammar problem I'd missed, she said it was fine. Then she said, "Make sure the picture they're running of me looks good. Sometimes they run the pictures too light and it looks bad."

I cut her story down by almost 30 inches, which took forever, but in the end it doesn't matter to her as long as she looks hot in the picture. Sigh.

Local music and green tea ice cream goodness

2005-07-21T21:39:00.000-07:00

There's this grocery store in Albuquerque that's actually a co-op of sorts for local growers. Chris tries to shop there whenever he can cause the quality's so much better. In the freezer section, I spotted a little tub of soy-based green tea ice cream. It was expensive, but memories of creamy green-tea goodness in Hawaii prodded me into buying it. To say it was a disappointment would be an understatement. The stuff tasted like frozen lettuce mashed into paste.

Tonight, at the local coffee shop in Farmington, Andrea Kristina's, I discovered frozen green tea ice-cream drink. And it was yum-my. I heard Starbucks is selling a frozen green tea drink, but I'm glad I won't have to go to Starbucks to get it.

Andrea Kristina's. One of the good things about Farmington.

Tonight was also open mic night there, and I went to cover a story. I actually had fun, socially inept hermit that I usually am. Some of the musicians were really honest-to-God talented, the atmosphere was intimate and easygoing, and the crowd was fun and personable. One kid did a rocking guitar solo followed by a piece entitled, "Polar bears and walruses dancing in my dreams," on a tiny toy "pianosaurus." It was totally anything go.

You could sing a John Lennon song without feeling like you had to sound like John Lennon. You could make up the lyrics as you went along. You could be shitty or pretty good and everyone clapped just the same. It was three hours not spent in front of a television or computer.

My weekend adventure

2005-07-20T22:34:00.000-07:00

We went camping in southern Colorado this weekend. Yes, I actually wore those shoes the whole time, even though I'd packed better ones. It wasn't a "real" camping trip where you pack yourself down like a mule and hike in. Just an easy, relaxing camping trip with Chris' truck serving as the tent.

Chance got to go in the water (see previous entries), Chris got to try his hand at some fly fishing (I think he found a new hobby) while I got to kick back with my knitting while listening to podcasts:

We kicked around this cool little park in Durango before heading home. Chris did more fly fishing there while I knitted under the shade of a nearby tree. Chance kept me company and we both dozed off for a little while. (I can't believe I relaxed enough to doze off in public). It was a nice weekend, very relaxing.

Fetched

2005-07-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

Fetch

2005-07-20T09:18:00.000-07:00

Fuck I'm getting frustrated....

2005-07-15T00:36:00.000-07:00

Downloading podcasts over dial-up? I wouldn't recommend it. No sirree. It might get a tad bit frustrating. You might start to hate Apple, even though it's not Apple's fault, it's Farmington's fault.

Ha, I think I found the perfect new name for this blog: "It's Farmington's Fault." That summarizes the past three months of sporadic posting quite concisely I think.

I'm entering the 21st century...now can you, Farmington?

2005-07-12T21:43:00.000-07:00

One of the photogs recently expressed gratitude for Durango, saying when you live in Farmington it's nice to escape to someplace with a pulse. Not only is there nothing to do in this town after 8 p.m. (and believe me, I'm not the partying type anyway), you can't even escape on the high-speed Internet at your own home.

When I first moved here, I inquired about a high-speed hook-up because I figured I'd use the Internet more than the TV or the telephone. But Comcast doesn't offer high speed cable connection in Farmington. DSL is ridiculously expensive and you have to pay Qwest to do extra modifications to your phone line if it isn't already specially modified. There's a wireless option, but the price tag on that makes DSL seem cheap.

So in the end I settled for plain old dial up. All of the posts you've seen since I got here? Dial-up.

And I've existed fine on dial-up for the past few months.

But you see, yesterday I bought an I-pod. A 30-gig i-pod of the type Apple will soon be discontinuing in favor of flashier, bigger-gig in smaller cases i-pods. My modest i-pod suits my purpose though: to download me some decent podcasts for free so I won't be stuck listening to christian, country and christian/country. Ahhhh.

But downloading takes for-fucking-ever and a day on dial-up.

This is all part of the Farmington conspiracy to keep the people down.

No unsolicited advice, please.

2005-07-11T19:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what people think when they see me and Chris together. Mostly I assume we blend right in, no eyebrows raised because in today's world, there's nothing unusual about an interracial couple right?

Still sometimes I wonder. Like when we walked into the sporting good store today and Chris just reached out and gave my ass a pat. It never bothered me before, but now I wonder if people see him do stuff like that and assume it's some dominance thing? Lately this thought has really been bugging me. I can get like this. Totally wrapped and warped over what other people might be thinking.

