Reality Bites

I need to stop reading my hometown newspaper, because it’s beginning to depress the hell out of me.

In my naive mind, I often allow myself to think I’m one of the few who moved away (made it out), and that everyone else stayed and are living their happy little Utah lives. I like this thinking, because I honestly do hope that everyone is happy. Sometimes I wonder if I would be happier in Utah. Then I go and visit, and I realize that living in Utah is a really, really bad idea for me. I am a happy person. I’m just unhappy with the tropical armpit in which I currently reside.

So, back to the topic. Thanks to the internet, I read my hometown newspaper every morning. Even before I read the New York Post and Gawker. I have run across some seriously fucked up information over the last few months. The latest being, my one true love of 1983, committed a horrible crime and will be spending the rest of his life behind bars. WTF? When I knew him, he was a nice Mormon teenager. After seeing his mug shot picture in the paper, the real crime seemed to be that he got fat and lost a lot of hair.

A few months ago, I read another story about a childhood friend, who grew up in the same neighborhood. Her crime was very public, and very heartbreaking. I was totally fucking floored, because she was the only normal person at mutual camp. Besides that, she was a good student, a great athlete and a really nice person. Now, seriously afflicted by that bitch known as mental illness, my heart goes out to her.

A couple of years ago, I read about an ex-boyfriend, who I was hung up on for years. He likes to drink and threaten his wife and kids. As I read the words, swat team, my 15 year hang-up miraculously vanished. Funny how that happens.

So besides the stories, are the obituaries. At least once a month I run across an obit from someone I went to school with, or knew during my 24 years in Utah. There was another one this morning. It’s just sad. I realize that life happens, and that people do bad things, but it really fucks up my totally unrealistic image of Utah, the place where all is well and everyone is sitting by the fireplace, drinking hot cocoa.

I guess I want to think that bad things only happen here. They do. They happen everywhere. It’s just hard to realize that my safe place, Utah, is a real place where real things happen.

Recycling

This is a recycled post from my former blog, Amy in Miami. I wrote this when my boyfriend, Ben, and I has been together for about three months.

THURSDAY, JULY 27, 2006

What’s the Diff?

Interest wise, Ben and I are so much alike. Much of this was discovered during the five or so years that we were co-workers and friends. Now that we are dating, we’re finding out that the way we were raised are almost polar extremes. Here are a few examples:

He was an only child.
I was not so fortunate.

He grew up eating oysters on the half shell.

I grew up eating Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks

The men in his family drank scotch.

The men in my family drank Root Beer.

He grew up in one of the wealthiest communities in the U.S.

I grew up in Sandy, Utah where wealth was measured by how many kids were in your family and where your father/brother/son served his LDS mission.

His childhood home had a guest house.

My childhood home had a sand box in the backyard, which the neighborhood cats pooped in.

He was an only grandchild.

I have at least 30 first cousins.

Being an only grandchild, his family weddings are non-existent.

When my relatives get married, they register at Wal-Mart.

His favorite childhood restaurant was Lutece.

My favorite childhood restaurant was The Sizzler.

My Dumb Hair

Why, oh why, does my dumb hair start looking really good as soon as I make an appointment for a haircut?

It’s hard to keep it looking smooth and sleek in this climate. After 14 years and hundreds of wasted dollars, I’ve finally found the perfect products. Aveda’s Smooth Infusion line has become my bestest friend.

The shittier the weather, the smoother the mane. The humidity today, is so thick you could cut it with the knife, but my hair is looking really good.

1 point for suffocating humidity
1 point for Aveda
1 point for my hair

Sometimes Utah is Fun

I took my boyfriend to Utah for our summer vacation. I figured it was time for him to meet the family, and to see where I came from.

He had actually been to Utah before. There were a couple of family ski trips, and a week spent in Salt Lake in 1990. When I asked him why he spent a week in Salt Lake, his response had something to do with a Grateful Dead show in Las Vegas, which immediately made me regret asking this question.

So, I went to Utah, a few days early, to have some alone time with my family, and to make sure that they were on their best behavior. The highlight of my trip occurred just a few short hours after my arrival. I ended up at Walmart, which is something that unfortunately happens when I go to Utah. As I’m perusing the aisles, looking for God knows what, I can’t help but hear the lame Mormon dad telling “McKenna” to stop running, hitting her brother, screaming, etc. Every time I made a turn, McKenna was at it again. The final straw was when he said, “McKenna, stop licking the floor.” I looked at my brother and ran out of the store. This of course, became the great quote of my trip to Utah. For the next 12 days (yes, 12 days), no less than 10 times a day, I would suddenly scream, “McKenna, stop licking the floor.”

