Blond with a Shotgun! OY

While the weather remains a reliable seventy degrees in Texas this time of year, its inhabitants (I'm a native) can’t locate sushi or savvy with a ten-foot pole and a shotgun. That is why I absolutely LOVE this state. It's authentic, American, southern folk who aren't afraid to tell it like it is, and open doors for the women.

I was acting a bit barmy this morning as the snow wouldn’t shut up. Even though I’m tightly wrapped in cashmere I’d prefer to be sunburned and wasting away in margarita Ville, than tripping through Rocky Mountain slush. But then there is skiing this weekend….

Oh the exotic trips that leave me with glossy photographs tucked away in messy corners around my apartment. This was a quick jaunt to the panhandle to eat BBQ, shoot skeet, write three articles, and figure out a strategy to have the magazine outsmart the recession, oh yeah, and relax!

Upon arriving at the Austin airport, greeted by hundreds of professional Frisbee throwers, I mean players; the smell of Schlotzsky's hits my olfactory senses and SHE IS DOWN. Nibbling on my delectable sandwich I mosey over to the Hertz rental car counter to pick up my keys and find my designated vehicle.

Did I check the weather before departing? No, that would require planning. Myers Briggs has argued that my “creative and free-spirited personality” wouldn’t reach its pure potential with directions, or so I convince my lazy self.

“There was a hail storm and the hail was the size of golf balls, no, more like baseballs, and well MAM, there just aren’t any cars left for you.” This woman suffering from a 1980s hairspray commercial croaked. Her accent a dwarfed cross between drawl and monotone.

With every rental car company completely bereft of automobiles I began to panic. What was I to do? It wasn’t although I’ve never been stranded in Brazil with a one-eyed man, who "got" (operative word: got) squatters in the rain forest for a living. (Yes, yes I had.) Or in Nice, abandoned with my second cousin thrice removed (and we have bets on if she is adopted) who is boy-crazed as she is crazy. But this was different. I had to get out of the airport, and a cab sure as heck wasn't going to drive me three hours through the Texas hill country.

With no antidote other than courage, I put on that thinking cap (world series Boston redsox pink hat) and calmly walked to the ACE rental car counter. It was a lone counter with a pathetic sign barely hanging onto the wall. A man in his late thirties either half asleep or all-the-way bored stared at me, waiting for me to say something profound.

“Do you have any cars.” I plea.

“Yes.”

“Huh? No you don’t, really, seriously?” I shout with jubilant excitement.

“Yes we do lady.” A face hollow of expression smirked.

As he handed me the keys and I rushed out into the humidity I spotted my friend for the next four days… do you know those Euro cars that look like toy cars that got dissected and only the front end survived? It was the newest Suzuki, a lawn mower on steroids. And that was the start to an unpredictable weekend.

An orange, some teriyaki stir-fry and half a bottle of bubbly later

Re: Geithner in Beijing... and his road-show across the world. The moment Obama was sworn in – it feels like the US IPO’d on the international markets. I’m hedging on the sheikhs, not for the ROI, but the pure ego trip. Obama needs to create a colorful media kit, encourage unemployed Americans to start selling the future of the US Gov to wealthy Americans (they can take a commission). Let’s save ourselves, instead of convincing China we’re not screwing them by printing USD, and
encouraging them to anti-up energy/ag.

(Marx was an idealist, not a retard.)

Did you know pelican’s cannon ball face first? They glide, bow their roman beak and plunge with pure vertical force into the ocean. It’s awesome. I spotted my first dolphin a few hours ago and squealed with delight (all those Shamu shows at Seaworld really got me revved up about Tursiops truncates (ps. Wiki Answers pales in comparison to wikipedia)) then realizing there was nobody here to hear me. Hmm. An orange, some teriyaki stir-fry and half a bottle of bubbly later, I was perched by the ocean and watching the friendly little mammals, contemplating irony. Hmm. Debating how to poll people on it – trying to differentiate irony and serendipity… But now the sun has set and the dolphins have blended into the waves. I either see hundreds of frolicking amongst the ADD pelicans or none at all; God was wicked smart upon inventing the fin.

My afternoon was spent gorging Mexican and shopping with four Argentine women, and damn they’ve mastered the art of both eating/purchasing power. My brain is currently yammering in Spanish, which would be fabulous except the only Spanish words I’m familiar with include: hola, hasta, and muchacha!

All day I smiled at this foreign dialogue like an idiot. And then occasionally one of the Argentines would give me a confused
expression. I had nodded at the wrong question (You don’t think your dad will lose this polo match, no?) or disagreed to the right answer (Your sister is studying fashion, yes?) Throw me to the hearing impaired or cows, I’m smooth. Get me around anyone speaking Spanish and I’m screwed!

Bumming re: Santa Barbara. NOBODY will go surfing/kayaking/swimming with me, so I’m trying to convince one of my buds from San Diego to drive up! Gah. And nobody will go whale watching with me (sea-sickness my ass) AH. I’m the only Jornayvaz who gets itchy for water in my land-locked state; I’m related to a bunch of boring horse-lovers. If only I had a pet dolphin to join me on my ocean endeavors… like golden retrievers and hiking, both mammals emote such giddy companionship.
And yes, I’m writing this sober.

