Why does it hurt so bad?

I've often said to myself and others that I think my brother was the lucky one, having died so young. He doesn't have to go through the pain and trials of living, getting old and decrepit, losing more loved ones. That may sound morbid to some, but clearly if you think that, you have not been through what I have been through. I would gladly take his place. Matt is an irreplaceable link in a chain that is now broken and feels unrepairable.

Why is it always the people who live their lives how they want to and are essentially happy and content die? Is that called irony, or poetic justice, or cruelty? Should I ever reach a point of contentment, will I die?

In my mind I still find it impossible to fathom that he is gone. Physically I know I cannot talk to him face-to-face or on the phone. We won't go to the bar and chant "Wheeler!" ever again, he'll never give me snowboarding lessons again, or send me funny pictures of Murray accompanied by recordings of his voice. We'll never watch South Park, The Simpsons, Family Guy, or Futurama together ever again. We won't play Trivial Pursuit and get mad because Josh always got the easy questions. We'll never have another Chinese buffet eating contest, which was probably followed by some sort of a bowel sounds contest. No more C-walking contests. No more anything but hypothetical conversations with the air, dreams, and memories that I am completely and utterly terrified of forgetting (any more than I already haven't forgotten or written down, anyways).

My blogs seem sad, right? Well, they are, but I want everyone to know that I do have a light at the end of the tunnel, albeit dim. I don't believe I will be despaired forever. I'm just trying to come to terms with reality and decide what I need to do to make it better.

TEXAS IS THE DEVIL!

Yeah, you read right. TEXAS IS THE DEVIL! I came to this melodious conclusion while I was driving home from work this afternoon, which took all of about five minutes. A quick and dirty mental content analysis told me that everything shitty that's happened to me and my family over the past two and a half years started when I moved to Lubbock in August of 2004. Because, really, before that life was good!

Before that I'd spent a year in Ruidoso, waiting tables and bartending, pseudo-dating a fun guy, going out and having a blast every weekend, driving up to Albuquerque to visit Eve, went to go see my dad in 2004, my friends came to visit me pretty often, etc. Generally it was a stupendous time in the life of Sarah, but unfortunately, Sarah has to have a purpose and a goal, or she feels worthless, so she went to graduate school.

First things first. Like two weeks before I moved, Richard hired Satan Incarnate, also known as the Psycho Hose Beast, otherwise known as the skank my brother Josh "dates". Josh met her at Le Bistro and the rest is sordid history. She's been nothing but bleach poured into an open and festering wound since they got together. I won't discuss it here to protect my brother's privacy, but it hasn't been good and has caused my mom more stress and heartache then I think anyone will ever realize. So this has been a continual challenge for two and a half years.

Then the following Spring I meet the man of my nightmares, who I will refer to as "Hick Boy". I met him while visiting Evelyn in Albuquerque, and found out that he didn't live far from Lubbock, so we started a "long distance" relationship, fell for each other (gag me), and then he asked me to move in with him in a terrible, terrible, smelly, poor excuse for a town in the Texas Panhandle. Well, it was either move there with Hick Boy, or back home to Ruidoso and continue the stress of a long distance relationship, so I took the plunge against my own judgment (notice I didn't say "good" judgment). Had I not been living in Texas, I don't think this relationship would have gone past the night we met.

Most of us know how that relationship turned out... For brevity's sake, let's just say f*cked up.

Shortly after that move, I got some bad news about my mom's health and returned home to be with my family with Hick Boy in tow. This was New Year's, 2005/2006, and the last time I got to see my brother, Matt, before he died on January 6, 2006. Still unbelievable to me. That event led to other traumatic events, mental processes, and behavior I don't care to elaborate on.

Hick Boy and I parted ways sometime around the end of February or beginning of March last year, and I moved home, having to travel to Lubbock once a week (not exactly every week because my professor was awesome) so I could finish my Master's degree. That's a three and a half hour drive, one-way, for anyone who's interested... But I did finish.

I visited Dallas twice last spring and really liked it, so being spontaneous and wanting away from New Mexico and all of that horrible-ness regarding my brother's death, I moved here in July, thinking I would easily be able to find a job. Not. So. Much. Ok, so I have had three jobs since I've been here, but none of them are in Mass Communications or writing, so I'm back at square one. However, I have to say that I have learned that I am not really interested in advertising or public relations anymore. Just journalism and writing. So that's a plus, I suppose...

In September of last year, my mom came down with a terrible case of pneumonia that almost killed her. That was fun, let me tell you. Apart from the passing of my beloved brother, this was an incredibly disturbing time. My mother was in rare form and I don't care to ever see her or anyone in that condition ever again. I hope that I, and everyone I love, dies before we come to that state of being. It was horrible.

Other "complications" from aforementioned events have taken place, but I think I've made my point. Texas is jacking with my Karma and I am so over it. "Land of Entrapment"? Fuck you. I want to go home.

*Do you like how I edited the first F-bomb, but let the second one go? That's called accentuation. And I like it.

Manic ___day?

I'm toying with the idea that I may be bipolar (yes, it's funny, and no, it's not). It's really weird because I can go from the last blog that I wrote (see MySpace blog), as morose and pessimistic as it (read: I) was, to being perfectly happy (or as happy as one can be when his or her life is in utter and complete, but totally entertaining, disarray). The feeling is sort of like that excited feeling you have in your gut and your chest when you're about to see someone you have a crush on, or you're going to go to your favorite theme park or something, or (if you're me in grad school) you found the perfect scholarly peer-reviewed article to compliment your research paper and quite literally you just want to squeal, "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" All. The. Time.

It's like my thoughts are racing, I can't think or type fast enough, I can't say everything I want to say because there's too much information. Like I'm on some sort of amphetamine (no, I am not on some sort of amphetamine, and I have stopped drinking coffee as of like a week/week and a half ago). It's like I'm a, I'm a, I'm a, I'm a... t-t-t-t-today, junior!! Hopefully you get the idea.

Nothing happened to make me feel this way, and it's not the first time by far. I go to work, I don't go to work, I work out, I don't work out, I eat, I don't eat, whatever. I didn't like win the lottery or find out my brother is alive and secretly living on an island with Tupac and Elvis. I just sort of morphed from goth kid to pep squad. And I can't quite pinpoint when it happened.

