On this last day of bittersweet February

I can't tell you how much I have used the word "bittersweet" in the past six months of my life. I hear ReFamily using it a lot, too. Because before, there was actually a possibility of something in this world being exhilaratingly sweet to one of us. It's not really possible anymore. Now, the best anything could get for any of us is bittersweet.

I'm in the hotel lobby rooting around my Mint account. Which means things are already kind of irritating.

But then, someone comes and throws a "Formerly-Missing-Child: Safely Returned To Parents" scenario into our morning. This cannot be ignored. It is very public.

We hear a dramatic lady shrieking and groaning. Apparently her child had been missing and she had been walked into the lobby where someone was presenting her, not only with the news that her child had been found, but with the child herself. It obviously wasn't an Amber Alert level scare, but it was obviously enough to bring this woman to her knees.

I, of course, have to make this all about me and start bitterly crying. Maybe people think I'm touched. Which I sort of am.

Only because I remember that debilitating fear. Not of a possibly-childless mother waiting to find out if her life has just been destroyed, obviously, because that is an entirely different brand of horror. But of that torturous waiting for news, knowing that whatever call you get that day, your life will never ever ever be normal again.

I listened to her reaction to her wonderful news; all the terror she held in her heart and body just flowing out as she yelled in the quiet lobby "Where is she? YOU HAVE HER?!!!" And she burst across the lobby. In my mind, I really couldn't help but pretend for a second that it was me, that I was back on August 10th, getting the news that we were scared for nothing and the guys had been rescued...and I could hug them all in the front yard or in a police station or a hospital, or in the hotel lobby. And then we could redefine things and be all awesome and happy, and never let THAT one happen again, ha ha ha haaahahahaaha, oh those boys and their toys, and haha that was a close one, and more haha, and then big happy content sighs.

How stupid I feel now that I thought at any point that miserable day, that MAYBE just MAYBE they'd be found alive. How stupid you sound when you have hope for what are LITERALLY miracles. Like, in conversations with people that day, how stupid I sounded.

People: So nobody has heard from any of them since.....
Kirsten: Friday.
P: And it's...
K: Monday.
P: Ok, and is there a chance Rbf's phone is dead?
K: Well, the last five minutes I spent with him were of him packing his phone, two chargers, an extra handset in case his breaks, and a charger for that, so that he would never not have phone service, and then me making fun of him about this despite its endearing value. So, no.

P: When was his last phone activity?

K: Friday morning.

P: When was his last debit card activity?

K: Thursday.

P: What did the hotel say when you called?
K: That the guys never checked in.
P: And what did the airports in Ilwaco tell you when you called?
K: That they never arrived.

You have that conversation and listen to people tell you "we're sure they're fine," and you issue a sort of Amber-Alert-For-Grownups with Civil Air Patrol, while you hold on to hope, in your naivete. I guess I just really wish I hadn't had so much hope for their safe return that day.

I wish that when your love is dying somewhere and you're sitting in Soup Kitchen eating lunch with your coworkers, that the secret radar in your heart starts going nuts alerting you. I wish that you just knew when it happened. I wish I didn't have to harbor all that hope, only because it was pointless, and it only made the truth worse.

Hope is just overrated. Obama jokes at this time will not be well received.

I do want to add, though, that sometimes seeing people in the situations I've had to be in...and getting the ending I didn't, somehow makes me wonder what made God pick us (me and the Mingos) to be the odd ones out in a world where so much else can go totally right.

And my dad came and sat down by me in the cafe by the lobby, and we got to talk a little bit about taxes and Maddster's college and our jobs and such. And it was a weekend of sushi and shopping and watching Cocodoodle (my sister Doodle's 2 year old who is a brown version of her own baby pictures) earnestly trying to dance to this:

Keep in mind that Cocodoodle's grandmother was 17 when this was made.

It's funny to watch her try to imitate them at ~1:32, and then watch them throw her off at ~2:00. She's 22 months old. Cut her some slack.

This is her:

So that should make this all much cuter. And yes I realize I have blog ADD.

