Thursday, March 29, 2007
I usually attend two or three a year... last year I went overboard by attending 5.
The show of affection burned me the hell out... and I didn't have any desire to attend another wedding for the next two years.
Well... being that I'm Mexican, every Spring becomes Wedding Season, and my goal (of not attending any) is always broken. People rush to the altar like they're getting paid or some shit in my family. If you're female, single, and past 27 years of age, you're a failure (haha... just wait for me, family... I'm gonna be quite the fuck up in your standards. Bachelorette 4 lyyyyfe!). So lately, it's really been sucking balls to go to these things. The couples getting married are my age, if not younger... and I end up sitting at the lonely-but-don't-you-fucking-get-near-me table, wanting to stab myself with the Marriott-provided silverware as I watch couples dance and make-out to shit like Shania Twain's "You're Still The One" (in English and Spanish).
What's that, waitress? Do I want red or white wine? How about you just break that fucking bottle over my head and put me out of my misery? Preferably the red, so it can conceal my running blood a little more successfully.
However, rather than going to a fresh new couple's wedding this Saturday, it's a 25 year wedding anniversary.
I wasn't going to go at first, mainly because the invitation to the party irritated me. It mentioned how you had to wear black or white. I detest "theme" parties. It's cool if you mention that it has to be a suit and tie affair, I can handle that... but when you tell me what colors to wear, you're pushing your luck.
All I really own are black dresses... but I'm still pissed they had to specify "only black and white." You gotta be kidding me. I usually rock black and red. Fuck you, old people. Fuck you (Lent is ALMOST over! Yesss! I'm that much closer to being my regular, super-duper vulgar self again!).
Anyway, I decided to go for at least 2 hours because a friend I haven't seen in over a year is going to be there. I've flaked on her before, so I might as well show up this time.
Since I decided to go, I also decided to buy myself another black dress today. I have a favorite one that looks like this quick doodle:The problem is I've worn that thing to maybe 2 weddings, 2 Quinceañeras, a funeral, AND I took family pictures in it ("Love" does not nearly describe my feelings for that dress)... all in 2006.
The dress is comfortable and flattering. Lots of lace and tulle... and the length's a little past the knee. I do have a problem with the abundance of cleavage it reveals, but shit, something has to be sacrificed so that the damn thing doesn't look like a burlap sac.
I've encountered a couple of uncomfortable scenarios thanks to wearing that dress.
Prime example: I was a little angry prior to the reception of this one wedding in San Diego back in May. Older Brother had gotten us lost in the ghetto because he was following fucking natives because they supposedly knew where it was going to be. We stepped out to ask for assistance at a hotel, and as I stood outside, pacing around, I stumbled into one of the natives (I call him "Walrus" because he looks just like one... a walrus during mating season to be exact. He puffs his already-robust chest out as he walks, he waddles, he has facial hair that look like husks). He's around five foot six, and I was around six feet because of my heels. So... once I turned, Walrus was directly in front of me, maybe eight inches away from my body, with his eyes and nose directly between my chest. I took as big a leap back as possible, made eye contact, and saw the biggest, most disgusting grin/smirk in the universe coming from the old ass man.
He then said:
"My, AnoMALIE... so sure have... grown."
I claim to be ghetto and down to sock fuckers if they ever insinuate anything wrong with me... but at that very moment... I feared for my life. I was alone, with this five foot six pervert-walrus man... in the San Diego ghetto while my family was inside a hotel asking for directions.
I now wear that bitch with a sweater covering me.
So anyway, as a preventive measure from encountering any further sick events I decided to go shopping for a new dress today (there are going to be TONS of middle aged men at this thing... and lots of them are divorced/widowed and those bitches flock to me like... zombies to brains [I was going to say pigs to slop. What a fucked up analogy]
Hey, sweetie, why so lonely?
Because I bite people, you fuck. Now get away from me!).
Mom tagged along to the stores... and didn't see my selection until we got home.
It looks like this (minus the handkerchief covering her eyes in a very S&M fashion) :I liked it because it wasn't skanky (well, it shows a lot of leg... but hey, no old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage!), and it's all black with some white accents.
However, this was Mom's reaction:
(I walk out... proud of myself, like an idiot)
Mom: What the hell is that?!
Me: A dress!
Mom: You look like a Chinese masseuse!
(I'm quiet and look at my hair in the mirror... Holy shit... she's right)
Mom: And what happened to your boobs?
Me: They're hidden, like I like 'em.
Mom: Te me pones ese vestido de la foto! (You wear that dress from the family picture!) A enseñar lo que te dio tu madre! (Show what your momma gave ya!)
What my momma gave me? I guess that's what happens when you've been an A cup all your life and you give birth to a kid who grows to have DD's. I wish we could just trade so she could show off what her momma gave her... I'm sure the old-dirty-walrus-men would appreciate it.
I still might end up wearing the old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage dress though... I don't want people to think I'm giving away happy endings while at this thing.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
I was asked a couple of questions, and I can't help but think I was a little too lenient on the teacher and harsh on the girl. Oh well, a hoe's a hoe (if the 42 year old teacher looked like Ed Norton... you can't blame the girl, anyone would have banged him).
Talking about hoes!
Over the weekend I finally gave a name to my car. I drove Best Friend Chase down the parking garage and the conversation sparked up.
B.F.C.: Why don't you like your car? It's pretty and shiny!
Me: Because it's a whore.
B.F.C.: It's silvery-tastic!
Me: Yeah... but that's exactly the thing... I see way too many silver 4Runners driving around.
Then I remembered something I had done over the weekend.
Me: That's why on Sunday, my car's name dawned on me.
B.F.C.: What you call it?
B.F.C. was quiet... I'm sure thinking: WTF? What's so special about that? I thought you liked Ariel.
Me: Mom thought I named it after the Disney character, but I named it after a stripper/whore. There are tons of Bambi's out there dancing for money and giving head for crack.
B.F.C.: Oh... (and I'm sure she was thinking: That's sad, AnoMALIE, real sad)
Me: But I guess that's good if a kid ever hears me mention my car's name. They'll think I'm a Disney fanatic, and not someone who's pissed over how my car's the household slut. Everyone drives the damn hoe.
B.F.C.: So... what'd your sister name her Jetta?
Me: I dunno... probably something like "SeXXXy."
And that my friends, is very true. My car gets ridden more often than any of those hoes you see on the Maury Povich show. It sure as hell gets more action than any of the other 3 cars in the house. Gotta go grocery shopping? Oh, let's hop into AnoMALIE's car. Gotta go to church for the third time this week? Oh, let's get in AnoMALIE's car. Gotta drive down to Lake Mead? Well, hello! What else is AnoMALIE's car there for?
Fuck that, Bambi's not my car... she's just there. I have no car. I disown that sleazy vehicle.
I take it all back! She's never been bad to me... which now she probably will be thanks to me being an ingrate. I'm sorry, Bambi! Take me back!
While we're on an ugly subject, let me show you one of the ugliest tattoos my eyes have ever seen: Now, I truly hope she never finds out about this Blog... I might get beat down (the owner of the tat is Pregnant Cousin's Little Sister, aka PCLS from the Cheddar Fries story). But come on now! That's just fucking ugly. I'm not a tattoo hater, in fact, I like them a lot. I don't have any, but who's to say I'll never get one. Sure, my mom would freak the hell out: Who the hell's gonna want to marry you now?! You've just disfigured yourself, AnoMALIE!
But, I'll live. I could always marry a circus freak and tour the world with him. AnoMALIE and her one tattoo: Married to the Lizard Man that eats bugs for a living. Yeah Mom, that'll happen because of a single tattoo.
