I, [Not] Robot

You know your job is a good one when you get yelled at for looking tired because it is unprofessional. Emotions have gone to the unprofessional category with jeans, Reefs and making jokes clients names. Like those sisters named Dorothy and Em.
Moral? I will still make fun of clients. I will still wear my Reefs on a daily basis. And I will still be tired. Because I am not a robot.

Like cradling a sack of sugar. For weight and deliciousness.

I know that everyone says the new baby that they've seen for the first time is the cutest baby they've ever seen, but I just want to make it clear that if there were a pita fold sandwich that had the itty-bittiest chin and nose of my brand spanking new nephew, Charlie, I would eat it.

And then I would not drive home with my mother who, bless her heart in her aging age is starting to leave her blinker on which fulfills one of my top pet peeves, just above paying for refills and people who major in communications.

Google research confirms that those orange things are, in fact, fish eggs. Ew?

Things I thought during the Post-Sushi Hunger*:

1. Do I enjoy the musical entertainment of the Polyphonic Spree to go see them in their robes at the Fine Line next month?
2. If I do enjoy them enough to go see them in robes, am I risking my sanity in the name of a band that has denied accusations of being a cult?
3. Yes, I do understand that at a cult's hang out place, their napkins say "we are not a cult".
4. Is it possible to sweat one's own body weight?
5. How many layers of skin can I peel away from my hairline and knee pits before pure muscle is exposed?
6. On a scale of 1 to 10, how annoying is OAR?
   

*Post-Sushi Hunger: That moment approx. 2-3 hours after you've eaten sushi, when the content feeling of being comfortably full of nutritional goodness wears off and you are overtaken with intense hunger that usually results in hamburgers and fried food.

Only when I have been brainwashed by a thirty seven hour bus ride will I partake in sing-a-longs

It is 8:46 pm just now, which is approximately nine hours and forty six minutes later than we have gotten home from Juarez in previous years. Our across-the-nation driving adventure was bound for doom from the moment we woke up an hour earlier than need be yesterday morning, followed by many things that eventually led to a moment of weakness in which I let someone draw large polka dots on my face.

Some factors:

• A bus driver who chose to relieve himself (numero dos, people) ten minutes after a rest stop in the bathroom that he lectured was only for emergencies. Plus, he wouldn't own up to it and claimed that he was only making phone calls
• The other bus driver who accused us of being racist
• Intense heat->overheating->(4) twenty minute stops sans AC and windows
• Eating lunch and then passing place of lunch one hour later
• Late night storm->fogged windows->long periods of no AC or windows->missed turn->20 minute detour
• Insanity that set in at approximately 11 pm which led to emotional breakdowns in the forms of crying, yelling, laughing, eating, and vom
• Double dose of sleeping pills->sleeping in a sitting position->double vision, kankles

It was an otherwise successful trip. Kids are still cute and in dire need, one in particular named Alan (pronunciation: Ah-Lon) who I met four years ago is now eight and doing well. I came home with new punk-rock bangs, the artistic scissor workings of Sri, stylist at large who now has me thinking about a pixie haircut.
Of course before I make any brash decisions about my appearance I vow to:

1. Shower.
2. Sleep.
3. Google research.
   

Because it takes us as long to get through Texas as it does the rest of the country

To cap off the fourth week of busy, I'm headed off to Mexico in the wee hours tomorrow. I'm over the bulk of the packing anxiety; it tends to get less stressful if I've been on a trip before, and I've really gotten the hang of cross-referencing packing lists. I'm considering it as a field of study when my plans as a professional mermaid fall through, and just after I pursue my aspiration of becoming a full-time daydreamer.
I am guaranteeing no internet access, and am also guaranteeing that I will still not have learned how to spell the word "guarantee" before I get back. Big ups to the new Firefox for auto spell check.
Have a pleasant week, interwebs. Make good choices and pray for my sanity on the cumulative 60 hour bus ride.

