Coochie Cavity.

It's Black Friday. The infamous swindler, trying so desperately to be an actual holiday, when really it's just the raggedy red-headed step-child to Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is a day of gluttony. We don our over-sized sweatshirts and stretchy pants so we can eat ourselves into violently ill feelings of over-fulldom. And we throw on our thankful cloaks as we shove the turkeys in the oven, mash the yams, and stuff enough deviled eggs to tear up our bowels for weeks. The shotgun smatterings of thanks and gratefulness punch the sky as people speak out the things they are actually thankful for. This one's thankful for family. And this one's thankful for friends. That one's thankful for shelter. And that one over there is thankful for a full belly and a warm coat.

We've all got our gold and platinum coated cornucopias full of things we're thankful for.

I, for one, am thankful for foul mouths. Potty language. Uncanny expletives spilling out of unsuspecting lips.

I decided to spend Thanksgiving with my step family this year. A first for me in at least a decade. I was wary. Believe me. The nerves jittered out my fingertips as I waited for the shit to hit the fan. Because undoubtedly, it would. And it did.

My step family, that's really not even step anymore due to the wretched divorce of years past, is crazy. Legitimately and completely. But they never cease to entertain. This Thanksgiving my aunt and grandma did the cooking. They fought like stray alley cats the entire afternoon...and here are a few choice quotes that splashed across faces yesterday...

"Now it's all spread open like a little slut." - Voiced by my aunt in reference to our turkey...because my grandma put it in a pan that was too big.

"Stuff it in the coochie cavity." - A command made by my grandmother in reference to putting the stuffing inside the turkey.

"What the FUCK are you thinking?!" - Shouted by my grandmother at my aunt in reference to something my grandma obviously didn't find conducive to a happy thanksgiving. This was the ongoing joke of the day...startling at first, and then we had to make light of it. It's not time for the shit to hit just yet.

The food has been served. The meal has been consumed...and noooowwww it's time for the shit to hit...

We were just wrapping up what seemed to be a decently drama free meal...when we start talking about the annual tea party that the women put on at my grandma's church. My aunt is hosting a table, but my grandma isn't sitting at it...I foolishly raise the question of why...and why I'm not allowed to sit at my aunt's table...My aunt and my grandma have already bickered over who gets yours truly at their table. And then my grandma poops out of her mouth. Projectile. Right into the fan. Spraying us with the remnants of catastrophe.

"Your table's full of drug addicts." - Dripping with disdain, directed at my aunt, voiced by my grandmother.

At first my aunt refused to believe it. She thought my brother said it. Because my brother foolishly repeated it. No one actually heard it out of my grandma's mouth...but she owned up to it. Even after we all picked ourselves up off the floor and asked her if she really said it, she raised her hand and was like, "Yeah, I said it, not Robert."

Wow.

I had to take a few deep breaths as everyone scattered like roaches from the light. Then it was just me and my grandma left at the table, my aunt could be heard weeping in the kitchen. It was just as dramatic as it sounds. I was stunned. Overwhelmed. I'm normally able to play mediator between the emotional wrestlers of my family...but not this time. I had no words.

My aunt is a recovering addict. She's been clean and sober for a few years now, and a lot of her closest friends are recovering addicts as well. There's a lot of vulnerability there. Tenderness. Fragility. And for my grandma to let those boulderous words loose like some sort of emotionally charged Indiana Jones adventure, was a bit of an anomaly. My aunt wasn't up for the game and the words crushed her. I had no words to re-inflate her. My aunt is incredibly quick to forgive. I could learn a lesson from her beauty and grace.

And it's a good thing there was wine. I threw back a couple glasses and let the aged grapes caress my angsty nerves. And then I had some rent related drama with my roommate for a second. I watched the movie In Her Shoes, wept a bit. And then crashed out...because little did you know, I was about to embark on my first Black Friday expedition.

It's Black Friday. And this morning, I pried myself out of the morbid discomfort of all that is "futon slumber" and brushed my teeth. Grabbed a banana, tried to rouse my brother from sleep, to no avail, and hit the road, headed to Target.

I arrived at 3:30 am for a 4:00 am opening. The line wrapped around the building. To be expected. I opened my stride and briskly walked to the end of the line, and patiently awaited the opening of those big glass doors, that I couldn't even see. I stood in the cold with my sweaties on and my big poofy coat, scarf and gloves. By myself. Giant smile plastered on my face as I surveyed my surroundings. Here I am, like an ant in a line back behind the building with the dumpsters and the desperate deal-stealers. It seriously feels like stealing, that's how epic these deals are said to be. So here I am, book in hand, feigning disinterest in the conversations spilling out all around me. People asking people, "What are you going for first?" "You went to Toys R Us?" "How was Kohl's?" "Best Buy has a SWAT team?"

