Laying low

I wasn't joking about hiding under a rock.
I have tried my best to remain low-key for the last week or so.
The speed at which things go the moment I fuck up is amazing. I literally just sat and stared at my phone go crazy with really upset PEOPLE for a good couple of DAYS.
Yeah, I pissed off a group of people. For days.
Because I'm stupid.

I THINK things are getting better, and it's why I have time to at least jot something down without fear of saying something which I'll only later regret.
I've gone about my day, being as quiet as possible, and seeing as few people as possible... really only agreeing to once again see people yesterday. That actually turned out to be a good idea because 1. I played with children for four hours and they all think I'm the motherfucking shit. Kids are really good at making others feel awesome. 2. I was complimented by nice strangers at a bar... and treated to some rad people-watching later at night. I don't think I pissed off anyone in those hours... thought I was slightly frustrated by the smoking... but I chose to go to a bar, what else did I expect, right?

Today I had a scare of the technological kind... and I felt my life flash before my eyes. Right now would be THE shittiest moment for my laptop to die (please don't die, baby, I fucking need you for the next month more than I need anything on the planet... besides air and water, of course). I have to purchase so much bullshit, and settle so much "paper work," having a dead laptop would kill me.
However, the issue was solved by my lovely, patient cousin... and life returned to me.

So basically, my laptop scaring the shit out of me shifted my entire mood... and now I feel as though everything is wonderful, like this universe is amazing and awesome... and it's so great to be alive.

Talk this shit out

How do normal people mediate an argument?
Because my method of arbitration is as follows:

"You talk this shit out, you hear me? Talk. This. Shit. Out.
I don't care how long your break is... go ahead and take separate vacations... do it tomorrow, do it next week... do it soon. Go wherever you'd like, for as long as you'd like... calm down in separate places.
But you talk this shit out right now.
I don't want to hear this crazy shit.
Talk this shit out!"

Me? In denial? No. I'm just practical.
My dad's 60, my mom's 53... I don't need two different families at this point... THEY don't need an extra family at this point... my siblings don't need to hear this shit. My folks need to chill the fuck out, that's what THEY need to do. Homies signed a contract... they need to live up to it and just chill the fuck out (evidently so do I).

How'd it go? They talked this shit out.
I saved the marriage... again... for now.

My mood sure went to shit though.

Yings and yangs can build successful partnerships when they possess a good level of patience... but when they butt heads it's a fucking explosion. Jesus Christ. (Yeah, Jesus Christ had a lot to do with this blow up. What else is fucking new? ... And they wonder why I lack enthusiasm for religion-- the topic has been the fucking BANE of my existence!)

Convenience vs. Vanity

It's once again that dreaded time in a person's life:
It's time to renew my driver's license.

On Monday I received a letter from the DMV, where it was reminding me of my license's quickly approaching expiration date.
I have the option to renew on-line.
Fucking heaven-sent, right?
Not so much.

First off, I fucking hate my current license due to my hideous photo. It's terrible!

Dope cropping job I did on this back in '08, huh?

It also becomes a fucking hassle when I have to bust it out at clubs or bars. Bouncers/waiters give me a bitch of a time when carding me (like seriously, homie, I'm NOT underaged here. Give me my motherfucking drink and leave me the fuck alone!). It fucking sucks.
Second, I have a smaller head now... OF FUCKING COURSE I want to show that shit off. Sure, I'm older now... but my head is smaller now. Do you know how fucking important that is? Shit... it's pivotal in a chick's life, ok? Smaller head (greater than) Older.
And last, and the main reason, is because I get to drop the weight on that motherfucker... you know, NOT lie on that section.

I want to go to the DMV and get the photo retaken and all that shit... I just don't want to deal with the line... or the people (there's always one asshole who totes around his devil-spawn who won't shut the fuck up and continuously screams in my ear. Every fucking time). I also hate the new licenses. They're beyond cheap and weak as fuck.