However, once a tattoo's there, it's there to stay. If I'm going to upset Mom so bad, I might as well make the permanent mark worth my while. Make it attractive... possibly have some sort of meaning (I've thought about having an integral drawn on my ankle... or something math-related cause I'm a fan. I also joke with B.F.C. about having the structures of purines and pyramidines drawn on my shoulder blades; I can never keep them straight in my head and it's cost me a ton of easy points in my college years. I need a permanent mark of those fuckers and my torturous years as a bio student).
But THAT thing? A lopsided heart... with a letter A that has a tail end reminiscent of a sperm? P-L-E-A-S-E.
The most I'd ever be able to pass that tattoo off as is an interpretative take on my conception: The heart is my mom's unfertilized egg, full of love for her unborn child, then comes the sperm found on the tail end of the letter A. The A could be significant of all the hoops and whatnot the sperm undergoes while in search of the egg. Also, A would be my father, because he chose my name, which has A as its first letter (I'm taking PCLS's point of view here, her name starts with an A).
Badddamn! There you go... and THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I bullshitted my way to an A in all English classes... and Philosophy 102.
Thank you, thank you very much.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
That's the only explanation I have to all this poking business, because the frequency with which I'm poked by friends, family, and strangers alike surprises me... damn near scares me.
Not one semester passes without having someone invade my personal bubble.
Last semester was memorable because my bubble was violated big time, not once, but twice.
First, we had this unbelievably stupid bitch in my aquatic class that "accidentally" shoved her foot in my crack. Not above it, or in the more comfortable ass cheek, no, it was the crack. The uncomfortable seating arrangement in the chemistry building is to thank. They thought it was a bright idea to place tables on stair-like blocks of cement... so everyone is in everybody else's business in the classrooms in that building.
I guess this girl liked placing her foot on something... and I guess she extended too far (she must have really been gunning for one of my body parts or something) and Hello, Sunshine!
She took an unusually long time to remove her foot... I'm hoping she was just slow witted and needed extra time to realize that she was nearly giving me a colon exam... and not that she was enjoying the experience and hoping for me to give her my personal information so we could elope in Vermont (I don't intentionally try to attract the same sex, seriously).
The second time, instead of it being a fellow classmate, it was one of my relative's friends that missed my "do not trespass" imaginary sign.
We were all having a nice girl's night out. Having fun... making fun of ourselves, the usual good stuff. Then my cousin mentioned how she had gotten implants over the summer. She let everyone touch, mainly because someone asked her if they felt weird. Then 3 of the 5 girls present agreed "Oh yes, I'm totally getting them done. I just had to meet someone who had done it." (yeah, like that's SO hard, here in Vegas)
All the girls were flocking to my cousin's chest, and next thing you know, one of the (more intoxicated) chicks turned around towards me (because I wasn't about to go touch my cousin's tits), poked one of my chicas, and asked:
"Are those real?"
WTF, fool, honestly?
I'm not talking gentle poke... I'm talking I-gotta-penetrate-solidified-silicon poke. I might have to start getting mammograms at a much earlier age now, thanks to that poke.
I'm pretty sure I turned red (out of a blend of rage and embarrassment), I pushed the girl away (way to kill the easy going mood, I know), and answered:
"I would have never gotten implants this big."
Which, is totally true... but I guess something good came out of all that, since that weirdo is now my friend (and she pokes me whenever the mood strikes her... and I'm growing accustomed to having my personal space invaded).
That leads me to today.
I finished taking an exam a little early, so I stood outside waiting for Best Friend to come out.
I usually sit quietly and stare at the ground until the person I'm waiting for taps me so we can leave.
Well, as I stood in a corner, staring at the ground and thinking about music videos (exciting life, I know), I noticed the shadow of a body approaching me. Since I hate making eye-contact with people, I kept staring to the floor.
I guess they're waiting for someone to come out as well.
I zoned out (and I zone out pretty bad) only to be alarmed by a finger pressed on my eye.
Yes, my eye was poked by a person standing right next to me.
"Are those real?!"
My cornea, you fucking idiot?
She didn't poke me too hard, but it did frighten me.
It was a complete stranger, with her buddy, and she proceeded to ask me about mascara.
They complimented me (oh... nice. How about an ice pack for my face?) and went on their merry way.
My eyelashes aren't that out of the ordinary (they do manage to freak me out from time to time when looking under a microscope-- the "eyelash monster" according to Best Friend. I'm sure we're not the only ones who've experienced it), they remind me of spider legs to tell you the truth (tarantulas, to be exact). I guess there are people out there tempted to poke to make sure I don't have some sort of arthropod stuck to my eyelids(go ahead, get mascara all over your finger... and the guilt of knowing I may go blind thanks to your dirty ass finger).
How the hell is poking a stranger's face OK? What if I were wearing false eyelashes, and her poke made one of the lashes fall off? I'd be humiliated! I think she may have been mean-spirited, or just hardcore stupid.
I'm making myself another shirt, this one will read:
No, you can't poke me... anywhere!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
On Friday, my little sister let me know that on Saturday we were going to go shopping. I agreed, because I don't spend much time with her ever since she started working. I would have gone pet-rock shopping, tagging, whatever, as long as it was time spent with the little monster.
Shopping? How bad could it be?
It was wretched!!
Nah, it wasn't. It was OK. I didn't like how she drove though. She's one of those jerks that weave in and out of traffic thinking they're going to get somewhere faster that way.
OK, Paul Walker, take it easy. You're gonna give me fucking diabetes here! (I still don't know how much truth there is to that claim... of getting diabetes after a huge scare, but I say it anyway))
I damn the day my dad agreed to buying her a Jetta! That thing fits anywhere and makes my little sister think she's God... but it does fit in small parking spaces (but damn construction workers always look into the vehicle and stare. They do that to anything that has a chick in it, really) so I can't hate to its full potential.
Anyway, shopping with my little sister's strange. We're polar opposites. We always get the "No way, she's your sister?" reaction from friends (I guess my friends do that to her because she's your... slightly Bimbo-ish chick, while her friends do it to me cause I'm a nerd/jerk that rolls her eyes each time one of them criticizes another girl for not wearing designer shit). She's white, I'm tan. She has gibungous (giant but not humongous) eyes, I have... big-ish eyes. She has Rimmel-worthy lashes, I have... probably Maybelline lashes.
She got the good genes, I got the Why-the-fuck-do-these-even-exist? genes (ok, I may be exaggerating, but the fact that I got short changed during genetic recombination is fucking evident).
So... on with my story, we like different stores. She dragged me into her Offspring-of-douche-bags stores (fuck, did I just call my parents douche bags?), and I took her to the I'm-not-spending-sixty-fucking-dollars-on-pants! store.
The funny thing was, whenever one of us was going to make a purchase, the other would egg her on to do it.
So what if it's a hundred dollars? You got money, right? Plus, it's sooooo cute!
I found myself checking out some of the dresses at the Offspring-of-douche-bags stores... even a bag or two.
What the hell, dude? Is it the music in the background hypnotizing me to buy this? I don't need another wallet!
Then as I'd stand in line and listen to the stupid 12 year old girls behind me with Mommy and Daddy's credit card talking. The superficial "I know, right?" chatter would wake me from my trance, making me return the items in my hands almost immediately (I know, right?).
The shopping experience was nice. I guess. I talked to my sister and that's all that mattered (I made her buy 6 pairs of jeans during one of our "You got money, right?" episodes at American Eagle. She only convinced me to buy 4 shirts at one store. She obviously doesn't have the same power I have. Ha-ha).
I came home, exhausted (it's hard rejecting so much clothes in three hours). I then remembered I had promised some cousins I'd go to this one baby shower they were throwing their middle sister. I had her present riding in the back of my car all last week, I might as well show up for the party to drop it off.
Of course, I had to go teach catechism first... man.
