Etsy is the Worst

 Etsy is a black hole. Once you go in, you don’t come out again until your wallet is nothing but an empty shell. You will look at the smoking husk of that finely made leather pouch you once had money in and weep. You’ll scrounge all the folds and pockets for some remnants of life. But there will be none. Your old, and forgotten, Home Depot credit card will turn to dust in your hands. There will be nothing.

     

You will be tempted, though. You will think to yourself, “I don’t actually need anything. I just want to look.” And you’ll leave with a confirmation of purchase for a new baggage set made of organic hemp-fed duck leather, luggage tags crafted from the bark of the Baobab tree of Madagascar and dyed with human blood, a passport cover woven from the seller’s hair and diamonds mined by slave-workers in Egypt, a painting of an owl, and a Harry Potter bookmark set. And afterwards, because it takes so long to actually receive the items, you’ll completely forget what you did and why your bank account is so empty.

     

Which then, propagates your next foray into the abyss.

     

I ventured into Etsy. My friend was looking for mermaid blankets and I was, well, bored. I did the thing that everyone does, I said I was “just looking.” Just looking through pages upon pages of beautiful art to hang in my barracks room. Everything was so expensive, and none of it really grabbed my attention. I was safe.

     

Or, I thought I was, until I tumbled into a secret part of Etsy. If Etsy was a physical store (thank the Cosmos it is not) this part of it would be hidden beyond the aisles of llama carpets and hidden behind a tapestry of a fox stargazing (of which I happened to buy from Etsy). It would be a dark little sub-shop, lit by Tiffany lamps and smelling of damp wood and dander.

     

But I ventured in anyway. It was morbid curiosity that got me. I stepped onto the creaky, dusty floorboards. Hundreds of eyes stared at me, waiting for me to buy. I can only imagine the number of visitors they get, you know.

     

Dead animals surrounded me on all sides. Bear heads and long, curling antlers glared at me from the walls. Meanwhile the floor and counters had the most peculiar, and amazing, animals I had ever seen.

     

Now, I do want to make mention that I am the kind of person who can’t eat food if it reminds me too much of an animal. I eat meat, yes, but only if I can pretend it wasn’t once alive. The galley gets me every time with their chicken. I’ll think it’s safe until it gets put on my tray, then I see the ribs poking through what was once muscle, wrapped in tiny tendons and veins.

     

Gag!

     

But somehow, I was drawn to this shady section of Etsy. And I wasn’t afraid. One thing led to another (as is always the case in Etsy, hence it being a black hole) and soon I was looking past posable dogs (yes! He can move! You can sit him up, or lay him down. He is perfect to cuddle with at night without all that pesky slobber!), ducklings dressed as dapper gentlemen, and rabbits mid leap. It was all so fascinating, but now I was on the hunt for something specific.

     

Corvids.

     

Lovely black birds. My favorite animals. I’ve always had a love for ravens and I have a Magpie tattooed on my back. Now, I had the need for one of these creatures. For a mounted bird with beautiful black feathers. Raven was my first choice, but well out of my budget. $500 plus shipping? No thanks. Finally, I found a Rook. He was lovely and I wanted him. And he was reasonably priced. Done.

     

It happened like that. Without much debate or thought. That’s the spell woven through Etsy, though. You just buy things.

     

And then for two and a half months I waited for my new friend. Waited, and hoped, and waited.

     

And then I went to Paris on leave with my boyfriend. I flew away from the barracks, away from the ship. We had gotten settled in and the next day I get a text message from my roommate:

                  

Good thing it wasn't fragile

     

I was so excited! Finally! My Rook arrived! In a beat up box. In a box that was so crumpled, so worn I had to worry about the condition of my new friend.

     

I wanted to be the one to break the seal. I wanted to open up the box and be the first one he saw when he entered the world. But I was too concerned for his well-being. I had her open it up and send me pictures.             

     

Is his head supposed to look like that?

     

I was too many hundreds of miles away to concern myself with it. I had Disney to go to, and things to do. And a boyfriend who I hadn’t seen in months. The rook would have to wait.

     

What the eff do you think you're doing?

Once home, he was the first thing I went to. My roommate had repackaged him so I was still able to act surprised when I opened him up. I pulled him out of the crumbled, musty cage. And there was Reggie. Reggie the Rook. He was a beautiful, judgmental bird.

     

Which is perfect, because that’s exactly the kind of life I lead. Beautiful and full of judgement.

     

I look forward to the day when they come to do room inspections and freak out over a real bird sitting on the desk staring at them, judging them, like Who do you think you are, peasant?

     

The room contract said no live animals. So, really, I’m ahead of the game.

    

Now to see about that posable dog…

    

    

Would you like a little rum with that Disney?

The morning chill was still in the air as I turned to my brother and asked him for the vitamin water. He looked at me, eyebrows knit, and asked, "already?"

Just as he asked that my mother squeezed the throttle of her rented electric scooter and nearly rammed into the poor man ahead of us in line. I reached out as if I could magically will the scooter to not kill my moms next hit-and-run victim. 

My teeth gritted, my eyes scanning for any way for me to remote control the death-mobile, I told him that, yes, I do in deed need the vitamin water.

He pulled it out and I took a long swig of it. 

If anyone was sherlocking the crowd, they might have noticed the slight lime color to the Orange-orange vitamin water bottle. They might have thought to themselves, "that orange-flavored beverage does not seem to be the right color. Maybe it has gone bad." If they were more astute (and a better alcoholic) they'd know it was rather margarita-ish colored. 

