More tomorrow, because I'm drunk now and can't finish this, which I started while sober

[oceantheorem]

I sat next to a fellow McQueen High student on the plane from Hartford to Las Vegas. He's in the law school here, so we chatted a bit about Yale and about home and whatnot, and then he read while I attempted to read 100+ pages of background research for the critical review that was due that Friday. I got through most of it, using four different colors of highlighter to color-code things. I spent the first two days of my Reno vacation sequestered in what used to be Phil's office, typing away on my ancient dilapidated laptop. I finished the paper Thursday night and emailed it in, and then the real vacation began.

I met up with four of the other Goons at the bar in downtown Reno where Darby is working. I'd never been drinking with the other Goons, so it was interesting to see how they all acted in bar settings. Mostly we sat and talked and got caught up and acted like we hadn't been apart more than a week since high school. It always feels like high school, in the good way, when the Goons get together. It's like that safety net is back, and it's okay to be dorky and silly.

A distant cousin, who used to live in Reno, was home for Christmas with her 4-month-old son, and she's just started working for Mary Kay, so she threw a small party. My mom and I went and chatted with her and her mom and some of the other women in that social relation circle. It's like they're all my family, even though they're related through someone's cousin's husband, who is my mom's brother. It was good to see them, even if it was extremely odd for my cousin to be teaching me about makeup while she nursed her brand-new son. She's a year younger than I am, and the whole thing just sort of disconcerted me. So many of my cousins are having babies. The two first cousins who are a year older than I am are BOTH pregnant right now, and one of them is having her second child. And one of the first cousins who is a year younger than I am just got married, and I'm terrified that they're ALL going to be married and have twelve kids before I've even met a guy I could stand to be married to. I'm going to be the old maid of the family, the one that the uncles look at and think, "Where did we go wrong? Why can't she find someone to marry her?" and my cousins' children will think of me as Crazy Aunt Kara, the one with the cats who makes cookies all the time 'cause she has nothing better to do.

Anyway, after that scary examination of my future....

Christmas itself was okay. Obviously Elena got the bulk of the gifts. I got her some art from Ursula Vernon, and a magnetic weiner dog thing that comes apart, and a Princess Dress like Nanny used to get us, and some other things. I got Mom a Zune. Phil was supposed to help me pay for it, but he hasn't, so there you have it. I bought a Zune and then I gave it away. *cries* Mom got Phil an mp3 player, too, so now they both have really nice ones and I have my sad sorry little 1G Samsung that I dropped in a glass of water last summer. It still works okay, but it's small and I'm not crazy about it. Anyway.

I got a climbing harness, a really dorky mug about genetically engineering sweet lemons, a really nerdy necklace from madewithmolecules.com, two Death Cab CDs, a knife sharpener, and an outdoor thermometer. I also selfishly kept the $20 gift certificate Best Buy gave me when I bought the Zune for Mom. I haven't spent it yet, but I want to get myself something awesome. I dunno what yet.

Elena did not understand the concept of Christmas, and was COMPLETELY overwhelmed by the large concentration of new toys. She dealt with it the way she deals with everything. She screamed. And screamed. My sister really likes her lungs. She didn't finish opening her gifts; or rather, we didn't finish opening her gifts for her, because she was screaming too much.

I took off for California a couple days later, largely because I was unable to handle being so close and not being there, but also because I couldn't handle any more screaming. (Mom tried to take me shopping the day after Christmas, and Elena screamed so much we actually had to go home. We tried everything, including sedation by Motrin and nursing her in the changing rooms. Nothing worked. She was hysterical and inconsolable, so we gave up. She screamed when we got home, too.) I took Greyhound, which was a nightmare. Everyone was trying to go somewhere, so the first bus was full and I had to take the second. The second bus had a hole in it, so we got five exits out of Reno and had to turn around and go back. Then it took forever to go over the pass, because despite the fact that there was NO SNOW ON THE ROAD, the driver stopped and put on chains (two miles later we stopped and he took them off again). Then we stopped in every little town between here and San Francisco, so what would have taken four hours in a car took nine by bus. And the guy next to me wouldn't shut up, and he borrowed my phone and whoever he called stored my number, so he actually CALLED ME BACK three days later to chat with me. *headdesk*

But San Francisco, and California in general, was awesome. And worth every torturous moment it took to get there. I love California. I love the way it smells, I love the way everyone there is crazy and liberal and believes in free love. I love that you can buy organic tea in any grocery store. I love that the busses in SF are electric and quiet and run on the tiny old streets as though they'd been there since the city was built. I love the way the ocean looks from the hill that UCSC is built on. I love that everyone rides bikes and climbs and drinks soy milk. I got over the pass in that awful bus and the sky cleared up and the sun came out and it was like the weather was giving me a sign--it's bright and sunny and warm here; you're supposed to be here; welcome home, little daughter. I cried with happiness inside.

Comments

[owlishness.livejournal.com]

I can't believe he actually called you back. That's hilarious.

I actually take Greyhound pretty much every time and it's not so bad. Of course, no one borrows my phone. But this one time, this guy talked my ear off. He's 50, abandoned his wife and daughter, and spends his days gambling. =/ But very talkative.

[oceantheorem.livejournal.com]

Ugh. This guy was 29 and had been carjacked in Reno, which admittedly really really sucks. But he went on and on about how horrible it had been, and how people thought he was a thug because his lip was split from the jacking, and how wasn't he a poor little put upon thing and wasn't it terrible that he had no money and no car and wouldn't he just starve to death? On and on and on. And I told him my name only once, which I never do on busses--I always wear my ring on my left ring finger, which deters most guys, and I tell them my name is Hannah, but I slipped and told this one my real name, just once--and he remembered it. I hate that. Anyway. Usually I don't have a problem with Greyhound, and once or twice I've actually met interesting people, like the guy who informed me that if you take certain drugs you can tap into the collective human consciousness. He was clearly insane, but he was entertaining and he knew a bit about molecular biology, so I talked to him for a few hours and it was actually a good time. I dunno. Mostly Greyhound is entertaining. I just couldn't handle carjack guy. Anyway.
I managed not to talk to a single one of my neighbors on any of my flights (besides Enrique, of course). It was awesome.