Swap and meet outside.

Mom employed various methods to control her kids at church.
My siblings and I would be bribed or threatened into good behavior.
I've mentioned the whole McDonald's thing, where she'd promise us each a Happy Meal if we behaved in church.
Mom would also threaten to beat our ass if we made a sound... which I'm sure isn't too difficult to believe, considering what a tyrant my madre can be.

OF COURSE I preferred to get bribed into good behavior... because I was a good, calm kid anyway, the bribe would turn out to be a damn reward!
My favorite bribe?
If you behave yourself for a month, we'll go to the outdoor swapmeet!

I didn't care for the actual place much... I have that social anxiety thing where too many people in one place pisses me off.
I went because I loved looking at the ponies.

I never did ride the fucking ponies... I hardly even saw them, since I was a kid and the stupid parents always obstructed my view.

I spent many Sunday morning at that outdoor swapmeet... made a lot of memories.

Today I hit that place up for the first time in 17 years.
First order of business? Take me to the fucking ponies!
It was only Mom and me, so the little lady didn't mind obliging me.
After walking for a few minutes... dodging a few crying children (these two little kids-- a brother and sister, boy around 4 years old, girl around 2-- broke my heart SO BAD after I heard the boy screaming "MAMI!" I turned around from the stand I was standing in front of, and nearly started crying myself the moment I saw the little boy holding on to his terrified little sister and leading the way through the crowd, as he too wailed, but kept his eyes open in search for his mom. He looked so scared, so sad, totally ready to start a life as an orphan in charge of his baby sister. He also looked ready to beat anyone who tried nabbing him or his sis. It was insane... it was heartbreaking... and enraging-- I wanted to find their mother and beat the shit out of her. WHAT is more important than your fucking toddlers, you fucking imbecile? Take care of your kids or don't bring them at all! Goddamn, the horror and fright in their eyes still makes my chest feel heavy with sadness for those babies... and I fucking hate kids, ok? But that was SO uncool!), we reached our spot:

After this glorious moment where Mom permitted me to gush for a minute or two (I mean, just LOOK at those ponies! MAN! SO FUCKING ADORABLE!), I allowed her to lead me where ever the hell she wanted.
We spent HOURS at this swap meet. It was the most entertaining people-watching moment I've had to date.
I felt a twinge of fear when I realized... I have WAY too many things in common with these people.
I... am one of them.
Dios mio...

Once home, Mom and I would laugh at each observation we made.
Often, we'd sit in silence and just hold eye-contact, smiling... tears wanting to form.
I love you, Mom.
I love you, Mija.
Thank you. For everything.
Thank you... for being you.

We've come so far...
My momma did so much to try to give us a normal childhood... it makes me get all choked up.
The woman drives me crazy, but I sure do love my momma.

Calmadita Venadita.

Fuck. Took me long enough to update. My bad.
I've been back since Friday morning... after a 24.5 hour-long road trip that I BARELY recovered from... though I'm still struggling with this fucked up eye-issue:

I scared a good number of people with this shit...

But at least I'm back.

I'm tan.
I'm happy.
I'm calm.
I saw stars.
I saw/smelled wildflowers.

FINALLY saw flowers this summer.
I ran through the fields á la Heidi.

I smelled rain-soaked sand.
I got soaked as I walked in the rain.
I watched lighting storms from the comfort of a porch at 1 in the morning... sitting on a rocking chair... in complete darkness... in complete silence.
I walked my beloved unpaved streets.

I find this infinitely charming.

I chilled in my comfy pink house... even if it's starting to come apart.

Yeah, the walls are coming down...
but I still prefer sitting here, listening to the television, as I doodle away.

I sketched like a madwoman.

In case you doubt my claim of ADD...
I can't focus on just one sketch, I gotta go off and doodle random shit.

I wrote like a scholar... well, like a foul-mouthed scholar...
I laughed. A lot.
I ate... A LOT.

Tacos y cheves, left and right, day and night.

Boys were my sole company.
I made peace with one of my only two female "enemies."
Each night, I was fortunate enough to play with a brindle pitbull who was inexplicably smitten with me-- the feeling was mutual.

I also played with puppies once in a while.

cute sons of bitches.

I rode a horse!
Each morning, I woke up to this beautiful sight:

El UNICO que merece mis suspiros.

Did I mention I laughed a lot and I was happy... and that I did not shed a single tear? Well, I did cry, once, but that was when my godson paid me a surprise visit. After not seeing him for two years, I found myself sobbing with joy as he hugged me. It was really weird, the second time I ever do it... but it was so sincere. I fucking love that kid.

I ADORE being Mexican.

Viva Mexico, Cabrones.

Ay dolor.

My urge to go to Hometown comes in waves.

Sometimes, I'm ready to jump on the next bus to Mexico, other times I want to slap myself for ever thinking about visiting that war zone.

Some days I'll have some relatives in Mexico trying to convince me to travel down to visit them, other days they're calling my house and telling me it's dangerous as fuck and that I should just stay nice and safe on this side of the border.

While I'm still on the fence about Mexico... and will continue to be in such a state until September rolls around, I've noticed my subconscious has compensated for my indecision:

I am speaking Spanish all over the place... at all times.

Yeah, I DO speak Spanish on a regular basis, since it tends to be the only language I speak to my folks in, as well as my aunts and uncles (actually, I ONLY speak Spanish to my aunts and uncles. My brain is hardwired to do that), but for the most part, when I think and stuff, it'll be in English (except when I do basic math, I always do that shit in Spanish for some reason).

Well, not recently.

Everything I do AND think is in Spanish.

