Namaste Bitches

You ever ask someone a some really dumb question like: “What would you do if you had a million dollars?” What is it that we hope to uncover by asking this question? Life’s great mystery? If they answer with some altruistic bullshit like “I would donate to charity” or “I would help find a cure for Cancer” does that make them better than you or I? The answer is yes. Yes, it does. I’m totally cool with that. They can be better than me. Have at it! What, you expected to me say that I would feed the homeless and read to blind kids? Maybe I would build the world a home? Fuck that! No! Think again! Maybe back when I wore patchouli, burned incense (among other things) and danced in the rain. I’m much more practical and down to earth these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I want little blind kids to hear a good story and I want Cancer patients to live, but I want to live in comfort too and if I had to choose…well… Collectively, 30 jaws just dropped and I think I just heard my mom cry out “oh fuck, she fucking went there.” I have zero tact. ZERO. It’s probably why you continue to read. I know it’s why I continue to write. I’m as surprised as you by what ends up on these pages. Ok, let’s get back to this then, shall we? If I had a million dollars…

I would for sure buy a HUGE ass house but it would be for me and maybe a few friends, assuming I still have any after the comments I’ve made earlier in this rant. I want my compound to have an Olympic size pool with a slide and a diving board. I want it to have a petting zoo also. Feeding small animals is great, but I also need someone to clean that shit up because I had trouble cleaning up after my own offspring. Small hairy and smelly beasts should be handled by someone who is less likely to get rid of them when they become too much work. I have a habit of tossing things that no longer serve me – ask boyfriends 3-5 and refer to vehicles 1,2,4 and 6. This domicile of mine would also have a roller skating rink below the theater and an art gallery adjacent to my writing den. All rooms would be kept at comfortable 76 degrees because I get cold and I don’t care how you feel. I get cold. I’m the millionaire here. I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t hear you over the sound of me fanning myself with my money.

On the real – I squeeze the very last vestiges of toothpaste from the tube. That stuff is not cheap anymore and I’ve been spending hella money on my teeth as of late. I’m gonna smile and I’m gonna spend hella money ensuring my smile is better, brighter and prettier than yours. I grimace when I have to spend $20 at Target for 5 pairs of underwear that will fall apart in a couple of months because I am too lazy to separate my laundry or change the setting to gentle on the washer. I buy generic everything – why the hell not?

The other day I was offered a compliment on my attire by a random woman and I openly offered “Thanks, it’s from Target” like she needed to know that shit. She was clearly going to get in her SUV and head right over and get her a pair of pants just like mine. She had to know that it was a deal! Sometimes (all the time) I lack a filter. I over-share in situations that make people uncomfortable. There was the time at the store I told the large black man behind me who was purchasing Pine-Sol “I love the smell of Pine-Sol” WTF?! This dude was the size of Marcellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction and I peeked at what he was buying and told him I liked the smell of Pine-Sol???  Are you shifting in your seat yet? Do you feel sorry for me yet? If I win a million dollars I need to buy a small home on a large piece of land far, far away from the rest of civilization (and animals for that matter) and live out the rest of my days alone. It’s the only safe thing for me – and you.

If you know me at all, you know that I still like patchouli, I still dance in the rain, I volunteer regularly, would give you my internal organs if you needed them and would have no clue what to do with a million dollars if I had it – except to donate it and spend the rest of my days reading to children (minus all the current profanity I use)

~ Namaste Bitches!

Chamomile

I've no use holding onto

Anger
Mistrust
And resentment
No purposeful place to put them
Upon the shelf inside my heart
Collecting dust with unfulfilled promises
When candles won't stay lit
To guide us through the dark

A Very Special Christmas for...Catherine???

