Gimme and H...

Ah... it's that time of the year again! The time when tons of Catholics flock to church and Mom and I get our annual fix of people watching.

Mom: Hey... look at *BoyfromsameplaceinMexico*. He's a cutie.
Me: What is he? 17?

(Boy then proceeds with taking "Jesus" off the cross. We were watching... oh man, I have no clue how to say it in English... but I guess it's the re-enactment of the passion... you know, with as little bloodshed as possible. The church youth group set it all up, so of course no one's skin is going to be getting shredded off)

Mom: But look at that... he's strong! He lifted Jesus right off the cross all on his own!
Me: Yeah. Hmm.
Mom: He's a cutie. Didn't you say he was listening in on your conversation the other day?

OK, Mom, I'm not about to start dating a 17-year-old boy.

Me: Yeah. But who cares? He's a kid. I like guys more like that dude over there.

I pointed at this unbelievably handsome man standing near the doors of the gym where this Play-thing was taking place. I saw him yesterday as well. He's tall, with a chiseled jaw, perfectly proportioned nose, broad shoulders and a small waist. His muscles almost bust through his shirt. Big hands (Oh! Those hands!). He's just... man... hot... Mexican version of David Beckham (and because of that, I start blabbing like some cave woman).

Mom: Who? *GuyIpointedat'sname*? Oh, he's *Cousin'ssisterinlaw*'s husband.
Me: Married? You don't say...

I stare some more at the guy.

Me: I'd do him anyway.
Mom: AnoMALIE! It's Good Friday!
Me: You're the one trying to hook me up with a 17-year-old, law-breaker.
Mom: Well, any good Catholic boy... I was just making an example.
Me: Yeah... I'm done with good Catholic boys. You saw what happened with Altar Boy. Now I'm only accepting applications from Agnostics and maybe even a couple of Atheists.
Mom: (scoffs) Well, don't come crying to me when your husband sacrifices one of your kids to the devil.
Me: Those are Satanists...

Yep. That has been what I've been up to these past 2 days. Going insane with how horrible some of these "Catholics" are and then participating in the bad behavior myself by carrying on really crazy conversations with my Mom.
She's trying to hook me up with children, while I check out married men without feeling any sense of guilt (no, I do... but I'm still going to stare at the man if he goes to church tomorrow).

I'm always doing that though. I seem to have a thing for the older crowd (not Dad-old, just... 10-15 years older than me). Why? I don't know. I tell myself I'm destined to be a home wrecker... because it sounds a lot better to me than the whole Freudian thing about lusting after my father. The older guys I dig look nothing like my father... so I blame it on... all the movies I've watched. The actors I like are all in the older crowd. Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Edward Norton, Clive Owen... etc.
This affection for older guys then spills over to my real life, and being that these men are in the "older crowd," they're usually married (however, once the crush is there, I do my best to get over it if I think the guy's attached in any way).

Cursed be you, Hollywood movies! You're turning me into a home wrecker!

It's not permanent... yet.

How am I feeling the day after receiving the life changing news? This sums it up pretty damn well:
Although I'd have to wedge "Fucking" between the "Don't" and "Panic" (and I know that would infuriate some die hard HHGTTG fans in the science department) to stay true to myself.

(To sum everything up that occured today/late last night in a nutshell: my parents are disappointed in my score, and I just don't give a flying fuck anymore. There's no damn way to please these people. No damn way.
"Why didn't you inherit my love for school?! I was almost a prodigy!"
I was seconds away from screaming "You two only went to sixth grade! Of course you did well and loved school! I did too at the age of twelve!" But no, I bit my tongue because it's holy week... and only because)

Wasn't I just talking about ugly tattoos the other day?

Freedom! HOLLER!

I vomited out of excitement today.

