Shark Week 2012!

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 9, 2012 by mrsdiagnosed

I just love the month of August. August is filled with so many holidays it’s hard for me to pick my favorite one. Let’s do a little run down of August holidays shall we.

August 1. National Girlfriends Day & National Raspberry Cream Pie Day. Yummm….. Cream Pie.

August 2. National Ice Cream Sandwich Day.

August 3. National Grab Some Nuts Day. *Snicker*  AND National Watermelon Day.

August 4. U.S. Coast Guard Day.

August 5. Works Like a Dog Day. <— Lame. Dogs don’t have jobs.

August 6. National Root Beer Float Day & National Wiggle Your Toes Day.

August 7.  No holiday. Boooooooo!

August 8. National Dollar Day & National Zucchini Day.

August 9. Book lovers Day & National Polka Dot Day.

August 10. National Lazy day & S’mores Day.  (This might be my favorite August holiday but…….)

August 11. Play in the Sand Day & Presidential Joke day.

August 12th.   SHARK WEEK!

We have a winner ladies and gentlemen! Fuck the rest of August. Once Shark week begins, I am so very happy, and my shark phobia husband is in living hell. For those of you who know me personally, read my blog even though I haven’t been writing much, something I plan to change, or are maybe new to my blog, know that my husband “Poptart” and I have a pretty fantastic relationship. I live to torture him, and somehow he has the never-ending patience to put up with me torturing him. So enter shark week. There are only two things in this world that my husband really hates. One is clowns, two is sharks, three are cranberry sauce, and four are sweet potatoes. Okay, four, there are four things my husband can’t stand. But since I have a wonderful friend who has an almost (seriously needs to talk to a therapist) love of sharks. I have been drawn into her titillating (Yea, I said it) world of sharks and I couldn’t help but share my excitement. But who would be interested in Shark Week. My kid? Naaaaaa. My dogs? No. My husband? BINGO! And that my friends is how the tradition of shark week in my house began. For instead of actually watching Shark week on Discovery Channel, I like to bring Shark Week to life by hiding little shark presents for my husband to find. And while he is clearly exasperated at my antics, and completely dreading shark week, I am currently getting boxes from Amazon filled with shark goodies just for such an occasion.

But before we begin Shark Week 2012. I think it would be nice to revisit Shark week 2011.

First day of Shark week 2011.

Shark on Loufa.


Second Day of Shark Week 2011.

Coffee Shark

Third Day of Shark Week 2011.

Ice Shark.

Fourth Day of Shark Week 2011.

Good Dental Hygiene Shark.


Fifth Day of Shark week 2011.

Play Station Shark

Sixth Day of Shark Week 2011

Is that a shark on your pocket or are you happy to see me shark.

Seventh Day of Shark week 2011

Steering wheel shark.

I wasn’t able to capture the elusive steering wheel shark on film, because at this point Poptart was hot on my tail and shark attacks were getting increasingly difficult.

So now that we all know what’s in store for us this week. I’m looking at you Poptart, I am patiently counting down the days until the sharks first strike. And I am LOVING this. Da na Da na Da na da da da da da da da da da da da da da da……………

The tale of two Garths. Chapter 52. Play Techo music or perish.

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 27, 2012 by mrsdiagnosed

The drive from Durango to our campsite was a beautiful one. Ashley, Sam, Garth and myself just sat back and enjoyed the scenery without a care in the world.  Before we started our ascent up highway 550 we all agreed that we should stop for some supplies. We stopped at this quaint little store along the highway and bought toilet paper, beer, jugs of water, hot dogs, hot chocolate, and all the makings for smores. I couldn’t wait to get to the site and ingest the massive amount of magic mushrooms we had brought from California. It was going to be an enchanted evening.  Just like Prom but without the dresses, limo, dinner, king and queen, corsage, and hotel. But other than that, it was very similar in a non-similar way.

 We pulled into the Molasses Lake campground in late afternoon. As responsible campers we promptly forgot about making a campfire or pitching our tents. First order of business was ingesting the perfect amount of mushrooms to reach ideal peaking power. And we did. As our mushroom induced brains started taking on the hallucinogens, the colors of Molasses Lake grew increasingly vivid. The grass around the lake wasn’t just green. It was grrrreeeeeeennnn. The wild flowers on the hills weren’t just beautiful, they were freaking mesmerizing. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. I was perfectly at peace. We walked away from our tiny campsite and into the meadows encircling the lake. The dynamic wildflowers were all around us. Eventually we were as far as the meadow could go and found ourselves facing pine trees and the forest within. Now we may have been on mushrooms, but we weren’t idiots. Going beyond the tree line while shrooming would pretty much guarantee us getting lost in the vast San Juan National Forest. I could just hear Dee’s emergency call now.

“911. This is Angela speaking. What’s your emergency?”

“My son and his idiot friends took a ton of mushrooms and got themselves lost in the woods.”

“Sir, are the people we are looking for mentally handicapped?”

“Not all of them.”

“We’ll do what we can sir. In the meantime I suggest you play techno music very loud and put on a light show. This should attract them to you like fresh meat to the bears currently running around in the woods along with your loved ones. We’ll have the helicopters up and running once the incoming storm passes.”