Like when I had lunch with the photog on Saturday, and he looked across the table at me and said, "Karen, you know what would make you happy? A bicycle. You need to get out and ride a bicycle and let the sun shine down on your happy head and you'd be happy. This is what I decree as your life coach."

I laughed, because the whole spiel was kind of done in humor. I know there was some truth to it, though. A lot of people see me as unhappy, worried, stressed, depressed. This is the vibe I give off at work, and in a lot of social situations. And it bothers me. It bothers me a lot, and sometimes I seek out advice from others.

I'll sit across someone and say, "I wonder if I'll ever be happy. I wonder why I'm always so stressed. OK. I shouldn't be stressed. OK. I won't be. Stop looking at me like that, I'm serious this time."

And these people, most of them, feel the need to give me some advice, some reassurance, some gesture of sympathy, something.

These people, not all of them, but some of them are dangerous though. They give out these things because it makes them feel better. They feel important, I think, guiding me in their idea of the right path. And in my many moments of insecurity I pretend to go along with them.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I need to have more faith in myself. So I'm not happy all the time. Who is? Sometimes I'm sad, stressed, downright snarky and mean. Who isn't?

I don't need a bicycle. I need to fucking stand up for myself, and take some responsibility.

I don't know. I'm just trying to work this all out.

dripping desperation

2005-07-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

R, the news clerk was mad at me all week. I knew she was, but I didn't bring it up because I didn't want to put myself in a submissive position, a weak position where I'd be mumbling or pleading, "I'm sorry. It was my fault, I'm sorry." Which is how I handle a lot of problems. Absorb the blame and bury it away.

I know R was pissed, because my boss called me into his office and showed me the obituary proofs, which I had typed in over the weekend and which were full of errors. Nothing pisses a person off in that most personal way like an error in a newspaper obituary. My editor shared with me the story of how the local newspaper f'd up his own father's obituary by printing he was survived by four girls and three boys instead of three girls and four boys. Worse, they listed my editor as one of the girls. His point being that a obituary full of errors adds insult to a very personal kind of pain.

I apologized. I fumbled and made excuses: I'm the only one there on the weekend, so many things had been going on, the fire in the middle of town, entertaining the new job candidate, blah, blah, blah. They were excuses and I couldn't shut up even though that voice, the one that screams SHUT UP was telling me to just stop it.

I went home for lunch and cried, because maybe I'm a baby, but crying over things helps. I took a nap, woke up and felt better.

But I couldn't stop being bothered, distracted, all week by the fact that R was holding this unspoken grudge against me. I don't even know why, where it comes from, this desire to be liked by everybody. R is nice enough, and funny, but has quite a mean streak at times, and can be loud, rude and obnoxious. And proud of it too.

So why do I care so much?

I triple checked the obituaries today to avoid the unspoken wrath. I want her to like me. To be back to that place where we can joke around easily and I feel like I fit in at the office again.

Ryan, the Pennsylvania reporter, has gone and put in a payment for a Triumph motorcycle similar but newer and better than the one our photog recently bought. Left to his own devices I doubt Ryan would have had any interest in the Triumph. But since that is the photog's dream-- a crappy but romantic British bike -- that's become Ryan's dream too. Coolness by association, by assimilation.

We people, we're weird.

My boyfriend, he sympathizes with me

2005-07-09T00:03:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I had a mean headache and Chris listened to me moan and groan for half and hour over the phone even though he was dead tired. I took two Excedrin and it took forever, it seemed, to kick in. Yes, during my time of the month I don't get crampy in that area, my BRAIN cramps up instead. Great.

Poor Chris, he was left with the task of trying to distract me and I know I kept interrupting him to moan some more, then totally change the subject.

He's very patient with me. I'm so used to it, though, that I don't always take the time to appreciate how much he must care about me to do it. Such a good friend. The best friend.

On a totally unrelated note, I cruised by the Apple web site on a whim and ended up browsing through their i-pods. Apparently, now you can automatically search/subscribe to thousands of podcasts through your i-pod. I really, really, really want an i-pod. My TV has crapped out on me and there are no decent radio stations in this town, and oh, the temptation of just subscribing to Al Franken's podcast, or Adam Curry's podcast....

Well, wouldn'tcha know it

2005-07-08T21:01:00.000-07:00

I think a lot of people, when they find out my boyfriend is a farrier, assume he's some redneck cowboy who wears a cowboy hat and buckle 24/7 and maybe even has a reed sticking out of his mouth, which he somehow manages to grip with his lips even as he spitting a wad of tobacco.

Honestly, before I met Chris, if someone had asked me what a farrier was, I would have had to look it up in the dictionary. Chris is not a redneck. He used to surf, for chrissakes. He listens to Air America (very few redneck cowboy types here listen to Air America. OK. So the station's not even available in Farmington. If it was, I'm sure someone would try to burn the studio down). He talks a lot about politics, usually intelligently, although I'm so used to it I often tune it out. (Sorry! I can listen to Al Franken. He's funny, but I heard somewhere his own wife doesn't think he's funny).