I had (still have) a cold. My nose was stuffy, my throat hurt, and my head felt like it was in the clouds (still does. Although alluding to having my head stuffed in a jar fits a little better).
I just sat in class and let Mom take over. I looked over some bio notes and fell asleep for a good half hour, only to wake up to one of the kids talking about how much he hates his mom because he has a curfew (sweet kid).
We finally went to the shower at 7pm, thinking we'd be the last to show up.
I hate social events, and especially being late, so I was pretty pissed about the whole thing.
Babies+ pregnant ladies+ headache/stuffy nose/stuffy head/deafness= Absent-minded AnoMALIE.
I said hi to maybe 15 people. Each time excusing myself because I was sick.
Don't get those babies near me... I have a cold!
Oh, AnoMALIE, you sweet, generous girl! Always thinking about others!
Yeah... that's it. And since I love babies and all... riiiight.
Anyway, I blame the baby shower on my overall exhaustion. I participated in so many games (and lost all of them) that I made up for lost time (all those years where I'd wanted to play, but was too shy to volunteer). I almost won one, where you have to guess the size of the Mommy's belly, but I missed by two inches. Since I got so close, I kept the ribbon I had cut, and wrapped it around my wrist, like a suicidal teen who has survived the slitting of her own wrist (kind of inappropriate for a baby shower, but I'm AnoMALIE, when the hell am I ever appropriate?).
I also kind of played with some little kids, despite my original claim of being sick.
One of the kids had a thing for licking people "doggy style," according to his mom.
Dude, "doggy-style?" And I'm the inappropriate one here?
That was probably the most entertaining thing to watch. He'd go up to his relatives (at least they weren't strangers, right?) and just lick whatever body part was closest to him. He'd lick up and down with as much of his tongue making contact as possible.
"Ew! What the hell, Baby Hercules?!"
The faces these people made cracked me up the most.
The other little kid I talked to was Baby Hercules' older sister. The little five year old came up to me and smiled. Then asked where I worked.
Grrrreat! Now even kids ask me this shit?
"I don't work..." I said.
She looked at me confused.
"I go to school... like you."
Oh man... does she think I go to elementary school?
"Umm... it's UNLV. Where your Mom used to go."
She looked at me and smiled... totally confused. Duh. Only I tell the truth to kids as if they were 20.
"Never heard of it."
Yep. She thinks I'm an idiot.
She then interrupted my thinking.
"I play the violin!"
"Yeah! I gave up Ballet because it was boring. No more ballet. Now I play the violin and it's this tiny little thing. Mommy has one too, but it's big and old and ugly."
Big, and old, and ugly, huh? Interesting.
That little girl was hilarious. She's like a tiny adult. At one point, she went up to my Pregnant Cousin (the one we were throwing the shower for) and asked if she could touch her tummy. The entire time she touched the tummy, the little girl looked pensive. After about three minutes, she very seriously asked:
"Do you know who the daddy is?"
The little girl genuinely looked concerned.
Pregnant Cousin got surprised, the little girl's mom flustered, and the rest of us laughed.
That kid watches too much Maury.
I wasn't so upset over attending yet another Baby Shower, mainly because my female cousins present are near my age, and the pregnant ladies were all 24+ years old. I had the chance to hang out with non-pregnant chicks my age for a change at this type of party.
Pregnant-Cousin's Little Sister (PCLS), who's 20, had asked me to buy her some Andy Capp's Cheddar Fries. She lives in San Ysidro, couple miles south of San Diego, and apparently, they don't sell Andy Capp's down there. She lived in Vegas for about 6 years, and developed a serious addiction (like all us other John S. Park elementary student) to the fries.
I did bring her a bag, but when I gave it to her, she committed the big mistake of placing them within her little cousin's reach. The little boy found them, opened them, and of course, ate them within minutes.
When PCLS found out, she was so upset, she cried when she had to re-tell The Case of the Stolen Cheddar Fries to Pregnant Cousin (and here I thought Pregnant Cousin was the hormonal one in the building).
I felt bad for PCLS, so, as a way to fix her heartbreak/disappointment/craving, I proposed a trip to the nearest 7-11.
Since I wasn't thinking straight, my Hard-Kicking-Cousin (the one in the picture a couple of entries prior, the one being held by my grandma) brought this to all of our attention:
"Dude... it's 10:30 at night. Where are we?"
I sat still.
Dude, you're telling me you're scared of going out at 10:30pm?
"We're in fucking Northtown! Do you really want to go to a 7-11 around here?!"
"Ah... so we should go a little south, huh?" I asked.
"But I don't wanna go far," said PCLS.
"But I don't wanna get shanked," said HKC.
"What if we go to a Wall-Mart?" asked Crazy-Driving-Cousin.
"And get sexually-harassed by the Chuntis (ghetto Mexicans)?" I asked.
Us four girls sat and considered our two choices:
Can we live after getting shanked by a couple of hood-rats... or can we live after getting sexually harassed by a few construction workers shorter than us?
"Fuck it... You're five foot eight, right AnoMALIE? You can clothesline a couple shorties if you tried. Wall-Mart it is."
I'm always left in charge of giving harassers an elbow if need be. I'd like to know when I have ever taken self-defense courses according to these acquaintances. The years I spent in the hood only taught me how to throw down with bitches... never any sexually deprived men.
Anyway, here we are, 4 girls at 10:30 at night going to the damn Wall-Mart on Nellis and Charleston in search of some Cheddar Fries for sentimental PCLS.
I swore never to go back to that Wall-Mart since the ill-fated day I made a rush to the place the day of Easter.
Biggest mistake of my life, totally not worth the $3.99 bow I had to buy for a birthday gift.
So many pinches, "accidental finger graces", whistles, and "Ay, mama, tantas curvas y yo sin frenos!" that I felt like washing myself off with battery acid once I got to my car.
But I made the journey just to make PCLS happy (plus, I knew PCLS would ahve my back if anything went wrong. PCLS looks like the type that can clothesline three guys while I struggle with my first. I may not be scrawny anywhere else, but my wrists are like those of an 8-year-old ballerina's).
Not so many ghetto Mexicans (I guess Fort Cheyenne had a Chunti dance going on or something). Yes, there were a couple of stares, but I'm sure it was thanks to our attire (HKC loves looking like a Mexican Soap Star Actress. CDC loves dressing like a music video Mexican)... and the green-ribbon "How Big Is Mommy? How Big Is Baby?" wristband I had made for myself while at the Baby Shower didn't help at making us look normal.
We got the fries (I ended up buying a 3.75 lbs. bag of Jolly Ranchers, the old school kind I'd get in like... 4th grade. Did anyone know they sold those?! 3.75 pounds?! Mannnnn!), I was dropped off at home, and I collapsed in bed.
Now I'm just... tired... with a congested nose, stuffy head... and I'm sneezing like crazy
(Oh no... might it be... allergies? Nooooooo! That's what I get for boasting about "Well, I don't have allergies..." yada yada yada. Nice job, AnoMALIE). I had to call off my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles outing for today.
No Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo till I get this nose under control (and shit... I have two exams this week. F.U.C.K.)
Friday, March 23, 2007
(Hey man, I just found an album loaded with my childhood pictures, and I'm posting as many pictures that are in any way relevant to my entries as possible before I forget they exist)
Only freakin' Butters and his endlessly adorable wussiness could cheer me up from the pain of this loss. We were so close.
Nice try Rebs. Nice try (that damn shorty from Oregon's gonna give me nightmares tonight).
***Reminiscing Time! No need to read further***
Just for you, Chase, check out the photo in its entirety, since I'm always talking about my ghetto hood:
Summer 1987. I was 2, bro was 3, and my little sister was in the womb (ew).
-That's the ugly ass Jeep I talk about all the time... the thing we'd have to jump start so many times before any of us were older than 8.