There are a lot of things I do or don't do when I'm "blue" as opposed to when I want to squeal. Por ejemplo, today I did not take a nap, I filed away all of my paperwork from the last 2+ months, I actually cooked myself dinner (I cooked... for like five minutes!), and I haven't cried or wanted to cry, I put away the clean dishes, and some other stuff... it's all very bizarre to me because two days ago I would have done the opposite.

I have never truly bought into the whole "depression" scene and I'm not sure I do even now. Even after considering anti-depressants (and trying them for a very short period after Matt died), I am not truly convinced they'd do anything. When I feel the way I do now, I all but forget what that other bad feeling is like, when two days ago it seemed like it was consuming my very soul. Yet inside I know that feeling lurks dormant and will return. When? Who knows??

Maybe it's just ups and downs... moods, if you will (but most moods I've heard of don't make you want to either scream in anguish or squeal with delight). Maybe it's the anti-PMS. Maybe I'm just excited that I bought my toy poodle a camoflauge coat yesterday. Or maybe, just maybe, all I need to do is take advantage of these times of glee because clearly my writing is a lot - or a least a little - better (unless I'm writing poetry, because poetry and happiness do not cross paths in my world).

I don't have much to say...

Tomorrow marks one year since my brother died and I just don't even have words. Thinking about some of it makes me feel literally, mentally, clinically insane. Today actually marks the last day he signed in to his MySpace a year ago. Now we have a MySpace dedicated to his memory (he's my #1 friend, if you want to see the page). I guess it makes us feel better in a sense.

I had a blog once upon a time dedicated to me and my brothers - The Wheeler Three. If you want to check it out, click here. Actually please check it out. Maybe it'll help people who didn't know us all understand why this has changed my life forever and profoundly. He was my and Josh's brother and best friend, and friend to so many others. We're only beginning to realize how many lives he affected positively.

It's been rough being home. I'll probably write about it later.

And this computer/Internet connection is so f*cked up I can't even upload a picture of Matt.

Recent Experiences in the Big City

I've been writing about some pretty unsavory things lately, but thought I'd take a break from the heartache and write about my recent experiences in Dallas (since I apparently tricked Scott with the title of my last blog on MySpace). Funny, I was thinking about this earlier today...

To put it simply, my recent experiences include a lot of improvement upon my gaydar. I work in the Gayborhood. I work at the Gayborhood Starbucks because I have failed to land a job in Mass Comm thus far (and have turned down a couple of interviews because now I don't want a job in PR or advertising). The amusing thing is, I love working at Starbucks. Time flies, the people I work with are uber-nice, and it has good perks. It's also a lesson in downtown life, as opposed to suburbia (and I'm not-so-much feelin' the downtown vibe... the suburbs are safer and cleaner). So, for simplicity's sake, I'm just going to bullet through some of my experiences so far...

-The BPs love the Caramel Macchiatos, and sometimes the White Mochas. I don't know why, they just do.
-The homeless love Starbucks as much as the rest of us do. I learned this when I picked up a shift near Deep Ellum (Gaston & Haskell, if you're wondering).
-A corpse was discovered across the street from the store I work at, behind the Gloria's I had eaten at just days earlier.
-Dorky cops love me, and gay men love my earrings.
-To make myself more astute in the ways of human sexuality, I have been trying to differentiate between the definitions of drag queen, transvestite, transsexual, cross-dresser, etc. Like, there are some men that come into my store who are clearly trying to look like women (like he grew his hair out and got breast implants), and then there are some who are clearly just men in a BAD wig, coral lipstick, and a push-up bra to accentuate their man-boobs. I know for a fact that most gay men are not this fashion-retarded. Most of them wear nice lip gloss like the rest of us girls... So what are their classifications?
-People have become so lazy that they can't even put their own condiments in their beverages and Starbucks caters to this. Which, in reality, is pretty unsanitary. We're not required to wash our hands between duties (doodies, yes, but like from cash register to bar, no) because we never actually touch what you ingest, and then we go rip open your Splenda after taking sweaty money from the man prostitute named Troy... YUMMY. When you end up with some sort of VD and you're not sure why, try to remember to quit being a lazy f*ck and put your own sugar in your Latte.
-My content analysis of lesbians thus far tells me they have a generally cranky demeanor.
-Some people (actually a lot of people) spend upwards of $200 a month at Starbucks. It truly is an addiction like cigarettes. Or crack.
-Check out the calorie content of the tasty snacks at your local Starbucks. And if you're watching your weight, never get a scone. They have between 650-750 calories a piece.
-Plastic surgery is never a good choice. I have seen some effen freakish faces due to collagen injections, Botox, and some bad boobies at BlackFinn (but that was in Addison). If you're going to get Botox or collagen injections, do something to make it look less rubbery and creepy. You're scaring the kids! I have a feeling if we saw the celebs who've had work done in person, they'd look totally monstrous... like you could bounce a quarter off their face because it's so tight, but they wouldn't feel it because of the Botox...

Anyhoo, that's my diatribe for now. I'm sure there'll be more to come, and if you have any Starbucks-related questions, feel free to ask. I may have the answer...

What's a girl to do?

Want to know the equation for boredom? Well, I don't know exactly what formula it would come out to be (I bet my roommate could figure one out), but it comes down to having spare time, but no spare money to spend on doing stuff.

Everything I enjoy doing costs money, and therefore I really can't do anything because I just started the new job about three weeks ago and haven't had time to figure out what I can or can't spend in order to still be able to pay my bizz-ills. Usually you'd find me shopping, eating out, buying booze for a night out, driving myself to said night out, etc. Last Monday I got my tip out and spent it all by Tuesday night, having grocery shopped, put some gas in my Jeep, and gone to the Stars' game. See how quick it all goes?

Anyways, I'm being forced to lay low until my finances smooth out in a month or so. I'm trying to be frugal so I'll have the scrilla to get home and be with my family during the beginning of January because it's going to be a rough time, but there again, when I get to the Dizzle, I know I might want to go get crunk and go snowboarding with my brother in honor of Matt... all this costs money.

