Things of bigger importance.

Damn it. Missed two days completely.
That's the sort of shit that happens when you spend your day in the gym and your night shopping.
Well, more like, "That's what happens when the Victoria's Secret semi-annual sale comes to town... with an additional 50-75% off."
Do I really need that much underwear? Nah, I still have some from a year ago (that's two semi-annual sales ago) that I haven't worn.
But those skivvies are SO comfortable... I MUST buy them when they're only $2.99 (I'm sure it only cost about 20 cents a pair to make... I mean... just cut the fucking material and viola, calzones!).
Don't get me started on the bras. I tell myself I'm only going to buy ONE, but there's this crazy exhilaration that goes on when I buy a $60 bra for only $17-- including tax. Come the fuck on! I'm doing it!
Shit does get a little out of hand... for instance, yesterday I HAD to purchase spinach, since I ran out and it's my favorite vegetable... practically the only vegetable I eat. Anyway, I had 60 bucks in my pocket set aside for some much needed grocery shopping... but since I was driving on LV BLVD, I convinced myself the bell-peppers sitting in my fridge would suffice for at least two days-- for my veggie count-- and that money could be burned right there, in a better place, on that street.
So what did I do? I took that money SHOPPING.

Today is the dirty task of doing some returns... a couple of bras that just didn't work (one in particular pissed me off. WHO THE FUCK still wears bras that make one's tits look like a bull ready for the goddamn rodeo?! All pointy TO THE SIDES! Who the fuck wears that? Who the fuck thought that was a good idea? WHO THOUGHT THAT WAS FLATTERING?! You might say that apparently I did, but those fucking bras deceive you up until you actually put one on and suffer a rant similar to the one I just spewed).
I'm getting cash back...
No need to say where that money's going... spinach can hold its fucking horses and give me a few more days.

Santa Baby

Last night, for the first time in my life, I went to a store for Black Friday. The lucky store? Guess. No, I mean take a guess.
I'm Mexican.
I'm a penny-pincher...
I like to fight...
If you haven't guessed Walmart by now, slap yourself.

The purpose was to buy D a television.
We dropped the plan once we stepped inside and saw the huge line.
D: Wow. It's not THAT important.

So... we didn't buy anything.
However, this all made me think of Christmas... and how it's exactly a month away.
Reminded me of the good old days when Santa would still visit the house.
We'd write our Letters to Santa around this time.

I haven't written a letter to Santa since I was in 4th grade...
... probably why my life has been sucking so much dick lately. Man probably doesn't even remember me now.
I should contact Santa and see what's up, right?
So... here's my Letter to Santa, 2011 Edition:
Ummm... hey, Santa... Mr. Santa? Sir?
It's been a minute... 17 years if you want to be exact.
I still have that violin in mint condition chillin' in my bedroom. Yeah, your last gift to me, remember? I liked it... a lot... even if my parents probably didn't because they almost went deaf the first year or so.
My behavior suffered a little since my last letter to you. I got a little... messed up. I'm sure you noticed.
But enough about the past.
This year? Have I been a good girl? I guess. I mean... I've behaved myself. I don't think I've gotten belligerently drunk or anything like that... I haven't tried drugs.... and obviously I haven't banged anyone. Being a 26 year old chick who still holds her V card is pretty remarkable, if you ask me. I'm pretty much in the same realm as YOU-- thought to only exist in works of fiction.
I have gotten pretty vicious... but can you blame me? I messed with my body's chemistry... and it's grouchy all of the time, demanding carbs or blood.
And I do apologize for all of the... borderline... ok... the suicidal thoughts and all that. You know I'd never actually go through with it... but it's still bad that I curse having to live another day, when there are so many people out there who fight for theirs on a regular basis. It's very selfish and stupid of me.
So... if you're kind enough to forgo all of this year's shortcomings... I'd like to... you know... ask you for stuff. Please?
Ok, first of all... I would very much appreciate... kicking this depression to the curb. It's terrible. Hindering. Crushing. Annoying. It keeps me from being myself. I'd be a much more productive member of society if I could just... enjoy every day... or at least not damn it like I currently do.
My second thing is... I'd really like to find a purpose. Right now I have NO CLUE which direction to take. None whatsoever. It'd be cool if I finally get out of this black-hole of uncertainty. Really cool.
Third: PLEASE help Tyson get better. Please. I'm not ready to deal with the loss of the love of my life just yet. I need more time in with my baby.
Now the frivolous, probably more attainable things (sorry, I'm a girl, this was bound to happen):
1. That Barça trip complete with Classico tickets. PLEASE! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!
2. A job. Yeah. A job. I said it. Ok.


