ALL OVER Costa Rica... and Las Vegas too, BITCH

Ok, ok.
Doing much better.

Some days I'm just not up for dealing with shit. Yesterday was one of those days.
Yes, it was HELL of awkward to walk into a room where everyone was laughing at someone's imitation of your smile... as another talked shit about how I "smiled like that ALL OVER the Coasta Rica album!"
It hurt. Yup. Sure fucking did... and at the moment, all I really knew how to do was awkwardly walk to the bathroom and then cry the sentiment out.
I proceeded to spend the majority of the party in this state:

Pretty sure I was super proud of my Draw Something doodle or something...

Really wanting to smile "AnoMALIE-style" but fighting it

But then I had to press pause and assess the situation.

1. The guy imitating my smile so viciously was drunk as FUCK... and sentimental himself, since it was his daughter's christening, and no one showed up... just four co-workers, his mom, sister, and a cousin... and me and D. So he drank himself silly.
2. I was buzzed. The moment we entered the house, the drunk dude (who was imitating my smile... the dad of the celebrated baby, and the dude I often refer to as my adopted brother) had Sis and I take shots with him. I obliged. On an empty stomach. Because I'm an idiot.
3. I too am guilty of laughing when someone gets made fun of... I'm no saint. I shouldn't be shocked when I'm the butt of the joke.

So... I got the nice little cry out of my system... I had my lovely friends and family talk sense into my stupid, hormonal head... and I'm once again smiling (though I was pretty upset yesterday at the party, I still proceeded to make everyone laugh with my salty remarks... to the point where one dude was kicking his feet in the air and then "complimented" me with "I never would have thought you were funny. I didn't even know you talked." Yeah, I do, fuckhead... even after I get made fun behind my back. This was a dude who had always seen me around in Hometown, but had never crossed a word with me [mainly because he's like 12 years older than me and he was the "hot guy" all the teenage girls liked when I was a 10-year-old] until yesterday).

Don't like my smile? Go eat a dick, you fucking prick.
...
Look at that, I'm unintentionally rhyming... guess I'm still agitated about it.

Why so serious? Well...

Tonight, I caught people ("friends") making fun of my smile behind my back.

I cried in the bathroom.

The end.

(This is where everything starts going downhill again, isn't it?)

People are fucking pieces of shit.

Hey guys!
I spent all day today walking around in pants with a giant guacamole stain, AND then I came home to the news that someone left this little present for me in the parking lot when my sister was driving MY car:

I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to punch holes through walls (and skulls) with a sledgehammer, I want to rip someone's fucking face apart...
But I have done nothing but drink fucking coffee and take deep breaths.

I'm SO FUCKING ANGRY.

Happy motherfucking Friday.

Ca-meh-rah

I encountered a huge dilemma prior to leaving for my trip:
Take Big Boy Rebel and its awesome megapixel power... or stick to the regular lame-o Nikon CoolPix digital camera with SHIT megapixel power but conveniently sized?
I seriously tossed and turned about this one.
Big Boy is heavy AS FUCK. My neck hurts if I carry that bastard for far too long... and worst of all, it's pretty fucking expensive.
I treasure that son of a bitch like... well, more than anything I own, really. I waited ten years to own such a bad motherfucker... I guard that shit with my life.

After polling the majority of my family, the answer was clear:
Take Big Boy! When will you have that opportunity again?

So I took Big Boy.
This is where I sigh and shake my head in regret.

All was fine. All was GREAT, actually.
I was snapping photos like a... stalker.
I don't know what the heck Dad has told people at his church, but Pocahontas and her husband's first words to me were:
"Usted es la que toma fotos hermosas con su camera, verdad? Toda una profesional."
You're the one who takes beautiful photos with your camera, right? A total professional.
Uh... not quite... 
Next thing I know, they're making me in charge of ALL photography.
Fucking moochers.
What frustrated the FUCK out of me was that they'd CONTINUOUSLY tell me to whip out my camera and take this shot!
Don't direct ME, you jerk! Take out your OWN fucking camera. I don't want to sit here and take portraits of everyone every two minutes. Fuck you, bro.
I wouldn't normally be this uptight, but it was really irking me to have to take out that massive camera from my bag like some OCD person. Packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking. I'm not a saint... it gets fucking aggravating and I get irritated.
And I just don't like people telling me WHAT to photograph. Suck my balls. I got this. Leave me alone.
I wouldn't mind if it were a pro directing me... but when it's a person who barely understands how to turn on a laptop, I prefer you just shut the fuck up.

ANYWAY.
My first three days went great with Big Boy and the scenery.
Then came day four:
The day my camera committed suicide.
Technically, it was assisted suicide.

It was Beach Day.
I was packing somewhat light. I was also the only person carrying a bag...

As mentioned before, we stopped at a store to buy some goodies.
MY goodY was that ONE fucking beer I was shamed into NOT purchasing... so I ended up with NOTHING.
But Pops... that man... that ogre...
Dad bought a shitton of snacks... as if he was not going to live to see tomorrow.
Seeing how I had a bag, he made ME in charge of carrying his shit... in my bag... Big Boy's home.

All was well... I still managed to take photos at the beach... I did my thing.
Beach Day was a LONG day... which was actually cut short after a bad phone call (Maggie, the pet bitch of the house... was left in the care of Frank's mother-in-law. The bitch was in heat, ran out of the house, and was gang-banged by five street dogs. The mother-in-law freaked out and tried "rescuing" Maggie's slutty-ass... and that's where the lady was bitten. So we got the phone call, the daughters started to cry, and our excursion was cut short... all because of a bitch in heat... fucking bitches). The news had all of us worried... so I kind of forgot about my camera.
The following morning I made the horrifying discovery:
My dad's goodies had melted in my bag... the tamarind candies, to be specific. Motherfucking tamarind candies.
My camera was covered in sugary BULLSHIT... and I tried as best I could to clean it.
It felt like I was scrubbing clean a petrol-covered sea otter with a toothbrush: heart-crushing!

The photos I could still view... but then came the photo-taking test.
FAIL.
Fail.
FAIL.