Preparing myself to enter humanity in approx. 12 hours. I forget how I love the secluded existence until the trenches are screaming my name (guilt implosion). (Wrong word usage.) The hackneyed utopia where women gossip about men who aren’t worth breathing space, let alone contemplation. I hope my brain doesn’t abandon this relaxed state of Zen, however fleeting history has proven it may be.

energy

So back to energy: What if something is neutral? Neutral is far more painful than negative. Recently I let something go – it was close to me, daily, it became habit, thus easy, which I interpreted as comfortable, but I was wrong. Comfortable equates to safe - and what was really happening to me, is I was settling, which can be the most dangerous act of all. It was the expected… and with unchanged actions, I assumed positive energy, but the truth… with stagnation eventually arrives maggots, and so neutral shouldn’t be ignored, it should be discarded, and quickly.

Placidity while easy, isn’t… it can become stubborn and dull, no longer providing us with adequate and supple support, invigorating us, challenging us to pursue, pause and catch our breath, barely giving us reason to keep breathing. Energy is contagious...

Neutral is almost worse than negative, neutral is void of energy. With negative you’re aware it’s bad, there is a void in positive, there is something oppositional to reach out to – but it is hard to let neutral go, when you don’t know how to reach out to something better, especially when you don’t have a clue what that is... because your choices requires your energy....

It is so easy to run from terrible, negative energy is a poison we all recognize, but it is difficult to justify leaving something that isn’t so bad, rather, not good…. But sometimes that risk has to be logical enough …

Walking away doesn't mean you're exerting energy searching for something or someone better, all is means is now you’re open to finding it.


"The one who loves the least, controls the relationship."
-Robert Anthony

"He who falls in love with himself will have no rivals."
-Benjamin Franklin

Truisms. Either a waste of time, or can save you years of unhappiness, if you’re capable of untangling meanings, apply to your life, and then proactively alter your character to rid whatever about you is wrong. Now, Go!

- So, Love more and/or control less. Aka: aspire to be a doormat…
- So, Learn how to embrace your flaws. Aka: Cellulite is sexy… take up narcissism as a hobby.

NO. Each is saying that love; this pure magnetic energy is powerful and protective. Ben was a sharp guy, and he didn’t mean love will prevent you from enemies, but it sure as hell will keep you safe from feeling competitive.

Let's venture to my favorite, Anthony the MD venerable hypnosis says that he who loves the most, controls the least, right? Wrong. He is saying that the one in the relationship with the most love (selflessness) won’t have a dire strain to control, because love will take care accordingly, or so we’d like to trust… And yes, I’m a control freak – maybe I need to do a little more lovin’, eh?

Both above generally require therapy, gym membership, occasionally plastic surgery, and/or a healthy relationship. None come cheap monetarily, but more crucial, all require energy.

Edible Time and how to effectively waste it.....

It’s a tremendous feat to reflect on youth and using wisdom against years, admit to regret.

It’s 1am and as someone unable to sleep and trying to get off ambien, I hit the elliptical glider with ELLE. I discovered a sassy, bordering on tragic article, “Failure to Launch- When Beauty Ends” by Elizabeth Wurtzel. The same author who wrote the bestselling tome, Prozac Nation and Bitch. Assuming I was going to get lost in psychological dribble intended for those who truly enjoy the illogical mood swings accompanied with PMS, I was startled.

This woman admitted she wasted the “pretty” years. The fragile window when men not only scrutinize your brain, but still check out your ass. And it scared me. People advise, “Auna, don’t waste your youth. Go play, get tipsy and flirt with the bad boys, you’re only going to get older.” And so I listen to these well-intended gnomes, in fear if I don't I'll attempt mini-skirts when my 401 kicks in. I try not to make the mistakes most twenty-something’s screw up on – navigate my way around failure, because there simply isn’t time to fall and fall and fall.

But Wurtzel makes a valid point – she has lived a colorful and rich existence. There are the thirty-somethings and forty-somethings women whose day planners are a true testament to raw, unadulterated fun, proof that mouthwatering success can be achieved, and spontaneous nights being wooed and gawked at were only possible sans domestic dues, but these women arrive home at the end of a decade of exciting memories, and still alone. And that deserves, hell that demands respect.

And yet, the war wounds these cougars use to counter-argue the need for babies is proof they can play with the big boys, but doesn’t seem to mend the missing time – the time that could have been dedicated to husband hunting. Seeking out and reeling in the few “good” guys – the ones worth brining back to Mom and Dad. The men who knock you up and rub your feet, forget flowers on occasion, but always remember how to make you smile.

“I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet.” Shy says….

To mitigate stupidity, laugh off the idea of settling down, barricading my feelings so my only obstacle is the career ladder in which I climb mercilessly. Right. There are so many essays and stories and novels and books written for us. The early-mid twenty professional who stereotypically seem to waste this precious window of opportunity, the years intended to build a foundation for the future, while taking tequila shots and dating .

These are the seconds and minutes that are golden and edible. The question begs for a pregnant pause: How does one spend this time, so when youth begins to fade there is no longer a need for it anyway?