I was almost born Catherine. My mother very nearly named me Catherine. I’m sure that in the past I have questioned her reasoning for almost pinning me with this clumsy social death sentence, but her reasoning escapes me at the moment. Catherine is the type of name that belongs to the type of girl that wears turtle necks all year long, is allergic to dust and wears socks with sandals or Crocs. If you can’t tell by my others writings by now, I cannot stand wearing socks with sandals or the people who do so. I want to roll up a newspaper and slap them on the nose with it. The only time this is acceptable is if you have hideous feet – by all means, cover them shits up! I would prefer you wore actual shoes, but I don’t make the rules; as much as I would like to. Catherine though, she would wear this all ensemble all year long. Sneezing and wheezing from behind the latest edition of Scientific American or sobbing through pages of Sylvia Plath. Catherine is lonely. She dines on Easy Cheese and Ritz crackers. She’s so lonely she’s in the market for a pet, but hairless pets are hard to come by and for some fucked up reason they are crazy expensive! Allergies.

There’s is nothing terribly unique about my name. If you were to ask someone named Catherine, they’d probably have a list just as crappy as the one I’ve provided of “Christina characteristics.” I’ve grown quite attached to my name in the 37 years that I’ve been tethered to it. That wasn’t always the case though. As a teenager I tried all sorts of variations of my name and a myriad of spellings as well. When that didn’t work and I didn’t feel special enough, I started creating new personas. I created new personas, not new personalities. I am not Sybil and do not have 50 different personalities that I need to keep at bay. I am just being clear: I just created nicknames for myself. I liked to be called “Rayne” for a while. I watched The Crow one too many times. “Can’t rain all the time.” Terminally unique – that was me; or so I would’ve liked to think. Starbucks may think that they have invented the wheel by misspelling your name on your cup therefore making you feel special. Nope. I’ve been doing this shit since 1993.

Growing up we had a Christmas tree in our home every year. Every year we would haul boxes down from the attic one by one until our arms felt like they would fall off. Correction: I would haul down these boxes of ornaments and assorted Christmas crap. I was ecstatic! I lived for this holiday nonsense. My mother would stand in the living room and direct traffic and bark orders about where to put stuff. Dad kind of wandered around looking for a good way to remain busy, stay in her good graces, and still not have to do too much work; he’d be assembling my bike later and wrapping my gifts after all. Ah, Christmas dysfunction – I miss it so much. We’d all pretend to not hate each other for approximately 3 hours on Christmas day spending time with extended family, so everyone needed to get good and buzzed tonight. I just needed to listen to the same Christmas album over and over until my ears bled and hang ornaments meticulously until my eyes could no longer stand the lights, tinsel, and late hours of the evening.

One of my favorite ornaments was this little gold angel with my name and birth date engraved on it. Well…not my name. It had my would-be name on it. WTF?! I always hung the angel next to my Rainbow Brite ornament in the same place on the tree every year because I'm fucking OCD. What's really important though is just how close to becoming a librarian was I? Was I in the birth canal and my mother was like “On second thought, I really want her to have friends growing up so that she’s not pestering me with all her bullshit ideas and dreams all the time. I’ll call her Christina instead.” Maybe she waited until after I was born and they were piercing my ears (which happens immediately exiting the birth canal for Mexican girls) and when I didn’t cry and flipped the doctor off instead, she realized I was tough and not a Catherine at all. I never thought to ask why my mother changed her mind. I’m glad she did. There aren’t any really cool songs about Catherine. There are songs about Tina, Christine (16) etc. and that’s what’s really important – the song value. I’m shallow like that. I would stare at the ornament every year and wonder what Catherine would be doing at that very moment. Childhood Tina imagined that she would be out on some incredible adventure. Adult Tina knows that she would be sitting in front of the humidifier with Vicks Vape-O-Rub watching Agatha Christie or Criminal Minds. This is where I tell you that I’m not truly mean or crazy, just a little unbalanced.

