new.

I have a new routine that I'm loving. Well, to be honest, I'm not exactly sure what constitutes a real "routine," but I'm pretty sure this has potential. Conveniently, on the route I drive to work every morning is located a Whole Foods. It's more of a neighborhood-ish type of WF--still overpriced and a bit sold out, but with more of a local, home-y feel. Despite its shortcomings, I prefer it to the other stores. Today I had a few extra pre-work minutes, so I stopped in for a coffee. The barista, who I will only refer to as Beanz, quickly talked me out of an iced coffee + soy because it would be too watered down and instead convinced me to have an iced Americano. It only took me about 3 seconds of contemplation to cave and go with her suggestion. In retrospect, I wish I wouldn't have because now I have this weird, mildy nauseating coffee buzz that I fully blame on Beanz. Lesson learned.

While Beanz was brewing my Americano we had a little conversation about cold vs. warm coffee and of course . . . the weather. Gross. She told me some elaborate story about biking in gorg weather which turned into sleety hail within minutes and then ended it with a "that's Colorado weather for ya!" OK. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is convinced that their state should take home the blue ribbon for eff'd up weather. Nebraskans, Michiganders, Connecticutters, Californians (seriously? get over it CA.), Wyomians (?) . . . the list goes on. So I took Beanz with a grain of salt, wished her well for her day, and went on my merry way to the muffin case. Mmm raisin bran muffinnnnn.

The checkout line guy is by far my favorite part of this little routine. I think I'll refer to him as Chip. He looks like a Chip. He's this teeny sprite of a man with enough energy to power seven of my office buildings. He always has something obscure to say and truth be told, I want to be his friend. I hope he hasn't fully picked up on that fact yet because I'm really trying to play it cool and ease into our regular customer/cashier friendship, but he seems pretty perceptive. Anyway, today Chip was asking another customer and me what "wie getz" means . . . so I think to myself, "Self: this is your chance! You know this!" So I nonchalantly said, "it means 'what's up' in German . . . " (loosely. I know it's more like "How are you?" but whatever) Chip's face lit up and the other customer, slightly shocked, turned to me and said, "Ahhhh well, danke schoen" in what had to have been the worst German accent recorded in the history of sound waves. I'll give him credit for knowing at least that, I guess. Chip, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He then told me that he knows how to say hello and good-bye in seven different languages, but that's as far as it gets. I assured him that at least he has some way to speak to other people and the rest could be done through visual cues . . . and some other pointless jargon . . . then he pointed to a button on his apron (ooo flair) that was a picture of Earth, leaned in and half-whispered, "Hey, we're all on this crazy life boat together, right?"

He couldn't be more right about that.

bob.

Today is a Bob kind of day. Three Little Birds. No Woman No Cry, Redemption Song, Turn Your Lights Down Low (with Lo Hill). Saang it saang it Bob. If I could live in any other era, it would be his. And I would be friends with Janis and Jimmy Cliff and Peter, Paul and Mary. Yes.

Ooooooooo can you imagine? Wake up on a Thursday morning in July, which would be at like . . . 10 . . . roll over and give your hungover love a kiss, then relax under the sheets for the next hour knowing the only thing you have to do that day is put some jeans on and a t-shirt over your bra-less bod (duh), then go for stroll in the park picking daisies until you have to mosey over to sound check at your local venue, which happens to be a run-down coffee-shop-turned-bar at night. Then you might throw your hair back (guys, this goes for you too), change into a smaller t-shirt, then hit the stage and blow some minds. At least that's what I picture Janis' life was like, or Mama Cass . . . obbbbviously mine is sans "nose treats" and "ham sandwiches," but then again, that wasn't my point. I think Bob knew something too many people don't: how to liiiiiiiiiiive. And then he sang about it. Even. Better.

energize.

I'm halfway through a Vuka (my new favorite thing) . . . and am reminded for the 500,000th time that I should only drink energy drinks unless I rrrrrreally need it. [Case in point: I drank a Red Bull (mmm) right before ascending my first 14er. Hungover, dehydrated and I decided to throw in some artificial energy. Awesome. About a quarter of the way up I could have sworn up and down I was drunk, then soon after my legs stopped wanting to move (thanks RB), but once I saw the little fat kid bounding down the trail I felt a renewed sense of purpose and somehow made it to the top. I guess I'm an adrenaline junkie. Or something like that.]