So what do I do with my spare time? Hmmm... well, I usually come home from work around noon, eat, check the e-mail and the MySpace, maybe chat up some kids on Gmail, go yogging, and by then it's like 4 p.m. So then I have about four hours before I "should" go to bed (I've been getting up between 4 and 5 a.m. for the past couple of weeks... time to make the doughnuts!!!). I should write, but I feel uninspired right now to blog about anything but subjects I want to keep private presently. I should read, but I have trouble concentrating on one thing at a time and I get reading ADD (Ty, I need to borrow some books!).

Sometimes I watch TV (Law & Orders: CI and SVU, The Office, My Name is Earl... are you seeing a NBC trend??? Unless I unknowingly change the channel and watch FOX all night, thinking NBC is broadcasting FOX shows for some reason... Yes, it happened last night.) and luckily Eve got me pretty much the best present ever - all three seasons of Arrested Development - so that's been on a continual loop at the Wheeler/Curtis dwelling since like Friday. It was Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for like the week before that, so thanks for saving us, Eve, from another week of watching Voldemort come back and bad acting on Emma Watson's part.

Ergo, there's only so much yogging, playing on the Internet, and watching of the television I can take. When the new year arrives, I am probably going to be in dire need of some fun times at the discoteque.

P.S. - Remember when I blogged about chinos? Well, I had to buy a pair today at Target. I've been wearing a pair of quasi-expensive dress pants to work and they're my favorite because they have tiny pinstripes, and I don't want them ruined. So now... I own black chinos/khakis. I have not purchased pants of the chino variety since 2000 and they were from Abercrombie & Fitch and have a button fly. I'm fairly certain I used to pair them with other items from A&F and Doc Marten's... I can't believe I just told you that.

Goffman: The Bane of My Existence

There are a lot of blogs I've written that I haven't posted this year. Some I deleted, some are just lying in wait, perhaps forever doomed to be a Draft. I have tons of things I've written: Journal entries, poetry (usually I hate poetry, but sometimes there is no other way to accurately convey your feelings, but with a series of abstract and descriptive incomplete sentences and thoughts), short stories, letters... what-have-you. Anyways, my point is that I censor myself. We all do. I don't care who you are.

You could be the most blatently honest Tucker Max-ish, Rush Limbaugh, Rosie O'Donnell (I just typed the first people who came to mind that say stupid and offensive things sometimes), and you're still hiding something. You can be rude, judgmental, crass, but within you lies more. You might be super-sweet, the person people name as the nicest person they know, and harbor ill feelings inside. We all censor ourselves in different situations with different people... I think this is Impression Management Theory (Amanda! Your boyfriend Erving Goffman returns to stalk us with his Social Science theories!).

I was actually chatting with my dear buddy Amanda earlier today when this all just sort of hit me... When I am around certain people, I feel compelled to act a particular way and there are few people I can just relax around and not worry about what they think about what I say or do. Around most of my friends, I feel like I have to be funny, smart, and witty. Unless I'm hearing gossip and reacting, I'm shooting the shit about whatever is going on in my (or other's) life(ves), and cracking jokes about it all to boot. I don't know why. I'm just conditioned to do so. Maybe many who do this are like so many "comedians" who josh around to cover their neurotic tendencies (thanks Joel, I had to look up the word and use it).

The number of people I can completely be myself around can be counted on two hands, I think. In fact, I could probably just name them all here and let them know they have experienced the Uncensored Sarah: the mom, the bros, Geoffrey, Josh the ex, and probably anyone who came in personal contact with me in the first two months after my brother died and witnessed firsthand my verbal diarrhea got a little Sarah Show.

I'm not mean, but I'm not overly-fake nice. I'm forgiving, I try to forget, but I will make you remember when I think you need a little kick in the shin. When I feel the need, I can say something so horrible to you that you would not believe it came out of my mouth, but I have to be provoked and cornered for this to happen. I also always assume the best about people, not the other way around (I like to think all people would never act maliciously until they do, which gets me into trouble a lot). I'm funny with or without trying, but sometimes I try harder than others. I'm very self-conscious and I never think I will be as cute, stylish, kind, flirtatious, interesting, as the other girl (I don't care who it is). I'm hard-headed and once I make up my mind to do something, I am not easily persuaded to change because I do not like to admit I am ever wrong. I try to act tough and I'm not, but I'm tougher than I internally give myself credit for. This is just the tip of the iceberg, but I have to start censoring somewhere...

I miss the people I could be myself around. No offense to anyone at all. You have probably witnessed me to a degree. Maybe I am myself entirely, but I feel like I can't cry in front of you, or that you will judge me for something I say or do. No worries. This is just the uber-censored, highly-trained-to-act-normal society we live in. Now go pretend to be yourself.

Experience vs. Acquisition

There’s something about money that makes me want to claw my eyes out. Oh, maybe it’s the fact that one person can worship his or her things as much as he or she wants to, and never be satisfied with themselves or anything they have in the end. I don’t have a lot of possessions, but what I do have is nice (in my humble opinion) and, for the most part, paid for (sans my education, but that’s not something that the repo man can take away from me… it’s also proving very useless, but that’s for another blog).

I have come to realize that some people are one way, and the rest are another where earnings are concerned. Some can work to live, others have to live to work. I have found that I belong in the latter group, even though I have to work to live at the moment. I would rather do manual labor than be stuck in an office from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. every day, hating each moment I spend wasting my time because I’d probably just be surfing the Internet anyways. Don’t get me wrong, I completely respect someone who enjoys it. I, unfortunately, am not one of them. Perhaps if I found an office job where I was doing something I liked, I could handle it, but that has yet to happen…

There is also a fine line between ambition and greed I am starting to recognize (although if you look up both words in the dictionary, there is little difference between the two, so let’s assume for the sake of this blog that ambition is a sincere desire to better yourself and achieve your goals through noble means, while greed is the Kenneth Lay route to personal gain). There are people who will do anything to have money and things, including sacrificing their true dreams, believing that drudging through life in an unrewarding career will somehow pay off in thirty or forty years with an awesome retirement. So then you can enjoy your “Golden Years” playing golf and Yahtzee, before the arthritis and dementia set in, resulting in your funds being used to put you in a nursing home. Who knows if we’ll even make it that long…

So why not experience your life now? By no means am I saying don’t save for retirement because obviously at some point you’re not going to be able to work anymore, but if you do what you love, you’ll always be willing. Travel while you’re young. Meet new people. Try new things and discover what you enjoy. Stop caring about what other people think and live the life you want to live, not the one society says you should.