Things to be Thankful For

1. That this happened today and not one week ago when we were right in it's paths
1. That they don't think there were any casualties
2. That it didn't hit Coban, where they can't handle this sort of damage
2. For not falling on stage last night, which is saying very little when that one kid did a backflip and didn't fall
3. For the quick wit of sisters- Something involving a certain boyfriend resembling a certain brother, responded with something about one of us gaining a substantial amount of weight
4. For Xanax during times of large party planning

Foot in Mouth. Or Something to the Likes.

I've made an ass of myself.
Again.
I walked into a the party of someone that was not the Mr. Fix-It, cute-haired, glasses-wearing, trumpet player that I thought it was. And not even the kind where you open the door, don't recognize the furniture, and subtly walk out. The kind where you walk in, talk to some people, scope out the food array, grab a Diet Coke and talk to the mom before you realize.

Tomorrow, I walk and will try and take part in not-falling and enjoying the forced lifetime moment celebration. And Sister will come. Ripe and armed with butter knives to stab anyone who crosses her 9-month preggo path.

The Guat: By the Numbers

(.6) Hours of sleep the last night.
(3) Times we almost died
(24) Hours driving in vehicles without seat belts
(0) Hours driving in vehicles with seat belts
(2) Times I experienced a natural marvel because of eustress
(1) Piece of volcanic rock stuck in my finger
(9) Toe nails that Matt still has
(1) Radio show to prove our journey
(1) Diploma

Damnit.

Things just now realized:

1. The coffee we pounded at the monastery all week long was decaf.
   

Nothing else really matters.

Love from Antigua.

Blessings to be Counted

Still in Coban, experiencing extreme ends of the spectrum of life. (For lovely pictures see here)
For instance, the tour of the local coffee plantation yesterday, we smelled one of the best smells (freshly picked, washed, selected and toasted Guatemalan coffee beans) and saw a beautiful tree (avocado tree: surprisingly ginormous and cauliflower-like).
And today, we saw the absolute worst living situation I've ever seen or heard of. The people in this mountain crevasse which is the district garbage dump live off of the findings in the massive waste land. Food, clothes, housing materials, and the glass bottles they are sometimes lucky enough to scavenge for change. The families in this community sometimes hit bouts of such extreme poverty that they resort to selling one of their children to human traffickers for adoption or in the worst situations, organs on the black market.
I've found that most other parts that we have visited have been at least filled with some optimism about their situation- motivated to start a business, send their children to school, or join a church.
This "Basura" community is devastatingly far beyond that.
Simply, beyond hope.

Some Might Say

We've survived our first night of Guatelamali (as per Momma Muffin's pronunciation).
Things we've done that have been sponsored by medication:

1. Wake up at 2:45 am
   
2. Fly
3. Fly
4. Forget library book on plane.
1. Shoot.
5. Drive.
   
1. Here, we realized that the exchange rate for Queztales is 7.70 to the dollar, and the exchange rate for time is approximately two Guatemalan hours to every American hour. So when they say "three hour bus ride" they really mean "six to seven hour bus ride". And when they say "45 minutes car ride" really they mean "two hours in a pick up bed with a cover which funnels exhaust fumes directly into your lungs".
6. Eat beans and rice in many delicious, delicious forms.
   

Abusing the internet privileges,

-Muffin

Armed with Pills. Lots and Lots of Pills.

Sometimes, when I travel, I get anxious. Real anxious.
I begin to pack things I do not need, and forget things I do. (Recounted here)
I am leaving for Guatemala in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, and Sri has taken me under her big cozy wing and made me packing lists, doctors appointments, and lent me smart traveler's things. Mostly because I've been too busy having scary dreams, cracking my knuckles in my sleep and getting pre-travel stomach and head aches.
I told the nice, big-haired doctor that I did not want diarrhea, typhoid fever, or anxiety attacks to cloud my fun, and I would be lying if I told you that my left arm was totally fine and not at all sore from the shots. And that Taylor did not have to open the Blockbuster door for me so that we could watch Remember the Titans on a Friday night to help me calm down and think about the bigger issues.

May Flowers

It is not everyday that:

1. You sneak out the back door to avoid the neighborhood block party.
   
2. Tess gets to cook with Wolfgang Puck*.
   
3. My manager tries on Nice for a size, because apparently Icy Bitch got boring, or is not fashion-forward for springtime.
   