So... I can either
1. Go the vain route and get a new photo and weight information... but deal with the unpredictable DMV line and carry the cheap, new licenses.
or
2. Keep my sturdy license, avoid the lines and renew on-line... but keep the disgusting current photo with the huge weight still displayed on that bad boy (weight on which I LIED and made myself 30 pounds ligther... yeah).

Oh... decisions, decisions.
(Fuck it, I'm going personally and getting that new shit.... I'm just going to wait for the massive pimple on my chin to disappear... and for my next eyebrow threading appointment. Hey, I am a girl, afterall)

Pistachios

So... uh... how do you recover from a blow up of that proportion?
I definitely can't ignore it, I mean, I haven't been that enraged or hurt in a very long time.
It hit all the usual hot-buttons of mine, but this time, there was religion involved. It fucking devastated me.
But then... I also don't like apologies--giving them or receiving them.
What to do?

I woke up with bruised arms, bruised legs, and a bruised ego.
My legs were sore as fuck, as were my forearms... not to mention my ass.

However, I did make peace with Mom. She once again spoke to me around noon today. We discussed bagels.
How did I win her back? I regressed to our hunter-gatherer origins and picked pistachios in the backyard (it's embarrassing to admit, but I fucking love this task. Pistachios, FRESH pistachios, are a party in my mouth, and I'd climb the sap-covered branches ANYDAY just to get those little nuggets of nutty magic). I returned to the house with sap all over my hair, twigs glued to the sap that was glued to my hair, and various scratches all over my arms and legs (guess I'm not a very good gatherer... or maybe just too adventurous/barbaric. I have a huge gash running long-ways on my wrist... as if I need to look any more suicidal to the rest of the world).
But it worked.
Best of all, there was no sentimental talk over what was screamed last night... it was just... a mutual understanding that Fuck, life stresses us all out sometimes, but the love will always be there... and yes, AnoMALIE, you're sometimes too irascible. Eat a goddamn cookie once in a while.

Bruised ego: ignored.
Bruised legs: painful and unsightly.
Bruised arms: unsightly and suspicious. People stare at me as if I were a battered woman. That shit needs to clear ASAP... but then again, that's what I get for thinking I'm motherfucking Wonder Woman yesterday.

I'll take it.

Peer Mediatiors

Back in fifth grade, the teachers at my elementary tried implementing a system to curb the spurts of aggression a lot of us showed.
I'm not sure if they were the ones who came up with the idea, I'm sure other schools had the same system, but I just never asked.
"Peer-Mediators."
A select few of us were chosen from each grade. I was one of the... probably four fifth graders chosen.
We were pulled from our classes for about an hour a day, for a week. We would go to "Peer-mediation" workshops, where we were taught methods for solving/preventing fights.
At the end, we were given orange sashes with "PEER-MEDIATOR" written in huge blue letters. Oh, and a clipboard... can't forget the important clipboard.

Each day, at recess, two kids from each grade (3rd-5th, I do believe) would have to "patrol" the school yard during lunch time. We'd go looking for kids who were in the middle of a fight/argument, break it up, make a write-up of what went down and how we solved it. The fighting parties had to sign off on the sheet as well.

I hated this.
I never ASKED to be in the damn peer-mediating program, yet I was forced to walk around the yard with a stupid orange sash and a heavy-ass clipboard looking for fights every other day.

The worst part?
Each "couple" had a quota to meet. Three fights a day.
Honestly, kids can only get into so many fights in the span of thirty minutes.
After about three days, it was damn near impossible to find that many fights going on.

Teacher: They don't have to be physical altercations... you can easily solve arguments. That counts too.

What did I do? I made them up. I had my friends and relatives fake the fights.
You can't blame me for trying to expand the horizons of some of these kids.

After about two weeks, the teachers started to notice my action-packed sessions, and started the ease up on my rotation.
Either she's lying... or she's INSTIGATING the fights.
Me?! Instigate? How rude! I'd never do that! Now, embellish... that's a different story.
By the fourth week, I was out.