"Woah, you gonna save any for the rest of us?" He asked. 

I cast him a look as I passed it to my mom, then to my "person," Sarah, and then back to Matt. By the time we had reached the costumed ride attendant of the Matterhorn, we were all relaxed and out of warm margarita.

The bonus of my mother's calcified-ankle-tendon-whatever-her-injury-was, was that we got front-of-the-line privileges. We'd move along the short line or even get in through the back. It was like having two fast passes at once. 

That being said, Disney kept having little "mishaps" which would cause the very ride we wanted to get on to shut down just as we got into line.

One such incident was the "blow out" mishap that shut down Space Mountain (or as they called it, a "containment issue). We speculated that the kid waited too long in line, then when the ride took off all fast like it scared the shit out of him -- literally.

At one point, over an already tense lunch, my mom was sure that a lady had given birth on a ride. I assured her the baby was no way a new born. It was wearing pants! Babies hardly ever wear pants out of the womb. They're Rebels like that.

This then caused us to need more alcohol (which is not easy to come by in Disneyland. You have to leave the park or smuggle it in. Which is wrong.) so Matt broke out the water bottle that was filled with Malibu instead of water and poured it into our cokes (this was the least creative of all the flasks we had brought with us).

We stayed well hydrated all weekend. 

Which might explain my bathroom mishap at Tequila Joes. 

Tequila Joes was a fun experience all around. We stayed laughing and eating the entire time and had a fantastic waitress. But that's besides the point. 

The point is, alcohol and first-time-use of a menstral cup and a stall door that won't stay closed is not a good combination. Let's just say it was messy and awkward (not that the second removal wasn't any less messy or awkward. Just different circumstances in which I almost called Sarah in to help me retrieve it).

The weekend was eventful.

I cried in front of Winnie the Pooh. Almost got eaten alive by a swarm of people during the fireworks show. Made a comment about my boobs too loud in front of the waitress. Made up an interpretive dance for peeing. Nearly killed a child while driving my moms scooter (it's okay, they can always make more). And was determined I should Never have kids as I firmly believe they will choke on anything that is smaller than the size of their heads. 

It was emotional. It was fun. Can't wait to do it again next year. Maybe we should do Paris next? 

Leave Makes You Fat

16 days of leave.

16 days of pure, wholesome, fattening vacation.

These past five months have been a terrible time for me --> as far as weight is concerned.

I was doing so well. I was back to my post-boot camp weight. I was stronger and faster than I had been, meaning my weight was more muscle than fat. As far as health went, I felt great.

And then my legal issues (which gave me all the time I could ever want to work out) went away. My charges were dropped (because the Navy finally realized the accusations were made by a depressed, crazy girl looking for a way to get out of her own trouble) and I was back to living a normal life again. Which meant I had a lot of "normal living" to make up for after 6 months of near-prison-like conditions (re: thanks for making me fat, jury-of-my-peers).

Which meant I got myself a boyfriend, started drinking again, and ate out ALL THE TIME.

My new boyfriend demanded all of my free time. So, no gym time for me. Plus we ate out a lot (re: thanks for making me fat, tasteless-galley-food).

I gained 15 pounds.

After I left him, and Great Lakes, behind, I got back into a healthy-er-ish lifestyle. I started running again, and even went to command PT (twice). The pounds were finally beginning to shed. I was finally being able to see the less-chunky me again. I still hated my tummy-pooch and the way my arms scraped against my thighs when I walked, but I could feel the difference.

Smores dip. And wine.

Then I graduated C School and came home.

Well, there went all that hard work.

My mom is the kind of person who believes whole-heartedly in showing love through food. And no, not cooking the food, just feeding it. So, I found myself eating out every day again. And my mother is also the type of person who finds the main course to be a formality, rather than the meal. It's just the pathway that leads you from the appetizer to the dessert (with margaritas and moscato from beginning to end as well). Needless to say, those calories add up.

Exercising is also nearly impossible.

By 8 a.m. the desert heat has already been awake and had its coffee. It is energized and READY. TO. GO! It bounces off the asphalt and onto the windows and cheers for bad guy (I'm sure). So, when I walk outside, I am assaulted. It's like walking head-first into the oven after it has been preheating to 425 for the past hour, but you forgot about it, and then you're like, "Oh fuck! I have shit to bake!" so you open up the door and it just whooshes at you like it, too, thought it was too hot and is looking for a glass of water. That's Arizona for you (re: thanks for making me fat, run-on-sentences-that-don't-actually-burn-calories).

Even the dragons can't survive here (or whatever this is)

Then, of course, there were marathons of M.A.S.H. and several good books that demanded my time. Plus, my mother anticipated my arrival by buying me 2 cases of my favorite beer (that I can't get anywhere else) and I can't let them go to waste.

All that hard work gone. I can actually feel my fat multiply. Like rabbits. Only, I don't typically feel rabbits multiplying.

I tried making healthier choices on leave. I had 2 salads. Drank some water. Drank gallons of hot tea (Teavana is my new obsession. But I'll leave that for another post).  I did go running once (and then immediately regretted it as whatever devil food poisoning or flu I got decided to kick in 3/4 of a mile away from home [and it didn't even last long enough to be considered a colon cleanse]).

I think I've decided that I should never go on leave again. I lack the willpower. The military was supposed to ingrain willpower into me.

You failed me, Navy.

You.

Failed.

Me.

So this is really your fault. Thanks for making me fat, Navy.




PS: Don't fire me. I don't actually blame you. Love you. K. Bye.