So what’s in a name? It changes for me. Daily. Emotions rise and fall, ebb and flow. All four seasons in one day sometimes. I spent the better part of my childhood pretending to be someone else; praying for a different life even. I wanted so desperately to have courage that I was sure I didn’t have. I wanted to be the heroine in the novel I was reading. Now, I am back to writing. Perhaps I can write myself into my own heroine. I am not a Catherine. Some days, I am not sure that Christina or Tina or any other name fits the mood I am in either, and that’s OK too. I do not limit my experiences today to a name or a set idea behind a name. A friend of mine told me the other day that he was concerned for me because I seemed “dark.” I have always been dark. I dance in and out of the light. What is constant is the laughter.

*I am deeply sorry to all the Catherines' out there; I mean no harm. All in good fun, just poor taste*

For Jillian

When you’re certain that your ass is prolapsing there is very little that you can do but attempt to memorize everything in your immediate vicinity; in case you don’t come out of this one alive.

I grew up on a cul-de-sac in Northern California – San Leandro, to be exact. My family moved there when I was 7. It didn’t take long for me to meet who would become my best friend for the next many years. Jillian – I know you’re reading this right now and…Bitch, I hate you so much! Jillian and I did typical girl stuff: talked about boys, smoked cigarettes, played vindictive games on her little sister and sang karaoke. We had some epic sessions too. Should we ever get the back together, I demand a rematch! I also demand that Jillian drink a bottle of wine to her face first though, that way I have a fighting chance.  Jillian was the kind of girl you loved to hate. She was smart, funny, beautiful, thin and blonde. I was smart, funny, fat and angry. We played off one another’s strengths though, or at least that’s how I choose to remember it. She is still a smart, beautiful, funny - and if pictures are correct, blonde woman. Again, I hate you!

I have always been a competitive person and especially so with her. She can’t be perfect!! It’s not fair! Opportunity struck one afternoon when we were messing around in her garden. We’ll get there…patience. I even envied her parents. Her mother smoked these cigarettes that were long and thin and I remember thinking that they were so glamorous. Later I would dub those same cigarettes “Vagina Slimes.” Kids – they change on a dime. Her mother would be the one to take me out to sushi for the very first time. Thanks a lot Judy, now I have a habit I can’t afford. Champagne taste on a beer budget. Keep this up too much longer and I’ll be turning tricks for Spanish Rolls and sashimi plates. I blame you! LMAO! We’re in her backyard that afternoon and Jillian looks at me says: “I dare you to eat one of those peppers.” *We had already been drinking Pace Picante hot sauce to see who was tougher and got bored so that’s how we wound up in the back yard* Game on, Bitch!

My best and most logical thinking was that I would pop this little round red pepper into my mouth and swallow the little bastard whole. I was a clever girl and knew if you didn’t bite into the seeds; chances were you’d be fine. I opened wide, tossed it in and damnit it, it’s too big. I can’t swallow it! I have to bite into this bitch! It is instantaneously hot in my mouth. Like fire and brimstone. Cartoon shit is happening with my face and Jillian has taken three or four steps back from me like she expects that I will explode. I am crying from my ears at this point but have managed to swallow the pepper. I’ll be damned if I won’t complete this challenge. By this time she sees that I am actually hurting. She gets up from her kitchen floor – where she has fallen; presumably to stop from wetting herself. My eyes are bleeding, my ears are crying, and I’m sweating from glands that should not yet have developed at the age of 12. I have thrown my body into hyper drive. She reaches into her refrigerator *should be noted that she is concerned about replacing the items that she is handing me to ease my pain. I AM FUCKING DYING JILLIAN!!* and starts handing me stuff to drink.

                3 glasses of Iced Tea

                4 glasses of Whole Milk

                2 slices of bread

Nothing is happening

                2 Chocolate Jell-O Pudding cups

                3 Glasses of Water

OF COURSE I REMEMBER THIS SHIT – I AM DYING!!!