“STORM?” Dee would exclaim.

That’s right. There was a storm a coming.


The four of us sat in the meadow for as long as Mother Nature would allow us, soaking up what was to be the last of the sun we would see until the next day. Where we were was fairly cold. But the 13,000 foot peaks jetting off to the left of us were really cold. Like snowing in July cold. And it was about to get even colder.


When the rain came, it fell hard. We did what we could to get back to the campsite as quickly as possible but we still got wet. Luckily we got the tent pitched quickly so we had a nice dry place to hide out from the elements. But the storm wasn’t done with us yet. When the rain eventually stopped, the temperature dropped to meat-locker conditions.

“It is so cold,” I said watching my breath leave my mouth.

“I’m freezing, “ Amanda added.

“We need to start a fire,” I told my companions.

“How? There’s no dry wood,” Garth pointed out. He was right. Everything on the forest floor was wet from the rain. This is so not good. We’re going to freeze our asses off, I thought to myself as I began combing the area.
“Stacy, what are you doing?” I heard Garth call as I disappeared out the tent and into the darkness.

“Finding wood,” I told him, still shrooming. I moved about the trees like a snake. Swerving and twisting, somehow managing to pull out dry pieces of wood that the rain hadn’t found. I didn’t have much but it was a start. I made my way back to the campsite with the dry wood I had. My fellow shroomers just stared at me like I had gone completely mad. Then I proceeded to dig out the fire pit that our campsite had and replaced the burnt up wet wood with dry wood.

“I need paper,” I barked like I was a Sergeant giving orders to his platoon.

“We don’t have any paper,” Garth said meekly from the inside of the tent. This was not the answer I was looking for. Okay…

“Where’s the toilet paper?” I asked.

“It’s in the car,” Sam answered.

“Then toilet paper it is.” I don’t know how I did it. Maybe it was the mushrooms, or maybe it was my inner Grizzly Adams bubbling to the surface. But after about an hour of me continuing to search for wood and using the toilet paper to set the fire, I had succeeded. I made fire. And a damn good one if I do say so myself. My companions eventually joined me and congratulated me on my success. We were all cold, tired and hungry. But now that we had fire, things were looking up. We all tracked down sticks to roast hot dogs and proceeded to eat to our hearts’ delight.

“Do you know what would be perfect right now?” Ashley added. “Hot chocolate.”

“Ohhhhh, hot chocolate. Yummy,” I moaned in anticipation.  Garth proceeded to break out the little gas stove he had borrowed from his dad and that was pretty much it.

“Great,” I said. “Now, break out the cups! I’ve got a cocoa jones going!”

“I… I didn’t bring any cups,” he told us.

Awesome. No paper. No cups. We had trusted Garth to gather supplies at his father’s house earlier that day, and so far his idea of supplies was drastically different from my own.

“Without cups how are we going to make the hot chocolate?” Ashley asked.

“We can cut the top off the beer cans and use the cans as cups,” I suggested. “Garth, hand me the knife?” See? Man vs. Wild ain’t got nothing on me. But then again, Man vs. Wild isn’t saddled with an idiot boyfriend.

Garth’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t bring a knife,” he informed us.

 That my friends, was the last straw.

 “Who the hell goes camping without a knife?!” I was exasperated. I began digging into the camping supplies like a woman in the throes of passion looks for her diaphragm. And that’s when I found the wine opener. It was small but it was going to have to do. I threw everyone a beer and told them to drink up.

“I’m too cold to drink cold beer right now, “ Sam said.

“DRINK IT!” I exclaimed with eyes possessed by demons. I suppose they could have just poured the beers out, but I think they were too scared to disobey me at that point. Once everyone had drained their beers, I took the cans and slowly, patiently, used the tiny serrated knife on the end of the bottle opener to saw each can open. I grabbed the jug of water, washed out each can, and proceeded to make hot chocolate in our new cups. Remind me to never go camping with these people ever again.

 Exhausted and getting even colder we all decided to climb into the tent and try to get some sleep. The tent was pretty big, but with the four of us lying side to side it was a tight squeeze. The night was long and eventually really, really hot. And not in a sexy time way. The body heat was overbearing. So was the snoring. I abandoned the tent in the wee hours of the morning for the quiet, cold Jeep. And I slept.

I woke up a couple of hours later to Sam making his way out of the tent. And he didn’t look good. He didn’t look good at all.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“I don’t think so.”

I helped him to the Jeep and then proceeded to wake up the other two.

“You guys, Sam is really sick. I think we need to go.” Garth walked out of the tent and took one look at Sam. “He has altitude sickness. We have to get him off this mountain. Fast!”


To be continued…..

A tale of two Garths. Chapter 50. More balls.

Posted in Uncategorized on January 16, 2012 by mrsdiagnosed

Upon arrival to the Pig Roast, we were graciously escorted to our “rooms,” which were really a couple of tents set up in the middle of a never-ending group of pine trees. Normally our accommodations were located among the aspen trees, which were on the opposite side of the property. I had always loved being in the middle of the aspens, but pine trees were just as nice. Garth and I shared a tent, with Adam and Jonathon in a second tent a few yards away.


