Cheesy peace offering

I can't decide whether or not I want to keep up this sleep routine... I'm somewhat enjoying it.
I go to bed no later than 8pm (last night I managed to stay awake until 9pm), and always wake up at about 5AM.
This is nice for me because on Saturdays, my days do begin at five in the morning. This makes me less of a grouch, and oddly enough, much more alert.

Anyway, I've fucked up on updating regularly because I always end up falling asleep (like a queeeeen!).
Back to business.

Yesterday afternoon my father returned from his trip to Mexico. He refused to join us in Athens for Christmas because "it's pointless, since your brother already came out here for Thanksgiving."
We mentioned how the trip was actually not on HIS dime, but paid for by his work, but Dad still thought it was a "waste of money."
Dad preferred to go off to Mexico and spend the holidays with the family of his paternal aunt's second husband... as in, a bunch of fucking strangers.
He tried "prohibiting" us from going to Europe, but Mom busted out her "I MAKE MY OWN MONEY AND SPEND IT LIKE I WANT TO SPEND IT AND YOU DON'T PROHIBIT ME FROM ANYTHING!" line, so the rest of us went to Athens to spend Christmas like a motherfucking family.
Great showcase of where each one of us have our priorities, huh?

Something I left out in my year in review was the fact that 2015 was plagued by some of the most intense fighting between my parents. Things never escalated to physical altercations, but one time my mom did utter "GO ON, FUCKING HIT ME! THAT'S ALL YOU FUCKING NEED TO DO!" while they were at work... in front of a customer... which... you know... wasn't too fucking awesome. Luckily, this served as a wakeup call for my parents to tone it the fuck down.

I hadn't seen my dad since the 12th of December... and felt guilty because I didn't miss him.
I think we all needed this break from one another. While my relationship with my siblings and my mother has been strengthened over time, I cannot say the same about my relationship with my father. 2015 made him grouchier, more... idiotic, less tolerant... it made him a LIAR for the first time ever... and it made him a potty mouth-- something he NEVER was.
He has said some of the most radical bullshit that downright frightened me... he seemed possessed.

Then I saw Daddy yesterday, and I realized "I do miss this grouchy, ignorant man."
He's much more chill.
He went to the doctor while in Mexico and they fixed him... for now. I think.
And he brought me cheese.

Hope 2016 sees this old man chill out and more tolerant.
Same goes for me.

Not to my daddy!

I don't think there's a person out there who enjoys seeing their parents upset... well, maybe if your parent is an undeniable piece of shit human... but other than that, I don't think anyone of sound mind enjoys his or her parent's pain.

Yesterday my Pops came home so upset, he didn't eat dinner and he went straight to sleep-- at 7 PM.
This man loves food.
He also brought home a dozen fancy donuts he hadn't touched. He had been planning a surprise for Mom and I... but instead, he just left the box of untouched donuts on the kitchen counter and went to bed.

Daddy was upset... wildly upset, and this of course, crushed me for Daddy.

My dad is honest to a fault, way too many people judge him a dumbass for this reason (myself included, much to my shame). Nothing upsets him more than being accused of dishonesty, and yesterday, that's exactly what happened.
A high way patrol man staked out his place of work for forty minutes, harassed my mom about my dad's whereabouts, and waited for Dad to return from a cement job he was working on.
Once Dad arrived, the cop accused my dad of causing an accident on the highway after his truck spilled rocks over a car. The driver of the car filed the report saying he had pulled over to a rest stop and spoke to my dad who had supposedly assumed responsibility.
1. During the time the report was filed, Dad's truck was empty, he has the receipt from the gravel company stating his fill up time as 14 minutes after the report was filed.
2. Dad NEVER spoke to anyone. He never pulled over at said stop. Luckily Dad, due to his years in the truck-stop game (44), is close friends with the owner of the truck stop in question, and he now has footage of what transpired in that location... you know, the fact that he was NOT THERE.
3. Since when the fuck do cops respond to "minor" accidents? Didn't we recently change that rule and now there has to be a serious injury in order to get cops involved? Who the fuck is this driver to have so much importance to call on a cop to pick up his case over a fucking broken windshield?

Dad was most bothered by the fact that the douchebag claimed he had spoken to Pops, also upset over how the cop treated him and my mother, and more upset over the fact that Pops lost his cool and dropped numerous curse words in his ire.

Hearing all this, and seeing my poor dad's defeated look when he walked into the house yesterday fucking gutted me... then infuriated me.

You know, I defend the law enforcers damn near blindly. I like to imagine a world where there is no corruption and shit like that... because I can only stand ONE Mexico-level of corruption in my life, and that spot is taken by Mexico.
You hear all these fucked up stories of cops doing shitty things, and think "Well, what the fuck was the douche bag civilian doing to piss off a cop like that?" And when the answer is "He was an honest Mexican business owner"... it makes the pit of my stomach hurt and my mouth/throat run dry.
It's scary and sad and infuriating and confusing.
What do you do?

