Ware-wolf Girl. That’s what he called me in the 4th grade. Bully. Sure. I probably said some mean things to him too. I hope I did.

When I saw him again in the 8th, he was a part of this chain-gang of kids with disciplinary issues. They kept them all away from the student body. The student body I was President of– I was suppose to be attending something. I’m sure. But instead, I was sitting with another student on a bench in plain sight. Did it count as ditching?

My legs are shaved now! Look! I yelled at him. Their prison guard line leader didn’t know how to respond. The group kept walking with their hands behind their backs.

You might be imagining I got sweet revenge. My words were said with the vengeance of a thousand gods. Nah. I was smiling. I was laughing. I made him laugh. I hopefully brought joy to their miserable lives of being misunderstood. For not being able to function in a classroom. For just being.

Even then, I knew it wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. None of them did. They needed someone to listen.

He called me a name that cut me deeply. It does get a laugh when I share it with others.

So. I made an appointment for a consultation and discovered: what they sell doesn’t exist. 100% hair free isn’t possible. There are no guarantees.

Genetics. Ethnicity. Hormones, etc. All factors. Sure. But before you can speak about pricing options, you’ll e-sign away your rights.

Acknowledging 100% doesn’t exist in laser hair removal. Pre-care and After-care treatment will determine results. The list was LONG.

Most uncomfortable moment: Getting through the front door. The front desk is too big for the space. The front desk doesn’t match the rest of the decor. It’s awkward to enter when there is a person standing/sitting at the front desk.

Treatment #1

By chance, I happened to use the restroom during my consultation visit. There was a small sign that encouraged timeliness. 15 before your first appointment to fill out paperwork. 10 before your regular appointment. And 5 minutes of waiting grace. 

I showed up 10 minutes early to the first zap. My appointment was at 13:45. I didn’t get acknowledged for waiting until 13:55. And I was asked to the room around 14:00. 

The woman in scrubs led me in. Asked a few questions. Asked me to undress and wait for her return with the iPad to Facetime another nurse.

I kid you not. I Facetimed a nurse that asked me two questions. How did I know she was a nurse? Because she wore glasses? Because the other woman kept referring to her as a nurse? Because she was very serious in asking me those two questions.

How many sessions did you get? 8.
Oh good!

On a scale of 1 to 10, what are you feeling for pain? 3.

Wait that was it. One armpit done. Oh. That was a 2.

Next armpit. More small talk.

Further down:
Are you Caucasian, Italian or Puerto Rican? Umm.
She wanted me to show her how far my hair grew out to.
I nonverbally answered.

You’re all done.

That was so fast. That was too fast? Did you cut it short because you knew I had 8 sessions?

Most uncomfortable moment: speaking to an Ipad.

You’ll make it.

My smile was my armor. It was a means of deceiving others. Hiding the truth.
My smile was a polite hello.
My smile was reassuring.
My smile was fake.

My legs, I can trust. Always.
My legs have carried me well past 26.2 miles.
My legs continue to heal from injury big and small.
My legs are my strength.

My memory will convict you.
My memory can describe our last encounter vividly.
My memory warns me from getting hurt, again.
My dreams show me, my lack of control.

I’m not able to get to the driver seat in time.
I try to climb over the center console.
The steering wheel is out of reach.
The brake pedal is even further.
When I finally reach, the car has accelerated into high speeds.
I veer off the highway.
I’m about to hit the grassy ditch.
I finally feel calm. I know it’s about to happen.
I finally accept it. I feel weightless.
I fly.

A return and a show!

Last night we were at H&M to make a small return. We witnessed the tail end of a woman that had just thrown her pink lemonade 3:16 cup at the person behind the cashier. 

When she said: I’m not from Cali! I’ll fuck your shit up! 

I responded with curiosity. I stepped to the side to get a better view. I wanted to say, of course you’re not. You said Cali. And I remained calm and curious. Where was she from? Who raised her? Was there anyone around to raise her? I wanted more insight into her life. But she proceeded to knock off a counter of jean and walk out of the store with someone attempting to hold her back. 

When security showed up, Matt was the only to say he looked like 16. I looked up. He was right. Jailbait. Baby face. With only a red clipboard. The H&M spoke to him first because he was too shy. They said: did you want to see our manager? Yes. Great. He’s upstairs. Follow me. 

I didn’t feel fear until I was rung up. I felt the new cashier’s shaky body. She was professional. She was polite. And she was still processing what had happened. Saying it usually only happens on weekends. 

Sending us off: goodnight and be safe out there with a smile. We laughed and made sure to walk out in the opposite direction. 

Little Campy. 