What's that? I haven't made mention about my romantic life?
Well... I don't want to get all Mariah Carey on you.
But... there is one tiny thing: can you make me less awkward around dudes? I guess you could help out by giving me a bit more confidence. That could help... right?
Y bueno, pues... sin falta... cuidalo, no?


Fingers crossed, baby!

Misses

I've always ignored the "misses" part of a department store.

For the most part, the clothes they offer me there is shit I'd like to wear to something like... jury duty... or... a non-Latino's first communion.

I typically just buy t-shirts and jeans. I don't need to step foot in the "misses" section for that stuff.

Well, now that Rafa has been making such a huge deal about the state department (I had to give him some personal information yesterday so that they could "clear" me to get in), I've come to realize I'm probably going to want to look decent for this graduation ceremony two weeks from now (TWO WEEKS! JESUS!).

So what did I do today?

I went shopping in the "Misses" section of a department store.

Way to make me feel old.

I found myself looking for the business attire that showcased the most skin.

I make fun of Latinas for being drawn to skimpy shit and there I am, being one of the bunch... fearing NOT showing some cleavage will make me look Amish.

I'm convinced that behavior is fucking hardwired into a Latina's system.

Anyway, I decided to buy two dresses and make Rafa choose the more appropriate one. A job every man loves, I'm sure.

OF COURSE my favorite dress had to have a motherfucking missing button... a rather important button, the one smackdab in the middle of the torso... but... I'm trying to salvage it. Hopefully Rafa picks that one (like he'll give a shit. I'm sure his response will be something along the lines of "I DON'T CARE! Just don't look like a fucking hoe!").

Off that subject, but still kinda on the same track:

As I was driving to the store, Mom was getting freaked out over my skills... because... well, everyone pisses me off. Slow drivers, people who don't use their turn signals.... you name it, I probably have a fucking problem with it.

Mom: Ayy, mija! No sabia como manejabas! Por que andas tan agresiva?! (Oh, sweetie! I didn't know you drove like this! Why so aggressive?!)

Me: BECAUSE I NEED TO GET FUCKED!

...

Yeah... umm... talking my way out of that one was a doozy.

I was joking... but it still didn't fix the awkward silence... which followed us all the way to the male underwear section of the department store (underwear for Dad, nonetheless. That shit's always fun).

Slow dancing in a burning room

I leave at six in the morning tomorrow, although I have to be at the airport way earlier than that.
I haven't packed... and it's... what o'clock right now?
I've spent the last three days shopping like a maniac for this trip... but not nearly as psycho as my mom.
It appears the little lady has lost her mind. She actually forced me to purchase not one, or two, but three purses.
All that shit, on top of yesterday's crazy (but AMAZING!!) gift.
Mom... are you ok? Do you have to give me some world-shattering news? Oh my God... you and Dad are getting a divorce, aren't you?! Please don't! I know I'm 25, but that's my worst nightmare! You guys are supposed to stay together forever!

She claims to be fine... but we'll see what's up... we have to see how these next nine days work out.
Who knows, I may come back the owner of a new penthouse in downtown Chicago.
Ok, I'll  NEVER agree to that. I dislike Chicago far too much to waste money like that.
I'd rather... do what this Spanx advertisement encourages me to do in nothing but... the Spanx:

Cook a meal, win a race, put out a fire... diffuse a bomb, perhaps ?

