Do you use YouTube?

My coworker asked me this and all I could muster was "No. I don't like sharing." After awkwardly back peddling to explain myself and trying to sum my ranting with a simple "I don't personally upload videos, but I watch silly things people send me" I began asking myself what's so wrong with sharing.

Well, it means you expose yourself to criticism and ridicule. Two things I try to avoid like the plague and constantly fret over. The last thing I want to do is expose my soft chewy center for someone to metaphorically chew up and spit out. How embarrassing. How crushing. How silly. How true.

Hi, I'm Kelsey. I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, was raised on fresh seafood, visited the beach often and climbed any tree that allowed it. I now live in the desert of California and although I love what I do, I miss home terribly. I live with my nerdy counterpart who just purchased a lovely house and is graciously sharing his life with me. We share this abode with two overly furry cats that test the boundaries of our patience and love (in the best way possible).

These are basic points that most people don't think twice about sharing, but they are personal items I wouldn't dare volunteer in casual conversation. Knowing that these things won't be read by many, I'm still hesitant to just put it out there. But I'm going to put it out there. I need to.

The EAFB Airshow Debacle

Last Saturday, October 17, we decided to attend the Edwards Air Force Base Airshow. Unfortunately, so did the entire Antelope Valley.

We left at 9:30 in the morning anticipating minimal traffic and exciting flybys only to meet a line of traffic that went on for miles and miles. After about two hours of crawling traffic, we felt a surge of hope when we spotted this:

It's amazing what a little signage can do for morale. Of course, that quickly faded when we snapped out of our airplane daydreams and once again laid eyes on the ceaseless line of cars before us. To make matters worse, we didn't bring snacks and we didn't fill up the car. As the hours ticked away, our stomachs became quite aware of the lack of food of our surroundings, as did the car's fuel gauge.
Somewhere in the midst of our hunger and fuel fumes, we glanced out the windows and spotted a few airshow planes performing. Knowing that the show was going strong, we snapped what photos we could and forged ahead, promising our bellies mass quantities of food and our eyes much desired flight scenes.

By the time we made it to the parking area, the flight portion of the Airshow was nearly through, the E on the fuel gauge was glowing a bright orange, and the clock forced us to make a decision. If we chose to stay, we would have to park on the lake bed, walk the long unknown distance to the actual static displays, and hope there was food waiting. We would have a maximum of an hour to take in what goodness we could, walk back, and fight through another four hours of traffic on no gasoline. The cheer of "But we came all this way!" was quickly silenced with "We'll have to push the car to the nearest gas station. . . off the base." Without even stopping (well, we had to stop due to the incessant stop-and-go traffic), we followed the parking signs to the exit signs and after about 45 minutes more of crawling, made it to a Mojave gas station and refueled. We then made plans for food at the nearest "nice" restaurant and spent the rest of the evening forgetting the day existed.

Sunday News

When we first moved in over a year ago I saw some rather odd looking patchwork on the walls. I understand that tenants may attempt to fill holes they've put in the walls before they move out (although more than likely it was the guys who gut out the apartment before a new tenant moves in) and some may actually do a good job.
Unfortunately, whoever did the work apparently used what I believe to be toothpaste to fill pin holes. A year ago the "work" looked like melted icing dripping down the wall. Finding this quite disturbing, I wiped at the mush; it smelled rather minty fresh. After cleaning the obvious blemishes, I went on with life.
A year later one can now see several other "fixed" areas where the "patch" has turned yellow on the bright white walls.

That's definitely not wall putty.

First off. . .

listen to music. It makes things better.

Second: Everyone needs a great and fabulous adventure.

Third: I need copious amounts of delicious chocolate immediately. (yep, typical)

Fourth: pencil and paper have been calling my name lately.

There's a

I love and hate when I get so absorbed in something that I forget everything else exists.

Don't need no tricks

I thought today would be another sunny, drab, monotonous day full of the expected, but I was much pleased to look out the window to grey skies! Perhaps the rainy days I fell in love with in the southeast have made a special trip to greet me.

Traffic seemed more tolerable, walking on miles of asphalt wasn't as depressing, even standing in lines was somewhat pleasant and amusing with the patter of raindrops outside.

I can't help but wonder what these desert dwellers think when the skies turn a lovely sad color. Are they thinking "Finally!" or "I moved to the desert to avoid days like these?" The one thing for sure that crosses my mind is "I miss home." Also, "I wish there were a decent plot of land to lounge in the wet grass."

The photo to the right was taken a few days ago, but I feel the tree lady's expression is close enough to my own at the moment.

Inherited Phenomenon

When I was little my grandmother would walk around with what seemed like an endless supply of tissues jammed in her pockets.

My mother began following this odd tradition and I thought the whole world had gone mad. I just couldn't grasp the reasoning behind keeping slightly used tissues stuffed in every nook and cranny of an outfit.

Doing laundry seemed the worst. I always neglected to check pockets which were inevitably holding some sort of treasure trove of tissue. These tissues would work their way out of the pocket and disintegrate just enough to coat every piece of clothing in tissue bits. Line-dried clothes do not dispose of their tissue bits well, so during the folding process I also had the duty of de-tissueing the clothing.

Back then I swore I'd never stuff tissues in my pockets, or I'd at least dispose of them once a trash receptacle was near. That plan worked briefly and I now find myself stuffing tissues in every jacket and pant pocket I own. It seems I no longer have to refill my pockets as they come pre-tissued. I've developed a fear of being trapped in public with no tissues within a five-mile radius. I think our noses enjoy witnessing the panic they bring upon our bodies.

I believe that each nose of a family decides early on whether it's going to be a runner, a stuffer, or just a regular no-nonsense-I'll-let-you-breath nose. My family's ancesteral nose was a runner from the get-go; I'm sure of this. I imagine my great-great-great grandmother ran around with handkerchiefs shoved up her sleeves, or resorted to using her skirts to sop up a misguided nose at an inconvenient time. While at family gatherings we pass around the tissue box, our noses mingle and rejoice in all the awkward moments they've thrust upon our beings. I suppose it's nice to know that some part of our bodies is having a good laugh.

I could sum up this little post with a "the nose knows best" saying, but I really must go grab a tissue.

Don't measure those chips

Our everyday lives can be quite mundane if we keep our eyes shut.

Lately I've been waking up.