-Behind the jeep is this tiny shack that burned down the summer of 1995 while we were in Mexico.
-To the top of the Jeep we have a carpet-- yes, a carpet-- that our anal neighbors put there because they would park THEIR car in OUR driveway. They claimed to have lived in the area longer than we had, therefore they had every right to park there, and use the carpet to shield their stupid Firebird from the sun with that carpet. They moved the winter of '92, and we were finally able to use our own "driveway." First thing we did was get rid of that damn thing.
-The white building behind my very pregnant mom is the little apartment that was divided in two so that two families could live there. One of the families was my equally pregnant (Man, how Mexican is that?) aunt there in the blue and one of her kids is visible through the window of the Jeep.
-That big ol' tree was cool... but half of it fell on top of our house (which isn't visible because it would have been to the left of the picture) spring of 1997. So many of us ran into it while playing the game of kickball and running from third to home base. Two kids passed out thanks to that. I also carved my name in it like 6 times.
-That red wooden fence also caught on fire, but that was in the summer of '92 when we were once again in Mexico (fucking pyromaniacs seemed to like the season). There was a missing piece near the bottom where cats and drug dealers alike would slide through whenever the kids/cops of the neighborhood were pursuing them. I avoided that gap at all costs.
-On top of the fence, that big wooden pole protruding there with some rope, that's where all three backyard-sharing-families (my aunt's fam., my anal neighbors, and us) would hang clothes to dry. One of us would always have to be on the look out for druggies/prostitutes/pimps/criminals who would want to steal/smell our clothes until they finally dried. That sucked. I lost my favorite shirt like that once.
-That backyard is the backyard where that one kickball story I wrote for C.W. took place.
-Oh! That brown thing where the carpet's hanging from was our "porch." We lost about 10 balls/Frisbees/Barbies to that thing. Also, cats loved chilling up there and doing their... cat things. Each time it rained, the water would leak through a giant whole right above the area the Jeep's parked at. In turn, it would make that entire area smell like cat piss. My brother and I were playing under the "waterfall" the day my parents brought back my new little sister from the hospital. Because of that, Mom didn't let us touch Little Sister until we took a bath. Rightfully so.
-That little boy in the booty shorts is Older Brother. AHAHAHAHA.... ahahaha... man... ahahaha!
-The inquisitive little girl is baby Anomalie... pre-StarBright story. Awww... :(
I could talk about things in this photo for hours, but at least now you know what it all looked like... and I won't have to try so hard to describe the place. Ghetto... but... I was ok with it... just not when bodies were found stabbed to death/shot in the chest in front of the house (oh! that would be the area my mom's standing at).
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Last night my little sister started up one of her little "confession" sessions with me. She goes through periods where even my breathing irritates her, and other times, she tells me shit I really shouldn't be hearing (I don't care what you were doing at his house, fuck! Leave me alone and let me believe you're still my 5-year-old little buddy!). However, this session wasn't so bad. We were kind of just reminiscing about the good old days when she'd start a fight with the girl neighbor who was my age, only to get her ass kicked by Neighbor-Girl and subsequently have me jump in for her and kick Neighbor-Girl's ass.
She then told me she had visited my grandma's tomb on Sunday.
"You know... I kind of took a detour on Sunday because during mass, they played that one song about the 100 lambs... and I remembered they sang that song at her funeral. Then I saw that tomorrow would have been her birthday."
I thought that was weird because on Sunday, out of nowhere, I too thought of my grandma. She was on my mind from early morning until the moment I went to bed. Right before losing consciousness, I remembered that Grandma would have been turning a year older on the 22 of this month.
Damn... ten years we've had to celebrate her birthday at the cemetery. I wonder if she had anything to do with my little sister and me remembering her birthday.
Today, she would have been 74.
She was my favorite grandma back in the day. It took a while for me to warm up to her, because apparently, I had a strong aversion towards her as a kid. There are pictures to prove it.
I don't remember why I didn't like her, (the only thing I remember disliking is the bathroom at her Mexican house. I still do. It's the creepiest thing in the universe... it gets hot and I feel like someone's strangling me each time I get near the place. My Grandpa and Mom have seen a little girl dressed in her white First Communion dress sitting at the edge of their bed a couple of times they've slept near that bathroom. That story only solidified my fears. anyway, that was quite the tangent) but apparently each time she made any sort of gesture at me, I'd curl up to Mom and scream "No!" Once I reached the age of about 6 or 7 I really began to open up to her. I still remember the little sound she made whenever I hugged her. I still remember her smell.
One of the pictures that makes me feel bad for poor Grandma.
Boo on you, baby AnoMALIE, for not showing your grandma love when she was alive and healthy!
She only loved me... and once again, I was a distrusting bitch who couldn't get away from her fast enough (look at the anguish in my face! Freakin' priceless!).
However, in my defense, I didn't like the cousin my grandma was holding. She'd always touch my face and poke me, and that was something baby AnoMALIE was not cool with. I'm still not, so never poke or pinch me.
My cousin's shoes I wasn't a fan of, either... those fuckers were heavy and she carried quite the kick.
I hope that was the last time I ever did that face to my grandma.
I still miss you, Abuelita Victoria. Y no se preocupe, todavia la recordamos.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
I try my best to be a peaceful person, hence why I never really say anything to anyone. Don't give me shit, I won't give it to you. Like a rattle snake, I try my best to give off "don't fuck with me" signals.
They've worked, sometimes too well, and people generally don't mess with me.
But this guy... he takes the cake. Yesterday the ass even made it on my original post. I guess maybe it's because he's a Keyboard Warrior, and that's why he's really pushing my buttons. He'd never have the balls to speak his shit to my face.
I thought I was over it. I wrote back to his stupid e-mail, and I thought I made it pretty clear I wanted nothing to do with him ever again (how in the hell did I ever love this guy? How could I let him ruin me the way he did?). I guess the fact that my response to his very childish e-mail wasn't vulgar in any way (I abstained from using any sort of cussing, and that takes an assload of effort from my behalf), he must have thought I was not very serious.
AnoMALIE isn't cussing? Well, shit, she's playin' around.
He wrote back.
The two sentences I wrote back to his onslaught of "you consided hoe! And you wonder why ur still stingle + alone you fuckn bitch..." blah blah blah:
En tu vida, ni la mirada vuelvas a cruzar en mi camino.
You are dead to me.
Well, they must not have been clear enough. They seemed to have only inspired his bright, beautiful mind.
He was not apologetic in any way. He too wrote back using only a couple of words:
UR still a bitch.
Bravo... pendejo. Yey! A big boy like you can come up with that strong of a comeback all by your self? Well, shit, I'm really looking forward to turning the very mature age of 23... and maybe, once I have my first kid, I'll be even THAT much more enlightened! But then again, you had yours at 17, I'd be at least 23 by the time I have mine if I get to it ASAP. I guess I'll never reach your level of enlightenment ::pout::
It's sad when your little 5 year-old is smarter, wittier, and much more well-mannered than you are. You sure can learn a thing or two from him... it'll be like the I Am Sam movie... minus the Beatles soundtrack, because you'd bitch to get a Backstreet Boys soundtrack instead.
Now... I could have retorted to his dumb ass comment with something like that. Or I could have stayed classy and stuck to my word about him being dead to me.
Of course, I'm immature, and I wrote back:
Los muertos no hablan.
(The dead don't speak)
And I thought about reporting him to Tom. Haha.
The idiot should know better than to anger the girl who mastered the art of the Bitch-Face at such an early age:
AnoMALIE: Rockin' the Bitch-Face since 1985. You better know shit is only going down after I flash that face.
(The fucker ruined my funny day! The day I learned what a "Pearl Necklace" and... what is it? Snow Job? were from my Best Friend! I was laughing for a good couple of hours before I came home and read his e-mail!