Because I don't get to see or talk to my dad much, that was sweet, although I was bitterly jealous of the woman whose bad day ended in relief, not emotional annihilation. (Which is why I suck).

And also, because nothing is cuter than my little niece, but I also lost my chance at children with Rbf and now have NO DESIRE for *children, I think it's bittersweet CcDd calls everyone "mommy." Including me. I babysat her last night in the hotel room when everyone else was out visiting Scoot's house. I put her in the bath...4 inches of water including bubbles, because I have no maternal instincts and I'm certain that she will drown while I'm signing for the cheesecake I ordered from room service.

CcDd: Mommy.
Me: You mean Kiki.
C: Mommy.
Me: No...KIKI.
C: Mommy.
Me: I am KEE KEEEEE.

{I walk out of the bathroom to look for her diapers.}

C, quietly to herself after I've left the room: Mommy.

Reboyfriend and I picked the name Aria (Ari for short) for our own little girl, and I pictured her to be a little bit like Cocodoodle. And the loss of Aria mixes with Cocodoodle's cuteness to make it all clash so poetically.

I am happy for the man who survived that plane crash on my exit this past winter, and for the missing people who return to their families safely. So please, don't think I have maxed out the suckage meter entirely. Sometimes good people are just jealous people, and that's all I have to say about that.

Please Urinate In The Receptacle.

My aunt V tells a story about one of her sisters who was sick, and had to go to the doctor. The nurse kept asking her to "please urinate in the receptacle." When the sister kept asking "huh?" apparently the nurse assumed there was a breakdown in HEARING rather than a breakdown in UNDERSTANDING. Finally, the nurse resigned to the indignity of vulgarity and total slang: "Just pee in the cup."

My baby cousin Minimeems (meems' little sister) has a strong personality and is also traumatized by things like peeing in cups. She is sick and the doctor is requiring a cup of pee from a 3 year old before prescribing medicine. My aunt J noted last night that the term "pee in a cup" was being used a lot in the house lately. Ew, what three year old wouldn't be totally disturbed by this concept? Of course she's screaming like a banshee about it.

As she kicked and screamed about this, and her parents gently tried to coax/bribe her into peeing in the damn cup...I just sat there watching (I'm of great help) and observing...the simple understanding MM lacks about the horrible event descending upon her for NO reason. Her parents are desperate to help her feel better, and this is all for MM's own good. She has no idea, and OH the stink she was making about this attempt to help and heal her.

It must be what our own higher power feels like as He watches us kicking and screaming over the things He does to us that feel so mean. Do I think losing Rbf is = to peeing in a cup? Not so much. But I'm guessing there's something more to all of this that we don't know. Aside from being totally trite, I also realize I'm being redundant because I've touched on this before. But it can't hurt to revisit the notion, can it?

I honestly don't know what benefit there is to this heinous part of my life, and the lives of the rest of the Mingo family. I do understand that when my magical day comes and I enjoy my rebirth into the next plane of existence...I'll be decked out with strength, with battle scars, and the dignity that comes from surviving a lifetime punctuated with trauma. We all end up "there" anyway, whether we make that transition out of young strong bodies like Rbf's, or old ones that faded out slowly with time and wear. I have no idea what this is about, what reward there is for me waking up every morning, rubbing my eyes, and remembering that this is my life now...for the disappointment life has ended up being to me, and how I try my hardest to embrace it anyway. It better be something cooler than an antibiotic.

Aunt J and I went to grab dinner after the unsuccessful pee-in-the-cup exchange, and left MM with her dad. We returned a couple hours later to quiet. My uncle T was exhausted defeated and sick, laying in bed, when he overheard MM playing with her dolls in the next room. The dolls were having their own exchange. MM narrated the dolls' dialogue. One doll was trying desperately to convince the other doll that she needed to go pee pee in a cup. The other doll resists.

This child is so adorable it hurts. She is paying attention to what's happening to her. She may not have a greater understanding, but she did have trust - to some degree - her parents' efforts on her behalf.

And before the end of the night, MM urinated in the receptacle.

Instead of my diary...

I forgot to mention about getting home from Brasil. Arrived at Florianopolis Airport at 10ish Saturday morning.