Yeah, great way to start this off, but that's how I do.
I typically stress myself out so bad prior to an exam, I'll spend days vomiting up to twenty times a day (or until I've thrown up bile at least twice). That behavior stopped after Organic Chemistry, which is around the same time my passion for Biology came to an end.
I have felt the urge to vomit since, but I fight the feeling by de-stressing at a movie theater (or you know, traffic: where I can curse and give people the finger to my heart's content) or the treadmill (nothing better than running for so long that I forget what my legs are doing).
Anyway, I did have an exam today, and I was feeling overwhelmed by it all. I almost hurled yesterday, but the treadmill works miracles. So things were staying put in my stomach for some time. However… last night I had a nightmare (like I told you I was going to, Chase) and woke up telling myself:
I have to check my score!
What score, you're asking?
MCAT.
I took that bad boy a while back, and never checked my grade. I planned on never checking, mainly because I'm no longer looking into the medical profession. I've had enough of some of these people and like previously mentioned… I vomit like nobody's business whenever stressed. I'm just finishing these last 4 classes, getting my degree, and saying goodbye to it all.
On with the story:
People have been asking me about the MCAT for about three weeks now.
“When you gettin' your MCAT score back?”
“How'd the MCAT go?”
“Y esa cosa que hiciste el otro dia? Como te fue? Ya eres doctora?”
To which my response is always:
I don't know, and I don't care.

Well, first thing this morning, I got on-line, went to the AAMC website, and checked out my grade.

Back in December I said:
I'm only sticking to biology if I score a 36 or better. I'm not denying the world my talent if I get that good of a score. Anything less, I go for an MFA in creative writing, just like Irsfeld was telling me a year ago.
I didn't study, and I especially I didn't pay for any special classes. I went in with the knowledge I've (sometimes not-so-solidly) acquired in my last 4 years of college.
What was my score?
…
…
30Q.

Yeah. I was quiet for a second, and checked the scores individually.
Fuck.
I thought about lying to my parents. The score’s still good for a medical school… and that's what was most upsetting to me.
No!! What am I gonna tell my parents?! I'm gonna lie!
Then I looked over at my writing sample score.
Q! A freakin' Q! Dude, I'm a writer!
I was ready to cartwheel my ass out of the room. I became lightheaded after laughing to myself for so long (yeah, I'm crazy… and super excited)… then followed the hurling.

Nervousness + Excitement = AnoMALIE tossing her cookies.

That score cheered me up because I took it as a sign that I should stick to writing rather than biology… my answer to whether or not I should apply to the Iowa writing program, as well as the one at UNLV. Dude, I'm fucking game for this!

I still had to wonder about what I'd tell my folks.
I thought about it all day at school.
I only let two of my friends in on the news. I got this reaction from each:
Friend number 1:
Me: Duuuuuuudde! I got my MCAT score.
Chase: How'd you do? You get a 36?!
Me: hahah. No. I got a 30.
Chase: That's still GOOD.
Me: Yeah... but I got a Q in the writing portion! A fucking Q!

Friend number 2:
Chase: AnoMALIE got her MCAT score.
FutureDentistFriend (FDF): How'd you do?
Chase: Guess! She did good!
FDF: A 35?!
Me:... no... I wish (do I?).

Instead of getting upset, I'd laugh with the whole "Was it a 36?!"
The good humor made me come up with a solution: I'm telling them I scored OK… and that I will apply to Med school. I'm not telling them which ones.
Which ones will I apply for? Yale, Dartmouth, Washington… maybe Harvard. Schools that will say:
Hell naw, homie, you ain't smart enough for us!
Then I'll tell Mom and Dad that I did my best, but I just wasn't meant for the whole doctor business (I can always resort to my usual crying and "I don't wanna keep doing this to myself!" speech I give around the holidays... highlighting my vomiting episodes prior to exams, "I puke out my fucking gall bladder, Ma!"). Hopefully they don't get NALEO up in this… I'll be screwed."She's a Mexican-American girl! You need Mexican-American girls in the medical field!"
Yeah... but with her GPA... not even affirmative action can help (curse you, affirmative action! I'd never resort to that. I'll be damned if I ever do).

My life is about to start, man! I'm going to say goodbye to all this medical school nonsense and say good-riddance to some of the worst humans I've met in my life (I met some great folks, but the bad outweighed the good). I'm done with cheaters… clicks… vomiting! I'm fucking D.O.N.E.
No more plankton! No more photosynthesis! No more pentose phosphate pathway!
(Ew, why the hell do all those start with P?)

Chase, if I ever get sad in your presence over saying goodbye to biology… please remind me of all the unpleasant moments… and never mention microbiology. I'm going to miss that subject.