This only bums me out. Here I am being a total bean in the States, but in Mexico, all I do is speak English and listen to English music. It's a constant reminder, Hey bitch, what the fuck are you doing over there in Vegas that is so important that you haven't returned to your roots in two years, huh? Traitor.

My brain likes to torture me.

Ayyyy, dolor! Me quiero largar!

Paint Mah House!

Hey, AnoMALIE! It's the hottest day of the year, what are you going to do?
I'm gonna paint a house!

Fuck. I'm exhausted.
So many things I want to rant about, laugh about, and ask about... but my fingers are killing me!
Let's see how far I can take this entry:

So we're landlords right? I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but yeah, we have a number of homes, and this latest acquisition is a motherfucking handful.
My dad, ever the stereotypical Mexican Machista asshole, doesn't want to do shit. He just coughs up money to his STUPID "brothers" from church to do shit for him... everything from mopping, sweeping, or painting the walls.
Mom and I are fed up with this bullshit. It's one thing to pay people twenty bucks to sweep a fucking kitchen, and another to pay someone 100 bucks for that shit. Come on now, that's fucking shameless... to charge that much. It's not like I'm asking Paris Hilton to sweep... get the fuck out of here!
Mom has been doing EVERYTHING at this house.
Dad doesn't even call her to see how she's doing. He just comes home at 3 in the afternoon, sits in his sofa, and surfs the internet. He doesn't even bother to cook.
And people question why I REFUSE to get married? I'm sorry... umm... how in the fuck is this behavior supposed to entice me to commit such a fucking stupid action? FUCK. THAT.
I felt horrible for Mom this morning, so I decided to join her at noon.
We painted from 12PM-8PM.
At first Mom was reluctant to allow me near the paint. She's under the impression that I'm still that four-year-old who doodled her name all over the walls in her favorite magenta crayon.
She made me responsible of removing the paint from the mirrors and windows using only a razor blade.
After finishing the bathroom and all four bedrooms, Mom walked into the master bedroom, where I was checking my phone.
Mom: Look at you! You're super good with the razor!
Me: I was an angsty teenager, Mom. I'm a fucking PRO with razor blades.
At least she didn't suspect my mastery was due to cocaine abuse... right?

After Mom saw I had no more surfaces to fuck up with a razor blade, she trusted me with the paint roller.
First thing I do? Spill paint directly into my eye.
That lady knows me better than I know myself.
I was entrusted to paint the ceiling, and... because I'm an idiot, I looked up just in time to have a huge drip of paint fall directly into my right eye.
I proceeded to nearly kill myself as I jumped off the (ROLLING!) bar stool I was standing on.

Rough start, but I eventually turned into the Bob Ross I always knew I was meant to be.
I was working like a legit day-worker...

I worked so fucking hard on that manicure last night...
I was seriously pissed off.

as if Mom drove to Home Depot and whistled at me.
Working hard... just Mom and I... from 12PM to 8PM. Dad NOWHERE in sight.

I'd find myself cracking up at times... whenever I thought about school... my biology degree.
Remember, kids, stay in school! Oh... wait... that's right... I'm painting a motherfucking house like some illegal immigrant... and I have a biology degree at home... hmm...

I didn't eat a bite since breakfast, which was at 10AM.
I came home at 8PM and prepared myself a meal the moment I walked into the house.
As I was grabbing spices from the cupboard, Dad waddled into the kitchen.
He had been home since 3PM-- FIVE hours, plenty of time to either cook himself some fucking food, or even drive two minutes away to the nearest fucking In-N-Out.
As I turned around with the spices in hand, I caught Dad shoving half of my meal (shredded chicken breast) in his mouth.
I almost cried.
I wanted to cuss at him SO BAD... but all I managed to do was grumble "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

I huffed and puffed... but I did not cry.

Each day I stand firmer next to my claim that I am NEVER getting married. Fuck that shit. Fuck purposely attaching myself to a man who won't do shit for me and will treat me worse than a fucking dog the moment I sign that fucking paper.
Not I. I will not do that.

Great, now I'm grouchy...
Let me just get this out of my system:
MEN CAN'T DO SHIT!

Ok, all better! 

I DO love Skittles...

I have been quite creative today.
I felt the urge to do something artsy since last night, when I returned from a family function that had me quite chirpy. Something about hanging out with my M side makes me... happy. Ok... maybe the fact that I overdosed on chocolate might have something to do with the chirpiness as well. That shit had me amped until three in the morning. No, seriously, I was like this the entire night:

I was holding my heavyass camera up there,
I wasn't intentionally posing like an idiot, ok?
... I have such an enormous head...

Anyway, since I couldn't quite... properly harness the energy, I decided to sleep on it.
I haven't encountered a stroke of creativity in a while, so the moment I opened my eyes and realized the creative energy was still there, I decided to take full advantage.
First, I created a beautiful (and I heard "delicious" from those who ate it... I didn't touch it, since I'm staying off the carbs for a few weeks) strawberry-banana protein cake for Sister to take to work for breakfast.
Afterward, I decided to paint.

A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping and once again, the home department called my attention. I almost purchased a painting that had four of my five favorite cities listed.
Yeah... that was ALL that was painted... just words... yet I felt the urge to buy that shit.
However, since I'm frugal as FUCK, I talked myself out of it, convincing myself I'd just go home and create one.
Well, today was finally the day to make good on that promise.