It had been a long trip. The drive from Cali to Colorado, trapped in the same car with one another, had taken its toll on all of us.  All I could think about was having some alone time with my man. As we lay down in our tent we realized that this had been the first time we were alone in days. So we thought we might as well take advantage of it. We started kissing and caressing one another while doing our best not to make any awkward noises for our neighbors. It wasn’t before long before we both were naked and in the throes of passion. And just as we were about to seal the deal, I looked up at Garth. And that’s when he hit me square in the face with a pillow.


“BEE!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. But before I could see the flying menace I was swatted in the face once again. I shouldn’t have made fun of his book. Now he’s trying to kill me with a pillow.  It was a genius plan really. If he beat me to death with a pillow it was sure not to leave any marks. Needless to say, our intimate moment was ruined. As he continued to whack the pillow frantically in the air trying to kill the bee, another flew into the tent. The bee had called for back up. This is the point where I should probably mention that the zipper on the tent was broken. We didn’t think it was going to be a problem because the tent had a shell cover on it. Sure we had privacy from anyone seeing inside the tent. But no privacy from the bees who were getting a free peep show.


There we were, in the middle of the woods, having a naked pillow fight in a tent. It would have been a whole lot sexier if it weren’t for the cursing and the endless stream of black and yellow cock-blockers. But they just kept coming. We had no choice but to bail out. So we grabbed what clothing we could in between swats and twelve letter words. A pair of underwear here, a t-shirt there. I don’t think either one of us had gotten dressed so quickly in our lives. Somehow we both fell out of the tent unscathed.


“Fuck this! I’m outta’ here. Let’s go,” Garth said, grabbing my hand. We soon realized that forest floors and bare feet are not a good match, but neither one of us was going to brave “The Hive” just for shoes. We decided to tough it out sans footwear. So slowly, painfully, we navigated the rocks and pinecones to make it back to the center of camp and some other campers. We must have looked like Hell, because the bemused curiosity on the faces of the other campers told us we weren’t getting out of this without telling the story.


After sharing a G-rated version of the bee attack (e.g., “napping” was the reason for our undress), the property’s owner tried to stifle his laughter with a sad puppy dog face.

“Ohhhhh no. I’m so sorry, you two,“ Glen said. “I think we should probably move the tent.” You think? “But it’s the hottest part of the day, and from what you’ve told me, you have some pretty pissed-off bees inside that tent right now.” I’m going to go ahead and say that “pissed-off bees” was probably a bit of an understatement. Those bees were outright homicidal.


Garth and I spent the rest of the afternoon barefoot, drinking donated beer and smoking donated pot. Later that afternoon, Glenn and Garth went back to our campsite and moved the tent to another location in the pines. Glenn assured us that this time we would be bee-free. He was wrong.


The next morning I woke up to more bees. I hate those little motherfuckers, I thought to myself. But at least I had planned ahead and laid out some quick clothing options. So I pulled on my tank top and wrap skirt, and grabbed my Birkenstocks on my way out of the tent.  As I made my way towards the center of camp I heard a gruff voice say, “You’re welcome to join us.” I looked to my right and there were three salty looking men sitting by a campfire. Of course I went over.


“You do know that the house is open to guests if you want to cook inside,” I informed them looking at the hash and eggs they were cooking in a pan over the open flame.

“We prefer to cook outside,” Gruffy told me. “Have a seat. My name is James. This is Gary, and that over there is Tim.”

“I’m Stacy,” I replied. “Is this your first time at the roast?” 

The men all nodded as Tim held up a bottle of tequila. “You want a shot?” he asked. It was pretty early to start drinking. I mean it wasn’t even 7:00 am. Then again…

“Sure,” I said accepting the bottle. I took a long swig and sat back and shot the shit with my new friends for the next couple of hours. I learned that James drove big rigs. And that Gary and Tim both did construction work when they could find it. I was hanging out with real people. Not the plastic bull-shitters I was used to in Hollywood. But real life, hard working men who were doing their best just to get by. They didn’t have any airs about them. They didn’t talk about all their material items to try and impress me. They were just themselves. And I liked that.


As the day wore on I began to regret a morning of tequila consumption. I ended up being so tired that I was willing to face the bees to sneak in a nap. I knew our friends Ashley, Becky and Mark were going to be driving in sometime in the afternoon, and I wanted to get as much sleep as I could before they got there.  Bees be damned; I slept.


I awoke to Becky’s infectious laughter reverberating through the trees. They’re here! I was so excited. These two girls had become my closest friends and having them at the Pig Roast made the experience so much better. Once I caught sight of the girls I squealed with delight and hugged them both, holding on to them like they were my sisters. I loved them so much. Becky’s boyfriend Mark had made the trip with them in the huge camper they rented, and Ashley’s boyfriend Sam was flying into Abuquerque the next morning, and then driving into Durango from there. It was going to be a great week.




My being back in Durango only meant one thing to Garth’s dad. It had become Dewitt’s personal mission in life to see me eat Rocky Mountain Oysters. Bull testicles, if you must know. I was supposed to be initiated during my first Pig Roast, but a power outage in Silverton had knocked out the deep fryers at the Handlebars Restaurant and saved me from my initiation ritual. The second year, Garth and I had ingested so many magic mushrooms that we couldn’t even move, much less sit in a car for the long drive into Silverton. But this year my luck wasn’t looking so good. It didn’t help matters that Ashley and Sam were intrigued and couldn’t wait to get their hands on some Rocky Mountain Oysters. Some friends.