That's why I now resort to problem solving using only a bat.
Or... not.
Truth is, I'm still a sucker for problem solving by talking shit out, and I end up with a giant headache and close to tears.
But it fucking works.

Someone get me a clipboard and a motherfucking orange sash!

Ug!

Guys... it's time. It's time for that fucking family reunion I talked about back in May.
The party takes place this Saturday (from 12PM until 12AM... what can we POSSIBLY do for that fucking long? Delusional fools. I'm showing up at 7:30PM, fuck that shit. Noon to midnight... get the fuck out of here!).
There's drama going on (when isn't there? We wouldn't be Mexican without some goddamn drama unfolding before the fucking party even starts) because we Vegas families are getting charged to attend the mediocre party, and the prices aren't lining up. One family is being told $150 per family, someone else is being told $100... then there's another family being told $30 a person. It's all inconsistent and suspect.
The families coming down from other parts of the country are not getting charged anything... and that's fine, because it is costing them money to make it down here for a few days. What upsets us is the fact that we Vegas families are not getting charged a flat rate. Why lean more on one family and not another, you know? Fucking shady, I tell you.

ANYWAY! This drama has made many of the members decide not to attend.
This stresses me out, because my militant mother is FORCING me to go to this shindig against my will (no one I care to chill with is attending, so if I have to choose between sitting quietly at any one spot, I choose the comfort of my fucking home. Sorry. At least I don't have to be "dolled up" to be chilling there... and I don't have to pay 30 fucking dollars to do it. I'll spend that shit on protein powder and almond/oat flour, thank you very much!).
What does my body do when stressed out (besides vomit until I lose consciousness)? I break out, like almost any other female.
Fucking hormones.

My face has been kind to me for the most part this year, since I finally decided to take care of it (took me damn long enough)... but sometimes, I get a runaway pimple that decides to ruin my face (along with my life!).
The spot will be randomly chosen by my bastard body... and it looks like this time, it decided the most gracious spot would be the tip of my nose.
Ah, yes, the memories THAT brings! It's 1998 all over again.
I felt it coming in on Friday, and I've been trying my best to fight it.
I spent the weekend and today rocking this masterpiece whenever I had the opportunity to be home:

Yet another thing I'm ecstatic about.

Reminds me of Ug from Salute Your Shorts... except my nose-mask isn't protecting me from harmful UV rays.

Keppin' it classy, baby, keepin' it classy.

... but a bitch ain't one

I believe I have nine days before I head out for good ol' New York (Manhattan, Upper East Side... ? This has me feeling like I'm in the fuckin' Great Gatsby or some shit... where I'd go looking for Daisy to kick her fucking ass. Sorry, that story has a special place in my heart).
My sister and Pacemaker are stoked (oh yeah, Pacemaker's meeting us out there. It was strange how that worked out. She's getting a free birthday dinner from us. I know, I know, I complain SO much about the kid and here I am rewarding her... but what can I say? No matter how wrong you do me, if you've managed to weasel your way into my heart, you'll stay there forever. It's a trait I can't kill... hence why I take a minute to warm up to people... I'm in deep shit once I accept a person), me? Eh. My excitement wavers.
Yes, I love traveling and discovering new places. That's AWESOME and it completes my life.
But then there are those awesome arguments I have with my sister in regards to bar-hopping (yup, still having them. I've tried compromising by promising to get hammered on Friday, because all the shit we consume during "Happy Hour" will be free. I agreed I'd take advantage of it... to the fullest, but she's still set on drinking every. single. night. It's beyond frustrating, so I try no to think about it or else I get violent).
There's also the overwhelming sensation of... incompetence when it comes to planning. It leaves me frazzled, because these two girls (Pacemaker and my sis) are leaving all of the planning to me. You can't make me do that! I'M INDECISIVE!