I'm particularly fond of the "Put Out a Fire" idea.
As a scientist, I feel obligated to plead to the general public of idiot, gullible females: Please don't... just.. stick to going to your cubicle, Bat Mitzvah, Quinceañera, or club in said undergarment... preferably with more clothes covering.
And stay away from fire.

Of course... the biologist in me thinks Darwin, baby.
Go ahead, young ladies... enter a burning building in nothing but your Spanx. I don't mind having more guys left for me to choose from.

Just ain't cuttin' it!

I'm still shopping around... like a madwoman.
I'm having the toughest time finding dress clothes.
Why? Well, I've noticed a trend.
Check it:

They either do this to me:
(That's how it looks if you're looking straight at me)(and there's no point trying to look down my dress...)

Or:

This.

Can't there be a happy middle? You know, one that doesn't make me look like a psychedelic potato sack... but also keeps me from looking like a Spearmint Rhino "librarian"...
(supposedly, you can button up that shirt... but the fucking holes are sown together!)
An unhappy Spearmint Rhino librarian, at that.
(all this complaining, AND I STILL buy the damn thing!!! God!)

I'd buy that

I don't know if I've mentioned it on here before, but my all-time favorite store is Home Depot.

Put your hand down, fool, I won't choose anything over Home Depot.

No, I'm not fond of this store because I'm a crafty gal. I wish that were the case. I actually break anything that comes within a five meter radius of me. I'm quite destructive.

I love Home Depot because it brings back some very good memories and it smells like new home (plus, I'm Mexican... it seems it runs in my blood to love this sort of thing).
I'll play around with almost anything, and I'll start getting all these awesome home-make-over ideas (which of course, I never undertake because I'm also very... very much a procrastinator).

Anyway, whenever a parent needs an extra hand at this store, I'm the offspring who will be called on for help (most often it's Mom since she hates going there by herself. Dad will take me when he needs someone to act like a Colombian mule for a couple of minutes).

Well, last Tuesday (I'm only telling this story because of something I saw on Family Guy this evening) Mom invited me to go with her to Home Depot in search for some closet-building stuff (yeah, my closet is STILL broken... for a second time! Damn closet!).

So we get there, and we're looking.
I was entertained by door knobs (... yeah... I know... why??) while mom looked for screws.
Once I saw, touched, and played with all the door knobs, I went back to Mom, who still hadn't found what she was looking for.
We had a talk about nails and screws (why is this so... euphemisms abound in my head right now) and we got to talking about why my closet collapsed in the first place (and let the euphemisms continue, I say!! I swear I'm not doing this on purpose) and I realized Mom had just nailed/screwed the wall wherever she pleased (dear God, get this out of my head!).
So I began to search for a Stud Finder.

Mom thought I was lying; how can such a thing exist?!
I was unsuccessful (as I always am) in my search, and I guess us two Mexicans looked very lost in this huge Home Depot (that's a first), because this really nice-looking (as in: kind, humble, sweet, etc. While he didn't look bad, per se, he had that "happily married man who'll be nice to you because he doesn't care about chicks anymore" look) man probably in his mid-thirties approached us.

Guy: Can I help you ladies in anything?
Me: Yeah... Where can I find the Stud Finders?
(Guy smiles)
Guy: You don't seem to have a problem with that.
(I stare blankly)
Guy: (laughs a little) Aisle...
(I don't hear the last part because my brain goes "OOO!! I get what you said! You called yourself a stud... right?")

We didn't buy a Stud Finder, my closet's still broken, and I feel bad for the poor guy who tried to crack a joke but ended up feeling dumb because I was too dumb to catch his joke.

Stupid Azz Shoes?!

There's definitely something on me that says: talk shit about me, to my face preferably.