My heart raced... tears began to sting my eyes... and then my hands tightened around the lens.
I wanted to chuck that shit against the wall... have a major Hulk moment.
FUCK YOU, CAMERA! FUCK YOU, TAMARIND! FUCK YOU SUGARRRRRRRRRRR!!!

Now, it's not completely busted... it just... snaps a photo when it wants to.
The lens is stuck. The stabilizing unit is also fucked. The shutter struggles. It doesn't focus... or it focuses on whatever the fuck it wants.
I'm devastated.

... but not devastated enough to go purchase a new lens and see what happens.
Soon we'll hopefully go back to our good days.

I have faith in you, Big Boy (but I'm KIND of crossing my fingers to upgrade to the latest model which has ridiculous resolution... I'm sorry, dude)!

Shelter

The notes in my paper journal are rather enthusiastic... I was stoked about coming home and updating my blog with all of my bulleted sections.

The enthusiasm took a shot the moment I climbed in D's car when she picked us up from the airport.
D had a bit of news:
Her transfer to Chicago was approved.

Mom, Dad, and I took the news differently.
Mom and Dad were silent. It was an awkward silence... so I spoke up.
I just... REALLY wanna take a shit.

The tension was relieved for a short while... the remainder of the car ride, but once home everyone left to their room... and no one congratulated D.

Dad asked Mom to convince D not to leave.
Mom cried.
I was... somewhat angry.

Mom is scared D will get murdered out there.
Dad thinks D will blow all her (and his) money out there.
I... was angry because I didn't feel it was the smartest move on her behalf.

This all put a damper on my updates... and my excitement over the trip.
It still kind of does, since the mood in the house is somewhat heavy.

The mood was darkest exactly a week ago, when Mom decided to call my godmother who lives out there. She wanted to ask her if it was OK if D lived at her place until she found herself a roommate... since this move to Chicago was so short notice, and D still had no chance to look for a decent apartment. Mom asked for just enough time for D to start up at work, check out the apartments/neighborhoods, and get settled in.
My godmom said no.
...
The news made all three of us cry. It really, REALLY offended us... particularly Mom and D.
Mom was upset because she raised my godmom like her own little sister, hearing Godmom turn her down for such an important favor devastated her.
D was upset because she took it personal. I'm so low maintenance! And I cause no trouble... how can... I thought they loved me... how can they refuse to help me when I need so much help? It was all a show? All the shittalk I've heard from people is true?
I cried because it always hurts to have your eyes opened to the truth behind a situation. I'm willing to do almost anything for my family... it's always a punch in the gut when family refuses to reciprocate... especially someone as "important" as a godparent. It has happened multiple times to me, but it doesn't mean it hurts any less.

So yeah... that's been shitty.
We recuperated from that disillusion after Dad called one of his ACQUAINTANCES and HE agreed to shelter my sis for as long as she needed. That restored a bit of our faith in humanity.
A perfect fucking stranger opens his home to my sis... when FAMILY refused... now THAT'S quality of character.
Now we're just bummed because it's finally happening. D's roadtripping out there with Mom and Dad in exactly a week, because she starts work at the new store on the 7th.
The news has finally hit us. Fucking kid is moving on.
Shit. Damn. Oh man.

Momma has cried a lot. I've grind my teeth a lot. Dad has... avoided the topic a lot.

Guys, in a week, I'll legitimately be an only child.
Fuck...

Hermit Crab

Feeling better.
I let everything blow over.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Today's topic: what else? Boys.

Frank (that's what I'll refer to him as, even if his name is Francisco, but let's Americanize it 'cause I can) picked us up at the airport, and took Mom, Pocahontas, and I home. The drive was somewhat lengthy, especially since it was during their rush-hour (their siesta was about to start... shit gets the streets all out of whack. Gotta love Siesta, though). We were driving past their national stadium, got into a little conversation about our soccer fanaticism, then Frank asked about my relationship status.
Frank: Y que dice el novio? Como la dejo venir sola? (so what does the boyfriend think? How'd he let you come out here without him?)
Me: Nada, porque no hay novio. Así esta mejor porque me puedo pasear por todas partes sin preguntarle a alguien por permiso. Single for life! (nothing, 'cause there is no boyfriend. It's better that way, 'cause I can hangout all over the place without asking anyone for permission)
Frank: Jaja, tienes mucha razón. (haha, good point)

I found myself giving the same speech to every new person I'd meet. I wasn't irritated by it, however, since it's understandable to be confused as to why a 27 year old Latina would be single (though before meeting me, they were under the impression that I was a "niña"... which they called me the entire time. Loved it). That shit's just unusual.

Frank and the girls then tried encouraging me to hit the night clubs.
They found it strange that I preferred the company of ten-year-old Emi and five-year-old Val... and that instead of craving the deafening beats of dance music pulsing through my veins at a club, I preferred the feel of the sun on my shoulders as I'd sit in the middle of green fields in the wilderness.
Does this girl WANT to die alone?

There were plenty of good-looking boys out there. Very good looking... of all shapes and sizes.
And yes, I scoped them out-- I'm not fucking blind!
But... the trip pretty much solidified the fact that I just don't give a fuck.

The trip also solidified the fact that I was born in the wrong era.
I'm an old-dude magnet... but not even in the pervy way.
I find that older gentlemen... admire me... in a melancholic way... if that makes any sense. The way they stare at me, not lustfully, but with this sad little smile.... and the things they say to me.
They tell me I'm great, and sweet, and interesting, and smart, and... well, a shitton of wonderful compliments I'd probably kill for just to hear it from a young dude.
I find the words more like... words of encouragement, I guess you could say. They think I'm great, and they just sit and hope that I don't let the bitterness get to me and change me.
You're a terrific girl, they don't make them like you anymore... but young guys don't see it... they won't see it until wayyy further down the road... just sit it out and don't let the frustration change you. If only I were younger...
I usually stare back with my typical bitter-sweet smile... followed by a shrug-- code for:
Yeah... well... what else can I do about it? Sometimes I wish so too.

