Commercials; thanks for ruining everything you can get your grubby fingers into.

I posted a screenshot from my phone on Facebook the other day, of Mitt Romney waving his hand, and doing his best to make a face that says, "Don't worry America, I'm here to rescue us from the shit we're in." Facebook's logic in throwing this picture into the middle of my mobile newsfeed, is that two or three people I am friends with "like" Mitt Romney. They do this with other stuff too, showing me that so-and-so "likes" Wal-Mart or Samsung or Amazon, implying that this is merely a suggestion that because I am friends with so-and-so, I might want to "like" these businesses too. Except that anyone who is not a complete idiot can tell that Mitt Romney and all of the aforementioned businesses have pitched a lot of money to Facebook, in order to weasel their way into my space, through yet another venue.

This drives me fucking crazy. I HATE commercials. When I was a kid and commercials came on TV as we were watching as a family, my father hit the mute button, and we all took the opportunity to go do something else; grab snacks, put dishes in the sink, go pee, get a blanket, etc. We rarely ever watched the commercials, and if we did, they were silent and therefore, far less annoying. I don't know if my father was actively saying a silent "fuck you" to the advertising industry, or if he just didn't want to listen to shit he didn't care about, but either way, the result of my up-bringing in this fashion is a rebellious surge of annoyance at commercials in general. And, basically what this means now, is that I'm pissed off everywhere I go, because there is no longer any media venue where we are safe from forced advertising.

The campground that we're in right now has free cable. I haven't had TV in years, but the boys wanted to watch the Lions vs. 49ers game here on Sunday, and it became quickly obvious that there was not enough stuff for me to get up and do on commercial breaks to fill all the time they occupied. I started counting about halfway through the game, and there were several times that the game would only be one a bare few minutes in between commercial breaks. The same 10 commercials, over and over and over. And they turn the volume up for commercials, so if you've had the game turned up high trying to understand the commentators it blasts your eardrums when they break for advertisements.

It's like this everywhere now. When I was a kid, there might be 3 or 4 commercial breaks in an hour long TV show, and they were strategically placed so as to enhance the drama of the show, and only lasted a few minutes at most. Now, it seems like I am watching more commercial than show. We had The Ultimate Fighter on here last Friday night, to watch and see if Naptime Nic was going to make the cut from 32 fighters to 16 that would move into the fighter house, and get a shot at the UFC contract. I used to bump into him often around Anchorage, I've seen him fight lots of times, and has been one of our longest running belt holders. The fact that Alaska is getting put on the map for the fighters it produces when we don't have the fancy gyms or big names of the lower 48 is fucking awesome (one of Lauren's teammates is at TUF tryouts as we speak, actually. Go Andy Enz! Reppin' AK!) The point is, I had been waiting to watch this premiere of TUF for two weeks, and was really excited. But it was the same story. Nic won, and that was really cool to see (if he can make it, there are a few of you (you know who you are) that had best be at those tryouts next year!), but I swear to god, if there was 10 minutes of actual show in between commercials, then I'm a platypus.

It really took the enjoyment out of the whole thing for me. I do not need a new cell phone, or a new car, or a new TV service or a fucking cheeseburger. If I ever do, I will investigate them at that time. I really do not need to see the same ad for these things 18 times in an hour. And I'm only less likely to consider the products that are being shoved down my throat, because I find it so aggravating that the marketing industry obviously thinks I am a complete idiot. Model-sexy, hot girls do not cram burgers down their throats. More likely, in the filming of that commercial, whenever they have to re-do the take she spits out the bite she just put in her mouth. Chuck Liddell did not get to be a bad ass fighter by using a home exercise device you can strap to your bedroom door. Eating at a pancake joint does not make you feel like bounding through the park with butterflies all around you. Buying a hybrid is not a green solution, when it involves you getting rid of the perfectly good car you already owned and passing down more junk for the junkyards. It's so stupid, all of this stuff.