Why? Because today, while in the midst of my Mexico shopping (someone kill me now! I'm going insane with all this bullshit. I didn't have lunch today until 10:30 PM!), some ghetto hood rat bitch heifer talked shit about my shoes--my favorite ones, as a matter of fact!
It wasn't like she was trying to be discreet about it, either.

Ghetto Hood Rat Bitch Heifer's equally ghetto bitch friend (who was Hispanic, around 17, and was the mom of a kid around the age of one and a half. She then had the nerve to call me Ma'am... Bitch, am I holding a kid? Do you see a ring on my finger? Fuck you, hoe) stopped in front of me as I was looking at some stuff, pointed at my shoes, and said "See, those are the type of shoes I have to wear to work."

I sat there... since I saw these two ghetto hoes get in my face, and let them both gawk.
Yes... I grant you the privilege to stare at the wonderful beauty of my fantastic shoes!
I guess only normal people like my shoes (they were flats!! Fucking flats!!--the brown ones with the cute belt buckle in the front!), because her bitch ass heifer friend went:
"Eghhh! Why da hell you have to buy such stupid azz shoes?!"

Which made my jaw drop.

Wha...what you say, heifer? I couldn't understand through your wigger accent!

I dropped the clothes I had in my hands, and of course, turned hood-rat Mexican on them.
I did The Rock eyebrow... looked the dumb ass up and down once (not the Ghetto Momma. I respected the fact she was carrying her baby in her arms. Who fights with a lady carrying a baby?)... then stopped my gaze at her shoes (what else? Err Force Ones!)... then looked her in the eye.
No words.
No need... because her Ghetto Momma Friend started stuttering and trying to fix what her dumb ass friend said.
"I like 'em!! I'm just sayin'... I can't find any... I mean, they're nice."
That's when Ghetto Hood Rat Bitch Heifer started stuttering as well.
"Your shoes are stupid too. My shoes are stupid. Shoes are stupid..."

Yeah, bitch, that's what I thought. Next time, talk shit about some chick who's at least two inches shorter than your stumpy ass. Biiiiiiiiiiatch!

Seriously... these are stressful times... why the fuck does some imbecile, who's probably 17, think they can play with me like that?
Yeah, I'm a good girl... I rarely fight... but when I've been out since 10 in the morning, I've been to the gym and back, I haven't had a single bite to eat since 12 in the afternoon, and it's already 9 PM, don't fuck with me.
I won't be nice, I won't let shit slip. Well... maybe if you're a five foot six Latina or taller... or a very angry black woman. I don't even argue with either of those groups of girls.

(Ha! And to kill it, I finished my day by grocery shopping at 9:30 PM and I had this long ass conversation with this Iranian guy and his wife about Habanero chiles. At least this time it wasn't a ten minute conversation on how to properly roll up a burrito... and which flour tortillas work best. That shit's annoying. Just because I'm standing by the Mission Tortillas stand doesn't mean I work for them... or that I even know how to prepare award-winning tortilla dishes. Pop 8 of those bitches in a microwave for 2:22 and you're good. That's the best I can do)

Whee! I'm a girl!

It's always around this time of the year that I'm ecstatic... why? Because it's the Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale! That's why! (I never knew how much joy new underwear could bring)

Oh man, I freaking love this panty right here:

(Man, Alessandra Ambrosio is good at selling underwear)

Here, in my home, we get 3 (no idea how that happened, we just get it. Actually, I guess it's one for me, one for Little Sister and one for Mom) VS catalogues. So, there are times where I'm bored and I've read through enough shit... then I'll just bump into one of the catalogues and start playing the game of "Oh... I'd buy that... and that!"
Well, in all three catalogues, that pair of underwear always caught my attention.
Upon seeing that the pair were on sale today, I was elated... and didn't think twice about getting a few in different colors (of course, that black one was the first one my hand went for. I never thought advertisements would work so wonderfully with me).
Haha.