Uncool. So uncool.

Poorly, but...

My parents sure have a way with words...
Never thought I'd miss the days when he'd just accuse me of being a "dyke" as I tried eating my fucking cereal at the kitchen table... at least that would happen in the privacy of our home.

This exchange also occurred a couple of minutes after hearing my friend's father was at the hospital after suffering a heart attack, by the way.

Aaaaaand how has your day been?

You're not my dad

As is usual, I intended to update sooner. I keep going back and forth.
My laptop has also been on the fritz after downloading a file from a friend that I can swear slowed my shit down. But whatever.

My brain has been a jumbled mess these last few weeks.
There has been some crazy shit going on in the household, primarily, my dad's bizarre behavior.
My frustration and confusion finally boiled over yesterday, when I confronted him in his room, and started to cry.
Me: YOU'RE NOT MY DAD! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?! DO YOU HATE US?

My dad had been super quiet since his return from Cuba. Super shady.
Things exploded a few days ago when he accused my mother and me of being "satanists" because we're Catholic.
I don't know... it's like... I was scared... I didn't know what was wrong and especially didn't know how to FIX it. It has been the most terrified I've ever been.
My whole life I've dealt with Mom and Dad fighting over religion... but never ever had Dad dared to offend us in that fashion... it was terrifying. TERRIFYING. If you're willing to call your own blood a "satanist"... what's the next step? Abandoning us? Trying to perform some sort of... exorcism? Had my dad finally jumped off the deep end? WHAT THE FUCK did they do to him in Cuba? WHAT THE FUCK?!

I also bumped into some alarming e-mails by accident. Since I do all of my dad's permit work (considering he works with diesel and has the gas station... and a couple of concrete companies, and now the houses my folks own, I have to keep up to date with all sort of permits, since it's basically internet shit and my parents are pretty much living in a Stone Age mentality), I have to check out his e-mail to see the replies I get from the different state departments. This time, I was keeping up with a Hazmat permit, which requires about three different replies, so I decided to check his e-mail.
I saw e-mails from ONE lady... with the subject line being... well, shady... so I couldn't help myself and I read them.
Since the e-mails originate from Cuba, she can send them, but Dad can't reply.... and... well... I felt like a mule kicked me when I read her overly-friendly e-mails.
I didn't tell my mom, I just kept it to myself.

Finally, yesterday, when I tried convincing him to come to the living room to skype with our Costa Rica friends and he turned me down, I couldn't help myself and I finally broke down.
And he finally spoke up.

After nearly four hours of listening to him talk, I made progress. He couldn't talk to Mom about it, since Mom is stubborn and won't listen to religious talk which she finds offensive to the Catholic church. I, on the other hand, have learned to be extremely tolerant of ANYONE'S views on religion (positive and negative), whether they clash with mine or not. I'll listen. I don't have to agree, but I definitely try to understand.
So... I made sure to make Dad feel-- to KNOW-- his opinions, feelings, and thoughts are important--VALID-- to me, regardless of how much I may disagree with them.

And I think we're good. I think he released whatever was weighing him down.

Heavy shit, guys.

Spice looter

I promise I'm super calm and peaceful, despite the previous post and how agitated I might seem.
Yeah, I was slightly upset, but that's only because it's difficult not to get worked up when explaining the situation.

I swear I'm not letting this little bit of drama dampen my spirits.
I AM slightly disappointed in myself for even focusing in the slightest on the negatives, like who didn't wish me a happy birthday... considering the people who did made me smile like never before. For one, JC went back to singing to me, and  I know I bitched about that shit last year. And two, for the first time in years, Darcy wished me a happy birthday, and I know I've bitched about that each year he has ignored my day. You'd think I'd willingly give my left ovary for a birthday wish from the dude (while I wouldn't mutilate myself for his attention, I still do that thing where I get lightheaded when he pays me any mind-- like some hyper pitbull. I did that thing where I forget to breathe because I'm so... happily amused). But it's not a disappointment that hinders my peaceful prancing around the city.

I'm also a little... worried. Dad left for Cuba this evening, and I can't help but be a little concerned for his wellbeing. Luckily, me fears were eased (slightly) after being told he'll be back on US soil on Sunday.
I'm even invited to join them on their next Cuba trip (by "their" I mean Dad's church group. They annoy me so badly... but when they're in my face, I'm so charmed by them... it makes me uncomfortable). I politely turned them down, but I welcomed any cacao they wish to send my way upon their return. Any fucking spices, actually, give me any Caribbean spices and I will be a happy camper.
It's the looting Spaniard in me that wants that shit.

Orphan.

Today was my Pop's 59th birthday.
Me, being the fantastic, sensible daughter I am, bought him a birthday cake... an ice-cream cake... in this freezing weather. Because I can. Because he loves it.

I tried my hardest to make him smile. I tried to make today all about him.
But he was still sad. He still cried.