I'm smiling for the first time in... months... and I mean, smiling with a sparkle in my eye and shit!
It's called hope, man... hope.

(All this while my poor little sister's life is crumbling to a million little pieces. She's been denied entry into her Major... after 2 years of taking lower division classes. She's been crying all day... then she takes a nap... only to wake up crying again. It's heartbreaking. She even cries out loud while showering. Whenever one of our parents asks her what the deal is with her tears, she breaks down and cries.
Makes me realize how good I am at hiding my pain. It wasn't a year ago that I felt like doing the same thing... but I'm so much better at appearing to be OK. It's what being a Pisces is all about. Sure, I'd cry in the shower... but always hold in my screams. I'd resort to screaming into the carpet when everyone else was asleep or out of the house. Sometimes I'd scream into my pillows... but I never screamed in anyone's presence.
I always look gully around people. Hella. AnoMALIE's great at being miserable behind closed doors... but not today, nope, not today. The roles have changed for the first time in... my life).

Tired of your brush bristles?

A couple of entries ago I mentioned how a complete stranger came up to me, touched my eye, and asked if my lashes were real. I thought she was crazy, and I even felt slightly violated.
Someone suggested telling people I had lash extensions to see what reaction I'd get. I laughed, thinking:
That's so silly... but I do wonder how that would work... would they sow them on like a weave? Would they clamp them on like the extensions Britney had the day she shaved her head?
Well... one of my friends brought this website to my attention earlier today:
Lashextensions.com

(Lashes nature should have given you? Are you telling me both your parents have giant eyelashes, and yours came out looking like brush bristles? Damn you, nature, always fuckin' up)
And apparently, it's not the only website dedicated to lash extensions.

WTF... I can no longer be mad at the stranger lady for touching me. I guess she was justified in poking me.

How sad... I'm no longer special (but I'm totally going to exploit this and tell everyone I have fake lashes from now on... and how they hurt like a bitch, just so they can be dissuaded from getting any).

Room full of mistakes.

Man, someone got me good for April Fool's day. I abhor this day.

Anyway, I wound up going to the wedding after all (I was seriously thinking twice about the whole thing. For about two hours all I did was blurt out/scream "I don't wanna go!" whenever the thought of the wedding came up). How'd it go? Well, I wrote down all the places where I committed a mistake:

Mistake number one:
Shaving in a hurry a couple of minutes after waking up.

I nicked the shit out of my ankle thanks to my very intelligent prospect of getting the job done ASAP. This marks the 34,958,685,748th time I do this to myself. Ok, just the fourth… but I should be better about it my now. I'm not talking normal nick here, I'm talking Did-I-just-scrape-me-some-hypodermis?-thick nick. I made a mini pool of blood on the bathtub in the time it took me to turn off the water and reach for a towel.
This led to me fixing it with hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin. I covered my “nick” with a skin-colored Band-Aide. Shit went sour once I realized I still had the Band-Aide on when time came to leave the party.
I had the Band-Aide on throughout the party. I'm fucking awesome.

Mistake number two:
Attended a wedding taking place at a circus-themed casino.

I despise clowns. Don't believe me? Check it:

I still hadn't watched “It,” but I had seen a Spanish Novela where a little girl gets abducted by the clowns at her own birthday party. Nice way to traumatize a kid (I know other ways, but I have an entire life time to describe those). That clown would "mysteriously" vanish to the bottom of the toy pile... but Mom would always get it for me. Stupid Pan-Pan... scary motherf*%&#$.

Mistake number three:
Arrive 3 hours late to the party.

Finding a parking spot sucks ass. Finding the table my father chose sucks even worse. He has a thing for choosing the table furthest away from all the action, but closest to the bar.
Where was he situated when we got there? NEXT TO THE BAR! Of course.

Mistake number four:
Attend a party where only one of the two offspring of the celebrated couple likes me.

How the hell am I going to win, when only one of the daughters likes me? The youngest has hated me since the day I vomited after seeing her drink two whole packs of McDonald’s ketchup… that was 1989. The oldest daughter thinks I'm cool… but I know for a fact that when you know one of your siblings is disliked by someone, you somehow find it hard to like that person.
It was also the birthday of the daughter that doesn't like me, and everyone was hugging her at midnight to congratulate her. I did as well… and… that was awkward.