Too many of us get caught up in the suburban circle of life. We think we have to graduate high school and then go straight to college, find a job straight out of school where you’ll use your degree somehow, get married, have kids, keep working at your lame-o job, take family vacations when you have the time and money, see your psychiatrist regularly because you can’t figure out why you’re so dissatisfied with your life… retire as soon as you can, because if you wait too long those health problems I was talking about earlier will ruin your hard-earned permanent vacation when you’re 65.

I don’t have to live that life. No one does. Right now what I deem a success may not be worth dirt to another person, but right now I what I want is to stay mobile, have a good time, and keep writing until something comes of it (therein lies my ambition in noun form). The car I drive, clothes I wear, and things I have are not an outward manifestation of my success or satisfaction. Those things only show that I drive a crummy Jeep that’s paid off, I have little-to-no sense of style, and don’t buy a lot of things because I have a hard time justifying the purchase of items I don’t need unless it’s beer or girly stuff like lotion and bubble bath (or better yet, beer to drink while I take a bubble bath)…

And how I make my money right now does not define what kind of person I am, and is not my be-all-end-all (I may sling coffee, but I’m having fun doing it!). But maybe it’s not greed I perceive - perhaps everyone’s definition of success just varies.

Your Questions Answered Here (well, one anyways)

I've been in Dallas for about four months now and am still lovin' it, although I do find myself homesick for mi familia in the 505. Sometimes I need them to grieve with me, you know?

But the phenomenon I have now encountered, having come into contact with what is commonly known as "employment" (not to be confused with "career"), is the need for a justification for people I meet in regards to why I moved here. So here is the story (of course I realize that if you are reading this, you probably already know, but whatever):

I visited Dallas about four or five times before moving here (three times in the last two years, I think). Upon visitng back in February of two double aught five for Gavin DeGraw, I added it to my list of potential places to live after graduation. I wanted to live in a bigger city, but not too big, as having come from small(er) New Mexico towns and villages, I didn't need too much of a shock. Also on my list were Albuquerque and Denver.

So why not Albuquerque or Denver, you may ask? Well, shut the hell up and stop talking about how beautiful you think New Mexico is even though you live in Texas, and I will tell you (that's exactly what I want to say to these idiots who ask me). Albuquerque is cool. I have my BFF and BFF Squared there and it's close to my family. However, in my heart I felt like I'd be a cop out if I didn't at least get a little ways away from NM for a while and experience something else. I also recently experienced the devastating death of my youngest brother, Matt, and without realizing it at the time, wanted to get away from all of those memories and pain... which has not worked out so well, but that's how I roll (we don't need to get all depressed now...). I assume I'll probably end up in New Mexico again someday (who knows when) because I love it there - the scenery, the people, the food (CLEARLY the best ever), the memories...

I've been in Denver several times as well, but mostly have just driven through on the way to visit my dad in South Dakota over the years. I LOVE Colorado and mark my words: I WILL live there at some point in my life. So why didn't I go to Denver? I don't know a soul in Denver besides my married-with-kids friend Kevin. Maybe when Allison and Brady move there, I'll go live on their couch for a while... But at this juncture in my crazy life, I thought it might not be a good idea to be absolutely alone in a new city.

Where Dallas is concerned, I had a couple of good friends here (although I never see one of them - effen Kelly B.!) and have made many more, all of whom are fabulous (especially Dirk... we like to go get frozen mimosas at Breadwinners after strolling around the West Village)! I thank Sack for being a great host to a couple of my visits and showing me some of the finer drinking establishments in the area, in addition to the aquarium and the BP mall in North Dallas (which I had to go to a couple of weeks ago... scary!).

There is also the story of Jeff, where he wanted to move, and his bet with himself concerning the NBA playoffs and finals, which can be found in a June or July entry on my Blogspot blog. It's nice to know your roommate is up for drunk grocery shopping, or going to lunch with you at El Fenix downtown when you're playing hookie...

And if people still wonder after I tell them all of these things because they think New Mexico is so fabulous, I'll just have to kick them in the shin and ask why they don't live there.

All in all, I am quite pleased with my living arrangements, although as long as I am unattached and able, I will keep my options open. I want to live in several places so I have stories to tell my 87 cats when I'm old, alone, dipping biscotti in a gin martini, wearing a boa, and spritzing myself with an atomizer filled with some sort of Estee Lauder perfume brew...

Sherlock's: The Greatest Bar Ever?

Sherlock's in Addison may or may not be my new favorite bar. Maybe it was the people dressed like it was still Halloween, the restroom attendant, or the Bo Bice clone cover band, but I loved it.

After an outstanding meal of family-style Indian food at The Saffron House, we sauntered over to Sherlock's. Upon entrance we were offered free Jaeger shots and spotted "The Dancing Man", a later-middle-aged man with a flair for dancing like he's on acid when no one else is on the dance floor. I've never seen anything like it before in my life, and I hope to see it again soon. Picture Dennis Hopper dressed in khaki slacks and a pale yellow polo tucked in, and you have a pretty accurate representation of this guy. Now imagine this character prancing around, "gracefully" waving his arms about a la the hippies of Woodstock or the ravers of late. If I would have had my glow sticks on me last night, I would have immediately given them to this man as a gift because the entertainment I would have received in return... priceless.

The beer was cheap. I'm talking like $1.50 for a pint and $2.25 for the big beers, and the more I had, the better the band sounded... especially when they obliged our request to play "Your Love" by The Outfield. Rest assured I was singing and dancing... Josie's on a vacation far away... I think I've been inspired to change my MySpace song. I don't know what the name of this band was, but the fact that most of them had long hair and they had a playlist straight off of Helmer's Pub's iPod made them nothing short of stellar. Either that or it was a Jaeger-enhanced auditory hallucination.