Apparently 17.5 million households had people shopping on black friday last year. This year it's estimated that half of America would be out shopping on black friday. That's when the unsuspecting expletives start spilling out of my mouth.

I got in the store and grabbed a cart. And immediately assumed the position of a chicken with its head sheared off. Thankfully I've got my head safely stowed in the front part of the cart, you know the place where you tuck your child so they can't touch anything except you? Yeah, well hypothetically my head is belted in there, propped up on the three dollar toaster, which is what I was "going for" this morning. Yeah, I know. Pathetic. I also got three dozen picture frames, a vacuum, several box office smash hit dvds, some tank tops, headphones, and some other unmentionable Christmas gifties.

Thanksgiving is for over-consumption of the belly. Black Friday is for over-consumption of the Christmas present closet. The trunk of my car belched as I stuffed it full of consumerist goodies.

I scraped a few ankles, bruised some shins, and shed a bit of blood during this blackest of fridays. My bank account took a beating as well. These aren't exaggerations. Somehow my finger was bleeding when I left the building, my shin was banged up from running myself into my own cart...I think that was due to the chicken head syndrome discussed earlier, and I definitely ran into some ankles with my awkward red cart whilst trying to maneuver my way amongst the masses.

But it was all for the sake of experience. I'd never done it before. And I'm not certain I'll do it again. But I thoroughly enjoyed myself. And a John Lithgow look alike just came into the coffee shop I'm perched in. So yeah.

Happy Black Friday to you and yours.

Oh PS..I purchased a hot pink full body spandy suit at a thrift store just moments ago. I'm going to wear it in my next marathon. Get excited.

Elated.

I'm high in the sky on a fat shroud of clouds right now.

Today is a good day.

First.

The hottie from the coffee shop sat down and chatted with me for almost a whole half hour today at work...and then my boss the buzzkill had to arrive and break up the party... I love when he comes in though because it's sort of like a distorted form of courtship...he comes in every time I'm working, seeks me out, starts convo with me...every time he comes in we learn a little bit more about each other. Today was sort of monumental for us. We shared a bit of academic and professional experience...ya know, where we went to school and the various jobs we work...we talked about books and art and trees. Good stuff. And he's incredibly attractive. Normally I get all weird and nervous around incredibly attractive men (and I refer to him as a man because I found out today that he's 33, a man indeed), but with Bret(t) (I've yet to figure out if he spells it with one or two t's) I'm completely comfortable...not only am I completely comfortable, I might be a little too at ease with him...especially since I look like shitake mushrooms when I get to work at 5:15 in the morning...it's weird how honest he is with me, and I likewise...considering we're merely coffee shop acquaintances...it's a distorted sort of courtship...and I'm thrilled with it.

Second.

I got off work at 7:51 am this morning. Weird. I was supposed to work until 10 but because we were abnormally slow, my boss shoo'ed me out of the restaurant two hours before I was scheduled to leave. Pity me. Although I won't be making that extra eighteen dollars for those two hours, I got the rest of my morning to go on a beautifully long run along the beach. It was magical. And much needed. I think I went out for about 6 miles which is a record for my past couple months. I've neglected my passion for running as of late, due to various other clutterous life occurrences. But fear no more little running shoes, I will be donning you far more often as I slowly but surely feel myself settling into this new "season" of life.

Third.

I met my soul mate. Yeah, she's a girl. But we're going to be friends for both this life and that eternal one too. I just know it. Her name is Ashlee. And she's incredible. You know that expression "like two peas in a pod?" Well I'm one pea, and she's the other. My apartment was going to be our pod because she was almost going to move in with us, which is how I met her...but things sorta fell through...but I was adamant about meeting up with her because I knew that she was my soul mate. Ok, I guess soul mate is a little too endearing for us at this point in our friendship, but she's really rad and I'm totally stoked on her right now. She's from Sisters, Oregon. My favorite city in this country. She's a personal trainer for old people, and Madonna. Not that Madonna's old or anything. I mean she's getting there, but yeah, Ashlee teaches Madonna aqua aerobics. So I'm pretty much cool by association. I think I might start telling people that I know Madonna. And I think I might start going to Ashlee's aquatics class, so that mayyyybe Madonna might accidentally splash me at some point during the class and then I can rave about it to everyone I know..."OH MY GOSHHHH...Madonna, yeah, THE MADONNA, yeah she splashed me once. I was in the row right behind her at this aqua aerobics class in Santa Barbara. And she splashed me! Can you believe it. If only it wasn't already water, I would never wash it off. I can't believe that the same water that touched her body, touched mine. Oh my gosh. That is soooo cool." Ok, that's enough...but seriously, Ashlee is Madonna's aqua aerobics instructor. And she loves Jesus. And she's super fun. And she's from Sisters. So yeah. I got myself a new bestie.