I also have to go shopping.
I have clothes... but most of it is a hand-me-down from Sister, since she's dropping weight like a high school wrestler.
Sister and I have two completely different styles (though she rummages through my closet for my shoes and she often asks me to help her build her outfits. Stylists ain't got shit on me, even if MY attire consists of the same fucking jeans, white Vans slip-ons, and solid-colored V-neck. Really, can that EVER be considered bad? It's a laid-back, I-don't-give-a-shit-what-you-think-but-PLEASE-don't-pay-attention-to-me outfit. It's perfect. Well... there ARE days when I wear my quirky stuff... but that's for when I'm happy), so I tend to wear what she gives me only when I'm in a real jam for outfits. Nothing against her style... I just feel like... I don't belong in that sort of clothes (I've always sworn I'd never wear pre-torn jeans... because I make fun of them. I find BUYING torn jeans counterintuitive: leave the tearing up to me. My massive thighs take care of that shit REAL QUICK. I also fall down and eat shit almost as often as a fawn learning how to walk for the first time. I acquire rips in jeans EFFORTLESSLY. But now I'm the owner of a pair, since Sister handed me some of her jeans. The pants are cute... but each time I look at myself in the jeans, I want to slap myself for being such a hypocrite).
So, as much as I hate the process, shopping I must do.

Then I have the last dilemma: my hair.
I've been measuring my hair for months. I know I said I was going to cut it around the first-second week of April, but it wasn't quite long enough.
Ideally, I want to donate 18-inches. Back in April, my hair was still around 16 inches long (what I was OK with cutting, that is) .The perfectionist, stubborn ox in me just didn't let me cut it until I reached the proper inches.
Well, I measured my hair last night, and I clear the 18 inch mark.
I'm left with this: Do I cut it now, and head out to New York/Princeton with the new short do I'll still be trying to master... or do I wait until I come back home in order to chop my hair?
Both styles are a pain to handle. The long hair gets on my nerves because I'm constantly washing it and it takes FOREVER to dry. That shit is pretty high-meintenance. However, if I'm ever in a hurry, I can just pick it up in a ponytail and call it a day.
The short do is a breeze in the sense that it takes a second to wash and dry. However, it's a MUST when it comes to properly taking a straightening iron to it. If I don't straighten my short hair, I look like a bum. My nappy hair doesn't cooperate. And then there's also the most worrying aspect of the cut: what if my hair looks like shit? I don't have enough time to correct it. I'll be looking like a moron--YET AGAIN-- in the photos of my bro's various graduations (high school graduation? I looked like a whore-ish moron. Bro's Basic graduation? Looked like a scared moron. Bro's Advanced Training graduation? Looked like an angry, stressed--AP exams were two weeks away-- moron. Bro's Notre Dame graduation? Looked like a frustrated moron. Princeton graduation? Possible pumpkin-pie-hair-cutted-freak Moron [favorite "Dumb&Dumber" reference right there]? Oh man).

I got some problems to solve now.

Because we all need a little comedy in our life

P.S. and totally off-topic: I lifted semi-heavy last night... Jesus Christ, I had missed that SO bad! I woke up feeling freakishly invigorated. Hooray for strong girls!

AnoMALIE: giggling baby

Nothing starts your day off right quite like waking up at 6:30 in the morning on your own.

I woke up early to beat the hoards of terrible Catholics who seem to cram churches only on special occasions.
Ash Wednesday is particularly difficult, because:
1- I fast all day... so I'm already cranky and ready to stab a... moron if they invade my space.
2- The bad Catholics who pack the church only get worse as the ashes are about to be placed on people's foreheads. NOTHING irritates me more than an imbecile (not a cuss word. Deal with it) who only shows up for the imposition of the ashes (I think that's what it's called?) which is at the very end of the hour long mass (really, come on. It's AN HOUR. People spend over an hour mindlessly surfing Facebook, don't give me that bologna!). It's the thing that irks me the most.

