Archive for the 'Ramblings' Category


It Wasn’t Supposed to Be Like This

It was never supposed to be like this.

At five years old, if you asked me what I would be doing when I was 30, I’d tell you I was going to be a famous pop star.

If you asked me at 10, the answer would be the same, except I’d be married to Joey McEntire from New Kids on the Block. We’d have lots of babies. Don’t you judge me.

If you asked me at 16, I’d still be a pop star, but Joey would be replaced by Justin Timberlake. We’d still have lots of babies, though.

You shouldn’t bother asking me what my thoughts where when I was 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24…

At 26, I thought I’d move to California and meet me some gorgeous rock star and together we’d tour the world. I’d finally be happy. I’d finally be skinny and gorgeous and rich and famous. Or at least infamous. Either way, there would be no way in hell you could get me out of California.

At 28, there would be no gorgeous rock star in my future, but it would be me and the bestie forever. Thelma and Louise, minus the gruesome cliff ending. We would party until we were 80! Seriously, I figured I’d die in the back of the Viper Room on my 85th birthday, because when you’re 85, you really shouldn’t do flaming shots of booze. Bedtime was sometime before sunrise, paychecks were spent in the fast lane of life, leaving just enough for bills. Leaving California was the last thing I’d ever do.

I was going to get a business degree. I was going to start my own promotions company, I was going to work with artists and turn them into stars!

A year ago I thought I’d party and be single for the rest of my life. My heart and my pride had been passed around and stomped on way too much, and I was okay with being alone. I was done with relationships! And that handsome guy who just walked in the bar? Yeah, totally not for me, but he’s damn cute, and he’d be damn fun to flirt with. And he drives a motorcycle!

In August 2015, everything was going to be perfect. Kentucky was a great move, everything was a sure thing. That guy from the bar had stuck around, had a plan, had a sure thing waiting for us. 2,200 miles away from where I said I’d never leave…

It’s 2016. I’m 30. 31 is fast approaching.

I’m not a pop star. I’m not married to Joey McEntire, Justin Timberlake, some unknown rock star. I’m not married at all.

I left California.

Kentucky was not perfect. It was not a sure thing.

I’m a waitress. A waitress that is in bed by 10pm most nights, and it’s a rare treat if I go to the bar.

That guy from the bar? He’s still cute, and he’s still fun to flirt with. I’m not skinny, but he does tell me I’m gorgeous. All the time. He doesn’t stomp on my heart or my pride. In fact, he’s piecing it back together bit by bit. He’s healing the damage that the others before him did, healing the damage I’ve done to it myself. Turns out, he totally was for me.

And on those nights where he just can’t keep his eyes open past 9pm because he’s up at 5am and out the door to catch his ride to work, then busts his ass for 9 hours a day, I watch him sleep.

I smile when he shifts to find me in bed next to him, because he needs to feel me, needs to be touching me.

At 5am, when he’s rushing out the door for work, he never ever leaves without a kiss goodbye. He never leaves the house without saying “I love you, beautiful”. He calls me beautiful all the time, he calls me sexy, he calls me Pixie. But every once in awhile, he calls me by my real name. And I love it, because it reminds me that he knows all of me. And he still wants me, still loves me. All of me. Even those dusty corners I’ve kept people out of for a long time.

Those sleepy 5am kisses. Curling up with the pillow that smells like him. Messages telling me to come home from work, from errands, from anywhere because he misses me. He needs me.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But it is.

And I’m happy.


There Is No Closure For This Wound

12 years ago today, my life changed forever, and I never saw it coming. Or, maybe I did, and I am 12 years deep in denial. Either way, it hit me out of left field. Oh look, a baseball reference. You would have loved that.

The thought of that late night long distance call still shatters my heart every time. She could barely get the words out. It didn’t matter what words she said, all I heard was “Papa’s gone.”

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss you, or think of you, or need you. 12 years gone and I still don’t know how I made it past day one. I don’t even remember how I kept breathing, walking, living. It all seemed so pointless without you.

And it is all a lie. You are not in a better place. You are not where you belong. You belong here. With me. Your memory is not sufficient enough to replace all that you were…no, all that you are to me.

My heart hurts, Papa. It hurts every single day without you. I hate so much, Papa, and hate never fills the void, it only makes it bigger.

I hate that you are gone.

I hate that you were stolen from me.

I hate all the things I still don’t understand about how, and why.

I hate myself for being too naive to ask questions.

I hate that I have to face each day without you.

I hate that all the memories we had yet to make were stolen from us.