After Sam had shown up at camp we set out for Dee’s house. It was a tiny little cabin in the middle of nowhere. Ashley, Sam, Garth, and myself would be camping out that night at a site halfway between Durango and Silverton. This meant we needed to stop by Dee’s to get some supplies. For instance, a tent. If you’re going to go camping, I highly recommend a tent. And not one with a broken zipper. Those suck. Garth started gathering supplies while Ashley, Sam and myself all listened in as Dee told us colorful tales about being a Psychologist for the youth of the Navajo Nation. He could spin a good web if he wanted to.


Becky and Mark decided to stay back at camp and let me brave the oysters on my own. All my friends had turned against me. I tried to stay with them but Dee wasn’t having any of it.

“You’re eating the oysters this time Stacy,” he told me with a huge evil grin spread across his face.

“I seriously doubt that Dee,” I responded, doing my best to mirror his cocky grin. “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this, but mark my words: I. Will. Eat. No. Balls.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said.

“Yes we will,” I challenged.


Before long, Garth claimed to have gathered all the supplies we would need for the rest of our trip. So we set out for our campsite. Dee was going to spend the night in his cabin and meet us at the campsite in the morning. He was bound to keep an eye on me once we hit Silverton. He was determined that I would finally eat the oysters; I was determined to avoid them. We were both going to have our work cut out for us.


To be continued…



A tale of two Garths. Chapter 49. “IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

Posted in Uncategorized on November 15, 2011 by mrsdiagnosed

There was really only one word to describe the morning on the San Juan River. Awe-inspiring. The sky was so amazingly blue. A blue you never really saw in LA. The sun played off the canyon rock and set off an amazing  kaleidoscope of color. For a small moment in time I actually envied the people who lived in this area of the US. But then I remembered they couldn’t buy booze after 6 pm and on Sundays. What kind of life is that? However, I was enjoying my time with my companions. My friends. My peeps.

“MOTHER FUCKER!” Mother fucker? “Jesus Christ!” Okay, now I was starting to look around and I was fairly certain Jesus wasn’t on the trip. I stood my ground outside of the hotel room soaking up the Utah sun because the expletives that were now coming out of my room were starting to offend the Christians also staying at the Inn.

I’m so sorry,” I said to people walking by. “Really, I’m super sorry.” But what exactly was I sorry about? Then there was silence. And not the silence is golden type of silence. This was the kind of silence that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up right before you got bludgeoned to death by a serial killer staking out the San Juan River hotel. I was petrified. Garth is in there. Maybe I should go help him. But what if the serial killer is in there too? This is just like the hitcher movie. My imagination was running wild. It’s better of only one of us die. One is a tragedy, two is a just over kill. Over kill. That’s kinda funny.

“Hey Stace,” Adam said to me as he walked up on me putting together the plot for Hitcher part Deux. Revenge of the Stoners.

“What’s up?”

“Shhhhh….,” I told him. “You’re brother’s up to something in there.” Adam stuck his head inside the room. I knew this was going to probably going to be the end for Adam too. Once the serial killer got a hold of him he was a goner. All I could do at this point was hope and pray that Jonathon was the one with the car keys. Loosing friends is one thing. But being stranded in the middle of Utah is another. And that’s when I saw him. A mammoth of a man filled with rage in his eyes. The anger and hatred in heart seeped out of every pore. And then he spoke.

“The cooler leaked and got all over my book!” I wanted to tell Garth, I told you so. But that would have just made things so much worse. He just stood there with his book in his hand as if it was the last copy of the Bible and he was on a quest to deliver it to the holy land.

“Dude, it’s just a book. We can buy you another one,” Adam told him. Poor sweet naive Adam. Just a book? This wasn’t just a book. This was a book given to him by a person I can’t remember while working on a movie that went straight to DVD. Hell the person who gave it to him probably got it from the prop department. I know what you’re thinking. Stacy you are such a bitch! And while that may be a very true statement, let me point out the fact that in the 6 1/2  years that Garth and I were together I had never, ever, once seen him read a book. Ever! And it’s not like the cooler was just singling out his precious book. The cooler was an equal opportunity destroyer. Meaning that all my shit got ruined as well. And I actually read books.