30 hours later, I landed in SLC feeling sexy and rested and not at all sarcastic.

Went into work Monday. Given that I hadn't slept on the plane the day before, I wanted some sort of award for being there. They exchanged me money for my time. I guess that was it.

Infiltrated staff meeting with stories of thong swimsuits and how none of the beaches were topless, and WTF is up with that, until my boss made me stop and adjourned the meeting.

The next day (yesterday) they had to announce the reductions in force. Three months of waiting to hear, and we have now heard. And four of our work family had to go. I was spared. Somehow. I want to make some joke about how it's prob because my fellow transpondsters wouldn't know how to operate without my HR inappropriate reports in staff meetings. But that feels insensitive. We lost four of our people, and between the pain in that, and the survivor guilt on top...it's an emotional toll.

That night I had an interview with an organization that shall go unnamed, vying with 20 women for 4 spots on a promo team. I do not expect to get a call back. That was stressful. Analyzing it was stressful. Getting to the meeting was stressful. Picking an outfit was stressful.

All of it caught up to me and I spent all last night puking violently, with no sleep. I just kept wanting to lay on the bathroom floor and sleep, but my stomach was having none of that. After missing a week and a half of work, missing one more day stresses me out. Which makes me want to barf more. I got a few hours in and then woke up to sob my heart out to my aunt.

He is not coming back. Buying new cars and going on trips and getting new apartments will distract me from that but it won't change it. And this slays me inside, and I hate remembering how much I don't want to go on sometimes. I'm stable and functional and do what I'm supposed to do and I do it well. But the brave face is only skin deep and sometimes, it's a lot of work to keep up. I'm tired of suppressing anger. Anger at others, even. Those who dismiss this misery by telling me Rbf "would want" me to be happy, when they don't know that. Honestly, if I die, you better cry your ASSES off about it. And when people tell you "Kirsten wouldn't want you to be sad," say "The hell she wouldn't!" Then forward them a link to this post.

Anger! At those who don't want to talk about him, who don't ask me about him, or those who have their own designs on my future, particularly when it involves romance or men. These people, 99% percent of the time, have a living spouse or partner waiting at home for them, making it very convenient to think the way they do. People who used to be in Rbf's life but have moved on, and avoid me - maybe because they feel guilty about that. Because my life has not come back together, because I'm not happy...they feel guilty that their lives aren't disrupted anymore, that they are happy. And as the person Rbf was closest to in his life, I'm somehow the pacesetter of where "healing" should be. So completely cutting me out of life, well that makes this all easier.

And this is great for them. But it leaves me very much alone in a world that doesn't remember him. And this world isn't acceptable to me, so I fight it. I talk about him to anyone that will listen. Wouldn't you want someone to do that for you? Don't Rbf, Jordan, and their dad deserve that much?

I have this whimpering gratitude for those who will let me sit and discuss, remember, and love Jed out loud while they listen and even participate. Members of Rbf's family and mine, they all do this.

And I think it's possible for God to. Why wouldn't He? Each of these conversations is a prayer of gratitude to Him. Thank you, God, for the sweet sound of his snoring. Thank you, God, for the little side of him that saved all my love notes from college and left them in a place I'd find them after he died, even though he never told me he'd saved them all these years. Thank you, God, for his smile. Thank you, God, for allowing him the capacity to love me like he did. Thank you for the energy he had and shared. Thank you for the time we did this and that. No wonder You wanted him back. Thank you, God, for not tiring of my sadness.

It hit me today, 6 months after having to let the Mingos go, that this pain won't ever fade, ever. In the blur of hearing things like "tender mercies" and "new normal," I guess I just expected that it would be less raw at some point. I realized today that it won't. Other things will fade or become less pronounced...but pain is not one of them. And that exhausts me and it scares and daunts me. I miss my best friend. He is never coming back, and that won't ever go away.

Thanks for reading.

Liveblog de Floripa

OK TWO things about Brasil:


(I will spell it with an 's' rather than a 'z' because my Rbf lived here, plus traveled here a lot after his mission, visiting year after year, and therefore I wore Havaianas before they were cool in the states, and I'm going to be obnoxious like that while acknowledging the obnoxiousness therein, and this stream of bullshit/consciousness brings the total to THREE things about Brasil. This being (1.))


