Great Big Convoy

I have decided that I would make an excellent truck driver. Over Thanksgiving weekend, I put 1,531.6 miles on my car driving home to surprise my parents and I must have passed at least 500 semis. (And that is probably an extremely low estimate.) Anyway, I think I have what it takes. I have the perfect sized dog to ride along with me. My iPod is completely full. I would blow my horn for anyone who made that universal fist pumping gesture. And most importantly, I have mad CB skills.

The only factor that could potentially hinder my future trucking career is my adamant refusal to put any type of American flag paraphernalia on my truck. Naked women silhouette mud flaps? No problem. One of those 'How's My Driving' signs? Alright. But I could not and would not splay a gigantic American Flag sticker on my truck with something along the lines of 'Support Our Troops, NO SYMPATHY FOR THE ENEMY' surrounding it. I must have seen that on half of the trucks I passed. Seriously. And it kind of pissed me off. What enemy?
We are by far killing more Iraqi civilians than terrorists - am I not supposed to feel bad about that? Supporting troops would be a lot easier if I supported government military actions. If they were in, say, Darfur, I would support that. If we had a presence in Banda Aceh, I'd support that. But kids getting shipped off to Korea and the Middle East on pre-emptive missions of democracy? Um, no.

So when I start my trucking career, I am going trick out my semi to run on vegetable oil and custom paint it to say "Peace, Motherfucker!" And I am going to recruit other truckers to join my gang and we'll only stop at locally owned, organic truck stops. And it will be wonderful.

We are the World

Aside from packing up my whole world and moving to the Last Frontier, the biggest adventure of my life so far was hands down studying abroad on Semester At Sea, which was three months of drunken debauchery on four continents and thousands upon thousands of dollars in student loans that aren’t even close to being paid off today. The problem with going on a kickass whirlwind global tour is that no one wants to hear about it once you come home. And I can’t really blame them. Who would want to hear someone begin every sentence with, ‘This one time in India’, or ‘When I was in Kenya’…? Obviously, I have a little bit more self restraint now and don’t do that all the time, but every now and then from out of no where a story slips out and some poor unsuspecting victim is assaulted with a comparison of their hilarious trip to the grocery store in search of the perfect spaghetti squash with my wild goose chase for Johnnie Walker Blue in Madras, India that ended with me getting felt up by a rickshaw driver. People on the receiving end of those assaults usually end up giving me the same looks I give the crazies on the Metro.

My younger sister is in college right now and has opted not to study abroad against my best older sister advice. I can now understand why Homer always chokes Bart. What the hell is she thinking? If there is one thing I am absolutely sure of, it is that at some point in her life, my sister will regret this decision. Or worse yet, she won’t. I’ve met people that don’t like to travel. Healthy, carefree, unattached people I went to school with, dated, or work with that have never been out of Wisconsin or who’s only traveling experience consisted of an all inclusive package deal to Disneyland or Vatican City or some other tourist destination where you are herded around like cattle by someone that speaks perfect English so you never have to interact with any local people. I just never thought my sister would be one of those people. I am always confused by those people. What exactly is it that scares people? Fear of the unfamiliar? Cost? Does the convenience of sticking to a routine outweigh the possibility of seeing someplace new? Whatever it is, I feel sorry for people so close-minded. And I know my sister is not one of those people. She loves to travel, she is just worried about the money. But it is worth every penny and I just don't know how to convince her of that. I’ll work on her over the holidays…

She's a little runaway

Apparently, Katie Holmes is going through with her crazy whack-a-do wedding to that freak Tom Cruise this weekend. I cannot even begin to fathom the amount of alcohol and prescription medication it would require to get me to marry a devout Scientologist, even a filthy stinking rich one. Now, to be fair, all that I know about Scientology, I learned from watching South Park. But Trey Parker and Matt Stone know their shit. Now, you can try to learn more about Scientology – but go ahead and Google it – you really have to dig to find anything. For an author, L. Ron Hubbard really likes to keep things secret. It’s really just much easier, and I guarantee it’s more enjoyable to just sit down and watch ‘Trapped in the Closet’.