To start the process, I first painted the five bases. As in, each city was going to have a different background for it's color.
I ranked the city from favorite to least favorite, top to bottom... and assigned each city a color... a color with which I associated it most.
My list of cities goes like this:

1. Barcelona
2. London
3. Rome
4. Paris (yeah, I couldn't believe it either)
5. New York

Ok, so I paint the canvas according to the list, and leave it to dry in the living room (place where I decided to start painting, because I do shit impulsively).
I proceed to go about my day, staying out of the house from 3PM until 7PM.
Everyone was home once I returned.
I walked to my room, to drop off all the shit I had been carrying around, and wound up bumping into my sister.
Sister: SO... what's up with that uh... painting you left in the living room?
Me: I left that painting out to dry while I went out and did shit. Why?
Sister: Just 'cause... we were just... wondering... my DAD was wondering... what the hell was up with that RAINBOW.
Me: It's not a rainbow.
Sister: Uh, no. It's CLEARLY a huge rainbow. Dad walked into the kitchen and asked us what you were "trying to say" with that painting.
Me: It's NOT a fucking rainbow.... a rainbow is ROYGBIV... and my painting's red, yellow, greeeen... bl...ue... and indi... fuck dude, IT'S NOT A RAINBOW!
What I'm "trying to say?" What the fuck, Dad?! Yeah, like I'm going to come out by  painting a giant canvas as a rainbow... I plan on marching with that shit at the next PRIDE parade... yeah, Dad.

I was frazzled... but still decided to continue with the painting... even if the vindictive, stubborn mule in my wanted to leave the giant "rainbow" canvas as-is, to irritate Dad with my supposed declaration of homosexuality.
Not even twenty minutes in, while I was in the process of drawing yellow stripes on the red section (get it? Barcelona... Spain... RED... Catalunya= red and yellow stripes. Ta-Da!), Dad tapped me on the head.
Dad: What ya doin' there?
Shooting heroin. Staring at lesbian porn through my phone. What do you think?
Me: Painting, Dad, I'm painting.
Dad: Yeah, I can see that... but WHAT?
Me: NOT a rainbow, ok? NOT a rainbow.
Dad: Good. I'm GLAD... relieved it's not a rainbow.

Just wait for my next piece of work: I <3 COCK!
Is that straight enough for ya, DAD? "What I'm trying to say"... get the fuck outta here.

I was at a Chente concert...

Mmmmm.
Yesterday.
Good day.

This morning... not so much.

Yesterday, the pregaming began as I played board/card games with a couple of white folks (I say that lovingly... mainly because as a Mexican, boardgames are just... so not... popular. We do other shit... like drink and get pregnant. I'm glad I have "white" friends to show me the ways of this country... right?).
How'd that go? Fun and snack-tastic. I blew my morning's heavy leg workout after snacking on the nachos and fresh, giant chocolate chip cookies at the cardgame spectacular. Was it worth it? Ummm... I'm on the fence with that one... since I think nachos are a waste of tummy space with zero nutritional value... or flavor. The cookie... I would have eaten another two had I not guilt-tripped myself about the goddamn nachos. Fucking nachos. Maldita basura!

After that fun-packed afternoon, a drunken display of Mexican pride ensued.
How so?
I went to go see the icon of Mexican music. The man, the myth, the legend: Vicente Fernandez.
Knowing I was going to deal with the entire Mexican population of the city of Las Vegas, I had to do something to prep: Drink.
Trick to Chente concerts is to pregame shit before arriving to the venue. Makes it a little less painful.

Sis and I took a tequila-filled water bottle, braved the stupid ass traffic in the parking garage... and once parked, swigged the fuck out of the bottle.
Good thing.
I'd like to take this moment to apologize for... my people.
GOD!
What these eyes saw...
This is what people associate when the word "Mexican" is dropped... Lord, have mercy!
People were fighting for about an hour near my seats... all because motherfuckers don't understand NUMBERS.
Dyscalculia is this prevalent amongst Mexicans? I'm definitely not gonna breed with them, then. Shit, my kids would be fucked.
About 90 percent of the girls present were in tight miniskirts/dresses... which, I mean... can be OK under certain circumstances... and when you have a smoking bod...
... but not when you're a 45 year old mother of three. COME ON, LADIES! WHAT THE FUCK?!
About 60 percent of the girls in miniskirts looked like streetwalkers... the other ones looked like simple floozies. The streetwalkers were identifiable based on their hairstyle and choice in makeup... sometimes their shoes.
I started feeling bad after the 100th girl I saw in this attire. I became self-conscious because I was wearing dark jeans, black TOMS, a black button-down shirt (showed off my cleavage... which made me feel somewhat Latina when I walked out of the house... but not once I stepped foot in the Mandalay Bay), and a black track jacket. Peer pressure was getting the best of me.
Oh no... I stick out more than the whore-y girls because I'm dressed like I'm going to catch a basketball game... Fuck... should I... umm... unfasten the top button on my shirt... maybe?
I decided to TRY and be a little... BAM! out there, so I took off my jacket and pulled down my shirt a little.
There. See. Yeah. I'm a Mexican girl. Enough? Cool. Now quit staring at me as if I were an alien. Look at the chick over there in the leopard print minidress and seven inch metallic heels.

Aside from having to deal with people... which we all know I'm terrific at... I had a blast.
I took videos of some of the songs... which I did think about posting, however, Mom's screaming in ALL of them, so they're a no. And yes, I'm screaming in some of them... which is extremely embarrassing, but DAMN, those songs just know how to cut me deep.
Aca entre nos, siempre te voy a recordaaaaaar!

Also, a magical moment I had was while making line for the metal detector at the concert.
There were some big screen televisions on the side of the building... I think it was a bar, but considering the mass of sombrero-rockin' Mexicans blocking the entrance, it could have been anything.
Anyway, at one point I turned and saw the majority of people in line were watching the game that was being played.
What game? The UNLV vs. UNC basketball game.
I believe it was at the point where the score was 82 Rebs, 72 Tar Heels... and everyone in line started chanting "RE-BELS!"
My heart filled with joy... who cared if so many of these short, obnoxious, drunk men were staring down my shirt... we were all rooting for the Rebels!