We decide to take this party into the bathroom. Jillian (still hate you) is concerned but still getting a kick out of this. I’ve written in some detail about my love/hate relationship with lactose, right? How many glasses of whole milk and Jell-O did I just consume??? Yep, the bathroom is spinning and I’m in full sweats.  I will take alcohol detox any day over this. It is at this point that I am certain that my ass is falling out. I can’t remember if I asked her to leave as I heaved my ass onto her toilet and tried to memorize everything. It was a humbling moment to say the least. Had I died that day the last things I would have seen would have been the following: blue bathroom tile, yellow bath rug, Rave hair spray (aerosol) a curling iron and blow dryer belonging to her mother. I could recreate that bathroom now if you asked me to. I had diarrhea for two weeks straight after that little incident. Yep, still hate you Jillian! I have never been quite right since; can’t honestly say that I was “right” to begin with.

I hadn’t planned on writing about this. I hadn’t planned on thinking about this EVER again, but when your girlfriend sends you a message out of the blue and jars loose a memory - I have no choice. Thanks for bringing this to the surface for me again today, Jillian.

All my love,

Tina

Chinese Water Torture

Dating is some seriously tricky shit. Before going out into the dating arena one must be fully prepared. Make sure that provisions are packed. A month’s supply of canned food should suffice in case you get lost on your way home from one of those shitty clubs that you have no business being at being at because you can’t dance and your usual bedtime is 10 pm. Full body armor for when unwanted advances are hurled at you; and should you make it to the actual dating game, that armor can be used to deflect misinterpretations and passive aggressive responses. Gladiator stuff, people! I actually picture that there is a training course available. Men and women who will attempt to pick fights with you by saying hatful shit while you run an obstacle course; laundry, dishes, bed making etc. Being in a relationship is just two people trying to get by without killing one another and still win at the game of love, right?  That’s what I remember. The truth is - I couldn’t tell you what dating is like. I have to rely on information from credible sources like my friends, Facebook, those tabloid magazines in the check-out counter at the grocery stores and my neighbors upstairs. I hear everything Diane!

Oh Tina, it can’t be that bad… Yes. Yes, it can. I own footsie pajamas with Hello Kitty on them. I am 37 damn years old. I have a usual bedtime of 9:15 pm on weeknights and 9:30 -10pm on the weekends. Living dangerously now!! I have all kinds of idiosyncratic behavior that to me is completely within the realm of sane, but I’ve been told more than once by more than a couple of men that I do things a little “differently.” I won’t get into all of those now, because God forbid I should ever be on someone’s swipe right or left list – I don’t need them remembering “oh yeah, she does (fill in the blank)” Ok, I brush my teeth in the shower. I also prefer to use men’s razors to shave my legs. I bite my lower lip when deep in thought and if you draw attention to it, I will hate you forever and I cry watching The Land Before Time – every time. Those are kids play. The full list is alarming and requires a Xanax for the unprepared reader.

So what happens when people finally meet and they start dating? Babies are born. I think that some other stuff happens first, but remember I wear footsie pajamas so I may not be the person you want to ask. They hang out I guess, and try to tolerate one another until it becomes natural - until it stops being weird and uncomfortable? I’m a walking contradiction as it is, so dating is no different. I can never figure out if I like the door being held open for me, or if I think you think I’m incapable of handling such a task. When you stand up at the table when I return from the restroom I have no idea what to do with that shit. Are we supposed to bow formally to one another? Am I supposed to curtsey? Do we chest bump? WTF?! It’s all so damn confusing. Can’t you just ignore me?

Let’s go ahead and jump forward in this imaginary relationship. Let’s make believe we’ve been together for a couple of years now and we’re comfortable with one another’s habits and routines. So in others words – we’re boring and bored.

ME: What did you do today?

YOU: Not much

ME: Clearly. Did you go to the store like I asked you to?

YOU: No, I didn’t get a chance to. Sorry. I got busy.

ME: I thought you said that not much happened today.

YOU: Well, not much did, but it was busy.

ME: Ok, sorry, I must have misunderstood what “busy” and “not much” actually meant. It’s cool. My bad.

YOU: What did you do today?

ME: Not much.