*Much cooler than those times she met Justin Timberlake, Ashlee Simpson and Barack Obama.

A Bit of Monday Sentiment

Every once in awhile, someone dies that you wish you'd gotten the chance to know better. The kind of person who wanted you to succeed in the things you loved. The kind of person who writes plays in French during her last weeks of life. The kind of person who sends you the entire series of Anne of the Green Gables in a beautiful hard cover set when you told her that you like to read. The kind of person who studies Irish and flies her friends to the UK and tells them she won a trip when really she just wants their company on her hunt for international literature. And the kind of person who marries a writer named Stuart and lives in the Connecticut countryside.

I hope I get to meet more people like Sheila in my time.

Oscar

At our home, we have many trash cans to completely minimize the distance needed to walk to dispose of anything. This is mainly to ensure that we don't miss any commercials and maintain our nonathletic physique, we're not ready to surprise the world just yet.
Growing up we always had this nasty trash can that one of my brothers told me was pink at one time. Recently, it got replaced with a mysterious blue trash can that you step on to open the top. I would have made a bigger deal about the sentiment I held towards the pink one, but this new one seems to trap the demonic scents of waste within itself, while before they were looming about for everyone to smell.
But today, I stepped on the step to throw away my yogurt cup, and I cannot explain to you the smell that escaped from the mouth of the receptacle. Rotting provolone? No. Phantom litter box of Fuzz, my childhood pet rabbit? No. Rotting remains of something that once walked the earth? Perhaps.
So, my point, you ask? Where is the line of sanity between instant, hell-born stink for only a moment, and looming stale garbage air that you have to breath on a day-to-day? And who can I pay in yogurt to come empty my trash can?

Muse Me

Ways to inspire me in a bout of uninspired boredom:

1. Name two of your children "Dorthy" and "Glenda" and have them both register at my place of work.
   
2. Create a new feature on the database which allows you to see cumulative lifetime spending at my place of work and then spend $69,000 on vitamins for me to judge.
   
3. Beat the Kinko's system and send your color copies to work with Pop where he can work his free copy machine magic.
   
4. Revisit life before online picture storage and celebrate all the money you wasted on developing pictures of people in mid-sneeze, not smiling, are stuck on the "ch" of cheese, or are just straight up blurry. That's right. Straight up.
   

Karma Chameleon

I am telling you right now, people, that there is actually only one way to skin a cat.
Do not ask me how I know this, because if you do, I will be obligated to tell you that I dissected a pregnant house cat today, which we named Boy George for desensitizing effects.
There were many times when I got to say "Scalpel" and someone handed me a scalpel. And perhaps a time or two when That Girl and I played Name That Tune on the femoral artery.

Cross-Shaped Breakouts and Other Religious Hangovers

I spent last night grabbing Anna by the shoulder, and wiping the chrism off of her face when Archbishop Flynn sealed her with the sacrament. I resisted every temptation to break into song when we stepped to the right, because we sat in the front row where Jesus can see you in plain sight. We celebrated with tapas and churros and for just one night, Kelly and I were a part of a family filled with so much love, it's intoxicating.

But that's okay, my family is great too. Because when I got home last night, there was a note on the keyboard from Pop telling me of the spare ribs he cooked for dinner by himself.
Two things are great about this:

1. That he knew I could not ignore a note that may as well directly block me from oxygen.
2. The note offered spare ribs at 10:30 at night.
   

Coping Mechanism: Hate Mail

Dear Grey's Anatomy-

Your story lines have gotten drier than a bowl of shredded wheat sans milk.
Tonight's two hour "event" was an event which I spent the entire time wishing that I had showered and that had better things to do than argue with Small Terrier about space on the couch.
You SUCK.

Get a life,

-Planet Earth

The first are the words of my mother, the second voiced at a church group. Among other reasons I don't want children.

"I found some Pogs the other day...are they still popular?"

"I have a Crock Pot we can use!"
"I think I could get us some drugs.."
"I don't know anything."