Thank you, immature Altar Boy... once again, you ruin some of my more memorable days)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
He told Sky Sports 1: 'For me it is a penalty. Why when Cristiano is involved is it always polemic?"
Asked if he knew why controversial decisions seemed to follow him, he said: "I don't know why. Maybe some people don't like me. Maybe I'm too good.'"
Yes, you are, baby... yes you sure are...
Monday, March 19, 2007
Unless you're getting into your Bentley, do not-- I repeat-- DO NOT hit on me and expect me to smile at you... or be in any way courteous. You will get a scowl and quite possibly a digit... my middle one.
For old, flirtatious men in Bentleys: Not only will you receive the above mentioned treatment, but you might get the addition of some verbal abuse. Douchhhhe Bagggggggs.
I don't understand what goes through these men's heads. How do they think that they, some 50+ year old men, can get any sort of positive reaction from (normal) 20-something-year old girls when they try to flirt? How in the hell is that appropriate... or even appealing to anyone? Why not swing that built up... whatever the fuck you're feeling, to a woman closer to your age range? I'm sure they're in much more desperate need of your Neanderthal-esque love overtures than I am.
Are you lonely and you want someone to talk to? Cool. Just don't fucking lick your lips while speaking to me... don't wink at me after saying a word like "pole"... and don't cup your (sometimes not so) imaginary breasts whenever you see me.
I only mention this because for maybe the tenth time, a man much older than my father shamelessly hit on me and my friend (my friend and me?) as we walked out of Target. It was appalling. Made me a little angry because he felt it necessary to get in our face about it. He reached for us (me, because I was closer to his... pedophile-ass) and then proceeded to make hand gestures and all that shit when we walked away. God knows what would have happened if he landed a hand on me. No one touches me... much less a sick ass old man.
I hate old perverts.
That's the last fucking time I wear a Rolling Stones shirt...
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Anyway, I'm only writing today because someone reminded me it was St. Patrick's Day (it's not like Google's discrete about it, either).
I felt relief because this year it landed on a weekend... so I'm not forced to wear green.
I know that by this age, no one should really ever pinch me without my consent... but I remember getting so many back in the grade school days, that while I'm a peaceful person, this day I'd usually get in some sort of confrontation.
It's not that I can't afford clothes... I've just never really liked green. It isn't until recently that I've noticed green to be a lovely color ("Oh! Green's the color of the mountains... well, not Vegas mountains") and now own about 5 green shirts.
There are two stories that really pop into my head when St. Patrick's day is mentioned.
1992: Getting into the school bus and my really cool bus driver, Kenny, wasn't wearing green. The poor guy got pinched by every kid that came in the bus. After I took my turn, he said "Now honey... be a sweetie and get me one of those leaves on the tree over there." I did as I was told... sort of fearing he was going to close the door on me once I stepped outside the bus and leave me stranded.
Damn it, why did I pinch him? I'm not Irish... it's none of my business to pinch people.
Once I returned, he pinned the leaf to his shirt, and thanked me.
"No one else is pinching me today."
The same trick worked for me until 4th grade, when I bumped into some assholes... but each time I see the kind of bushes I picked the leaf from, I think about that sweetheart bus driver... and feel bad for pinching him (granted, I was 7 at the time and my pinch couldn't have sucked as bad as those the 5th graders gave him).
1998: I was late for Algebra... again... and I was cursing the day school thought it'd be a good idea to make my 7th grade math class the first class of the day.
I woke up late and put on some blue clothes (my favorite color at the time) that were easily available. I hadn't forgotten it was St. Paddy's day, but I didn't own green clothes. I did have green shamrock earrings, but since I thought it'd look stupid with my blue clothes, I pinned them to my shirt... like a brooch.
It's not like I'll get pinched, everyone at school's a Mexican... and we're all grown out of the pinching phase
So, as I was powerwalking to class (because I wasn't desperate enough to run down my middle school halls for stupid Algebra class at the age of 13 ) I bumped into 3 "cholas" that were strolling along, I guess ditching class. I still remember what they looked like, particularly the shortest one. I don't remember her name, because she was an 8th grader, but I remember everything else. She was up to my shoulder, she had her hair picked up in a bun, she had huge hoop earrings, and her make-up was all "Angela from Dangerous Minds."
While I walked past her, I remember she reached over and pinched the hell out of my right arm.
"You're not wearing green."
I remember pondering whether or not to stop and punch the midget, only to opt for picking up the pace and screaming:
"Fuck you! You're not wearing green either, pendeja!"
Her buddies "OOooO!"ed.
The girl turned around and screamed
"What you say, puta?!"
I turned around, flicked them off, screamed
"Fuck you, I'm wearing green... you fucking blind ass idiot,"
then ran like hell to class. I could have taken on the short bitch, but her two friends would have kicked my ass.
I only got mouthy because my class was a couple of yards away from where the incident took place... plus, I've never been so angry.
Damn... my arm hurts... fucking Irish people...
I opened the door to class like a madwoman, panting, as my elderly teacher was going over... something about fractions. I was massaging my arm as I walked to my seat, clear across the room, only to have the teacher say:
"Glad you could join us, AnoMALIE. Now, can you please help solve homework question number 5?"
What a way to start off the day.
Friday, March 16, 2007
1) A ventriloquist dummy that comes to life (that Goosebumps book, Night of the Living Dummy, fucked me up pretty good back in 5th grade).
2) Bitter, (dead) old ladies seeking revenge on an entire town.
Last time I checked out a scary movie at a theater (not counting Zodiac because I was too mesmerized by Jake Gyllenhaal to pay attention to the scary stuff) was back in 2005 for Saw II. I didn't have much of a problem with that movie, I was entertained, but never scared. Prior to that, the scary movie was Darkness Falls in 2003... that one was horrible. I found myself laughing out loud for various parts of the movie as couples would only look up at me like "WTF is her problem?"
I was a little apprehensive about going to the movie because I knew that I'd come out either very disappointed or very paranoid. I was shooting for the latter (although I have friends that would attest to me already being sufficiently paranoid). I thought, since I'm a sucker for the Saw movies (they don't scare me... they just make me "Ah! That must suck," all the time) and the people making this Silence movie are the same ones, that I'd love the thing... and maybe.... possibly... be scared at some point.
Sadly, it didn't deliver. I must say there was only one part of the movie where I had to cover my mouth because of a "No, you dumb ass!" moment, and another where I was shaking my head "Don't do it, man." Other than that, I was either laughing or rolling my eyes. Still, it wasn't BAD like Darkness Falls, so I'm not complaining too much (the ending was ok, I suppose).
If they wanted to know scary, they should have gone to my mom's cousin's house in California the day of her funeral. Now that was scary.
Dolls to my left and right.Dolls on the floor next to the bed.
Dolls when I walked out of the room and headed towards the bathroom.
That was the deceased lady's room... which I was "lucky" enough to sleep in all alone. The things I saw and heard that night still send chills down my spine.
Learn from that, "professionals!" (I kid, I kid. I figure I'm just not a chick meant to watch "scary" flicks because I overanalyze... unless they're dealing with the end of the world. Those manage to scare me to the point where I become unbelievably irrational. Too bad they don't make too many movies about that).
Thursday, March 15, 2007
It's this cool... do-it-yourself postcard from a friend of mine.
I met him Fall of '05, dodged all his advances for a few months, and finally ended up with a really cool friendship.
It wasn't that I thought he was unattractive (he's actually pretty hot), it's just that he was looking to settle down. Cool for him, not for me. I told him I was in college, and somehow, he just couldn't get that into his head. He thought I was doing shit like... I don't know... theater? Nothing wrong with theater, but he thought maybe I'd be cool with settling down... and maybe continue with college as a hobby. Who needs the girl to work when the man in the relationship is a professional choreographer?