Ah... t'was a great day/night... even if at some point we lost part of my sister's car... and then I woke up unable to speak for a few hours.

RE-BELLLLLLLLLLLLS!

Babies, GTFO!

My Saturday was spent being an adult.

I attended my ex-adopted brother's baby shower. Make sense?
It's the dude who was super incredibly chill with me a few years back, then all of a sudden lost his balls once he got in a relationship.
Well, he wound up marrying the girl who cut his balls off, and apparently it wasn't too successful of a vasectomy, because they're now awaiting the birth of their first kid.

Since I'm only resentful with certain subject, being kicked to the curb for a girl isn't TOO serious... especially if my dude friend ends up marrying the chick.
I guess they WERE serious.
The moment they try and mend fences, I'll more than gladly agree.

OK, so yeah, my ex-adopted--maybe-one-day-re-adopted brother invited D and me to the baby shower, and we agreed to attend.
We arrived three hours late to the shindig, just in time for the cupcakes and cookies, but too late for the games. Perfect, if you ask me... 'cause I fucking hate being peer-pressured into partaking in the stupid party-games of baby showers... or any party, really. Fuck that shit.

As made obvious by the photos, I was being my typical wallflower-self:

I'm a "Where's Waldo?" fan.

This would be my "Where's AnoMALIE?" entry.
"I'm wearing black..."

Clearly, I'm having the time of my life.
I love everything related to babies.
Right.

Well, not a complete wallflower, since I WAS talking to the people around me, and not just D.
(I just love how I can find all these fucking FB photos of me being a creeper! WTF?!)

After the gift-opening extravaganza, where tears were shed by the majority of the people present (babies cried because they were tired, adults cried because Ex-Adopted-Brother was crying like a baby over his mother's gift), we turned the party into... well... a party.
We cranked up the Vicente Fernandez as the "Babies, GTFO!" sign.
Once the babies were gone, we busted out the tequila, and the drinking commenced.

Some days, I just refuse to believe there's a better thing than being Mexican.

Ballenita

Like how I lied and acted as if I posted an entry last night?
Well, it's a half-truth.
I was working on the entry when my sister walked into the room and yelled at me about "needing it for a bit!"
I did that cheat post where I post it and then save it as a draft, so when I DO post it, it'll show up as if it was written the previous day.
Anyway, I was planning on posting it once D was done with Mr. Mac, but I was so exhausted from the day's activities, that once I heard the Doug theme song (I am LOVING this "90's Are All That" programming on TeenNick. I will scream that at the top of my lungs if anyone doubts), I crashed. I really have no idea who turned off the lights and television.
Back to the post, once I saw it this morning, I realized all of my inspiration was gone, so I went ahead and posted it as-is.

And now... my inspiration is still gone.
No one made me angry.
I didn't swoon over some random cute dude.
Nothing.

My mind's blank.
So uh... yeah... here's a dancing Beluga Whale named Juno who happens to have similar taste in music as I do (and currently, Mom and I have a little joke where she asks "Como baila la ballenita?" [how does the little whale dance?] and I wiggle around... yeah, I'm calling myself a little whale, apparently).
Stole my heart, really... the cute little bastard.


If you happen to dislike whales for some reason or another--you heartless motherfucker-- here's a funny video on something I dislike. Take your pick of the two (I find both equally hilarious. So I watched both... twice. Oh yeah):

Hipsters:


They should have remained at the yuppie stage... Christian Bale made them irrevocably hot to me. Thanks a lot, you awesome... beautiful actor.

Facebook:

"FUCK YOU, MIKE! I WILL NOT JOIN YOUR CULT!"
I might have fallen in love. hahaha

Happy Thursday.

Empa-nadas.

Yesterday's wedding went as predicted.
The mass part was empty, but come food time there wasn't a damn empty seat in the house.
Once that shit was over, I dropped by another spot to have a celebratory drink with a birthday boy.

Apparently I was in a fantastic mood, because I then had an urge to bake for my dad.
He has been bugging me about empanadas for well over a month... I'm talking non-stop "Mija... you know what would be a good idea? If you were to pick up on them... empanadas. Empanadas are always good." Every. Single. Day.

Since today is Father's Day, and my little Pops puts up with so much of my shit (like me calling him a neanderthal every other week, when he frustrates me... although I actually favor the term "troglodyte" because the sound is just.... it soothes me since it sounds so ugly, but appropriate for my rage. Much better than that one time I called him a "fucking idiot"), last night a sense of urgency overpowered me. Something told me that baking a few dozen empanadas wouldn't be TOO difficult, and I HAD to do it. I wasn't even THAT drunk.
Someone must have been smoking weed around me or something...

Anyway, at around midnight, I went ahead and rushed to the store and picked up powdered sugar, flour, baking powder, and butter... since I don't have any of that in my house.
I'm sure the store workers must have thought I was a crazy lady.
I did them all by my damn self... without anyone instructing me (I seriously must have been unwittingly high).
By two in the morning, I pretty much WAS a crazy lady. I was damning the moment I had convinced myself I was a legit Mexican.
The empanadas started out ROUGH:

Take a stab at (no pun intended) which one was my first EVER attempt at an empanada...
Of course the gringo-style crimping would be the one that DOESN'T work.

But by the end, I guess you could say I regained some of my legit Mexican status.

I heard they were tasty.
I, of course, am not eating any of the 48.

Homemade corn tortillas... now empanadas... shoot, all I need now is to master tamales and I'll add "Maria" as my middle name.