I pulled a Jessica Simpson with my credit card. When Mom asked how much money I spent, my response was:
"I... don't know..."
::shrug::
Mom: What do you mean, you don't know?!
Me: We went to three malls! I don't know!
Mom: Well, you better get to checking.

I did... and... it all came up to 200 dollars and 27 cents.

I had forgotten what it felt like to get screamed at/lectured by Mom.
Doesn't feel good.

At least she's not making me return the Bras and panties... that would have pissed me off.
I went through a lot of trouble to get those bastards! I'm not about to go and return them.


While I LOVE this sale, I don't love the ladies that like the same things I do. They're so pushy... and scary.

"Get me those Boy-Shorts!!"
"I want that bra with the frillies!"
"Oh man, where can I get those?!"

I may not know a lot of things, but I do know that if those bitches are ever again hovering near my bin, I'm staying the fuck away next time.

Most of these ladies SHOULD NOT be wearing Boy-Shorts, anyway.
Do I tell them? Hell no... I keep my trap shut and go in whenever the coast is clear... kind of like a scared cub when the lion parents are having a feast with some wildebeest's carcass.

I stand close... try and put my hand in the bin, some bitch woman the size of Jupiter moves her hip into my right side, a second equally large woman moves her hips into my left side, both grab any underwear I'm holding out of my hand, and I quickly move out of the way... almost excusing myself for breathing the same air they are.

By the time I can check out the panties safely, all I have to choose from are the really ugly Christmas granny panties... or the really skanky G-strings that give people rashes like an M.F.er. Yeah... fun.

I could only score a couple of decent pairs of the $5 panties... and I had to move on to the 3 for $25 bin where no crazy Mommas were threatening my existence with their hips and crazy mean kids with unbelievable searching abilities (this one little girl had an eye for the super cute underwear. She kept scoring her mom some of the best underwear I've seen. A true waste, cause I doubt the mom could do the underwear justice--she was one of the ladies that crushed me). But I didn't mind that much, it was thanks to that encounter that I bumped into the cool Alessandra Ambrosio undies.


The bras were a different story.
I kept having chicks (that worked there, let me clarify) asking me if I was cool with my size... or if I needed to get measured.

No, thanks... I know my size... I do shop here often. I'm cool... no need to measure my homies.
You sure you know your size?
Positive. Thanks.
You sure we can't just... quickly go back there in the dressing room and just... measure... it'll only take a few seconds. Nobody else can see.
...Yeah. No. I'm cool. Thanks.

Then another worker would go back to folding any bra I'd pull to the side after examining.
It was fucking crazy. I kind of missed the mean ladies that would slap underwear from my hand at this point. At least they'd bark at the crazy chick and scare her away from the herd, ya know?
Instead I kind of just stood there... staring up at her from time to time and smiling my Are-you-gonna-leave-any-time-soon? smile, only to be met by her "Is everything OK?" question with her I'm-not-leaving smile.
Maybe I should just let this bitch touch my boobs and get this shit over with... then I can hopefully shop in peace.
Three bras, dude... three fucking bras was all I could stand to pick because crazy weirdo lady wouldn't stop staring at me and smiling (so creepy, man).

And here's another complaint:
Sale my fucking ass.
Ok, maybe it is a sale, but with the size I buy... those fucking bras are still pretty damn expensive (find a $9.99 size 36DD bra at this place, I dare you. Shit, I'll PAY you!).

It's times like these where I start to ponder whether breast-reduction surgery will ultimately save me money later on down the road. Who knows... maybe one day I'll be able to fit comfortably/nicely in a 10 dollar bra!

Till then, I must put up with 30 dollar+ bras (you know what I can buy with thirty bucks?! Well, maybe if I were smart I'd be able to use my much-complained-about chest to get money/free bras... but I'm not that type of person).

