Foto Friday

Ok, so I'm about a month behind posting. If yesterday's hour and a half nap after work (I just meant to lay down for 10 minutes-sorry Cal!) is any indication of my crazy life right now...then...well, I don't think that sentence made sense and I'm too tired to care.
So, a brief Foto Friday, since I'm several weeks behind.

Where I was a week ago:

















Owens River Valley, Summer 2009

Here and gone again.

Sorry for the delay my two readers...I'm back from here, worked a few treacherous days, and am off to here for the 4th!
Nicole's famous Sangria, and my have-to-have-when-camping s'mores.

Life's tough in California. But when you work in customer service for a living, you NEED some breaks.
Ah....let's crack open the beer!
Have a happy 4th!! I'll catch up with you soon!

Blah.

Sigh. I need this. And lots and lots of it. And It's only Wednesday.

We just found out Callie has a not-so-hot skin condition (she's treatable, but I still feel so bad for my little girl), I'm dreading seeing R's grandparents this weekend at a family wedding (the Northern ones, T) because I'm not gonna lie I'm not a big fan of them, R is stressed out at work that he's not going to have a job next year (not like he makes a crapload anyways, but still sucks), I'm still pissed at Men's Warehouse for screwing up R's tux (even though they fixed the problem-Thanks Mallory at the MW in SLO!), I hate that life requires money to participate in it, and working in customer service makes you hate people um, often.

Bring on the vino. Good thing we're visiting this place tomorrow, on the way to the wedding...I'll be bringing a straw and a 64 oz. big gulp cup.

(Fair) Foto Friday

Since you may have gathered from the last post, it has been 10 years since I graduated high school,which means its been 10 years since I first moved to San Diego. And that means its been 10 years without fried s'mores, being face to face with cows and goats, and 10 years without the infamous Zucchini Weenie. Shocking, I know. But alas, I finally made it to the fair before it closed, and had the perfect excuse-my too cute for words 3 year old neice. We had "totton tandy" and road the "little boats, not the big boat with the scary man." Somehow the only fried item we managed to have was a corn dog, but there are still 2 more $2 Tuesdays left...and once my dear husband hears about the chicken sandwhich between two Krispy Keme donuts? It's on.
So, enjoy a few scenes for the Del Mar fair...

10 years later...

I was sorting through our 8 ton pile of mail that we’ve accumulated in the past 4 months, figuring that it was finally time to sort through while I actually had the chance( because there’s no dog I have to chase after every.single.time.I.sort.through.the.mail.) Opening envelopes, sorting through the “Oh, crap, the balance just keeps getting higher” bills from the “How did our name get on that mailing list” junk mail. Placing them all in neat little piles that would make my dear organized husband tear up. There sat the cheap black and white printed invitation. Patiently still waiting for me to enclose a $70 check (or credit card number!), because our poor, poor all girls private school can’t afford to cover their astonishing alumni for a night of bragging and drinking (crap-I don’t even think liquor is included!). I have yet to fill it out and happily apply a stamp so it can be on its merry way.
So, yes, it’s finally here. The moment you’ve all been waiting for (or avoiding at all costs). Class of 1999-here’s your chance to say to the rest of the world (or 320 other former classmates that were your world at the time) “Here I am. I’ve made it. I got the ring, the arm candy, the job, the kid, the house, the wardrobe…aren’t you jealous of me now?”. By year 20, I assume we’re all over it and past that point, but I think at year 10, our class is starting to get a little nervous. In 5 weeks, my 10 year high school reunion will have come and gone.
Will I be going? Sure. Why not. If nothing more than to, and I quote my friend Lex in saying this, “Get drunk and talk shit about people.” Yes, I will be attending the infamous 10 year reunion. What? I got along with almost everyone in my class (well, the girls, I was a bit gun shy with the boys). I wasn’t a total geek, wasn’t the most popular. I just sort of blended in amongst the sea of Sue Mills and Jack Purcells. Heck, I was even on student council my junior year (only because I don’t think there was anyone running against me). I keep up with some of those from the infamous “college prep” school from time to time, mostly via Facebook or the gossip that still seems to come into our lives somehow. But am I nervous? Yes. Is it ironic that I just started Jillian’s 30 Day Shred last week? Probably not. Yes, my fat jeans were getting a little too snug, but honestly? I don’t want to be the current fattie I feel like now. I want to be hot. I want the guys from the across the street all boys school to say “Who is she and why didn’t I know her in high school?” I want the ONE guy that took interest in me in high school to say “Damn.” But really? Let’s be honest-I want the other girls to be jealous.
Am I starting to sweat a little bit? Wondering if I’m “good enough”? But WHY? Good enough for who? Sister Kathy? What has become of me? What happened to the “strong woman with good Catholic value” that my high school says it shaped. I mean, its in their mission statement! So, why do I feel that way? Why, after 10 years, does peer pressure and trying to be liked still affect us? I was happy in high school (with the exception of my junior year. That year was just pure awkward and can happliy be erased.) I had friends and even went to a few parties and hosted one legendary one. I was shy, but got along easily with everyone. And my life now? I’m happy. I have a wonderful husband, and a dog that is cuter than most. (Sorry, its true.) I’ve gotten a chance to do some amazing things these past 10 years and work for a company that people know when I tell them. So what the hell is my problem?
I guess you have to understand my high school. Every 6 months I get their “XXXXXletter” in the mail. What used to be an eight page black and white update is now a full on glossy magazine spread, complete with the bragging rights and the “who’s who” of the school. The last eight pages are now just sponsors alone, with the “Platnium”, “Gold” and “Silver” being the ones trying to pay off the school the most . Gag. My friend Lex, who’s a fan of drinking and gossiping and makes me wonder why I don’t talk to her more often, also said to another friend, both concerned of the impending doom that may be the reunion, “OH, you’re married! That’s like gold!” But is it? Is being married really the “sign” that you’ve “made it”? (OK, I’ve used “quotes” too often in this post.) This is coming from someone who is getting her PH freakin D to become an architect. Yes, I should be proud to show up to my high school reunion happy to have a college diploma to hang on my wall. (Oh, and a minor in German. You genius, you.) But that’s like saying I went through the McDonalds training program in comparison to some of the others. (No offense to anyone who actually did go through the McDonalds training program. I’m sure it’s a fine institution.) I’m going against people who are getting their PhD’s, and Post-Docs, and JD’s, and MBA’s and many other letters of the alphabet that cost a hell of a lot of money.