And it would be one thing, if it was only on TV, even with the ratio of commercial to actual show being grossly off-kilter. Instead, I now have to wait through 15 minutes of commercials at movie theaters, even after being raped out of 14 bucks at the ticket box. And what's more annoying, is that I'm not at home and do not have a volume control. When I turn on the radio, rampantly skewed political facts are blaring out at me. When I pull up to gas stations, a little automated box starts yapping at me in shrill tones, trying to get me to sign up for another card, so that one more massive entity will posses all my information and legally will be able to attach one more vice grip to my proverbial balls. There are billboards everywhere I drive, ads that pop up in front of the news stories I am reading, entire pages of magazines devoted to shit I don't care about or want to see, and now Facebook has decided that I have to look at photos of Mitt Romney in my newsfeed, without the option to remove them.

One day, about a year ago, I was stewing about this particularly annoying facet of American life, while on a series of flights to get back to Alaska. I was leaving Josh after almost 3 wonderful weeks visiting him in the Outer Banks where he was working a job. So, needless to say, I was extremely sad. Going back home to our apartment in Anchorage, all by myself, running on very little sleep, dealing with security lines at airports, etc. My laptop screen had frozen with some shitty pop-up ad covering the story I was reading. Commercials were playing on the little screens built into the backs of airline seats a foot from my face, and still on my neighbors screen an extra 6 inches away when I turned mine off. All I wanted was quiet and darkness, and all I could get was flashing lights, unrealistic representations of life, noisy garbage flying at me from all angles. I was angrily steaming in my seat about how unfair it is that I am not able to escape the shit anywhere that I go on a regular basis, how it is always invading my personal time, my space, my thoughts... when the flight attendant finally came around with drinks, I ordered a Maker's Mark and a glass of ice and popped open my tray table to set it down....

And there atop the surface of it was a giant sticker advertising the newest Samsung phone. They're so hell-bent on covering every available spot in the shit, that they've moved onto airplane tray tables. I actually started giggling. The whole thing is a joke. As the great Bill Hicks once said, "By the way, if anyone here is in marketing or advertising.... kill yourself. Thank you."

Sports? Me? That don't make no damn sense.

I'm in the process of starting this online course thing that Bleacher Report offers on it's website. If you do all the assignments, and the editors like what you produce, it gets you a few steps closer to getting a regular spot on their website (3rd in traffic on the web for sportsy related stuff).

Never in a million years would I have guessed that something like that would even spark my interest. Sports? What the hell do I care about sports? When have I EVER cared about sports?!

Never until very recently, is the truth. I was the kid sitting in the shade under the big oak tree during recess in grade school, and wondering with slight distaste how those kids on the soccer field could be so... aggressive. Stealing the ball, shoving each other, getting all.... sweaty. It all made me vaguely anxious.

I could never do that kind of stuff. When forced to play competitive sports during P.E., I was always the last person chosen for a team. (who the hell came up with THAT system anyway? Talk about extra trauma for the frequently picked-on, smallest girl in the class... fuck you, gym teachers!) When one of those giant 4th graders, who should have been 5th graders, came running at me, there was no remote cavern of my brain ANYWHERE that entertained the notion of keeping it from him or her... are you fucking kidding me? They looked so angry! They're so mean! "Here! Take the fucking ball, I never wanted it in the first place!" Or that's what I would have said if I'd possessed the vocabulary that I do as an almost 30 year old broad.

For much of my life, when asked casually if I wanted to toss a football around someone's yard, or kick a soccer ball, or throw a frisbee... I would decline. The fact that I so utterly suck at sports, mixed with the certainty that I'd be setting myself up for a myriad of disparaging comments about my complete lack of physical prowess, usually made me throw out some kind of self-deprecating one-liner about how no one would buy me beers anymore after I lost them the game.

