La buena onda

Yeah... I'm definitely dying soon...

What the fuck is going on, Universe?
The craziest part was that this was from a dude... dudes are NEVER nice to me when intoxicated (well, I have had a couple of "I LOVE YOU!" texts from drunk guys... only to be followed by something along the lines of "you're such a bitch!" a couple of hours later... or a straight up phone call where he professes his love to me and then proceeds to berate me for ten minutes, telling me what a fucking idiot I am, a la JC).

Ok, I'll confess something: I'm going to Mexico on Monday... on a bus...
So, that's why I'm a little uneasy over the sudden influx of positivity towards me from my friends... that shit usually occurs when someone's about to croak.

(But I AM happy and appreciative of the kindness... one day I'll learn to handle it without freaking out and getting paranoid)

Where do I fit?

Yesterday I snuck in a day trip to LA with my sister.

The reason for the trip was to accompany my sister to her best friend's baby shower. Since the vehicle used is mine, I pretty much was strong-armed into going.

I'm glad I went, not just because it was a stereotypically beautiful California day, but mainly because it was an incredible opportunity to people-watch. It was MOTHERFUCKING AWESOME.
Why the excitement? Because I was somewhat of a fly on the wall, and I was able to watch two families interact without having a bias toward one or the other.

Both families were Mexican... but the different versions of Mexicans that I swear exist.

One was what I consider "traditionalists." First generation, very traditional... spanish-speaking... formal (for parties)... still return to Mexico on a regular basis for vacations. I guess I should call them straight edge.
The other family was the stereotypical Mexican displayed on television sitcoms... the LA Mexican-Americans, what pops into Mexican people's minds (in Mexico) when someone says "Chicano." Lot's of drinking, lots of swearing, lots of tattoos, lots of illegitimate children... teen moms... ex-felons... super dark skin, but unable to speak a lick of Spanish ("Con el pinche nopal en la frente." Roughly "With the fucking cactus pasted on your forehead." As in, you're as Mexican-looking as a fucking cactus). That deal.

It was like having an out-of-body experience.
It was like watching... Mexicans time traveling to their sad future.

The Straight-Edgers weren't saying much mean shit about the LA Mexicans... but they were mostly disgusted... upset, disappointed in the direction the LA Mexicans had gone. The look on their face was like what I imagine one's to look like if given the opportunity to travel a couple of generations ahead to see one's children have turned out to be huge disappointments.

The LA Mexicans were obese... drunk... all the women had children... all the men were covered in gangster tattoos... gaged ears, and more nose piercings than I've seen in any other gathering anywhere. Oh, and not a single one spoke Spanish.

I just sat there... soaking it all in.
I am neither this nor that... mainly because I'm rejected in both circles.
I am too traditional for LA (I get ridiculously frustrated with non-spanish speakers... it surprises me, but that's the way the cookie crumbles for me. LA reciprocates by getting frustrated with me because I'm a goody-goody who likes WAY too many Mexican things), but I'm also too "Chicana" for the traditionalists (I'm too liberal in the church teachings... I have a rebellious streak, believe it or not. I don't give a shit about some day getting married OR procreating... I don't care for "raising a family" and that sort of shit... and I drink and cuss and rough house like a teenaged boy... I'm not very proper).

I was entertained.

Then I went ahead and forgot any part of the adventure that bummed me out by visiting my good ol' now-19-year-old boy for a short minute.
I swear... I feel like... well, I feel bad... doing shit on the down low as though I'm breaking some type of law... Mrs. Robinson type shit. And we haven't even done anything scandalous.

... but he thinks I'm gorgeous and hilarious and a fucking genius... and his eyes twinkle all cute when he finds me in a crowd, as though he has just seen the most valuable treasure. Then he holds me close against his rock hard ABS (let's not get all porn-tastic here) with his muscular arms as if he's scared I'm going to be torn away from him any second, never to be seen again... and that shit is... I've never felt anything like it. It's wonderfully exhilarating and flattering. It's so protective... and I've never been protected. It's the one thing I've always kept to myself, silently... this desire to please, PLEASE be protected... please don't leave me hanging there alone, only to be stomped mercilessly by the heartless assholes who always seem to find me. It warms my heart and makes a gentle smile slowly creep across my face. He makes me feel like I'm worth a fucking damn... worth being treasured.
A nineteen year old. Insane.