I feel horrible. He breaks my heart.
He misses my sister SO BAD. To top it off, he had an argument with her.
"She's mad at me. She didn't respond to my text message."
He was so excited when he was going to blow out his candles, he made me take photos of him with his phone.
He then asked me to show him how to text the photos to my sister.
He sent the photos to both my siblings, and only my brother responded.
My daddy went to bed sad.

What did my dad say to upset D? The truth.
D, after wishing Pops a happy birthday, proceeded to complain about her car.
Dad told her "Baby, the new ones (Jetta's) are so pretty, want a new one? They're cheap."
She responded "If only it were that simple, but I don't have the money to buy one."
Dad: If you were here, and not over there, like some orphan, things would be different. I can buy a new one each month. You don't think I could give you ONE?

D cried. And stopped responding.
She complained to me.
D: Way to stay humble, Dad.
Me: It's his way of telling you that he can have whatever he wants, but he'll never be happy because you're not home. He's not trying to brag.

I don't know what is up with my sister, but all day she has been a bitch.
Me, being the concerned older sister I've always been, checked her.
She did not like this.
I don't care. When I see her acting up, I feel it is MY JOB to check her... to straighten her out.
Very early in her life, I caught her tendency to be cruel... to be one of those vain, obnoxious, insensitive girls who bully others. She would rely on her looks, her ability to easily gain the favor of others due to her physical appeal, and she would go on power trips... like some fucking princess.
As upset as it makes me to slap sense into her, to embarrass her by making her realize what an annoying, mean bitch she's being, I HAVE to do it.

Now that she lives so far away, I have to check her quite publicly, on social networks.
She is getting much more unruly... and so self-centered... egotistical. It is really fucking frustrating me. I just want to hop on a plane headed to Chicago, and shake her.

Watching my dad frown on his birthday... to cry... it hurt me. It made me sad... then mad.
This man works so fucking hard... made his dreams come true: he EARNED all the money we could possibly ever need, so we would never know what it was like to struggle to make ends meet... and my sister CHOSE to leave comfort... for what?
We all know why she left... and THAT is what hurts Daddy.

He has all the money he could ever need... but he doesn't have his little Princess. His babygirl waved a huge middle finger in his face, and spit on his lifetime of effort.

My daddy breaks my heart.

Really him

One day, I will remember to gather all of my dad's stories and store them in a single place.
That man has had quite a life.
Pops drives me insane with some of his archaic beliefs... and his unabashed bigotry... and... I'll stop myself right there before I make this post a negative one.

I had noticed my poor dad was quiet... and actually pretty sad these last two days.
He has different types of quiet, angry-quiet being the one I hate, and sad-quiet the one that breaks my heart.
After sitting down for some dinner with my folks and me being oddly chirpy, chiming a playful hello and getting nothing in return, I remembered:
Dad accompanied his best friend as moral support as they cremated his brother.

I guess Dad's BFF's only brother passed away a few days ago, and Dad's BFF decided he was going to get the man cremated. Dad's BFF demanded to be present as they placed his brother in the furnace, to make sure "it was really him getting cremated."
He told Dad of this, and Dad volunteered to join him, since the deceased was also a semi-BFF by default. Back in the 70's, that's how these three guys did stuff... all three together, it was only right they'd be together for this as well.

I look through my dad's old photos and see young dudes having fun in a very old Vegas. They have the coolest haircuts... a ton of hair... huge glasses... bellbottom pants... they're smoking weed and drinking beer. They're being... young bachelors. They have no cares in the world.
Now they're chubby old men... thin hair... huge reading-glasses. Each one of them have battled some sort of cancer... and now they're watching as their group slowly dwindles.

Poor Daddy.

Well, fuck, look at that... I still made this negative, didn't I?

My dude!

The dance was over at 10:30pm and more than half of the attendees had left.
Arturo had returned to our table and asked Jennifer to dance. They were grinding against each other for the rest of the night.
Rafa had gotten up to dance with his childhood crush at 10:45pm. The bride's mom had come over to the table to ask my mom and Mague to dance in a circle of middle-aged women at 10:50pm. Jose had left with his wife at 10:55pm. The only ones left at my table were Dad, Arturo's dad, and me. I had rearranged myself to sit next to my dad, in Jose's spot. I couldn't stand the thought of sitting alone.
I stared at the various circles of dancing people on the dance floor when Daddy reached his right arm around my shoulder and squeezed me.
"You're beautiful, Mija," he said. "You're so incredibly beautiful."
I bit my bottom lip and turned to my right--away from him.
It doesn't help when you're the only one who sees it, Dad.  

I had been doing a good job at keeping the tears in, but his words made me weak. A tear rolled down my right cheek and I fought to keep any more from leaking out. I looked to the ceiling and wiped at my right eye with my left thumb, then my left index finger after realizing my thumb had been bleeding all night.