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades

Oh Drama is fabulous!

“If you’re bored – you’re probably boring.”

Just walked out of the drugstore and of course next to the gum and lighters were the standard Us Weekly and People. Those are glossies I veer away from (and sometimes sneer at), and while the juicy gossip (most of it fictional and apparently so) are delightful to indulge in – an outlet for the humdrum individual to tip-toe into a fantasyland where toned bodies and thousand-dollar handbags are the norm.

How does one separate the drama from our own lives and the drama in the magazines, the “FOX NEWS ALERT” some baby was born in Hollywood… the TV shows dedicated to excavating any dirt on the famous, digging through their rubbish and scrutinizing every ensemble choice… and how is that entertaining? Why couldn’t the energy we allocate to the energy we pay attention to these people… to something more, like ourselves? Or even better – the people we love?

Does one want to separate the drama off the big screen and now the music scene from the trivial drama that gives color and dimension to our lives (or mine)?
And then there is Obama and he was chastised for being a celebrity himself? When does it end… with us? Facebook and Myspace and Twitter and GPS cell phone tracking devices are only helping this addiction we have not just with each other, but a fierce addiction to ourselves. People now have the tools to create their own fan clubs (both real and virtual), but where is the line drawn, or maybe it’s better if it wasn’t… Is productivity a result of all this networking, or are these sites encouraging cultish behavior. Truly what is more alluring than being convinced by masses of people that our existence reeks of celebrity… which is really a screwed up way of saying we illicit curiosity... But I have to say that a spoonful of excitement never did any harm… in fact it’s a lovely, picture-friendly way to show you care about something, that you love them so much to get all dramatic.

I’m guilty: Opening the pages of the mag and when my eyes hit my byline, By: Auna Jornayvaz...A silly tickle starts at my toes and by the time it has snaked its way to my brain (Note: I don’t say ego- my managing editor puts me at my place with her red pen) … I’m focused on my next project, researching the next article, collaborating some sponsorship or scribbling some blog entry. The cycle of running away from the evil of boredom has already begun! And some have the nerve to call me a Drama Queen!

Musicians, Writers and Radio DJs the opportunity to code cryptic messages in lyrics, stories, or poems – privy to the mass public, so while strangers interpret and translate and entangle PERSON A's soul into their own life.... one wonders - what might happen if artists didn't let their soul bleed into the minds of the public? Those who seem to regularly read this blog (and readers who don’t- have voiced their thoughts- AND THANK YOU!!!). And without doubt I’ve exercised this blog in a myriad of ways, from dissing bachelors, celebrating Mark Cuban, missing Australia, but recently I admit the website has been a catalyst to voice my deep fears – not to navigate my way around serious conversations with people who are actually characters in my life, but because these emotional obstacles are ones I believe readers can identify with, and maybe won’t feel so alone when signing out. Emotions that we can rationalize our way out of tend to make us (me) feel isolated, and so if a twenty-something chic can feel the same way – maybe even if their is a solution, there is empathy? And while there is a bigger world out there full of “dancing with the stars” and the magazines and TV convince us our days pale in comparison to the celebs... The drama, the unanswered questions, and the confuisng choices haunt us just the same as any movie star (sans the medication and therapists).

The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I disagree… my biggest fear is boredom, and what is the opposite of boredom? Not relaxation, not a catnap or a break from the grind, or a round of golf… I’m referring to the type of boredom that strips people of genuine curiously, pushes them into dark, repetitive corners where years pass so slowly without pain or change. Some might say a color-coded day planner bursting with meetings, coffees, spinning classes, football games, dates and exclusive activities is the way to negate boredom…. and while I’m also guilty of that… my fear resides much deeper in my psyche… what if there wasn’t another story to chase? A stranger to befriend? A food to try, a country to visit, a song to hear and later dissect the lyrics - only to try and relate to an artist who doesn’t even know I exist. Who I’ll probably write a letter to only to tell them how much I adore their brilliance….And what would happen if there were no more books to read - the drama of others I can vicariously experience (and learn from)? Could we go back and rehash the past, relive every tantalizing detail – knowing we’d given it our all and our memories can keep us company forever?

Are these times contagious
I’ve never been this bored before
Is this the prize I’ve waited for
Now with the hours passing
There’s nothing left here to insure
I long to find a messenger

Have I got a long way to run
Have I got a long way to run
Yeah, I run

Is there a cure among us
From this processed sanity
I weaken with each voice that sings
Now, in this world of purchase
Im going to buy back memories
To awaken some old qualities – collective soul

Worthless Conversation:

Was it Actress A or was it Actress B that had the lip injections. I mean she was just so beautiful until that boob job and then the sun just did her in, and now well, the screen just isn’t meant for her. Poor thing.

