Hit Me

Nothing exciting. This past week or so, the life I lead seems to be an uneventful one at best. I guess everyday can't be like meeting Tori Amos. Or getting drunk in Mexico.

But anyway.

Last week was spring break for all the Fairfax County school kids. My little brother, Timmy, is a freshman at Westfield High so my parents took him, along with Uncle Chris and some family friends, down to the beach house in NC for the week. This left my other little brother, Johnny, who is 19 but still "little" to me though a freshman in college and six foot two, home alone all week.

When the cat's away, the mice will play, right?

Well, it started raining on the Outerbanks last week, like it did on the rest of the East Coast. My dad primarily goes down there so that he can fix up the house. Not that it needs any fixing up at all, but he always has to be improving something. He's been working on the yard mainly. And by yard, I mean the pile of sand the house sits on. Anyway, Dad can't work on the outside of the house and Uncle Chris can't install new light fixtures when it's raining. Not to mention that you can't really have too much fun on the beach when it's 44 degrees out. So, the family left Wednesday afternoon, two days early, unbeknownst to Johnny.

What sucks is that he didn't get caught actually having a party, but in preparing for one. My parents waltz in on Wednesday night without warning, allowing them to find about 100 Jell-O shooters in the fridge. Assorted colors and everything. Just Johnny's luck, the party was set for Thursday night. How a freshman has no Friday classes is beyond me.

The kicker: my parents didn't even make him throw them out. The shooters just moved to the basement refrigerator. They're still there. There's apple, watermelon, and tropical berry Jell-O shots in my basement. What the hell?

I bet it would've been a bangin' party. I'm sure I would've been proud and all.

My brother the genius. But I still love him, he even made me a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich on Saturday night during a Family Guy marathon. How cool is that? My brothers never do jack for me! I think I'm going to start expecting more from them...

Goodbye to Pisces

On St. Patrick’s Day, I met Tori Amos. My idol. A woman I’ve worshipped since I was fourteen years old. A musician whose music sucked me in and never let go.

As corny and cliché as that all sounds, it’s the truth.

I camped out in front of the Barnes & Noble in Georgetown for two and a half hours at 6:30am, getting acquainted with other hardcore Tori fans, in order to get a wristband so that Tori could sign a book some 15 hours later.

Tori fans are weird. I mean, some of them are normal, (clearly I can say this because I am normal) but the majority are weirdo nerdy people. She has quite a large guy following, too, which I wouldn’t have expected. And not all of the guys were gay, or had their girlfriends dragging them in by their ears.

She just recently came out with a new album, The Beekeeper, and she wrote a book, Tori Amos: Piece by Piece. The book is actually worth reading, even if you’re not a fan. She goes in depth about her life and her music and it makes for a very interesting semi-autobiography. I’d let you borrow it if it didn’t say “To Kerry <3 Tori Amos” in it. Sorry. But you should read it, she never produces anything less than amazing. Her music has evolved over the years, and it’s totally different now from when she started, but it’s still Tori. And I love it.

I actually got to talk to her and shake her hand and everything. And I met her body guard, who isn’t very big. She was standing up too, not just sitting behind a table or anything like that, she was really embracing people. It was like, “Hey, I’m Tori, just a regular person.” Very casual. Our conversation, though the moment and its pictures are a complete blur in my head, went something like this:

“Hi, what’s your name?” Extends her hand to be shaken. Good handshake. Not a half-assed handshake.
“Kerry…” She’s about a foot shorter than I am. So tiny.
“Hi Kerry, how are you today?”
“I’m good, how are you?”
“I’m good, okay I’m going to sign your stuff here.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Well thanks for waiting for so long.”
“Oh you’re worth the wait.”
“Well thank you.”
“I loved your book. I love the new album. I love everything!”
“Oh thank you dear. Oh and your shoes are pretty!”
“Oh! Thank you!!” Patting myself on the back for deciding to wear my hot pink shoes.
“Here you go.” Hands me my freshly sharpeed CD and book.
“Thank you, thank you so much. Really, your music has changed my life, it’s such a gift.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say, thank you, thank you. That’s very sweet. It was nice meeting you.” Extends her hand again as I’m totally staring at her not knowing what else to say.
“It was nice meeting you, too. Thanks!”

I mean, wow, I was a bumbling, flustered idiot. At least I was able to say something. I’ve had the encounter with famous people where I just kind of stop and stare and can’t move, so I’m glad I didn’t do that. I feel like I could’ve been a little bit cooler and collected during the whole thing, but ah. It’s not like she’ll remember it anyway.

That’s another thing. People were seriously talking to Tori for like five minutes. From the concerned look on her face, I think they were telling her all about their problems. And it’s like, okay if you were sexually assaulted or have had an eating disorder or something, tell your shrink about it. That’s what shrinks are for. That’s not what Tori’s for. She’s a hardworking musician with legions of fans and people have come to her because of her life experiences and because they connect so deeply with her music. She can’t help you beyond what you hear on your ipod. And the thing is, she wants to help you, but she can’t physically do it. There’s just not enough Tori to go around. I mean, sheesh, I wanted to shoot those people. Poor Tori, you know? Don’t burden her with your stuff – you may think you know her, but you don’t man.

Below are some pictures, none of them are good. I think my hands were shaking or something.

That definitely ranks as one of the top ten greatest days of my life. Afterward I got to hang out with Heather and Robin which was just ridiculously awesome.

“Have you ever seen a more Irish face?!”

And while I was waiting for a phone call outside the sketchy bar we were at, a guy walked by me and said “Damn girl, who are you waitin for?” I said, “Haha, just a phone call.” And he said, “Well, you better tell them to hurry up, ‘cause you don’t deserve to be waitin’.” And I thought, wow, that was a nice thing to say.

Everyone loves an Irish girl.

She's so cute!!

The guy on the right is her body guard, Joel.

The only almost decent pic I got.. and that guy has to be standing in half the shot.

Me.. completely PASSED OUT on the plane to Acapulco. Jen took two pictures right in my face and I didn't even flinch...

The view from the balcony of our hotel room.

Becca and me rockin out the hammock at the old skool flamingo hotel just before sunset.

Me: "Wait.. why do I get two?" Waiter: "Because you have two hands!"

Me dancing with a pole.

"Say.. 'tequila!'"

Because you have two hands

Last week was spent in Acapulco, Mexico. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me. My boss asked me where my tan was yesterday. A tan for my freckly Irish complexion is very elusive. Very. But many hours of my time in Acapulco were spent on the beach, basking in the sun’s cancerous rays. I was covered from head to toe with SPF 50, though, while my roommates poured on the tanning oil.
And, funny you know, I’ll be the one who ends up with skin cancer.

The week was super chill, not too much crazy stuff like you would expect to happen on spring break. We took it easy and only hit the town really hard two nights out of the seven. One night ended with dancing on a bar and hanging off a balcony twisting my drunken self around a pole. And I also ended up in the kitchen yelling at the cook (because a waiter told me he was the DJ) to stop playing crappy techno music.

“Hey! Where’s the DJ??”
“Ohh, the DJ? He’s right there in the kitchen.”
I walk on into the kitchen.
“Hey man, you gotta stop playing this crappy techno music, it’s killing me. It’s so crappy!”
“Okay…” as the Mexican chef who had prepared the fabulous nachos and fajitas for us earlier in the night looked at me like the crazy drunk girl that I was. Man that margarita was ALL tequila. Mexican people know how to get a girl drunk, let me tell you.

The good news, they stopped playing the techno music and got to the good stuff. I’m sorry but I just can’t shake it so well to “Myyeeea – Hee!!” or whatever that crazy song is. You know, the one that fat kid sings on the internet.

We did some tourist things too, saw some crazy people dive off of a 136 foot cliff. Went to the flea markets, went to the Mexican Super Walmart, went to some old hotels where movie stars used to stay when they visited Acapulco in the 60s. Interesting stuff. A twelve year-old kid even tried to sell us some cocaine. Sad but true.

Oh, and Mexican VH1 is awesome. And don’t jump off the second story of a building and land ass-first into a giant pool of water. And never let Sara for Jesus drive a jet ski. And when they say “don’t drink the water,” don’t drink the pineapple juice either.

Aside from the crappy chartered flight that we had (that didn’t even feed us!) the trip was wonderful and very much needed. Seriously though, never travel on a chartered flight, they are straight up bullshit.


Pics are from Sara’s camera. More to come as soon as Jen loads hers onto her webshots so I can jack them (she’s the one with the good digi).

Me and Sara on the beach just before she tries to kill me on the jet ski.

Sara, Christi, Jenn, Cassie, Becca, and Me at Planet Hollywood our last night in Acapulco.

Cassie and I in our hotel room singing to a crappy 80s song on Mexican VH1.

Gone to Acapulco in my mind

Leaving for Acapulco on Saturday night!!! The beach is all I can think about.

Next week will be all fun in the sun (but not without the SPF 50), Mexican food, and lots and lots of tequila.

Tequila is my favorite.

I'm just so giddy.


Today two Mormon guys came to the door. I told them I was Catholic. They wouldn't go away. I felt like saying "I'm sorry, I don't believe some crazy guy from the Mid West who INVENTED a religion just so he could have coinciding multiple wives." But I held back. I learned my lesson and will never open the door again without looking through the peep hole first.

Why do they try to push their beliefs on people? I'm not saying that one religion is better than another, believe or don't believe whatever you want, but if I tell you I'm Catholic and that I do in fact read the Bible, I'm obviously not looking for a new faith. So, shut up.


Anyway, if I knew any Spanish, here's where I would insert something like "adios" you know, eat my dust, see you next week when I'm covered in freckles type thing.