So Chris. He wears contemporary clothes, doesn't chew, spit or smoke tobacco, and usually shows up to the job in cargo shorts. Anyway I have a tendency to be oblivious so it didn't dawn on me that some people would think my boyfriend was a "redneck" until one of my co-workers said something about "so I heard you're dating this cowboy." and then I mentioned to my boss that my boyfriend was a farrier and he looked surprised and said, "Really??"

I guess I don't look the type who'd date a cowboy. Ha!

All of this to say, next week I'm meeting this guy who grew up in Bloomfield (neighboring city) and is now a semi-famious designer of fashion doll clothes (fashion dolls=high-end Barbies). His doll clothes retail for $59! I only talked with him briefly, but I instantly knew he could never, never, in a million gazillion years have fit in in Bloomfield. Him: little boys who liked to dress up dolls. Bloomfield: hard-working, beer-drinking, church-going men who work in oil fields.

Anyway, I'm really interested in meeting him actually. He no longer lives in Bloomfield (of COURSE) but is in town for a few days. Like, Chris, he too holds down a job that I wouldn't have thought even existed and is happily (well mostly happily) making a living at it.

I wonder what people would think if I told them my boyfriend was a fashion doll clothing designer. Judging from my co-worker's reactions, they would assume I'd have to be a boy myself.

....

2005-07-08T08:08:00.000-07:00

Random pictures. Hey, it's better than reading me complain, right?

Boooooring

2005-07-08T08:01:00.000-07:00

I've been a knitting fiend all this months, so much so that I've started a knitting blog over at blogspirit.com. I won't give the url because the thing I discovered about knit blogging is that it's boring as hell, at least when I do it. As someone pretty much obsessed with the craft, I've spent many months hunting through knit blog after knit blog (there are hundreds, dare I say even thousands of knit bloggers out there) and many are entertaining and inspirational. I think I like reading knit blogs better than having one of my own. Maybe I just can't come up with anything better than "Floating Flotsam."

Draining the ankle

2005-07-07T21:27:00.000-07:00

For some reason, Marcy the intern keeps coming around. I have no idea why. She shows no real interest in news gathering, and not much natural aptitude for it either. Yet she comes every Tuesday and Thursday, blonde hair done up in a messy bun, dragging her tatoo-ed feet, one shoulder dragged down by that heavy Louis Vuitton bag.

Today, she came up to me and grabbed my ankle. I almost kicked her, I was so self-concious about not having shaved my legs in awhile and having someone I didn't know well touch it. But she just wanted to see if the pressure of her touch would leave an imprint on my skin, like it does on hers when someone presses their fingers against it.

Specifically, it was her aunt who grabbed her lily white (but slightly sunburned) ankle and noticed this. She told Marcy the imprint was a sign that Marcy wasn't taking care of herself. Specifically that Marcy wasn't peeing enough.

So on the way to the bathroom Marcy said, "OK, you guys I'm going to go pee now and drain my ankle."

And off she went.

I swear, that girl is lucky she was blessed with blonde hair, big blue eyes and a lithe figure. Otherwise people would jeer and beat her up instead of laugh and pat her on the head.

Period.

2005-07-07T21:23:00.000-07:00

Some days I feel so bad, I feel like maybe I should stand on the yellow line and wait for the next car. My stomach feels all tight and upset, I am stressed, I am emotional, I am withdrawn, I am whiny.

At some point during the day, I will make it to the bathroom and realize, oh yeah, it's that. That time of the month.

And I am so flooded with relief. FLOODED. With relief. There is an explanation for this, a thing for me to place the blame on if you will. Oh, the relief of giving up responsibility.

Fuck

2005-06-24T22:32:00.000-07:00

There are ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FOUR registered sex offenders in San Juan County.

Can you believe that shit?

I think I like this better

2005-06-23T21:13:00.000-07:00

You know what? Work politics suck. At my last job, I was so miserable I was openly complaining about everything with my co-workers. I was totally in the know, tuned into and in some cases starting all the bitchy gossip.

At this new job, not so much. In retrospect I felt guilty and sick about my big-ass mouth even though it didn't really cost me anything in the end. Well, I may be a wiser more compassionate and mature employee but I sure as hell don't know when the shit is coming down.

Yet ANOTHER co-worker has been fired. I say it in caps because I've only been here since February and half the staff has left or been fired, and I'm always the last to know.

The latest fire-ee apparantly had a bad attitude and complained about everybody, including me, which, in my newfound non-bitchy, non-gossipy role, did not even realize.

Whatever, though. Really, who gives a fuck. He's gone.

