Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Confessions of a non-shopaholic (or whatever the opposite of a shopaholic is).

They say the first step is to recognize there is a problem. Well, I have a problem: I am terrible at shopping for myself. All types of shopping, clothes, shoes, groceries, etc. etc. and such.

It isn’t the shopaholic problem. I don’t overspend or shop excessively. If there is some extra cash maybe I will indulge myself with something I may want at the time…or would like to anyway. I usually end up talking myself out of buying anything. “Will I really use it? How is it going to make my life better? Why did I skip breakfast this morning? Why wasn’t I born a rich bitch? Why wasn’t I born Rick James, bitch?” These and more are all questions I ask myself when “shopping”. However, when I do have the need to buy things for myself, I am awful at it. Mind you, I wasn’t really aware of the problem, because sadly the shopping does not happen often enough for me to have recognized it sooner. And when an occasion of a holiday or birthday of someone I care for arises, I have been known to kick ass when it comes to shopping for someone else. But when it comes to me, here are some of the mistakes I’ve made: Try on several sizes of shoes and end up buying the one I didn’t try, because by process of (stupid) elimination, it must be the one that fits. Then I end up with a pair of shoes a size too small or too big. I’m a 7.5 goddamn it! Remember that, self! Clothes? Man I am so terrible at that. Usually go for comfort but I am terrible with trying out things at the store. I fail to remember that size M is not the same for different items of clothing and/or brands. Again, the shoe thing happens where I end up with clothes I’ll never wear, or wear only when I’m painting. Food is by far the worst, however. I cannot grocery shop. I am incapable of doing it. I never know what to eat or how much/many things of items to buy. I have a terrible diet. (I have, however, learned never to grocery shop when starving.)

This has only come to my attention as of 30 minutes ago, as I tried to write down a grocery list and ended up doodling on the paper.
I have come to the conclusion that I need a shopping buddy and/or teacher. Someone who will tell me to try out all clothes I’m buying and honestly tell me if it looks good on me. Someone who will remind me to wear the shoes, and try Cript-walking with them on to accomplish the comfort test and looking silly at the shoe store in the mall (trying to cross off more items in the bucket list). Someone who will tell me what food to buy so I can eat the way God intended…so that means no apples and lots of fish, bread and red wine. Oh hey, I might already have the answer to the shopping for food problem.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

A Teddy Bear for Adults

I had this idea a little while ago during a conversation with a friend. Now, with the holiday season upon us, I feel it is the perfect time to share my idea in hopes of it becoming a reality. I don’t even care that I don’t get the credit for it. If someone else takes it and runs with it and makes it happen then that is alright by me. I just want it to be available for me to have. I want one. We can all agree that the crappiest part about becoming an adult was giving up the teddy bears. I mean, not everyone is lucky enough to have a cuddle buddy whenever one needs it the most…(whilst watching Law and Order SVU, obviously). This is why I had an idea of creating a Teddy Bear that would be okay for adults to have.

Let me explain what this Teddy Bear for adults consists of…(needs a name btw, because right now it sounds like a sex toy, and these Teddies will not be performing any sexual acts…unless you and your Teddy develop that type of relationship over time. I will not judge…even if it happens soon after meeting. What you and your Teddy do behind closed doors is your prerogative. But I digress). The TB4A (that sounds like a robot name), will actually be, in fact, like a robot…well a machine. It will come in your favorite color, and do the following:

- Give you hugs. The most important feature of this Teddy, as for all Teddies, would be to give you big warm hugs to make it all better. (p.s. again, TB4A is not a sex toy. “Hugs” is not a euphemism).

- Poo cookies, pee booze. I know what you are thinking, “Gross!”, but hey, how else do you suppose we get the cookies and booze out of this Teddy Bear machine? By cutting an opening through its stomach? I’m not a monster, and maybe you are a sick and psycho-y person.

- Ninja protection. Well, the Teddy would be too small to protect you from burglars, rapists, and murderers who’d break into your house, buuuuut there won’t be any of that since everyone will have their own Teddy to fulfill their human needs (that sounds dirty) diminishing the need to be a criminal asshole. But the ninja protection will come in handy for when your neighbor’s cat/dog is being a loud asshole.

- Drive. Yes, he will drive your car so you can text, facebook, kik, tweet, etc. etc. and such.

- Be your wing man. Guys, chicks love the Teddies, because they are cute as buttons (was that expression created because buttons don’t hurt people like zippers do? Hmmm) Girls, guys love them because….did I mention they pee booze?

- Give you more hugs. Yes. Lots more hugs, because you can never have enough, and if you play your cards right, he will high five you too.

So that is all this Teddy machine of awesomeness can do. That is my idea. I think it is a great idea and it can sell very well. Better than the iPad and the iPhone put together. I mean, I’d buy myself like 4. I think it is a very good idea, and someone with lots of money and that brain power to make things work should do it. Hmm maybe I should talk to the Japanese. They might already have this out on their market. We are always so behind.

The End.