I hate the things that happened, that would have never happened had you been there. Right where you always were. In my corner, holding my hand, telling me it was all going to be okay.

After you were gone, Papa, it wasn’t okay anymore. You were what made it okay.

And I’m starting to forget, Papa.

I can barely remember what your voice sounded like.

I can scarcely remember your cologne.

I’ve forgotten what your home looked like when you were in it, all I can think of is the shell it is now.

I’ve forgotten the smell of the upholstery in your Cadillac, the smell I used to love.

I’ve forgotten all the little details of the doll house you were building me, even though it was more for you.

But most of all Papa, I’ve forgotten how to be loved. I can’t remember what it was like, all I can remember is that it was good. No one will ever love me like you did, Papa. It’s not possible. No one will ever love anyone the way you loved me. It was so unique and special and perfect. It was never expected or assumed or persuaded or begged. It just existed and it was pure, and it was better than any Jim Dandy Sundae or fresh pack of baseball cards or burnt and “cremated” hamburger.

I try to stay positive, especially on this day. I try to remember all the good things, and trust me, I’ve plenty to choose from. But it all still hurts, and I’m a fool to deny myself that pain.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, Papa. It’s one of the few ways I’m so different from you. I guess nurture can’t take over everything. I wear it proudly though, Papa. Literally and figuratively. It’s beaten, and bruised, and broken, and scarred, but I wear it. You’re in there. No one else can see it but me, but you are.

She hates my tattoo. Well, plural, tattoos. I like to think we would have bonded over them. Maybe I could have convinced you to get more. That would have been so cool. A lot of things would have been cool.

….and just like that, the pain is back. It felt good for a minute, I even smiled. But that cold hard truth creeps in and reminds me that you are gone.

And I hate that most of all. The one thing I can’t forget; you are gone.





It’s never been a secret that I didn’t have the best childhood. My father bailed when I was too young to even know I had a father, and my mother put partying and drugs before her children, and married a man who abused me. While both have attempted to atone for their actions, I’ve always wondered why the cycle stopped with me.

It’s long been discussed that abuse and addiction spiral children into a vicious cycle. The abused will abuse. But with me, that never happened. I’m not typically a violent person, even though I may be short-tempered and easily agitated at times. As far as drugs go, I’ve never done anything worse than pot. I’ve seen it, I’ve been around it, I’ve been offered it, but the thought never appealed to me.

Throughout the years of my childhood.. what went right? Surrogacy.

While my parents were making poor life choices, somehow, I always found people who DID love and care for me. I didn’t actively seek out these people, maybe they found me. No matter how they came into my life, I’ve had many “mothers”.

My grandmother and grandfather stepped up to the plate early in my life. My earliest memory is of my grandma and my Mom fighting over me, and my grandfather intervening and bringing me inside. My grandfather was the man who I will always be able to say loved me first, and the most.

As I got older, and really saw and understood my mother was an addict, I became close to my friends mother. Mea, or as I call her, Mummuhz, became my guiding light, and really took me under her wing. We had lost touch for several years, and when I moved back to the area, rekindling my relationship with her, her husband, and her son became an important, albeit easy, task. They re-welcomed me with open arms, and saved me once again. Not only is she a surrogate mother, but I call her son my brother.

Making the choice to move 3,000 miles away was difficult for me. Not only was I moving away from my sisters, who I’ve cared for their whole lives, and making it more difficult for my mother and I to repair our relationship, I was leaving my surrogate family. It was so hard to explain to all of them that I loved them, I wasn’t unhappy with them, I just needed to go where my heart was leading me. Like any loving family, they understood and supported me.

When I made the move, at first I felt a rush of adrenaline. Then, it started to sink in, I didn’t have any of my “Mom’s” here. But, in typical Pixie fashion, once again I have found family.

The BFF is my rock. She’s not a mother-figure to me, but the world would be infinitely more lonely had I not found her. She has helped me in more ways then I could ever explain. I didn’t just gain a best friend, I didn’t just find that there is someone out there who understands me. Her family has also welcomed me. Her sister refers to me as “Auntie Pixie” to her 4 children, whom I adore. Her mother has been loving and welcoming as well. Even her Aunt from up north has welcomed me.

It’s not always in person I find family either. For a very long time, members of the Julien-K message board were my family, some of whom I still talk to today. Those people brought me through some of the roughest of times.