Fourth.

I had one of my tests at Sandbar today...for those of you who don't know, since I haven't really declared it on my blog yet, I am officially a bartender. Ok, not officially yet, because I actually haven't worked a shift behind the bar yet...but I got hired as a bartender at the hottest restuarant/bar/nightclub in town...and by hottest, I mean most popular. So I had one of my tests today, I have to take a series of four tests on the menu and pricing and drink recipes and such, and I totally aced that ish. So I'm stoked on that!!

Fifth.

I've spent the last month of my life not only working my ass off at Goleta Coffee and nannying, I've been writing...a lot. I told you guys about that Santa Barbara Guide that I'd been commissioned to write...well I finished it. And it went live today!! You have to check it out! I wrote all the content on this site, http://santabarbara.co/. You have to go read it!! I'm so stoked on life right now.

I get to spend Thanksgiving with my brother. Which is huge. We haven't spent a holiday together in a really long time. I have new brakes and fresh oil in my car. I found another box of books in the garage, which is like Christmas come early, and I think we might have solved my roommate problem...we've been searching for a new roommate and we have to have someone move in by the first...and I think we finally found someone...just in the nick of time.

Praise Jesus.

Raving Ranter.

While I was away at camp, blinkers became obsolete.

I honestly believe this to be true, from the bottom of my fiercely road-raging heart.

While I was away at camp, I became a bad driver. Or maybe I always was one. But more and more I'm deciding that I probably piss people off more with my driving than they piss me off with their driving...(I couldn't really figure out how to say this without confusing you, so good luck figuring out what I meant). And people piss me off a lot with their driving.

Because I have road rage.

I'm impatient. I have a lead foot. Which means I speed up, only to stop suddenly, only to narrowly avoid rear-ending and being rear-ended. I without fail whisper, speak, and shout at least a dozen obscenities during each of my encounters with a moving vehicle.

A lot of the streets are narrow here in Santa Barbara. So narrow only one car can fit through at a time. I'm always the first one to go. The roads are windy. Sometimes I cut corners because it's faster.

Both of these burdensome street attributes accounts for the outrageous amount of head on collisions I've narrowly avoided.

I'm making myself sound like an atrocious driver simply so I don't have to feel guilty for complaining about this atrocity that has struck our country, or maybe just my region of the country, with such magnitude that it can only be constituted as an act of God. God, why would you do this to me?

Why would you smite everyone into submission so that they might conspire against me...conspire against me and make a unanimous decision...to never use blinkers again.

Honestly, my biggest pet peeve, the biggest one within my entire existence, is that of people neglecting to use their blinkers.

I don't remember how many times I've almost been in an accident due to people's lack of flicking.

That's all it takes. A simple flick of the finger to flip on the blinker. Flick. Aaannnd done. Accident avoided. Good Samaritan recognition for not only obeying the law but for exercising common courtesy in warning the person both behind me, and in front of me, that yes, I am indeed going to make a turn, or change lanes. Nothing lost. Everything gained. Where did the expression Good Samaritan come from anyways...biblically, Samaritans are bad. Right? Moving on...

Today I did something I'm not very proud of. I let the lack of blinkerage get to me. And I flashed my brights on a car who was driving in front of me, that turned without using their blinker.

Again, I'm not proud. I'm aware that I shouldn't follow so closely as to be bothered when people turn without using their blinkers. If I were to give the allotted three car's length distance between my bumper and his, his lack of blinker wouldn't have offended me so coarsely, end resulting in my overall dignity-checking bright-flashing incident.

If that makes any sense.

But still.

It's the principle of the matter.

We have blinkers on our vehicles for a reason.

Thus, we should use them.

I commend people like you William Anthony Beatty-Tinsay, for using your blinker at camp, even when everyone else made fun of you, even when you were simply turning into your parking spot outside the intern condo, because people like you significantly reduce the amount of slightly slurred curse words that splash out of my mouth whenever I'm driving.

And in other news, I bought a book called "Stuff Christians Like" today, and I'm obsessed.

Three or four blessing pats when side-hugging a member of the opposite sex?