Anyway, I went to the earliest mass, 7:30AM, which was in English.
No, I still don't know how to pray in English, but hey, I can read the scriptures and stuff that are in the book... and I definitely understand the priest's sermon. I was right at home... except when praying was involved.
I had a laugh-attack before mass started. I don't know if it was the hunger, or the lack of sleep, but I started to laugh (out loud) when I noticed how old everyone in church really was. No one there was below the age of 60... SERIOUSLY. For some reason, I found this hilarious, and in my lunacy, I giggled like a baby (no, really, a baby)... for about 30 seconds... uncontrollably. The more I tried shutting up, the more I'd laugh... especially when I'd see the poor old people look back at me in fear.
Then I giggled some more when I noticed D getting irritated.
I had to think of a sad memory in order to get some sort of control over myself. I also had to close my eyes and not look at anyone. GRAY HAIR was making laugh.
Way to make my people more likable to the church white folk who are already irritated by us loud, obnoxious Latinos. Way to go, AnoMALIE!

Anyway, besides my irreverent display of... the giggles, everything went fine... because white people behave themselves! Spanish mass is a circus with all the crying/screaming/running babies (I'm such a grouchy old lady).

I came home and decided I wanted to gym-it.
Only one tiny problem: I cussed at a lady as I drove to the gym. I said one bad word, in spanish, and caught myself.
I'm still good, though, because that's the only cuss word I've dropped... no, wait, I cussed in the morning because I got acetone in one of my paper-cuts. BUT, no one has been around to hear me cuss, so I still think I'm ok.
I'm speaking like... almost Ned Flanders. Everything is a "moron," "jerk," or "dum-dum." I'm "sheesh"ing and "crud"ing. There are also a lot of "fudge-sicles" and "hole-y macaronis" in my life right now.
It's... a sight to see.
But of course, this brings me to a topic that almost made me lose my cool, and threatens to relegate me to trucker status:
As if on purpose, I received my invitation to the EuroTrash party last night.

It immediately caused conflict in my head.

I want to go. Why? Because there's this ridiculously handsome guy going. By "ridiculously handsome" I mean "what kind of deal did your parents strike up with the devil... and can I meet them so I can shake their hand?!" The "Hi. I... just forgot my name..." type beautiful.
He looks like David Beckham when Becks was in his 20s. He's THAT good looking.
I don't think he'll pay attention to me, not at all, but hey, I don't mind just being in the presence of such beauty. NO straight girl minds being in the presence of unbelievable male beauty.

Then, once I control my hormones and slap the idiot teen girl that lives inside me, I remember how pretentious the entire event will be.
Uh, hello! You were slighted and only added once you showed humility... well, more like... submissiveness. You really gonna punk out like that, moron?
I won't be missing out on much if I refuse to RSVP.

I "made peace" by basically biting my tongue each time Birthday Boy said something outrageous or... self-aggrandizing (I'm surprised I can still talk). I also talked sports with him... I'm talking "I gave Gorman High School props" type talking (everyone knows I DESPISE their sports teams. They were by and far the worst when it came to proper sportsmanship conduct). That was all, though. That's as much brown-nosing that my stomach will permit.
I didn't do it in hopes of getting a party invite. I did it because--I can't lie-- I felt terrible about knowing I upset Birthday Boy so much, he went to the extreme of publicly... hating on me. This guy, while quite full of himself, never bothers to address the haters... and suddenly you had him getting all "Twitter-War!" on me. It was killing me (with both rage and sadness). I just wanted to let him know that while he did upset me, I sincerely lamented ever hurting HIS feelings in the first place... even if it was a misunderstanding.

I also think he started to feel guilty... 'cause come on, how can anyone be mean to me when all I am is nice? That, and maybe the fact that he invited both of my siblings, and both WILL attend (that's right, Rafa is making a special appearance and flying all the way from Jersey) probably got to him.

Whether it was a guilt trip, or forgiveness... or some hidden, cruel motive (wouldn't that suck?), Birthday Boy decided to invite me last night.
Party's Friday.
I have yet to RSVP. I just stare at the invite and beat myself over the head trying to make a decision.
I don't want to be part of the lofty crowd... but I also don't want to further anger/irritate/insult Birthday Boy by not showing up to his event.