2.) We are the only white people here, ever. I've been in touristy places this whole time. Rio during Carnaval? Yeah. That = tourist. Florianopolis {current location} is a surf town with an economy solely based on surfing and repairs to surf boards and restaurants that employ surfers and feed only tourist surfers. And me.


3.) I'm ugly in Brasil. I'm not being my normal self-deprecating self, either. Seriously being white makes you invisible or something. I wear swimsuits that cover both cheeks, and those cheeks are pretty flat if you think of the general human population. I've always referred to myself as papoose/banjo butt. But this is just ridiculous. Everyone must think we're so gross. Little girls bound down the beach looking like mini-Gisele-Bundchens and speaking to baby B and baby E in Portuguese. Everyone here is either like Shakira or my BFF Wendolyn (the Costa Rican Pocohontas with an amazing rack). I, on the other hand, feel like I am one of those children on Barney in the early 90's. 


Screw this numbering thing. I'm just going to verbal vomit this like you knew I would. Blah. I got soo sick the last night in Rio. Head cold sick. Remember my mutant sinuses? Yeah when I get a cold, it's not pretty. I ran out of cash and couldn't go to the ATM at night alone...I ditched the group on the boardwalk to go back to the apartment and retch alone in my room (not to get too graphic, but sinus issues nauseate me big time). So I couldn't buy cold medicine and I used up the little bit I packed. (Kirsten: I AM SO SMART as I pack one or two cold medicine capsules. GOLD STAR FOR SELF). Dumbass me should have replaced half the clothes I packed for 3 boxes of Sudafed. Anyway back to my whining, I had to wait until the next morning to get some cold medicine. By that time, the head cold had become an infection. 


Note: I don't understand Portuguese.


I went to the ATM and drug store the next day with the guys and got 1 nighttime and 1 daytime box of cold medicine. I took the night stuff mid-day, and decided I'd just tough it out and maybe sleep a little on the plane from Rio to Florianopolis. Night medicine has the antihistamine, and I REALLY needed an antihistamine. This story is so long. Too lazy to go back and abridge. Sorry. Anyway in the southern hemisphere apparently, their medicines work in duo format. One tablet contains one agent and does one part, and the other tablet contains the other agent and so on. I did not read the Portuguese instructions with giant IKEA-grade arrows explaining this to idiots like me. I took two tablets...two of the SAME CATEGORY. I believe these were the category that knocked you out. 


I was like a cow with palsy stumbling through the airports and into the apartment and probably a few places in between. My friend made sure to capture me passed out and draped over the bags in the terminal. Then passed out in a hammock outside the apartment. They were extremely flattering. Like, I looked all fat with multiple chins...SIDE chins. 


Her: OMG! You look fat! 
Kirsten: Dude! 
Her: Right? 
Kirsten: It like, doesn't even hurt my feelings. That's how sick I was!


She added that I was PROTECTING their bags from thieves in the airport...and that I was HIDING in the hammock (the latter was actually true; in my unconsciousness, I was aware that I looked like a Neanderthal, and hid my face in a fold of the hammock). 


I took it like only Jed's woman can, from then on. The meds in their proper sequence kicked in after that. A and G knew I was feeling better when they saw me horking down a bag of Oreo-bites and probably talking about the parasite I surely have from brushing my teeth with the tap water here, and how it will make a good diet. They said the old Kir was back. This was nice.


The end of this trip had me and A going down to this "Biqini" store where they sell thong swimsuits. Nobody in Brazil covers a butt-cheek on a beach. Nobody. After about 15 minutes on the beach I started to feel self-conscious about my swimsuits. They covered full ass. Nothing rode up crack, anywhere. I do not own thong underwear. I prefer boyshorts (which I think are in the granny p**ty category) (and I hate the word panty so I treat it like an expletive). So the thought of a thong SWIMSUIT...as in, PUBLIC...made me want to dig a hole in the sand and bury myself in it. Of course I bought my own, later. It was hot.


