nerves.

Started moving out today.

This is really happening.

on faith.

I'm cooking. Right now. This very moment. Yup. First time I've cooked in ages. I'd like to do it more often. It feels nice.

Not only am I cooking, but I'm cooking for more than just one. Which is the way I prefer it. Ok, ok...I'm only cooking for two, but hey, that's double the belly space, which makes cooking worth something more than just feeding my own face.

I'm moving out of my house in less than two weeks.

I looked into buying a hammock today and was largely unsuccessful...but don't you worry, the adventurist is back in action. I will find a hammock and I will become an expert tree slinger by the end of this summer.

I'm getting a gym membership at 24 hour fitness...for showering purposes, and to work out too of course.

As the days slip by, I get more and more excited. And a little bit nervous. But more excited than nervous. I haven't decided what my weapon of choice is going to be yet. I'm not counting on needing one, but I shouldn't be caught without one, should the need arise.

I'm receiving advice warmly if you've got any for me.

Vagabondage here I cooooome.

chin up.

For the first time in a long time, I sort of have an idea of what I want to do with the next couple months of life.

I'm going to pursue photography. Whole-heartedly.

I know, I know, most people go to school and drop thousands of dollars on learning how to take pictures. Well, I'm gonna shadow my friend Phil, who has successfully developed his own photography business on his own without the help of a degree in photography.

So there.

I'm also moving out of my house within the next two weeks.

I'm going to be homeless for the summer. And I'm thrilled with the idea.

Stay tuned for more info as I arrive back in le Santa Barbara.

Still in transit.

PS. Oregon was wonderful in case you were wondering. Full of deer, and friends, coffee, and hippies. 

apprehended.

It's been a long time since I've been on a road trip of this magnitude. A whopping 6 months at least...actually 7 1/2 to be more precise.

I've experienced weather of all sorts in the past 24 hours. Rain. Snow. Hail. Fierce wind. And of course, lethal rocks.

Yes, I've played victim to a rogue rock. Some silly semi chucked it at my windshield.

Awesome.

Sitting here in Reno, NV. Biggest little city in the world. Who really knows what that means anyway. And why there's such notoriety in claiming it to be so.

Anyway, I'm off to Oregon today. There's caffeine in the bloodstream, about to be a copious amount of food in the belly, sleep crust freshly removed from the eyeballs and of course, some plastic mainstream pop waiting patiently to be played on the radio.

Love road trips. Love adventure. There's anxiety in my heart but hopefully it dwindles upon arrival.

Arrival at camp.

I'll park my car and pop the trunk. The dirty laundry's out for all to see.

I don't really know what this trip has in store for me. What God inside this trip has in store for me.

Trying to be open. Unabashedly honest.

I'm scared.

Wish me luck. Me sandwiched between wish and luck. Ha. That's just poppycock.

warm fuzzies.

In this moment, I am happy.

Sitting with my family in the living room watching ABDC.

Content. 

qualms.

Charlie Sheen party is tonight at Sandbar.

Along with Westmont College's grad party.

Conflict of interests?

Yes.

Welcome to my life.

heartbeats.

It's been a month. Today marks a month since I've had any contact with that man I fell in love with.

I saw him once with his mom and children at Yogurtland. We didn't acknowledge each other.

You know that Sheryl Crow song, The First Cut is the Deepest? Yeah, well it's true. I still think about him all the time. And I desperately want to reach out to him. But I am respecting his wishes, and instead I keep a journal for him.

Is that pathetic or what?

Whenever I think about him, or have the sudden urge to call or text him, I pull out the notebook. It's a spiral bound notebook. Has a tandem bicycle on the front. Sometimes I date the things I write. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes the messages are brief. Sometimes they're long. I skip lines and follow no form or style. Sometimes they're more like poems. There are magazine clippings and such. Collages of sorts. Voice through art.

I miss him. Pretty much everyday.

Some days are worse than others. Sometimes I still cry.

I pray for him sometimes. Not that he'll come back to me, but that he's happy. Finding his way toward being whole. And accepting of love.

sun-slapped skin.

Shoot. Days keep slipping through the cracks.

Yesterday I was busy sun-bathing for most of the day, and recovering from dancing and slinging my little heart out at 2Legit Tuesday. Oh, and did I mention the merciless Poke-ball of sneezes that exploded all over my face and out of my throat, therefore causing an infection.

Pik-a-CHOO!!

I do not choose  you. Now leave me alone so these raw patches of skin beneath my nose can heal.

I'm not gonna lie. I'm actually a little bit thrilled with the idea of promoting 90's night. It's a brand new weekly event so yes, there's some groundwork that needs to be done, but soon enough it's going to carry itself and I'll be making money every Tuesday, for really doing nothing. Except screaming out the indecipherable words to Circle of Life. Yes, the DJ played that little gem from The Lion King Tuesday night.

Jaaaaaaalaaapenoooos on myyyyyy banana bread...that's always what the intro line to that song sounds like to me. Try it. Totally works. Does it make sense? No. But it feeds that fluffy facade that you actually know African grasslands Rafiki language. And that's pretty awesome.