On Beach Day, an older gentleman took us to the beach.
Dude is 16 years my senior, a school principal and a fisherman.
He took the men to a good fishing spot, while he left us chicks in a shady area.
Prior to hitting the beach, we had chilled at his house and he had watched me eat the food he prepared.
I don't know about other folk, but I tend to eat in silence. That day, I sat alone, in silence, on the patio. I ate my tilapia and drank my coffee as I stared at the star-fruit, mango, and avocado trees. I also took the time to admire the numerous wild orchids sprouting all over the front yard. The only noises coming out of me where the occasional low whistle I'd make to the little toy poodle who'd hangout by my feet.
Once I was done eating, I proceeded to tickle the little poodle... I wasn't about to let that little monster get away from me. Plus, I'm not allergic to dogs... I can pet those motherfuckers as much as I please.

The whole time I sensed the dude staring at me, but he would not utter a word.
His sense of humor was also extremely dry... and he'd use colloquialisms not found in Mexican Spanish, so a lot of the jokes would be lost in translation.
When it came time to heading for the beach, we stopped at a convenience store and I got into a mini argument with Dad because he didn't let me buy a beer.
Dad: That isn't good for your health!
Me: Yeah, well, yesterday you forced me to eat fucking KFC and that shit is DEFINITELY unhealthier than one fucking beer.
Dad: You're embarrassing me!!
Me: IT'S A FUCKING BEER!
As I stormed out of the store and huffed and puffed in the parking lot, the older gentleman walked over to me and asked me if I knew what drink was healthiest, after purified water... which he had seen me guzzling down all day.
Dude: Wine. A glass of wine. You're good.
I angrily got in my car and huffed and puffed some more.
Me: (staring at the back of Dad's head) You embarrass me when you whip out your wad of cash in front of everyone... you don't see me saying shit...
Mom: AnoMALIE, shut up!

At the beach, maybe an hour prior to leaving, the gentlemen came back from their fishing.
Everyone was in the water, splashing around, everyone but me.
I would sit on a huge tree branch and jot shit down in my journal.
The older gentleman was the only other person not in the water, and he first approached me with something in his hand.
Dude: You're a biologist, right?
Me: I guess you can say that...
Dude: What's the name for this little animal?
He opened his hands and out came a cute little hermit crab.
Me: Ah! That's a cute little hermit crab! How'd you catch him?
I looked up at him as I finished the sentence, mainly out of habit, and considering I was highly amused like some autistic three year old, I had an enormous smile on my face. We locked eyes.
Dude: That's the most I've heard you talk...
He tried handing me the hermit crab, but the little bastard (hermit crab) pinched me, so I dropped it.
I chased after the crab... mainly to get away from the guy.
I decided to stay on the shore, collecting shells... you know, be me.
I wasn't sunbathing, I wasn't trying to look sexy for the hot surfers walking by... I was just... being me... living in my own little world, alone-- collecting shells and doodling shit on the sand.

When night fell and we had to leave the dude's house, I went for the firm handshake... but he pulled me in and gave me the biggest bear-hug of my life, completely immobilizing me.
He kissed my left ear and whispered
"You! You're incredible! You just need to speak up!"
...

The consensus was clear:
AnoMALIE, you're tiiight! Now let someone in, don't be a clam!

The girls and Frank invited dudes over, and introduced me... Frank was diligent in his attempts to find me a Tica boyfriend... but all attempts were futile.
Yes, I'd find the boys cute... but my heart was not there. Ever. Nothing.


As I'd doodle my name on the sand... and surround it with hearts, I found myself wondering
Is it really that important to find someone? Do I want to find someone?
I honestly don't know.
I'll just continue to act like I don't care.

Keychains

All right... originally, I was going to blog something pleasant about Costa Rica, but something just happened that has me fuming and quite fucking offended... to the point where I want to fucking cry out of frustration.

I don't care if this makes me look like a spoiled bitch... or a whiny cunt. Or maybe I just have a fucking point and people will understand what I'm getting at:

I love to donate. I truly do. It's something I do every chance I get. I don't do it because I want ANYTHING in return. I do it because it makes me feel good and because I will ALWAYS try my damn hardest to help someone out. Anyone who doubts that can go get run over by a fucking bus. Eat a dick, you skeptical, critical bastards. The only reason you'd doubt that is because YOU are unable to have those sentiments.
However, it's one thing for me to enjoy donating when I want to, than to have someone FORCE me. That shit DOES NOT fly with me.

Numerous people have this... fucked up attitude when it comes to my family. They feel entitled to my parents' hard-earned money. They try and take and take and TAKE, their excuse being "They're rich! They have more than enough money. They won't miss this. But me, I need this money!"
Umm... hold up, hold up, homie.
That's where I rant.
It's one thing that my family doesn't have to worry about money, and another that we're here to just HAND OUT money like fucking Uncle Moneybags. When it comes to giving, there's one tiny little detail: it has to be of OUR will... not anyone else's.
We help out as much as we can when we see a family in severe need... but we take everything into consideration.
Down on your luck after BOTH of the breadwinners got fired, and you don't have enough money to buy your kids a new pair of shoes? Sure, here's some cash to help you out.
Down on your luck because you spent your paychecks purchasing iPads, xBoxes, digital cameras, the new Jordans, and Seven jeans? FUCK. YOU. Pawn your shit and live within your means, you fucking idiot. 
My parents don't work 12 hours a day for YOU to enjoy their money. Fuck, not one of us owns a fucking iPad!
Arrrrrrrrghhhhhhhh!