My dad was not very present in my childhood, he spent most of his time working his heart out in order to get us out of the ghetto.
My short stories rarely mention Dad, he's not much of a star player. Most of the time, I'm just asking him for permission... or dealing with his machismo's effect in my life.
That tiny excerpt is from the only story where he's the "hero" so to speak. And it's a true story.

I had cut my thumb that morning as I clumsily shaved my legs at six in the morning, in preparation for a wedding where I'd get to see my crush. At the wedding, I realize the dude had a new, super trashy girlfriend (no, seriously... she was SUPER trashy).
As a way to keep from crying, I proceeded to spend the night rubbing my cut thumb on the tiny glass beads decorating the the table cloths. The physical pain would make me forget about my shitty feelings-- the self-mutilators defense.
Daddy was the only one to be nice to me that night.
The story was my professor's least favorite, because "it's good as usual... but it's your saddest one yet :(" (The man didn't like seeing me sad-- my adoptive granddad. I guess he gets a shout-out today as well, because he's dope like that)

So, though Papiringo drives me INSANE quite often... and I argue with him on a regular basis... I adore him. He's Mi Papi!
He may believe things like washing dishes, cooking, and doing laundry is strictly "women's work," but he has the softest little lamb heart in the universe (so much so, it gets taken advantage of by EVERYONE).
He has this psychic ability to detect when I'm miserable as fuck, and he takes immediate action to cheer me up (obviously my favorite is when he doodles for me, like I've mentioned before. His doodles brighten my LIFE. That little cutie).
He may not let me drink in his presence... but he lets me travel to any destination I please, for as long as I please, blank check. I mean... I'd be the stupidest cunt in history to complain about that.
In a time when so many people don't have the luck to have a father in their lives, I am lucky enough to have my pops snooping around my life and cracking me up the whole way.
Take the good with the bad, and of course, the good always outweighs the bad.

I love that man... mi papi, papirrin, papiringo, Pops, Dad.

I just want her to come back

George Lopez has that "Why you crying?!" comedy routine.
It's probably the routine with which identify most.
Mom beat this into my head. She'd be the one who'd backhand us in the mouth, then shout "And don't you even think of crying, or I'll give you something to cry about!"
I'd be that poor kid sitting there with tears in my eyes, and as soon as my chin would begin to quiver, Mom would bust out that infamous "WHY YOU CRYING?!" line.

I know I complain a lot and cry a lot... but that's in the privacy of my room... for the most part. Very few people have seen me cry... mainly because Mom beat this behavior into me. Had it not been for Mom instilling the "crying indicates you're weak" mentality, I'd probably bust out the waterworks every ten minutes... since I'm overly emotional and shit.
I was also raised to believe men don't cry. Ever.
So, even at this age, when I see a dude crying, I freak out a little.
Who the fuck died? Who's GONNA die? What the fuck?! I'm scared! WHAT'S HAPPENING?!

Today, I was having a pleasant day... besides the fact that I felt tired as all hell, I was ok.
I had returned from the gym, completely exhausted, and as I laid down on my bed to check my e-mail, I fell asleep.
Upon waking up, I walked into the kitchen in search for some protein... carbs... something to keep me awake.
I consider myself a normal person, so I walk into rooms in a normal fashion: quietly.
This time, as I quietly walked into the kitchen, I stumbled into a kitchen containing a sobbing, grown-ass man standing over the sink: my dad.
OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

My little daddy was having a little melt-down because he misses his baby girl.
I felt terrible for my poor little Pops!
PAPIIIIII!

Dad: I just want her to come back!
Me: :(((( Awww... Daddy!
Dad: If she told me she wanted to come home, I'd go pick her up RIGHT NOW!
Me: :(

It broke my heart... so instead of telling him to calm down and man up, I patted his back and walked back into my room.
Everyone's allowed to have a full-on melt-down...
I just prefer not to hear or see it... 'cause you know... I took plenty of backhand to the face to really feel too comfortable with that stuff.

Poor Pops.
So scary, but so sad.

Haters Gon' Hate? Fuck that.

Know how I know I'm Dad's favorite?
When D got in that ugly wreck a few months ago, he refused to pay for the repair... he even refused to take the car to a shop.
What does he do with me?
He gets the mechanic at our place to use his thingamajigs (that's as good as it gets with me. I know nothing about car jargon. I turn to Ariel and refer to everything as a "thingamajig" and "thingamabob." It works. I know how to change a flat tire, having done it three times, but do I know what tools I used? Fuck no) to fix my bumpers. Pops wouldn't even let me drive Bambi until it was inspected.
My little babe is as good as new.

And that's how I know I'm his favorite. My little Popster.

Know whose favorite I am NOT?
My substitute kickboxing instructor.
I'm not being paranoid, this shit is confirmed.