Decisions, decisions.

You know what I didn't have a hard time deciding on? My manicure:

Please excuse my manly deltoid... she's out of control.
Instead, be distracted by how those 3 fingers look like they belong on 3 different hands

I tried showing off the blue, purple, and silver glitter... because they make me feel girly. It didn't really work... but eh.
Which reminds me, I have to explain my reason why manicures made my Lent list:
I don't put much effort in looking girly. I go through phases where I do my nails on a regular basis, but then there are times when I grossly neglect my hands. I find I'm in the mood to do my nails when I'm upbeat and happy. So, I'll keep my nails nice to show the world that Hey, I'm happy, and I care.
But don't worry, I'm just filing my nails and painting them... not giving myself talons:

Neta? Que onda con esto? DAN MIEDO!

Seriously, ladies-- WHY?! You look DANGEROUS (if not deranged) with those things.

This or that

Question:
Forgive and forget? It's all good, babe, it hurt like super concentrated nitric acid running down my throat... but I love you and that's all that will ever matter.

or

Fuck that shit! Ignore, IGNORE, IGNORE! Have some self respect, you idiot!

...

I fear I'm giving these kids the impression that they can step all over me... (I mean, yeah, I'm generally a good person... but come on... there comes a point where this "niceness" must be considered idiocy... and I'm pretty sure I'm crossing that line)
I'm going to be a horrible mom (I can be such a heartless bitch with people... why not them? Note to self: DON'T EVER EVER EVER HAVE KIDS!!).

This isn't (Eerie) Indiana

So, once again, something strange happened yesterday.

First off, the dead guy turned out to be from around Hometown, just not exactly Hometown. I don't know him, but my dad does. The guy's family was contacted, and that was the end of that bizarre incident.

On to strange incident number two:
Yesterday afternoon, we received a phone call asking for my brother (they said his full name).
Mom said he wasn't in the country, then the lady on the other end said
"Well, can I talk to Ivana Dos Santos*?"
Mom: I think you have the wrong number...
Lady: Is she not in?
Mom: No... no Ivana lives here...
Lady: But this is the number I was given...
Mom: No Ivana lives here... my son's name is Brother*, but there's no Ivana living here.
Lady: Well, this is the number I get for the address they left...

So the lady gets my mom to tell her our address (so dumb... well, at least, I think it's dumb to do so over the phone).
The lady agrees that it's not the address given to her.
She then tells Mom about Ivana and Brother's* three month old son that has undergone medical tests and how one of them came out suspicious, so they need to bring the boy back for further testing.
Mom: Well, that sucks... but I don't know who you're talking about... you have the wrong person.

So we leave it at that.
Later on in the afternoon, however, we get the mail.
One of the letters came from a doctor's office... psychiatry department, I think.
It was intended for:
The Parents of Baby Boy Dos Santos*
Ivana and Brother* Dos Santos*

???

While I know mistakes happen quite fucking often...
This is really pissing me off....
Brother better not have gone off and had some random ass kid without us knowing...
(I'm kidding, I'm not THAT paranoid... but shit, they need to quit calling... and what kind of fucking parents give the wrong personal information at a hospital?!? And what parent hasn't given their 3 month old child a name?!)

* Not actual name, obviously

P.S. In happier, more normal news: I'm now the very happy owner of the first season of Flight of the Conchords.
Meeeeeeeeeeemorieeeeeeeeeees! (Hey, since all I got myself from London was a stupid keychain--I take that back, it's not stupid, since it's Manchester United's crest-- I can at least remember those couple of hours I spent at my brother's flat, where I kept zoning in and out of consciousness only to laugh at some of those songs that Bret and Jemaine would bust in to)

Cure!

Fastest way to get over pink eye?

Get a phone call from the coroner's office.

This happened last night.
It was strange because the detective called my dad's cell phone, not the house phone.