My latest rant comes thanks to Pocahontas (Teresita) and her husband.
Sure, I am very grateful for the warmth their entire family showed in Costa Rica... but I immediately caught on to a behavior I fucking hated. They were of the "Well, they're rich, they'll pay for everything!" mentality.
And yeah, man, we didn't mind paying for everyone's shit, that was the least we could do as a way to thank them for their extraordinary kindness. We gave away about three grand to the family... but these two ABUSED. They'd go fucking crazy: buy extravagant shit... and a shitload of food! Food that they would DISCARD! Nothing irks me more than when people don't eat what they order.... especially when they order tons of food and only pick at it... then just throw it away.
We're in Costa Rica! Have you not seen the poverty these people live in?! Francisco (guy with whom my folks and I stayed with) gets paid nine bucks an hour and he's the college educated manager at the bank! What the fuck is wrong with you?! EAT THAT SHIT or DON'T ORDER SO MUCH or BRING IT HOME WITH YOU! Don't throw it away, you wasteful piece of fucking shit!
And things in Costa Rica are expensive AS FUCK.
But these two were seriously like "Oh well, they can afford it. God has blessed them."
God. God. God! That's all they would boil it down to.
Yeah, homie, God has blessed us... but the main reason the blessing has stayed is because we've learned to MEASURE OUR SPENDING. We're not the Hiltons, you fucking idiot.
Dad is a sucker for the whole "God has blessed you, brother, and he'll continue to bless you, so spend away!" line.
So here was dad, paying for everything Pocahontas and her husband wanted... mind you, we're their landlords and we've forgiven two-months' worth of their rent.

But I didn't complain. I just rolled my eyes and swore never to hang with them again. I avoid those who take advantage.

ANYWAY.
Their Costa Rican family I do love. And I feel I'll never be able to repay them for everything they did for me. Like I said, we gifted them about three grand so they could fix their tin roof (they live in a house with a tin roof, just so you can sort of grasp the need of this family. Sure, Fran has a pretty fucking sweet DSLR camera, but that had been given to him from a rich bank customer who lives abroad), so they could buy their girls school supplies and clothes, and so they could cover their gas expenses.
I would have given them more, but they asked us NOT to, since we were their guests. I had to settle for giving them all the accessories I had taken with me: my sunglasses, my hats, my costume jewelry, my beauty supplies... shit, even my gum. I wanted to give them EVERYTHING. It's the least they deserved. I would have given them my shoes and clothes if they would have fit in them (no way they would though, since they're pretty tiny people).

What warmed my heart most was that the family very humbly tried reciprocating. That to me is priceless. Their gifts would be made of... simple materials like wood and paper... and they'd buy me fruit like nobody's business (Oh, granadilla! I still fight back tears when I think of your goodness!)... and that was better than giving me buckets of gold and precious stones.
I don't lie when I say "it's the thought that counts." That shit seriously moves me.

Before leaving, the baby girls gave me a handwritten card, which I already shared, and some jewelry made from coconuts. They gave Mom and Dad a beautiful painting of a Costa Rican landscape, made on a large piece of wood, with a very touching dedication written on the back.
That all went above and beyond... they did not have to spend a dime on us, but they so graciously and humbly did so.

Fast forward to Thursday, when one of the girls FB messages me, and informs me she sent some keychains with Pocahontas for us. She described them in detail, and told me they said they'd give it to Dad on Sunday (today) after church.
They came over a few hours ago, and handed us a small, white bag with the keychains.
I don't like opening shit in front of others-- because I find it to be disrespectful-- so I took the baggie to the kitchen and sat it on the kitchen table.
Mom and Dad took Pocahontas and her family to a restaurant (guess who's paying...), I stayed home.
Once alone, I walked to the kitchen and looked in the baggie...
The girl told me she had sent SIX keychains. How many were in the baggie?
Two. One for Mom, one for Dad.

I very loudly screamed "FUCK! YOU!" and felt like my chest was going to explode.
Yes, I'm ranting over four missing five-dollar keychains.
It's the principle of it.
They were meant for US (they were labeled, for fuck's sake!). This girl spent her hard-earned money on a couple of keychains meant for US to remember her by. How the fuck you gonna appropriate yourself of those keychains?
FUCK YOU, man! Fuck you, you selfish fucking prick.
You wanted keychains? Why didn't you buy them?
It makes me sick to my stomach to think of what the hell crossed these idiots' minds.
They're rich, they're not gonna miss these. Plus, my daughter's gonna love these!
Fuck, man. I'm sick of that shit attitude. God damn it.

.....
FUCKKKK THAAAAAAT SHIIIIIIIIIIT!

I'm sorry, guys... sorry... I'm just so fucking angry and upset. People are such fucking.... they're so... let me just ride this out a bit...
:(

Seven Red

Everyone in my family has had their fortune told... everyone but me.
I always joke that it's one of my life's goals to get a psychic reading... because I've never had the "luck" to have some random fortune teller approach me and ask to read me.
I'm eager to get read because I don't believe psychics are real... even if I do experience those weird psychic moments, as do the females in my maternal side of the family... but it's not like we know how to zero in on shit... it's just random spurts of... psychic shit.

At Dad's church, there's a lady known for her premonition... her "revelations."
Teresita.
I had never met her, but Dad and Mom are constantly having Teresita "reveal" shit for them.
Mom had described her as "simple" to me.
Me: Is she spot on with her "revelations?"
Mom: Yeah... I guess... she says shit to me that no one else knows, if that's what you mean.

She's the lady who a few years back left an eerie message on our answering machine when we drove out to Mexico. The message was her telling us "the danger is not in your hometown, it's on the way there... not in the mountains, but where the road is straight and narrow." That shit sent chills down our spine once we returned... because we knew just what she was talking about. That road is right after the border south of Arizona, spot we had to avoid because the computer system was down that day, and we wound up driving all the way out to El Paso to cross the border.
Bizarre, scary shit I tell you.

Anyway, Teresita is married to the guy with Costa Rican family.
Teresita and her hubby are Salvadorians who had to leave their country the moment the civil war broke out... they're the people who have devastating stories of death and destruction.
Teresita headed North, to the US, while her hubby went south, to Costa Rica.

OK, so these two wanted us very badly to visit Costa Rica. Teresita kept telling Mom that whole thing about the trip "serving a larger purpose."
Yeah, OK, sure, you weirdo.
I encouraged my folks to go because I REALLY wanted to experience Costa Rica, Mom was reluctant because she didn't want to spend an entire week with "Simple" Teresita.
I also kinda held on to the thought that maybe Teresita would go all weird on me and "read" me. Not gonna lie.
I won that battle... the visit Costa Rica battle.