Before class, I did the usual thing and chatted up my old-lady friends. One I'm particularly tight with because we talk basketball each season.
This lady has a younger sister who is very close to the substitute teacher because they both have the same aggressive, bitter nature (kind of like me, but not really like me... if that makes sense. I'm hardened because I'm a sweet girl who was hurt at a very young age. They're older women who were CLEARLY hurt by a boyfriend, when they were in their mid-twenties, and have just never recovered. HUGE difference).
As we sat in our corner, talking March Madness, the younger sister brings up the substitute teacher... kind of laughing.
MyOldLadyFriend: You told her to go hard on me, didn't you?!
OldLadyFriend'sYoungerSis: ... maybe.
MyOldLadyFriend: I already know she doesn't like me. You made sure to tell me. Which reminds me, guess what she thinks of YOU.

The old lady looks directly at me.

Me: The sub? Of me?
MyOldLadyFriend: She thinks... ::nervous laugh:: you're a little bitch.
?!?!
Me:... me?!
MOLF: Yeah. She doesn't like anyone from *RealKickboxingTrainer*, says we're annoying and vain. The other day she was complaining to my sister about it. Then she brought you up. Straight up said "I want to make that bitch hurt."

I couldn't make a noise. My eyes were just huge in disbelief.
Me: But I didn't do anything!
MOLF: It bugs her how... I guess she has caught you yawning a few times... says you act bored and it pisses her off.
Me: I have late nights and early mornings!
MOLF: Well, be ready. You already know her intentions.

Now, I'm a pushover and a sweetheart and blah blah blah. I don't like conflict. I cry a lot. I'm a pacifist (even if deep inside I'm burning up and cussing up a storm. I'll stay quiet because I HATE rocking the boat).
But I'm my mother's child.
I'm vindictive. I'm stubborn. I LOVE to prove people wrong. I. AM. COMPETITIVE.

Make ME hurt? BIIIITCH, you don't even know me. Fuck you. BRING IT, you fucking hater. 

What did I do?
Well, I definitely felt offended and sad at first. It never feels good to be told someone dislikes you for no apparent reason.
My face just fucking looks like this, ok?! I'm timid. Naturally quiet and shy... not stuck up and vain.
After pouting a little, and taking a few deep breaths, I took all her commands and made it my fucking mission to do them like a pro.
I channeled the rage and imagined it was her bitch ass directly in front of me that I was kicking, punching, kneeing, and (my absolute favorite) elbowing.
When the plyos came around, I made sure not to bitch out... even on the stupid burpees that hurt the shit out of my weak wrists (fuck you, burpees).

Basically, I owned that kickboxing class yesterday.
...
Then I woke up this morning-- completely immobilized.

Parts of my body I had never felt before are crying in pain (my gluteus medius/minimus are wishing death upon me. That pain is... nasty. It's so awkward... a totally foreign feeling).
I nearly passed on the gym... but, again, my stubbornness and pride got the best of me.
That bitch made me hurt? FUCKTHAT! I'm adding another ten pounds to this squat, and these motherfucking lunges are gonna be weighted!

I'm probably going to regret this... but hey, good thing it's the weekend, right? Stupid hater bitch doesn't see me at the gym until Monday.
I'll gain some mobility by then... hopefully...

I'll make sure to smile and skip my way past her.
Bitch.

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.

Volunteered

Haven't had the best couple of days recently... but today I received terrific news without even asking for it:
Dad gave me clearance to visit JC in the Fall.
Apparently Mom was talking to him about JC living in Berlin this upcoming semester, and my dad volunteered me to visit JC during that time... without Mom even mentioning my intentions.
Germany off my map, suckaaa!
Portugal, you're next!

The smile returned to my face.

Now let's hope that leash on the boy disappears by then.

Not 100 words? Ok, I'll try reaching it somehow.

Happy first of the month?
Which reminds me, I learned something new today:
People on Welfare get refills on their stamps on the first of the month.
Apparently stores are packed the first couple of days of the month because of this little factoid.
I only recently found out because my friend's mom complained about it as she was heading out to the store to buy ingredients for ceviche.
I was laughing for a good two minutes. The little lady was upset, but the urge for ceviche was stronger, so she decided to put up with the traffic.

Is that 100 words? I got nothing.
It's Friday before 4th of July... I can't think too clearly and I'm not in the mood to communicate...
I got some boys to pick up from the airport... Rafa's friends... a bachelor party.
How the hell do I end up with these odd jobs?

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.

Answers!

The answers to yesterday's quiz are as follows:

Guess what!

You were bitten by another bastard spider.

Yeah, but where?

Your inner left thigh.

Yes! How'd you guess?!

Because those *expletive of your choice. Creative ones get extra credit* always harass the hell out of you, regardless of where you may be. Inner left thigh because that was the most painful spot I could think of... and knowing you, something like that WOULD happen to you.

Sucks, right?!

It sucks so bad, I would exterminate all the arachnids in this world for you, just so it never happens again.