So, rather than fight with him about it, I just decided never to see him in that way (I went as far as calling him my cousin... even though we're not). He'd invite me to the movies, to dinner, and dance shows on a weekly basis. The only place I ever agreed to hang out was at the arcade this one time when his two nieces (that I babysat back when I was 13) were in town.
The guy tried until this past September, when he finally got tired of it, and asked another chick out.
They seemed happy together, I was glad for him, and continued on with my single, lonely life (not complaining here).
I knew he loved the girl, I do read his Myspace. I just never knew he was so serious.
Dating from September '06 to March '07 and they're now engaged to have a summer wedding in Ecuador? Daaaaaamn! That is fast acting!
The postcard was sent from Ecuador, where he went to ask for the girl's hand in marriage back in February. It's cute. Personalized. He sounds excited. I RSVPed. Trip to Ecuador in the summer? Shit, count me in! Who cares if we had a little thing for each other less than a year ago. It's not like we fucked (ok, I got vulgar there. Maybe I'm a little hostile).
However, the postcard got me thinking: I could have been the one getting married this summer (AHAHAHAHA! Ok... good laugh)!
I'm guessing since I'd be marrying this guy, I too would send my beach picture* as a postcard to friends: Ecuador postcard said something about "I'd walk with you to the end of the world..." yada yada yada.
I'm guessing mine would say:
"You can't tell, but while you were riding that 'banana' ride in the Mazatlan waves, I was on the balcony of our room reading the Epic of Gilgamesh... staring at the sunset, hoping that to be the only banana you ever ride."
Or maybe this one: (You make me feel like I can touch the sky.
Really? Do I make you feel like you can pass all those damn cars too?) I'm quite the optimist... but... I'm also a realist, my friend.
Not so cool with that one? How about this one:
(Marry you? How 'bout you help me rebuild them there houses first?) Pretty landscape and I avert the question in the sweetest way possible, without ever saying no. Plus, what better than finding a hardworkin' man that'll carry huge rocks and place them in really neat stacks sturdy enough to make an entire house? Nothing says marriage material more than that.
And for the picture that describes my TRUE feelings about it all: Me, Cynical? Why would you ever say that?
I really do hope everything goes well for my homie, though.
I'm just being jealous because I don't have anyone to hold my hand on the Ecuadorian beach and tell me sweet nothings that I'd laugh my ass off to.
*all pictures were taken by me, in the country of Mexico. First two in the city of Mazatlan. The last two in my sweet little hometown that smells YUMMY each time it rains... screw Ecuador (I kid!! It's a beautiful country with excellent, sweet, caring people)!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I look around for days... but after around the fifth day, I tend to do the hippie thing and just handcraft her something (it's worked for 21 years. Birthdays, Mother's Days... you name it).
Yeah, it made me feel a little guilty... and sometimes wonder why she never said something like:
"Enough, Frida Kahlo! I want a real gift!"
But finally! After so many years, the idea for the perfect gift has dawned on me:
Some people may see this as lame; yesterday, I would have agreed. Who the hell wants a briefcase for a present?
Well, recently, my folks have ran into a lot of paper work. Visiting their CPA more often than usual.
They carry along this really important contract that I've never seen so much drama over. Then today, for the first time, I saw what my mother carries these "very important" papers in:
Have you ever seen Donald Trump walking around with that shit? No. Not one of those wannabe apprentices, either.
I laughed for a while... especially once Mom started laughing.
Me: What the hell is this?
I was going to throw the bag and its contents in the trash, but Mom stood in my way as she drank some water from the faucet (I've never been too fond of that habit). Mom looked over as I held the bag. She was going to say something, but instead, she spewed the water that was in her mouth and laughed out loud.
Mom: No! (laugh) That's my (laughed hard enough for me not to make out a word)...
Me: Your what?
Mom: That's my "Business Woman Bag!"
Me: You mean... you go visit David (CPA) with this thing?
Mom laughed harder.
Me: He hands you the papers... and you stuff them in this bag? And you hand him things... from this bag?
Mom was laughing too hard to talk, she just nodded.
Me: Couldn't you at least make it an Albertson's bag?
Oh, my dear mother... you win the prize when it comes to penny pinching!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Not only do I celebrate my birthday in March (which... isn't so great now that I'm getting older... it's kind of sad, actually), but Spring time comes around the corner. While Vegas spring is not as awesome as Spring time in North Cal, it's pretty damn sweet. The unbearable heat still hasn't hit the city, and there are days when there's a slight breeze and it doesn't feel so bad to breathe.
Anyway, when spring (is it capitalized? I won't capitalize in this case just to spice things up--I've been watching WAY too much Rachel Ray) rolls around my family gets in the habit of throwing little barbecues. I don't typically enjoy these things, since I have an irrational, semi-fear of fire (well, it's not that irrational. My siblings have almost burnt down the house not once, but twice) and I'm not a huge fan of meat (except on Fridays during Lent. The devil tries his best to tempt my weak soul and meat looks especially good to me then).
Well, this fear of mine only increases when I see who's in charge of the grill. Mom handles it most the time... and I'm not scared in those instances because she knows how to handle fire. However, if my father is ever left in charge, I tend to hang out by the fire extinguisher... or I just hook up the hose to the nearest faucet and keep that near the grill.
Also, I wouldn't be so scared if my parents grilled on our normal grill:
To the left, exhibit A: Notice the DIRT. Is it obvious enough that my folks don't use that shit, or what?
No, no. My dad has befriended some crazy man... who swears up and down by this thing:
To the right, exhibit B: Weirdest, scariest grill in the universe that my dad received as a gift from Crazy Man.
Now... seriously... the flames on that bad boy get enormous. I'm really shocked the neighbors haven't called the fire department yet.
It also screams out: HOBO! I can just imagine a pack of vagrants huddled around this thing in the winter just to keep warm.
Regardless of what I think, my family sure loves "grilling" aka burning our meat here (talk about burning, today we were all looking at that fire that broke out in the "wetlands." It was pretty sad. Sure put a damper on our little BBQ day). They have a blast, eat a lot... drink... dance... scream (Yeah. Scream...either while arguing or just being musical... if that's at all possible to imagine. Oh! Like Mariachis!) and then leave us to clean the place up.
Now, after all this day's activities, I'm tired and smell like ash.
Just another wonderful spring day.
But I guess I don't mind. As long as I have this little guy to smile at me (and eating some of the paper plates liter-bug cousins leave behind):
Talking about smiles!!
I've been running an experiment on myself over the past few months and it isn't until recently that I've noticed results.
I've been known to suffer a lot from chapped lips ("Ew, gross!" Yeah, shut up, I know). I've had the problem since... I don't know... I was born? I get nervous a lot, and as a way of coping, I tend to tear the hell out of my fingers. When those are in too much pain, I tend to go after my lips. They're such a huge canvas... I tend to get a little out of control and there comes the problem. I also lick my lips like nobody's business (but NEVER while checking someone out. NEVER).
So, after much aggravation with constantly touching my rough lips and... no, I take it back, I wont go into further, disgusting details. I just wondered what it'd feel like to regularly have soft lips (dumb, I know... but I only have soft lips a couple of times a year, when the weather's just right).
On New Years I made the resolutions of:
1)Not picking at my lips
2)Saturating my lips with Vaseline on a daily basis, at all times... just not when going to school. I can back off a little there.
Now, I went drastic with Vaseline because that shit's quite disgusting. It tastes like... well, petroleum. Nothing like the Bath & Body Works Raspberry lip balm I buy and then proceed to lick off, which only exacerbates the problem. It would force me to quit licking my bottom lip.