Friday, October 1, 2010

YC vs. HC

Those of you who know me are well aware of the epic, dare I say, never ending war between myself and the most horrendously wicked song ever created Hotel California. Seven years before I was born the song Hotel California, which will henceforth be referred to as HC, has been reeking havoc about and amongst those who come across it. Most are too weak to resist its wickedness and have been defeated. For those seven years the world was in need of a champion. Someone who would take it upon themselves to carry the burden of truth and the duty to (haha I said dooo-dy) awaken the blind and help the fallen rise from the pits of defeat. Well, on March 27, 1984, at around sometime in the afternoon, after hours and hours of labor, and some complications, that Champion was born…actually let’s round it off to ten days after that, because apparently I was almost dying at birth and had to stay in the hospital some extra time. That was, in fact, the very first attempt HC would make on YC. While YC was just a newly born, innocent, and defenseless child. Yes, HC who had been plotting for 9 months to prevent this birth from happening. However, fate (pfffft I said fate) would prevail.

Of course, YC did not know she was born a champion….ok, im not gonna talk about myself in the third person. That’s so something HC would do….I did not know I was born a champion. Did not know my purpose in life was to fight for the right to HC-free paaaaaarty. Ah, that was lame. Apologies. But I did not in fact know that I was the one who would put a stop to HC’s reign of bad lyrics and lame riffs. As a child, I grew up in a household where both authority figures were under the, what I like to call, HC virus. This helped YC learn her enemy…oh I did it again. The creepy third person thing. Ugh. This helped me learn my enemy but more importantly it helped me realize that I had an enemy. After hearing the song I knew I had a calling. It was loud and clear as…um…a very loud and clear thing. (I’m tired. Don’t judge.)

The mission, MY mission, is to bring truth and awareness of the horridness (Is that a word? Horridness?) of HC, to stop it from causing any more pain and suffering and pain and just make it go far, far, far away. Yes, my mission is simple, but by no means is it an easy one. HC has had an advantage of brainwashing everyone before I came along and getting away with ‘good music’ murder (See what I did there?). As soon as I started talking, I started on my mission to help others see the light….oh wow, that totally sounded very Jehovah’s witnessy… Unfortunately breaking that spell is a lot harder said than done when HC recruits “people” like the Black Eyed Peas (yes, the BEP’s are majorly influenced by HC, especially Fergie. This is not a rumor because it is in my blog) and Ke$ha, and Miley Cyrus, and Taylor Swift, and that asshole who cut you off this morning on route to work, and the girl/guy who broke your heart, etc.; and is behind the headache you had last week, and the bad day you had at work, and the sleepless nights, and the cancellation of your favorite tv show, and the movie you were looking forward to watching actually turning out to suck ass, etc. etc. Well, all this means is that HC knows it is losing the battle, thus it resorts to help from its minions to make YC…err….me have a tougher fight. But to that I say “Is that all you’ve got, HC?!” I would go further into saying that I eat pieces of shit like it for breakfast, but I actually keep a well balanced diet and like my cereals or oatmeals for breakfast.

I have been fighting this fight for 26 years now, and I will keep fighting it until my last breath because it is an important fight to fight. (Five. I used the word fight(ing) five times in that sentence). I do it because I know that it is my responsibility, but more importantly I do it for you all. For everything bad that happens to you in life, it is all because of HC. HC is sick and twisted like that. It wants everyone to love it, it wants to own everyone (“You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave!”), and yet it causes nothing but suffering and pain. If that is not a bigger sign of it having major parental issues and childhood trauma, I dunno what is. I tried getting HC to go to a professional and work those things out but I could only do so much. Therapy only works if one is willing to work and recognizes one needs it. HC is one stubborn bitch. So I gave up on trying to help HC and am now only focusing on helping those it harms. “Hero” is a word I will not use to describe myself, but will certainly not stop or correct you if you choose to use it.

In conclusion, Hotel California is the lamest, most overrated song in the world of all time, and the most evil. It is everywhere, and I need you to help me stop it and make it go away forever!

The End.


P.S. I’m thinking of making myself a costume with a cape and a logo.

P.P.S. Remember, every time you listen to Hotel California, another puppy loses its wings. That’s why we don’t have any flying puppies. Are you pleased with yourself? How do you sleep at night?

Thursday, September 23, 2010

You Might Be An Asshole...

*This blog is rated R for strong language*

It’s no secret that I can have quite the potty mouth…and that I use the word asshole more than my mother'd like. In a moment of boredom I have come up with a list of situations in which you (or someone you know) might be playing the role of an asshole. A la Jeff Foxworthy’s You might be a Redneck.., I present you:

You might be an asshole…

If you jaywalk…slowly…you might be an asshole.

If you are part of a love triangle (either torn between two people or trying to break two people apart)…you might be an asshole.

If you relate/look up to the assholey characters in books/movies/tvshows...you might be an asshole.

If you baked cookies and didn't share any...you might be a fat asshole.

If you changed the channel while one of the Geico funny commercials was on...you might be an asshole.

If you are hogging up all the washers/dryers at the laundry mat because you are apparently doing laundry for the entire wardrobe of 12 people...you might be an asshole.

If you ask stupid questions with already answers in them...you might be a stupid asshole.

If you don't find It's Always Sunny in Philadephia to be the best and most hilarious show ever...you might be an asshole.

If the end/cancellation of a tv show saddens and upsets you more than the end/loss of a friendship/relationship….you might be an asshole.