Right. The sympathy we cannot seem to find when the whole world is way too amusing to poke, prod, scrutinize and hypothesize without any objective, other than to find fault. I don’t get it. I’m not pure, or all that Christian, I just don’t give a damn. The people I criticize are those that criticize others. Why the hell do you care how their broken heart lent itself to lazinss, and as a result failed to accomplish what could have been accomplished. It’s sad yes, but it doesn’t need to be talked about in a way that makes that person appear pitiful and failed – we all have our failures, but there is nothing more amazing to discuss than how people overcame their failures. Maybe I reside in a makebelieve world where people are optimistic as sunshine- and there is no concept of revenge. Maybe I’m particularly sensitive to gossip and bashing people because I’m guilty of that, or deeply frightened people have thrown stereotypes upon me like a blanket on a naked child. I love to talk about people – are you kidding? It’s what I do for a job. But to only speak ill of others for the mere purpose of entertaining our self feels like the glass isn’t half empty, but cracked and dry… and it’s sharp edges can cut.

Jesus wrote a blank check, One I haven't cashed yet.... - Cake

Is there something you’d like to change about yourself? Throw an unhealthy addiction or detrimental habit, like French fries or procrastination to the wind? With the assumption that the garbage man will discard the nasty buggers with last year’s rubbish and you can move forward, stripped of any error. Or then, there is the category of change focused on “improvement” … where the newly purchased Nikes will lure you onto the treadmill, or your calendar will somehow create space to clean out your closet, the projects and image renovations on your “to do” list for the last ten years, will somehow magically get done? (I've had three bags full of goodwill clothes sitting in my car for weeks!)

The above mentioned without doubt can happen, whether it be a life coach, heart surgeon, or fashion trend, eventually the burdens on our mental check list will either become unimportant, we’ll survive around the gook or we’ll get fed up with our fat that we'll unconsciously eat less. But these things are trivial in comparison to the changes that make me curious… the change in how we perceive the world. How might we respond when someone a poses a question to which we haven’t had the courage to answer, even to ourselves. To swallow pride and ask for help, or advice, and then execute, without knowing how to calculate the risk. To acknowledge the chips in our shoulders, sandblasted by an old flame, which resulted in us being jaded, fickle and flawed? Knowing whether or not, if someone dedicated enough could ever heal those invisible wounds.

What about the endearing silly qualities that differentiate us, asking for an insane dinner order, an inability to parallel park, arriving a few minutes late (or too early), do they add dimensions of color to our already-matching complexions, or are they just annoying nuances that need to be shed. After being told that "everyone is special" 7-year-old Dash Parr from the movie The Incredibles replied, "Which is another way of saying no one is special. "

What would happen if we forgave? What would happen if we abandoned doubt on the curb and pressed onward unafraid? Never hesitating for a moment about the “what ifs”, the mistakes, the imperfections that humanize us? The things we say, and more importantly the things we choose to leave unsaid, what would happen if we let it all go? If we let fear go?

The fear of Christmas without our parents, turning into a homeless waste on the side of the road, being diagnosed with cancer, and god forbid the most debilitating phobia of them all… being happy. That maybe, the little pieces of life we envy from the couple still smitten walking their dog in Wash Park, the great-grandmother about to have her 100th birthday, the culinary wizard/marathon runner/soccer mom who is still hot, hell, Bill Gates, those little pieces are waiting around the bend. Maybe the daydreams that haunt us at 3am while slaving away, trying to make it.... might turn into tomorrow?

It’s frustrating to imagine that we don’t have control over our reactions entirely… Yes, the majority of our life we can scheme, strategize and plot each speculative detail. But we cannot anticipate who will waltz into our life, unassuming and unaware that they will have the capacity to change our course. Our internal compass, convincing us we're headed north, but calling it "north" is pretending there is no fate. Every person who crosses our path leaves something in our wake. Whether it a funny joke, a totaled car, the flu, a new friend, or your “other”… tomorrow is unwarranted. How do we change how we’ll react if we don’t have a clue exactly who it is that will run into us?

Lately the ability, no, actually the desire to change has been a subject up for debate. Should we change who we are? Should we be blindly accepted for who we are? I don’t think we should ever sacrifice or apologize for what we love about ourselves, but should we try to embrace the things which people love about us? Even if who we are is a mixture and combo of our backgrounds, blood type, books that have bled into our soul, a leftover of every person who has walked into our life and we have loved deeply....and the people with whom we allowed to love us and they chose to walk out.

There isn’t an answer to change. At sharp turns we’ll overcompensate, and at tough decisions we’ll underestimate, by default and preparedness, we’ll unconsciously self-correct and adjust, eventually becoming who we already are. And while a friend, or co-worker, or random stranger at a party, or that “other” can be so perfect at the start… the authenticity will start to surface, and the funny flaws somehow manifest into rational, quirky traits, and they’ve just whittled their way into our hearts. How does one probe without being offensive, or act without due diligence. How do we let hurtful words slide off our back without catching the chip on our shoulder? How do we not over analyze the warm and fuzzy thoughts articulated to us over text message, or while sipping steaming chai?

Next week I'll scribe about sex or drugs or something equally frisky. I promise.

Until then....I’m starting to realize the words that are supposed to tie a relationship into a perfect bow aren’t simple, black or white, or definable. Sometimes the prettiest bows require four hands, a YouTube video and a southern drawl. Recently, when someone isn't making sense to me, I try to see where it is they're coming from, and maybe where it is they want to go. I'm not hard of hearing, or eager for the world to chant kumbaya, I'm just a girl who is sometimes misunderstood, but more than that wants to understand.