I really didn't notice the rest of the crowd until The Dancing Man took a break, as I was obviously hypnotized by his amazing skills on the dance floor. But when I finally took a look around, I noticed a most motley assortment of people. The first to grab my attention was a man in some sort of a shiny-ish mock-houndstooth collared shirt in lovely hues of black and teal. He was talking to a woman who was wearing tapered jeans in an identical turquoise hue, and a matching shirt with the fabric on the shoulders cut out, only to be replaced by joined circles of silver. It wasn't tacky at all and no, I didn't say they looked like they were from New Jersey or that the guy resembled Joey Buttafuoco...

There were the bi-curious girls, the one in skinny jeans and leg warmers, a guy in a red, too-tight shirt that said SELF TAUGHT DOCTOR in white block letters (might as well have just said "Girls, Stay Away" on it), various lap dancing incidents, horsey lady and her Elaine dance... the list goes on and on. But don't take my word for it. Have some Indian food and then walk over to Sherlock's in A-town. I highly doubt you'll be disappointed.

The Pacifier Blog

So I haven't been blogging very much because not much is going on since I started my new job. I had a birthday, which was outstanding. It started in Albuquerque with Eve, Jason, and Chris. Eve and I started at our favorite place for chain restaurant Italian (bellinis!), Macaroni Grill, and then met her beau, Jason, and his roommate Chris for some asininity downtown. We went to Maloney's (a.k.a. Logan's-West) and headed to OPM, where I proceeded to push a girl who rammed into me while we were plowing our way through the crowded dance floor. She (or someone) punched my right shoulder and I walked away because I was loaded and didn't care... you don't mess with the cholas. Chris kept challenging me to robot dancing contests, and Jason tried to teach me how to do some sweet Jiu-Jitsu moves and subsequently put me in an armbar, causing temporary paralysis in my arm. Good times. :o)

Back in Dallas, I also celebrated my birthday on the same day as the TX/OU game here in Dallas. Many shots were taken, beers drank, and again, I did the robot but this time I was unprovoked!

Holy cow. And then sometimes I get drunk on a Sunday night, because my roommate buys seven bottles of wine and gets a 10% discount at Albertson's, and remember that my new job has a new "Happy Hour" program in which we visit bars/clubs/restaurants that "need love" every week, and that approximately 89% of the employees show up to work hungover/still drunk every day (so not my style). We are also offered various tickets to all sorts of metroplex events like (in the week that I've been there) tickets to Trace Adkins, Bocktoberfest, Jamie Cullum, Running with Scissors, Rent (which I attended Friday night and it was grandtabulous), et al.

Then I think about how I'm going to a Mavericks game (Dallas season opener) in a couple of weeks and how I'll walk to it since I live so close to American Airlines Center, and how Dirk and I will probably go shopping for designer shoes and hair products afterwards at Northpark. I also think about how I will hopefully be going to the Texas State Fair soon and how I will be eating something that is not intended to be fried, but is anyways, because this is Texas and that's the cool thing to do. And how I will insist on perusing the Dr. Pepper display at the fair...

THEN, I think about going to Las Cruces next weekend and how I am so excited to see all of my college friends, drink stupid amounts of beer, and eat dirty green chile burritos. Unfortunatley, it will only be Maud waking me at un-Godly hours as opposed to Maud and Lesgar, but she knows we'll be thinking of her as we cheer on the Aggies (and hopefully sleep in, in my case). You all know how I love to sleep in after an evening of frivolity...

Anyhoo, this is mainly a blog straight up for my friend and former neighbor, Jaime, because he's my only fan! Love ya and I hope I see you next weekend, playa!! :o)

Unreasonably Arrogant

I am oftentimes at a loss for words when it comes to describing someone who is self-centered. But some people I know are so egocentric, they border on a narcissistic personality disorder. Most of these people have no reason to be this way. And by that I mean they are neither ridiculously good-looking nor incredibly wealthy (not rich... wealthy, as Chris Rock would say), and are not of above average intelligence, which begs the question, from whence does this superficial delusion develop?

For celebrities (usually attractive and mildly wealthy), supermodels (considered beautiful by some and can earn more than most), Steven Hawking (genius, loaded), or Bill Gates and Donald Trump (neither are attractive, but both have managed to find a way other than being really, really ridiculously good-looking to make a fourtune), I can understand the arrogance. For anyone else, the feelings are unfounded. I don't care what your mom told you, you are probably not the best at anything. Sorry.

So yesterday I was chatting with Amanda and coined the phrase "unreasonably arrogant" to describe these people who are so far deluded that they think they are God's gift. And by "God's gift" I mean they think they are so great they could be a gift given to God. How did this happen? Do they have a magic mirror that makes them look like David Beckham or Heidi Klum? Or a psychic who told them they would be coming into a ludicrously large inheritance sometime soon? Did their parents tell them they were actually very smart and just weren't applying themselves when they were in school?

Maybe I'm just a negative realist. I know I don't look like Halle Berry and therefore will not be dating someone like Josh Duhamel (although his girlfriend is not so cute in my opinion). I do not know everything there is to know about everything, although I may be able to kick your butt at various forms of trivia. I am not the best dressed person you know, I don't have very much money, and I will probably never cure cancer, world hunger, global warming, or be the next President. I am not exceptionally talented at anything except picking things up with my toes and untying knots.

I'm just me and I'm not trying to kid myself or anyone else into thinking otherwise... or am I? Maybe I'm just as deluded and I somehow don't know... Hmmm. I guess that's something for my incredibly pretty and intelligent head to think about.... ;o)

For Maud and Jaime...

Since Maud can't get MySpace at her P.O.B. and Jaime remains too-cool-for-school when it comes to the MySpace cult, here is my latest blog! :o)

A week and a half in Albuquerque is enough for me. Especially considering I have spent the majority of my time in a hospital room or trying to entertain myself with the Internet at the Flying Star nearest to me. I love my friends here and the mountains and green chile, and I usually have tons o' fun here because I'm getting plastered at Maloney's downtown... Anyways, I've managed to make a few keen observations during my stay here.