If you want to make a left turn where there is no left turn lane on a busy street…you might be an asshole.

If you keep your obnoxiously loud dog right outside your neighbor’s bedroom window…you might be an asshole.

If you take too long at the ATM because you have multiple cards…you might be an asshole.

If at the gas station, you park in a way that blocks a free pump for someone else…you might be an asshole.

If you don’t use your turning/merging signals…you might be an asshole.

If you do nothing but complain on your facebook/twitter statuses…you might be an asshole.

If you feel that having listened to the song Hotel California (aka my arch nemesis) has changed your life…you might be an asshole.

If you “celebrate” your sport teams’ victories by trashing/burning/vandalizing places…you might be an asshole.

If you point out other assholes…you might be an asshole.

Monday, September 20, 2010

PMSing pretty much sucks.

There is nothing worse in the world than PMSing. Ok maybe being accused of a crime you didn’t commit and sent to prison for life is pretty bad...or losing your job and home and pretty much having to live in the streets is pretty bad too...or learning that one of your favorite shows has been put on hiatus and will resume as a mid season show blows too. But PMSing is right on that list of sucky blowy things. (Ha sucky blowy is so wrong. Im glad my mom doesn’t read this). Guys can say all they want about how hard it is for them to have to deal with us gals while we are going through it, but they aren’t actually going through it. We are. It sucks major gigantic balls! Let me count the ways... or just a few anyway...

Bloating - Ugh. As if we aren’t already struggling with our weight issues on a daily basis. Trying to fit into newly washed and dried shrunk jeans is a mission impossible on these days.

Fatigue- It’s not like we can get a vacation three or four days out of the month to ride out the feeling of just wanting to be in bed by just being in bed. No. We still have shit load of things that need to get done right. Because let’s face it, who else does them better? Problem is we just don’t fucking feel like it. Yawwwwn!

Tension and Irritability/Anger- This is perhaps the one most noticeable to others. Yes, these feelings get heightened and exaggerated during this time. To be clear, it doesn’t always mean that all and even every little thing annoys us and gets us going, it just means we can’t really hide being pissed and annoyed that well during this time. Sowwy.

Food Craving- This only makes the bloating worse...

Depression- Ugh. Even tv commercials make us cry.

But perhaps the most fun, and my most favorite of them all (please note the sarcasm) is

Cramping- Worst. Pain. Evvvvvver!

No man can comment on this because they have no idea what it feels like. Knowing that child birth feels a hundred times infinity worse makes me not want to have kids. And really, the women who have, should be somehow rewarded, knighted, given a medal of honor for each kid, given the key to the city, fuck, even sainted. Am I exaggerating the pain? No. Cramping really, really, really, really, really, really, fucking hurts. Ask any woman. They will agree. It’s the worst pain ever....well ok, pushing a baby through your bajingo hurts more, or losing a loved one, or when your favorite tv show gets cancelled...but cramps are right up there with those things. It really isn’t like cramping muscles after a 5 mile jog. We can’t just walk it off. Truth is I am not so sure I can describe it well enough for any dude who wonders what it feels like, or thinks we are being big babies over the pain (oh really? Big babies, you jerk? Most of you can’t even tell when we are dying of cramps. We keep it a secret, and still kick butt at work/home/everywhere). There isn’t really like an equivalent type pain for males. Uh, I don’t have balls, per say, but I am pretty fucking sure that menstrual cramps are worse than getting your balls kicked. For one, getting kicked in the balls doesn’t happen once ever month. Though come to think of it, it ought to. And for some dudes, twice.

In conclusion, being a female is way way way sucky when that time of the month comes. For all those things I mentioned, and oh of course, the spewing of the blood (yes, spewing), whilst trying not to leak any and avoid ruining a good pair of VC’s undies, or pants, or skirt, or dress, or the day of an innocent bystander.
I tell ya, sometimes, I even look forward to menopause. Then I remember all the shitty things we have to go through with that too. Uggggh.

That is all.

P.S. Whenever a woman is being right and calling you on your bullshit, she isn’t always PMSing.

P.P.S. I am not PMSing right now.

P.P.P.S. I think. Shit where’s my calendar?

Friday, July 30, 2010

Music is the perfect drug.

Music truly is the best medicine and addiction. Maybe it’s because I am almost completely blind that my sense of hearing is making up for the lack of sight by allowing me to experience listening to music on a whole ‘notha level. I am not sure people really understand what I mean when I tell them that I am addicted to music. My neighbors have a pretty good idea of it; I am sure. As do my coworkers, people driving in the car next to me, etc. See (you lucky bastards with your perfect vision), I have got to have music playing at all times of the day. From the moment I open my eyes in the morning and realize that “oh shit, that’s right, I am blind. But that’s ok; I can still hear the radio playing the Jazz I was listening to while I slept.” (So even my dreams can have good score music), to the moment I get ready for bed and turn on my radio to 88.1 KJAZZ. No, not because Jazz is boring and puts me to sleep, (YOUR FACE is boring and puts me to sleep), but because it is soothing. If I play what I play during daytime, I’d never sleep. Pretty much every activity I do has to be accompanied by music. I don’t think there is a better invention than music and ears, so kudos to whoever came up with those things. *high five*. I have been pretty blind for as long as I can remember, so given the choice, I’d always choose being blind over deaf. (I bet the world is a much nicer place for the blind, anyway. All the grunting and hiyah’ing that goes on in fights sound like a porno when you can’t see what’s going on).