Mistake number five:
Attended a party where I have beef with more than two thirds of the females present.

It’s no secret that I don't get along with my own kind. I've always wandered away from the flock of chicks. However, when I get to hang out with the chicks in small groups of two or three, we tend to hit it off quite well.
Now, I don't really have an issue with people. I'm quiet and keep everything to myself… any beef is kept in the confines of my mind. However… somehow, most of the chicks present have been at the butt end of some of my very nasty behavior (in my defense, they started it all. They never heard the one about “It’s not the loud ones you should be worried about…” They were awful to me, I was awful right back). What’s worse is that the girls had all managed to claim an entire table to themselves, a table of 12, at the entrance of the ballroom. There were maybe 15 girls aged 17-22 and 12 of them were at the same table. How many of those chicks are cool with me? 2.
Needless to say, dirty looks abounded throughout the night (Especially when 10 of the 12 girls got up to SQUARE DANCE. Bitches, I'd be jealous if I saw you 10 boarding a flight to Lisbon... not when you get up to dance to Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart" in a mob without inviting me. It's called "square dancing" for a reason. You don't look rad "electric-sliding" all over the place).

Mistake number six:
Went against my gut instinct and wore the Old-dirty-walrus-attracting-cleavage dress.

I thought everything would be fine because I wore a thin, black sweater on top. I only buttoned the top button, and thought I'd be good.
I had been sitting for maybe an hour when I noticed the gaze of the men on the dancing floor directed at me.
Am I talking too loud?
I had been laughing a little prior to the incident, and when I laugh… well… I heave a lot (here I am making fun of the way "Justin Long" laughs, when I'm not any better).
For some reason or another, I looked down and realized my safety net was gone: The button on my sweater had come undone during one of my heaves. My gaze was met by my two… muchachas taking quite the breather.
Fuck… and I stretched… laughed… and stretched some more while this thing was undone. What a whore.
I won't complain any further, I had this one coming.

Mistake number seven:
Attended a party without my little sister.

She makes me giggle… we talk shit… we get up to the restroom together. I was alone, people were asking me about her… and I watched other sisters hang out together. I miss my stupid little brat face.

Final mistake:
Attended the wedding anniversary of a couple whose family I have beef with.

The hypocrisy is Crrrrrrazy! I know, as well as they do, that mad shit talking has taken place amongst our family. What do I say when it’s my time to congratulate the happy couple?
“Congratulations! I only wish to be as lucky as you, to find my other half and last 25 years together!”
Yeah… and hopefully he doesn't spend all waking hours drinking himself to death while watching Primer Impacto on Univision...

Some good did come out of all this:
1) A girl petted my head and then followed that by exclaiming:
“Oh my God! Your hair is SO soft! I'm going to pet it again!” (Anything pertaining to how nice my hair is will always be welcomed)
2) My skin’s nicely exfoliated (but my cut hurts real bad)!
3) I didn't flake on my friend… so she makes 2 that like me in that family. Hopefully she can help swing more votes my way.
4) I no longer make an ass of myself whenever shaking the hand of this one dude. He's missing the middle, ring, and pinkie finger of his right hand... he chopped them off during a really bad lawn-mowing accident back in 2001. Each time I've shaken his hand since, I forget about his missing fingers and my face usually goes from:

To:
Not yesterday. I shook his hand confidently and thought: Man, this guy's really recovered from his accident (he was very vain prior to the accident. Now he's a regular, nice guy). Congratulations, man!

Thanks to all this, I've matured just a little... and I'm slightly girlier.

What my momma gave me?

I don't like weddings.
I usually attend two or three a year... last year I went overboard by attending 5.
The show of affection burned me the hell out... and I didn't have any desire to attend another wedding for the next two years.

Well... being that I'm Mexican, every Spring becomes Wedding Season, and my goal (of not attending any) is always broken. People rush to the altar like they're getting paid or some shit in my family. If you're female, single, and past 27 years of age, you're a failure (haha... just wait for me, family... I'm gonna be quite the fuck up in your standards. Bachelorette 4 lyyyyfe!). So lately, it's really been sucking balls to go to these things. The couples getting married are my age, if not younger... and I end up sitting at the lonely-but-don't-you-fucking-get-near-me table, wanting to stab myself with the Marriott-provided silverware as I watch couples dance and make-out to shit like Shania Twain's "You're Still The One" (in English and Spanish).