Best kind

Some dudes... some dudes.

The crazy part? I have absolutely zero feelings for him that are not that of friendship.

I should be punched for my stubborn, idiotic ways.

Oh my Lebanon!

That right there is my birdcage veil.
I had never heard of such a thing.
It WAS restricting like a fucking cage.

"So what do you think I am?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, side smirk adorning (yes, fucking ADORNING) his face.

Sister accidentally captured mini-Richard Gere while snapping a shot of our table setting.

The question came from the guy sitting left kitty-corner from me at the 12-seater dinner table.
My sister, Betty, and I had been taking guesses at the ethnicities of the two boys sitting directly in front of us-- the so-called "billionaires."
After perhaps five minutes of guessing, I had been the only one to correctly guess one ethnicity-- the one of the guy who wasn't even sitting with us, the stink-face uptight dude. I correctly guessed Russian for him... imagine that!
We girls had been too enthralled by the boy claiming Brazil and the big eyed pretty gentleman who claimed being "normal" to notice the one sitting furthest away from the dudes-- Richard Gere... Richard Gere's offspring. He was leaning back, looking at us all play our idiotic game, like a bunch of kittens running after the red dot of a laser on the ground. When he spoke up, we were downright startled... quickly feeling embarrassed about our rudeness to the sweet guy.

Richard Gere was looking right at me, with the sexy smirk... grin... smile? I don't know what to call it, it was just a slap to the face... a nice one.
"Japanese?" asked Betty.
"Nope." His smirk turned into a wider smile.
Yeah... I can see where she guessed that, he did have almond-shaped eyes... but his eyebrows were too thick.
"Ummm... you are...." began my sister.
"Lebanese?" I guessed. Lebanese is always my go-to answer.
The eyes on all the dudes at the table grew wide. They all seemed to choke on their spit... except for Richard Gere, his eyes seemed to glint, and he nodded.
"Yes. Yes I am." said Richard Gere, raising his glass of champagne and toasting at me.
Are you kidding me? That is CLASSY AS FUUUCK! ...I think I'm sweating in this 60 degree weather...
My jaw dropped and my eyebrows raised in surprise.
The dudes started to laugh.
"You're kidding, right?" I asked. "He's not really Lebanese, is he?" I asked Brazil and Gentleman.
"No, he is. He really is. You go it right," said Gentleman. Brazil nodded.
I looked over at Richard Gere and gave him MY side smirk (toothier than his... because I have a giant mouth), raised my left eyebrow, and cocked my head to the right.
"That's cool," I said, my smirk turning into a smile.

I was trying to showcase my drinks for the night:
unlimited champagne, red wine, water, and Patron.
The hilarious Brazil was caught in the middle.

I raised my glass of champagne and looked only at his eyes.

SEXIEST motherfucker in the room... that Richard Gere.


Best. Wedding. Ever.

The way he looked at his bride made my heart melt.
Those cobblestone streets made my feet bleed.
That trip made my soul HEAL.

Don't Speak

I once dated a dude who'd call me every fucking morning just to hear my morning voice.
He thought my groggy anger was cute. I found his early morning calls annoying and stupid.
Four month relationship that lasted four months too long.

Anyway, I've always found my voice annoying. Downright ugly.
There's a husky quality that borderlines tranny whenever I'm sick.
People who knew me as a toddler make fun of me, because my voice was so jock-y as a baby. There's a particular line I'm popular for:
Te quero muncho, MUNCHO!
Which, in correct Spanish would have been said as "Te quiero mucho, mucho," aka "I love (like) you a lot, A LOT!" but again, I was a stupid toddler with a voice apt for James Earl Jones' offspring.

That was back when I was learning how to talk. Now that I don't really interact with people, there are days when I don't even speak. I can go days without hearing my own voice... unless it's just the one in my head, which never shuts the fuck up and loves to criticize.