We decided to call them biqueenies. My travel companion's was an actual thong and mine was more like a spandex wedgie. Oh, and we got one for E too. She was not the only 2 year old with bootie on the beach.


Not being able to use words in excess and communicate to the max, is what castration must feel like to men. Maybe.


The fat hammock picture of me passed out on Brazilian drugs...well it's in my friend's possession. I'll have to get her pics later. Sorry, you'll have to use your imagination. The end.

B in my Carnaval mask

Us in our Carnaval masks

More

So that you know it was a real party. Brazilian energy drinks, teething toys, prostyboots, and a mess of makeup on a jungle boogie rug...yes we had fun.

E's biqueennie being swallowed whole by her two year old bootie.

Oh. Did I mention someone had some AWESOME tan lines from her normal American swimmers? And that we weren't afraid of posing for a super trite picture of me slathering her with sunscreen?

The spandex wedgie in action

This pervy little boy was making our Disney princesses make out.

A pasty girl in the city of sin: liveblogging day 4

I feel like there is something wrong with me because I don't really have saggy pancake flaps for butt-cheeks, and all that is saggy and jiggly on me...is too white to be interesting. And I certainly don't wear the odd lycra contraptions these people call bikinis, so that my flesh oozes all around it. And everything jiggly on me (except my midriff) is covered.

For this reason, I do not get ogled. There were some 14 year old boys on the beach the first day that found me interesting. They did not ogle me. They just spoke to me with wide eyes in Portugese and taught me how to spell "beer." I wonder the same thing you're wondering right now.

Children wear speedos (boys) and thongs (girls) - except they're those slightly wider thongs.

I am the "foreign" or "exotic" looking girl here, to be sure. But they don't care. Apparently I'm vanilla, because I'm not showing my uterus. They do find Beeze and Evvie fascinating because these are the whitest kids you ever saw. The Brazilian people on the beach kept coming up to us and MAKING us put more sunscreen on them. I also had someone tell me to cover up my camera everywhere I went. I stopped bringing it places.

Rbf would roll over in his grave if he saw me not learning more Portuguese, so I have to google some phrases. Pretty sure he's watching me and laughing. Or fuming.

Men pumping iron for the ladies (and/or each other) on a platform specifically built on the sunny beach for others to look upon. Women are not the only objects in this country. And it is good.

The Christus was originally meant to be a be-robed Christ with a cross in one hand and the globe in the other...the cross obviously representing His crucifixion, and the globe representing the world. The Art Deco movement came storming in and cleaned house. The end result was Christ himself forming a cross, and the city of Rio itself representing the world. Such arrogance and bad-ass-ness mix together to make this one of the most incredible sights I've ever seen. Here, the Christus overlooks Anaga pushing Beeze on the swings.

Beeze and his superhot nanny-figure who does not nanny him at all, but rather swears accidentally in front of him and hopes his parents either don't care or don't hear.

Me, Evvie and John (to the left) showing that there was one (1) and only one (1) Caucasian family on that beach for miles. Too bad a wide angle lens wasn't available to truly demonstrate this.

The food is so-so. We haven't been chowhounds. I just keep eating bread and nutella. The Rodizio places are KILLER, I will say that much. The introductory buffet thing was as good as the best restaurants in the U.S. They put Rodizio, Tucanos, Braza and Samba to utter shame. That's not to say that those places aren't great. Gabi, Anaga and I walked around the madness last night while the guys stayed at the apartment with the kids. Some douches on the corner heard Gabi talking. "London?"

G: "No."
Douches: "You?" {looking at me}
Me: States.
Douches: "States?"
Me:  Yes. America.
Douches to Gabi: "States"
Gabi: "Australia."

I have to hand it to the douches, because they spoke enough english to know that Gabi's accent was either British or Australian. But not enough to know that I wasn't Australian. Gabi's accent is beautiful. I love the sound of her accent when she says "No." The douches kept following us around, building up this preposition slowly, about this "tradition" they need to tell us about, which is an old Rio Carnival tradition.

Anaga: "No thanks"
Me: "Bye!'
Them: "You don't even know what we're going to say yet!!!"