The moment we stepped foot out of the airport I realized what Mom meant by "simple."
Teresita is... not all there.
Woman was STRANGE!
I immediately speculated she suffered some form of autism... or something of that nature. She repeated herself... she talked like... a subservient slave or something of that nature. She'd refuse to hold eye-contact, and she bowed a lot... kind of behaved like a traumatized puppy or something... an abused animal.
I'd feel sorry for her most of the time... because... she was just SO SIMPLE MINDED. Then I'd get frustrated with her, because she would NEVER shut up. She would either act like a know-it-all or she'd be wheedling the shit out of us... or she'd be trying to convert me or Mom (probably an entry dedicated to this shit in the future. This definitely frustrated THE FUCK out of me).
Can I just sit here and enjoy the view in complete silence for one motherfucking second?! SHIT!
I spent Tuesday through Thursday frustrated as fuck with her. It was like dealing with an eight year old with severe ADD.
I'd bite my tongue and listen to her because she told me her story, and I quickly found out she really DOES have the mind of an eight year old because she has a severe form of PTSD due to her experience with the Salvadorian Civil War. One day she just opened up about it and told me how she witnessed her friends get decapitated in front of her, how she'd hide in the tin roofs as she'd hear gunfire go back and forth, how she was separated from her family, and how she ultimately got rescued by a priest who sent her to the US. It was a TERRIBLY heart-breaking story... which... I mean, I completely understand why she's so mindfucked now, anybody would be. She was also physically abused by her father up until he left the family shortly prior to the war. This was noticeable because she'd get very upset at the slightest indication of aggression.
Poor lady, can't be mad at her arrested development... I just gotta love this poor little thing.

Fast-forward to Friday afternoon, our beach day.

Everyone was doing their own thing this day.
The men were out fishing, the kids were out playing in the ocean, and the girls were posing for photos on the shore... well, all but me, I was busy lounging around and being a bum... or just people watching.

At one point, I was finally tired of sitting around and I decided to walk on the shore, collecting seashells.
I was squatted down near a nice batch of shells, picking the "pretty" ones, when out of the blue, Teresita approaches me from behind and begins talking sternly to me... in a voice I had never heard before.
This were her exact words (I whipped out my journal the moment she left my side. I wrote it all down so I wouldn't forget):
"Usted tiene que colectar solo las conchas rojas. Así, medio rositas, como esta. Son para la salud y juventud. Para el corazón. 
A usted le tienen mucha envidia... los mas apegados a usted. De allí la han lastimado mas. Digo, son buenas personas, pero con usted no se... como que... pues, le tienen mucha envidia y la lastiman. Y por eso usted es así, callada, no dejas que se acerquen a ti. Usted es un ángel. Usted bendice a la gente... pero a veces bendice mal. No deje que la obscuridad le gane. Siete! Tiene que colectar siete piedras. Venga, yo la ayudo. Tome las siete piedras y pongalas en su cuarto. Le darán... paz, se abrirá mas a la gente.  
(she looks at my hand to see what shells I had been collecting)
"No, no, de esas piedras no.
(I had a brown and white shell in my hand, which she immediately shook out of my hand)
"Usted escoge mal, necesita ayuda para tomar decisiones. Solo escoja de estas. Las rojitas. Siete. Solo así será libre."

As she spoke, my heart raced. I couldn't speak. I was frozen.
Holy shit... I've waited for this all my life and here I am unable to ask questions... scared like some stupid little girl. How the fuck does she know this? Can she read my mind or something? Is she reading my mind right now? Shiiiit!
There I was, frozen in a squat on the beach, my hands in hers, as I held the rocks she had picked out.
She held her hands over mine, and said some weird prayer.
"There," she said... and walked away, aimlessly.
Holy. Shit.
I didn't move for about thirty seconds... totally confused over that random hit-n-run reading.

What did she say? She said "You have to collect ONLY the red shells. The red shells that are sort of pinkish, like this one. They're for health and youth. For the heart. They're very jealous of you, those closest to you. That's where they've hurt you the most. I mean, they're good people, but with you they're... I don't know... they're... well, they're very envious of you and they hurt you because of it. That's why you're the way you are-- quiet-- you don't let others get close to you. You're an angel. You bless people... but sometimes you bless incorrectly. Don't let the darkness win. Seven! You have to collect seven pebbles. Here, I'll help you. Take the seven pebbles and put them in your room. They'll give you... peace, you'll become more open to others. No, no, don't get THOSE kind of pebbles. You choose incorrectly, you need help when it comes to making decisions. Only choose these. The red ones. Seven. That's the only way you'll be freed."

It was absolutely terrifying. I wanted to cry.

It was the only "revelation" she had when it came to me... it was the only time I saw her get into that weird trance thing, but it was all I needed to realize this woman is legit.

Good ol' Pocahontas...
Teresita also had this eerie relationship with animals. They wouldn't fear her.

I don't know... maybe it's easier to use "simple" mind to express divine messages or whatever the heck that was... but dude... it was real.

Don't let the darkness get me...
Fuckin' A, dude...

Those shells/pebbles are sitting front-and-center in my room.

NoEmily

I've decided I'm going to FORCE myself to update... before I forget everything.
I'm sitting my ass down in front of the laptop, not opening any other website, and I'm jotting shit down.
Words are bound to flood my mind, right?

Many things occurred during this trip. Many, many, many things.
I originally thought I'd have time to update my blog at least once while in Costa Rica... but I still packed my handy paper journal. I lugged that fucking journal all over the place. No lie.
I connected to the internet TWICE: once to inform D we had made it to CR safely, and the second time to inform her we were heading back... and also to add my new friends on FB.
There was no time to snoop around my friends' pages, and especially no time to update the blog.
I heavily relied on the old school paper journal.

All good... except when EVERYONE caught me writing in it... and I had to explain myself.
Why the fuck does this always happen to me? Can't I just write down my thoughts without getting interrogated? What is this? North Korea?
I had to live with the fact that some of the people would want to know what I wrote about for the day. Oh well.

