Phone

One thing I lie to myself about:
I don't like to talk on the phone ever.

The way I know that's a lie:
I was looking at my phone bill. There are two people I speak to everyday. I speak to one of them for at least an hour a go. Everyday. And I talk to my mom and Massachusetts family for 20-30 minutes couple of weeks. Mom would like that to be every week, but I don't like talking on the phone. Oh god, I've been lying to my mother.

The question resulting:
How does one talk to people in US from Mexico? It's expensive, I think. E-mail won't be the same. E-mail doesn't allow for the easy babble, sex jokes and punning, expressiveness, that I've apparently allowed to become necesarry.

I'm pretty loosely connected to the US, but not as loosely as I thought. As Kelly Clarkson says, "What happened to Miss Independent?" (I'm betraying terrible things about myself with the lyrics I'm choosing to quote on this thing. I suppose that's what happens to girls who lie to themselves.)

A new beginning

I had posted only one post to my blog (see below) and then decided to give it up because it's retarded to have a blog. Nobody cares what I do. Except my mom, and I think she mostly just wants to know if I'm still breathing and if I'm expecting her grandchild yet.

[Best false cognate, and I hope a totally inappropriate one given my Mexico plan: embarazada means pregnant, not embarrassed, in Spanish. (I'm such a nerd. "Best false cognate." Jesus.)]

My current situation is especially uninteresting, I think: Depressed Orange County graduate student trudging toward her MFA struggles with her ability to write poetry when the only thing going on in her life is the struggle to write poetry. And I teach poetry to a bunch of science and engineering undergrads who like to write poems about how annoying their roommates are and how great surfing is. I don't even watch TV (but only 'cause we don't have cable) so I can't even make witty comments on pop culture. I have no boyfriend, I don't want one, and drinking bores me (i.e. no anonymous sex blog). I have a bunch of roommates, but they're all undramatic and are doing the same thing I am with more or less drinking and more actual writing. I have nobody to exploit.

I still hate the word blog.

So negative. Here's a picture of my hair:


Then I remembered that I'm going to Mexico and that might be interesting. And at the very least I would like having a record of my trip. And my mom can keep track of me if she can remember how to use the internet. If I eat good food, I'll note it. Also interesting people, unusual birds, funny buildings, cuts & abrasions, triumphs of the human spirit.

If you visit me, I'll put that in here too. Like this: Bob came into town today. It sure is nice to see Bob again.

So far, I've applied for a passport and told my brother when I'm going to come. (Aaron lives there. He's got a business renting Segway scooter things to tourists at the Marina in Puerto Vallarta. Mad props to Segway Vallarta.) I've packed a suitcase full of books to be my carry-on, thus avoiding the weight restriction for checked luggage, and I've packed a suitcase with clothes, just to see how much I could fit in a suitcase. (I'm going to be gone for 6 months maybe. That's how long you can stay on the Tourist Visa.) I can fit a lot of warm weather clothes in one suitcase. I have a Lonely Planet guide to Mexico, so I've learned all about it. I can't wait to see Casa Kimberly, the house Richard Burton bought for Elizabeth Taylor while shooting The Night of the Iguana, when their affair put Puerto Vallarta on the paparazzi map.

Now I've gotta figure out what to do with the stuff I'm not taking.