Tortillitas

Today, I became a legit Mexican.
No, I didn't finally get my Mexican passport, I did something BETTER:
I made a tortilla from scratch.

Ok, I don't know if I can technically call it that, since I wasn't out there grinding corn and all that hoopla. Instead, I went ahead and purchased some good ol' MASECA.

Food of the GODS!

I then went ahead and prepared the dough (is that what you call it in English? I just call it "masa"). Then I rolled a nice little ball, flattened it, and finally, heated it up.
I felt so fuckin' accomplished!
THIS is what it's like to be a Mexican female?! Oh my God! I LOVE IT!
The end product?

Fuckin' beautiful!

Sure, it needs a little bit of help... but IT'S MY FIRST TORTILLA!
Pretty soon I'm going to start rolling out shit that looks like dinosaurs and calla lillies.

It's funny, because I'm not much of a tortilla person. I haven't had one in well over six weeks... wait, let me correct that: I hadn't had one in over six weeks... since I caved today and ate that tiny baby I created.
I only crave them when I'm away from home, like that short month abroad. I spent the last two weeks of my stay ready to stab anyone for a tortilla.
(I should have taken a cue from Guillermo del Toro and how he had a bunch of MASECA in his luggage when he went over to Spain to film Pan's Labyrinth... although Customs intercepted the bags, and they were convinced it was coke. Poor guy had all his MASECA packages stabbed. Then again, back when I was over in good ol' Spain, I didn't know how to make tortillas, so it would have been pointless)
However, due to my lack of interest in living (I say that jokingly. Last week when I thought I was dying I was freaking the fuck out), tortillas were given up for an unusually long time.
Today was the magical day when they were once again allowed, and I do believe they're going to stay.

The smell brought back awesome memories of my summers in Mexico:
Waking up with the sun shining through the curtains, the roosters doing their thing (normal people call it "singing," I believe... kids call it "cock-a-doodle-dooing"), the sound of Gramps getting his horses ready to head out to his little farm... and I'd stretch as wide as possible, hoping to wake up everyone else (Mom and Sister. We'd sleep together on a giant bed).
Grandma would walk in at seven in the morning, and ask us if we wanted to join her to get the tortillas.
Mom, Sis, Grandma, and I would walk together to the tortilleria, something that took about five minutes to and from. While Mom and Grandma talked, Sister and I would throw rocks at the lizards resting in the sun... or we'd be trying to sneak up on giant yellow and blue butterflies.
The closer we'd get to the house where they made the tortillas, the more delicious the smell would get.
Soft, warm tortillas... wrapped in a blue cloth, stacked in a bright orange bucket.
The walk back home would be a run back home.
Huevos Rancheros, baby!!

Man... I loved those days.
I miss Mexico... I miss my childhood...
but above all... I'm reminded of how much I miss my grandparents.
They really were some of the most important people in my life. They made so many parts of life special... especially the simple shit... like the daily walk for fresh, homemade tortillas.

Super(wo)man

Ah yes, the day when the US and Mexico got together to kick some imperialist French ass.

How did this Mexican celebrate (because I'm always down to celebrate anything that has to do with beating the French at anything)?
Hanging out with an ex boyfriend and his live-in girlfriend... and his parents... and mine.
Awkward? Now, why would you say that?

The ex is the guy whose dad and my dad sort of planned for us to get married. Prearranged marriage not so much, since we had the option of not dating... but our dads were stoked with the idea for years... possibly a decade. Then I grew up.
Yes, I liked him... a lot, actually, while growing up. He was my childhood crush since I was eight. However, he's six years my senior, so it was all weird. We played the waiting game (of course, this was after I was 13... which is still gross as fuck when you think about it), he went off to college in Chihuahua (oh yeah, he's 100% Mexican), and I quit seeing him. I forgot all about my crush since I would no longer see him when I'd visit Hometown.
Then I went to college, and thought "Really? Move to go live in Mexico with him? HELL NAH!" and so... the illusion faded.
In like... '07 he came to Vegas on a visa, he let the visa expire, Dad hired him (fuck, uh... act like I didn't just say that)... and still, nothing came to be.
Shit just doesn't work out sometimes.
Plus, my trip to europe made him think I was "unreachable," to quote him... and now, when I occasionally visit Dad's work, I have to share awkward pleasantries with him... because we're still... cool, I guess... since there aren't any hard feelings to be had.

ANYWAY!
Since things didn't work out between us, he was free to roam around and prowl for chicks. About a year ago, a girlfriend he had back in college visited Vegas, and they bumped into each other at a popular Mexican restaurant/club.
She was going to leave the next day, since her Visa was going to expire, and that's when she told him she'd stay... if he wanted her to.
They've been living together ever since.

Kind of a cute story, if you ask me... although being an illegal immigrant sucks balls, and I wouldn't want to pull that move anywhere... even Spain.

OK, so this guy's parents are in town, and since my folks are still really close friends with them, Dad invited them over the house today for a nice little dinner.
My ex... let's call him G. G wanted to have the dinner some other day. Why? Because his girl's day off is today.
Too bad, bro, the dinner's today. Bring her! The more the merrier! Was basically Dad's reaction.

Mom then slyly informed me of the dinner, and told me to be ready by 3.
Since I'm always so prim and proper... I listened to my folks... stubborn-mule-AnoMALIE style:

This looks like a job for Superman!
Er, I mean... it'll take super hero strength not to jump off a birdge today.

Take that, PARENTS! That's what I think of your fucking dinner and making me feel awkward! Let's just add to the vibe!
I don't own a tie, so I just wore a fake one on my shirt. Plus, it showcased my shirking boobs... which I'm quite happy with.
Oh, you meant I was supposed to wear a dress or skirt? My bad. I thought you meant I just had to have pants, shoes, and a shirt on. You know, to not look as disheveled as my heart currently feels.