From there on out is was a really long day. Garth was being a baby over his stupid little book. So much so that his attitude ruined breakfast and a good portion of what was supposed to be a 3-hour drive to Durango. The emotional temperature inside the car can best be described as “icy.” We had to cross back through a portion of the Navajo nation to get to Durango, and we spent a majority of the time in silence. The only good thing that came out of what is now known as the cooler incident, was the fact that Garth was so mad at Adam and myself that he decided to sit shotgun next to Jonathon, who was once again driving. Because of the leak, Adam had come up with the brilliant idea of drying off the magazines, the regular insignificant books I read, and the infamous most bestest book ever known to man by laying everything in the back window so the sun could dry them out. Every now and then, Adam and I would rotate the reading materials and flip through the pages ensuring that the pages weren’t getting stuck together. And that’s when it happened. Adam reached back onto the window for another rotation when he came across a magazine that had fallen down into the crack in the bottom left side of the window. We never saw it. All we did was keep rotating books and magazines on top of it pushing it down further and further with every rotation. As Adam held the now horribly disfigured magazine in his hand he silently mouthed the words, “Whose is this?” With out so much as a sound, not even a peep, I pointed my right index finger to the back of Garths seat. And that’s when the explosion went off. Laughter. Adam and I laughed so hard I could no longer breath. As he doubled over in a fit of hysterics I could see Jonathon’s shoulders starting to shake. He just couldn’t help himself. He had to join in.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!” Garth boomed. All I could see from where I was sitting was a blond head sitting on top of a very red neck. “Oh my God he’s so mad he turned himself red.” But no matter how mad he was the laughter grew. All the tension of the morning seeped out of us in giggles and snorts. Until finally he broke and I heard an ever so slight chuckle.

After a ride that should have taken 3 hours, but ended up taking 5 due to a traffic jam on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. We finally ended up in Durango for my last and final pig roast. As I jumped out of the car to hug the people who had become my family, I never felt the shift. The ever so slight rotation of the universe. My life was about to change. Dramatically.

A tale of two Garths. Chapter 48. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see a hat.”

Posted in Uncategorized on September 24, 2011 by mrsdiagnosed

Monument Valley. *Cue the sound of Angels* Monument Valley is one of the most majestic, and most photographed places on earth and took 50 million years to create. Leaving sandstone masterpieces that tower at heights of 400 to 1,000 feet! That my friends, is a LOT of sandstone. And all of this beauty sits on 91,696 acres. It really is something to see. If you’ve never had the chance to stop by Monument Valley, I highly recommend it. Cause that’s exactly what we did, we stopped by. After all that driving, we pulled over to the side of the highway and took a couple of pictures and then left. Just like that! Oh hi Monument Valley. I know it only took you 50 million years to build. But you see, we’ve got cold beers in the car and we’re on a timetable. So, I guess this is goodbye.


“That’s it? We’re leaving?” I said to Garth and he tried to hurry us back into the car.

“We’ve got to go. These beers aren’t getting any colder,” he replied. So that was it. The only pictures I got were taken from route 163 along the highway. Spectacular! I’m guessing I won’t be the next Ansel Adams. Oh well, there goes yet another dream of mine.


We timed how long before we got to our next National Monument and we estimated it would be a little over a half hour. I could do a half hour. I mean how cool was this going to be? Just think about it, nature had carved a giant sombrero shaped rock out of a 60-foot by 12-foot rock. This was going to be AWESOME!


As we continued down scenic route 163, I sat in anticipation of the mind-blowing view that my eyes were about to take in.

“There it is!” Garth shouted out.

“There what is?” I said looking in the direction he was pointing.

“Mexican Hat!” he exclaimed.


“Right there. Don’t you see it?”

“See what?”

“Stacy, it’s right there.”

“Oh yea, I can see it,” Jonathon added from the passenger seat in the front of the car. Now I was just getting pissed. I was pretty sure these three little fuckers were just messing with me.

“Whatever you guys,” I said, as I tried not to act irritated. They’re not going to get the best of me. No sir.

“Pull over,” Jonathon told Adam. “I want to get a picture.” And once again we all piled out of the car. I watched Jonathon act all interested and take out his camera and start taking pictures of rock formations.

“Stacy, don’t you want to get a picture of this?” Garth asked me.

“OF WHAT?” I exclaimed.

“Of the damn hat!” he countered.

*Sigh* “I’m sorry but I don’t see a hat.”

“Oh for Christ’s sakes, Stacy it’s right there,” Adam said while pointing to a large oval shaped boulder sitting on top of a bunch of other boulders. “THAT’S Mexican Hat!” Adam reiterated.

“I’m sorry….but that doesn’t look anything like a hat.” But I took a picture of it anyway. Just to appease the masses. “Doesn’t look like a fucking hat to me,” I mumbled on my way back to the car. But we were done. That was it. We were all so tired that if we didn’t stop soon, one of us was going to kill another one of us, and we would end up having to bury the dead under a National Monument that is supposed to look like a hat. Lucky for us The San Juan Inn was only 2 miles down the road from Mexican Hat. Even luckier, they had two rooms available.


The San Juan Inn is one of my very favorite hotels. Is it the nicest I’ve ever stayed in? No. Does it have the best food? No. Does it rest on the side of a cliff looking over the San Juan River? Yes. And watching the sun set over the San Juan river while smoking a joint and drinking a cold beer is more relaxing and more enjoyable to me than any luxury hotel. Plus, no spiders over the bed like the last hotel we stayed in. As far as I was concerned, The San Juan Inn was perfect.

“Foooooood. Fooooooooood,” Adam moaned like a hungry zombie. “I need food.” We had bought snacks while we were in Parker, but it was definitely time for some real grub.

“There’s a restaurant downstairs,” Garth informed us. He only had to tell us once. All four of us took off in a mad dash once we heard the word restaurant. I was so hungry I could’ve eaten an entire rock formation.