Anyway, I had to rely on the paper journal because I spent a great deal of my time driving through different states, and camping out. I actually managed to hit 6 of the 7 "provinces" aka states.
So fucking fun! No time for the internet... fuck that shit (or changing... I basically mixed-and-matched the same 2 looks. Whatevs)!

Here's where I stumble: I don't know whether to summarize the entire trip in one post, or go day by day, or go topic by topic. It's pretty overwhelming.
There was action, there were religious arguments, there were "revelations," parties, deaths... it was insane.

Let's go topic by topic... ? For now, I guess.

Kindness.
Let's start with that.

The degree to which Costa Ricans take kindness is astonishing... a little frightening.
Dude... I now understand how those fucking Spanish conquistadors eradicated the poor native americans... you gave and gave and gave until they fucking killed you from all of the advantage they took.
HUGE difference between Europeans. Europeans are dicks. Shiiiit, Northern Mexicans are dicks. Well... more like... overly cautious.
Costa Ricans... they're... I'm at a loss when it comes to trying to describe their generosity and warmth.

We stayed with the family of one of Dad's best friends. They had never met us... yet, when we arrived, they were SO welcoming... they acted as if we were long lost SIBLINGS.
I was reduced to tears (as well as my parents) when, in the middle of our cafe con leche dinner, a mariachi serenade interrupted us.
The family brought us a MARIACHI band! So unexpected.
Is this really happening??? I thought this shit only happened in movies! WHOAAAA!

Even traffic was courteous! The traffic sucks balls in the big cities, and while they have to drive aggressively, they fix the issue by honking in a particular fashion (as if the car is saying "MyBad!") where everyone's fine and dandy.
Other families also gave us food and shelter without second thoughts. They were humble homes... with tin roofs and one tiny bathroom... but it was more than enough for us. The quickness with which they allowed us in their home warmed my heart... and made me feel like an asshole... because I'd NEVER be so welcoming to strangers. I need to work on that.

Then there's Valery-- the shy five year old of the household.
She worked SO hard at winning me over.
Everyone knows I don't dig kids. I mean, I don't HATE kids, but I keep my distance. I let them do their thing, preferably WITHOUT me.
But Valery would not take my silence for an answer.
She would stand right next to me at all times, and stare at my hand.
I know admitting this makes me a cunt, but: I knew she wanted to hold my hand, but I'd purposely act as if I didn't know. I'd walk away.
Why would I do this? Well... because I didn't want to get attached. The moment I hold your hand is the moment I admit I care for you. It's the moment I let you into my heart. This kid lives in Costa Rica... when will I ever see her again? I don't want to hand another piece of my heart to someone in a foreign country, that shit is difficult to live with (I've had to learn to split my heart between my family here in the States and my family left in Mexico. I've had to part ways with my Mexico side every single year, and live yearning for the day I see them again. That shit sucks! Then they die... and the world comes to a screeching halt)... so I keep clammed up.
But little Valery did not accept that. She hustled me. And I fell.

Like trying to catch a butterfly...

She was so patient, so diligent... it was impossible to keep ignoring her.

...she sat there, patiently waiting for me

The moment I let her take my hand (she slyly kissed my arm when I wasn't looking. I quickly turned around to look down at her, and she only looked up with a smile on her face. That shit melted the HELL out of my heart. I wanted to cry. How can someone like a stranger [me] so much?) was the moment I went back in time, and I was freed. I was a kid again.
Her first words for me?

Why are you always smiling?

Me: I don't know... that's just the way I am. I'm really happy.

She started smiling with her teeth showing after asking me about MY smile.

I ran around with her (no, really, I ran around with her. She led me through a flower labyrinth... and I immediately thought of The Secret Garden... my head was spinning with nostalgia. I was transported to 3rd grade, a happy eight year old running hand in hand with a five year old. Crazy shit),

the determination on her face cracks me up. Kid was on a mission.

I drew with her,

Her goodbye letter to me (her sis Emily helped).
Inside she drew two girls holding hands, with the initials "T.Q.M.A" = Te quiero mucho, amiga (I love you, friend)

we chatted about the Jonas brothers (both agreed Nick is the cutest) and Zac Efron (I don't care if he's younger than I am, kid's fucking hot),
we sang together,
she mimicked me,

This one squeezes my heart. Both girls were great!

she admired me (the way she'd look at me was... strange. I've never seen someone... adore me like that)...

I gave them my mystery-flavored Stride gum and they made their pops photograph them holding the wrappers.
How fucking cute is that?!

I was her bestie, she was mine.
She never let me go... I was her property (she'd glare at her sister each time she'd try and get close to me. It was straight Nature/NatGeo shit going on. Endearing, but kinda scary).

Momentarily separated, but the camera caught the moment she was making a bee-line for my hand.

On Friday, she asked her Mom if it was possible for her to take me to her school on Monday.
ValsMom: Ay, honey, she won't be here by then.
Val: Oh. Well... it would have been fun...
Don't make me cry, you little midget! :(

On Saturday, I caught her staring up at me as I held her hand.
Val: Hehehehe... it looks like... you're my mom... :)
Me: ... :(
Cut it out! you're crushing my heart!

The oddest thing was that she'd amalgamated her sister's name with mine... and she'd often call me "NoEmily." That shit freaked me out.
How the fuck... no way! What's going on here?!

She made my stay so refreshing... and happy... and carefree.

As corny as this may sound: with the help of her sweet little hand, she gently managed to pull me out of the dark depths of my depression... and onward towards the light.

Before heading out to Costa Rica, Dad's BFF's wife was adamant about us going. She harped on the trip serving a greater purpose... she claimed it was going to change our lives.
She's psychic. She has premonitions that... are pretty fucking scary... and she totally got this one right.
...

I'll get to that lady and her premonitions tomorrow. I have a story to tell when it comes to her.

2000

I've been back for two days... and I tell myself I'll update ASAP, but things get in the way... like photo sifting.
TWO THOUSAND FOTOS.
I'm still not done.
My brain is fried.

But I will say this:
I've never been happier.
My batteries are definitely recharged.
Did I mention I'm really happy?