Then, Lauren started fighting. And winning. Two Championship belts, and 4 Jiu Jitsu state gold medals; two in her weight class, and two for sweeping ALL the weight classes in the women's division. I couldn't believe how exciting it was to watch someone I love completely out-master everyone they put in her way. I watched what she went through to be the best. The hard work, the emotional roller coaster, the toll it took on her body, the injuries, the frighteningly frequent illness (happens when you suck your body dry and then expose yourself to all the yummy germies that live on gym mats), and despite all of it, she only pushed harder. On top of everything I've seen her come through in her life, adding this set of completely unexpected accomplishments to the list made her story fascinating to me. People all over Anchorage know her. She's been on commercials for the AFC (AK Fighting Championship). Everyone wants to shake her hand, try out her gym, talk to her, make friends... my friend went from being Lauren, to being Lauren the Celebrity. It was the most bizarre transformation I've ever witnessed firsthand.

At first, in terms of fighting, I only cared about her. But she'd take me to the bar with her to watch the UFC, or over to fer friends' houses who were also fighters, and I got to listening to them talk about why they liked the guys (and girls) they were pulling for, and disliked the ones they hoped would lose, and I started to get interested. Every one of those guys in the UFC has a story like Lauren's. Not the same plot of course, but some equally as intriguing. And as much as I don't give a shit about sports... I think people are utterly astonishing creatures. And... strange as this obvious connection sounds... it is people that play sports.

It is a mind and a drive entirely different than mine that makes up an athlete. They are amazing, some of them. And by and large, the sport most densely populated with those athletes, the ones that astound us with their sheer will and skill and... "fuck you, I won't come in second!" attitude, is MMA.

I don't 'know a lot about sports'. I know a lot about people. I know that it takes an extraordinary story and person to be the best in MMA. I know that Georges St. Pierre used to be relentlessly beat on by bullies who'd steal his lunch money, and now he has two black belts and a UFC Welterweight belt, and is still the classiest, most humble and respectful man in the sport. I know that Jon Jones had only fought Pro for 4 months before getting into the UFC, winning 6 fights in 3 months, and now he is ranked pound-for-pound, the 2nd best fighter on the planet. I know that Donald Cerrone is a sweetheart because I met him at the AFC, and started making fun of his cowboy hat before I had any idea he was there as the AFC's guest for being one of the UFC's top fighters. Basically, now I know that sports only touch us because of the stories.... and stories are sure something I have a knack for telling.

I figure I can't be the only fan in the world who loves to watch, loves to pick their champion, and never in a million years could be in the ring themselves (even if they did have a midget-sized weight class). There's got to be a market for out there for people like me. So, in addition to trying to break into this writer's world on other fronts, why not give this a shot? I love the fighters, and I love to write about them. And maybe someday, I'll get a press pass and some sick seats and the chance to make friends with these people that I deeply respect and admire... as long as they don't want me to play, too ;)

Who ever knew I'd be such a trailer-loving girl?

Before we left Alaska, when my dear best friend threw us a going away barbecue/bonfire, jokes were being tossed around all night about Josh and I scrapping the normal, respectable life to go become trailer trash.

I understand, that to some people, the desire to live in a trailer instead of an actual house seems very odd. The drawbacks exist, of course, and to a lot of people, they drastically outweigh the benefits.

My home is only 385 square feet. I don't have a dishwasher. My oven is too small to fit my full sized cast iron pot. It, and my stove both run on propane, which must be refilled from time to time. I'm sure there are other annoyances... I just can't see them.

Once upon a time, I owned a house. My ex and I, that is. It was damn near 2,400 square feet... and I wouldn't say that I hated it but, in the years since I gave up my share of the ownership, I have not missed it once. I have, instead, felt relieved whenever I realize it is not my burden any longer. That's got to mean something.

I was 22, and living at my mom and dad's place in the last few months before we moved into that big house, so that we could save some money. I clearly remember being unable to sleep and feeling faintly desperate on the last night I stayed there before move-in day. And then, a more magnified version of that feeling in the days after we moved in. I just told myself to shut up, because I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. Or so I thought at the time.