When it boils down to it, as of late, I’ve looked into my life and really recognized all the life lessons I’ve learned. Don’t put metal in the microwave, don’t put the whole bottle of food coloring in your sisters bathwater (sorry Emi!), never trust an adult beverage that sounds like a porn film. But the most important lesson I’ve ever learned? “Family” isn’t blood, it’s all the crazies you choose to keep in your life.

And man, I sure picked a bunch of weird ones.

P.S.: According to WordPress, this is post #100! Wooo! I finally made it! Hey, shut up, it’s not a race!


Girls in the ‘hood

The BFF and I are random. It’s kind of what we’re famous for, along with last minute (usually awesome, but poor financial) decisions, and being fabulous. It’s why we like us.

A while back, we got word that a record store all the way up in Long Beach had free sampler CD’s from a band we like, and being the random bitches we are, we decided to take the 1 1/2 hour trek. What can I say, we *really* like free.

After getting our free shit, then “accidentally” spending some money on random CD’s and DEER SHAPED CRAYONS, we decided it was still early enough to go on an adventure. (What? We like free, but we also like the band Orgy, and Skid Row. Don’t judge us!)

Driving through the area, we noticed a few cool sights, enjoyed the music from the used CD’s we rescued, and decided to head home. Being the awesome (read: horrible) navigator I am, I’m looking down at my phone, trying to figure out my map, when the BFF *screams* “GIANT DONUT!!!!”.

I dropped my phone in my lap and was all, “What? Where?! WANT!”. ‘Cuz what fat girl doesn’t want a giant donut! Disappointingly, said giant donut was on top of a donut shop, which appeared to be closed, so we went on our merry way.

Since that night, Giant Donut has become somewhat of an inside joke between us, as a lot of things do. We’ve even done some research to find out where the hell the GD was.

Today, I got this magical text from The BFF:

BFF: Dude! The giant donut TOTES was in Compton!!! Cuz the bitches in da hood are always hard. (Have I mentioned we like to dirty rap to Eazy-E at 3 am? Stop. Judging.)

Read that again. Yeah, that says Compton! Compton as in COMPTON, CAL-EYE-FORN-EYE-AY!

Picture this: Two women. Two WHITE women. Two WHITE women in a Mini-Van. Two white women, in a mini-van, after dark. Two white women, in a mini-van, after dark, IN COMPTON!

Sometimes, Internet, ignorance really is bliss.



Would You Like Crazy With That?

For me, sometimes it’s very hard to think of what to blog about, which results in this blog sitting lonely for months on end. But sometimes, the fodder just comes to you.

I was waiting in line at a pizza place that just opened near my house. This is the exchange that took place.

Rude Lady: **rambles off order**

Counter Girl: “Gotcha, 4 small beverages, 3 topping pizza, garlic bread… anything else?”

Rude Lady: “FRIES!”

Counter Girl: “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. We actually don’t have fr-”

Rude Lady: “WHAT?! What kind of PIZZA place doesn’t have fries!!!!

Me: “I know, right!?” **smiling, thinking she’s kidding**

Rude Lady: **spins around and gets in my face** “You think these damn Mexican’s would learn to cook OUR food the way WE like it. We like god-given french fries with our god-given pizza!!”

Me: “Whoa… I totally thought you were kidding. Oh, wow. Okay. Yeah, fries are not THAT big of a deal.”

Rude Lady: “HEATHENS! Cancel my order!” **to her 29583958 children running around** “Kids, we’s going to [Mexican Restaurant nearby], maybe THEY’LL have french fries for you!”

Me and Counter Girl: **blink, blink**

Counter Girl: “Um… welcome to…. **sigh** You don’t want french fries, do you?”


I cannot make this shit up, people.


Try Not To Destroy Me

That moment. It took a long road to get to it. A road that started months ago. I’ve been to almost every show they’ve played this year. The album has been on repeat. I’ve sang along to all the songs they’ve already played. I’ve danced, I’ve screamed, I’ve earned that moment. The song starts, the last song of the night; my song.

I let all of my senses welcome this song. I hear it, of course, and I see him, just him. I smell the booze, the sweat, the enticement, the excitement. I can taste the words, dancing on my on tongue, sweet like sugar. I can feel the music on my skin, mingling with the goose bumps.

Nothing matters right now. No one is there but me and him and that song. Every thing and everyone just melts away. All the tension, the apprehension, the anxiety; disappeared. It’s just us. I almost cry from the sensory overload, but instead I soak it all in. That moment, my moment.