This brings me to today.
My coworkers try to get me to talk, and while I do, I tend to do it at a low volume... because I do that when I'm shy. It's like forcing a mouse to talk.
Can't I just sit here and work, guys? Must I really have an opinion on stuff? Must you really want to hear it?
The coworkers who try to get me to talk are all dudes. The chicks are click-y and don't give a shit about me. I guess you could say they give me my privacy.
Since today we had to heavily rely on quality control issues, we basically shot the shit at our cubicles, discussing music.
Most of the time I had a comment (usually along the lines of "Oh, I KILL this song on Guitar Hero." Because I imitate Kurt Cobain and Coldplay's Chris Martin to perfection... Gold Star on Expert perfection. On a good day, I'll also be killin' it as Muse's Matt Bellamy. "Plug-in Baby" has to be one of my GUILTIEST pleasures to sing along to... I just love singing the "I've exposed your lies, bayyyybeeee" part. I find it sexy as hell. haha), the guys would have to ask me to speak up.
Musketeer: I always have to ask you to speak up. You need to learn how to be a little louder.
Me: But I have such a stupid voice. When I'm loud, I'm annoying as fuck.
Musketeer: No, it's not stupid at all. Your voice is beautiful.
Dude1: I find your voice rather pleasant. I wish I could hear it more often.
(I kiiinda have a crush on this dude)
Christ! Are you serious?! WTF?
Dude2: What are you talking about? You have a pretty voice!
(this guy's a sweetheart. Each time I see him, I get the urge to squeeze him in a tight bear hug)
Me: I've never liked the sound of my voice. I'd rather be silent than listen to the stupid noise made by my faulty voice box.

The next five minutes were spent listening to the guys in the office compliment my voice, and me, telling them there's no way they're going to convince me to speak louder (who understands men? They complain when girls don't shut the fuck up, then they complain when a girl is too quiet. I'd rather be next to someone who doesn't say a word, than someone who won't shut the fuck up).

Weirdest five minutes of my life (though I did feel this strange happiness when I heard Musketeer give me that sincere compliment. My friends are definitely responsible for my ability to communicate and behave in public. They give me the security and comfort I need to not feel stupid about shit).
And of course, the chicks in the office thought I was doing it on purpose... because girls can't be naturally timid and quiet.

Compliments

Hehe....
I'm such a girl.

I love it when strangers of the opposite sex compliment me... as long as it's polite, that is (and the guy isn't some old perverted man like that dude from target last year).

The randomness and good nature of it just lightened up my day...
even if it was only to compliment my hoodie... and to chat a little about the awesomeness of Notre Dame.
:)

Now, want an example of compliments from strangers that I most certainly don't enjoy?
Check out this conversation I had with some dude a couple of years back... he was around 38, supposedly. Anyway:

greekchicago: GOD are you gorgeousssssssssss
greekchicago: love that face
greekchicago: what if a guy
[Me]: thanks, that's very nice
greekchicago: would do anything you wished
greekchicago: ANYTHING
[Me]: he'd get me through med school
greekchicago: OK
greekchicago: is the U of Chicago OK?
[Me]: i actually thought about that school
[Me]: but i was just kidding
greekchicago: well it is all yours if you want
greekchicago: I would do anything for you
[Me]: i don't need a... i guess the word for a dude like that is suggar daddy
greekchicago: I mean it you are perfect
greekchicago: I was thinking SLAVE
[Me]: ha
[Me]: i wouldn't do that to a person
greekchicago: every goddess should have a slave
greekchicago: I would do anything to be your slave
greekchicago: you are amazinggggggggg
[Me]: aww, i guess that would be true... in mythology... but not with me. I'm human.
(I've never blocked someone so quickly in my life... even if he did think I was "gorgeousssssssssss" and "amazinggggggggg." That's just creepy shit to tell a regular girl you've never spoken to before. I was more creeped out because he was this lawyer... who looked so proper... and then goes off and talks about wanting to be my slave. WTF? People never cease to amaze me)

God... I laughed pretty hard when I found that stashed in my saved mail... haha.
Needless to say, I won't be stepping foot in Chicago unless I'm accompanied by two other people.