I adore 90's music, and they're letting me bartend tuesday nights as well as promote, so I can potentially be walking away with a loooott of money every Tuesday...not to mention I get to spend my night dancing to my favorite music. So all in all, I'm excited for this endeavor. And my manager told me that after a couple weeks, if I really decide I don't want to do it, then I can tell him and he will find someone else.

It's nice to know that I'm not trapped. In the 90's.

ahem.

Figured I'd make up for skipping a day by bloggity blogging twice in one.

BAM.

I took the promoting job. HAAAA.

Stamp a big fat 'I told you so' on all your foreheads.

Welcome to my disease, my affliction, not contagious, but certainly cumbersome.

It's called icantdenitis.

I couldn't possibly deny you whatever it is that you're asking of me. So I'll smile and nod and accept all egregious tasks you bestow upon me until I've dug my dark hole that I apparently like to wallow in, and then I'll scratch my way up all petty like trying to gain your what? Oh yeaaaahhhh, your acceptance.

I've done it again. Said yes to something a little too big for me to chew, so I'm just gonna shove it to the side of my mouth and let my saliva break it down a bit.

Pardon my puffy cheeks.

I'm gonna go practice my cabbage patch because apparently I'm gonna be doing it a lot. Oh 90's night. You're just too legit to quit.

pathetic. anything but copacetic.

Oops. Forgot a day again. My bad.

I had an interview at another restaurant this morning. Look at me traiting...as in caught in the act of being a traitor. It was quite possibly the shortest interview I've ever had. I'm pretty sure this short interview was a good thing because I'm pretty sure I got the job...I mean, if availability and such works out, then yes, I'm hired. But the brevity of the afore-mentioned interview is still a bit miffing. Traiting. Miffing. That's good diction right thurr.

Anyway, this restaurant is on the waterfront. It's absolutely beautiful and I'm so ready to get my expo on there.

Or am I?

An expo is basically a glamourized title for a food runner. A server's little minion. An expo is a notch above busser and maybe half a notch above hostess. I'm the cream of the crop at Sandbar as a bartender. People work their asses off for years to get where I'm at. Am I ungrateful? No. Am I willing to step all the way down to expo at a hot shot seafood restaurant right on the water for the sake of my own sanity and well-being? Maybe.

And I say maybe because I have a college degree. This morning I was having epiphanies left and right as I cried my way home from taking my girls to school, the ones I've nannied for almost three years now. I have a college degree, but I didn't do it right. I should have been interning my senior year in college instead of attending late night happy hour at the local bowling alley every Thursday night. Instead of slinging caffeinated beverages at the earliest of early hours three mornings a week. Instead of drilling myself into the ground pursuing kids for Christ, when really all it seems I was pursuing was acceptance. Baskets full of pats on the back.

It all boils down to that book I was reading called The Element. Finding my passions in life and finding jobs that are conducive to those passions. I'm good at promoting, but my heart's not in the product I'm promoting. My heart is in art, writing, creating. My heart is in interacting with people, talking, laughing, and making people laugh.

I'm watching my soul circle the drain daily at Sandbar. It's not where I want to be. I have a meeting in 40 minutes with one of my managers. He's going to try and convince me to take on the task of promoting every Tuesday night. 90's night. Too legit Tuesday. Yes, I love the glossy color-coated 90's. But no, I don't have the time or energy or the passssssionnn to promote said 90's night every single week. But I've always been easily swayed. I'm like a limp noodle and I'll flop where you wish.

As long as you'll accept me.

lucky harms.

I wish I could properly convey through words the agony I've endured in this day.

Hundreds, and I say hundreds without the slightest bit of exaggeration, of cuts reside on these weathered hands of mind. It's honestly as if a couple hundred tiny little leprechauns shoved their tiny little daggers into my hands looking for gold or something I'm not certain.

Welcome to my life as a bartender. Because my job is so fierce and fast paced I cut my hands on everything, from ice, to shards of glass, to knives, and apple slicers. You'd think I'd be more careful but alas, I am not. The bruises all over my body are a testament to that as well.

So hundreds of small leprechaun dagger sized cuts. You know what hurts worse than the knives going in...

..dousing said cuts in fresh lime juice. Oh yeah. Feel the ferocious sting. Wince with me now.

Today hurt. I'm actually sore from my shift yesterday. I worked from 2pm to 11pm with no break. I hit 2,500 in sales by myself. We were slammed yesterday. And when I say slammed, I mean drunk sorority girls were slamming their foreheads against the bar as they hit the wall of inebriation. Oh, and slammed as in absurdly busy.

It was ASVT and alumni weekend. All sorority volleyball tournament. And UCSB debaucherous ragers back for another round post cap and gown. Makes for one hell of a day-drinking escapade at Sandbar.

I'm gonna go nurse my cuts. Enjoy this lovely Sunday good and faithful readers.