There is a restaurant called Cesar's (not Caesar's) on Lomas that serves Mexican and Greek food. No, not Mexican/Greek fusion... they serve Mexican. And Greek. Maybe you can get a lamb taco? Anyways, I'm thinking you don't find this anywhere else.

Fellow New Mexicans know this, but for my Texan and other readers, it is commonplace to have your last name or car club plastered in white Old English letters on your whip's rear window. You might also want to garnish with a nice outline of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The brown girls STILL wear purple lipstick, acid washed jeans, and attempt to dye their hair blonde, when it really just turns an odd shade of red/r'orange/yellow.

You can get green chile as a condiment on the hospital menu, and pretty much everywhere else you go.

While jogging in Eve's 'hood I have passed houses with BURRO lawn ornaments. Yes, people here have donkey lawn ornaments.

An outdoor sign at a Walgreens read: IMMIGRATION PHOTOS WHILE YOU WAIT.

Minivans are very popular here. The older and more delapidated, the better. You can fit yourself, your mamasita, your primos, and still have room for the ninos. Extra points if your primo and his knocked up ladyfriend are making out in the back seat.

If you didn't understand some of the words in the last sentence, you're not from New Mexico.

I've also made an interesting observation at the hospital: I think that minorities and people of lower income brackets get sick more often than everyone else does. Preventative medicine means nothing to these demographics. What matters are rims on the '91 Accord and speakers so loud they threaten to damage the already feeble vehicle's state.

Geez, there's more, but I can't think of anything right now. However, I want to send lots of love to Eve for putting up with me for a week and a half at her home. Hopefully I'll be exiting South stage back to the Dizzle here in a couple of days and then to Dallas... to start my new job!!

P.S. - I mentioned in comments on MySpace that I failed to mention the Native American grannies in men's shoes that are always two sizes too big and all of the breast feeding PSAs on television that make me ill...

UNM SUCKS.

So if you didn't get the memo, I am in Albuquerque (a.k.a. The Artist Formerly Known as Steve) because my mom has come down with a very nasty case of pneumonia. I am currently escaping the beeping of the computer she's hooked up to at the Flying Star with a massive headache. So I could blog about a lot of things so far regarding this trip, including but not limited to catheters, my faintness at the sight of blood, my frustration with my family, the love-hate relationship I have with nurses and doctors, and sub par healthcare. I'd like to touch on the last one and elaborate more specifically on where I am and why I blame this place for my issues. So here are my reasons why I hate the University of New Mexico Hospital, and more (or less) specifically, UNM.

1. Hippies
2. Average student age of 57
3. Hippies growing at a rate of three per hour
4. Lobo (or "Puppy", as the Colonel would say) sports
5. Adobe housing infecting the area surrounding campus
6. Hippies crossing the street
7. Ugly people
8. Construction
9. Movie and/or mini series filming keeping me from getting to Starbucks
10. Hippies in their cars
11. Hippies on bikes
12. I am an Aggie and therefore will hate UNM until the day I die
13. UNM is in Albuquerque and not Las Cruces, which means it is automatically inferior
14. Do I have to say "hippies" again?

Seriously, I have never spent this much time around the UNM campus and now I see more clearly why NMSU is far superior in every aspect possible to UNM. More later, friends...

Ultimate fear, manifested... or festered?

Sorry, this is not my usual funny, sarcastic, and witty blog...

Emotional rejection is the feeling a person experiences when disappointed about not achieving something desired. It is commonly related to a quest of emotional relations, usually by a man to a woman, or vice versa. A person may reject for several reasons: lack of reciprocal interest, circumstances like societal codes, desire to make the other person perceive difficulty ("playing hard to get") and fear of placing himself or herself in a situation of vulnerability and heightened interaction. -From Wikipedia.


Dealing with rejection is not easy and I don't think it's escapable. It is omnipresent, and I have heard it described as the "ultimate fear" of the human species. It can be humiliating, hurtful, and damaging. Me, I'm a fairly positive individual. I've been handed some hard knocks since last December and it seems they just keep coming. Trying to make the best out of it all, however, is becoming exhausting.

Top of the list will probably always be dealing with my brother's death. I want to say it gets easier. It doesn't. It gets harder... then hopefully it gets easier. In hindsight, I probably should have done some serious soul-searching before making a big move, but being in Ruidoso made it hurt even worse and I wanted away from that house, the town, and the constant reminder that he was the one who made me want to go home so we could hang out. How does this relate to rejection? I feel like I was literally rejected by God, and the continuance of hard luck coming my way makes me wonder what's next, and not in a good way...

Shortly thereafter I broke up with my boyfriend instantly upon finding out he had "cheated" on me after we'd been dating about three months (I put cheated in quotes because it's not like we were married). We'd been dating about nine months when I happened upon this nugget of information. This came as a major blow, pretty much solely to my ego. How could he cheat on me? But having just suffered through the loss of Matt about six weeks earlier, this was seriously small potatoes, and so goes everything else following.

I've become apathetic in most situations. I feel like what people have described being on Prozac is like... you just don't give a shit. And I think this is sabotaging me in certain situations that I should care about, namely finding a job and to put it simply, men.

I'm doing things wrong in both situations, yet I'm not quite sure what. On the employment front, I'm educated, talented, but unfortunately not extremely experienced. But why is this keeping me from getting a job like I had in El Paso, fresh out of an undergraduate program? I was an account executive... I've been applying for AE positions... go figure. So I'm being silently rejected by employers, save three I've actually had the opportunity to talk to. I'm probably just too picky, which brings us to the second half of the apathy diatribe...

Men. Some of them are easy to figure out, especially when they're honest, yet you still wonder why they are the way they are. Like my ex for example: He treated me like a princess, babied me, bought me whatever I let him, wanted to spend time with me, yet it took him a night with another woman to figure out how much he "cared". Why? What does that even mean? Then on the opposite end of the relationship spectrum is the possibility of a new relationship... I can honestly say I don't know how this works, never have, and my lack of knowledge/apathy is probably being misconstrued as me being an ice queen.