Needless to say, I've been limping around like a pirate with a peg leg since yesterday. And when I have to piss? JESUS CHRIST! I'm inches away from going to the doctor and asking for a urinary catheter (TMI? I DON'T CARE! Dramatic? Suck it!).
Sleeping was also a drag. I couldn't let my injured thigh touch the other one. It was pretty difficult, considering most humans are unconscious when asleep... and my preferred sleeping position is the fetal position.
I only share this because it's stuff I've never taken into consideration before. I never sat there and though "Yo, AnoMALIE, so... what would you do if one morning you woke up a total gimp due to a spider bite?" Umm... I guess... I would... have to change how I sleep, wouldn't I? And... I'd... definitely not be able to take a comfortable piss, that's for sure!

Well, that pain was more of an issue yesterday.
Today I woke up with my leg being a little better... so I went for a hike.
Ha! I just love treating myself badly.
Nah, the pain wasn't too bad at the start of the hike, plus, the weather (cloudy with occasional sprinkles) was awesome. The smell was... mmmmm... wet dirt makes me happy. My left thigh could have been impaled by an arrow and I'd still be happy with the smell of wet dirt.

Anyway, the hike made me so happy, I convinced myself I was good to hit the gym and lift.
I was too upset over having to lower all of my weight (except for squats. My blessed, injured thunder thighs are good for something-- besides being good spider bait, of course) by at least ten pounds (for reasons I'm sure I'll discuss later in the month) to care about my horrifically injured thigh.

That's where my day went downhill.
After putting all the weights away, I looked into the mirror to readjust my hair into a neater ponytail (I look beyond disheveled after working out). As I was scooping my hair back, I misjudged the distance of my hand to my neck and damn near slashed my left carotid artery with my left thumb (what is it with the left side of my body?). It was a sensation that made me double over in pain (and that dismemberment video from that notorious blog was the first thought to rush to my head). I still can't touch it, to tell you the truth... it hurts, but it also grosses me out.

After that, I came home and lo and behold, who's at my house?
My dad's real-estate agent... guy with whom my dad is trying to hook-up either one of us (D or me).
I was messy... with my busted carotid artery... my limp... and Dad still forced me to greet Ivan (we hadn't formally met), per Ivan's request.
So uncomfortable. I felt like a slave being sold at auction.
Sure, her hair is a nappy mess right now, but she never goes out without straightening it. Just look how long it is! And she has... that weird red gash on her neck, but I assure you she's NOT suicidal... it must have been the seatbelt of her car. Sure, she's sweaty right now... but did you know she goes to the gym and can bench-press her weight... which is... OPPPPP! Stop right there, sir! ENOUGH!

So, ladies and gentlemen... looks like my dad has finally lost his patience with me and is trying to marry me off.
Hopefully he finds a more tactful way of doing it (trying to marry me off, that is).

Don't worry, I'll invite all of you to my wedding... so one of you can abduct me before I walk down the aisle.

Kicked out

I don't normally post twice in one day, considering I have a difficult time coming up with ONE entry a day... but this just... made me feel so weird, I had to share:

I made a grown man cry today.
A grown man who is also my father's best friend.
It was 100 percent unintentional.

Backstory:
Dad came to Vegas back as a teenager and lived with his dad's sister.
Dad knew no one other than that family, and he didn't speak a lick of English.
Dad spent his time fixing his car, as well as the neighborhood's cars... because there was nothing better to do back in the 70's in North Las Vegas... especially for an immigrant.
One day, he was at a scrap yard looking for car parts, but he was having difficulty finding a certain part.
Dad was walking aimlessly, when one of the workers started harassing him, accusing him of stealing and calling him by some derogatory terms.
Dad had no idea what was going on, and he had no way of defending himself. That's when another Latino came to Dad's rescue... a Mexican-American kid about Dad's age who was browsing around and heard the commotion.
From that moment on, Dad and A (the Mexican-American kid) became inseparable.
In his twenties, Dad moved in with A... where they made their bachelor pad a party central. They drank for days, and these homies would smoke weed 'til... they could eat a horse.
Then A got married and started his family.
Dad left for Mexico, met Mom, and got married. They decided they'd live in Mexico, and only visit the US to have their (anchor... jk!) babies.
Once Mom was about six months pregnant, my folks decided to head for the US. Dad went for help from the only person he knew: A.
My folks lived with A, his wife, and their two kids.
Mom would babysit the two kids (she has some hilarious anecdotes from those days), cook, and clean (all while pregnant, like any awesome Mexican lady) in order to pay back the hospitality.
Mom and Dad lived with A until Mom gave birth to Rafa. That's when my folks decided they would stay here, and raise their family.
My parents found a place to call their own, and when Rafa was about six months old, they finally moved out of A's house.
We would visit A at least once a week, we'd go on camping trips to Utah at least twice during the summer, and we treated each other like family for years.