I've been applying Vaseline for over... 2 months now and while I started off rocky (licking my lips a couple of times only to be met by one of the most wretched tastes I've come to know), but I now have normal-looking lips (you know, like a freakin' human), worthy of Maybelline commercials (riiight). Now if only this damn Listerine Whitening worked a little faster... and I wouldn't be so paranoid about using brightly colored lipstick (I claim to look like a hooker... I just can't get that out of my head. You try growing up in the hood and tell me if seeing hoes at your bus stop corner on a daily basis doesn't mess you up).
Aww... that last picture sure looks porntastic (Maybe it's all that Vaseline... saying that so often makes me think of Lisa Simpson). I shall try not doing that again... if only I could remember what I was thinking during the picture (probably "This is fucking retarded and I don't wanna smile") . And on the first picture... I was whistling... not blowing a kiss like all those emo girls on Myspace. I don't blow kisses... unless it's Tyson and I don't wanna go outside to get tackled by him.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: I didn't know there was so much birth-control out there.
(I withdraw from the conversation and go back to my "Super Drop Mania" on the cell phone. This isn't going to end right.)
Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: Yeah, but I didn't know condoms were a sin for Catholics.
Auntie: Yeah... I heard something about that.
Mom: You should know this Comadre, you studied at a convent! Sometimes, you can get special permission from the...
(I didn't hear whom... Bishop? Pope?! I don't know. I wouldn't go that far in asking for permission to use a condom to anyone)
Auntie: I've never used one.
(By now, I'm wishing I had headphones on)
Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: That's all your son and I used before hearing about it in class the other day.
(Really wished I had headphones on)
Long pause. I look up from the phone... cousin in-law's staring at her fingers, Mom's staring at cousin in-law, Auntie's looking at the stove.
Auntie: How do you put it on?
Silence... well, besides my mom laughing.
Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: Your son does that.
Me: I've heard there are girls out there that can do it using only their mouths.
Silence. Cousin in-law stares at me, Mom glares at me, Auntie scrunches her eyebrows and places her hands on the table.
Auntie: Now why would you ever want to do that?
Silence. Cousin in-law stares at me, Mom burns a hole through me, and Auntie alternates between staring at the three of us.
Me: What? I go to college... I hear things.
(Super Drop Mania stage 10, level 8, here I come)
That is by far the quickest way to getting a dirty look from my mother. I'm surprised she didn't lean over to pinch me.
That is why I usually keep quiet... and all information to myself.
I found myself at some Midway (I couldn't figure it out if it was the Circus-Circus Midway... or the Excalibur one... or any other one, because it was sort of a mix of all the Midways I've ever been to, which are all pretty much one and the same). I remember it was for a little kid party, and no one else really wanted to go with me to this thing (which is very true to life. I find myself at little kid parties more often than any other family member I know. I never liked piñatas as a kid... but now, I sit back and have a blast watching little kids pelt those things like my drunken uncles would back in the early 90's as they held the ropes to the piñata from a roof. Safe shit, huh?). I went with someone... and there were people my age there, but like me, they were all playing some sort of Midway game... earning tickets of all things. I can't remember any sort of dialogue, just people "ooh-ing" and "ah-ing."
The coolest part was that I kept getting quarters out of nowhere. I remember the quarters didn't come from my wallet, but the people throwing the event... and the machines would just give the quarters to you if you pressed the little red buttons that read "50 cents" or "25 cents." There were no "$1.00" buttons... cause even in my dreams, I never go near those machines.
Wow! These people are awesome! I've used up like 16 bucks and they still give me money!
The dream turned weird at the end when the games started shutting off on their own and everyone was leaving as if the building were on fire or attacked by killer bees. As I started to run, all of a sudden I was at my old high school, holding a pin I had to get to my old PE teacher. I remember cutting through many tennis matches and people lined up like Armies. The field turned into the same one I had dreamt myself in not too long ago, where I underwent basic training. Then my joy turned to fear and I woke up almost immediately.
WTF is my problem?? I was having a good time at the Midway!
I should have never given the Marines a thought... now they won't leave me alone, not even in my dreams.
What's best though, is when I "interpret" my dream on-line... I get shit like this:
Saturday, March 10, 2007
I go to a school where a sport I'm actually following wins something!
Actually, no, I take that back. I remember the Durango High School days when I'd walk into the gym and see all the trophies and whatnot (oh... but I must go back to my original claim and emphasize: actually following. What did I care about women's bowling? And women's volleyball I liked while playing, never watching).
A far cry from my Sierra Vista days... I think we won maybe... a state title in wrestling (and once again, what did I care about wrestling that wasn't cauliflower ear- related?).
It's been five years since my basketball days, and it's just now that I can go back and watch a live game without getting the urge to jump off a balcony and end the pain.
It takes a while for me to get over traumatic experiences... and that time spent on the basketball team really messed me up good. Sure, it made me lean and mean... but oh, the emotional drama and the bitching! I think it was my junior year of high school where I decided never to hang out with so much estrogen in what remains of my life ( 2-3 girls in my group of friends each time I go out, max. Any more and someone ends up in tears or missing some earring).
I was the only idiot who actually followed directions, showed up to practice (missing only two and having that waved in my face for the rest of the season; while some bitches would be smoking weed outside the gym and showing up an hour late for practice with a brownie in hand), and had good grades (straight A's... minus that one B in that sexist-son-of-a-bitch Mr. Thomas' pre-calc class). These girls were bitching about dealing with pre-algebra and I was busting my ass in A.P. history... and they still got to start.
If it weren't for my Dennis Rodman skills, I probably would have been benched the entire season. Fucking bullshit. Instead, Shawn Marion's little sister took my spot (but she was the nicest of the group... so I think it was done intentionally because they knew I'd never bitch at her... and who could hate on such a nice guy's little sister? Bastard coaches).
I sometimes have nightmares of running suicides and making lay-ups. I hated those things... and I still can't do the left handed lay-up for the life of me.
All that practice, and all that... trauma, for nothing. I think we went... I have no idea... but I'm pretty sure we won about 4 games... and who starred in those games? Me! But nooo... let the cry-baby, idiot, ballhog girl have her way and drive us into the hole because she wants to have a school record with 23 points a game... while the other team out-scores us 75 points!
Oh! And the spectators! Freakin' A! The spectators! I'd always get the urge to just run into the stands and knock over the pushy, loudmouthed, lazy-ass moms screaming at me.
I'll block your fucking pork of a daughter all I want! The point IS to keep her from scoring. It's not my fault she can't mow me down like the rest of the team when she charges. Tell her to quit thinking she's the 5'2" female version of Shaq. Maybe that way she'll quit getting so many damn personal fouls called out against her.
Moms would be having a cow because I'd be able to stand my ground (unknowingly... I'm just accustomed to having people lunge and me not budging. Comes with the territory of being the playmate of an only-brother) and their dumb daughters kept getting caught after about the fifth time they charge me (I scored about 50 points that way). Then they'd get pissed if I managed to catch up to their slow offspring and strip the ball from them. Give me a break, man.
These moms weren't nice. What 45 year-old woman calls a 17 year-old girl a "motherfucking cunt!"? C'mon now! Call me that when I can't get hauled off by school security after slapping you around a bit, dumb ass lady.
Then I'd get the occasional:
Damn, girl! Look at that ass! You just keep jumpin'!
Can I get yo' number?
The gender of the people screaming that would also vary. You'd try to be nice... tell them you don't swing that way... but so many mini-Iversons following you to the locker room would eventually turn traumatizing 'cause you'd find yourself sizing them up from time to time thinking "Yeah, I can take her if she came at me."
It'd be worse when they'd eye you from the sidelines, only to get a feel on you during a rebound or their so-called "screens."
Dibs on the Latina with the two French-braids. Umm.
Fuck... I knew the braids were a bad idea...