My advice to Katie is to run. Cause I know a thing or two about cults. My roommate is the queen of ManicLand (thank you, craigslist!). Her mother is a ward of the state thanks to her attempt to drive up to heaven in a 2004 Chrysler with a 6-foot statue of the Virgin Mary in the trunk and apparently my roommate has inherited the lunatic gene. She fluctuates between being an independent, outspoken, liberal lesbian – which is the personality she was wearing when I met her – and a devout reborn again Christian who thinks homosexuals burn in hell and comes home spouting off about the gospel according to Pastor. Not Pastor Bob or Pastor Dave. Just Pastor. And Pastor has the ability to perform divine healing; my roommate has seen it with her own eyes. Impressive, huh?

Living with a person that has multiple personalities means I never know what I am coming home to. My roommate is on one of her God kicks right now. Whenever I come home to Sister Psycho, I want to kick her in the crotch, kidnap her dog and run away. Vermont sounds like a nice, unbiased state. My lease is up in four months and if I can get through it without going all jihad on her ass, it will prove to me beyond a shadow of a doubt the existence of a supreme being.

Now, I consider myself to be a decent roommate. I am by no means perfect, but I am not a total slob and I don’t hog the bathroom or throw loud parties. But I am seriously religion intolerant when it comes to zealots. Nothing good comes from intolerant bigots cloaking themselves behind the Good Word. So trust me, Katie, when I say run. Run far away. And don’t look back. No one will hold it against you. I stumbled in to a cyanide-laced kool-aid world by accident, but you, Katie Holmes, you can see exactly what you’re walking into. It will be really hard to feel sorry for you if you actually go through with this farce.

Just call me the bag lady

In February I’m going to turn 28. I like that number. It sounds like a good age to be. Not that there has been anything wrong with 27. I think the year I turned 25 was the year I totally freaked out and thought that I was ‘so old’. Now I don’t think I’ll have another freak out until I hit 37. For some reason, that just sounds like the next big milestone. So I am not scared to turn 28.

But I am scared about turning into a bag lady. I have spent ALL of my 20’s involved with the same man - my entire 20’s. And recently, he ended it with me. My entire adult life has included one man and now I am trying to figure out how to start over again. I do not want to be the jaded, bitter person lugging baggage into all my future relationships. I’ve know him since before it was legal for me to drink. He’s seen me quit smoking and graduate from college. He introduced me to country music (no seriously, some of it is actually good) and showed me how to change the oil in my car. I watched him go though a seriously fucked up marriage and watched him go through a complete break down when his family had a last minute shotgun wedding because his little sister got knocked up. (Yep, he’s a little bit redneck, but it’s usually not in the Jerry Springer kind of way.) We were best friends before we ever got involved and he’s seen me at my best and my absolute worst.

I’ve accepted that it’s over and I even think it’s for the best, but the reality of not having him to bounce ideas off of and the thought of having to build up that trust and friendship all over again with someone else hits me like a ton of bricks some days.

Where are my lucky charms?

I started my job nine months ago, right before Mardi gras. I left the land of the midnight sun and a carefree life of drinking, Monday night football, weekend sailing expeditions, failed snowboarding lessons, and more drinking because I decided it was time to start a ‘career’. What the hell was I thinking?

My pity party

"The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes, none remain."

-Memoirs of a Geisha

Rubber Ducky

I have the most kick ass little dog ever. She’s not an ankle biter, she doesn’t have one of those annoying yippy barks, she doesn’t even really bark. (But when she does, it’s wicked cute.) She gets along with big dogs, she’s a great hiker, and once she chased off a bear. (Black, not grizzly.) I continue to drag her to new and unfamiliar cities and she stays laid back and low maintenance. Which is good, because my best friend has a very high maintenance young golden retriever and there is no way I could deal with that. Plus, Pint’s poop is only about the size of a marshmallow, and she usually hides behind a tree, so most of the time I don’t even have to bother picking it up.

As much as I love my dog, tonight I am going to do something to her that I know she HATES. Tonight, she is getting a bath. I might not be able to do much with her stank breath, but I can wash off some of the shit smell on her. Every time she sees me get out the doggie shampoo, she runs away from me and hides. How can you not anthropomorphize an animal when it’s SO obvious they have emotions? And after she is done with a bath, she is like Speed Racer running all over the house, trying to run away from the awful memory of warm, sudsy water. Sorry Pint, but tonight you’re getting clean.

Chocolate Salty Balls

I am a culinary genius when it comes to such delicacies as spaghetti and frozen pizza. Last night I mixed a sun dried tomato alfredo with an Italian sausage marinara sauce for my spaghetti. It was a little slice of heaven. I totally rock.