Around the time when I turned ten, the visits stopped... A's marriage disintegrated... and A went a little rogue.
Still, we D's cherish the memories shared with A and his family, and we remained eternally grateful for the kindness they showed my folks during the rough transition of moving to a foreign country. That's the kind of stuff you can never forget and will always appreciate.

Ok, now on to today and how I made this poor man cry:
Dad has stayed in contact with A, and he has visited him about once a year.
Last week, A let Dad know that he needed him to help fill his pool (is that what it's called? When you get rid of your pool by covering it with concrete).
Dad has been doing the concrete job at A's house these last two days.
Today, Dad finally asked A what his deal was in no longer visiting us.
This is where A started to cry.
A: Wanna know why? It's because of your daughters!
?!!?!
Dad: What?!
A: They kicked me out of your house!
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Dad: WHEN?! THOSE BRATS!
A: When I go, they never come out of their room. That is THEIR way of kicking me out. They don't care to know me... they DON'T know me. Sad, because you and I are not "friends"... we're BROTHERS!
Dad: Oh... yeah, we are... but... don't let that get to you... the girls do that to everyone. If you were to drop by more often, they'd hang around... eventually. Don't feel bad about that.

Dad told me this as I was making some dinner.
I laughed... then I felt terrible, when Dad told me how A was BAWLING.
Whoa, my "slights" elicits this response from grownass men? CALM DOWN! It's only me.

I know the guy... I DO. I know what part of Mexico his family hails from (Chihuahua). I'm in contact with his only daughter (we took some college classes together, as well). I know his ex-wife's mom is a lesbian. I know his three kids are Jewish while he is a non-practicing Catholic. I know his ex-wife only ate lox. I know he and Dad would smoke weed like Cheech and Chong (something A's kids know NOTHING about). I know how he met Dad.
I could pick him out of a crowd like I can pick out Waldo, for crying out loud!

I treat him like I treat any other adult who visits my folks: I greet him at the door, shake his hand as I smile, and I excuse myself to another part of the room.
What can I talk about with a 50-whatever year-old man I see once a year? I don't even smoke weed, so I can't even talk about that.
I'm sorry, A!

So now I'm embarrassed and sad over  hurting this man's feelings.

Men... women may be crazy... but you guys are such pansies (says the girl who cries because she's not invited to be part of a bridal party).

Birthday Cake

Today is my Pop's 57th birthday.
Like every year, we had dinner together, chatted, and then ate cake.
However, this year we all took it up a notch and had some wine with our dinner (I HATE wine). I also learned something new about Dad: He never had a birthday cake until he married Mom. She made one for him their first year of marriage, and has done so ever since.
Me: Awwww! Daddy! Not even as a little baby?!
Dad: Never. I didn't even know what a birthday cake looked like.
Me: Daddyyyy!! :(
This made me frown, damn near cry (maybe it was the wine?), and I squeezed daddy's face, then kissed his forehead.

It's easy for me to lose my patience with Dad, call him a troglodyte in the middle of an argument... because I forget about his rough childhood.
His entire neighborhood was poor... so no one there ever had a birthday party... and Dad never hung out with kids from other parts of town, so he never got to see a birthday cake (after telling me all this, he went back to telling me his bicycle story and how he never got one/rode one, all sad. Little Dad really wanted a bicycle as a child... proof being he still remembers that shit on his 57th birthday).
How heartbreaking is that? Makes me feel like shit for taking stuff like that for granted.

So, after getting sad and having my heart break a little more for my pops, I just hugged him violently and bit his cheek... 'cause that's how I do.

I love my dad.


Totally off-topic, but still worth mentioning:
This afternoon, as I drove home from gym-time, I saw a text from Mooney:
MGH!!!!!
Me: What he do?
(I rolled my eyes, expecting to hear some embarrassing shenanigan of his or rude comment from him or something. This kid is unpredictable)
Mooney: He's single
(I almost crashed the car on the Warm Springs' bridge... thanks Mooney! jk)
Me: NO WAY!
Mooney: Yep

I'm crossing my fingers I don't get a message from him soon, 'cause I'm done with that shit... although I help him out at the drop of a dime the moment he needs anything.
I'm a sucker like that.
But I'll only help in making him laugh. None of this flirting shit.

2011, you're being a fuckhead right now.

Those Rascals

Pacemaker: So, has JC called you recently?
Me: No... was he supposed to?
Pacemaker: So he hasn't told you about Emma?
Me: No. You were the one who told me about that one, remember?
Pacemaker: Oh, well... that's weird.

God... when that girl calls... she gives me a weeks-worth of material.

Today--for the majority of the time--JC was the topic of conversation, since he has a new girlfriend... and apparently, people in the bay area think I'm going to be devastated over it. They seem to have been under the impression that there was a thing going on between JC and I. Even my parents and brother are of that persuasion.
Totally not the case. Sure, we did some things that could make others think we were in a relationship... like how I'd sleep in his room each time I visited the bay, or how he'd throw his boxers at my head before he'd go in to shower and shit like that... but it was more of a sibling-love thing, at least from my behalf (there were certain occasions where I'd get a little freaked out as we'd sit alone in his car and he'd make "meaningful" eye-contact with me. I could sense him getting courage to go at my face, and I'd be figuring ways to dodge his body. Of course, our sibling-love would always win-- thank God)... especially since the guy I was having a somewhat-secretive thing with was his brother.
Mom: That's not how others would interpret it.