I've never felt so much ass-on-leg action in my life (and I wish never again). Not even the lambada compares. Those were moments I wished I were short enough to play point guard instead of forward.
See, it's not pretty... and it was stressing the crap out of me... not to mention it gave me shin-splints like a motha...
But let's just forget about that sad part of my basketball-loving experience. It's just great to know that it's in the past, and UNLV, of all schools, made me feel better about watching the sport. Thanks fellas, you really rock.
Haha, Older Brother! Your fighting Irish may have gone to the Sugar Bowl (how the hell did you spend all that money, retard?) back in January, but my Rebs actually won their shit! (Not hating on Notre Dame, how could I? They introduced me to the ever so handsome Brady Quinn! Plus, I own a jersey, pajamas, and a sweater all with some sort of ND-affiliation. I can't really despise a team whose logo I rock)
Victory feels good.
Friday, March 9, 2007
I am officially on Spring Break mode.... In just three days I will be flying to Miami....but until then, I have to get my party on in Vegas
Subject: New Credit Card
I just got a American Express Card and wouldnt you know... It got here right before my trip to Miami... That might spell trouble(over spending)... but oh well... Its Spring Break.Oh... It has no limit
*Name has been changed to protect the vain.
And let's not forget, this shit:
Thursday, March 8, 2007
I only bring this up because recently, a couple of relatives have really gotten on my case. After drawing the above doodle, and committing the mistake of placing it on my myspace page, the ones near and dear to me have taken it upon themselves to hassle the crap out of me.
"oh my garsh!!! u drew this??? this is super cute...aww do one for me yea??? hahah haven't seen u in like forever y aka yo piediendo favores...hahah well i mean if u wanna draw something up for me i would totally appreciate it(wink, wink) hahah j/k...but this is awesome man...wow so much talent in the family...i'm sooo proud..haha"
Yeah, no lie, that's someone related to me. She's the one that's been most adamant about the whole thing. She's coming down from her area in California in two weeks, and while I've been lucky enough to dodge her inquests these last couple of weeks, I don't know how I'll manage once she's in front of me. I don't look forward to this event only because something in my past keeps me from making her happy and just drawing some damn girl reading a book for her or something.
I used to draw for people, gladly. At first I thought it was comical... I'd be a little flattered, but I'd always oblige.
The whole... "AnoMALIE, can you draw me a *some animal, a girl(cause i can't draw boys)* I just love how you draw!" thing would make me blush... even feel important at times. But then fifth grade came around and changed it all.
1995-96: I wasn't popular, no those days were left back in first and second grade when I was still surrounded by little immigrant children. I was still considered an ESL (English second language) student even though I read at an 8th grade level (something I was proud of because everyone else read at a sixth grade level, max. Now I think: well, shit, it's not like I was reading at a twelfth-grade level, get off your high horse, AnoMALIE). I tried my best to fit in with the English speaking kids, but I found myself only bonding with the 2 other Latina-girls in class and one Filipina. I'd try buying the love from others by giving them some of my doodles from class.
There was one really popular girl, Dolly (why the hell did I try impressing someone with that name?), who had everyone--guys and girls-- doing back flips for her. I remember she approached me one day as I was doodling in my English journal (and I wondered why I couldn't get out of the ESL category) during lunch time.
"Hey, you draw that?"
She pointed at the girl I had drawn on the margin of my paper.
"This? Umm... yeah..." (I blushed... a cool girl talking to me? The math nerd? The ESL kid?)
"Can you draw me one?"
She smiled, and walked away with her posse.
I drew my typical girl: a gangster! (Well, I'd draw that or Jessica Rabbit... or just Jessica Rabbit in baggy pants... defeated the purpose of Jessica Rabbit and her long, sensuous legs... but her boobs were still there)
Yeah... I mean, what else could I draw besides hookers and gangsters, being that I lived in the hood (Naked City: what, what?!)?
She wore a green flanneled shirt, black baggy pants, black Nike Cortez's, wavy hair, and I may have given her a backwards hat. I remember I'd give the dolls really tiny waists, big boobs, big eyes, big lips, and big heads (the style really hasn't changed, as you can tell).
I was proud, cause I tried making her the prettiest of all (C'mon now, we're talking Dolly here), and I thought I had succeeded.
The next day at school, I remember placing the drawing on Dolly's desk with a huge smile on my face.
She looked at it, her eyes lit up, and she thanked me.
Now, I typically live for that kind of stuff. I love making others happy, no matter what. So I felt like my job was done and I continued to draw for people.
Dolly was nice to me for the next couple of days, and she'd always ask me about drawing. I'd sort of ignore my real friends to spend time in her circle explaining why my dolls had small midsections and larger... other areas (I never told her it was because my friend in kindergarten had a stripper mom and it gave me ideas). Everything was cool the first three days, but the problem arose around the third day when the people who would typically commission me (with beef-jerky--not to be confused with Slim-Jims-- nonetheless. I was pretty cheap... actually, the trick still works today) to draw for them stopped coming around.
It took about another week before one of my best friends, Ana, interrupted my "reading time" moment by slamming a drawing on the desk in front of me.
"Hey, look what little Miss Dolly's doing to you."
I looked at the drawing and it looked like something I had drawn.
"What do you mean... it's my..."
I took a closer look.
"...oh. Is this my drawing?"
The doll was similar... but upon closer inspection, she had smaller features... and really fucked up eyes (I take my time on eyelashes, this bitch drew sticks like those drawn to indicate rays of sun). I can only imagine how Louis Vuitton feels when he sees someone walking around with one of those imitation bags. I must say, I drew that eye almost exactly how Dolly drew it... constricted pupil, McDonald's arch brow... stick eyelashes... it almost looked like a Paramecium... or something else that's capable of living under harsh environmental conditions.
But anyway, on with my story.
I was enraged when I saw the drawing and asked my friend where she got a hold of the drawing.
She told me Dolly was selling them to students behind one of the portables during lunch time (like the true crack-dealing hoe she would soon be destined to become).
Selling them? As in... getting money? Not just that tasty one dollar and fifty-cent beef-jerky?
Apparently so... and there was a line.
I remember looking over at Dolly, while holding the drawing, and her looking up only to shrug her shoulders.
When lunch time came, I went by the portables and upon seeing the transactions, I didn't know whether to vomit or just let the ghetto girl in me jump at Dolly's nappy, curly hair.
Rather than jump Dolly (I was 5'2", she was well below 4'8"), I stuck around for a while, wanting to hear what Dolly would tell these girls.
I saw one of my friends was in line (the fucking nerve), and listened in.
"Isn't this like *AnoMALIE's* drawings?"
"No. She draws big stupid heads. I fix her drawings. Now do you want one or not?"
I remember her emphasizing "fix" and then wanting to punch her.
Big stupid heads? Dude, how else am I going to get the intricate details of her iris down?
I eventually got caught spying on the (not so) illicit deals, and came face-to-face with Dolly.
I asked her what the deal was, and she admitted it, although she was quite rude about it (who tells another 10 year old their drawings suck and that they can do a better job... when clearly, a baby Yorkshire Terrier has more talent).
I took a drawing from her hand (she had like, ten in her tiny, thieving hands) and pointed:
"It's supposed to be a flannel shirt."
"Well... then... she's not a real gangster."
With that, I left her in her little secluded area, and went back to my classroom. I can only imagine how red my face must have been.
I tell myself I didn't punch her out because she had two of her friends, like bouncers, at her side.
Twelve years later, I've never drawn for anyone again. I still doodle while in class, but... I no longer accept any sort of commission. My drawings are for me, and maybe a teacher's project... aside from that, no one else.
Now if only I could re-tell that story to my family without getting worked up and smashing something... or you know... sounding like a total cry-baby.