Where did I put that passive aggressive body armor? My imaginary partner could really use it right now. I was driving around today when it hit me that being in a relationship is a little like Chinese Water Torture. Day in and day out these little occurrences take place. Drip, drip, drip: Slowly driving you insane. I will read too much into something he said, he will read too little into something I’ve said, or we will completely miss one another. He will leave socks in the corner of the room or beard hair in the sink and I will leave the toothbrush in the shower again. I will clean the cat box when I am running late for work even though it is his fucking turn to do that shit! Drip, drip, drip: you’ll chew your own arm off to get free. Coyote Ugly yourself free or live with battle armor forever – but hey, I’m not saying relationships suck. Maybe you just got me on a bad year. 

5 am is too damn early!

Every morning my alarm goes off at 5 am. Most days I hit the snooze button in the desperate hope that I can go back to bed and stay asleep forever. Never wake up, never wait in line at the corporate coffee spot for overpriced coffee and in a cup that they’ll spell my name incorrectly on – I’m not special and it’s not: Krystyna. Never spend an overly exorbitant amount of time in traffic because some douche is multitasking by playing candy crush or swiping left or right or some nitwit is putting on her eyeliner. Never take that first phone call at work and immediately want to throat punch someone. This is of course assuming that my bastard cat hasn’t already done me the favor of crawling across my chest and head to wake me ever so gently. Usually there are claws involved. It takes everything in my power to not toss his ass across the room and into the wall. I think this is considered animal abuse. I already verbally abuse humans daily and derive great joy from it, this seems excessive and unnecessary. Most days, as I’ve said, I try desperately to go back to bed when the alarm goes off; but ultimately guilt gets the best of me and I haul my ass out of bed.

At 5:30 I am on the road and running. I do this to stay in good physical health, to afford myself the ability to occasionally splurge (daily) on moderately sugary (hella sugary shit) snacks, and to feel completely superior to you. I go on these runs in the morning for 3 reasons. 1) It’s brisk and the air isn’t so polluted that it’s hard to breathe 2) The streets are relatively empty – I can’t see you, you can’t see me 3) It’s just light enough for me to see the pavement ensuring that I don’t take a nasty spill on this run. There’s only one thing worse than eating shit on concrete: being seen doing it. The first 1.5 miles are breezy. By mile 2.5 I am a hot, sweaty and wheezing mess. Fuck that cat! Fuck those gummy worms I ate last night! Metabolism is bullshit! I’m just going to get fat, collect cats and drive myself off a cliff at 70 wearing a hot pink jumpsuit bumping some Gap Band on the radio. Mile three is complete and I hate everyone and everything. I’m home, showered and off to work. I’m better than you and singing again. Right as rain again and it’s time for Tiffany at Starbucks to screw up my name again! Perfect.

I walk through the doors to my office at appx 8:30am with my theme song playing in my head “You’re simply the best…better than all the rest” *Not really, I hate myself - this is just positive affirmations. I’ll also spend the next three minutes in the bathroom mirror telling myself “you’re good enough, smart enough and gosh darn it, people like you”* The damage is deep with this one. I’m pretty fucked up. I fully believe I will end up being found dead surrounded by cats, a large collection of vinyl records and books. Lots of books. It’s going to suck though because cats aren’t like dogs, they won’t warn the neighbors that there is danger. They aren’t Lassie; they’ll eventually just eat me. Welcome to the where funny and morbid intersect.

I spend the next 6 to 8 hours doing I what consider to be very delicate balancing act. Work, smile, laugh, and restrain myself. Do some more work, look busy, ok now I’m doing your work too, and restrain myself from punching you. Smile, work, try not to roll my eyes and do your work again. Stretch my legs, contemplate choking you and then get spiritual. Quitting time, wait … who the hell touched my stapler?! You dickheads know how I hate it when you re-arrange the stuff on my desk!! Here we go again, I have to start this whole process all over again or I can’t go home!! What? No! I AM NOT OCD!!! I get up at 5 am and run 3 miles a day and do all your work too, and I am just fucking tired!! Asshat! I hate this place and you too. See you tomorrow. I love my job and I truly live a very blessed life. Tiffany – you make a great cup of coffee, but I swear to god – get my name right or I’ll cut you. Thanks, honey. See ya tomorrow.