I love the sound of Gabi's accent when she goes "You know how you can tell what country a person is from just by looking at them? We can tell what you're about to say, that same way."

Our tickets to the Main parade event at sambodromo are tomorrow. I am STOKED. Marianne, be very jealous of the flesh-watching I will get to do while eating things.

While in Brazil, I received news that both my friend Jason and I were BOTH selected (1 in 3 chances each) as adult members of the 2010 YMAD leadership training group. (ymad.org). I was convinced I would not get picked. Meems emailed me to congratulate me, and I had not even heard yet! I need to skype into my voicemail and hear for myself. I was beyond stoked. This has been a dream for a long time, and I finally get to do it.

Please excuse me. I need to rest now while eating more nutella and bread while reading my Tucker Max book.

Beijos,

km

Liveblogarama jamma 3

Oi from Rio.

Flights were smooth. I was very mindful of every bump and rapid descent, but stayed calm and really enjoyed the ride.

Rio is dirty and it stinks so good and it's absolutely beautiful. Reminds me of my first time in NYC. Just getting off the plane, you could smell how much fun it was going to be just from how much the air fused together the following:

a.) Food (particularly of the ethnic varieties)
b.) High-end perfumes
c.) Garbage
d.) Sweat.

Zeke and Beeze walked me down to an ATM vestibule thing, where I got R$ currency. This ain't Canada. There is no English (or in Canaydia's case, FRENCH) cheat-sheet below anything. It is ALL in Portuguese. I appreciate the challenge.

I met massively cool woman on the plane between Dallas and Sao Paulo. She was my BFF from the minute she sat down. She was touchy and petite and pretty and Filipino. I have no bubble/boundary issues (unless you're a man who has not yet earned my trust by being a long time friend or being married to one of my girlfriends). She was a samba dancer who had come to Rio a few years back to audition for one of the Samba schools. The attire they gave her for her audition was an elaborate headdress and some body paint. Nothing else. She warned me not to be too trusting with my stuff. She got carried away with all the Brazilian-ness of everything last time, went for a run on the beach in her thong and bikini top, and came back with her sandals, sarong, and H20 stolen. Nobody spoke English, so she had to traipse around these dirty streets looking for someone to take her to her apartment, but barefoot and be-thonged. I made note of this, and reconsidered my rock-solid plans to do things that are SO ME...like running, and wearing thongs (I do not do thongs).

I am in love with this place already. We walked to a supermarket and got bread with my new Brajillan dollarz. I'm starving and ate a miniloaf already. We are going to go gorge ourselves on a traditional Brazilian glut-fest of meat tonight, so I should save room. Wish me luck in my bikini tomorrow. This is the plastic surgery capital of the world. I'm neither brown nor augmented, nor butt-flossing.

Despite my lack of appeal, I did step off a plane after 20 hours of jet-setting, to leering men saying "WELLcome to RIIIIoooooo" as if to say hubba hubba. I looked down at my faded black yoga pants, brown shoes to clash with them, stained hoodie and My Original Barzee. Huh?

But I'm technically "exotic" here. They have blonde haired blue eyed girls around, maybe one in every other crowd. But not much more. It's so weird to be this Nordic looking, *French stuttering, ethnic minority.

The apartment is bitchin and so is the company. Zeke and Anaga introduced me to their ubercool Australian imports, John and Gabi. I like eating bread in Rio. I like John and Gabi's accents and the looks people give Zeke as he towers over them at 6+ feet holding his milky white, tow-headed, blue eyed baby boy, Beeze.

And I like hearing Portuguese spoken all around me. I haven't heard it spoken so much since the times Rbf would ONLY tell me his true feelings for me in Portuges, in the early stages of our Round 1 dating era. Blah blah te amo, blah blah esposa, etc. I love, I so love, the sound of this bittersweet language.

And the Tucker Max book is, of course, appallingly entertaining. Oh and I'm not editing. I did not annihilate my net worth to sit around in the apartment on my laptop, no sirree. I'm clicking publish and not looking back. Sorry if this makes no sense whatsoever.