I CAN'T HEAR YOU DARLING!

Naked fingers delicately paint the air with earnest volition. A woman in her late thirties is sitting cattycorner from me in a coffee shop. She is deaf. The man across from her has dark skin, maybe in his early or mid-forties. His soft eyes move along with her hands, absorbing and translating. He is speaking methodically, enunciating each syllable. The sounds he is making are of no value to her, she can only understand his lips.

Tables are strewn with textbooks and the small space is littered with Saturday afternoon enthusiasm. People with running shoes and dog leashes are sipping lattés. But through the minutia of the busy coffee shop, his voice is the only one I can hear.

His language is universally spoken and her language is not. I wonder what it feels like to observe life quickly swirling around you, a quicksand of time drowned by silence, and not be able to say anything about it. And the same loud world is blind to her. I wonder if the glass wall is rose-colored, or does she even notice it exists? I wonder if the silence keeps her from her feeling chilly and isolated, as painful words have the power to do. Do voices make her feel invisible or maybe invincible because she might not know how many words, discussions, and feelings are wasted or neglected? Words are so easy to toss around when there is little effort in receiving them. Might there be any freedom in living a life mute of nonsense?

Did they both go to trouble to learn how to understand the other? All that for a date?

It’s odd. Typing and people watching, a joyful scenario any writer can relish, and recently I’ve run out of what to say. My paragraphs are mechanically imperfect and my thoughts lack structured coherence, but every sentence is woven together with truth as much as confusion. Each word inserted not for cadence, but rather for interpretation. Enough of a twist to separate myself from the text messages and emails and bored journalists, you have to reread, only if to forget. While not oppositional, truth and confusion are close cousins, one often resulting in the other, a by-product or a leftover… Life seems to be layered with uncovering truth and subsequently being confused knowing it now exists. Threatening or benign, truth can’t be deleted or recovered, it just is, and the only choice we have is to accept it, or walk away.

“I did let them know our plan was to quietly celebrate in the mountains, just the two of us. Or I thought I made it clear. ” He explained with frustrated scrawled on his face.
About five seconds passed where she deftly orchestrated motions into the air. Not placidity, but she was calm with a reassuring nod.
“I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want a bunch of people over to your place, go grocery shopping and cook, etc. with moving next weekend. Do we need to call a moving company?” His voice dropped an octave.

She didn’t sign back. Instead reached for both of his hands.

I hope I can pack all 171,000 Oxford approved words into my cranium. Extracting the appropriate idiom or synonym, inserting it into conversation, so the person with whom I’m speaking can accurately understand me. But dialogue is a struggle. Microsoft Word allows me to backspace, add and shuffle sentences around, so when I hit save, or send, it’s done with cognizance. Packaged, wrapped with spell check and removed of any extraneous blunders that otherwise would have weaseled their way into a phone call or after dinner cocktails.

And so I digress. This woman gently staring into the eyes of this man, understands exactly what he is feeling and with no audible exchange. I’m starting to wonder if maybe words can be more of a barrier than a bridge.

American Sign Language has 7,200 expressions. Does she desire such dexterity, intimacy with a convoluted vocabulary, 26 letters that if formulated correctly can create literature, masterpieces and lyrics, newspapers and opinions? If you don’t know how the words sound can your conscious talk to you inside of your head? Or is there just the peaceful silence I still fail to locate in my sleep.

Reaching for her bag, a strange emptiness swept over me. I guess these two people, who probably haven’t noticed I’m sitting across the room watching them gave me a silly hope that some things might be worth fighting for, had to go.

Before the two walked away, abandoning me with iTunes and a hundred images to dissect and reassemble. I saw him do something that I know every couple does. He lips parted and without a sound he mouthed, “I love you.”

STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR. Aka: Involuntary Confinement with a Broken Blackberry

A temporary ride in a small square cubicle…

Objective: Vertical Transportation.
Obstacle: Polite requiem/bad weather jokes.
My advice: Make sure you hit the powder room before climbing on board.

Around ten pm an elevator decided to stop between the 18th and 19th floor of my building, with me as its lucky passenger. Fortunately (unlike most of my jaunts in elevators) I was well equipped. Expecting company the next day and far too lazy to stop by a liquor store I had purchased a bottle of vino in Earl’s (conveniently corked) not an hour earlier. So while my friends were waiting downstairs at Earl's for me to grab a sweater… The elevator chose to take a breather.

The car sort of vibrated a bit and then a hefty CLUNK. Not shaking, not like an earthquake, but enough for a girl who is phobic of getting stuck in an elevator, crashing to my own demise (pitch black in a box – always think worst case scenario) to get scared. I begin searching the box for an alarm… a search button of sorts.

Before pulling my blackberry out to call 911… an omnipresent husky voice asked, “Are you okay?”

Bewildered....I examine myself. Search the ceiling for cameras and respond with a whimper, “Yes, but I’m a bit afraid.”

