life lesson learned

i am never going to try and be Latina again.

what does it mean if

what does it mean if this song:

is what i'm constantly in the mood for these days?  because its silky melody and pleading lyrics seriously speak to me.

and that seriously worries me.

seriously.

as does the fact that i know more boys these days that dress like the "men" in this music video than don't.  

i'm largely, largely worried.

so, i've decided to put myself on a steady diet of this:

and this:

and possibly even this:

to snap me out of this extrano/estranho funk i'm in.

scared and underprepared

america is a lousy teacher of love.  what it has taught me is to be guarded and gamey.  be subtle, but not too subtle.  show interest, but play hard to get.  make them chase you, but only so far.  use smoke-screens and thick innuendos.  this is how we do it in the grand old US of A.

it is not how they do it elsewhere, however.

i spend much of my time with boys from elsewhere.  and i am baffled, flummoxed, bewildered, bemused, stumped, fazed, and mystified by how they date.  because it is ALL up front.  you think your teacher is pretty?  tell her.  every day.  no deceit.  no propriety.  just the truth.  you meet a stranger outside of your school and think she's beautiful?  get her number and text her about it 5 minutes later.  just say it.  send pictures of yourself.  call repeatedly leaving messages every time.  but nevermind that, as an american, she has no clue what to do with your outright advances.

this is a text conversation i had today:

him, "hei katie i hope i see you soon at some party..."
me, "i hope i see you too."
him, "someone told me you're a really good dancer, right?
me, "haha, i don't know.  i think that you are probably much better."
him, "let see.  i'd like to dance with you someday"
me, "let's see..."

here i am sounding hopelessly, coldly, protectedly american.  he says he wants to dance.  i say "let's see", which isn't an answer nor is it grammatically correct.  i responded like a parrot, using his own words, unwilling, perhaps unable? to tell him i'd like to dance with him someday too and that i've been using my roommate's brazilian butt work out for weeks for just such an event.

now, in my defense, this particular conversation is a little bit more complicated because he is the best friend of my original ELC international crush.  my flirting capabilities with these boys are already at half-mast, but add stepping on best friends' toes and i am a fish completely out of water, flopping around, gulping for H2O saturated air.

but do they care?

or do they just share?

sometimes, where love goes, you can't follow.

and that happened to me quite recently. while cruising the metropolitan streets of salt lake city, i glanced to my right and saw a car that seemed distantly familiar.  and it hit me.  it was the car of my one-true-high-school-love.  there he was, in all of his glory.  he'd aged well.  so, naturally, what i wanted and needed to do was car-chase him until he arrived at wherever he was heading (hopefully a store and not a house), stalk him inside, and pretend like we'd just happened to run into each other.  this was the obvious and only course to take.  so, i began doing precisely that.  he pulled into a parking lot after only two blocks...the parking lot of a store...the state liquor store...

it was no real surprise to me.  he'd never been a member and had started partying pretty hard core junior year, so the tragedy of the moment wasn't over his mortal soul.  it was because he'd pulled into the one place where i couldn't follow him.  what business could i possibly have in a store dedicated to the sale of alcohol?  none business.  and he, of all people, would know that.  the deep, deep injustice of it all has haunted me ever since.  i hated not being able to follow love.

this isn't a serious experience of my life. more like humorously ironic.  but there is a deeper correlation that doesn't need to be delved for: sometimes opportunities have expiration dates.  sometimes things really do come to an end and the can't be recreated or brought about again.  nowhere is this more hurtful than in love.  it sucks when the love timer sounds and ends.

also, i'm obsessed with this song:

dear march, you are a player.

you make me believe that you are bringing warmth and light into my life after surviving months and months of grey and cold.  i know i shouldn't trust you.  i know you are dangerous.  i know that every time you come around (which is yearly) you break my heart.  you get my hopes up.  i see all sorts of hidden potential in you, sunny days on grassy knolls surrounded by budding flowers, baby bunnies, and chirping birds.  you could be so, so many good things that i want to be a part of.  and then, you snow.  you take all of my dreams and you burry them under 6 inches of freezing white fluff and with them my heart and my love.  i should learn my lesson.  i should quit you.  i should stop believing that my devotion and my faith could change you and make you into the steady and dependably sunny spring month that you should be.  but i won't.  because after this snowstorm, you will show me a glimpse of spring, and that will make me fall for you over and over again.  and when you've passed and gone, i will fall for april, an even bigger gamer than you.

love,
katie


what i want:

what i got:

southern summer sun

right now i want this place and this song.

i'm needing an arizona summer day.  no worries.  no decisions.  no sticky situations.  no shortcomings.  no doubts.  nothing more than figuring out how to get myself to this riverbank to catch myself a tan.

jazz

two wednesdays ago i made eye contact with paul milsap 4 times as he was warming up to lose to the golden state warriors.  play this to know exactly how i felt:

mz and i have a pre-game ritual where we head right through the doors of portal b and get ourselves as close to the court as is humanly possible to watch our players play.  and this time #24 sat up and took some notice.  as he was practicing his free-throws, something, or should i say someone, in the stands tickled his fancy because he looked up at it/her THREE MORE TIMES!  and whatever/whomever it was was located right were meg and i were sitting.  in my heart of hearts, i believe he was looking at me.  

obviously, this was my expression for the rest of the night:

meg and i have never liked the same boy, but we always seem to like boys that share similar qualities like remarkable height, dancing abilities, or un-readibility.  we've started to refer to this phenomenon as "squares" because the four of us (meg and me + our loves) make a square.  each pair of boys has their own square title, for example: square dance, madison square garden, the rubik's cube, k2-squared, etc, etc, etc.  we also have a jazz square: meg + cj (miles, of course) and me + paul (millsap, which goes without saying).  and although they lost the game, they won our hearts, which is certainly the more worthy conquest.  i'm sure they would agree.

raja bell and ronnie price were steaming up the bench in some seriously stylish suits and huge diamond studs that were most definitely real.  so, we made up a new square for them too: the red cross (square?).  well, the name's lame, but the boys aren't.

i guess what i'm really trying to say is, who is d-will anyway?  no one.  just some weird guy with some weird sideburns.  and we don't need him.  we'll be totally fine without him.  and without sloan.  and i don't blame d-will for sloan's resignation either.  the jazz is bigger than deron michael williams.  and we'll go on because we still have players like millsap.

parting shot: