Thursday, December 30, 2010

I don't have time to blog, it's almost a new year

That statement made in the title is totally FALSE; if anything, I should be blogging MORE because I have nothing better to do. To keep myself occupied, I have even taken up trying to train Shakespeare to walk without a leash. <--That experiment failed miserably today when Shakespeare took off running and stopped behind a truck in reverse. I could see the fear in his face all the tire almost rolled over him & he just sat there looking terrified. I started shouting & waiving my arms & right before Shakespeare was almost run over, I let out the screamiest scream in my life. It was such a horrific sound that a little girl who was just out riding her tricycle actually started crying.
Fortunately, though, my scream did alert the truck driver who stopped long enough for me to grab my dog from behind his back tire.

Shakespeare goes back on the leash TODAY.

But anyway, now that heart rate is almost normal, I decided to go to my happy place by writing a post about things I love.
& to make it relevant in the larger scope, I decided it would be 10 things I started loving too late in 2010 that I'm going to continue loving into 2011. Or something.

1.) Banksy
I recently saw Exit through the Gift Shop & have so much respect for the guerilla artist, his bravery, and his work. Ever since I saw the movie, I've been bringing Banksy up pretty much non-stop.

2.) Sweatpants
My dad bought me my first pair, ever, on Christmas because he was tired of me wearing shorts out in the cold to walk Shakespeare. At first, I was totally against the idea but then I put on them on to humor him & they are the most comfortable thing I've worn. in life. I've worn them everyday since. Please don't judge me.

3.) Shakespeare--I've decided just now that I still love him.

4.) Frozen Yogurt
I used to kind of make fun of people who were really into eating froyo because it just seemed so...health conscious & kind of stupid. But then this place down the block from me is a froyo place and you can put cereal in your yogurt. & then I was like, "Man, this is fucking cool."

5.) Baby Blue
I did not just dislike baby blue; I hated it. That color just reminded me of trailer parks and tacky hip hop clothing from the early 2000s. & now it's one of my favorite colors...to decorate with. I'm pretty sure wearing baby blue will never be my thing.

6.) Thrifting
I bought that American made tea set & that old jam jar that I now use as a vase for $4. total. San Antonio is one of the coolest places to thrift in & I even bought a vintage Ralph Lauren bag--the coolest bag, ever--for $18. It's like my favorite thing to do when I've got spare time now, even if I don't buy anything, something about walking around all those pretty relics from the past just gives me a sense of peace. Please try not to judge me.

7.) Cider with Grenadine
I'm not much of a beer drinker; which is unfortunate because the bar across the street from my place--the famed Flying Saucer, only serves beer, wine, and cider. But then I went & chose this drink called Humingbird Water & fell in love. It's cheap & tasty & I think I'm going to make it my thing.

8.) Thick Eyebrows
My eyebrows were pencil thin for the longest & then I decided I'd had enough and let them grow out. I didn't even pluck the stray hairs because for about a month, I wasn't sure exactly how thick I wanted them. It got so bad, my dad came over one afternoon & said, "Baby, are you out of money? Why don't I take you to a nice salon tomorrow? You can get a massage if you want...maybe get your eyebrows done..." & I explained to him that I did  know my eyebrows were a hot mess & that I wasn't out of money but just letting them grow out. I even had to make a public service announcement on facebook so my friends would stop offering to do them for me.

9.) Raymin, my brother;
That was us at an ugly sweater Christmas party--didn't we do such a good job? haha.
Let's get something straight; I've ALWAYS loved my big brother just not as much. There's a seven year age difference between us & we didn't really know each other well until we moved in together this year. We've gotten to know each other so much better & it's really nice. Because I'm always sitting on hard surfaces while I study--and I spend a lot of time studying--my ass perpetually hurts. Trust me, that's the only reason; I'm a front door only kind of girl. But I digress, so for Christmas, my brother got me a Moroccan pillow seat so that even when I have to sit on the floor, my butt won't hurt. He also got me some other really cool stuff & I was like, "Not only is he thoughtful, he knows me so well."

10.) fast food apple pies
Umm, yeah. I really had never had one until Mr. Flintstone went and picked up tacobell for us & brought me back an apple empanada-->those things are scrumptious. But anyway, the point is I love them.

Wow, this list totally wrote itself!
Anyway, I hope you all have an amazing new year's eve & that 2011 is an even better year for you guys. Before I go, I'm forgetting one more thing:

11.) YOU
Thank you for reading & supporting & laughing & sharing your stories with me, as well. You guys are everything I dreamt of & then some. :) & I love you, dammit.
 like a lot.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

It Ain't Perfect But...

it IS the holidays.

In my family, it's not the holidays unless someone is sobbing and pointing their finger while shouting, "you're such an ungrateful child/husband/cat."
-->usually, that someone is my mom.
& then the rest of us usually sit with blank expressions on the opposite side of the room and silently wonder how it came to this when the last thing anyone said was, "wow, these are great yams."

It's an understatement when I say my mom doesn't handle the holidays very well.
Like at all.
She's got a really fragile nervous system.

But today, being with my dad & brother (& even a little time with mr. flintstone), I realized that even without the big to-do, the big feast, & without all the Christmas decorations, Christmas was just as wonderful.

I felt reassured after watching people on tv talk about their disfunctional families & listening to people I know tell their stories. It made me feel like resentment & animosity are just another ingredient in the magical recipe that is the family get together.

& as today wore on & my dad left for bed, my brother and I sat and talked and I realized how fortunate I am to be his sister & how cool it is that we've gotten to know each other so much better in the last few months than we have our whole lives.

It ain't perfect but it is the holidays.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Broken Up About It

I'm not going to be all Emo & stuff because I totally don't believe in that.
& also, that's the behavior of a 22 year old & I'm 23 & 1/2 now, okay?
{Because at 22, being sad & vengeful over the internet was totally my thing. I invented the angry break up facebook status; but you know, it just wasn't a good color on me.}
I'm not going to lie though: I am sad.

& it's the weirdest stuff because most of the time, I'm cool.
But then like, it'll be the tiniest, most obscure thing that triggers a memory and it hurts for a minute.

There have been moments the last few days where I just want to rent Eat, Pray, Love and weep into my box of chocolates & then everytime Julia Roberts says something inspiring, I'll point a chocolatey finger at the screen and say, "That's right, Julia. You go, girl."
I totally want to be pathetic and spend some time over analyzing it all.
-->I'm dying to over analyze the shit out of us& it & all the dynamics of it all.

Instead, I'm just going to repost something I read that was spot on.

"Maybe--though I do not bleed--I am wounded,
walking
along one of the rays of your life.
In the middle of the jungle the water stops me,
the rain that falls with its sky.

Then I touch the heart that fell, raining:
there I know it was your eyes
that pierced me, into my grief's vast hinterlands.
And only a shadow's whisper appears,

Who is it? Who is it?, but it has no name,
the leaf of dark water that patters
in the middle of the jungle, deaf along the paths:

so, my love, I knew that I was wounded,
and no one spoke there except the shadows,
the wandering night, the kiss of the rain."
--LXX, P. Neruda

& also, I'm going to recommend the following soundtrack:







Not because I'm depressed or anything but because it just generally is amazing.






I'm only 23 & I don't even know what's going to happen to me in the next 5 minutes so I'm not doubting my own resilience or anything, I'm just saying that right now I'm a little sad.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Facebook Ruins Lives

I mean maybe not really, really.

My best friend's boyfriend posted today that he cheated on an exam. He was probably joking.

But anyway, another of our friends commented, "Your teacher is looking at your facebook right now."

& I laughed before remembering the many times I've found myself in a similar situation.
Be prepared, a list of memories is about to ensue:

Most Recent:
I met a guy at the club. He was in VIP & he was tall & handsome & athletic looking & carrying around a bottle of Grey Goose. (& I'm going to be honest, I thought he was in the NBA. But anyway)
He asked if I had a boyfriend, I said no.
He asked for my number, I gave it to him.
& then I was like, "So how old are you?"
& he's like, "I'm 20."
& I was like. "Oh." Because I'm 23 & I'm kind of too old to date a 20 year old but not like old enough that it's cool or trendy. I'm too young to be a cougar.
But I'd just given this guy my number so I had to find something good about him.
So I asked, "What do you do?"
& he's like, "I'm a promoter for this club."
& I'm like, "Oh. Cool. So do you go to school out here?"
& he's like, "No. I'm an R&B singer. What do you do?"
& I was like, "I go to law school. {& then I awkwardly sipped my drink} Well, it was cool meeting you. I've got to go; I cut my foot & my shoe's filling up with blood." <--& yes, I did steal that from Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion.

So like the guy texts me a little while later & I don't even remember what it said but I know he spelled the as "da."
Readers, I can't put into words how much I hate when people purposely write in ebonics & aren't being sarcastic or ironic. It just makes no sense to me that anyone would go out of their way to seem illiterate. Ick.
But anyway, so I decided right then that this just wasn't going to work.
& here's the stupid part.
I facebooked about it. I changed my status to something like,
"you can tell a lot about a person from their texts; potential mates get cut for spelling the as da."
& I felt so clever and sassy...& THEN THE GUY FOUND ME.
so like he texts me in the morning & is like, "Oh, so you're a smart girl, huh?"
& I was like, "I wouldn't necessarily say that. Why?"
& he's like, "I'm just looking at your facebook."
D'oh.

There was another time my final semester at A&M when I had to switch into an art class after the semester had already began.
& then like, the day I was supposed to start going to that art class I didn't go.
Not only did I not go; I facebooked about it.
My status that day was something to the tune of: Lauren just decided to skip class today.
& then my professor found me on facebook & asked if I was planning to skip the next class day too.
Fail.

My mom tried to add me on facebook but I ignored her & pretended like I never recieved her friend request.
My brother didn't ignore her request though, & in honor of his new facebook friendship with our mother, he changed his facebook status to read,
"When I say my testicles resemble a sack of potatoes I mean it as a good thing."

Our mommy must be SO proud.

Anyway, I think the moral of this story is either not to post things on facebook that may make you look like an ass OR that I should update my privacy settings...

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

(senti)Mental

Is it me or do people my age remember a time when cartoon characters didn't die?
Like I remember cartoons that completely revolved around how one or more characters refused to die all the time. For example, Tom & Jerry or The Roadrunner & Coyote cartoons.

I grew up making fun of my mom because it seemed like EVERY movie we watched made her cry. Sometimes I would roll my eyes and leave the room.

But then like, Disney characters started dying all over the place.
Maybe it was always that way & I just never noticed.
Mufasa died.

I was trying to prove to my dad that the movie UP isn't really for kids and started weeping 5 minutes in.
It gets me everytime.

I worry that I'm becoming my mother.
Next thing you know I'll be wearing lime green sweat pants to Wal-Mart and acting senile at restaurants.
True Story: my mom LOVES this one Italian restaurant in my home town & everytime I visit she wants to go there. She always, always, always orders a calzone.
The last time we went, she spent 10 minutes bugging our waitress about what exactly comes in the calzone.
The waitress is all, "Eez sauce and hone toppeeng. And eextra toppeengs are for a dollarrr." (She's got a heavy Italian accent. That might actually be all the English she knows.)
& my mom's like, "so it doesn't come with cheese? Okay then I'd like the soup. What kind do you have?"
& the waitress is like, "ehh soup? tonight eez squashes."
& my mom's like, "Oh I don't want squash soup. Let me get the calzone. But I don't just want sauce & a topping if there's no cheese. No, no. Let me get a cup of soup. I really don't like squash soup."
& our poor waitress is standing there all confused & I was like, "Mom, we've been coming here for over 8 years and you ALWAYS get the calzone. You know it comes with cheese. Stop being crazy & just order a pepperoni calzone."

That was a long story within a story.
But anyway.
So like awhile back, Mr. Flintstone & I went to see Toy Story 3.
Needless to say, I was freaking out the four year old kid sitting next to me as I sobbed into my pop corn.
Why was I crying into the pop corn?
Because I didn't want Mr. Flintstone to know I was losing my mind.

So I came out of the theatre with a greasy, salty face, puffy eyes & a runny nose & Mr. Flintstone is trying not to look directly at me so that neither of us have to acknowledge how much of a dork I am & he's like,
"Did you like the movie?"
& I'm like, "*sniffle, sniffle* It was okay."

Monday, December 13, 2010

That's Cool

A little over a year ago, I met this really cool guy named Smoochie.
He was in the same writers' workshop class that I was in & he was a riot.
Hands down, one of the coolest people I've ever known.

He was really screwed up about girls but it was cool because he let every girl know upfront what they were walking into. & at the time, I was madly in love with Mr. Flintstone but we just couldn't keep it together.
(As a side note, that one line is pretty much the entire dynamic of Mr.Flintstone & I summed up for as far back as I can remember. Anyway) Sometimes after class, Smoochie and I would go get pancakes and talk about our disfunctional relationships for hours.

He threw this party once and decorated an entire wall of his living room with pictures from Victoria's Secret catalogues. Seriously, this guy was cool.

Anyway, last summer Smoochie went away to film school because he's super talented.
& I wrote on his facebook wall:
There's something different about Texas since you've gone; it's mostly the same as how you left it except now there's this un-fill-able void created by your absence. the sunshine is duller, the wind less fragrant. i've had a hard time getting out of bed in the morning. i guess what i'm trying to say is i miss you with every breath i take...

& Smoochie wrote back, "That's cool."

& I couldn't stop laughing.
But then a little while later he wrote:
hahahahaha I wanted to just leave it as that, cause it makes you seem like a huge CREEPO but it would just be too wrong lol but for your sake....There's no day here without you, only night, everything that tasted sweet once, now seems to have gone bitter, and emotions themselves feel worthless without you to share them with. I carved Heinemann into my chest.

{Larry Heinemann is the name of our creative writing workshop professor. He is seriously THE coolest & most inspiring & most talented man I've ever met in person.}

& I wrote back:
Wow, that was really profound.
I can't stop laughing.


And so like yeah.
That's my post about my friendship with Smoochie.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Have your cake and eat it, too

Once upon a time, I was a very naive sophomore in college & my parents allowed me to live alone in a house.
Naturally, I threw a big stupid party for my birthday.
& I threw it over the summer.

For a smallish community like college station, that means that because there's nothing else to do, everyone who is in town will be attending.
EVERYONE.

It was the first and LAST party I ever threw.
It was a disaster.

The worst part was when I walked into my kitchen and noticed that someone had dumped my whole birthday cake into my fish tank...and killed my fish.

I didn't even get a piece of that cake before it was used to clog up my poor fish's gills. The bastards.

I was devastated.
Readers, I'm not really good at keeping things alive, per se.
Growing up, my parents wouldn't even let me have the baby dolls that pee and poop after you feed them because they thought it was too much of a responsibility for me.
Rightly so. In the fifth grade, my parents bought me a Tamagotchi only to find me shouting at it to stop crying at three a.m. a week later.
What I'm trying to say is that I tend to cherish anything that survives my care or lack thereof.
Notably, I've only got Shakespeare and one orchid plant.
& Shakespeare may not count since my mom is actually the one who's responsible when it comes to making sure he's properly vaccinated.
But the orchid plant, that is ALL ME, baby.

I forgot to mention, my fish's name was Trevor. Anyway, so Trevor died.
& I was really sad.
So I kicked everyone out of my place and whimpered pathetically in a corner holding a drinking glass with dead Trevor floating in it while my sorority sisters laughed and tried to calm me down.
Some one else had to flush him down the toilet for me.
It was really pathetic.

After I cleaned out my fish tank, I got really sad looking at it all empty.
So I bought a new betta fish.
His name was Derrick.
or Darren. I forget. It's been so long & he didn't really last.

But I guess I over did it.
Trying to fill the void Trevor left behind, I bought Darren/Derrick
& a mate for him,
& a small albino frog.
Because betta fish are aggressive; you're really not supposed to just have a male betta and a female together--she'll kill him when he tries to mate.
& the pet store guy suggested the frog.

I named the girl fish Beula.
and the frog was Christina.

& then I left for like an hour or two and came home to find that they'd all killed each other.

I wasn't emotionally attached so I flushed them all at the same time by myself.
& I moved my fish tank to the back yard so I wouldn't have to look at it.

I think I'm ready to love again.
It's been four years.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

It was THAT bad

I was coming from the library and I didn't even notice Red walking past me.
"That's messed up that you can't even say hi."
I kept my eyes on her while I talked to him, "Hey, I'm sorry. I'm kinda in the middle of something."
"Like what?"
I pulled him off to the side and pointed to a girl sitting alone in the courtyard, "See that girl? I'm going to hit on her right now."
"What?"
Red was surprised. I don't blame him. It was Monday and just the Friday before I had gone out on a date with him--a terrible, insufferable first date. He was right to suspect that I was avoiding him; our date was THAT bad that I regretted ever going out with a guy from class.
"Yeah. I'm going to go talk to her. Go away."
"I didn't know you were..."
"What?"
"Well, I guess I thought..."
"Oh, God, I'm not gay. I'm going to hit on her for Scully." <--Scully is a lesbian in our class. On that day in particular, she talked me into attending the Gay Law Student Alliance informational with her. Hoping to see to the girl in the court yard at the meeting, she came to class that Monday all dressed up; usually, she wore tee shirts and basketball shorts. Scully was still waiting for me in the library--I could see her watching me from the windows. I looked over at the girl in the court yard and noticed she was no longer alone. "Dammit, now there's people with her!"
"So?"
"I've never hit on a girl before."
"I'm sure you'll do fine," Red said. I guess by this point the conversation had started to get weird for him, "I'm going to go now. I've got to study. Good luck with that." And he walked into the library.

Readers, I could tell you all about how I went up to the poor girl and failed miserably.
I could tell you how I told her she was pretty and then apologized for being awkward and then rambled about the meeting and asked if she was going.
I could even tell you how her friends laughed at me.

But I won't. It still hurts. She shut me down; she wasn't having it, & if she had any previous plans of going to the meeting, it's entirely possible and even likely that she didn't go JUST to avoid me.
It was THAT bad.


Needless to say, there are a few older students at my school who think I'm a super lame, no game having Lesbian.

This post sucks.
I'm really sorry.
You've no idea how many posts I've started the last few weeks and then abandoned because they're no good. Hopefully more interesting ideas/memories/things & stuff will come to me over the break.
I'm working on it.
For the mean time, this one is just to get back into the swing of posting.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Timeless

"I'm taking the bus."
It was May 2010 & I saw him walking my way as I crossed the lawns of the quad.
It was officially my last day as a student at Texas A&M.

He smiled when our eyes met & that was the first thing he said, "I'm taking the bus."
It wasn't planned & it wasn't awkward.

Skywalker* didn't mention every thing that'd happened between us (or better yet, what didn't happen) but was just casual and took my arm in his.
"I just took my last exam," I told him.
"Wow, congrats! So this is your last day as an undergrad! Will you even be coming back on campus besides graduation day?"
I smiled, "No. I guess not. This is it, then."
"So this is your last walk on the A&M campus?"
I nodded.
"Well, I'm glad I get to be the one that walks you."
& everything about that moment was so perfect, I tried not to blush. It seemed like we got to the bus stop too quickly.
"Congrats again. Maybe I'll get to see you before I leave for my internship."
"I hope so." & I hugged him before he got on his bus.

That was Skywalker--he always knew the right thing to do & say & time had a funny way of speeding up whenever I was with him.

When I look back on my time at A&M, I think about him.
I think about sitting across from eachother in the library during finals week and laughing everytime we caught eachother's glance.
I think about the withered pink rose in my memory box; the one he left on my bird bath with a hand-written sonnet when he invited me on our first date.
I think about the nights we hung out watching foreign films & starwars.
& I still remember how it felt everytime I went to Greek events just hoping to see him. Or taking longer walks to my car just to catch a glimpse of him outside of the business school. (Okay, maybe that was creepy.)

Skywalker never missed an opportunity to tell me how beautiful he thought I was, to make me laugh, or even just text me good morning. & to this day, the most arbitrary things remind me of him.
For me, Skywalker will always be blue eyes, grape swisher sweets, bow ties, chivalry, & techno.
& he'll always be timeless.

Sometimes, it baffles me that Skywalker & I didn't work out.
I guess that's the thing about timing: it's pretty much everything.
But oh, what a beautiful time we had. :)

Climbing into my car, I felt my phone go off in my pocket.
It was a text from Skywalker, "I'm really glad I was the one to walk you your last day on campus."
That was Skywalker...classic.

*of course, Skywalker is NOT his real name. I can't just be putting anybody's business on my blog.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

The Time I Got a Divorce

Reader(s), I'd like to think that by the time I can throw a party without someone's gold fish dying, I'll be able to successfully raise children without losing or inadvertently handicapping one. (That gold fish story is one for the ages & one that is forth coming in the near future, but alas, one for another day.)
& fortunately, my kids will have a plethora of knowledge available to them based on all the stupid things I've done. That is right, future fruits of my womb, I've fucked up plenty of times so you don't have to.

That being said, one time I did something incredibly stupid & got a tattoo in a language I can neither write or speak.
& I think it's also worth mentioning that at the time I got this tattoo, I didn't know a single person who spoke/wrote/read the language.

Why did I choose Arabic?
I'm still not 100%. Probably because it's pretty to look at; officially because I was trying to be deep & "remind myself to do what I want because not every one can, especially not women in other countries."

Whatever. I choke back vomit every time I think about how profound I tried to be up until about a year ago when I realized I'm just a puddle.

But anyway. The word was freedom.
Doesn't my tattoo look so cool next to my ultra-ethnic earrings from Earthbound Trading Co.? #sarcasm

Anyway reader(s), you're all smart people, I'm sure. Or at least smart-ish.
You can guess where this is going.

I'll tell you anyway.

For about a week and a half after getting this tattoo, I kept having nightmares and day time anxiety about one day going to an Arab-speaking nation & finding that my tattoo actually said liver or heart disease or fish-monger.
Or was written backwards.
& I was stressed about it. So I went on to google translate & found out two things:
1. My tattoo is not written correctly; &
2. It did not say (and possibly still does not) say freedom.

Worth noting are several sets of facts that led to my infamous tattoo faux pas. First, when I decided on Arabic, I was at my house using my computer which was still relatively new, so it processed the Arabic languange a lot better than oh say, I don't know, a computer built in '98<--which is approximately how old the computer I printed my tattoo off of was.
See, before I got this tattoo, I went to my friend, Flor-Carl's, apartment and proceeded to use google translate on her computer. To compare the different ways of expressing freedom in Arabic, we copy & pasted the words off of google onto her Microsoft Office Word 1997 program.
So instead of the letters being connected like an actual word, what I have behind my right ear are individual letters.
Why didn't I just print off the tattoo at my house where it would have been correct? Don't know. Most likely it's because my printer was out of ink...
The second set of facts relevant to this scenario is that at the time Flor-Carl & I were looking at Arabic words on her computer, I was desperately trying to teach Flor-Carl about Jimi Hendrix & why his music transcends genres & is not just "stoner music" ( I know, at 21 I was just too profound for my own good). I proceeded in doing so by getting her drunk off of $16 tequila & a bottle of Godiva Chocolat Liquer I'd been storing for the winter, admittedly, I got myself drunk in the process.

So there we were, sitting in her dimly-lit room, blaring Jimi Hendrix (while I slurred through the lyrics of  Castles Made of Sand and The Wind Cries Mary) and also spilling cheap tequila and not so cheap liquer all over her carpet, using her very old computer to learn new languages that I would very soon be stamping into the skin behind my ear forever.

Good choices. So many good choices.

The last notable fact pattern is that for some reason, comparing words all at once on the same Word document was not good enough. There was a lot of deleting some words and repasting others. With neither of us speaking Arabic, no one noticed when a character got deleted off of the end of the word I ultimately chose.
That one letter difference changed "freedom" to "divorce."
And so for about three weeks, I walked around with "divorce" behind my ear.

Luckily for me, it was the character at the end of the word & there *just enough* room behind my ear to add it on when the artist who did my tattoo came back into town. He called it a "touch up" & didn't make me pay for it, but I still tipped him out $20.
To this day, every time someone asks to see the tattoo behind my ear, I still have to lift up the bottom of my lobe to show it in its entirety--that's how close I came to having a completely arbitrary word right by my face forever.
& that's my story.

About a month later, I took this "Women in History" course at  A&M just trying to get through some electives so I could graduate on time. As it were, the T.A. in that course was dissertating about the rights of women in the U.A.E. & asked me why I chose to get freedom behind my ear & why Arabic.
So I feel better.

But the T.A. was also Latino so there's still a very great potential risk that my tattoo is just a bunch of pretty Arabic scribble scrabble.
Either way, the way I look at it, that tattoo is just classic me. It's wholly indicative of my spontaneous spirit and propensity for making errors.
In fact, it would probably be more representative of me if it were  just scribble scrabble.

Friday, November 12, 2010

I guess you had to be there.

This is essentially the same post as "Whoa" but better because it comes with monotone cartoon gangsters.
Why are Nini & I black men standing in an alley talking about sperm?
I think it's just part of the vast majesty that is our universe.


I made this movie at Xtranormal; it was super easy & fun!!!

& in case the embedded link is acting crazy, you can watch it here!

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Cutting Back on Expectations

Reader(s), before I jump into this one, I'd like to open with my infamous signature start: an apology for not being here in awhile. As it were, law school is really hard so I've got a lot less time for stuff.
That last statement, I feel, is a great way to get into tonight's post.

Maybe it's not an expectation, per se, but the way I've lived the better part of these 23 years is just winging it; it's pretty safe to say that most of what I do is just go with the flow--I let things happen & deal with the outcome in the same way.
Until now; law school does not fuck around. You can't go with the flow without drowning.
& in that respect, my expectations have changed--my expectations that I'd always be good at school without applying myself, my expectations to keep just floating through existence, and my expectations that Shakespeare would always have testicles.

Shakespeare's balls have like nothing to do with anything that was going on up there but I wasn't really sure how I was going to tie it all in.

So anyway...yes, Shakespeare's balls.
Before Shakespeare and I moved into an apartment, we never really had a problem. He knew our old house in College Station and never peed in it because it was he knew we lived there. After 3 months in our apartment, I'm not sure that Shakespeare realizes we are going to be here indefinitely...or at least for the next three years. What I'm getting at is he marks his territory Everywhere and although I've been fighting having to get him neutered, I'm also tired of scrubbing urine out of the carpet.

As a matter of fact, I've been so stressed out about Shakespeare's bad habits that I didn't take him with me when I went to see Mr. Flintstone this past weekend.
And speaking of expectations, Mr. Flintstone and I haven't fought in a really long time and I unrealistically expected (or hoped) to ride this good streak out forever.
But that's the thing about expectations.

We fought. And it's reasonably safe to say neither of us had ever been that angry with eachother.
I won't name the proximate cause of our argument (I'm not particularly in the mood to immortalize our worst moment online only to relive it every time I see this post) but it was big.
I actually stormed out for a whole 20 minutes. haha
And even though we patched things up before I left Monday morning, I couldn't stop thinking about the whole thing and wondering if I'd ever really move past it or whether, like every thing else in my life, I'd just indifferently let it slide by.
Monday at school, I talked to a lot of my friends and the one thing I heard the most was, "If you want to be with [Mr. Flintstone] you've got to learn to let some things go." & usually, the women followed up with, "Trust me, I've had to overlook a lot to be with (fill in boyfriend's name)."

Still thinking about it this morning, I realized that our argument was two people equally upset. It dawned on me at that moment that I might not be the only one letting things go--Mr. Flintstone has to overlook my behavior, as well.
And both of us have to deal with the fact that our expectations for our relationship are going to change as we learn more about each other. That's what happens.

But maybe that's what loving someone is about; learning, adapting, moving forward, and letting go of the things that are slowing you down.

In Shakespeare's case, his balls are what's slowing him down. (Possibly literally since he only weighs 5 pounds it's likely he'll be a lot lighter without them.)
& hopefully he's able to adapt and move forward.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Whoa

Scene: Having lunch with a good friend

Me: Okay, so you know how I brought up the sperm thing earlier?
[Note: the "sperm thing" is where I asked a nurse (said friend at lunch) whether sperm are independently living animals & then she said they're alive but don't have brains or eyes & I said "how do you know?" & she said "because we have microscopes." I also posted the same question on my medical school sister's facebook wall But anyway]
Her: Yeah
Me: Okay, so like if sperm are living and everything in our bodies is alive like sperm are alive, then what if like we are sperm?

Her: pushes piece of lettuce around on plate What?
Me: I'm not high. I'm saying like, what if we are cells or microscopic in the scope of something bigger? What if we're sperm and like our whole life and existence is brief and meaningless to something much bigger? What if we're bacteria or something and the whole world--the whole universe--is just a different person but it's like so big we can't even fathom...
Her: What?
Me: Okay, like, did you see Men In Black? Because I really feel like that would help. You know how the cat had a whole planet on his collar?
Her: Oh yeah, I saw that.
Me: So you know what I'm talking about then, right? Like what if we're on a cat's collar right now?
Her: I thought we were bacteria?
Me: No, we're sperm. But I'm saying like...what if we're just a small part of something huge?
Her: I really have to pee.
Me: Okay, let's get out of here.
We get up and walk to the car.
Inside car:
Me: obviously not able to let go Okay but like you get it right? Like you know how bacteria eat and reproduce and stuff and their lives are so short but we don't know what's going on among them. We don't know that they don't talk or fall in love or go shopping. They're so small that we might not be able to understand their lives. What if that's us?
Her: I really have to pee or like poop.
Me: We're close to your place. Okay like I saw this thing on the Discovery Channel or the History Channel or some shit, I dunno, but like scientists found these rocks in the desert with bacteria living in them--they were living off of the sodium in the rock. What if that's all we are? Bacteria living off of salt deposits in rocks in the desert? But like there's other rocks that have other bacteria that we don't even know about & there's the whole desert & the whole planet that the desert's on. You know, like, what if bacteria can't even comprehend that we exist? That could fucking be us, dude. That could be us.
Her: Poop.
Me: It's funny how I feel like I'm communicating this really deep and profound concept & all you think about it is "poop."
Her: I just really have to poop. I think it was all the sperm talk.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

For the Love of Money

I know I will come under a lot of fire for saying this but after careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion that I'd much rather be rich and single than poor and in love.

This point of view is NOT to be confused with the concept that money is greater than love.
I could NEVER believe in that: I strongly feel that love between ALL people is what's missing in this world.
Love alone could solve mankind's mistakes. A quote I hold dear to my heart is one by Helen Keller, "It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui."

But I think there is more to life than getting married and having babies, I think there's more to life than having a soulmate. (& I'm not saying that both of those aren't goals of mine for someday in the VERY distant future).

What I'm saying is simply: I would rather be rich and single than poor and in love. Before you get your panties in a twist, don't assign more to that statement than what's there.

I absolutely hate when people say, "My life didn't have meaning until I met you."
That's just terrible--how could all of your life, ever, not have meant anything? You have to have other things you love about your life, other people you love, & you have to love YOURSELF as an independent person--your whole value shouldn't be contingent upon one person (unless it's your child).

Anyway, let me get off my soap box & fully explain my rationale.

I think life can still be wonderful without ever having a romantic love.

The key to understanding this is not thinking of money in terms of things but rather experiences and opportunities.-->What Love & Money have in common is the power to change things, money is often looked upon unfavorably (afterall, Love has no adverse consequences & can't fall into the wrong hands & cause catastrophe) but money is the beginning of many wonderful things also.

When I say rich, don't think of a mansion or the fashion & partying.
Don't think of celebrity.

Think of money as the power to set up charities and back research.
& if you're selfish (even the Best of are, sometimes), think of money as the opportunity to travel around the world & see things you might not otherwise see.

I hate to say it, but I'd rather have a scholarship named after me, or have the cure for AIDS found after I donate funding to a determined scientist, & I'd rather see the world than live hand-to-mouth with the love of my life.

& I'm sorry if that makes me superficial.

But I think that lifestyle can ONLY be viewed as sad IF the rich person in question does not love at all.

There are more people to love than a romantic partner, for example family & friends.
There are people more deserving, or people who need it more--the homeless, those living with famine, those who are ill and lack the means to get treated.

As evidence, finally, I offer up the following example of a fulfilled life carried out without romantic love:

Willy Wonka. I think we can all agree that even without ever knowing a woman's warmth, his life was still pretty fantastic and even magical.

But if Willy Wonka is too whimsical for you, I offer up an even more magical & more beautiful life:

Mother Teresa did not focus her love on person but spread it broadly and touched the lives of many.

For all of the above reasons, I stand by my position & openly welcome debate.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Alfred Hisscock <--That's what she said.

A kid I barely knew except through mutual acquaintances was getting ready to start his first semester at Stanford. He was moving into the dorms and more than a little concerned that his pet hissing cockroach would preclude any efforts on his part of securing a mate or making new friends at school.

And thus, I inherited Alfred Hisscock--the hissing cockroach named after the famed filmmaker and producer. & I was in luck; I was taking entomology & we could gain extra credit by keeping a pet insect for a month and keeping a journal of its daily activities.

Alfred was pretty low key. He ate dog biscuits and didn't do much else.

And then one day he started to stink.

I noticed this fact one afternoon as I poured myself a bowl of cereal.
The small reptile cage Alfred lived in was giving off a very light fart odor.
I cleaned out his cage but realized the next afternoon that the smell was getting worse.
I finally caved in one afternoon when I pulled into the driveway and my front yard smelled like I'd left a bowl of brown gravy out on the lawn in the heat.

So Alfred came with me to school where I asked my entomology professor why Alfred smelled so bad.

As it turns out, Alfred was really a girl and in the prime of her life; she was giving off the scent of sex pheromones--a distinctive smell that was meant to draw other cockroaches to her--you know, for reproduction purposes.

"She's horny," is what Dr. Gold told me.
[More or less. I might be paraphrasing.]

Dr. Gold didn't really seem to want a horny hissing cockroach hanging around his office for longer than need be so Alfred came back home with me.

I tried passing her off to whoever would take her;
the kid I got her from didn't want her back,
the pet shops wouldn't take her because she was in heat,
the other entomology students would gladly take her but only because they wanted to kill her and use her carcass as part of their bug display (which was our final grade).
So, what I'm trying to say is, I was stuck with her.

I moved Alfred to the back yard until it started getting too cold.
& then she moved into the garage.
I would have let her continue living in the kitchen, but she still stunk.

To make an already long story shorter, I moved her into the garage.
Which was a bad choice.
Because she still made my house smell like boiled eggs and fish.
But moreover, because apparently the garage was not much warmer than just being outside and she died anyway.

I'd like to pretend she died of loneliness.

But anyway, afterwards, I didn't really know what to do with the body.
I didn't want to bury her because part of me thought it was disrespectful...
So I put her in my freezer.

And she stayed there for two years until I donated her body to science.

This is a true story.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

The Right Kind of Slutty

I was in the seventh grade and super excited about wearing my new orange tank top to school.
The armpits on my tank top were really long so I wore a pink bandeau underneath (because it totally matched the gigantic pink flower on the front of my tank).
& I was having a great day.

Until recess.

Because at recess, Nina Taimangung, a swarthy Guamanian with a chip on her shoulder, decided to call me a slut.

Nina was upset because she thought my bandeau was a bra and therefore wrongly accused me of choosing my orange tank top because it showed my bra. I had never in my life been called a slut. I'd never even heard anyone use that word in real life. I knew what it meant and I was taken aback.

The whole play ground was looking at me, waiting for my response.
"oh yeah? oh yeah? well...well, I don't like your earrings! so yeah!" was the best I could do.

"Bitch, you wanna' get your ass beat?"

And I swear, I almost pissed myself, right there on the foursquare court.
Fortunately, I was saved by the bell. Recess was over and I managed to camouflage myself in the swarm of kids rushing to their lockers.

At my locker, I tried my best to get my books together in a hurry but to no avail. When I closed my locker door, Nina was standing there. "I said, 'Bitch, do you wanna' get your ass beat?'" And I noticed Nina's click of ne'er-do-wells standing behind her. I took a moment to absorb the image of Nina's corn rows and gigantic hoop earrings. "Did you hear me, trick?"
"Y-y-yes, I heard you. Naw, no thanks. I'd rather not get beat up today."
"So then try not to dress like such a slut when you're at school, ho," and looking over her shoulder, Nina nodded her head forward before addressing her posse, "Let's bounce."

I sighed a deep breath of relief. Nina didn't know me too well.
I was a rebel. From that moment on, I decided to dress like a slut just to spite Nina.
Well, as slutty as my parents and the Killeen ISD dress code would allow.

& for the rest of my life, I dealt with the consequences.
Nina took notice, from seventh grade until sophomore year of high school, everytime she passed me in the hall, she'd shout "SLUT!" at the top of her lungs. Sometimes, she'd just walk behind me repeating it. And then in the summer before Junior year, Nina got knocked up after bumping uglies with her guy behind the local butcher's shop which was across the street from our high school. So I didn't see her for a long time. But other bullies were more than willing to take her place.

I was all too familiar with the girls who'd call me names when their boyfriends said I was pretty--I even stole one girl's boyfriend because she threatened to beat me up. I was shameless.

But I'd like to say this; being bullied and being labeled taught me a lot.

-It taught me to be proud of my body. No matter what, it's mine & it's the only one I'll ever have. My motto was "if you got it, flaunt it." And boy, did I. At 23, my motto has evolved, "If you got it, flaunt it--in moderation." :)
-It taught me that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. You think I liked being called a slut? Or worse, the fact that people believed it and it left room for other rumors to spread. Hell naw! Those were hard times (no pun intended...well, maybe) but I definitely developed a thicker skin.
-It taught me that the best kinds of rumors are the ones you start yourself. I was easy prey for guys who liked to lie and spread stories about me in high school. One poor sucker learned the hard way when I decided that since I couldn't beat his rumor, I'd start my own & I passed out flyers about his lack of bedroom skills. What did I say, no shame.
-It taught me that there is power in embracing your inner slut. Hey, strippers and call girls wouldn't make money if it weren't true. You can get far with a pretty smile and a short skirt. (It sucks, but it's the truth.)
-& Finally, it taught me that what people say about you doesn't matter as much as what you do. My parents were STRICT and while I was no angel, I didn't do half the dirt people pretended I did. I have strong morals and when people got to know me (and still to this day) they realized I was nothing like the rumors.

On my way to synagogue with my mother one morning a couple of years ago, we stopped off at a small gas station in Lampasas. (See, my mother's synagogue is in Austin and we have to drive through the very small town of Lampasas on the way from Killeen.) While my mom pumped fuel into the car, I went inside to pay and grab some coffee. I was filling my coffee cup and someone called my name from behind. I turned to see Nina Taimangung--all grown up and mopping the gas station floor.

"Wow, Nina. Hey."
"Whatsup? I'm surprised you remember me. You still in Killeen?"
"No, I'm in my second year of undergrad now. What about you?"
"I'm living here in Lampasas with my kids. Working here."
"Oh, that's cool, man."
"So what school you go to?"
"I go to A&M up in College Station."
"Eww, you're an Aggie. UT all day."
"Yeah I'm an Aggie & I guess we'll just have to disagree about that whole UT nonsense. But I'll tell you one thing, being an Aggie sure as Hell beats being a gas station janitor."

What did I say? No shame.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

"It's not you, it's me."

I used to take people on like I could handle all their problems.
& I don't know when all that changed but somewhere along the line, I decided that the last thing I wanted is someone who's going to be all up in my shit.

& the baggage. Holy shit. If we're going to be together, at this stage in my life, you're not even allowed to have baggage.

I feel like sometimes I pester Mr. Flintstone because he kind of goes through life like one high, Asian robot. It's like the only things he's capable of feeling are "Whoa," and "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."
The following is a hypothetical situation between Mr. Flintstone and I:

Scene: Snuggling on living room floor
Me: Hey, is everything okay? You're kinda quiet.
Flintstone: eh.
Me: I don't know what to do with that.
Flintstone: Can I have a massage?
Me: Yes, but hold on, we're talking.
Flintstone: About what?
Me: About your feelings.
Flintstone--distracted by dog. What?
Me: Omigosh, baby pay attention.
Flintstone: Oh myyyyy gosh. I did it again so I'ma let the beat drop.
Me: Okay, no really.
Flintstone: Okay, no reeeaaallly.
Me: Is something wrong? I sometimes find it's easier to work through my emotions via interpretive dance.
Flintstone--distracted by dog.
Me: You're not even listening.
Flintstone: I am.
Me: What's the last thing I said?
Flintstone: You're not even listening.
Me: Uggggh. Are you okay?
Flintstone: Am I getting a massage?

Okay, I've never interpretively danced unless you count dancing to Cameo's hit single, Candy, in the morning when I get ready as dancing interpretively. [But I think there's more to it.]

Anyway, it used to drive me crazy that Mr. Flintstone doesn't have real feelings.
Until recently.

When I realized I am socially inept to deal with anyone else's shit.

It's happened a few times now where I'm totally into someone and then they pour out all these feelings and I feel like they just took a shit on my lap.
& I'm sitting there thinking, "Omigosh. We can never undo this. I'll never forgive you for taking an emotional dump on my levis. Things are going to be so weird everytime I see you now." & usually, I'm just itching to get the fuck away from that person and breathe. But like, literally, itching.

I don't know where I'm going with this.
What I'm trying to say is nothing used to freak me out when it came to relationships.
& now I'm extra selfish.
(Note: I'd be that crab on this post. Selfish Shellfish. Yah, I'm sooo clever).
I only want to deal with my shit and I don't want all the cards on the table or to have to answer to anyone.

Right now the kind of guy I can handle is a man I'm going to have to stab in the biceps with a fork every now and then to make sure he is still capable of feeling; the kind of guy who'd rather get a massage than take an emotional barf all over my face/dump on my jeans. whatever.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

The Time I Rented SATC

The day I rented Sex & The City, the movie, was a memorable one.

Not because it launched me into an obsessive desire to watch the entirity of the show's 6 seasons back to back and finish almost all conversations with the phrase, "I really am like Carrie."
Not because it forced me to look at other women and label them as Samanthas or Charlottes.

-->It totally did both of those things.
But neither of those are the reasons why that particular day stands out in my memory...

The I rented Sex & The City is forever burned into my memory because that day is the day I made a Blockbuster sales associate faint.

The day in question, I took on the mammoth task of making spaghetti alone.
Reader, I know you're probably thinking that making spaghetti is not difficult...it's actually like the EASIEST thing you can make.
& that would be because, unlike me, you, my dear friend, are not prone to catastrophy while performing even the simplest of tasks.

I, on the other hand, am a walking and breathing magnet for disaster.
As such, when I was making spaghetti, I cut my index finger trying to remove the little tin tie around the end of the ground beef. I'm not even sure how I did it.
All I know is for such a small little cut, that sucker liked to bleed.

I tried bandaging it but it bled through 3 band-aids in a row. So instead I took a clean rag and applied pressure until it stopped and I was able to finish cooking.
Once done, I decided to go around the corner to rent a movie.

Perusing the Blockbuster aisles, my finger started throbbing. I decided to apply pressure by nibbling the tip of my finger while I walked around.
I saw the SATC display but with no dvds for rent so I went to the check out counter to ask if they had any that just hadn't been reshelved.

In all that time that I was nibbling my index finger, I didn't notice the blood dripping down my chin and arms or the resevoir of blood that accumulated on my shirt.
So when I approached the counter to ask about SATC, the poor guy who was working looked up and unexpectedly saw this:

Or something like it.

The guy fainted.
& I still didn't understand why.

So I started screaming, "Oh my God, Oh my God! Somebody Help! The guy fainted! The guy who works here! I don't know what to do!"

& the other sales associate who was in the back of the store came rushing up.
Instead of addressing the guy laying on the floor, the associate comes up to me and goes, "Oh my God! Are you okay?"
& I'm like, "Yes, I'm fine. But this guy just fainted out of nowhere!"
The guy is staring at me like I'm stupid and he's like, "you're covered in blood!"
Me: "I'm covered in...?" and that's the part where I looked down and noticed my blood drenched shirt and my still gushing finger squirting blood onto the thighs of my jeans.
I was, indeed, covered in blood.

The associate who's not unconscious runs to the back of the counter and grabs a first aid kit, he then takes me to the employee restroom and hands over the kit.

I cleaned off my arms, face, and hands and wrapped up my finger. When I came out, both of the associates were standing behind the counter waiting for me.
The one who fainted cleared his throat, "ahem. I uh, I found that copy of Sex & The City you wanted."
Me: "Oh really? Thanks that's great. I'll just go ahead and pay now so I can get home."
Associate 1: "Okay so it's 3.99 and due back on Tuesday."
Associate 2: "Are you okay? Are you sure you don't want us to call an ambulance? It's no trouble."
Me: "Haha, no really, I'm fine. I just pricked myself a little while ago and I guess it wasn't done bleeding. You know, making spaghetti."
Associates both cock their heads to the left in confusion.
Me: "K, well, have a good night! Sorry about bleeding all over your store and making you faint. I left the first aid kit on the bathroom counter."
And then I tried my best to not run out of the store.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Breast of Fresh Air

My sister, FlorCarl, & I have a very special relationship.
Sometimes we text eachother random pictures; like she'll text me a photo of her sleeping & I'll text her back a picture of me playing with a furby.<--that only happened once, I found it in my high school closet at my mom's house.
Yes homo. haha, Just Joking.
But really, she always knows how to bring a smile to my face, take for example, the following conversation carried out via text message:

9/13/2010
1:44 pm
FLORCARL: I'm gonna cut the hair! I'm nervous!
ME: You're cutting it? Like short?
1:46 pm
FLORCARL: Not super short! How much should I cut off? I can't decide on a style!
ME: How much are you thinking of taking off? I like your long hair.
1:52 pm
FLORCARL: I like it too...but it's damn hot! Lol. I was thinking to my bra strap?
1:53 pm            
ME: It's about to be winter, impatient ass. I'd go to like mid-breast
2:01 pm
FLORCARL: Hahaha...you love me!
FLORCARL: What is mid-breast?
ME: (In response to "you love me") I do.
2:02 pm           
ME: Like where your nipple starts. Haha
2:06 pm
FLORCARL: Got it! Lol...that's exactly where my bra strap is! Whoop!
[Note: "Whoop" is a common Aggie term expressing joy/excitement.]
ME: Why do your nipples start so high? haha
2:11 pm
FLORCARL sends picture message. I hesitate to open. Picture is following photo of Gwyenth Paltrow with attached message: What do you think of this length...it's shorter in the back.
        
2:12 pm
FLORCARL: Big Nipples! haha
ME:  It's cute. I was worried it was going to be a picture of your nipple...
2:14 pm
FLORCARL: Can't stop laughing.
2:15 pm               
ME: I'm going to post this on my blog tomorrow...

Monday, September 13, 2010

Times When Sharing Sucks

"Sharing is caring."
Or so they'll have you believe.

But you know as well as I know that sharing is NOT always caring. In fact, sometimes sharing is the $10 hooker who slips you a rufie and then steals your liver.--> You wake up in a tub full of ice with stiches made of fishing line and a post-it note directing you to call 911. & worst of all, you will never get your $10 back.
What am I saying?

I'm not really sure.

The bottom line is, sharing is sometimes crap.
But I won't go into another analogy.

Instead, I'd like to give you this list of situations where sharing CLEARLY sucks, so that you can avoid them. I'd like to think of this as a gift--the gift of knowledge. Reader, I am sharing my valuable wisdom with you today.  Do you know why?
Because it's my 50th blog post. Rejoice!
For those of you who've been here from the beginning and those just starting to read me, I'd like to say this:
THANK YOU. YOU'RE MY FRIENDS AND I LOVE YOU, DAMMIT.


Sharing public bathrooms with your best friend when you're drunk is ALWAYS fun...
unless one of you has to poop. Then it's weird.

Anyway, the next time you're in one of the following situations, I hope you benefit from my words.

Sharing sucks when you're sharing:

A.) The place where you live. Living with another person is a wild-card. One time, one of my sorority sisters was living with me for the summer and I came home from class to find her naked in my study on the computer. I didn't know how to react so I just didn't. I've only had a couple of roommates in the past and one live in boyfriend. But it's safe to say I will avoid cohabitating until I'm married; even after then, if possible. I'd be the most content if I could live in my family's basement with my husband and kids on the upper level. Kid's visitation rights to my she-bat cave will be strictly limited and my husband will be on a sleep-over only basis. I hate living with other people. [Note: my brother & I's living situation is going really well, though. I'm surprised at how much I don't dislike living with him.]
       1.Bathrooms: People do the weirdest things in their bathrooms because they're alone. Masterbating, for example; most guys do it in the shower or in front of their computer. Girls tend to leave makeup all over the counter tops or girl stuff in the trash can--sometimes for too long. My oldest brother's kids do this weird thing where they put their dirty toilet paper in the trash instead of flushing it--creeps me the fuck out. & then there's the inexplicable; every bathroom sink Mr. Flintstone has ever had since we've been together gets coated in a thick layer of gunk that causes it to drain slowly. I'm pretty sure the gunk's main components are hair gel, tooth paste & spit, & dog hair.
       2. Bedrooms: Your bedroom is your sanctuary. In my case, usually a dirty one. Not exactly on purpose but I have a terrible way of leaving books lying all over the floor and Shakespeare has a bad habit of dragging my dirty draws out of the laundry hamper and chewing on them in the middle of my room. Things can get awkward when company is over. The weirdest part of sharing a bedroom is having to share your bed.
                  2i. Beds: Sharing a bed is weird. Even if you like the person. My first serious boyfriend, who I lived with, used to sweat profusely in his sleep and pull the sheets off the mattress. It was weird and I had to buy new pillows because he left sweat stains in my old ones. Some people fart in their sleep <--me. But also, sharing the bed = less room for you. When I stay over at Mr. Flintstone's we somehow manage to squeeze me, him, his dog, and my dog onto one twin size bed. I'm not going to lie, his dog, Jazzy, usually punks me out of my spot and I wake up breathing into the wall, having balanced myself on the last two inches of the bed and the nook between the mattress and the wall all night. Do I love sleeping beside him? YES. Do I also love having room to stretch my arms/escape if need be? Also Yes.
       3. Kitchens: People also do weird things in their kitchens. I had one roommate who would rearrange all my dishes and spices while I was in class. She also used my decorative oven mits to clean out my microwave. Why I have decorative oven mits is besides the point. I also had one roommate who made tacos for her man and stored the unused meat (still in the skillet) in the oven. I assume her plan was to put it away later but later only came 3 weeks later when we couldn't figure out why my house smelled like moldy enchuritos. We found the skillet still in the oven, but where the ground beef used to be was now replaced by grey meat jello.
        4. Bills: see letter D, Expenses.
B.) Desserts or Appetizers: You know how sometimes the waitress asks you if you want an appetizer/dessert and you don't want to seem like a fat ass so you look to the person next to you and say, "Wanna share?" but what you're really saying is, "Wanna watch me eat an entire brownie sundae/plate of mozzarella sticks and take part of the responsibility so I can avoid judgment?" & then the appetizer/dessert comes and you do share and you feel glad you shared but then it comes down to the critical point: the last bite.
I'd like to call this awkward encounter the last bite dance, since you & the person you're sharing with are both dancing around the fact that each of you wants that last bite for yourself but doesn't want to be impolite. The following dialogue usually ensues:
You: Go ahead, eat it. I saved it for you.
Them: No, I already ate my half. You eat it.
You: But I'm already full so if you don't eat it, it's just going to get thrown away. Go for it.
Them: I know you want it, just take it.
You: I really don't.
But you do. You want it so bad you almost resent them. Sometimes, you luck out & the other person doesn't really want the last bite; then EVERYBODY wins. For example, my new friend Keith and I were having lunch in the school cafeteria. Keith got barbecue and cherry cobbler. I got pasta. When we were about to leave, I noticed Keith had not eaten his cobbler & didn't plan to. Score for me: I made a new friend and got cherry cobbler fo' FREE! It was a good day.
Mr. Flintstone & I's thing is baking cookies: the pillsbury ones that are already separated out into little squares & all you have to do is put them on a pan and bake them. --> I know he cares because he always leaves me the last cookie. :)

C.) Party nights: It sucks when you want your friend to come out with you but they are totally broke. Going out & covering just your expenses can be pretty pricey but then it's magnified when your friend is tagging along & everything you buy for yourself, you also have to buy for them. Then you have less of a good time because everytime you pull out money to pay cover or head to the bar for a shot, you have to mentally calculate how much is in your wallet and subtract whatever you were planning to spend and then multiply by two. This situation can cause resentment in even the sweetest of temperaments, but I was always especially aggravated by the math involved: I was a creative writing major, dammit. First you're pissing away all my funds & then I have to do math? You pretty much just inadvertantly screwed up my night.

D.) Expenses: Bills, Gas money, Etc. In Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote something to the affect of, "Never a lender nor a borrower be." You know why? Because money tears people apart. I've never really had anyone owe me money, but with respect to gas, I can pretty much say never give anyone a ride if you're depending on them to reimburse you. People forget about gas expenses like it's nothing; even if they told you they'd help you out on the gas. Only give rides to people you love (that's what she said) & you won't mind the gas thing.

E.) Clothes, Personal Items: Never loan out anything you're really attached to. I once loaned a cocktail dress to a really, really good friend several years ago & still haven't gotten it back. Someone out there still has my white go-go boots that I lent them one Halloween. I can't even count all the dishes and cookware of mine that are out there floating around. & the thing is, the borrower usually has the BEST intentions of returning your stuff but it's inconvenient for them to bring it back and you don't want to make a big deal about it and come off as up-tight so you just hang out & voila; your shit has just been adversly possessed. (Yeah, that was a legal term from property class--be impressed).

F.) Jail. I can speak about this one first hand. Trust me, you don't want to share stuff in jail-->because you never know. On the other hand, sharing in jail is a surefire way not to get beat down.
For example:
  • always get lunch, even if you're not hungry. Your cellmates might want to hoard your uneaten bread to make a sandwich later.
  • When you post bail, always leave behind your toilet paper for someone in need.
  • The rubber from your shoes; you can share this with your cell mates when they want to do their eyebrows, clean under their nails or if they need to stick something under the table to make it stop wobbling.
  • Toothpaste: can be used like glue to hang things on the wall. Also good for brushing teeth; also leave this behind when you post bail.
  • Things you should NOT share: your tooth brush, soap, wash clothe, cup, bedding, undergarments,or hair brush.

Friday, September 10, 2010

my face es en fuego

So today I woke up and as I washed my face, I realized my scar was finally gone.

I will admit something only a select group know about me; I lied to most people when they asked what happened because the truth was so embarassing.
Even Mr. Flintstone does not know the whole story-->that's how embarrassing it is.

Okay, are you ready?

In the summer of 2009, I burned my face.
While eating macaroni.

Well sorta.

I used to eat a lot of microwaveable macaroni. The good kind; not the kind you pour water into that's all powdered and stuff.
No, I used to eat the kind that was frozen macaroni in a little paper tray. It was so good.

& one day, I had just heated up some macaroni and when I pulled the paper lid off of the tray, hot cheese splattered all over my face and hands.
I don't even know how it happened.

It's not like the macaroni spontaneously combusted or anything.
I don't want any of you to have irrational fears of macaroni due to this post.
I think it had something to do with how I was holding it.

But anyway, that shit hurt. I immediately knew I was in trouble, even before looking in the mirror.

So I rushed to the bathroom to wash my face and when I splashed cold water onto my skin, I felt splotches of my skin wrinkling up. When I touched them, the skin just came off.

The part of my face that was skinned was pretty big, too. There was one splotch the size of my thumb just below my left eye and another, but much smaller one, by my mouth.

My best friend, Caroline, was on her way over and so I gave her a call;
Me: Hey sis, I just wanted to warn you that I burned my face just now. I didn't want you to come over & freak out or anything.
Caroline: You burned your face? With what? Is it bad?
Me: You'll see.

& to her it was that bad. Caroline thought it was so nasty she took me to the emergency room.
Her plan was just for us to walk in & get advice on how to treat it from a nurse or social worker but instead, the hospital actually admitted me.
2 hours later, they let me leave with the advice that I should not wear makeup until after the scab fell off and to use vitamin E to help with the discoloration. They also gave me 2 small packets of fancy neosporin.

I later recieved a $700 bill. Insurance picked up all but $30 & I still get letters from College Station Medical bitching about the $30 I still owe them.

I felt super gross. Especially once it started healing; the color of it right before it scabbed was the shade of green that sores turn when they're infected. Everytime I talked to someone face to face, I could see their eyes wandering from my sore to stuff behind me and back; they had to force themselves not to stare directly at it.
I could tell everyone really wanted to know how I'd gotten that nasty scar but usually they were too polite to ask. Sometimes guys would be like, "did you get into a fight?" & I lied. My story to everyone but my parents, the doctors, Caroline & Darlene was that I burned myself with coffee.
I dunno why, coffee just seemed so much less embarrassing than the truth.
I still think it is.

Mr. Flintstone was & still is such a total Adonis to me. He is physical perfection. If he was a dessert, he'd be creme brulee or that discontinued chocolate cake at olive garden. But anyway, my point is, I was really concerned about how long I'd have the scar and whether he'd still like me now that my face was possibly altered forever. I gave him a call;
Mr. Flintstone: Hello?
Me: Hey hun. How's your day going?
Mr. Flintstone: It's alright. What about yours?
Me: Not too good. I just burned my face and spent two hours in the emergency room.
Mr. Flintstone: What?
Me: It's not that serious. Caroline took me to get advice but they admitted me instead. But anyway, it's pretty ugly. I don't want to see you until it's cleared up. They said I might have a scar for the rest of my life.
Mr. Flintstone: That's silly, babe. & if you do end up with a scar, I'm sorry to say this babe but you'll have to go from a 10 to a 9--you'll still be beautiful.
Me: *laughs*
Mr. Flintstone: I know how you feel though. One time I was playing basketball and I accidently bit through my lip. I had to have stitches. It was really bad. So I know all about the insecurity about scars. But now you can't even tell.
Me: Really?
Mr. Flintstone: Really. So don't worry about it.

& that phone call really made me feel so much better.
Once the scab fell off, I had a tiny pink triangle under my eye--but you couldn't see it under makeup. & until today, when I caught a glimpse of a College Station Medical bill out of the corner of my eye, I'd almost forgotten about it.

To this day, I still haven't had any frozen macaroni but I honestly don't miss it.
I'll get back to it one day but for now I'm taking baby steps.

& also, I just noticed, I've been writing a lot lately about fire and heat. I hope to conclude this 4 part series with this post. I promise to start talking about other things again.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

You Might Be Cursed If...

Actually, I don't think I'm cursed.

But I'm fairly certain our apartment is.

The word the maintenance men actually used was "haunted" but I think that's just a tad on the meretricious. There is no proof of paranormal activity here, just some maintenance problems.

But the argument could definitely be made that this place is cursed. For example,
8/7/2010 We move in. Shortly thereafter, I inadvertantly let in a cockroach; find it in my room, under bed. Irrational fears ensue.

8/22/2010 Apartment catches on fire due to faulty wiring in dryer unit. We almost kill everyone in building 7 for failing to realize small fire growing inside wall.

8 days later, we are allowed to move back in. The apartment is still covered in soot from the cieling's fiber glass insulation and extinguisher fluid. Cleaning people come Wednesday; forget to clean. Return to clean following day.

8/31-9/6 2010 pass without problem. Maintenance returns to replace light bulbs, install dryer. Leaves note saying they "checked" A/C unit. Replaces air filters.

9/7/2010, approximately 1 am: power goes out during thunder storm. On-call maintenance sleeps through multiple phone calls. Regular maintenance comes promptly after 7 am phone call & restores power.

                Replace breaker.

9/8/2010 A/C stops working.

9/9/2010 Maintenance checks A/C. It's still hot as balls in here.

The last time I saw a maintenance guy face to face and we talked, I apologized because Shakespeare wouldn't stop barking at him & he says, "Oh it's okay, I know he's a nice guy. He's just trying to protect you now but usually when I'm here, he's the sweetest thing."

& then it hit me how much maintenance has been here.

Today, Ray said we should maybe consider moving. We live on the third floor so I, personnally, am not looking forward to dragging our sofas down the stairs. I can take a little temporary heat & technical difficulties; we did, afterall, set this place a-blaze a couple of weeks ago so there's bound to be issues.

But the fact that maintenance called this place haunted makes me think they know something I do not.

I will be on the look out for any displaced growling noises, slime coming out of the faucets, or small microcosms inside the refrigerator.



Ghostbusters is still my favorite thing & arguably the best haunting situation possible; the marshmallow monster is almost as cute as the pillsbury doughboy.
As a matter of fact, the only way it could've been any better is if it had been the pillsbury doughboy instead of the marshmallow monster.

So, yeah. I guess that's about it.