Anyway, Pacemaker bringing up JC and MGH was weird, since yesterday Dad asked me about MGH and JC out of the blue. I was trying to check him in at one of those stupid kiosks at the airport when he asked.
Dad: MGH hasn't called you or anything? Told you what he or JC are up to?
Me: Nope. I have no idea what he's doing with his life, Dad.
Dad: I miss him. I miss those rascals.
Me: Yeah... well...

That's what sucks about how well our families meshed.
My poor Pops got dumped along with me.
Sorry about that, Pops.

It squeezes my heart a tiny bit... because... I'm pretty damn sure Dad isn't going to like any other dude I may get, quite as much as he liked MGH. My Dad was a huge fan... apparently he still is, seeing how his eyes light up when he talks about those kids.

Why do guys ruin a good thing? It's like they don't enjoy being loved.
(This post also came about because, oddly enough, I'm really pissed over the Longoria-Parker breakup. Fuckface HAD to be French. Prick-ass bitch... and with an ugly hoe, too!! WTF guys?! What. The. Fuck?!)

Thief!

Know what sucks?
Waking up to the sound of someone rumaging through the kitchen like a wild boar at 5:30 in the morning.
My father just frightened the fucking shit out of me as he flipped the damn kitchen upside down... and now not only can I not sleep, but I also have the loveliest pounding going on in my head. Add to that the racing of my heart, heart that now wants to jump out of my mouth.
YOU DON'T DO THAT TO SOMEONE WHO USED TO LIVE IN THE GHETTO!

I hope he one day realizes HE DOES NOT LIVE ALONE! Goddamn!

Bye bye birdie

I'm going to fkn puke.

... Yeah...
How the hell Mom has managed to remain married to my pops for 28 years is beyond me.
Does any grown, adult man living with another human behave like this?

Look at the damn thing just chillin' (no pun intended) in the fridge... not only is it unsightly as fuck, but more importantly, it's next to MY grapes!
Cross-contamination, dude!

My dad is a caveman!

Am I overreacting? Maybe... I mean, I'm sure many people have skinned pigeons (which were killed in the backyard by a BB-gun-toting father) sitting in their fridge...
But it doesn't mean I'm not allowed to gag... or yelp a little, each time I open the fridge.

Home, sweet home.
I need to barf...

Counsel wha... ?

I walked into the house today to find out Dad was nowhere in sight.
Ok... maybe he's at church.
At about 10 PM, dad walks into the house... in a weird Jesus shirt.
It was a cross with all these words scribbled over it:
Love. Peace. Joy. Follow the Lord. Summer 2010.

WTF, Dad?
Mom: Oh, we didn't tell you?
Me: What?
Mom: He's a camp counselor.
Me: WHAAAAAT?!
Mom: Shut up, he'll hear you.

I guess his church is running a summer camp for grade-school kids that are out of school.

I guess this would be the time to mention my dad's a preacher.
Yes, I, AnoMALIE, a born-and-raised Catholic, have a Pentecostal Preacher Dad.
... daughter of a preacher man... haha.. amuses me. Here, the man who would scare the shit out of me as a kid with his incessant talk of "the end" being near... and his constant haranguing of homosexuals and how they should go to hell for being "sick"... is considered capable of preaching to others. Jesus... I can't... OK, I'll shut up and quit shaking my head now.

Anyway, I guess this position makes him eligible to counsel these kids.
My dad.

I love my Daddy... but... come on... it's the man who tied seat-bealts around my brother's neck and my stomach (I'd add the photo just for shits and giggles again... but I think posting those shits twice is more than enough) while at Great America.
The man can't take care of a toaster, let alone children.

I still remember the one time Mom thought she'd be able to get a job as a waitress and quit being a housewife back when I was in second grade...

That was the most miserable month of my life.

I'd wake up to Mom getting ready to leave for her job at the Horseshoe. I'd cry and beg her not to leave.
Then Dad had to get me ready for school...
I was 7, but I KNEW I was mismatching.
He would never check my homework... and that month I had to eat school lunch, since Dad (still) didn't know how to pack lunches.
My hair? It was a wreck. It looked like two cats had humped on top of my head... and I'd opt for the "Ariel" look... my hair down past my butt and "free-flowing" aka I came home with a rat's nest for hair.

I love you Pops, but you know jack-shit about kids.

And yeah, I'm jealous Dad wants to spend time with these strange kids, when back in the day he'd leave my siblings and I to our own devices.

Fuck you, strange kids!! I hope my dad fucks up your hair!