The restaurant itself was a quaint little place. Nothing much to look at, but I don’t think anyone cared. It went perfectly with the outside scenery. The four of us sat down at one of the wooden tables and waited for service. That’s when we were greeted by a young Navajo woman. Now I don’t know if you know this or not, but the rumor surrounding the American Indians is that they are not a smiling people. This is because back in the day they were often depicted as “savages,” and photographers didn’t want to take a picture of a smiling Indian because it didn’t fit the stereotype. Apparently smiling Indians aren’t good for photo sales. And who wouldn’t want a picture of a savage? I know I’ve been looking on E-bay for a Fred Savage picture for some time now, and I always get outbid. Bummer. ANYHOW, Indians were often asked to NOT smile by photographers. Obviously that was not only a very archaic way of thinking, but ignorant as well. This way of photography is out of vogue now. Thank God. Our waitress however didn’t get the memo. She was a young Navajo; I would say maybe fifteen or sixteen. And no matter how many times I tried to smile at her I got nothing in return. Nada. She wasn’t having it. Come on lady, don’t you recognize a homie when you see one? I thought to myself while flashing her the pearly whites. But alas she was unimpressed. She doesn’t know I’m one of the tribe. Here I am, part Navajo, trapped in the body of a white girl. I scoured the menu. Hummm…beef stew and…beef stew. Wow! The options are endless.

“We’ll have four stews,” I told her with a straight face. She gave me nothing. If this girl ever decides to become a poker player she is going to make bank. She has no tells.


Before long our beef stew came accompanied by some authentic Navajo fry bread. I felt like I was bonding with my people. That was until I realized I didn’t really like fry bread. And I wasn’t all that hip on the stew either. Maybe the other ¾’s of me were inside my stomach causing some kind of revolt. And that’s when I remembered I wasn’t just Navajo after all. I’m also English, French, and Norwegian. Let’s face it: I’m a tea sipping, cheese eating, Indian killing, Viking fighting surrender monkey. More or less, I’m a mutt… who doesn’t like stew.


After dinner was over we all went back to our rooms to literally fall into bed. We were all exhausted. I took the cooler that we didn’t spend any money on and put it down on the floor near the TV stand. I grabbed myself one last beer, and did my best to get some good reception on the TV. Apparently the cooler was a sore subject to Garth. That and a personal prize possession because he thought it deserved a place of respect. So he put it up on the side of the TV stand next to the TV. Maybe the cooler needed some entertainment. I’ll never know. All I do know is, before I could even take a second sip of my beer….I was fast asleep.

To be continued…..


A tale of two Garths. Chapter 47. “ROCK FORMATION!”

Posted in Uncategorized on August 9, 2011 by mrsdiagnosed

Desert. As far as the eye could see, a sort of orange-red sand oasis. Possibly one of the most beautiful, and at the same time, ominous places I’ve been. This would not be a good place to run out of gas, I thought to myself from the penalty box. I was just mesmerized at the beauty before me. The world was so beautiful and I hadn’t so much as seen even a quarter of it. Hell, I hadn’t even seen a quarter of a quarter of it. Or even a quarter, of a quarter, of a quarter of it. I had a lot to catch up on. There I was, living in my tiny apartment in Sherman Oaks with Garth and the whole world was just passing me by. Things needed to change.

During all my soul searching and daydreaming, I would hear the words “rock formation!” being yelled out from one of my three companions. And sure enough I would look to either side and see huge rocks built by nature scattering the landscape.

We traveled on. The four of us trying desperately to keep each other as well as ourselves entertained for the two hour and twenty-two minute drive to Page Arizona.

“Rock formation,” Garth yelled.

“Rock formation,” Adam shouted a couple minutes later. Time passed. And passed.

“RF,” Jonathon yelled from the front seat. Really? We had already been reduced to this, using initials instead of the whole word. This was going to be a very long day.

“RF on the right,” Adam added as we all turned our heads to the right to soak in what I would call a mini rock formation.

“Does that even count?” I asked from the penalty box. Yes, even though I had done nothing to earn it, I was still in the penalty box. And just as we were all about to get goofy from being stuck in the car for what seemed like an eternity something wonderful happened. We entered the city of Page.

“Ah.” I sighed as I got out of the car and stretched my entire body to limits I didn’t even know existed. My muscles were still aching from the hike through Zion earlier that morning.

“We probably should load up on food while we’re here,” Garth suggested. We were in one of the few border towns of the Navajo Nation and knew that once we got inside the Nation the pickings were going to become very slim. Once we were done feeding the gas tank we drove to the local supermarket. That is the moment when my heart completely broke in half.

“What are they doing?” I asked Garth as I watched my grandfather’s people lying on the lawn in front of the store.

“They just got paid.” I looked on and could see one or two of the men swaying to and fro as they sat in the upright position. Others were just lying there, and some were passed out completely.

“They come here to cash their checks and they buy booze with it,” Garth continued. “The Nation is dry so they have to come into Page to drink.” I had heard the stories of the Navajo. I knew about the problems with alcohol. I knew that sometimes in the winter people would get drunk in their trailers out in the middle of nowhere and wander out to the warm road and lie down on it for warmth. Many a good Navajo died this way being run over and hit by cars.  Something the Nation was trying its best to prevent. But this was Page. The Nation and its Council had no power here.