Oh my God, I love Utah, I love Walmart, I love McKenna (and her bad Utah name) and I love that the little bitch is a floor licker.

This is where my Utah Walmart is located.

Happy, Happy Birthday, Brother Dear!

Today, my youngest brother turns 30. He lives in Utah, and I live in Florida, so I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like. Since we’re going to New York next month, we thought it would be fun if he joined us. So, his birthday present is a plane ticket.

Because he’s never been, to New York, we told him that we’ll do whatever he wants. Imagine my delight when he informed me that he has no interest in going to the Statue of Liberty. Yipee! For me, the Statue of Liberty is like Key West. Every time I go, I vow to never do it again.

So far, he’s mentioned Chinatown, the Guggenheim & the Brooklyn Bridge. I can’t to wait to show my favorite relative, my favorite city.

Hurricane Shmurricane

The threat of a hurricane, tropical storm, or your average Thursday afternoon monsoon, turns people into maniacal assholes. I understand the fear, but this map is showing that my ‘neck of the woods’ is somewhat in the clear. Sure, we’ll get some wind and some rain, but that’s just normal south Florida weather.

Since I live on a high enough floor, with hurrricane shutters, that just need to be pulled shut, my hurricane preparations have consisted of cooking. Last night I made pulled pork and whole wheat macaroni and cheese. Tonight, I think I’ll bake some blueberry corn muffins, or a pound cake. When I want to hide from the maniacal assholes, I seem to always end up in the kitchen.

As far as the maniacal asshole behavior goes, I’d really like to blame it on the barometric pressure. I’m not really sure what barometric pressure is, but I keep hearing the weatherman, who is not Mark Eubank or Bill Kamal, keep talking about it.

The one who married HIM

I saw HER today. Her, being the one who married my first love, over 20 years ago. The have a couple of kids, and to my knowledge, are still married.

When I say I saw her, I saw a picture of her. A really good picture. She was not what I expected. The image I always had of her was similar to the type of girl he liked in the mid-80’s. They were usually much younger than him (I was) with bad New Wave hair, too much eyeliner and a vast wardrobe of paisley shirts, and black leggings.

I saw her once, in the early 90’s. It was at a movie theatre, where I had just seen, The Doors.  I felt someone staring at me, so I looked and it was him.  He came over and said hello., and informed me that his wife was in the restroom.  Though, I wanted to see what she looked like, I was pretty startled from seeing him. Unable to get a really good look at her, I did notice that she had really short hair.

Today, while slightly drowsy and bored. I went to a web site that he’s affiliated with. A click here, a click there, and suddenly She was right in front of me.

She was tall and lean, wearing a killer outfit. Her hair was still short, with a really great cut, and her eyes were shielded by huge, expensive looking sunglasses.

I suddenly felt sick. I felt short and fat. Why don’t I look like than in jeans? Why am I growing out my hair? Maybe I should cut it off, and stop eating.

Then I looked a little closer at her picture.  I realized that she looked kind of old.  I always figured she was around my age, but apparently she’s closer to his age than mine.  Though she’s probably never had to work, and has gorgeous and charming children, I have something that she doesn’t.  My 30’s.  I’m still in my 30’s!

In that moment, that’s all I could come up with.  Sigh.

The Next Level

When I recently asked a friend how his two-week old relationship was going, he said, they were already talking about taking it to the ‘next level’.  I immediately thought he meant sex, but then I recalled the groping I had witnessed the night before, and was quite positive that level had already been reached.  Instead of asking him what the hell he was he was talking about, I ended the discussion and walked away.

When I got home, I was still curious, so I decided to ask my boyfriend what he thought next level was.  He was also clueless.  I then asked him when our 28-month old relationship was going to move to the next level. He said probably when we buy a condo on a higher floor.  I loved his answer.

Over the weekend, we witnessed the semi-public break up of our friend and his new girlfriend. This is when we realized that the new level is fizzle, crash and burn.

 

Hola-la

This is my 3rd, and final blog.  When my boyfriend’s family found the 1st blog, I had to hastily rename it.  I didn’t have much passion for the 2nd blog, so I eventually jumped ship.  

For my own peace of mind, I will try to refrain from making fun of co-workers, family and ex boyfriends. I also wear to avoid all talk of camel toe, moose knuckle, and I will not refer my boyfriend’s friends as douchebags.  Even if they are.

I will still talk about Mormons, poop, hookers and public spitting.  From time to time, I might even talk about the ghetto island on which I reside.

Welcome to my world!