Mystery Solved

“Your mystery solves me,” he’d said to her.

Tall fucking order, she thought to herself. 

Barely able to manage her own life; incapable of coping with the minutia of its ins and outs herself, now she’s to solve its mystery for someone else?

She raised from the bed, strode across the room nude and wet; slowly dressed – putting her stockings in her purse. She grabbed a smoke from the crushed pack on the nightstand, flashed him a quick glance over her shoulder and slipped out the door – leaving him.

Hard and confused.

Mystery solved. 

I wouldn't read it if I were you

Penises are stupid. I have just ostracized half of my readers – give or take. If you have an external sex organ and are still reading this…. congratulations on your huge manhood! No, seriously, it takes balls to receive such a swift kick to the taint and roll with it. I’m pretty sensitive about stuff so when you point out that one of my eyes is larger than the other, I am immediately self-conscious for the next month and try never to make eye contact with you. If you say anything about my reproductive organs it is a fair assumption that we are not having sex ever again. Ever. You might as well pack your shit and move out. Don’t even think about taking that Soda Stream machine with you when you leave either. I have already been through a custody battle or two for that little baby. I will fight again and live to see another carbonated beverage – believe that.   

Can’t say for certain why this train of thought got rolling. I started out thinking about defining moments that shaped our adolescence; mortifying moments to be precise. Like the Ogilvy home perm my Grandmother gave me for 7^th grade graduation – Sasquatch. I looked like Sasquatch. Someone was going to shoot me and tag me then tie me to the roof of their car, of this I was certain. I was a foot taller than the other girls, had the facial hair that so many of us Hispanic girls are blessed with, was overweight and now I also had a massive afro. Thanks Grandma! A few years before this I would be the girl who walked all the way home from school (appx 1 mi.) with the back of my dress tucked into my tights. I wondered why fools were laughing. Kids can be so fucking mean. I would have laughed at my chubby ass too. I was an asshole. I’m not fooling anyone, I still am. I have no qualms sharing all of this stuff with you guys now, I guess it’s my way of giving back or making good on all the horrible crap I did…still do…and still will do. Cosmic balance or chakra alignment or whatever those coexist bumper sticker people talk about. A few more defining moments then we’ll circle back to genitals, sound good?

I guess I was 17 when I went to mixed punk concert at Slim’s in San Francisco. We had been drinking heavily before this concert and I had not thought out my wardrobe accordingly. That evening I chose to wear striped tights, corduroys that I had fashioned into shorts and Dr. Martens boots. Picture this, I’ll give you some time… *jeopardy theme song* When I say we had been drinking heavily, I mean that between the four of us that I can recall being present, we drank at least 3 six packs of beer and each had 2 Fosters cans (Australian for beer) before arriving! I had to pee before we even got out of the car. I’ll give you the abbreviated version: I had to work myself out of my tights while still managing to not pee on them or myself (I’m already drunk) in someone’s driveway next to their very nice car. I kept yelling at my friends to shut the hell up because we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Very nice! The girl with her pants down and screaming about being quiet is definitely the one that should be calling the shots.

I’m adult now and I’m caught stealing from a grocery store in Florida. I fucking hate Florida but doesn’t give me a pass for shoplifting. Most humiliating experience since something I probably did last week. Deep in my alcoholism I’m cruising the local grocery store – don’t ask which one because I hate Florida and was hammered at the time. My guess is that I thought I was above paying for it. Maybe I was low on those end of month unemployment funds. I’ll gloss over a lot of what happened, but they found a bunch of crap in my purse. I remember there being cheese in there, Kool-Aid, bottled and boxed wine; because I guess I am practical. You never know when those surprise picnics are gonna happen. Sitting in that broom closet I remember thinking: If I write them a check, maybe they’ll let me leave. I knew it was a rubber check but they wouldn’t and I just wanted that wine. They can keep their shitty cheese and to hell with your Kool-Aid too! Defining. Moment.