I try and explain this to Mom ("It's not like I want to buy 30 dollar bras... but they're the only ones that fit nicely without making me look like... a lactating mother. You want me to look like a lactating mother, Mom?" "Aren't you the one who wants me to show what my Momma gave me when out in public? Yo, world! Look what my Momma gave me! And she wants me to find these babies a ten dollar bra and still look nice! You want me to wear a Wall-Mart bra, world?" etc, etc, I can make this go on forever. I've had this argument with Mom since 10th grade. In 2001, I was comfortable being a size B for the rest of my life--cheap bras for life-- but suddenly Betty and Veronica decided to make an appearance on my chest and ruined that plan), and while she doesn't take the bait at first, after a while, she understands.
Plus, she sometimes starts playing around with the bras I purchase (as does my sister)... wondering what it's like to have a big chest.

Mom: Man! Imagine what it'd be like to look like this!
Me: It's not so rad, Mom. Trust me.
Mom: It has to be! You see all those girls who almost kill themselves trying to get big boobs.
Me: Well... unless... you're sort of shameless... and you know... kind of an attention whore, big boobs are great. However, you decided to give birth to me in March... and made me all... shy and shit... which doesn't work for a big chested girl.

So yeah, anyway!
I got my bras and panties... and lived to tell about it.
I fucking love it (you know, after all the lecturing is done and over with... and all the playing around with my bras is over as well).

Until next time--in January--when I once again risk my life for a couple of cheap, designer underwear... sheesh!

Being a girl is exhausting!

Yesterday, I dedicated my day to being a girl. Now, I'm a chick and everything, but I typically don't participate in the activities females my age are best known for (you know... either partying and doing things to other girls in front of boys, in hopes of them buying me a drink... or as is typical in my ethnic group: baring children). I don't even like shopping.

On Friday, my little sister let me know that on Saturday we were going to go shopping. I agreed, because I don't spend much time with her ever since she started working. I would have gone pet-rock shopping, tagging, whatever, as long as it was time spent with the little monster.
Shopping? How bad could it be?

It was wretched!!
Nah, it wasn't. It was OK. I didn't like how she drove though. She's one of those jerks that weave in and out of traffic thinking they're going to get somewhere faster that way.

OK, Paul Walker, take it easy. You're gonna give me fucking diabetes here! (I still don't know how much truth there is to that claim... of getting diabetes after a huge scare, but I say it anyway))

I damn the day my dad agreed to buying her a Jetta! That thing fits anywhere and makes my little sister think she's God... but it does fit in small parking spaces (but damn construction workers always look into the vehicle and stare. They do that to anything that has a chick in it, really) so I can't hate to its full potential.
Anyway, shopping with my little sister's strange. We're polar opposites. We always get the "No way, she's your sister?" reaction from friends (I guess my friends do that to her because she's your... slightly Bimbo-ish chick, while her friends do it to me cause I'm a nerd/jerk that rolls her eyes each time one of them criticizes another girl for not wearing designer shit). She's white, I'm tan. She has gibungous (giant but not humongous) eyes, I have... big-ish eyes. She has Rimmel-worthy lashes, I have... probably Maybelline lashes.
She got the good genes, I got the Why-the-fuck-do-these-even-exist? genes (ok, I may be exaggerating, but the fact that I got short changed during genetic recombination is fucking evident).
So... on with my story, we like different stores. She dragged me into her Offspring-of-douche-bags stores (fuck, did I just call my parents douche bags?), and I took her to the I'm-not-spending-sixty-fucking-dollars-on-pants! store.
The funny thing was, whenever one of us was going to make a purchase, the other would egg her on to do it.

So what if it's a hundred dollars? You got money, right? Plus, it's sooooo cute!

I found myself checking out some of the dresses at the Offspring-of-douche-bags stores... even a bag or two.
What the hell, dude? Is it the music in the background hypnotizing me to buy this? I don't need another wallet!
Then as I'd stand in line and listen to the stupid 12 year old girls behind me with Mommy and Daddy's credit card talking. The superficial "I know, right?" chatter would wake me from my trance, making me return the items in my hands almost immediately (I know, right?).