Terrified, and irritated that my friends will all be taking shots soon and I’ll just be trying to entertain myself with no book, or lap top or boyfriend, or even a freaking stranger! While my building is the safest, soundest and most bulletproof structure west of the Mississippi I felt like Karma was catching up with me. The only proof I could rummage up after being told to “press certain buttons, hold tight, be patient, all is good, we’ve called the fire department” was, “I am the least patient person in the universe (notoriously late) and so this is what God had to do to me.”

I stretched my calves and uncorked my bottle of cab, and starting fishing for sympathy texts from every poor soul in my address book. Damn, it’d be funny to pull together stories of people that got stuck in elevators, imagine the conversations?

The little bar on my blackberry was blinking with exhaustion, and soon I realized the only conversation I’d be enjoying was the one with myself (and the occasional few words with the technician trying to get me free from the locked jaws of this stupid freight elevator- padded walls included)…. Woops, did I leave that part out?

So my mind wondered past my To Do lists…. Fretted a bit about tomorrow, but when I realized I had nothing other than me to keep myself company (As a guilty extrovert - I was screwed)… I allowed my thoughts to lollygag and linger, rehashing happy memories, replaying the euphoric hours happening just days before ...... again and again.

When you're so caught up in the present, tangled in incredible conversation, the type where the words someone is saying, are so captivating you don't want to stop listening, but just thirsty for more... that's when you know you're living. Lately I'd enjoyed many an exchange so titillating... I appreciated my time locked nineteen stories above the Mile High City to step back. I carefully sorted through the layers of laughter and serious discussions, and pure curiosity to figure out what exactly about those particular conversations was so powerful.

Sometimes I get so busy loving/scheduling/analyzing life... I forget I can derive joy from a memory every time I pause long enough to relive it...

Then arrive the succulent memories, the funny ones, the comical anecdotes that rip sanity from your innards leaving your stomach aching with raw… so tender and so exhilarated…

You’re alive.

I chortled like a drunk idiot to the chilly air (I was nursing the red wine slowly… in fear of being discovered by firefighters intoxicated, but much more terrified of the possibility I’d have to tinkle and well…. Enough Said!) and when sitting up was no longer fun. I scooted my rear end up to the wall, extending my legs upward, so I appeared to be a massive L shape…getting my jacket and jeans and hair dirty, and relishing the unanticipated silence.

Until a knock on the door and five fire fighters appeared above me, ladder in tow, ready to save me from my adventure in solitary confinement. I was a bit sad to wave goodbye to my little box, the same box I’d venture into the next morning or evening.. the same box that carries me from my home and back. But now the box had more of me in it… memories, ideas, internal dialogue, the personal thoughts that make you smile…
Had I not pushed that button on that Saturday night, never would have come to fruition.


Sometimes when you’re all alone and you don’t have a choice, but to sit there and let your brain go where it may… are the moments worth holding onto.

Conclusion: Never enter an elevator without an extra cellphone battery and a bottle of booze.

The Art of Faking It

Normally speaking, I allow the days approaching New Years to become a spiritual journey into the depths of my brain. I leisurely take hours of afternoons selfishly mapping out the leftover of my life, with colored sharpies and stick-it notes. I dwell on the amazing moments tucked away in 2008 journaling with typos and adjectives. I dream big and eat bigger, and then justify it all by a long run (sans guilt from the doctors) listening to rap spiced with the occasional melancholy song, which remind me of old memories I refuse to let go of, and then as the clock breathes life into a new year, I swallow every last drop of nostalgia with a generous glass of wine. Because moving forward is rough, especially when everything behind was so perfect…


I’ve never been one to embrace change. But I’m damn good at faking it.

How many conversations have you had this past Christmas season at cocktail gatherings with friend, foe and strangers alike… The type where you’re teetering on uncomfortable heels, balancing your eggnog with awkwardness… silently pretending to be fascinated by someone’s verbiage… the nothingness that pales in comparison to your own nothingness… and yes, this entry is probably being interpreted as terrible of me to type, but seriously consider who you’ve offered your listening time to. Don’t you feel a wee bit better of your altruism for helping someone feel like they’re interesting enough that you’d voluntarily listen to them? Isn’t that all we want in life? To feel worth being heard.

Because regardless of how bored, or boring that someone might be, or the conversation they were droning on about… their nephew, boss, cat, terrible book they got through simply to get their mother-in-law to pipe down, there is certain energy, a light, a passion shared when someone is speaking about a subject in which they care- and then that boring subject suddenly starts to sparkle - and now that is subject is interesting - why? Why, because somebody cares!

Even watching their arms orchestrate through the air, hearing the octave change in their voice, like a melody, a contagious cadence- it’s infectious. Physics, the atoms exhaled and embraced are unstoppable little organisms in which we thrive off of… And what they're saying might have no value to us, but inside of their words… there is a person carrying this vibrant glow, and what they’re saying resonates even with us – and then we’re (I’m) not faking it anymore. I’m simply happy that someone has found something in which to believe in, enough so, that they're smiling, enough that they’re talking to me about it.

Comparative Advantage

I’ve never liked a good liar, however I respect the hell out of their dexterity.