Once we got our food and pulled back out of the parking lot I saw them again so clear. Their faces, the lines of time and over exposure to the sun had carved these men into works of art. Very, very drunk art. I tried my best not to cry as we pulled away. But deep down in my heart I knew that they would always struggle. They most  likely would always cash their checks in the exact same supermarket. And chances are an older me would once again see them lying in the exact same spot.

As we drove through the Nation I looked out over the desolation of the place. I had been through the nation before, but not from this direction. It really seemed to be a wasteland. I felt anger. Anger that the United States Government thought they deserved to have the power to put my people on a land this barren. I wanted to yell. I wanted to fight. I wanted to…

“Oh no.”

“What?” I asked Garth, as I was about to fill out the application to study Indian Law and come to live with my people.

“We need to go back to Page.”

“Nooooo way,” Adam responded. And he was more or less speaking for all of us. The Nation itself is roughly 27,425 square miles and we were smack dab in the middle of those 27,425 square miles.

“Have you lost your mind?” I asked.

“You guys, by the time we get off the Rez we will be back in Utah. They stop selling booze in Utah at 6 pm. We won’t make it. We have to go back to get alcohol!” Now it had been a really long day already and we were all very tired. So of course we turned around and went back to Page. Why wouldn’t we?

Of course we pulled into the parking lot of the exact same supermarket. Luckily, not as many of the men were left on the lawn. But now I got to worry about how they were going to get home instead.  My brain is going to explode!  We piled out of the car, stretched once again, and went back into the store. But this time we went for booze.

“We’re going to need a cooler,” Jonathon pointed out. Of course we would need a cooler. We’re not stupid. Well at least I wasn’t.

“How about this one?” I asked pointing to a nice blue and white Igloo cooler.

“No I don’t want to spend that much on a cooler,” Garth told me. “That’s the one right there. Yep, that’s the cooler we need,” he said pointing to what looked like a Styrofoam cup. Only larger and more square. On a suck level of 1 – 10, this cooler went to 11.

“That’s not going to be very sturdy,” I said.

“Stacy, it only has to last us a couple of days,” he said to me patiently, but overly so. The way you talk to a child. So fucking cheap, I thought. There were four of us and we couldn’t even spring for a decent cooler. FINE!

With booze in hand we drove back onto the nation. As we got to the point where we turned around the first time we decided that we should probably light up one of the 3 remaining joints we had left. I’m sure the Navajo people would have wanted it that way. Come to find out much, much later that the Nation is not really open to the general public. You see it’s pretty much, no…it’s exactly Native American jurisdiction. That means that they don’t have to tolerate four stupid, stoned white people if they don’t want to. While it seldom happens, I’ve heard that there have been people who have been escorted to the Navajo Nation’s boundary and told not to come back. Now, I know I possess the ¼ amount of blood required by law to be a card-carrying member of the Navajo Nation. But I can tell you with all certainty that my accomplices did not. Luckily we didn’t run into any problems. Let’s just do a sum of all the laws we would be breaking, shall we? If you put them all together we would have some non-Navajos smoking pot on private property while transporting illegal alcohol across said private property, with a trunk load of enough drugs to fund a Mexican drug cartel for at least a week. We were possibly the dumbest people on the planet earth. Luckily the Nation is so spread out we didn’t come across another car for many, many miles and it wasn’t the po po. Oh thank you, Great Spirit.

And just as the sun was staring to go down I heard someone yell “ROCK FORMATION!” We had finally made it to Monument Valley.

“Now THAT’S a rock formation!” was all I could say as I stared into the great unknown.

To be continued…

A tale of two Garths. Chapter 46. Those frogs are NOT green!

Posted in Uncategorized on June 25, 2011 by mrsdiagnosed

“I’ll take the corned beef hash and eggs. Eggs over medium. With sourdough toast, a large orange juice, a side of bacon, and a large cup of coffee with cream please,” I told the old, weathered waitress in the casino restaurant. During Garth’s and my relationship I had noticed a gradual change in myself. My once rock hard abs were starting to turn a little mushy, and my ass had spread a bit. Who is this size 9 woman I’ve become? I asked myself while listening to the sweet sound of slot machines beckoning me to drop in just one quarter. You will not get my quarters! You won’t, you evil demons from the land of change.

“You guys missed out on an AWESOME night last night!” Adam told Garth and I as I waited patiently for the meal I knew I shouldn’t be ingesting.

“Why? What happened?” Garth asked.

“Dude, we got hammered on Goldschlager and danced to Super Freak with some 70 year old chicks,” Jonathon reported.

“It was the best night EVER!” Adam told us with a giant grin plastered on his face. If I hadn’t woken up to Adam tripping and falling over our luggage in the wee hours of the morning drunk off his ass, I think I would have questioned if they had gone home with the over the hill hussies.


But my morbid curiosity was soon derailed when our waitress returned with my big boy breakfast. And of course I felt guilty about eating it the whole drive to Zion National Park (with a stop off for shoes of course). It wasn’t that I was guilty about eating. It was that I was guilty about eating crap. I had worked very hard to get the body I needed for auditions and now I was letting it all slip away. And it wasn’t just my body. Some people pick career over love. In this case, I wish I had been one of those people. But hindsight is 20/20 right? And boy was my hind becoming a sight.