We were terrified at first (All Dad said was "HEY!!! The morgue just called me!" which I immediately screamed "WHAT?!?!" then he said "Yeah, you know, the coronary's office." Coronary... ha!)... but upon hearing the name, we all just sat in my parent's room trying to come up with possible people this unknown guy could be.
We got the description of the man, his age, the name of his ex-wife, the cause of death, and his name.

After all this, we still couldn't come up with who the dude might be... but Dad said he'd ask around and see if he could find out... if not... he'd go see this dude at the morgue.

After hanging up, Dad wondered:
"Why the hell did they call my cell phone?? Why was I the first they called?? How'd they get my number?"

This is terrible.

However... my eye doesn't even bother me now.
Now it's just my conscious that's bugging the shit out of me.

Zapatito Blanco, Zapatito Azul...

Contrary to popular belief, I have not spent my entire week playing Guitar Hero.
Ok, I have played it every day... but I haven't spent all day playing.

Yesterday, I ventured out to the mall for a couple of hours.
Mooney way even kind enough to take on Little Sister duties.
She helped me pick out some nice underwear... that was not overloaded with so much damn pink (WTF was up with that cashier trying to sell me those horrible panties that looked like they belonged... as crocheted old lady table top protectors?).

After that... we decided to check out Hot Topic, a store I haven't been to in a couple of months, if not years.
There, I fell in love with a pair of shoes... and I purchased them.... for $4.99.
Right up my alley, right?
Well... do you notice something?
I didn't notice this until late last night, when I was trying them on.
What was this?
Well... the left shoe is 2 fucking sizes smaller.
TWO!
As I was trying to shove my foot in the left shoe... I kept thinking
WTF? This is a 10? Where? China?!
Then I looked... and sure enough, it was an 8.

Now, if I would have purchased them at regular price, I could return them and demand my 5 dollars back...
But it says sales on them are "final."
So... I'm fucked.

Now I'm terrified to tell Mom.
She's so mean when it comes to this type of shit...
even when I'm cheated out of a penny she'll flip...
If I show her that one shoe is dramatically smaller than the other, the fact that I couldn't catch the discrepancy while at the store will surely make Mom go off on me.

So... I guess... I'm going to tough it out... and learn to appreciate the old Chinese custom of feet binding.

I should place an add

Yesterday I agreed to be a bridesmaid for my cousin/hairdresser's wedding.
That marks the... maybe sixth or seventh wedding I'm a bridesmaid for since 1998 (I know, I've been in the game for that long. How fucking depressing).
And let's not forget the... seven or eight Quinceañeras I've been in (those shits are pretty damn similar to weddings if you ask me).
Give me three more years, by then I'll so beat that chick in the upcoming "27 Dresses" movie.

Talking about movies, there's a ton out there that I feel urged to watch.
First, and while I feel like a douche admitting this, I want to watch I Am Legend.
That little wish is coming true today, since there's a dude who wants to watch it way more than I do ("I don't give a shit! I'm going to watch that movie even if I have to go all by my motherfucking self!!" direct quote from him, yesterday, which surprised me because the guy never cusses), and I agreed to accompany him because I feel bad thinking about him sitting in a movie theater all by himself watching an old movie.

Anyway, I also want to watch:
-Sweeny Todd (I offered to go watch this one yesterday... and it's when Never-Cusses-Boy went on a cussing tirade. Ok, dude, chill!)
-The Kite Runner (Everyone I've talked to about this movie has said they won't go because they don't want to cry. What's so wrong with crying, motherfuckers? It's a touching movie, so what?!)
-Walk Hard (I'm a sucker for this type of movie... and while I see nothing wrong with crying, I also want to laugh during this time of the year. I forgot to bring it up yesterday during the heated, swear-word infested debate)
And maybe, JUST maybe:
-P.S. I Love You. (I'm a girl. Yeah. Plus, I just saw 300 for the first time last week, and I'm now madly in lust with Gerard Butler. Mmm...mmm...mmmmm)

However, the movie I want to go watch with all my might is:
-Juno.
Ever so BADDDDDLY.