So, back to genitals….

Sex Ed class: Anyone remember the giant poster on the wall with that floppy penis that we all laughed at and had a hard time paying attention to and being serious about? Yes, I just typed “penis” and “hard” in the same sentence and find it just as humorous as you do. I’m 37 going on 13. Anyway, if I had been more attentive in that class – if I had listened to Mr. Hart, I might have come (yup, just said come while talking about sex too…. just a different kind…dirty bastards) to the conclusion that sex and men in general were just the root of all evil that would befall me in my life. Florida would never have happened (followed some asshat out there,) my Soda Stream would have always been safe with me, I would have saved myself at least four broken hearts and three worn out copies of The Bodyguard Soundtrack on cassette. But then again, I wouldn’t have my son. So I guess there is still cosmic balance and a reason to coexist. 

Killing time

So I'm that girl again, the chick at the coffee shop - the one that's too cool to go inside but would rather sit outside with her headphones on and sweat in all kinds of uncomfortable places. My armpits are swampy, behind my knees little pools are collecting and my bra is a kiddie pool. It's cool though, there's plenty of room in there. I have no breasts to speak of; every morning I lament the utter lack of womanly curves and curse the lack of water balloons in my apartment to stuff my bra with. Still, this beats the hell out of going home to an apartment that has been closed all day, is dank as fuck and is thick and heavy with pet odor hanging in the air. 2 cats and 2 guinea pigs, you do the math. It's not gross...if you live there. It's kinda like baby shit; not ideal but it's not like you can or will return the little furry beasts any more than you would hand your baby back to the Dr. and say some shit like "yeah, it's just not my thing." My plan? Wait till it cools down of course. I'm far too frugal to want to go home and run the AC and the odds that I'll see someone I know inside this coffee establishment are astronomically higher than I want to take my chances with currently. Swamp bra, awkward mannerisms and a long day behind a keyboard ensure that any exchanges I have will leave me depressed and you with the full knowledge that we should never speak again. I need a translator. There's the stuff that goes on in my head, the stuff I want to say, the stuff I end up saying and stuff that's better left unsaid; hence the need for a translator. I'll be interviewing for this position some time in the near future. Details to follow...

I came, I saw, I made it awkward. In the 10 minutes I've been sitting here three small groups of people have vacated. Maybe they saw me stick my hands in my pits and smell my fingers to check for personal funk? Superstar! I don't care. Personal hygiene is important. If I stink, believe I am removing myself from wherever I am to tend to business. Nothing is more unattractive than a stinky lady; or man for that matter. You can say what you want about it being "manly" and sexy and maybe there are times when you'd be right, but out in public - like a coffee shop - is not one of those times. I recently went to the gym at my apartment complex and upon entering had to do an immediate about face when I walked into a wall of body odor. Some guy in there was so odiferous my eyes began to bleed and my throat closed up. Maybe I'm slightly exaggerating - only a little bit though. It was harsh. I'm pretty sure my disdain was audible. I have zero control over that kind of shit. Some day I really am going to get my ass handed to me in the worst way. Sidebar: I will also be interviewing for bodyguard positions (plural) some time soon. Details to follow. You will be paid in Goldfish crackers and backhanded compliments, serious inquires only. 

Time = killed 

Childhood birthdays aren't for the faint of heart

It was 1984 and my 5-year-old self was unaware that I would need to pack heat into my Strawberry Shortcake purse to attend my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe it was a Hello Kitty purse; “Girl Power!” with Rainbow Brite and She-Ra: Princess of Power, didn’t take shape until 1987. Those purses leave very little room for much other than your fake lipstick and fake tattoos from the Cracker-Jack boxes. Even then I was a little bad-ass. I was a tomboy. Usually I was found tromping in the mud, playing with trucks and cutting the hair off all my Barbie’s. They all looked like Sinead O’Connor when I was done with them. There really is no accounting for why I did the stuff I did. Everyone thought I was going to be a lesbian; which would have been fine too. I probably would have turned out much cooler playing for that team. (Lesbians everywhere hate me right now) I was so innocent that night though: ruffled socks, black patent leather shoes, frilly dress that I twirled in every chance I got. Literally (I hate when people misuse this word) every chance I got. I still take to wearing dresses – I think it off-sets my sailor mouth, and if I run across a temporary tattoo I will still sport that thing too, even if I have to arm wrestle my son for it. He’s getting pretty tough and I hate losing though, so my odds are better with rock, paper, scissors.