On my flight back from Seattle. I met a dick in a suit. Never got his name. But I got a bruise. 
The flight was full and the flight attendants warned us, if your bag doesn’t fit you’ll have to check it in. We all felt the tension as the plane filled with people and carry ons. My bag was in the overhead compartment. I was seated. I was good. But I wasn’t. 

This dick moved my little camping pack to make room for his sparkly plastic carry on. He moved it from the right side of the plane to the left and he left it hanging out of the overhead compartment. In clear jeopardy of being checked-in. Lost to the gates of hell; baggage claim. I had brought one bag. Little Campy. I don’t own a purse. However, my make up pouch slipped out from the side pocket of Little Campy. And he didn’t pick it up from the floor. Nope. His bag was good so he sat his ass down. Luckily, the guy next to me let me get up from my window seat to pick up the pouch and desperately try to make my bag fit. I whispered gently to myself, this isn’t fair. 

Someone else noticed me struggling. My new friend helped me make room for it, in its new spot. He even offer to take down his girlfriends backpack to make room for me. I politely declined the offer. And together we used all our strength to close the overhead compartment. 
I’m not about to start a fight on a plane. But, it was my first encounter with someone who was openly willing to fuck over a stranger. Because my bag is shape differently, it’s treated as less?

Unimportant baggage because it’s not shaped like the rest of the carry on luggage? Fabric vs Plastic? A new gang war I’ve never heard of?

It was a few minutes, but I had an entire internal conversation with myself. I won’t reflection his actions. I’m not displacing someone else. I’ll figure out how to make this work. He probably voted for Trump. Don’t let him get to you. They go low. We go high. 

Later on during the flight, I used the restroom. On my way back I felt a sharp pain in my right quad. As I turn to say sorry/acknowledge the human contact: I realized it was the dick in the suit. He had been stretching and perfectly elbowed me. Of course it was him. I turned, smiled to myself, and got to my seat. 

When it was time to get off the plane, the same guy helped me with my bag. I got you, he said. So, when I later found him on the way to the main terminal for exiting, I started a simple conversation. Turns out him and his gf were visiting for a few days. And when I couldn’t help them navigate how to use Uber to get out of the airport, I invited along to our apartment for them to save a little money on their ride to KTOWN. From losing faith in humanity, I decided to respond with kindness. Not exactly kindness for the dick in a suit. But kindness nonetheless. Matt and I made friends, we answered questions about El Lay, and we sent them off safely to enjoy our favorite city. 

A bite and a bite in Seattle:


Half a cup of water. Half a bag of pretzels. 

How does the antsy guy act on a bus versus a plane? Is it with pacing too? Constant eye contact with others? Why is this skinny guy not comfortable with staying seated? Not enough cushion in the booty? You should fit nicely in a seat for two hours. You probably pull it off for several innings of a baseball game. Enjoy the plane ride. 


Three cuties.

On the LINK, I heard a Valley girl voice speak for about 5 minutes before I looked up at her and saw a round faced Asian woman speaking into the speaker of her cellphone. I was picturing a different person. 


Cup of chowder. 

Just as I sat down, I realized I had chosen the wrong spot. The cloudiness threw me off. I didn’t see the waterfront view at the other end of the dine-in space. Damn. 


Soy mocha. 

Sipping and charging. My phone went from 55% to zero! Thank goodness I had my charger in my pocket. I thought I had left it in my bag. But I did leave my climbing shoes. Double damn. 


Salad with Chicken. No beer. 

She asks: Are you done climbing?

Pretty much. 

You have to say you’re done or I can’t serve you the beer. 

Oh. Then no beer. 

I shouldn’t have asked the next question:

Wait. If I was done climbing here, why would I drink here? Then I would just have to drive home. 

Well, legally you can have a beer and drive home. 

Wait. What bitch?

1. I’m not driving after a beer. Not this lightweight. 

2. Why would an establishment bank on patrons having ONE beer. One and done. Nope. That’s limiting of the patron and the establishment. 

3. I would checkpoint your asses every Friday, Saturday and Sunday if I was the cops. Because after climbing. You’re on empty. And with a beer, you’re donzo. 

4. Found a piece of plastic in my salad. What kind of climbing gym is this? Aren’t you hippy dippy? Aren’t you in Seattle? The capital of farm to table. What kind of bullshit is this?

5. When asked: how is it? I smiled politely and nodded. Thank you for the salad I’m not sending back. Because I don’t send back food. No. Never. 


Trainspotter: Stout + Whiskey. 

They put baby in the corner. Literally. Stuck my ass in a corner table for two. I can’t see 1/3 of the room. 

Next day…


 Soy mocha. 12 ounces. 

When she said THAT’LL BE $5.05. I almost lost it. How the? Did you farm the beans yourselves? I should have gotten the smaller option: 8 ounce. 


Bacon and Avocado omelet and potatoes. 