I can't help it. I don't know how often you're supposed to call, text, e-mail, "MySpace" someone. So I usually just don't do it. I don't know if me asking a guy out and maybe calling every day is going to be perceived as overbearing or just normal. Based on the last paragraph, I have no idea how I ever had the relationships I've had. I obviously don't know what I'm doing and am apparently not as awesomely awesome as I think I am. Again with the ego: How could he not want to date me? Damn that!

Now how does that relate to rejection? Ah, very easily. If you've been rejected by the opposite sex, you know what I'm talking about. Someday when I figure out exactly why we fear rejection, I'll send you all a memo.

Don't get me wrong... I don't feel sorry for myself, and I don't want to appear as if I'm complaining. I'm merely "thinking" aloud. I think that's what writers are supposed to do (hahaha) and I'm still positive about the future. Maybe I do give a shit still and that's why I'm writing this (?). My life is blessed with a family and friends who care for me, I live in a fabulous city now with one of my best friends for a roommate, and gosh darnit... people like me! Oh, Stuart Smalley, you are a shrewd and erudite self-help sage. Thank you for your infinite wisdom.

I feel like I need to recite the Serenity Prayer now...

I want mall gift certificates for my birthday. I need new clothes.

When I lived in Lubbock, I'd go weeks and weeks (maybe even two months) without doing laundry. Residing in an apartment without washer/dryer hookups forced me to choose between washing my clothes, etc. at the lint-covered community laundromat, or get to the point where I had absolutely no choice but to wear scandalous undies, even though I would not be wearing pants necessitating the hiding of the panty line. I chose the latter most of the time, waiting until I'd drive to Ruidoso for a holiday or snowboarding to do laundry at home.

These days, I don't know how I accomplished this feat because I refuse to wear about 80% of my wardrobe due to the fact that I hate it, and every last pair of fancy underwear I had remains mysteriously in my ex-boyfriend's possession. Mostly I believe I did this because I was in school and didn't care what I looked like, unless I was going to the bar, at which point I'd bust out my Citizen jeans, a David Bitton shirt, and some BCBG heels. But this got me thinking about how I acquired a stock of clothing, most of which I will not wear but for some reason cannot part with?

"But what if that baby blue sleeveless tee with the ruched sides from Express three years ago comes back in style? It's not that bad..." I say to myself as I try and sort the keepers from the trash.

Some of this sick attachment must stem not only from the fact that I wore many of these items once, twice, or not at all and I feel guilty, but the fact that I paid for it all with my own money, and in the case of all the crap I bought from Express in college, am still paying for. Why did I buy this stuff? When did it become uncool, and how did I like them at one point, and then turn on my once-beloved garments?

I think I once heard on What Not to Wear that if you haven't worn something in a year, you should throw it out. Honestly, if I did this, more than half of the clothes living in my closet would be gone. Could I bear tossing the uni-sleeved shirt that has only been worn once (and not even by me)? What about those khaki pants from Abercrombie I got in like 2000... do I even wear chinos anymore??? What are chinos?

Thus defines my love-hate relationship with clothing. I love clothes, but I want clothes that look cute and won't go out of style so that I will not have wasted my money. But that never happens. Because even if I buy the most simple, classic item on the rack (a black tee for example), it will go out of style for one reason or another. Take into effect that I usually don't wear colors (unless it's my green Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Show t-shirt) and this is not a formula for success. I should probably just move to a nudist colony or become a hippie.

Louis Vuitton: Handbag or instant fashion makeover?

So there is a recurring trend here in Dallas that I felt obligated to write about. It's less about a trend and more about a status symbol or a disease aptly designated as extravagance. It's sort of like a spending spree, followed by bad credit and the repo man, threw up all over Dallas. You'll pass one car on the street and it's a Lexus. The next one will be a Cadillac. The next a Carrera Porsche. The next a BMW... Bentley... you get the idea. Tuesday nights on McKinney, you'll probably even see a Lamborghini. The same goes for the styles of the Louis.

The Louis I speak of is Louis Vuitton, but more specifically, Georges Vuitton, who is Louis' son and the jokester behind the famous monogrammed bags and leather goods so many people own today. The great part is that Wikipedia tells me that just over ONE PERCENT of Louis Vuitton signature goods are NOT counterfeit. Now I know why they all appear to be constructed from textured brown plastic.

Here is what bothers me beyond the fact that the most inexpensive bag they offer still costs about $500 and is the size of a cigarette case: It is the idea that if you carry a Louis bag, it apparently does not matter what you are wearing. It's like the bag is some sort of a magical fashionista cloak (a la Harry Potter's invisibility cloak) that transforms you from dumpy and mismatched to chic and glamorous. I have yet to see a woman put together an outfit that looks good with the bag. I saw a woman at the mall wearing army green capris, a faded black fitted t-shirt, flip-flops, and a like a giant bucket LV bag. Am I supposed to be impressed?

I think that the brains behind Louis Vuitton are disturbingly marketing-savvy and have wicked senses of humor. "Hey, Walter, how do you think we can get women all over the world to buy these grossly overpriced and hideous bags?" "Well, Marie, let's start giving them away to quasi-famous fashion whores and see where that gets us. I hear Jessica Simpson has a new reality show on MTV... we should probably give her a complete set of luggage immediately, if not sooner." "But what if she ruins it, Walter?" "It's ok. We'll give her the counterfeit ones from our factory in Kazakhstan." (insert evil, maniacal laughter)

My advice is save your precious dollars for bags, shoes, designer jeans (guilty!), and whatever else your precious heart desires. If you have Paris Hilton's money, buy every Louis bag that exists, or better yet... have Paris' money, get famous for no reason, and have the bags given to you free of cost, even though you have more money than God. If you don't have the endless supply of money, buy numerous leathery-smelling Coach or Dooney (but not the ones that look like Skittles melted on a styrofoam plate) or Michael Kors or whoever's bags instead of one LV bag that will only hold the trial size of your lip gloss. I personally heart the one at right and my birthday is coming up...

Sorry this is short and has no pics...

Hello everyone. So nothing entirely earth-shattering has occured during my first week in Dallas, but I have learned a few things that you might find insightful, and perhaps even amusing. Here's a list:

-Deep Ellum does exist, for I have been lost in its depths with a U-Haul still attached to my Jeep.