No, I will not return home "accidentally" slipping and saying obligada to everyone because I was SO IMMERSED in A CULTURE YOU WEREN'T PART OF, when really I mean to say thanks.

Ciao...OOPS, sorry, I meant Lates.



Beeze hamming for me.



The sophistication of traveling with kids. What. We're the Jolie-Pitts, except nobody here has to be called Pitt. Instead we are the Dumke-Montagues. Serious. Anaga said this trip was my sister-wife audition.



Aside from the tictax, the street noise outside my room will be humming me to sleep. That and the yelling and honking. Will feel just like home. Except not at all like home.



Seriously Beeze.



Father son wipeout, featuring Zeke and Beeze. The best vacation is the one where you play so hard, then lounge and graze, then konk out with your 1 year old frat style.

*My cute little BFF on the plane told me that Portuguese is similar to Spanish, but shares a lot of its nasal qualities and Latin roots with French, and occasionally you can speak French to people and they'll get it. I think this depends on your neighborhood. I tried talking to some men in the airport here (ATM?) and they shook their heads regretfully...asking "English?" Because they weren't sure what language I'd even need them to speak. I said yes, or French. No dice. While my Samba girlfriend was very intelligent, I think she has been to some more upmarket corners of this city. (Which, for the most part, we're actually in right now, but not so much in the aeropuerto). At any rate, my six years of geekish French study have yet to pay off in some traveling capacity. Next year. Next year it's gonna.

Liveblog2 - still have not shown anyone my boobs.

But im only in dallas, maybe thats why. Sorry mushbelly. But chris, im ready for my gold star.

Livebloggorific - SLC int'l

At aeropuerto waiting to board my way into rbf's favorite place (no, not dallas/ft worth), Brazil. Bought Chelsea Handler's book about being a slut, and Tucker Max's book about being a slut. Will be reading Tucker first so that Chelsea gets the last word. I have a bias against the X chromosome.

Must go: the fact that my apple-eating-sound HATRED AVERSION KILL DEATH STOPITNOW neurosis, makes me a hypocrite for eating a RMCF apple next to someone else waiting at the gate.

Must go: when victoria's secret still sends me good deals on being sexy for my man, even though i unsubscribed with the fire of a thousand suns...and they still email me.

Must go: spending all my money to get as far from valentines day as possible, meaning the southern hemisphere, then getting notification on phone that AAA found me a good deal on a romantic getaway.

Must go:

Spending so many dollars on chocolate in airport.

Spending so many dollars on books in airport

And at quiznos in airport.

Must not go:

Chocolate and books and quiznos in airport

Hef got divorced

TSA not giving me lip about my "meds" baggie containing liquids. I was afraid we'd have words about the ittybitty redbull i shoved in there. Cutest thing you ever saw. For all they know I'm hypoglycemic. And if they didnt believe me then i thought briefly about screaming SO YOURE CALLING ME FAT! Female equiv of the word "bomb" on a plane.

The word "tamper" being used so much.

Today's quote board: The ever charming Turbotax

Tubotax: Welcome!
Me: Grumble. Please tell me I get money.
TT: We'll see about that...how's your luck been in 2009?
Me: Your mom
T: I see. What's your marital status?
Me: Fail
T: I didn't catch that. Are you:
   a.) Married?
Me: Yeah, um, Common Law?
T: ...or 
   b.) Divorced in 2009?
Me: Close.
T: ...or 
   c.) Widowed?
Me: Common Law widowed?
T: No box for you. 
Me: Regirlfriend
T: Just check the box marked vanilla... I mean single. Did I mention you look fat?
Me: Stop asking me about my marital status. If you have to know, fine. But don't ask me twice. 
T: Then tell me all about your offspring!
Me: {sucking on milkshake}
T: You mean like, you're childless? But your age is 28. 
Me: I am aware of that.
T: OK. {processing}. And you are sure you don't have ANY dependents?
Me: Positive.
T: Fine. What did you pay on interest on that house you and your not husband were buying?
Me: Let's talk about how much money I didn't make.
T: I'm saving that for last, hold your horses. Why don't you tell me about your address? Do you even have one?
Me: It's a PO Box.
T: Ew, like, your stuff is in storage?
Me: Yes.
T: Hold on, I'm telling my friends about you.