But sitting here feeling all jittery and wishing I had a 14er to climb, all I can do is wait it out. Good thing I bought some Valerian Root to knock me out tonight. For those unaware, Valerian is an herbal supplement that is supposed mellow you out before bed then support a full night's sleep. One of my volleyball teammates gave me a sample last week. You have to get over the fact that the pills smell like poo. Like, literally, thought I was eating a George'n'Stella drop. But once you're over and above that, it's pretty magical. Or at least it was when mixed with the tropical vodka-squirt and beer deliciousness I threw back at our most recent victory party. Didn't hurt, that's all I'm gonna say. Funny also that I happen to be jammin to Collie Buddz at the moment... Be faithful to your brother man, Be faithful to your herbs . . . And such things.

Good thing tonight my volleyball team is playing again. Hopefully I'll get rid of some of this energy (and can settle in for a quality night of Victory Valerian Dreams--ummm yes please). It's amazing how great it feels putting the ball down in front of (or in) the other team's face. Or blocking a shot; holy bliss. I tend to get really animated and yell mostly unintelligible words with the help of my friend Alex. He encourages it, really. Probably not the best thing, but actually I think I live for it during the games. We're the king and queen of the back row in our vball world so yelling random sheeit just fits. Thank God I'm not the only weird kid out there. I've also been weighing the pros and cons of implementing the butt-slap into our point celebrations. To be honest, I've always been more of a fan of the classic high-five, leaving other people's booties to themselves. I think I did it once in a high school hoops game and immediately regretted that decision. Sorry, but slapping girls' asses isn't in my repertoire of forte's. Strong point? I think so. But maybe it's time to mix things up. Or who knows, maybe an elbow grab? Ooooo always a winner.

musings for the half-hearted.

Driving from an insurance meeting (to be discussed later) this morning and back to my office, it was all I could do to turn up loud, angry music to drown out some thoughts. It's a rare occasion that I have moments like this, but like my brother told me a couple days ago, "Just listen to some music. You'll feel better." He's always right with that. Soooo I listened to Sun's Gonna Rise for a little inspiration (not angry, I know, but therapeutic nonetheless) then went through a shuffle until I could find something loud and even borderline obnoxious, particularly at the volume I was blasting it. Yeasayer, Florence + The Machine, Outkast. I'm pretty sure Outkast ended up being my favorite--Gasoline Dreams--a little anti-American of them, but whatever, they just needed to say what they needed to say. It all was wrapped up with my favorite song in the universe: Your Body is a Wonderland. Yes, yes it is John. That song still makes me happy, even after 8 years of constant replays in my car. And I'm not even ashamed to admit it.

But onto happier? musings . . . I attended my second elite insurance group meeting this morning and by gum this one was actually good. I still don't really know what I'm doing there and continue to get weird looks that say, "Um, excuse me honey, the mall is that way," or "I wish my boobs were still above my belt line," or "Ha I'd like to see you try to come up with a sweet insurance claim story that can top what I've experienced in my 20+ years here--I'm a veteran, bitch, start taking notes . . . " Really endearing. I walked in and immediately was greeted by someone who said in a very patronizing tone, "Oh and don't even worry about being late because we're having some technical difficulties . . . (as if I cared about being late) but go ahead and have a seat; breakfast is in there." I forced a polite smile and found a seat in the back (thank God).