-The main DART station also exists downtown. I randomly came across it while driving around in The Big D.

-I am now required to hate every other city in Texas, which isn't very hard to do when all the other cities I've been to in Texas pretty much suck. Austin is for HIPPIES! ;o)

-You can be in a really posh neighborhood and then the slums in a matter of one block (or by crossing to the east side of Highway 75 down here).

-There really is a Starbucks on every corner. Seriously.

-Gay men love to go walking together on the Katy Trail about one block west of my apartment, but so do a lot of other people, including Mexicans who look like barrels without shirts on and their obese ladyfriends sans bras.

-I never knew how much I used a microwave until I didn’t have one… speaking of which, I should go buy one today, but I looked for a Wal-Mart near here and the closest Supercenter is on the other side of downtown by railroad tracks and that scares me a little.

-Living with my family in close quarters for more than two days is entirely unacceptable.

-You are a total loser who should be quaratined in some sort of a concentration camp if you don't have a TollTag. I fall into this category.

-Miami Vice is probably one of the worst movies I've ever seen, but it has some cool pink mist shots and really awesome cars, boats, and airplanes.

Hello, Goodbye.

As Friday nears, I am bidding my farewells to Ruidoso... fortunately I pretty much hate everything about it save for a few people, the mild summers, my former days of snowboarding for free, and The Links at Sierra Blanca (no, I don't golf there, I yog around the course).

My bon voyage sort of started when Jeff and I got our apartment in Dallas because I immediately packed everything I could (that wasn't already packed) and started counting down the days until July 22. It pretty much ended Sunday morning when I was having a yomit session after partying with Evelyn and Jason, and a few select Ruidosoans. I'll blog about that later on Eve and Wheels, I think.

Anyways, tomorrow I'll be in the LC having my hair dyed by the famous Alex, who has moved to another salon (if anyone's interested) that doesn't have a grody English sheepdog sauntering around in it (can dogs saunter?). At least I hope it doesn't have a big, shaggy dog roaming around... I hated that dog.

I'll also be dining at Si Senor, and taking pictures of my burritos and probably sending said pictures to Colonel McAdoo. Mwa ha ha ha ha. Maybe Amanda, too... she loved the Si Senor like a native New Mexican.

My mom is also going to the Big LC with me and is apparently going to get a new phone at Sprint, so I may or may not be changing my phone number... I don't know if I can part with my beloved Las Cruces/505 number quite yet. I'll keep you all updated, of course. Not that any of you call me unless you have to ask questions about anatomy, sloths, or what to do if a centipede crawls out of your drain. I like to think that if any of you were ever on Who Wants to be a Millionaire (or whatever it's called), I'd be your lifeline because I pretty much know everything that you don't need to know, which is not valued by society in any way, shape, or form, but helps me beat people at trivia. :o)

So, bub-bye 505 and chel-lo again to Tejas. I shall return in October for Homecoming and more burritos, and possibly another hair-dyeing, depending on whether or not I can find someone in Dallas who does colors other than bleached blonde. ;o) Scary.

It's also scary that I can probably sing the entire song Hello, Goodbye by The Beatles... also the title of this fair blog entry. Jeff, you are SO going to miss me singing the soundtrack from Fiddler on the Roof (but so are Eddie and Donica) for like two weeks until you get to Dallas, but fret not, for then you can hear me sing all the time. LOL! Sucker.

All I want is some Subway.

Here is your list of fast food places to eat at in Ruidoso: McDonald's, Sonic, Taco Bell, Schlotzsky's, Mr. Burger (not that fast), Burger Trolley (not that fast, either)... um, yeah. That's about it. Oh, and Subway, which is consistently inconsistent in every aspect of their business practice.

There used to be two Subways here, as well as a Burger King and an Arby's. I can't get flame-broiled goodness here, or the joy of an overly-processed roast beef sandwich doused in fake cheese sauce. I should have moved the second Arby's closed, but I hardly ever go there and didn't know they'd shut their doors forever until a few months after the fact. I can, however, "eat fresh" at Subway and make sure Jared and Jon Lovitz get a paycheck this month. Or so I thought.

Last week I wanted Subway when my mom and I went to Wal-Mart (which I failed to mention also has a Subway in it, but I'm scared to eat at it). So, we drove past the normal Subway and the parking lot was packed. Forget it... we'll just check out the next Subway down the road at Funtrackers, where I went go-carting not too long ago. Nope. It's closed, and Subway executives failed to send me the memo.

Now when I do actually drive the 17 miles to Subway, I can expect to find ridiculously rude employees who are obviously working paycheck to paycheck and crack hit to crack hit, and make it apparent that they hate me for even considering visiting their fine sandwich shop. I can usually assume they have only about three of the normal 15 chip varieties other Subways in real towns have. The same goes for the soda machine. In addition, your friendly Ruidoso Subway will be out of at least half of the breads other Subways have. Normally they have three day old Honey Wheat at all times, so they got that goin' for 'em.

But here's the zinger: Today I made the arduous drive almost all the way to the Downs, pulled into the Subway parking lot, only to find one of the employees standing in the doorway telling something to this other lady who was parked as well. Rather than waste my precious energy and get out of the car, I merely roll down my passenger side window to hear what news this disgruntled sandwich artist had for me... "We're out of bread."

WHAT? As Eddie would say, "Are you SERIOUS?" Why the f*ck are you even open, you dim-witted meth addict? Did you think I came to Subway for the SOUP or the shredded iceberg lettuce salads?? Don't insult me. Just close.

Here is my other question: How does a sandwich shop run out of bread, especially when they make the bread at said shop? You would think that when they notice the bread supply is running low, they'd throw a couple more frozen slabs of dough into the ol' oven, right? Or, hey... we're low on dough - do you think we should order some more? No, don't be foolish... let's go take another hit off the crack pipe.

I hate this town, you guys. Trying to explain the hate would be futile. I can feel my blood pressure rise when I think about going anywhere here. If I make it through the next ten days, it will truly be an amazing feat.

The only thing that would make me happy right now is if Jared himself would come to Ruidoso, fire the crackheads, and then make me a sandwich. For free.