Your eye hits their eye and unconsciously your brain has just categorized, stereotyped, calculated and formulated a subjective position, completely based on a quick glance. Isn’t it frustrating how people we assume stuffy turn out to be a comedic and endearing, or those who appear organized thrive in chaotic disarray. Then there are the people assumed to be wretched, snobbish or finicky, but eventually become our closest cohorts. And why is it that it’s nearly impossible to predict what people are presuming about us?

To forecast if the ethical mindset of a stranger is “good” or a “bad” is an art in which I admit I have no skill. It’s taken several years of sucking at reading people to recognize this shortcoming. However, the painful repercussions have challenged me to be open to the many things (intelligence, wit, empathy, sheer joy) an individual can offer in exchange for friendship, forcing me to rein back how judgmental I typically prefer to be… because let’s face it, people watching and analyzing the details of apparel or character traits is a frivolous and terribly delightful activity that journalists more than anybody partake in.

While I attempt to rummage up satirical humor to inject into my ramblings, it’s difficult to find anything funny about not being able to read people. It’s important to debunk my personal (narcissist) verbiage to note these entries are scribed upon the request of my friends, who either like to claim they relish my diatribe on a regular basis, or my friends from afar who miss out on my routine rhetoric. Not just to get people to read this stuff and think, wow… she must have a lot of time on her hands. I have hardly any free time (I’m a victim of over committing myself) – while I can’t claim expertise in intuition, I’ve mastered every area of procrastination.

Let me explain. While my biggest blunder is assuming I have the capacity to untangle the intricacies of a personally– I’m damn good at pretending it’s actually my strength. My desire to extract personal information about a stranger couldn’t be more authentic, genuine… it’s what I’ve dedicated my life to – a journalist has the ability to tell one story to thousands of people, which otherwise they never would have heard.

So I guess I can tell you the secret details of a person – their fears, what turns them on – and what turns them off. Ambition and failure – you name it, fetishes and absurd observations they inherently pick up. Their history of mistakes and successes, how they envision their future – I can script the life of a stranger or a confidante in different fonts and vibrant adjectives. I was born a proactive listener (as you read this – I’m sure you have doubts), but if you talk to me, or read my words I can recount verbatim what you said, in what tone, whether it was with enthusiasm, vulnerability and trust, or fear I’d judge. And while I can retell a story with dimension and emotion - I’ve just realized it’s nearly impossible for me to detect whether that person is “good,” or not.

I love it when people are LATE

I love it when people are late. A little pat on the back that maybe, I’m not alone in being known for my constantly-late endearing quality, but yes, there are other, creatively-like minded people-pleasers (no doubt a hint of procrastination prone) rushing to find the next location in their life.

Such an event occurred around 7pm last Thursday night. Posh and polished in a designer number reserved for invoking a “Hey-Wow” head-turn. My feet touting slick Jimmy Choo peek-toes, which would no doubt would require Advil hours later. I saunter through the Sushi restaurant with a powerful agenda, Ahem three men in mind.

I hate to say it, but I don’t mind writing it so much. Life is strung together by hours, night turns into day, and it’s easy to forget that time is spent quickly. Opportunity can dwindle, and dreams are like batteries in a drawer, you reach a point where you either hook em’ up or they go dead because you waited too long to ever turn them on.

God has always graced me with the second chances. Most of my flaws are by no means unconscious. When I weigh my options I choose the more fun, exciting, titillating of paths. Forgetting that every iota of fate in my life has been carefully calculated and subsequently capitalized on. No luck goes unspent. And while I believe in making friends like stacking US treasury bonds (because I love people, the stories of people, the way people act and think and feel) I never understood what cashing out looks like.

And while I pinch myself and knock on every viable wood surface… I shrug, knowing that at the end, if I kept moving forward, there was no choice, but to happen.

The three men had started an internet company, so brilliant and unique it made facebook look like kid’s play. And they wanted me, Auna Jornayvaz to be the girl that helped turned it on. To help them shape a concept so hot it could turn itself on.

Flushed I reached the table where they were already sipping their expensive wine. Staring up towards me they smiled, aware I was a bit flustered from being late. “Not to worry, we were late too. We just arrived.” The oldest (25-years-old) handsome man said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and settled into the chair left empty at their table, the chair they reserved. The space in their company that they said, only I could fill.

“So, where shall we start? Target demo? Generate media buzz? Entrench ourselves in the community of power players?” Quickly skimming my brain for the necessary conversation that took a trip to Manhattan to make.

“Let’s start with the wine list.” The one in the suede azure jacket laughed.

The Sinister Wittiness of Australians!

So as I continue my ramblings while abroad… I must apologize for any incoherency you might find in this letter- it is 4am here on St. Patrick’s Day and for some odd reason I’ve decided it’s imperative I inscribe installment 3 right now- while my brain is a ticking!

St. Patrick’s day in Sydney isn’t all that different from any other large city- except one in Ireland, bustling with people attempting to claim they are 100% Irish and feigning terrible Irish accents. I wonder what spending St. Patty’s day in Ireland would be like? Similar to mardigras in New Orleans?