As I sit here listening to my Beatles song collection, I realize a bigger part of the reason for my music addiction is my family. While, yes, I am the one in the family with the best taste in music, all of the Calderons are pretty coo coo for la musique. My mom’s grandfather was a composer. I remember watching him play his acoustic with a thumb pick and the longest nails I had ever seen on a man. (“Cachito de Luna” was one of his famous bolero songs). My dad was in a band in his young days, and when I look at his band photos I wish he had kept those Gibson guitars for when I got older. Mom and Dad both played the best music all the time. It was impossible to clean the house with mom without having the radio playing loudly, moping the floors to the rhythm as if the mop was a dance partner. My brother and I would sometimes try to trick her by turning the volume down slowly making her think the song was over so we can turn on the cartoons, but she never bought it. And quite honestly, I am glad she didn’t. I learned more about life, and love, and loss from her Maricela, and Rocio Durcal, and Juan Gabriel, (etc.) cds than what I would’ve learned by watching Tom and Jerry. Dad loved his rock and roll. It is because of him that I got and am listening to all things Beatles. He schooled us on Jimi, and Janis, and the Stones (will they ever stop rolling?), and Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd, etc. as well as bands like Los Apson, Los Dandis, and many other bands that are also part of my music collection. I’m sure he is jamming out with Lennon somewhere right now. Haha. Though it would embarrass me sometimes when he’d get up on stage at a wedding or Quinceañera or birthday party to sing, but I bet he’d laugh to see me now making a fool of myself when I Rock Band with mes amies.

It was no surprise of course that my siblings and I were born with such love for music. My sister are probably the most lost when it comes to their taste in music. Let’s just say I learned from them what bad music sounds like. Haha. I kid. Well, sort of. My sister Betsy, I remember, used to like good bands like Caifanes and Café Tacuba, before she started liking what I refer to as “wedding music” (which is music you will only hear at a Mexican wedding). I also remember sharing a room with my sisters when we were young around the time they were in high school and I was in JR high. Every morning after her shower, my sister Marlene would never fail to play “All Night Long” by the Mary Jane Girls. Every morning the little bass line in the beginning of that song was my sister Betsy’s and my wake up call. Never failed. My bro is probably a lot closer to me when it comes to music taste. Except we sometimes argue over who is more open minded musically. I am, of course, because when we jam out we always play stuff he chooses because I already like it anyway, and stuff I like he doesn’t get into. So yeah, I win. Jamming out with my brother is always fun. I dunno why we never considered making a band. He doesn’t remember this, but when we were little we’d make up rap songs in our back yard about candy and toys. This was before we used to pretend rock band with our neighborhood friend using tennis rackets and buckets and pots. Now my nephews and godson are showing signs of music addiction and talents, and that makes me feel warm all over. *giant grin*

I have always, for as long as I can remember, been in love with music. First toy I asked my parents for, the first Christmas we knew Santa wasn’t real, was any toy music instrument, preferably a keyboard. They got me a keyboard accordion. Fail. I was offended that they’d even consider my becoming the next Ramon Ayala. Pfffft! Of course they made up for it by signing me up for violin classes. If you live or drive near me, you know I like my music LOUD. It’s the only way to listen to it to accomplish embedding the melodies and lyrics into my brain, though I fear I am expediting my inevitable loss of hearing by listening to music on full blast in the car and at home every chance I get. (Dr. Oz told me it is bad for me.) It works on embedding them, too, but the method also backfires in such awful ways. After many years of attending all those weddings and quinceañeras when I was younger and hearing the song “Tonta” play so many times very loudly, I have random moments in my life, (ugh, like right now) when the song creeps up and starts playing in my head. Sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night. That bastard! Sometimes I rather hear my entire ringtone song than answer the phone resulting in missed calls. Other times when music isn’t present, I completely tune out of a conversation because there’s a song playing in the membrane. And of course, I can’t keep those songs just in my head so they try to escape though my hands making me play (killer) drum beats on desks, tables, steering wheel, myself. I’m quite the Lars Ulrich. Pffft. But I am better than Meg White for sure. Ha.

In conclusion, I would like to thank the inventor of music, and my family, and my favorite artists for providing me with my drugs and satisfying my addiction. I would also like to apologize to anyone whose calls I’ve not answered, or conversations I’ve not been fully tuned into. But I would like to give a special thanks to MUSIC for being my nurse, doctor, therapist, muse, lover, and drug. I may not be the biggest music addict, but I do love it a lot more than lots of folks I know. I am very sure I would even be more involved in the field if I wasn’t too busy listening to music.

P.S. The moment I go deaf I need to be quickly shot and killed. No time for a hearing aid, or any corrective type surgery. Death is the only way. Also, I must be buried with my iPod, for it holds my deepest secrets (Rats! I shouldn’t’ve shared that part). So hurry up Mike Jobs and develop an iPod that does not need a battery because mine would have to be playing music while buried 6 feet underground with me for all eternity.