Within the first paragraph, virgins are referred to as unicorns of purity. Say no more. Purchase made. And endless laughter will ensue as I laugh at Christians, myself included. I honestly adore people that have the audacity to make Jesus funny. To make fun of people who love Jesus. To make fun of ourselves and each other and laugh, because laughter is remedial and we all could use a dose. 

Buy this book.

It's absolutely gullet-jiggling.

Am I going to hell because I ranted about blinkers, and then gloated about a book that makes fun of Christians?

Egads.

I'm applying to Portland State University.

The MFA program for creative writing.

There I said it.

Which means I'm doing it.

For realsies.

That's all.

Rest Assured, but not Insured.

I've legitimately flown off the handle. I'm Sabrina the Post College Aged Witch and I'm no longer using my broom as a method of transportation, I'm using it as a weapon.

I'm trying to get insurance coverage. And it's a nightmare.

I worked for YoungLife. Incredible benefits and medical coverage. Praise the Lord I never mauled my hand in the giant Hobart mixing machine or fell off the high dive trying to get a great shot of the pool olympics, but if something freak accident-like should have happened, I would have been covered. Thanks to YoungLife.

Now that I've been kicked out of the campy nest, I'm plummeting to my demise below because it takes 30 FREAKING DAYS to process an individual insurance application. What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime? Twiddle my thumbs and hope that I don't get hit by a drunk driver?

I got so angry with the lady on the phone, the 9-5'er that probably despises her job and spoke to me with no emotion at all. My temper was clearly escalating and she did nothing to appease me aside from repeating herself over and over again. So I eventually hung up on her. Hope that doesn't keep me from getting approved. IN A MONTH!!

Seriously though, what the hell?

I have roller derby practice tonight and they won't let me skate unless I have insurance. Pisser.

It's times like these when I hate America. A month? Seriously?

Of course, Of course.

This edition of the blog will be a whacked out version of the nanny diaries...

I've been hanging out with children more than adults these days and they're certainly more entertaining, at least to me.

Wild at heart, with an imagination quite comparable, my life has been more joyful due to the random children I call friends.

There's the ever constant Jemma and Rovenna. Always stealing my heart. I had a photo shoot with Rovenna at a park the other day, just as the sun was setting. She's beautiful. She's nine years old and some of the shots I was getting of her are unbelievable. Her poses and facial expressions, wow. She wants to be a fashion designer when she grows up, and I'd say she's got a modeling career in her future as well. I lost my usb cord or you'd get some of those stunning photos. My sincerest apologies.

Jemma is just as incredible. She's brilliant. We're constantly having deep conversations where she teaches me new things. Honestly, she's fifteen and smarter than me. I can't wait to see what ivy league school she ends up dominating.

And then there was Teddy and Robie. The terrorist twins I babysat a couple weeks ago. We went to baby gym and they wreaked havoc on all the other children. They're two and a half. Terrible terrible two and a half. And they have a newborn brother, making the environment that much more catastrophic.

A week and a half ago I babysat 15 month old Max. Adorable. So cuddly. And smiley. And easy. I took him out for two 30 minute walks on his trike..the kind that has the giant handle so you just push em along. So fun. Mom was rollin in the dough. Her rock was way too fat.

Then there was three year old Caroline. Gorgeous blue eyes and super crazy blonde hair. Crazy blonde to go with her crazy personality. She is zany. So fun. So loud. Boisterous. Full of character. I loved it. The answer to every yes or no question, "of course, of course." Last night I watched her while her mom partook in a wine tasting extravaganza at a wicked Montecito mansion. I watched Caroline and helped sit for 3 yr old Isabella and a less than 1 yr old Eddie. So presh. I really just love kids. I always say that I'm ready to have my own, but for now I'll just care for other people's kids, and get paid for it.

Kiddies. I love them. So much.

I'm gonna go wash the play-dough residue off my skin.

Good night.

Another Word for Nestled.

I'm writing a guide to Santa Barbara.

I'm currently researching and writing about all the best hotels and resorts to stay.

And every single one of their opening paragraphs on the homepages of their websites say they are "nestled." Nestled in the foothills of the Santa Ynez mountains. Nestled between the beach and the mountains. Nestled near the golf course. Nestled next to State Street and shopping. Nestled here. Nestled there. Nestled everywhere.

Nestled just became one of those dead words that your second grade teacher warned you not to use. Other examples include nice, and very, and like, and bad, and good. Throw nestled in there now because it's tired and over-used. And I'm a culprit.

I thought I was being cute and cunning when I threw nestled into the overview of my guide.

Apparently, I'm just like all the rest. Nestled into the clan of dead word executors.