What's that, waitress? Do I want red or white wine? How about you just break that fucking bottle over my head and put me out of my misery? Preferably the red, so it can conceal my running blood a little more successfully.

However, rather than going to a fresh new couple's wedding this Saturday, it's a 25 year wedding anniversary.
I wasn't going to go at first, mainly because the invitation to the party irritated me. It mentioned how you had to wear black or white. I detest "theme" parties. It's cool if you mention that it has to be a suit and tie affair, I can handle that... but when you tell me what colors to wear, you're pushing your luck.
All I really own are black dresses... but I'm still pissed they had to specify "only black and white." You gotta be kidding me. I usually rock black and red. Fuck you, old people. Fuck you (Lent is ALMOST over! Yesss! I'm that much closer to being my regular, super-duper vulgar self again!).
Anyway, I decided to go for at least 2 hours because a friend I haven't seen in over a year is going to be there. I've flaked on her before, so I might as well show up this time.

Since I decided to go, I also decided to buy myself another black dress today. I have a favorite one that looks like this quick doodle:The problem is I've worn that thing to maybe 2 weddings, 2 Quinceañeras, a funeral, AND I took family pictures in it ("Love" does not nearly describe my feelings for that dress)... all in 2006.
The dress is comfortable and flattering. Lots of lace and tulle... and the length's a little past the knee. I do have a problem with the abundance of cleavage it reveals, but shit, something has to be sacrificed so that the damn thing doesn't look like a burlap sac.

I've encountered a couple of uncomfortable scenarios thanks to wearing that dress.
Prime example: I was a little angry prior to the reception of this one wedding in San Diego back in May. Older Brother had gotten us lost in the ghetto because he was following fucking natives because they supposedly knew where it was going to be. We stepped out to ask for assistance at a hotel, and as I stood outside, pacing around, I stumbled into one of the natives (I call him "Walrus" because he looks just like one... a walrus during mating season to be exact. He puffs his already-robust chest out as he walks, he waddles, he has facial hair that look like husks). He's around five foot six, and I was around six feet because of my heels. So... once I turned, Walrus was directly in front of me, maybe eight inches away from my body, with his eyes and nose directly between my chest. I took as big a leap back as possible, made eye contact, and saw the biggest, most disgusting grin/smirk in the universe coming from the old ass man.
He then said:
"My, AnoMALIE... so sure have... grown."

I claim to be ghetto and down to sock fuckers if they ever insinuate anything wrong with me... but at that very moment... I feared for my life. I was alone, with this five foot six pervert-walrus man... in the San Diego ghetto while my family was inside a hotel asking for directions.

I now wear that bitch with a sweater covering me.

So anyway, as a preventive measure from encountering any further sick events I decided to go shopping for a new dress today (there are going to be TONS of middle aged men at this thing... and lots of them are divorced/widowed and those bitches flock to me like... zombies to brains [I was going to say pigs to slop. What a fucked up analogy]
Hey, sweetie, why so lonely?
Because I bite people, you fuck. Now get away from me!).

Mom tagged along to the stores... and didn't see my selection until we got home.
It looks like this (minus the handkerchief covering her eyes in a very S&M fashion) :I liked it because it wasn't skanky (well, it shows a lot of leg... but hey, no old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage!), and it's all black with some white accents.

However, this was Mom's reaction:
(I walk out... proud of myself, like an idiot)
Mom: What the hell is that?!
Me: A dress!
Mom: You look like a Chinese masseuse!
(I'm quiet and look at my hair in the mirror... Holy shit... she's right)
Mom: And what happened to your boobs?
Me: They're hidden, like I like 'em.
Mom: Te me pones ese vestido de la foto! (You wear that dress from the family picture!) A enseñar lo que te dio tu madre! (Show what your momma gave ya!)

What my momma gave me? I guess that's what happens when you've been an A cup all your life and you give birth to a kid who grows to have DD's. I wish we could just trade so she could show off what her momma gave her... I'm sure the old-dirty-walrus-men would appreciate it.