The information from today's presentation was really interesting (one point: my job). What of course was more entertaining to me were the severe techincal difficulties they kept enduring, particularly because it was being run by a group of private investigators, or as they more affectionately refer to themselves: "gators." These gators all looked and sounded the same. Mid-forties, slicked back hair, relatively fit, tight pants not leaving enough up to the imagination, and voices so soft I forgot a couple times I wasn't actually sitting in a library learning about Mr. Dewey and his silly system. After two hours of build-up and those same two hours of fanangling with a Quicktime app to show a video, we got to watch 5 minutes of a man walking to and from a doctor's appointment and around his filthy yard. Negative five points to the presenters for falsely advertising an awesome vid. Good thing we were ensured an email that will contain all content: video, powerpoint and presentation synopsis. My palms are sweating just thinking about seeing that in my inbox! Regardless, as I mentioned before, this was definitely a step up from my prior experience. I enjoyed the information just as much as the malfunctions and of course even guffawed a little bit at some people's goofy remarks and references to their "real-world" experience. <--To which I received a few brow-raises. Pardon my inability to take too much too seriously.

earth trends.

OK. Super major question. This came to me about 5 seconds ago while turning on my iPod to get some things done. I went to Broken Bells, a swanky little group recommended to me by big brother bear, and as the synthesized keyboard started, I thought to myself Wait a minute, is this sound back in or are they being trendy for the sake of being trendy? OR are they being trendy unintentionally because they grew up listening to Devo and think keyboards, synthesizers and keytar/accordians are way too cool fa school. Maybe I shouldn't announce that I let my mind wander that far into analytic oblivion, but I consider it a valid thought. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea of trendiness. I really do get the whole idea of individualism, but what doesn't make sense to me now is that individualism has become the trend, every individual ranks in with every other individual to form an aggregate of individuals who fit nicely into what is now the norm. I fully support individualism, but feel like it's become this foray of who can out-trend who. Maybe that's just how it's always been though . . . and my thoughts aren't new news . . .

In saying all of that, I actually do like Broken Bells because despite having a few boop boops and da-dat-daas and clap-claps in their songs, they're really talented. Nice harmonies, ya know. Not quite like The Centennial though. Holy smokes that's an underrated group of talented . . . individuals. It's this stellar husband-wife combo whose voices clearly were made for each other. Like warm butta. You can cut it with a sideways spoon.

In other news, today is Earth Day and Whole Foods is giving out free Sheryl Crow grocery totes. The guy was so pleased to tell me that Sheryl designed my bag that I couldn't help but swoon right back. I didn't have the heart to tell him that while it's possible that she has a warm-fuz place in her heart for Mother N, there are clearly some strings attached. But whatever, I have a new trendy bag now. So I can go out and join the masses of one-day-a-year tree-huggers (even though I've just recently hugged another actual tree . . . true story) and proudly show off the fact that Sheryl and I are kindred in our love of dirt and such things.

Today is looking up already.

music morning.

Driving to work this morning I was in need of a little musical love. So who did I turn to? Amy Winehouse. Fuck yes. Bless her messy heart, this woman can sing. I think. I mean, I get it. They signed her because she's an unpredictably loose canon. It's why people loved Janis, obsessed over Steven and lit up at Bob shows. The less predictable, the better. So listening to her this morning, I was soothed by the fact that she sings from the depth of that. It's a parody. People love watching the irony of an addict strutting around on stage singing about how she doesn't actually need to go to rehab because her dad think she's OK. Sounds like something the Bieb might say. On the contrary, I did just gain a little more respect for her (not that it was low in the first place--I think she's great) when I read this quote: "I wouldn't say I'm a feminist but I don't like girls pretending to be stupid because it's easier." She knew exactly what she was doing with her Back to Black album. Kind of like Kesha playing the role of a cracked out idiot. She's not, but the more people buy it, the more money she makes. How did I not catch on? I think I could use a few lessons from Paris Hilton too.

After I got a little bored with Amy (apparently I have the attention span of an ant these days), I moved on to Cee Lo (freaking genius), Cold War Kids, Elbow and ended with Florence + The Machine. Yeah, my drive into trabajo today was that long. Coloradans can't drive as it is and when you add rain, you might as well cash in for the day. I'm almost embarrassed to have CO plates because of it, but then I remember my love for the mountains and all is well with the world.

I digress . . . back to Florence . . .

My friend Heidi described her reaction Dogs Days Are Over exactly how I would have . . . "This song just makes me want to go crazy." Yes. Yes it does. And by crazy, I do mean get up and dance ya face off, which I've grown accustomed to doing in random bars, much to the chagrin of trendy hipster socialites. Don't knock it till you try it. Because. It. Feels. Fantastic.

busta.