I don’t know whose genius idea it was to take us to Chuck E. Cheese. If you really break it down, the food is terrible, the games are sub-par, you spend about the same there for an hour of games and food as you do at Whole Foods for a single roll of toilet paper, a container of organic quinoa and a Bartlett pear. Guess that says more about Whole Foods than it does Chuck E. Cheese. To hell with them both! Chuck E. Cheese offers Whack-A-Mole and The King, which for those of you who can’t remember is a giant animatronic that gyrates and sings Elvis hits.  Great, so now you’ve given me nightmare material to work with and cardboard pizza to fuel this childhood equivalent of a Stephen King novel. Thanks for that! Let’s not forget the life size rat that walks around shaking hands with the customers and wishing the birthday girl a very happy birthday. I still don’t like rats and the only time I visited New York I made sure it was day time and we went to The Museum of Natural History. Still, this wasn’t my choice. Rumor has it, New York has rats. I have a special kind of hate for these guys. My birthday party when I was 12 was so much more kick ass. Straw-Hat Pizza, countless games of Rampage, Debbie Gibson’s Electric Youth on the Jukebox (over and over and over) and no guns or knives being pulled on unsuspecting victims. Yep, you read that correctly.

I’ve spoken before of my Grandfather - he was a strong man who cared and provided for all of us, but he made more than his fair share of enemies along the way. There were some happenings where my Grandfather had no choice but to defend himself and in doing so killed two men; it was sort of Mafia style. The whole thing went to trial and he was acquitted. We’re Mexican though and so were these guys’ children. REPARATIONS!! They didn’t give a shit about what the courts decided. They had been following our family around for a while and apparently chosen my birthday to swing on by and say “howdy neighbor” only not so friendly. Guess they never watched Mr. Rogers. Manners would have been nice; I would have shared some pizza if only they would have asked instead of staring at us from the other side of the restaurant. My Grandpa is the only who noticed this, I think he was ready for what was about to go down….

We all got up and left the restaurant, some of us walking a little straighter line than others. Beer was cheaper then and the only thing on the menu at Chuck E. Cheese that couldn’t be fucked up.  Exiting the establishment, we were approached by the two men within seconds – they followed us out. I say men because to me, anything older than 15 was ancient; they were probably 22. Guns drawn they began threatening us. My mother managed to tuck me behind her and by this time I’m certain my Grandmother is crying and praying in Spanish. She probably already has out her rosary beads.

I’d like to introduce our hero in this story; an unlikely savior, but they come in all shapes and sizes. This one is 5’ 11” and 150 lbs. with a white man’s afro. He’s my Dad!! The least likely (in my opinion) to have the cojones to do anything in this situation has walked directly into the line of fire sputtering some nonsense about “women and children” to two mafia brats brandishing guns. By all accounts Dennis is my Dad. He is not my biological father, but he is the man who taught me to throw a ball, throw a punch, change a tire, change my life and has been there to see me do all of those things. He has stayed around long after he and my mother divorced. Someone give some street cred to the skinny white man with the afro! Love you forever and ever, Dad!! I don’t totally remember what happened next, all I see is stars because my Dad just threw on a cape and beat up the bad guys with words and dignity!! 

It was my birthday. I watched Romper Room that morning. Miss Nancy – you did NOT see me in your stupid mirror. Perhaps if you had, you would also have seen the tragedy that would befall that night and we could have avoided all of this nonsense. You still show up on my resentment lists. I just thought you should know this.