The shopping experience was nice. I guess. I talked to my sister and that's all that mattered (I made her buy 6 pairs of jeans during one of our "You got money, right?" episodes at American Eagle. She only convinced me to buy 4 shirts at one store. She obviously doesn't have the same power I have. Ha-ha).

I came home, exhausted (it's hard rejecting so much clothes in three hours). I then remembered I had promised some cousins I'd go to this one baby shower they were throwing their middle sister. I had her present riding in the back of my car all last week, I might as well show up for the party to drop it off.
Of course, I had to go teach catechism first... man.
I had (still have) a cold. My nose was stuffy, my throat hurt, and my head felt like it was in the clouds (still does. Although alluding to having my head stuffed in a jar fits a little better).
I just sat in class and let Mom take over. I looked over some bio notes and fell asleep for a good half hour, only to wake up to one of the kids talking about how much he hates his mom because he has a curfew (sweet kid).

We finally went to the shower at 7pm, thinking we'd be the last to show up.
I hate social events, and especially being late, so I was pretty pissed about the whole thing.

Babies+ pregnant ladies+ headache/stuffy nose/stuffy head/deafness= Absent-minded AnoMALIE.

I said hi to maybe 15 people. Each time excusing myself because I was sick.
Don't get those babies near me... I have a cold!
Oh, AnoMALIE, you sweet, generous girl! Always thinking about others!
Yeah... that's it. And since I love babies and all... riiiight.

Anyway, I blame the baby shower on my overall exhaustion. I participated in so many games (and lost all of them) that I made up for lost time (all those years where I'd wanted to play, but was too shy to volunteer). I almost won one, where you have to guess the size of the Mommy's belly, but I missed by two inches. Since I got so close, I kept the ribbon I had cut, and wrapped it around my wrist, like a suicidal teen who has survived the slitting of her own wrist (kind of inappropriate for a baby shower, but I'm AnoMALIE, when the hell am I ever appropriate?).

I also kind of played with some little kids, despite my original claim of being sick.
One of the kids had a thing for licking people "doggy style," according to his mom.
Dude, "doggy-style?" And I'm the inappropriate one here?
That was probably the most entertaining thing to watch. He'd go up to his relatives (at least they weren't strangers, right?) and just lick whatever body part was closest to him. He'd lick up and down with as much of his tongue making contact as possible.
"Ew! What the hell, Baby Hercules?!"
The faces these people made cracked me up the most.

The other little kid I talked to was Baby Hercules' older sister. The little five year old came up to me and smiled. Then asked where I worked.
Grrrreat! Now even kids ask me this shit?
"I don't work..." I said.
She looked at me confused.
"I go to school... like you."
"Really?! Where?"
Oh man... does she think I go to elementary school?
"Umm... it's UNLV. Where your Mom used to go."
She looked at me and smiled... totally confused. Duh. Only I tell the truth to kids as if they were 20.
"Never heard of it."
Yep. She thinks I'm an idiot.
She then interrupted my thinking.
"I play the violin!"
"Really? You're..."
"Yeah! I gave up Ballet because it was boring. No more ballet. Now I play the violin and it's this tiny little thing. Mommy has one too, but it's big and old and ugly."
Big, and old, and ugly, huh? Interesting.
That little girl was hilarious. She's like a tiny adult. At one point, she went up to my Pregnant Cousin (the one we were throwing the shower for) and asked if she could touch her tummy. The entire time she touched the tummy, the little girl looked pensive. After about three minutes, she very seriously asked:
"Do you know who the daddy is?"
The little girl genuinely looked concerned.
Pregnant Cousin got surprised, the little girl's mom flustered, and the rest of us laughed.
That kid watches too much Maury.