I have an undying love for Busta Rhymes that began when I was in middle school. Granted, I generally have no idea what he's saying unless it's in the song What It Is Right Now, but still . . . he's amaaaaaze. I think mostly I started liking him because other people were listening to Nelly, Mace (who the eff is that, I know), Biggie (RIP big guy) and Puff Daddy and I wanted to be different. Soooo why not go for the guy with the weird hair and rhyme-spitter that could rival an auctioneer's. He's brilliant and I'm not ashamed to shower him with compliments.
So when I heard that he had a new song out with Chris Brown, yeah I was excited to watch his mini comeback (or did he really go anywhere?), but admittedly was a little skeptical. CB collaboration? Puh-lease. But if you think about it, putting Chris's moves on stage with Busta's rhymes . . . no pun intended . . . they've got a pretty loaded deal. So sit back, pass the Courvosier, and enjoy Busta's return:

http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/chris-brown-feat-busta-rhymes-and-lil-wayne-look-at-me-now-not/20f168f95a58ec5a96b020f168f95a58ec5a96b0-881703912350?q=busta+rhymes+look+at+me+now&FORM=VIRE5

Get it right.

think tank.

This past weekend was fantastic in every sense of the word because my gentleman-friend returned to the states. This meant a couple of things for me: 1. An overwhelming amount of happiness that could only be exuded through shaky hands and loss of appetite (the exceptions being Vanilla Wafers and steak . . . go figure), and 2. Lots of one-on-one time with Jennifer the Jeep and the open roooaaaaaad. 16+ hours to be exact. So amidst infrequent bursts of energy (thank you, Red Bull) including brilliant vocal rifts probably only appreciated by the deaf and seat-dancing, only for the blind, I had looaaaaddddssss of time to think. It's really amazing to me the scenarios one's mind can formulate, particularly when rolling through the plains of Northwestern Texas. For awhile all I could think of is the land rush and what a bummer it must have been for families to have rushed to a plot of land only to find that what they had chosen was a wicked slice of rocky, patchy land with nothing growing but a few prickly pears. What I didn't realize at the time (it was pointed out to me in a later conversation) was that some of those unfortunate souls realized, after several bouts of really pissed-off pick-axing of their property, that they were plotted on a huuuuuge oil reservoire that spawned life in the lap of luxury. Oil trumps corn any day.

But then again, driving through the dregs of West Texas I also noticed that not a whole lot of these "Oilers" still live in the area. Instead, they're hanging out elsewhere on their yachts, sipping dirties and listening to Margaritaville on repeat. Can't say I blame them. 

The other people left to run the rigs, blow away in the dust and run the tiny shops that line the highway are the fun ones though. Truly I never know what to expect. Some people were giving me the standard small-town what-the-eff-are-you-doing-here look as I hopped out of my Colorado-plated Jeep and ran inside to buy a bag of ice, but the other people were either much less than impressed or wayyyy super nice. That's what I love about small-town anywhere. What is there to care about? Worry about? Coyotes snatching a chicken out of your yard every now and then? Those damned Walmartians building next to your house which jacks up your property taxes? He-said-she-said gossip mongrels? Oh yeah, there are worries everywhere, but the simplicity I see while driving through a dusty little cow town continues to be baffling. I saw a group of police officers, cops, enforcers of the law, holders of the guns (not like every other Texan doesn't carry a gun), standing around in the street juuuust shootin' the shit, no concern in sight or mind. Granted, I can't imagine that job has a whole lot of excitement beyond the occasional underage party bust and bar fight breakup, so again, can't blame the guys. But it's nice. I never get bored on these kinds of road trips, not even when I don't have any music playing and am just watching the tumbleweeds blow by. And considering where I was, the amount of tumbleweeds was pretty ridiculous. It helps me to appreciate more of what and who I see in the city. If not for the random oddities of this life, we'd all be a bunch of bored suckers waiting for the next soap opera to pollute our brains: 'Ohhhh Vivian, I love you so.' 'Roger! But you must know . . . I'm really your father's sister's lover's lovechild with your mother!'