I celebrated Cinco de Mayo appearing busy on the lap top, NOT drinking beer, and NOT eating any food.
Anything to not be in the room with any of the people for more than two minutes. They were all looking like lovely business people... I was looking like an angsty high schooler.
I just smiled, shook hands, and left the "adults" for them to do adult things.

I don't know, but I suspect if I would have ripped off my shirt, a giant S would have been revealed.

About to reveal my true identity... or just my clavicles.
Such a stripper pose... clearly I'm a Vegas girl.

(it's not that I still like G, it's just that... it was so fucking awkward. When I made eye contact with him, I could just read apologies... he was so fucking apologetic, it made my stomach hurt. All I wanted to scream was "It's OK! It JUST DIDN'T WORK!" We all know how I feel about apologies)

Viva la raza, homies,
Puro pinchi party,
A la verga con las relaciones! 

Buk-anas

My sister has been trying her hardest to get me involved with her group of friends. The girls are her age, but the dudes are my age, maybe a year or two older.

I have mingled with the group... but I just can't stand it.

I can't really explain my resistance to befriending her friends (besides the fact that they're conceited, mean, and horrifically shallow... and not very smart... they are very witty though... but their snobbery erases any redeeming quality), so my sister came up with her own conclusion: I don't hang out with her group because I hate Mexicans.

Yeah, OK, I hate Mexicans, moron.

Sister: who's the last Mexican you hung out with?

Me: That was... fuck you, man! I'M the token Mexican of my group, OK? We don't need any more!

This got me thinking. It's true... I don't like Mexicans.

I'm a fucking Malinche!

Ok, it's not that bad. I just don't hang out with them, because... I don't really fit in:

Mexican on SO many levels.

While I don't mind waterfalling tequila once in a blue moon... during one of those days when I'm sad (like, say, I got a bad haircut and I now feel I look too butch for comfort or something like that) I DON'T get physical proof of that shit. 

Doesn't that just look classy?

I do love me some Scotch, but Buchanan's is definitely not my drink. It's all about Glen Taite, you tasteless whores! Of course, they don't understand that... so I end up being the snobby girl at the end of the table, chewing on saltine crackers like some hungry, angry horse... planning my exit route.

Now, not all Mexicans are tacky like that (those are the tackiest of the tacky, I must say. If you ever hear the term "naco" just envision these photos for the rest of your life, K?), the Mexicans my sister hangs out with are the arch rivals of "nacos," they're the "fresas."

I don't fit this grouping because fresas are snobs, plain and simple. They get joy out of belittling anyone, and that's just not my style (unless I'm drunk, of course. I turn into a jackass philosophy professor when under the influence. I can't even stand it).

SO... I just stick to my trustee gringos and asians when I'm in Vegas.. which oddly enough, are a lot like my Mexican friends who don't live here, but are neither nacos nor fresas. They're just silly and easy going (no, I'm NOT in here, although I wish I had the meanass abs of the one in the middle):

Yeah, they're Mexican, ain't that crazy?

So fuck that. I hang out with people, regardless of nationality... solely based on behavior.

Home Alone

We're straight up "Home Alone"-ing shit right now.
There are 10 people living under one roof right now, sharing 2 bathrooms.
Last night was spent sharing the floor with 3 other people. My shoulder had a blast... woo.
Come the weekend, it'll be 12 people under one roof.
...and at one point, rest assured 10 of the 12 will be drunk at the same time.

Fun shit.

Baby fever

Apparently, today was "Rag on AnoMALIE" day.

I started the day off by attending this damn baby shower I had been dreading for the last two weeks.
(No, I lie. I started it by watching the soccer match between Germany and Uruguay. For a second there, I thought Paul had gotten his shit wrong... but no, Germany pulled through. That little guy... the octopus, I need to find a live one in order to follow through with my word. If Spain wins tomorrow, at one point in my life, for at least a day, I will own a pet octopus)
On my way to this party, I went through a fucking rain storm. I kid you not. It was a freak show.
It was bright and sunny outside, and the only clouds I could see were cute white clouds (I'm so sad that the scientific name escapes me. I spent a good couple of days learning those stupid names back in college). At first a couple of drops hit my car, and suddenly, it was a fucking torrential downpour.
In my rush to get in the house without fucking up my gift (I had already fucked up the wrapping, of course. I thought I had been such a pro wrapping the damn thing only to be proven wrong. I ignored the top and bottom of the box. Stupid gift-wrap wasn't big enough. I "fixed" it by placing the bottom part on the floor, and the top I covered with a huge bow. My resourcefulness astonishes me sometimes... I'm so fucking ghetto) I managed to give myself a massive paper-cut on-- where else-- my middle finger.
I was an hour early to the shindig, because I had to be somewhere else at the time of the party.
The BabyMomma was quite excited to see me, and she paraded me around, in front of her family.
She then proceeded to call all her high school friends to inform them I had arrived...
I only know ONE of her friends, since I only went to her high school my first two years of HS, and I was her friend my sophomore year.

"Oh my God! Guess who's here! AnneOMELIE. You know! AnneOMELIE!!"

Umm... my name's AnoMALIE... and I don't know this chick you're talking to.
We then continued to talk, something I thought was one-on-one, but of course, her family would gasp or laugh whenever I said something... and it quickly turned into a grilling session.
Are you married?

Hell NO.

Have a boyfriend?

Nah.

Are you dating?

Nope.

Have any kids?

NEVER.

WHY NOT?!

Too much going on right now... I LOVE my freedom.

WHEN then?

I don't know.