P.P.S. (haha I said P.P.) When I say music, it does not include songs by The Black Eyed Peas.

P.P.P.S. F*** Y** Hotel California! Stayed tuned for a blog coming soon in which I will explain how the song Hotel California and I became mortal enemies. (<--No exaggeration).

The End.

Monday, June 28, 2010

My upstairs neighbors are a couple of horn dogs.

I have the sneaking suspicion that my upstairs neighbors are producing porn videos in their apartment. They do it way too often for their age. Ok, I don’t want to sound like a hater here. Good for them, in their fifties they still get down regularly (make love, not war, right?). However, I would like to be oblivious to the fact. Just yesterday they woke me up at 4am, because they apparently never let morning wood go to waste, and then again “serenaded” me to sleep at around 10pm. Gross! Old people doing it is not the last thing I want to hear when I go to bed nor the first thing to wake me up before the crack of dawn. It’s not like they last very long…ooooooh! Ha. But I would like it if it happens when I am not around so that I am not reminded of the horrible memory of walking in on my parents (twice….*shivers*) and potentially bring nightmares. I thought about playing loud music to drown out their noises, but given the music I mostly like to listen to, I think it may backfire and get them even more into it.
So to help my situation and avoid elongating therapy sessions, I’ve come up with a list of things I’d like to pretend my neighbors are doing instead of doing it.

1. Replaced their bed with a trampoline and are practicing their tricks because they work in the circus during the summer.

2. They are ninjas and always get attacked in their bedroom by the monster in the closet.

3. They are actually monkeys and are jumping on the bed.

4. They are very short and the only way to turn off their ceiling fan is by jumping on the bed to try and reach it.

5. They will soon be contestants on the show Gladiator (do they still show that show somewhere?) and are practicing with each other.

6. They are working out to an extremely insane workout that uses no machines, no weights, and a lot of headboard.

7. They are checking their wall for termites. (I’m not sure if hitting a wall repeatedly with a headboard is an effective way to check for termites, but maybe neither do my neighbors).

8. They are art thieves and after every heist, they come home and hang the paintings they just stole.

9. Because of the economy, they had to move fight club to their bedroom and they are they only two members left.

10. They are fans of river dance and practice on the bed to avoid injuries because they aren’t very good at it yet, and so they don’t cause as much noise….kind of like a muted trumpet.

In conclusion, I hope never to run into my upstairs neighbors because I could not look them in the face.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Children: beware of my knees.

I have always been one tall mofo. I’m not freakishly tall, but at 5’8” I am considered above average for a girl. It was especially above average when I was younger. It’s like I’ve been 5’8” since shortly after I started walking. I know that may sound like an exaggeration, but while technically I started walking around age one, I didn’t really use it until the age when I needed to get more snacks and drinks to watch my shows and to accomplish this would require getting out of the couch and walking over to the kitchen. One major advantage of being tall, obviously aside from looking down on people (pffft!), is that kids/people don’t mess with you if you can clearly pick them up and put them in your pocket, or if they can just assume that you can. Secondly, being tall also allows you to always have a good view when in a concert, or like event. Also, you can….um…..there’s the….well, you can….being tall allows you to….hmmm I can’t really think of more advantages of being tall…*thinking some more*…

Disadvantages, however, are plenty. There’s having a hard time finding clothes that fit well, fear of falling down (the ground is further away. It is a longer fall), but more importantly good luck getting a try at the piñata when you are the tall kid in the party. You always end up at the end of the line, and there was always one problem child towards the middle of the line with anger issues who would destroy the piñata (and anything/anyone else on the way) with a couple hits. Needless to say, I stopped trying to get a turn by not getting in line anymore. This was sad and frustrating for me because piñata hitting isn’t just in my DNA, I am pretty sure it is what I was put on this earth for. Of course, I didn’t really get to hit many piñatas in my time, due to my height, but if dreams are indicative of what you are really like in your waking life, then I am most definitely awesome at it. Do you have any idea what deprivation of piñata action does to a person? I get these dreams, then I wake up crying and singing “Dale, dale dale. No pierdas el pino…” and hitting the wall with my pillow. There’s no worse disadvantage of being tall than that. There is however one more dangerous downside of being tall and that is accidentally kneeing little kids.

In the summer of 2005, the gang decided to take a four day weekend to Vegas. I had been to Vegas plenty of times as a kid with family, but this would be the first time I would be going as an “adult” (I use quotations on that because that is debatable). One of our days there we were out and about, walking…and walking…and walking, then walking some more around the strip to get to visit as many casinos as we could (this was the first time some people were experiencing Vegas). I’ve always liked the Luxor casino, so when we arrived to that one I was especially lost in awe, but apparently I wasn’t the only one.

While we walked around in the casino, I was admiring some of the cool art displayed…ok there was a piece of a naked women’s torso up on the wall and her juggs were huge and distracting and all I could think was “Nuh huh? No way those are real!” when suddenly I felt something bump my knee. Bumping my knee(s) into things wasn’t a rare occurrence, however, this felt different. This felt a lot warmer than a desk, or a chair, or another object. And also, as I found out seconds later, it was a lot louder than an object.