Regular Nourishment:

The food here is delish/questionable. The Thai is amazing! Our main street is lined with various BYOs (bring your own wine!!!) A few nights a week my girlfriends and I stop off to purchase a ten dollar bottle of New Zealand Sav la Blanc- and cozy ourselves into our favorite, The Spicy Box. For the interesting part: The 3am food of choice is a meat-pie. Yes- I know- us Americans associate pie with fruits or crèmes- dessert yumminess. Occasionally we think of a quiche or very rarely we remember the pock-pie from Boston Market eons ago, but a meat-pie? Heavens No, it sounds like a punishment for prisoners. So just like Aussies and Europeans call the “loo” a toilet- the term “Meat-pie” doesn’t render a sour expression here at all! There are little shops dedicated to the meat-pie, cooked with mystery-beef/pork/???? The guys gobble these hand-held delicacies by the dozens, which is repugnant to the girls (aka: Me!) who avoid hot-dogs, even at fourth of July.


The Sinister Wittiness of the Locals:

Assuming us abroad students are dull and foreign to humor entirely- the study abroad guys (all handsome Aussies searching for the gorgeous American gal- to be their pal for a definitive 6 months) heave sarcasm at us, while at the same time incessant compliments! These guys are so smooth and tell stories and Australian with such sincerity and vigor- how would we know they are just gauging how gullible we are?

So last night I learned (wink-wink) during the dry season the Koala bears get drunk on Eucalyptus trees- the Eucalyptus leaves produce an alcohol, so the poor Koala bears get hallucinogenic, tumble to the ground from their perches, and tall Aussie’s are hired to put the fallen ones back on the trees.
All of us girls oohed and ahhhed at the empathy of these Koala caregivers… until one of the guys could not contain his laughter, spoiling the image all of us had of a Koala in the strong arms of an Aussie. Erupting in sinister chortling- us American’s were a lost cause and targets of their arid sense of humor. And because I’m SO not in the market for a 6 month Aussie boyfriend (I’m quite complacent with my amazing boyfriend at home) I’ve made it my goal to retort in a spicy tongue- giving these Aussie’s a taste of their own malicious sarcasm.

An example I’m very proud of occurred yesterday: When telling an Aussie I was from Denver… he exclaimed in a very interested voice, “Really? I actually have a good friend that is from Denver.”
Trying to formulate a strategy that would leave one of these Aussies aghast of my ability to outwit them… I reply to his comment with a fabricated fascination, “Who is it? I might know them?”
Naively saying the name, “Brian Walters.”
Taking a stab, I thought of the most common looking guy, “Wait a second . . . is he sort of tall with brown hair???”
Gleefully buying that I actually knew his friend (Come on in a city of 3 million) he grew excited, “Yes, Yes, That is him.”
Remorsefully staring off into space, I slowly whispered, “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Wait, Wait… what are you talking about?” He slowly pieced together what I was saying.
“Didn’t you know that Brian died?”
“Wait What?”
Feeling the triumph of my successful jaunt, I fessed up, “Ha-ha I don’t actually know your friend…come on, can’t you take a joke?”
Without guilt I sauntered into the next room… my inner dialogue asking, “Auna who are you turning into? Is this country really bringing out this horrible side in you?” And then I thought again… that was hilarious!

Outdoor Activities:

Clouds have lately taken residence in the sky- covering up any sun. I believe my skin is paler here than it was in Colorado, in the dead of winter. All of us study abroad students are rather confused there is a lack of sunshine- we believed when coming to Australia laying out would be a daily ritual, whereas toting an umbrella was not!

Beach sitting is really fun mostly for the people watching. I am unsure if there is anything more entertaining then watching an older couple in their usually matching swimsuits walking down the beach together (most likely a couple that retired here) totally smitten. Or there is always innocent couple in their early teens… sort of holding hands… nervous that maybe they shouldn’t like the opposite gender quite yet. Reaching over to pick up the random seashell, shining it off with his hand and presenting to her as a small gift. My second favorite is seeing the children sometimes naked, kicking sand with tiny feet. The parents always parents trying to relax, yet watch their playful children with angst. Whenever tiny kid voices speak with squeaky Australian accents, they seem to sound so smart and well behaved. How I reached this conclusion: I haven’t a clue.

Drum roll. . . . My all time favorite beach pastime: I think its uber fun to watch the Europeans (usually German) throw a Frisbee in itsy bitsy Speedo’s. I enjoy watching them not for any pleasure derived from watching the rock hard figures flex and flaunt much pampered muscles, but because they are men with shaved heads that take this Frisbee tossing ridiculously seriously. Weaving and skipping through the labyrinth of basking bodies… these guys run after that plastic plate similar to how a lab would run after a bone. And, so the entertainment value is high when they miss or trip into the sand, yes slightly disgusted with myself… I promise if any of you would see these Frisbee tossers on “German’s funniest home videos” it would be difficult not to chuckle.

On to the academia at University of New South Wales:

The population 40,000! The campus is so large I often meander the matching buildings, like a lost pup, searching for my classrooms. This being my fourth University and by far largest- the maps with arrows, helping you locate your attempting location by red “you are here” are life-size! The tropical trees and immense flowers remind me of Rodeo drive… although the immense focus required to understand my professors Australian enunciation has reminded me of my actual whereabouts.

Cheers!