WHYYYY?!

Umm, Because... ?

Girl, I don't know, and I DON'T CARE!!
When she finally left me alone for a minute (to eat some of the strangest Filipino food... I stood there wondering where the hell I could find the Pho), her baby nephew came to harass me.
Yes, a 16-month old was harassing me.
Ok, so he was just wanting me to feed him, hold him, play with him, and caress his little head... but still... I was eating. You don't do that to a bear, what makes you think you can do it to a human? (I KID!! I'm being sarcastic. Oh God, I hope people don't read this and think I'm a monster)
I could have been a cunt and ignored him, maybe even pushed him out of my way... but no, I fed him whatever he wanted off my plate... and I fought with him (freakishly strong baby. He ripped a paper plate right out of my hands)... and by the end of it, I was holding him and petting his little head.
Stupid babies.

After half an hour, I excused myself and headed home.
I took a quick hour-long nap, and continued with my day.

Round two of grilling-ragging on me continued then.
I visited my cousin C, whose wedding I agreed to be a bridesmaid in, and things got uncomfortable once my aunts arrived.
Sis: Oh! I heard D is looking for places to get married!
Aunt: Yes. Things are so confusing.
Sis: I'm going to cry once she gets married. We're practically twins!
Aunt2: It's just you two left now (sister and I).
Me: And it's gonna stay that way for a while... F that.
C: Well, you don't want to get married too old.
Sis: Well, as long as Mel doesn't get married any time soon... maybe in ten years.
Mel: Me at 29?
C: THAT'S TOO OLD! 27 is cutting it close. I'm glad I'm still going to be 24 when I get married.
Aunt: And you better step on it when it comes to having babies.
C: No, I'm waiting two more years for that.
Aunt2: THAT'S TOO OLD! 25 IS TOO OLD!

WTF, GUYS?! I'm RIGHT HERE!!

I can only imagine how bad this shit is going to get come October... then April.
Too old... PSHHHHHHH!
Screw babies, screw marriage, screw responsibilities... you know what I LOVE?! Being able to go out for as long as I want, WHERE ever I want, with WHO ever I want... and as MANY TIMES as I want.

... try to make me feel bad... pshhhh.
Mexicans.

3 Ts

At first, I was proud of any high school graduate, but after 10 years of going through the motions, it's getting pretty painful.
I've gone to 4 high school graduation parties in just the last two days.
The parties are best described with the 3 Ts:
1. Tacos
2. Tequila
and
3. Talking.

The tacos are awesome... especially when that trustee Taquero Man is hired.
Then it hurts like hell after a couple of hours.
Putos taquitos de Al Pastor and Carne Asada! So good... but ahhhhh! I feel like a baby alien is ripping apart my intestines with a ninja star.

And the tequila... no lie, my mom has been drunk these last two days (such a fucking pain. She's up at the crack of dawn watching the World Cup games and once someone scores, she starts doing her gayass Mexican Mariachi scream that only sounds like someone broke in the house and is trying to slit her throat... it's fucking alarming to wake up to that shit, I tell you). I've been DD, with my shit-tastic night vision... and get this! I have been driving my mom's car, which is fine... except that motherfucker's speedometer is NONFUNCTIONAL.
The little lady better not keep this up.

And finally the talking. The talking!!
My mom will never shut her trap at these parties ("OMG, you're *Mom*'s daughter?! How are you so quiet?!" Maybe... if she ever SHUTS UP!). Mom can have a conversation with a rock! So, when there's ladies she knows at these shindigs, she forces me to sit with her and listen to their conversations. Since these conversations revolve around the old days, or upcoming weddings, I'm usually bored with nothing to do. I can people watch for only so long before I start giving people the wrong impression.
I swear to God, that bitch looks at me again, I'm gonna beat a bitch up! Tryyyy it! At least I'll be entertained.
Hey, don't move... don't move... but I think AnoMALIE's checking me out. She's been doing it all day. Babe, you're 17 (or in today's case, 42... which was... I puked in my mouth when he tried hollering. Then he kept walking back and forth past me and inching closer until he finally rubbed up against me and I looked him in the eyes and gave him my best disgusted look. That shit DOES NOT fly with me), why would I be giving you the eye? I already knew how to divide by the time you were born (or in the old man's case, he was already jacking off to photos of Sasha Montenegro, or whoever the fuck was popular back then, by the time I was born), that means NO.

Yeah, I know, I complain a lot... and it always seems like I'm doing a ton of shit I don't feel like doing, but what can I say? If I like you, you can probably get me to lick a New York sidewalk.
I care that much.

Ah, to be Mexican!

Cleaning Lady

I hate fitting into stereotypes, but recently, I've really stuck to one that I especially hate:
Mexicans make good cleaning ladies.

I've spent the better of the last 3 days cleaning my side of the house (that's right, not just my room... but the entire wing that now belongs to me since Brother and Sister are gone having a blast in expensive ass Europe).
Sure, I took a break on Thursday for a while, since I went to go watch that one ABBA musical (as guilty as this makes me feel, I liked it... umm... kind of... a lot. I came out singing. Luckily, it left me after a day, but now I have an ABBA CD in my car... I listen to it on my way to the gym. Lame, I know... but they bring back some good memories of my childhood in Mexico).

I clean while my mom plays Guitar Hero.
If anyone that has rhythm would be playing GH, I wouldn't mind as it would provide nice music to clean along to... but my mom... oh man!
I'm convinced Mom is the WORST instrument player in the universe.
Absolute worst.
I love Mom to pieces and everything, but my God! She's terrible!
She nearly breaks the little guitar as she hammers away at the buttons... and I feel this horrible pain in my gut... knowing she's going to break my controller.
She has a baaaaaaaad sense of pace... and as hard as I try, I can't beat it into her (seriously, I slap along to it. Granted, I don't slap her, I'm not that barbaric, but I do--and have-- slapped almost every part of my body).