“Waaaaahhhhhh! Aahhhhhh!” I heard quickly directing my attention to where I had felt the bump.

“Holy shit!” I thought to myself then broke into uproarious laughter as I noticed a kid lying on the ground crying.

I had kneed a little kid, and what was worse, I was laughing my ass off about it. It wasn’t that I enjoyed doing so…although now that I think about it, it might’ve been a little of the young Y.C. who didn’t get to beat up piñatas that was enjoying it on some level. (*gasp* that is too evil, even for me). I imagine, to the kid’s point of view, this was a pretty scary thing to see this giant, who just kneed you to the ground, be laughing so hard she is crying now. I think I was mostly laughing because it just seemed funny to me. I think had I been shorter, I would’ve probably still bumped to the kid because I was distracted, yes, but the impact would’ve been less severe. Yes, I should’ve been more careful watching where I was going, but in my defense, how did that kid not see me? What was his excuse? Because I am pretty hard to miss in my size, and where the hell were the kid’s parents? I looked behind me, still laughing btw, and saw them a mile ahead of the kid looking back and then coming back to get him. I remember the mom giving me a face of disgust as though I was a bad person who came to Vegas to knee little kids. Oh yes, lady. I’m the bad one. You are lucky your kid wasn’t kidnapped letting him walk so far behind you like that in a crowded place where no one is to be trusted.

In conclusion, pros and cons aside, I still love being tall. I would choose it over average or short any day. Also, if I ever have kids, I will buy them a piñata every weekend. Heck, that sounds like a good idea. I should do it for myself. I have, after all, lots of catching up to do.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

The time I was chased by a man driving a 1975 Pontiac Trans Am

Driving in Los Angeles is almost like a horror movie to me. You've got assholes cutting you off all over the place, pedestrians appearing suddenly right in front of your car, and the likely possibility of getting shot near an exit of the 110 or 105 freeways. Of course now after many years of driving the streets of the city of Lost Assholes (I swear there are more cars in the streets every time I head out there whose sole purpose, I bet, is to make me wanna shoot somebody. I should never own a gun. Ever!) I fear that I may end up being the serial killer and cleaning up the streets from bicyclists, pedestrians, eloteros, and moron drivers (who I bet not by coincidence happen to be Raiders/Dodgers/Lakers fans). However, back in the days when i had just started driving, sitting in traffic or taking 45 minutes on a route that normally should take 15 felt like ice cream on a sunny afternoon. It felt like freedom. At least I wasn't walking, or worse, riding the bus! (*knock on wood*). Even though driving was still new and fun back when I had just started, it was perhaps the most scary to me. One particular incident comes to mind.
The time I was chased by a man driving a 1975 Pontiac Trans Am...

The year was 2002. I had just graduated from high school a few months ago and was driving an old red Hyundai that probably built on the year I was born. I was on my way to pick up my mom from work, when I noticed there was a 1975 Pontiac Trans Am (I know the year now because I just googled it) that made a U Turn after it had passed me. I thought "WTF?!" and noticed the car getting closer and closer as if he wanted to catch up to someone or thought this was the Indy 500. He was driving way too close to me. "Relax Jeff Gordon. There's a speed limit here." I said to myself. After a couple blocks I realized "Is he following me? He is following me! Shit!" I panicked. I went through a list of the people I knew in my mind and the car they drove. Of all 5 people, none drove a Pontiac Trans Am. I looked at my rear view mirror and saw the driver. It was a man. Maybe about a decade older than me, or so it seemed. I am not usually good with ages (I once almost made out with a 58 year old because I swore he looked 43. pffft!) He must've seen me looking at him through the rear view mirror because he signaled me to pull over.

"Is he confusing me with someone he knows? Is he an off duty cop who saw me take a red light? Why is the song playing on the radio right now totally not the right score music to this situation? There is no way I am pulling over. What could he possibly want me to pull over for? He could be a serial killer. A rapist. A Christian. A Hotel California fan. Nope I'm not pulling over." These were all things that went through my mind. Luckily for me the time wasn't traffic hour and the street lights of Slauson were all working with me. All green.

"I need to lose this dude." I decided.

I didn't want to be late for picking up mom, so I thought to just take maybe a more complicated route to get there. Figure I'd lose him on the way. Unfortunately, I was relatively new to driving, and was never really into tv shows or movies that would school me on losing someone while on being chased. Even the breaking news due to speed chase would make me turn off the tv or change the channel to PBS. So I gave it my best. I turned, and sped, and took alleys, and sped some more. Nothing worked. The dude was still on me trying to pull me over. Only now he was trying to get onto the opposite traffic lane so that he can pass me or something. I was starting to freak out and imagine the worst possible case scenarios. I imagined him being a mobster or cholo who had confused me for someone he was assigned to make go away. Well, he could've just shot me from behind, so that wasn't it. I then thought he was probably someone I knew who was messing with me, or some bored fuck just trying to get his jollies. I just couldn't think of a possible explanation for what was going on. But now I had bigger problems; I was getting closer to my destination.

"Shit! I'm gonna have to pull over to see what he wants. I cannot take him to where I am going."