And then rather than taking its foot out of its mouth, Turbotax just takes your money.

It rhymes with BEER.

Aside from volunteering twice a week with Utah Pets (NMHPU), I have some fun updates. I put money down on an apartment. It is dirt cheap and in downtown in SLC (who's shocked?). I found it on a drive one morning when I got out of the kennel early. I went back three times to make them show me the apartments. The maintenance guy finally felt like we were old friends, and showed me and my aunts the entire building behind the scenes. Including the dungeon! There's a boiler room thing and a partially excavated dirt cellar, full of rows and rows of 100 year old French doors with original hardware. I almost peed my pants. I said this guy could put an ad in This Old House and sell those buggers off and buy an island to live on. I picked an apartment, the cheaper and smaller one of the two I was contemplating. We left, and the old guy that just bought the building (and is having it all restored) hung his head out the third story window and started yelling. "Hey! I forgot I have another one up here you might want to see." Then he hucked the master key set down to us on the sidewalk for us to check it out. Good to know he's not uptight.

He joined us in the unit a few minutes later and I turned around and said "I'm like, kinda mad I almost didn't know about this Larry. What if I had left before you told me?" Because basically it was identical to the unit I picked, but with more light, a better view, bigger closet and bigger bathroom. It's just unfinished. I am not able to move in until the end of February anyway, since I'll be in Brazil ogling everyone's boobs for the next two weeks. (Just tried on some tank tops; they will not be ogling mine. Sorry Brazil. Mine are the boob counterpart to widdabrain. They are widdaboobs. Remember, there is one con to weight loss. It's widdaboob). So what do I care that the floors are waiting to be refinished? They have three weeks to make it all pretty for me. I told my new BFF, the maintenance guy, that I wanted those French doors from the dungeon put up in my new apartment. And the AC unit from the other place. And a bunch of other customizations. He shrugged and said sure. And I think this is going to be a good fit.

The 80 year old landlord guy did pronounce my name Kristen and then Kurrsten, and I told him it's Keeersten. And the things it rhymes with. Ear. Fear. Volunteer.

I'm packing for Brazil today. I have panic issues with packing. Let me tell you why. I have a whopping 40 minutes between landing in Dallas and lifting off to Sao Paulo. I am terrified that either a.) my stuff, b.) my self, or c.) both of us, will not make that Sao Paulo flight.

Plus, if I check baggage, I must buy a $25 ticket per bag. These bitches don't get any more of my medium-hard earned money. So I'm taking carryons ONLY. For a week and a half trip. {!!!!!!!!!!!} Anaga telling me she'll give me shit if I pack like a chick, really helps the anxiety. In her defense, I showed up in West Yellowstone for baconfest with like 14 bags plus a certain quilt. I could have brought my purse and been golden. I was off the tic-tacs by then, so I was undergoing a little adjustment. It was The Month I Didn't Brush My Hair. Off-limits. I text "What should I plan on for daytime clothes?"

"Zeke says anything you'd be comfortable really hungover in." Yeah, I'll really be wearing Reboyfriend's snowboarding clothes in Rio de Janeiro. "He added 'big black sunglasses.'" I love these guys.

Keep in mind that the last plane I flew in crashed the next time it went up. So, in a few days I'm looking at three flights to Rio, plus a flight to Florianopolis and back to Rio. Then three flights from Rio to SLC...

I don't know what Rbf would be prouder of...me partying on his old stomping grounds or me facing my newest phobia head on. I had to get some new tictacs (some intense ones) just in case I start to wig out somewhere in the turbulence that killed my boyfriend and his family. The Dumkes are already going to be in Rio when I leave, so I'm flying alone. And I want cred for this, valium or none.

I will be leaving on the six-month anniversary of the day we found the plane (today is the six-month-mark of the day they died).

I cut off that big chunk of my hair he loved so much to bury him with. It is weird to see it growing out.



Someday it's going to be long and blend in with the rest of my hair, and it will be like I never gave it away. And that makes me kind of sad.