I'll make a real update soon enough, a fucking shitton of things happened this past week.

Tica

Costa Ricaaaaaa!

Pura Vida!

...
Let's keep our fingers crossed that I don't do something remarkably stupid and get myself killed.

...
ahhhhhhhh!
(I haven't been this excited in ages)

Frills

Easter Sunday.
Mmmmm.

I notice most people hit up church services in... well, their Sunday clothes.
I'm not a fan of Sunday clothes.
They remind me of hot Sunday afternoon Mass services as a kid.
I remember people towering over me as I stood on my pew, trying to get a peek at... anything that wasn't a man or woman's ass.
I remember when I'd give up, I'd turn around and stare at the people behind me, who'd often raise their eyebrows at me, as if greeting me. I'd return their friendliness with a scowl, and that would be my cue to turn around and find something else to do.
After giving up on seeing anything to the front or back of me, I'd grab one of the missals and sit on the... well, those cushions you kneel on... I don't know their name in English.
I'd be calm for about five minutes, staring at the occasional black and white photo of a seagull... I guess that shit was supposed to be inspirational or something. Anyway, after about five minutes, I'd get restless. It was hot, and the damn clothes I'd be wearing wouldn't help:

I still remember how itchy I'd be in that damn red dress.

Those frilly dresses would be accompanied with frilly pantyhose... frilly, itchy pantyhose.
I'd sit for five minutes and then feel as if I had sat on an anthill.
I'd remain there, however, because then "the reaping" would begin. That would be the moment this old lady would walk up to the altar and "collect" the kids for mandatory Sunday school.
Fuck. That!
She was loved by everyone there... I guess she was one of the oldest Sunday school teachers in the city... but that shit only freaked me out. Not a fan of old, hunchbacked ladies with liver spots... who proceed to try and coax me away from my parents. Fuck. That. I have separation anxiety, remember?

I'd sit there on that kneeling cushion, quietly, trying to go undetected... like those quails on Bambi.
Pleasedon'tseeme.Pleasedon'tseeme.PLEASEDON'TSEEME!
I'd watch the kids walk out of the pews and head towards the old lady like zombies... a lot of them crying and screaming "NO!" but having an older kid lead them by the hand.
NO! I'm not going! And no one better tattle on me... I'll be quiet, I promise!
Rafa would willingly head out the pew and join the kids. He had a buddy, so he didn't care.
Mom would look down at me, we're make eye contact, and I'd just shake my head with tears in my eyes.
Please don't let them get me...
She'd keep me.

In retribution, I'd sit quietly... in that itchy, hot attire... bored out of my mind.
One time, on an Easter Sunday service, actually, while rocking some sky-blue frilly pantyhose (they were frilly in the butt part. Lacy frills that felt like shit. Irritating and stupid... whoever invented that shit deserves to get slapped across the face with a hot branding-iron), I endured the entire service after sitting on some bubblegum. It was sticky... and gross... and giving me a panic attack, because I knew Mom was going to beat my ass for ruining a pair of pantyhose. Longest service of my life.
Fun times!

At 27, no more pantyhose... and a limited amount of dresses. No Easter Sunday Mass (because I go hardcore Saturday nights and celebrate the vigil. Asking me to go the next day is too much).

Happy Easter, folks.

3-hour rambles, now in Español!

Holy Week.
Holy Week!

These last two days have been busy. So busy. Church packed.
I'm hitting church for three hours at a time these last two days.
They're only supposed to be an hour-long!
My siblings and I hit up the Spanish Mass with Mom, so she doesn't feel lonely... but MAN! That priest talks and talks and TALKS!
I snuck in a nice little 30 minute power nap today in the middle of his sermon and he was STILL rambling on when I startled myself awake once my arm dropped and my head violently followed.

It's very difficult to keep my cool under such circumstances. Today there was an extra grievance, since fasting is involved. I haven't had a bite to eat all freaking day, and I keep taking glances at the clock, because come midnight, I'm chowing-down on some fucking food.
Very appropriately, tonight I watched the Hunger Games with my siblings... trying to kill time and keep my mind off food...
no dice (now all I can think is what I'd do if I were tossed into such a situation. I hate how my brain does that. I can't just watch a movie or read a book without my mind fucking with me).

This week has always driven me crazy. The people... the customs... it drives me bananas. Yet I still do it, go figure (no, no, I do perform a lot of these out of... the goodness of my heart, I do them wholeheartedly, but the whole sitting through a jam-packed service for THREE HOURS is not something I dig. Never have. Never will... unless it's at the Vatican... and even then, three hours is abusive... especially with this pope. I'd sit for six hours for the previous pope, he was awesome... but this new guy? Nah).

Tomorrow comes the big boy... the mass that is supposed to last three hours...
I don't know how I'll manage. At least I'll be fed, right? And I'm definitely going to the English service. No more Español... I don't want to hear a word about church en Español right now.

I just want to sleep... and eat.
Come on, midnight!

Hoebag

A few weeks ago, I was unpleasantly surprised when I dyed my hair.

I had planned to dye it light brown.

Surprise, surprise, my hair turned out RED.

I didn't freak out too much, because it did this ombre thing where my roots were red-ish but the tips were black. The gradation was strange, but I could live with it.

Fast forward to yesterday.

I had a coupon for a certain hair dye. I practically paid nothing, and the brand is a brand I dig. I swore my hair would turn out a little better, a darker brown.

What happens?

I have fucking red roots again and black tips. 

I'm lucky the whole ombre shit is popular right now... because I feel like a complete retard.

Mom: What the heck are you doing to get... such an odd outcome?

Me:... hmmm... well... considering how the hair is turning out... my best guess is that the supplements I've been taking fuck with the dye (I love how I can cuss around this lady, even during Holy Week. My mom has eased up so much recently)... makes it red.

Bonjour, je m'appelle AnoMALIE, et je suis une... scientiste? 

Looks like I'm going to be a redhead for a minute.

I'm trying jet-black next month... maybe that shit will work.