The problem in that is that the people I'm hanging out with this week would rather be shot than go to that movie.
Dude... why must I have such eclectic taste in movies (ok, maybe not that eclectic, but still, they're movies most of my friends would frown upon like "WTF is this indie shit?!" when in all reality, not all of them are indie flicks)?
And why must I be such a pussy and agree to watch some damn film I'm probably going to be laughing (and not at the appropriate times) all the way through?

Resolution right here (one of many, I suppose): In 2008, I'll quit being a chump and not agree to go to movies I know I'll dislike (it's getting pretty damn expensive to put up with this little addiciton of mine of not being able to turn down movies).

Why, that's shocking!

For the last couple of weeks, I've been suffering from a very annoying problem.

The problem?

I can't get in/out of a car without getting the shit shocked out of me.
I also constantly feel that gross... tingly feeling... you know... when you know you're charged with electricity... and your hair's about to stand on end.

Well... I originally wasn't going to do anything about it... because this whole electrostatic shock crap never lasts too long with me.

However, the shocks are so damn painful, and so frequent now, that yesterday I decided to investigate what the culprit behind my pain could be (I mainly did it because on my way to school that day, as I was about to get in my car, this huge shock snapped the hell out of my index finger. It made me scream, which then led to my neighbor's dog barking at me quite viciously, then my dog barked right back... and it was just so annoying and loud).

I traced over my steps...
What do I do?
I touch a metallic surface... after coming out of my house...
Where do I go?
School... gym... church... casinos...
What do I wear?
A ton of shi... hold on... what do I wear?

Things started making sense.

1) I'm always wearing these two particular sweaters whenever I get shocked... maybe that has something to do with it?
2) But... when I wear those sweaters to the gym I never get shocked.

What's the difference between me wearing the sweaters to go out to sweat my ass off and me going out to interact with normal people?

MY BRA!!

Ding, ding, ding!

I never get shocked going to the gym because I have a cotton sports bra on...
But when I have to go out, I'm not about to wear something that smashes my boobs together.
As comfortable as it is to walk around in a sports bra... it doesn't look nearly as neat-o as when I wear my favorite bras (my chest defies gravity, I tell ya!).

Over the summer I bumped into the coolest bras ever.
VS Secret has this awesome collection, Secret Embrace (more like Fantastic Embrace!), so awesome that chicks somehow refuse to tell each other about them until you accidentally/out of curosity buy one for $30+... then you become part of the fan club and can't stop talking about how awesome they make your boobs look.
It holds so fucking well, better than any other cups I've come across, the wire I rarely feel (a feat worthy of worship, since wearing under-wire bras typically hurt/bother like a motherfucker), I can change the straps to be regular or racerback, and best of all, when worn, they don't make me look like some lactating mother (problem I'm sure I've mentioned here before, since I often complain about my chest), they make my boobs look fantastic!

So I went crazy and bought myself... too many.

I had no problems with the bra from July up until I started wearing these two sweaters that I really like and wear often (because they're black and warm) a couple of weeks back when the weather turned chilly.
That has to be it!
I checked out the components of the bras and sweaters.

Bra:
80% Nylon, 20% Lycra Spandex

Sweaters:
55% Cotton, 45% Polyester

Nylon + Polyester + movement + cold, dry weather (I looked this part up. Our weather isn't helping the situation out) = One very aggravated, electrically charged AnoMALIE.

No wonder I felt the tingly thing mainly on my chest area! I always thought it was just in my head.

So, now I know what I must do in order to stop yelping and sticking my injured fingers in my mouth in pain each time I step in or out of a car.
I must choose between the following:

1) Don't wear those freaking amazing bras.
2) Don't wear those cozy black sweaters.
3) Remember to breathe into my hands before opening a car door... or just dip my hands in water before touching anything metallic.

You know what my answer's going to be here, right?

AnoMALIE's going to be walking around with a water bottle!