I still might end up wearing the old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage dress though... I don't want people to think I'm giving away happy endings while at this thing.

When don't I talk about hoes?

Just now I did some... study for a psychology grad student. It was about teens and sexuality. The scenario I had to read concerned a 15 year old girl who was caught having sex with her 42 year old teacher.
I was asked a couple of questions, and I can't help but think I was a little too lenient on the teacher and harsh on the girl. Oh well, a hoe's a hoe (if the 42 year old teacher looked like Ed Norton... you can't blame the girl, anyone would have banged him).

Talking about hoes!
Over the weekend I finally gave a name to my car. I drove Best Friend Chase down the parking garage and the conversation sparked up.
B.F.C.: Why don't you like your car? It's pretty and shiny!
Me: Because it's a whore.
B.F.C.: It's silvery-tastic!
Me: Yeah... but that's exactly the thing... I see way too many silver 4Runners driving around.

Then I remembered something I had done over the weekend.

Me: That's why on Sunday, my car's name dawned on me.
B.F.C.: What you call it?
Me: Bambi.
B.F.C. was quiet... I'm sure thinking: WTF? What's so special about that? I thought you liked Ariel.
Me: Mom thought I named it after the Disney character, but I named it after a stripper/whore. There are tons of Bambi's out there dancing for money and giving head for crack.
B.F.C.: Oh... (and I'm sure she was thinking: That's sad, AnoMALIE, real sad)
Me: But I guess that's good if a kid ever hears me mention my car's name. They'll think I'm a Disney fanatic, and not someone who's pissed over how my car's the household slut. Everyone drives the damn hoe.
(Silence)
B.F.C.: So... what'd your sister name her Jetta?
Me: I dunno... probably something like "SeXXXy."

And that my friends, is very true. My car gets ridden more often than any of those hoes you see on the Maury Povich show. It sure as hell gets more action than any of the other 3 cars in the house. Gotta go grocery shopping? Oh, let's hop into AnoMALIE's car. Gotta go to church for the third time this week? Oh, let's get in AnoMALIE's car. Gotta drive down to Lake Mead? Well, hello! What else is AnoMALIE's car there for?
Fuck that, Bambi's not my car... she's just there. I have no car. I disown that sleazy vehicle.
...
...
I take it all back! She's never been bad to me... which now she probably will be thanks to me being an ingrate. I'm sorry, Bambi! Take me back!


While we're on an ugly subject, let me show you one of the ugliest tattoos my eyes have ever seen: Now, I truly hope she never finds out about this Blog... I might get beat down (the owner of the tat is Pregnant Cousin's Little Sister, aka PCLS from the Cheddar Fries story). But come on now! That's just fucking ugly. I'm not a tattoo hater, in fact, I like them a lot. I don't have any, but who's to say I'll never get one. Sure, my mom would freak the hell out: Who the hell's gonna want to marry you now?! You've just disfigured yourself, AnoMALIE!
But, I'll live. I could always marry a circus freak and tour the world with him. AnoMALIE and her one tattoo: Married to the Lizard Man that eats bugs for a living. Yeah Mom, that'll happen because of a single tattoo.
However, once a tattoo's there, it's there to stay. If I'm going to upset Mom so bad, I might as well make the permanent mark worth my while. Make it attractive... possibly have some sort of meaning (I've thought about having an integral drawn on my ankle... or something math-related cause I'm a fan. I also joke with B.F.C. about having the structures of purines and pyramidines drawn on my shoulder blades; I can never keep them straight in my head and it's cost me a ton of easy points in my college years. I need a permanent mark of those fuckers and my torturous years as a bio student).

But THAT thing? A lopsided heart... with a letter A that has a tail end reminiscent of a sperm? P-L-E-A-S-E.
The most I'd ever be able to pass that tattoo off as is an interpretative take on my conception: The heart is my mom's unfertilized egg, full of love for her unborn child, then comes the sperm found on the tail end of the letter A. The A could be significant of all the hoops and whatnot the sperm undergoes while in search of the egg. Also, A would be my father, because he chose my name, which has A as its first letter (I'm taking PCLS's point of view here, her name starts with an A).

Badddamn! There you go... and THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I bullshitted my way to an A in all English classes... and Philosophy 102.
Thank you, thank you very much.