As we pulled into Zion my breath was literally sucked out of my body. I was in awe.  Have you ever been to a place that made you feel really small and insignificant in the whole scheme of things? Well if you haven’t, go to Zion. Driving through the park was overwhelming. Staring at the Towers of the Virgin made me feel like a speck. In all our lives we have so much going on and it’s all about us. But when you stand in a place like this you realize the earth doesn’t really care. The daily grind, the things we feel are SO important, that next party, that next audition, just don’t matter. We will come and go, but Mother Nature is the one with the real power. It’s very humbling. Line by line carved by wind, water and shifting earth ran through the walls of the canyon. Each line telling it’s own story of years gone by. I stood there at the bottom of one of the canyons realizing it took so much history, and so much time just to get to MY line. And it wouldn’t stop there. Someone in the future will be looking at my line probably wondering the exact same thing. First they’ll look up and see the line from Zion’s first settlers that were there 12,000 years ago. Settlers who tracked mammoth, giant sloth, and camel across southern Utah. Then they will see the line belonging to the Virgin Anasazi, who were farmers. Then onto the Paiute people. And then the line from the 1860’s belonging to the Mormons. Then there were the flash floods and fires that destroyed towns and burned crops. And lastly there was my line. Our line. Where four stoners stood gazing at the heavens until one called out, “Lets climb this bitch!” And climb we did. Three miles up through a trek known as Emerald Pools. That sounds so nice doesn’t it?


The hike started off nice enough. On the lower trail of the hike one could see young children, baby strollers and people in wheelchairs. This is going to be so easy. I thought to myself. How in the hell am I supposed to work off all that damned corn beef and hash this way? Wait… was I just lapped by a granny in a hover round? Oh I don’t think so!

We followed the Lower Trail to the Lower Emerald Pool, which is located at the base of a cliff. Two small streams spread across the cliff face and trickle into the pools. The trail leads behind the falling water. The view was astonishing really. As we passed the Lower Emerald Pool there were signs posted for all humans to NOT touch the water in the pools. That’s right. No touchy, touchy. So we hiked and swerved and curved and eventually lapped the hover rounds and strollers as we climbed a steep route to connect with the Middle Trail. So long suckers! But before I started really patting myself on the back I probably should have taken into account the steep trail that continues up the canyon up to the Upper Pool. The Upper Pool is larger, with a high waterfall coming into it from a towering cliff. That’s where I started huffing and puffing and getting passed by the chubbier members of our group. What the fuck? Have I really gotten THAT out of shape? This is ridiculous! And that’s when I turned on…THE TERMINATOR! I started pumping my arms and legs like some spasmodic Duracell Bunny gone haywire. Must beat them to the top! Must beat them to the top!  *Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff. Wheeze. Grab the side of a cliff* I think I’m going to pass out. But sure enough, as soon as I sat my corn beef-eating ass down the super freaks were passing me with smiles in their faces.

“How you doing Stace?” Jonathon asked, passing me without so much as a whimper with Adam trailing right behind him.

“You don’t look so good. Do you need some water?” Adam asked me while handing me his bottle.

“I’m fine! I have my own water thank you very much!” I snapped.

“Well we’re going to go on ahead. We’ll meet you at the top.” And they both marched off full of left over Goldschlager, and apparently some of the Chutzpa that rubbed off on them from the septuagenarians the night before.


Once I had finally reached the top of the mountain I was exhausted. I…just….water…. There I was surrounded by pools of water and Zion Nation Park wouldn’t let me touch any of it. All I wanted was to rub some nice cool water on my hands and on the back of my neck but I was surrounded by a handful of other tourists I didn’t know, and could tell by looking at some of them that they just couldn’t wait to report someone like me to the Ranger office. So I sat until my internal temperature eventually went back to normal. Meanwhile the guys were taking pictures and finding caves to pee in. By the time I came back around to enjoy the view I had come to the same conclusion as I had before I took on the mountain. I was truly just a very small speck. A very small speck with a camera. It wasn’t great, but it was going to have to do. So we all took pictures of each other, the scenery, and I personally took pictures of a bunch of frogs. Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was the exhaustion, but I swear these frogs were a pinkish silver color. I have tried to look them up for you here on the web to show you a picture but alas, I can’t find anything to compare to it. But I don’t care what anyone says, or anyone thinks, those damn frogs were NOT green.


It took us a little time to get back down the mountain but the whole day was so worth it. We all climbed back into the Cadillac and made our way out of the park when I noticed one glaring fact. No matter what we were doing, or where we were driving, I always got the shitty seat.

“Hey! Why do I always have to sit behind the driver? I demand a new seat. We have driven from California to Utah and you all have rotated seats yet here I am behind the driver. I feel like I’m in the penalty box. Did I do something bad?” This just made my companions laugh. And that’s when we decided that the seat behind the driver would officially be known as “The Penalty Box.” If you pissed any one of us off, you went into the box. If you’re cranky? Get in the Box. If you passed gas, you and your unwelcome ass had a one-way ticket to the Box. So we had a deal and we had all agreed on it. And as we drove on through Zion I looked out the window at the view. I didn’t really see all that much because you see…once again, I was in the Box.

To be continued…



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