I feed on those words. I thrive on that melody. It’s so intimate between us right then, I feel so vulnerable, so exposed. I’m aware it’s one sided, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just me, him, and that song that matters. Everyone else can go ahead and look in my windows, peek at my soul.

It feels like hours, but hours that go by too quickly. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but it ends too soon. With the final word, the final chord, that intimacy lost, that connection broken, the moment passes. I come back to Earth, back to myself, and the party has just begun.

Night number two, and I’m surrounded by good friends, good conversation. I feel like hell, I look like shit, but we’re there nonetheless. The anticipation builds, but my moment doesn’t come. I get the tingles, but it’s not the same. It’s not the first time when it’s the second time. But that’s okay, I’ve still got my moment from the night before.

Ryan Shuck from Julien-K (Show #2 @ The Observatory in Costa Mesa, CA) – Image Courtesy of Beephobia

Just planning the trip gave me thrills. I knew I couldn’t afford it, neither of us could, but that’s never stopped me before. When it comes to them, very little can stop me. I’m drawn, I’m hooked. I knew I’d suffer when I got back. Physically, financially. I was aware, and I still put all my chips on the table.

Planning, paying, packing. All of it put the butterflies in my stomach. I’ve seen them tons of times. I’ve traveled thousands of miles to listen to the same songs I listen to at home. None of that mattered, I was going. I was ready for the experience. I was willing to pay whatever price they were asking. It was all worth it, tenfold because my best friend was by my side, making it all possible.

5 hour drive to spend less than 24 hours in Vegas. Turn right back around and head 5 hours straight to Orange County for show number 2. We were crazy. I don’t regret it.

2 shows, 2 nights, hundreds of miles, and one fuck of a hangover later… I’m still a little drunk on that moment. Thank you.

Myself and Ryan Shuck- Image courtesy of Scarlett Lee


Queen of the Mountain

This Saturday, it was a gorgeous day in sunny Southern California, so my friends and their daughter decided to go on a hike. I was graciously invited, and having never gone on an actual hike, I was game.

First of all, I wasn’t aware we were going UP. A. MOUNTAIN. They called it a large hill, I called them ridiculous. We were both wrong, as it’s actually a 22-million year old volcanic plug¹. So there.

Mount Calavera at the Lake Calavera Preserve – Carlsbad, CA

My gracious hosts encouraged me along, knowing that this was my first hike, and I appreciated the lack of humiliation, because 30 seconds in, I was panting and gasping for breath. I’m a beginner, shush. This guy is 513 feet of steep, uneven terrain trails.

Not the steepest or most un-even, but you get the idea. Yeah, we climbed that.

On my way up. Yes, I have my purse with me. Shut. Up.

Slowly, we made our way to the top, and I have to say, it was worth it. Being able to stand where it feels like you’re on top of the world is amazing. To the west I could see the ocean, and to the east, snow-capped mountains, below us, a small lake, and all around, rooftop views. It was really refreshing and exhilarating.

I was really proud that I made it to the top, no joke. I never thought I could do something like this.

Ocean to the West

Snow-Capped Mountains to to East

And Lake Calavera below us

We rocked that ancient volcanic plug, biaaaatch. Yes, Melissa and I are ridiculous.

From the top, you can see the rock designs people have made near the base where the quarry was in the 1930’s. Yep, that’s a rock maze. Yep, that other shape is exactly what you think it is.

The whole experience was really great. Except the part where they told me there were rattlesnakes, and took me down a steep path where I felt like I was going to fall on my face and have my skull crushed in and have to go to the emergency for not only my crushed skull, but rattlesnake bites because they all found me and were all “Hey look! A chunky one tried to hike! Dinner’s ready!”.

I might be exaggerating. Slightly.

You can’t see the terrified look on my face, but it’s there. Also, not the worst part of the way down.

Up close of the rock maze. I was badgered until I actually went through it. Not by the 13 year old, either.

At the base, on the quarry side. Can you spot me?

Either way, I would totally go hiking again. It was a really great experience, and I can’t wait until we go on another trail. Oh, next time, I won’t bring my purse. I swear, people were staring… 3 of those people BROUGHT ME there!

All the photography is done by my best friend Melissa. She’s ridiculous and refuses to start a photography blog, so if you want to let her know how much her pictures effin rock, comment here and I’ll force her to look at them. Note to Melissa: I’m gonna start posting more of your pictures! They is awesome!

1- Btw, a volcanic plug SOUNDS dirty, but it’s not. Basically, a plug is magma that hardened inside the volcano. As the volcano erodes away, what’s left is the plug. Thank you Wikipedia.

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