Or something like that.

steel vegas.

It's 5 am on a Friday morning and since sleep has decided not to grace me with its presence most of the night, clearly the only alternative to tossing and turning is see-me-running. In the past couple of months I've gone on a few mini adventures that have been of no disappointment in adding to my repertoire of stories. New York, Nebraska, the mountains and, last but not least, Vegas. The city where clothing is optional, and only then in small amounts, and drunken tomfoolery is highly suggested, if not a law.

Ahhhh Vegas. The more I think about it the more I love it. I think one of my favorite parts was walking out of the hotel at 6 am Sunday morning to head to the airport and watching the mangy droves of partyers stumble back to their rooms. One guy said to his ladyfriend (loud enough for everyone to hear of course), "Where are they going? Who wakes up at 6 to go somewhere? . . ." Hmmm. Yes. I loved it. Calling us out for being the Nancies we apparently are (little did he know we had gotten back to our rooms in time for an hour of sleep) by clearly leaving before the party was actually over. Point to you, sir. Once I got to my seat on the plane, I was graced with a Chatty K who ended up divulging her life story to me (pregs by 18, married for 25ish years, one lesbian daughter, one lesbian granddaughter . . . the list goes on). As my hangover started to wane, I wasn't sure if the vodka I was smelling was her breath or a result of my weekend endulgences. Either way, I wasn't too concerned. Seriously, who doesn't like having conversations like this? I really felt like it was the ideal way to end my trip.

So back to the city of magical chaos. Yes, I'm 23 and this is the first time I've ever been, but the setting was perfect: bachelorette party. We quickly realized that we were among hundreds of other groups of bachelorette parties, evident because the bridesmaids insist on having the bride wear either a sash or some derivation of a veil around allll weekend. Fantastic--love the enthusiasm. My friend was a little more humble about her partay, despite the entourage of 9 other ladeez, which makes the sitch pretty obvious. The first day I arrived, we were chillin in the pool, people watching, my fave. Next thing we know there's a guy in the middle of the pool dancing his face off, all by his lonesome. At that moment I knew the trip was bound to be phenomenal. Within 5 minutes this guy had the entire pool's attention and was busting things that were not unlike the chicken dance or cha-cha slide. He also was rocking a Flock of Seaguls cut and polkadot trunks, making everything just a little bit better. He was starting to get taunted by a group of guys, so bless his heart he did two things to retaliate: splashed water in their faces (precious) and found a bridal posse to back him up. Secretly I wished it could have been our group to come to his aid in the time of need, but alas no luck.

That night we ventured off to the House of Blues to see the one and only: Steel Panther. We saw them in L.A. a couple years ago for spring break and despite a few setbacks thanks to some stiff draanks, it was memorable enough to make a repeat appearance in their audience. This time we were front and center, ready to watch them rock out in their nasty wigs and stretchy pants. Their stage names are amazing: Satchel, Michael Starr, Lexxi Foxxx and Stix. What else would they be. I'm pretty sure Satchel was wearing the exact same shirt he wore two years ago--not even kidding--so maybe it's a superstitious thing. Or maybe by wearing a cut up mesh beater that's how he gets all the ladies. Our only disappointments of the night were one of my friends getting her clutch stolen resulting in a few of us (yes, "us") crawling through a beer-soaked floor in short dresses and heels to try to find her ID, to no avail. And the fact that they didn't play Asian Hooker . . . and our Asian friend couldn't go on stage during it. Good news though, the rest of my friends got up on stage to kick it with the band for a few songs. Believe me, I would have, but just as I was making my way over, Michael Starr announced that the only way to get up on stage was "to show everyone your tittays." Ha, no gracias. I have morals people. Instead the remaining three of us not willing to flash enjoyed a tall boy, as any classy lady would, with the rest of the audience. Not a bad trade-off.

After another day/night of shenanigans possibly involving a round of pin-the-weird-looking-penis-on-the-man-poster, I was ready to call it quits and head back to the mountains. Thank you, Vegas, for opening my eyes to yet another wonder of this world. And of course, best wishes to my dear friend Tates on her upcoming nuptials. I'm truly very happy for them.