In other news, I have a very sexy cold-sore adorning the lower right side of my lip... and by "sexy" I mean "fucking disgusting, life wrecking piece of shit."

In a perfect world, I'd stay locked in my house, avoiding sunlight until this stupid shit gets off my lips... but my body requires way too many fucking veggies.

I was out of spinach and asparagus, so I decided to make a run for the grocery store.

This lifestyle change has made me LOVE grocery shopping. I enter my own little world and I sit in the produce section for far longer than I must. My mind switches to calm-mode... and I forget about my surroundings.

That happens when I'm at the grocery stores near my house... the white-washed section of the valley.

But see... I REALLY like the stuff they have in the hood... because the healthy bastards in my area eat all the stuff I like, so I rarely find stuff I need... but in the hood, BOY! I find my stuff with a quickness... AND it's cheaper.

So it's a tough choice. It all depends on how much gas I have in my tank.

ANYWAY, today I chose the hood.

Immediately, I noticed a particular character... a character I've never been all too lucky with, they always hate me for no reason, and I don't have the balls to say anything back:

Totally unintentional setting, but when I read it, I laughed to myself like a crazy person.
Only thing fresh on this bitch is... her ass she is so proudly flashing to the world. Breezy down there, homegirl?

We followed each other around the store, buying the same shit.

Things got awkward when we wound up following each other to the same checkout counter-- as I was diligently bagging my own groceries. Chick rolled her eyes at me, but I acted as if I couldn't see anything (mainly out of fear. I don't fuck with that shit).

Right as I was going to walk away, bitch straight up tells her fellow hoodrat:

"Let this fucking hoebag pass."

...

????

What the...

I did not say a word... just felt my chest burn with rage, and walked away.

What gave her the impression I was a hoebag?!

I sat in the car and thought about it... 'cause shit like that can bug me for years.

Was it the fact that I was wearing pants? A black t-shirt?

Than I remembered:

Motherfucking cold-sore!

Add insult to injury, upon closer inspection, I realized I had two white stains (from a melting ice cream cone I was holding a while back) on the black skinny jeans I was wearing... stains being located near my groin area.

Touché, bitch... touché.

physics-philia?

Damn it!
I ruined it.
I was going to try being consistent with my blog this month. I was trying to gun for an entry a day, only missing the week I'll be away. But no. Bummer. I fucked it up.

I guess I'll see it as a positive, considering I was still riding incredibly high from the whole Costa Rica trip news (yesterday Dad confirmed that we have a fishing trip date set--I don't care for fishing, but Daddy loves it, and it brings good memories to me. AND, far more exciting news for me: trip to Corcovado National Park is set. I'm surprised I didn't piss my pants with that last bit of news. Words can't express how ecstatic I am about that, seriously. Childhood. Dreams. Yes, I was that kid watching all those nature--and Nature-- shows on TV just for the fun of it). I'm hell of annoying when overjoyed, it's best to shut me up.

The joy factor is... well, I'm still up there, but a little more controlled.
No promises for tomorrow though, since Ruffles is coming to town and will be with us until Easter. Everyone knows I'm obnoxiously happy when my broski is in town.
I'll try and keep it calm until then.

I'll mention "travel" one more time because yesterday, Mom and I realized we're going to be doing a bit of it over the summer, for weddings. One wedding will take place in boring ol' Nebraska, and another will go down in Santa Rosa.

I know a good deal about the Nebraska family, so I didn't bother with their wedding site (how strange... to have one of those. We are getting so fucking white-washed). However, while I know a good deal about my Napa family, I don't know much about the bride, my Napa Valley cousin. I decided to visit her wedding site.
Homegirl's hilarious, and I was having a pleasant time reading her site.
The Bio section, the wedding party section, and the ceremony section were fine... then I got to the "Our story" portion.
I was sitting at my kitchen's bar, Mom was cooking at the stove, Dad was in the dining room... and I managed to startle both.
"That's fucking DISGUSTING!"
Mom: AnoMALIE! Your mouth!
Dad walks into the kitchen.
Dad: What happened?!
Me: She's marrying her HIGH SCHOOL PHYSICS TEACHER! Fucking GROSS!!
Mom: Your mouth!
Dad shrugs and walks away, shaking his head.
Me: Motherfucker's OLD!
Mom gives up trying to shut me up, but walks over to me.
I begin reading the paragraphs aloud, so Mom could see why I was grossed out.
Mom: Well, it was obvious he's much older than her, just look at the picture.
Me: The dudes a white man... sneaky when it comes to deciphering their real age.

Turns out he was her physics teacher back in '98, and they didn't meet back up until two years ago. He was in the checkout line at Safeway, and she spoke to him first.
"Aren't you Mr. ***, physics teacher at *high school*?" she asked.
Bullshit, homie... trying to act like this was all serendipitous. You KNOW you had the absolute hots for the guy back in high school and the moment you saw him in that checkout line you jumped for joy. You knew exactly who he was... you little Lolita.

After being completely grossed out for a few minutes, I remembered I have her same issue. No... not like that, I'm just like her because I too had a weakness for a few of my teachers.
Something about a guy educating you is just... irresistible. I dig it. Way too much.

Get it, girl!

I'd just NEVER go for my physics teacher... that's just... no. No. No. NO.
And not one of my high school teachers, either. The thought gives me grossed-out goosebumps.

Pura Vidaaaaa!

IT'S OFFICIAL!

And it's not a joke (I LOATHE April Fool's Day. Stupidest fucking day of the year).
I'm going to Costa Rica on the 10th (Dad wanted to go on the 8th... as in... EASTER... WTH?)!

I've been light-headed ever since I booked the flight.

The way life is readjusting itself is so... it's so... remarkable. I don't know what to say! I'm just ecstatic and incoherent and all I want to do is jump and cheer and scream... and kiss people!

The relaxation from today's activities went down the drain and I'm now pumped like... some wind-up doll.
No remnants of my calm hike through the gorgeous landscape my lovely city has to offer

I am one ASHY motherfucker

Nope... I'm all giddy and loud.

April, you are going to be one HELL of a fucking awesome month!
THANK YOU!