“Me? Oh, I went to (large state school in San Diego) and got a BA.”

“Oh, isn’t that…cute….So. great weather down there! So jealous! I’m just telling Kip here that we really should buy into that beach front vacation condo in LaJolla with last years quarterly bonus! Wink Wink, Kip!HA!”

No, I didn’t go to school with anyone named Kip or God forbid would marry anyone named Kip, nor did I go to school with anyone that was really THAT bad. Honestly, I look back and it was a good school and I made some great friends. But we did have our share of “Mean Girls”-we had the M.uffs. The WHO, you say? The M.uffs. (I'm trying to prevent a s.earch.) The over privileged rich kids from the east side of the 680 (south of Ygnacio) who’s hair was made of gold (or bleach), who’s clothes were better than yours, who’s skin was perfection and who partied more in one weekend than I probably did all of college and they never got caught. The girls who dated all the football players, and drove Jettas and Cherokees, and you just wanted them to so desperately know your name and possibly even like you. They didn’t have to wait until seniors year of high school to finally kiss a boy (I made up for that freshman year of college.) They didn’t struggle with hating their frizzy ugly hair and typical pock marked teenage face (I wasn’t lying when I said I went through an awkward phase). They were oh so perfect . Or, so I thought at the time. It wasn’t until after high school where I learned that no one is secure with themselves and I was shocked that I actually was. I still am. And ultimately many of those girls were rude, not the kind of person I probably even wanted to be friends with, and more than likely were never truly friends to each other at all. But still, I secretly go on Facebook and try to spy on them even now and again, hoping my life is better than theirs because I don’t think we really grow out of that phase, do we?
So, I look forward to seeing them next month, dressed to the nines (where did that come from anyways, shouldn’t it be the “tens”?), trying to read into their fake smiles and exaggerated hugs, wondering if they truly have known happiness. Yes, they may have married “The King of Walnut Creek” (I’d love to meet this so called “King of Walnut Creek. He looks creepy from pictures), or live in the largest home in San Ramon that money can buy. They may have the 20 diplomas to hang on their office-with-a-view wall, but me? I loved college. I lived in a dump in San Diego in the dorms, then in a dump in Germany in the dorms and had the time of my life. I have a job I like, a husband I love, a dog that makes me roll my eyes and melt my heart, and a past I am proud of. What more can you want?
Ok, back to my workout. Only 26 more days to go. C’mon Jillian. Work those (fl)abs.