Mom, it's "one-two-three, one-two-three!" Not "one.... two.. three. Onetwo.. three."

I fear my thighs will start to bleed if I slap them one more time to help mom keep the beat.

For a music lover, she's... very bad... very, very bad.
And then she goes off and works on the same song for hours.
If I hear "Black Magic Woman" one more time, I'm going to punch a hole through the television... I've had enough of that damn song on Easy.
Same goes for "Slow Ride." I think I can do that song with my back turned to the television... I've had to slap the beat to that one far too many times.

Anyway, as I hear Mom butcher the beginning to Black Magic Woman for the fortieth time (and then fight the urge to stab myself with the nearest, sharpest, object), I sit in the hall that connect Little Sister's room to mine.
Every other area is clean (except my room... that thing is still a hazard no one is allowed in besides me), all I have to clean is this: (you see those bags down there? All trash... mainly boxes and old nail polish, that I've cleaned out of the top drawers--fuck me if that's not the correct term... what the fuck do I know about homes and the English language?-- I have yet to clean the bottom cabinets, and I'm so scared)
And I'll tell ya what, I'm having a bitch of a time.
How the hell... why the hell did we let it get so damn sloppy?
I feel like I should submit that photo to an "I Spy" book publisher.
The most random shit can be found in that mess (Seriously, what the hell is an Airplane Pilot Snoopy Christmas ornament doing there?).
It's so disgusting, and super DUPER embarrassing.
There are things there that we've been hoarding since 1999.
1999!
I was 14! Little Sister was 11/12... and it shows:



I've found dozens of these note cards in the drawers closest to Little Sister's room... all in her handwriting.
She has recipes, games... poems... notes... a ton of crap just written there.

I've found enough makeup to start my own Broadway show...
I have about 100 hair ties... and 1000 bobby pins.
Headbands that Madonna would have murdered for back in the 80's...
And some very... umm... interesting jewelry/makeup I used back in the day when I was in my Raver phase (thank God that's over...).

I also lost a ton of things found in the third, upper drawer due to a bad blue-eyeshadow-incident. I guess it broke... and all the powdery stuff spilled over the contents of the drawer. Most of the stuff had to go... and the blue won't leave the actual drawer. Mimi from The Drew Carey Show would have killed for that eye-shadow that went to waste in my drawer.


As long as I'm Mexican, this type of thing will never happen again...

Shrinking Circle

I lost another one.

Another one of my friends is getting married and my circle of Mexican friends/relatives is shrinking drastically.

Aren't I supposed to deal with this crap in my early thirties?
You know, that little melt-down every single-chick has when she realizes she's the only one not getting married and she goes through that whole "Goodness, gracious, I'm going to die alone!!" phase.

Who has premature single-girl-meltdowns?
A Mexican!! Only a freaking Mexican!
Woe is my freakin' Mexican-ass.

I got an extra dose of "Goodness, gracious, I'm going to die alone!!" syndrome yesterday as I went to my cousin's baby shower (you know, the poor girl whose gift I wrapped all shitty with the free Babies R Us gift wrap a couple of days back. I just figured the damn 30 pound gift would make up for the crap job I did on the wrapping, and guess what, it did!).
Aside from a 23-year-old girl that was sitting with her married sister and mother (and who looked quite desperate, I might add. I saw her eyes glimmer with hope as I walked through the door late at 8:30 PM), I was the only other single 20-something year old there.
There were twenty-something year-old girls there, don't get me wrong, but they were all married or had babies.
I had a cell phone.
God bless Bubble Breaker.

Instead of sitting with the ladies to gossip about... changing diapers... or God knows what they were talking about, I sat in the kitchen with the pregnant cousin, her two sisters, and three older women.

Pregnant Cousin: God, I'm oooooooold!!
Me: How old are you?
Pregnant Cousin: Twenty-Six!!
Me: Oh my God... you're not old... man... you're not old!
Pregnant Cousin shook her head violently as if I were a horrible liar.
Me: Shoot... I don't see myself... I don't think I'll have kids... and if I do... by accident... it'll be after I'm 28. Trust me... you're not old.

The old Ladies present stared at me as if I had just said something blasphemous.

Old Lady 1: And what does your boyfriend think of that?
Me: What boyfriend?
Old Lady 2: You're always missing at parties... we assumed you had a boyfriend and would prefer to spend time with him than attend family gatherings.
Me: (internally) AHAHAHAHAH... ahahahaha... ahahahaha! (spoken, trying my hardest not to crack a smile) Oh, no... it's just... school. It keeps me busy. People seem to enjoy throwing parties on days I can't attend because of a huge exam or because I'm still on campus.
Old Lady 3: How old are you?
Me: 22.

Old ladies make this "Ayyy" sound... not good.

Old Lady 2: And you don't have a boyfriend?
Old Lady 1: And you spend all your time in school?
Me: Kinda...
Pregnant Cousin: Old Lady 1, AnoMALIE's the good, studious girl in the family...
Old Lady 3: And we all know how they end up. Pregnant Cousin, esta muchacha (this girl) is old.

I couldn't get up and leave... I'd have nowhere to go... so I sat quietly... sort of... munching loudly on possibly the worlds saltiest nachos.

I always wondered why they don't serve tequila at Mexican baby showers...

P.S. (you know how random I am) Did you know that only in America have there been people to get HURT during yoga? Guess what... I'm one of them (what the fuck, man... why do my shoulder blades hurt?! Fucking yoga).