The view was amazing. I’m so impressed with this place. Location. Location. Location.


Guac and water. 

I had to ask myself, when was the last time I drank water? Like, did I drink any yesterday? A bit. Not really. Damn.  

Also! I’m the only patron not sitting at the bar and a family of 5 sits in the table next to me. With a screaming kid. And a 6th person joins them and sits at the head of their table which is right in front of me. My new view is this guy’s profile. Not that cute. YOU made it awkward. So. I moved to the bar. 


Fettuccine Alfredo and a glass of red wine. 

Romantic dinner for two! When you are able to walk to an Italian restaurant that serves gluten free pasta, you sit down and have a nice dinner. Options are important. Gluten free options mean a dinner for two instead of a dinner for none. Take that Pizza place with no gluten free options of dough. 

The next day…


Oatmeal with special sugar. 

Oatmeal can be tricky to heat up in a microwave. Too much water. Too much heat. Overflow. Worth the hassle? This time. Yes. Cozy breakfast for a typical chilly morning in Seattle. 


Mocha with whip. 

The Fremont Troll was a great sight. Yes. But his view is even better. And the views through the neighborhood streets to the mountains were pretty epic. 

Spicy cocktail. Tacos and black beans. 

I was looking forward to fish tacos. But I ended up with barbacoa instead. The fish tacos were fried and I wasn’t about to risk it. This body can have troubles with fried and battered foods. It’s was cool. Because the tacos were filling. You didn’t fail me GARCIA. Thanks dude. 


 Housemade wontons.

I guess I really don’t like Diner food. Which is ridiculous. Do you know how many episodes of Triple D I’ve seen? An entire menu of diner delights and I choose crab wontons. Because they were made in house. Because they were the only option that was for lack of a better word: different. I’m never near a diner and I opt for the one item on the menu that wasn’t a classic. 


Shorty dog and cider. 

When you spend a few days with a friend who knows you, you have pleasant conversations. Old times. Catching up. And hearing the hard truth you didn’t want to admit to yourself. We may not have done an A+ job of keeping in touch. We may not have remembered how we drifted. But we have too much love and respect for each other to NOT put the other in perspective. We’ve made it. Adults. Alcohol. Adulting. And telling it like it is. 

And the next day…


Pancakes, bacon, eggs and water. 
I really love my wedding ring. And I got a compliment from a stranger about it. The validation was so nice to hear. Guilty. It is a great ring. It may not be traditional. But it’s mine. I put a lot of work into finding it and waiting for it. With all my vendors and purchases for the wedding, we had the luxury of time. We took our time and we were able to pounce on deals. Instagram told me when my dress was going to be in a local sample sale. Instagram told me I didn’t have to buy my ring from a department store– it was going to be ready for me at a pop up sample sale. Instagram showed me that my Airbnb Villas were the real deal. Scanning hashtags to support guest reviews of location, views and security in knowing it’s not a scam. Real people had real experiences there. Thank goodness some people don’t care about privacy settings. 


Chai Latte with soy. 

Friends don’t let friends buy furniture alone. This entire visit was incredible. You really can DO Seattle in a weekend. And I had three nights. Plenty. So, we sat on a lot of couches. We sat. We compared. We laughed. We were rebels and walked from store to store. We spoke with kind salespeople. We spoke with awkward sales people. One guy greet us by saying WE ARE SO HAPPY YOU CAME TO OUR STORE. But it didn’t smile before or after he finished his sentence. What the. Ok. We were mature and didn’t laugh. Visiting Seattle was a bonus. Visiting a loved one was the reason for the trip. 

Thanks girl. I love you!

Falling. Failing.

Verbal bitch slap. Just what the doctor ordered.

I’ve been second guessing my decision to leave security and stability for insecurity and unpredictability. Who did I think I was? Undeserving of a new start. Undeserving of “all the time in the world”. How am I able to go after this dream when I’m carrying the weight of my people// my parents didn’t come to this country for me to fail.

I failed LOTS on Saturday. Physically.

It was a perfect personification of my reality. Falling straight onto my face. Face first. Jump. Actual leap. No faith this time. And back down on the ground. So I gave it another try. Fail. And another. Fail. Another one in front of the packed gym. A full audience to witness my failure. So we left the gym. And the beer helped us laugh it off.

At least I tried. Because today, I tried again. Today I landed it. Today I hung. Twice. Progress.

It’s what I love about the climbing gym. It’s a physical climb to the finish. A climb up to the top. On Saturday, I failed. And I promised to return. Today, I succeeded a move further than before. Today, I went back and finished that Green V2. Twice. Just to be sure.

Failing is good. Failing is more than good. Failing is important. I’m learning to be OK with failing. I’m learning to be OK with ripped skin. I am learning. One move at a time.