I would sit in the corner of my 630 square foot living room, facing the highway that was behind the back corner of the house, hating the noise, trying to remember why I'd thought it had been a good decision to bury myself in debt for the place, and also trying to talk myself down from panicked feeling that was threatening to bubble up in my esophagus.

I tried to make the place mine. We painted the big living room wall a beautiful, dark brick red, and it looked like a huge warm hearth with all the golden, cedar wood shelves built around the fireplace. We planted a row of rose bushes, and a Maple tree in the front yard in hopes that we could someday have a few fall colors in Alaska's mostly-brown autumn. I hung photos of my family and friends and travels all over the house. I had tons of dinner parties, because I love to cook for the people I care about. I had lots of good nights with friends, sitting on the kitchen counters drinking wine, having fires in the backyard, and telling stories while wrapped in blankets in my giant living room. And still, I never grew to love that big house.

I hated that I had to walk downstairs into the basement to do my laundry. This might not seem like a big deal to most people, but I am very much prone to forgetting to do anything that isn't directly in front of my face. I hated that the basement was cold all the time. I hated that there was no way (at least with the level of effort I was prepared to dedicate) to keep a 2,400 square foot house clean for very long. Dust, dog fur, dirt, sawdust, ice, mud, it never ended. I hated the noise of the highway always in the background of whatever I was doing. I hated all the weird layers of old carpet and ugly wall paper we had to tear out. I hated the never-ending list of things that had us spending money hand over fist to keep upgrading the place, on top of the two vehicles, four-wheeler and garage full of tools we were already paying for, besides the house. Not to mention the gas and electric bills in the winter. HOLY shit was that ridiculous. But a big part of it was that I hated that the house was so unnecessarily big. How my footsteps echoed no matter how quietly I tried to walk, because I was often the only one there. By the end, I really couldn't have given a shit about the state of my house. It was just a breeding ground for the unhappy feelings with which I was struggling while living there. I stayed gone rather than taking care of it. When I had to clean, I inwardly nursed the most silly of grudges against the whole place. I was so glad to leave it behind.

Part of it, to be fair, was that I have never been a very good house-keeper. There's always something else I'd rather be doing, including NOTHING (I do sometimes like to do nothing). I can walk right by a mess or a pile of clutter and not even see it. I think it comes with the ADD/art brain. Owning a house that is sucking your financial resources out of you, and isn't even something you like having, doesn't encourage good habits of that sort. Neither does living in apartments. I did really like my apartment downtown in Anchorage. It was a beautiful home. But it was not mine and putting hours of work (painting, etc) into it didn't seem worth my time either.

Imagine then, my surprise at moving into this dinky (by comparison) little house-on-wheels... and finding that I truly love it. I just went to the grocery store (a Whole Foods. My first time!) and when I arrived back home (which is currently a crappy campground in Albuquerque) and walked in the door, I found myself smiling.

I love my trailer. I love cleaning it. I clean every day. THAT in and of itself is a shock. I love making little lists of stuff I need to track down to make it work better for our full-timers lifestyle. A knife magnet; so we don't have to have a knife block taking up our limited space on the counter. A paper towel holder that I can mount under the microwave for the same reason. In fact... pretty much everything we need is for that reason. Hooks for jackets, keys, towels, etc. Shelves for Josh's side of the bed. Hanging folder thingies for important papers. Mundane things, all. But making this little house come together, making it more functional, more comfortable... all of it pleases the punch right out of me. I love that it's such a small space, that I can run through and wipe it spotless in 20 minutes if I have to. And, regardless of whatever inconveniences present themselves in this life we've chosen, I LOVE that my house is mobile.

Albuquerque is cool, for now. But I wouldn't stay here forever. Too dry, not enough trees. But all of that is ok, because I don't HAVE to stay anywhere. We can leave whenever we want. In fact, as we've just proven in getting to Albuquerque, we can make it halfway across the country towing our house in two days. And where will we end up next? I don't really have any idea. I'm just glad to be where I am right now, instead of hoping I'll get to feel that way someday later on, like I used to.