A block away from where I was to get mom, I decided to pull over to see what he wanted. Then maybe he'll go away...or kill me. So I pulled over, and he pulled up right next to me. Suddenly I realized where I was. Genius me had pulled over in the most deserted street ever. I quickly scanned the car for a weapon type object just in case things got nasty. Of course, because of my OCD (self diagnosed) I never leave random objects in my car, and at the time I had no cell phone. So I turned off the car (another brilliant move. sigh.) and grabbed my keys placing them between my knuckles.

He rolls down his window and says "Hey what's your name? Can I have your number?"

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!???" I thought to myself feeling both relieved and puzzled. "All of this was so that he could hit on me?! In what universe is this a thing?" I was now feeling annoyed, and wigged out. This was no doubt uncharted territory for me. I don't get hit on. So for this dude to go to these length to do so felt off. He must be a weirdo.

"Um, I don't have a number." I said, because it was true. I didn't have a cell phone at the moment, and as i discovered a little later in life, when asked for my number I can't seem to lie or give a false number. Even if I end up ignoring their calls.

"What's your name?" He persisted.

"Um..Marlene" I have no problem giving a false name. Unfortunately my mind always goes to the name Marlene. My older sisters name. Haha. I have used it many o' times. Mostly because my actual name always end up with me having to teach them how to spell or pronounce it, followed by questions of where I am from, and how my parents came up with it, and if it means anything. Marlene never got those type of questions.

"You are very beautiful Marlene. Let's go out sometime. Talk. Hang out."

This dude is creeping me out. We need to wrap this up and make him go away. "Is this why you were following me?"

"Yeah. Can I have your number? Maybe call you up sometime." This was the first time I can remember being hit on and it wasn't quite what I had imagined, or what I would've imagined if I had imagined it ever happening.

"I don't have a cell phone at the moment. I need to go now." I said hoping he'd get the hint that I wasn't into it.

"You got no house number?" He persisted yet again.

.....silence from me.

"Ok, Here. I'll give you mine." He said as he ripped a piece of an envelop he had in the glove compartment (Why do they call it the glove compartment? Are we supposed to be driving with gloves on and keep them in that compartment? I digress.). He handed me the piece of paper with his number and his name which I don't even remember now, but I wanna say it was Ben. "But please call me!" he insisted.

"Yeah, ok" I said as I turned my car back on.

"Call me! Please!" He said as he put his car on drive and drove away.

I waited a few minutes so that he drove far enough not to see where I was headed. Then drove off to get mom. At the time, my parents owned a toy store at a swapmeet in LA. When I got there and saw mom closing up I grabbed a marker she kept by the register, told her I had to pee and headed for the public restroom. I walked straight to the handicap stall took the marker and wrote the number and something along the lines of "Call me for a fun ride, Ben" Flushed the piece of paper and left wondering if anyone would actually call.

Hmmm I wonder if that place and number are still there.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

What's wrong with saying fuckidy fuck fuck fuck?

This is the story about the first time I said my very first bad word.

Those of you who know me well know that I can be a bit of a potty mouth. (To clarify, being a potty mouth is in this case used as the [perhaps overwhelming] usage of bad/naughty words, and not as being a shit talker). I may choose to pepper in some ‘fuckings’ and such like words into my diction to really emphasize passion (i.e. fucking amazing). What can I say? I’m a passionate human being. I didn’t really realize how much of a potty mouth I was until it became increasingly difficult to have to censor myself in front of my fucking adorable and smart nephews. Words are just words, but I sure as shit don’t want to be blamed nor responsible for having my nephews and godson say such words. Although I don’t really use them to express negative emotions. (I cannot remember the last time I said “Fuck you” to someone, and my over usage of “go fuck yourself” yesterday was due to my singing along while playing and replaying Esthero’s fucking brilliantly amazing new track “You don’t get a song”.) After being around my nephews this past holiday weekend, I became very aware of how often I curse, in a non Harry Potter way (I’ve never read nor seen the movies, but that’s about wizards and witches putting curses and casting spells and stuff, right?)
Anyfuckinghoo, I started thinking about that first time I said that very first word. It went something like this….

*chimes and harp playing*
*harp solo*
….oh, sorry, I really get into it when I play imaginary harp.


On a very sunny, yet chilly winter afternoon, in the small city of Bell California, my brother J and I were quietly enjoying a game of either Power Rangers, or Pogs, or whatever else we were into towards the end of 1993. Let’s see, doing the math I must’ve been 9, and my brother was 6 going on 7. My brother and I grew up pretty close. We enjoy a lot of the same things, and spent a lot of time together when we were kids. I would beat up his bullies, he would ask Dad for money for the both of use since he would not likely get said no to, being the baby boy and all…bastard! (But I’m not jealous or bitter, no. I promise.) Needless to say, bro and I were real close homies since we were little ones. Actually we’ve never been little ones. He is now 6’3” and I am 5’8”, so we were always tall ones. On this very afternoon, we had no idea things were about to get very interesting.

I do not exactly recall what exactly happened that afternoon to interrupt our game of (again, I’m not very sure) Power Rangers or Pogs or whatever, because it happened about 17 years ago. However, I do recall that it was a family matter. Some sudden event had forced my parents to start looking for a home elsewhere. My brother and I were not very thrilled to hear the news, since we had not been living in the current place for very long and we were conveniently close to friends and cousins. Immediately upon being told the news, bro and I marched to the back yard upset at what we had just learned. We walked the biggest tree in the yard that also happened to be placed the farthest from where our parents or older sisters were at the moment.