I wasn't so upset over attending yet another Baby Shower, mainly because my female cousins present are near my age, and the pregnant ladies were all 24+ years old. I had the chance to hang out with non-pregnant chicks my age for a change at this type of party.
Pregnant-Cousin's Little Sister (PCLS), who's 20, had asked me to buy her some Andy Capp's Cheddar Fries. She lives in San Ysidro, couple miles south of San Diego, and apparently, they don't sell Andy Capp's down there. She lived in Vegas for about 6 years, and developed a serious addiction (like all us other John S. Park elementary student) to the fries.
I did bring her a bag, but when I gave it to her, she committed the big mistake of placing them within her little cousin's reach. The little boy found them, opened them, and of course, ate them within minutes.
When PCLS found out, she was so upset, she cried when she had to re-tell The Case of the Stolen Cheddar Fries to Pregnant Cousin (and here I thought Pregnant Cousin was the hormonal one in the building).
I felt bad for PCLS, so, as a way to fix her heartbreak/disappointment/craving, I proposed a trip to the nearest 7-11.
Since I wasn't thinking straight, my Hard-Kicking-Cousin (the one in the picture a couple of entries prior, the one being held by my grandma) brought this to all of our attention:
"Dude... it's 10:30 at night. Where are we?"
I sat still.
Dude, you're telling me you're scared of going out at 10:30pm?
"We're in fucking Northtown! Do you really want to go to a 7-11 around here?!"
Ohhhhhh! OKKK!
"Ah... so we should go a little south, huh?" I asked.
"But I don't wanna go far," said PCLS.
"But I don't wanna get shanked," said HKC.
"What if we go to a Wall-Mart?" asked Crazy-Driving-Cousin.
"And get sexually-harassed by the Chuntis (ghetto Mexicans)?" I asked.
Us four girls sat and considered our two choices:

Can we live after getting shanked by a couple of hood-rats... or can we live after getting sexually harassed by a few construction workers shorter than us?

"Fuck it... You're five foot eight, right AnoMALIE? You can clothesline a couple shorties if you tried. Wall-Mart it is."
I'm always left in charge of giving harassers an elbow if need be. I'd like to know when I have ever taken self-defense courses according to these acquaintances. The years I spent in the hood only taught me how to throw down with bitches... never any sexually deprived men.
Anyway, here we are, 4 girls at 10:30 at night going to the damn Wall-Mart on Nellis and Charleston in search of some Cheddar Fries for sentimental PCLS.

I swore never to go back to that Wall-Mart since the ill-fated day I made a rush to the place the day of Easter.
Biggest mistake of my life, totally not worth the $3.99 bow I had to buy for a birthday gift.
So many pinches, "accidental finger graces", whistles, and "Ay, mama, tantas curvas y yo sin frenos!" that I felt like washing myself off with battery acid once I got to my car.
G-to-the-fucking-HETTO!
But I made the journey just to make PCLS happy (plus, I knew PCLS would ahve my back if anything went wrong. PCLS looks like the type that can clothesline three guys while I struggle with my first. I may not be scrawny anywhere else, but my wrists are like those of an 8-year-old ballerina's).
Not so many ghetto Mexicans (I guess Fort Cheyenne had a Chunti dance going on or something). Yes, there were a couple of stares, but I'm sure it was thanks to our attire (HKC loves looking like a Mexican Soap Star Actress. CDC loves dressing like a music video Mexican)... and the green-ribbon "How Big Is Mommy? How Big Is Baby?" wristband I had made for myself while at the Baby Shower didn't help at making us look normal.

We got the fries (I ended up buying a 3.75 lbs. bag of Jolly Ranchers, the old school kind I'd get in like... 4th grade. Did anyone know they sold those?! 3.75 pounds?! Mannnnn!), I was dropped off at home, and I collapsed in bed.

Now I'm just... tired... with a congested nose, stuffy head... and I'm sneezing like crazy
(Oh no... might it be... allergies? Nooooooo! That's what I get for boasting about "Well, I don't have allergies..." yada yada yada. Nice job, AnoMALIE). I had to call off my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles outing for today.
No Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo till I get this nose under control (and shit... I have two exams this week. F.U.C.K.)