...

2005-06-23T01:27:00.000-07:00

June, Dara and Starr in Honolulu. Starr's getting married soon. I miss my friends...

Coffee coffee coffee place

2005-06-22T21:36:00.000-07:00

There's a new coffee shop in Shiprock, NM on the Navajo Reservation. It's the only locally-owned business for miles along that particular strip of road and the place is practically buried by all the huge KFC, Burger King and Taco Bell signs all around it.

It's called Aohweeh Gohweeh (geez, I hope I spelled that correct I'm relying on memory here) Coffee Place and the propetier, Gloria has a sly sense of humor. The name is a play on the subtle variations of the Navajo language and literally translated into English it reads "Coffee coffee". Thus we English speakers would call the place "Coffee coffee coffee place." Ha ha.

The irony is that coffee is really a secondary thing to Gloria who opened the place to support local artists. She's hoping the revenue generated by coffee sales will help her continue to keep open a place that will sell local arts and crafts. Pretty cool, I think.

Anyway, one of the things she's selling are these little wooden plates that look like coasters but have the names of various Navajo tribes (and English translations) engraved on them. There's even a tribal wheel thingy to help younger Navajo who may not know what tribe their mother's family is from.

As a joke, I told Gloria, "Hey, what about me? I don't have a tribe."

"Oh, there's a plate for people who don't have tribes." She pulled one out of the stack and showed it to me. Under the long Navajo word, presumably for "person without tribe" or the like, were the words "white person."

I don't know why, but this cracks me up.

"But I'm not a white person either," I told her.

"Well, I'll just give you a tribe," she replied and pulled out a random plate. It read "Two Goats Tribe" or something.

Interesting because I am a Capricorn. I wondered if she sensed something about me that caused her to pick that tribe but she said it was just a random choosing.

Talking story with Gloria and the local artists who happened to be mulling around the place made my day.

Oh yeah

2005-06-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

I was so bothered by the last sentence in the last post I was tempted to delete it. But that would be dishonest, because it's how I felt the very moment I wrote it.

Still, I felt bad. So I read a few pages of the "Tao of Pooh," took a shower and washed my hair, and this is what came to me:

Valerie Gritton was one of the first, and certainly the friendliest, to greet me in Farmington. She gave me a great big hug and said, "I'm so glad you're here. We're really understaffed."

Well, she left last week. She and her husband moved to Kentucky where they're going to start a family.

Valerie had a helluva time moving to Farmington from New York. She thought she would hate it but ended up meeting her future husband. Curtis is a sweetie and even came up with a cute way to propose. He was going to take her to the place they went on dates, a place with a good view of the mesa during the day and a secluded make-out place by night. He was going to take her there on the ruse of star gazing and place the ring at the end of the telescope for her to discover.

Well it just so happens Valerie already knew he had the ring and was pissed he hadn't proposed yet so when he suggested star-gazing she was pissy. It's stupid, she said, we can't see any stars anyway, it's all overcast.

So Curtis finally gave up on that idea and just gave her the ring and proposed in the more typical manner.

That, said Valerie, summed up her relationship with Curtis. He tries to do something sweet, she gets all bitchy.

And that, my friends, seems to sum up my relationship with life. I'll hold out hope for a happy ending.

Bleh

2005-06-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

Today, while on the way to an assignment I turned to the photographer and said something like, "My friends would be aghast if they came to Farmington. They would be like, 'Why the fuck are you living here?'"

We were driving along a windy road with the mesa looming before us, the sunset making it glow a pretty pink.

"Look at this," the photographer said, motioning to the view. "It's not all bad. You have to be more optimistic."

"I know, I know, it's really pretty," I agreed. "It's not all bad. I like some things about being here."

But they were hollow words. I'm sure anyone who comes across the past three months of posts about New Mexico and how I hate New Mexico, would draw the conclusion that New Mexico is not the problem, that my attitude is the problem.

Believe me, I've pondered this and it bothers me because blaming New Mexico is easier than changing my attitude. The implications of this being an attitude problem are daunting. It means that I may not be happy anywhere.

But I swear, I looked at the mesa, and its desert beauty did not resonate within me. I knew I should think it was pretty, that other people drive by and see its beauty, but I didn't actually think it was. When I'm around people who genuinely like living here I feel like the outcast high school student who just mumbles empty words of agreement to fit in with whoever has the most sway in the immediate social situation.

This blog was started as a humorous commentary on every day life. But it's not humorous any more because I'm not laughing. To tell you the truth I'm not doing much extracurricular writing, writing just for myself, in general anymore. And I've always had my writing, through everything else. How funny, I thought that by moving I'd grow as a writer. Perhaps I'm growing as a person, but I feel the writer in me withering.

I don't think I'll be updating for awhile.