No, You're My Sex Bomb, Evgeni

Dear friend A(S)S sent me this link, and I must say, it provided quite the welcome respite from packing. Please watch this video. I beseech thee. The world will be a better place if you do.

Why I hate local news

Teaser during prime time: "Spring weather brings tourists to enjoy our warm temperatures but it also brings people who want to scam you out of thousands. Story at 11."

Are we there yet?

So, who wants to come over and help me pack?

This is the view from my couch, where I am currently splayed after a thrilling day of wrapping dishes and retiling my bathroom. Hefner, the wonder/demon bunny, tore a substantial amount of vinyl off my bathroom floor (before you think I'm cruel for questioning my rabbit's possible direct descent from Lucifer himself, remember that he did try to perform a nipplectomy on me a few months ago). I figured it would be more cost-effective to do the job myself (52 tiles=$25) than allow my apartment complex to charge me for the job (at least $180). Incidentally, the cost of the rabbit was $15.

The last six or seven weeks since I got the job in Montana have been trying, hence my bloggerific absence. When it rains, it pours, right? Meet Hurricane BPW. It's not just the big ol' move out west and leaving a thankless job; that's probably the least of my problems, although my dad did say yesterday that he thought I was making a mistake. Oh, sweet Jesus. That is not what I needed to hear. I've been a mess emotionally ever since I got the job. I remember the day after my interview, going to a Lady Griz basketball game with my supa dupa friends (dear friend AS is the one who found me the job and a sweet housesitting gig) and openly weeping when the starting players ran out onto the court, each giving a souvenir basketball to different little girls in the audience. Those water works were only topped when that Southern Illinois University cheerleader fell off the pyramid, broke her back, and kept the cheer going from her stretcher. Oh, I'm all verklempt just thinking about it.

Sudddenly, I'm sentimental. And I don't like it.

Of course, I did get a respite from being Weepy McWeeps-a-lot when I was in Costa Rica. It was a magical break from reality -- my biggest concern was whether I was getting an even tan. Ah, I want to go back. Right now.

But I'm here, in my own horrible reality show, where I'm the whiny girl who can't keep it together. There is the requisite love triangle, substance abuse, and family discord -- all that's missing is Janice Dickenson.

I just want some certainty for a bit -- a time without change. I've experienced it before. Most of all, I would like to hurry up and get to Montana already and get away from all this.

This is a much heavier post than I intended, so I shall deftly change the subject.

The map below depicts possible routes to Montana (deft change, no?). The purple one is what MapQuest suggested; the red one is the original trail Ma and I blazed when I moved here three years ago.


Which route should we take this time around? If possible, I would like to avoid wintery weather for as long as possible, but I would also like to avoid boring states, too, so I'm not sure how we go about this.

I have yet to propose the following route, but I'm pretty sure my mom -- the Thelma to my Louise (wait -- which one was Geena Davis? I want to be the one who sleeps with young Brad Pitt)...anyway, I'm pretty sure my mom will be able to get behind this route:

BPW Lives!

Enjoy these pictures of the BPW World (well, mostly Costa Rican) Tour 2006, sponsored by Imperial beer:

We were making excellent time on our drive to the beach when we got to a bridge aoutside of Quepos (suburban Quepos?). The bridge was closed for the next two hours while they fixed/built it. So, how did we pass the time? Why, we drank Imperials, of course! (That's me on the left, by the way)



Our first night in Manuel Antonio, we headed down to the beach from our crap-ass hotel (I believe RM's words as we drove past the place on our way out of town were, "Eat shit and die, Cabinas Ramirez!" Ah, she truly is a poet). How did we celebrate our first real night of vacation? With a few Imperials, naturally!



And then for happy hour a day or two later, I basked in the glow of a nearby Imperial sign as we waited for our pitcher of Imperial.

...because that's pretty much the only beer available in Costa Rican. I'm not complaining -- it could have been worse. Natty Light could have been our only choice.

What's funny is that we really didn't drink that much -- a beer, maybe two, a day. Yet we felt motivated to document each instance we enjoyed a fine adult beverage.

Anywho, I intend to write a soul-searching post and catch up on y'all's blogs (yes, I just said y'all's) in between packing for the second leg of my world tour. Until then, as they say in Costa Rica - Pura Vida! And drink Imperial!