“What do you think about this?” my brother asked me looking for comfort, and assurance, and quite possibly a plan a la Disney kids movie.

There it was. The very simple question that started it all. I wasn’t thinking much other than ‘this is it. This is my chance. A real legitimate reason to use the F word I have heard so much about.’. After all, it was the only word I could think of that would suffice to describe what I felt about the situation. The real question was, if I was in fact about to say the word, would I be able to trust my brother? I had to think for a sec. Up until that point the only words that would slip out sometimes were “Estupido” and “Idiota” or their English equivalents, and they were quickly followed by a smack in the mouth by mom. It was clear she wasn’t down with us cussing. I could only imagine what any usage of “fuck” would do. If I choose to say it to my brother he’d have something juicy to blackmail me with later. (Blackmailing was something we learned from our oldest sister Betsy, haha). Could I trust that my brother? The boy whom I defend from bullies who would take advantage of his kindness? The one who ended up with me tied up on a pole in our backyard as punishment for getting money from my Dad’s van without asking (another story for later)? Yes. I felt like the answer was a clear yes. However, just to make sure I had to make it clear to him that I was trusting him with this and that he should not rat me out to mom, for I meant no harm.

“Don’t tell my mom but, and you know I don’t even say this word, and wouldn’t think of saying it again, but this is Fucking stupid” I said then burst into a giggle.

It felt strange to say it, but strange good. It felt fun and grown up-y. I felt as though I had just become an adult and things like Power Rangers and Pogs would be of no interest to me. I was now to concentrate on expressing how I felt about things using “fucking” and all the other words that I was sure were waiting for me. I know I had just promised my brother I wasn’t going to say it again, but who was I kidding. I have never stopped since. I knew it the moment the word came out of my mouth, and I think my brother knew it as well.

I quickly collected myself (surely, I was speaking like an adult now and adults don’t laugh after using adult words), and awaited my brother’s reaction. He giggled a little then said,

“Yeah, don’t tell mom, but this IS fucking stupid”.

*Gasp* He said it too! It was that moment when I realized just how close my brother and I were…and I also knew that from then on most usage of the bad words would be directed towards that little fucker. Ha!
In conclusion, I should not be blamed for corrupting my brother into saying bad words at the tender age of 6 going on 7, because it was clearly his fault that I said it since he asked me what I thought about the sitch. I would’ve just kept my feelings deep down, eat them for dinner, like I normally did during my childhood, but he just had to ask. I bet he just wanted an excuse so that he can say it. Yeah, that’s it. I’m sure that is it. I guess I can start by substituting words that are more pleasant to young ears, but it is real hard. Real fucking hard.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Cried like a little Y.C.

Reading does the body good…but only reading in a well lit room. Otherwise there’s the forcing your sight, and then potential blindness, and that can result in you crashing and falling into things that can cause some serious injury or even death!! Dun, dun, dun… I’d say reading is good for the mind but clearly it isn’t so, for it makes the mind a little too creative and it makes one say things that make no sense like what I just did. The reason I mention reading is because I have been doing it a lot. (“It” being reading…I have to remind my pervy mind so as not to lose track of what I am saying.) In about a month I read all three of Chelsea Handler’s hilarious books, Bridget Jones’ Diary (which is way better than the movie), and I am now currently “en train de” (that’s a French expression, not Spanish) reading Sarah Silverman’s book. All this reading has caused my brain to behave strangely by narrating almost everything I do to the point that my midnight pee trips are, if written, almost a paragraph and a half long of narration.
Therefore, in order to exercise my brain a little, I decided to seize this burst of inspiration and share a little story about my childhood that I’ve only told one person (but since I pay her when I tell her things, it doesn’t really count as sharing, I think).
This is the story of my first day in Montessori preschool. (What I can remember anyway)


Disclaimer: This really happened. However, some events may be greatly exaggerated for my amusement.


A long time ago (not too long ago, I am only twenty si—something), in a country far, far away. Way far down south of here, which I will call Blehxico (since I don’t know if it is necessary to pay rights for mentioning names. I don’t quite know how this works) a young, confused and quiet little girl was on her way…uh…somewhere. She wasn’t sure where and why so damn early! Ok, I’m not going to do the third person thing. I gave it a shot. It didn’t work. Points for effort, though.

On my first day of preschool, I cried a river, or a family of rivers. One reason for the waterworks was that it was the first time I’d be away from home and from my mommy. I guess I was terrified that I’d be left there forever, like my parents had changed their minds and were returning me back for store credit or exchanging for something better (I imagine if they could, they would’ve gotten a puppy or a monkey. My sister Marlene likes monkeys). I don’t know, maybe that was the reason. I don’t really know what my state of mind was then, and what I was thinking at the time, but since in between wails I was screaming, in Spanish “Home! Home! Mommy! My Mommy!” (because when crying I can’t make complete sentences and sound a little like E.T.) I am going to say it is a correct inference. My mom must’ve known I was going to cause such scene because she vanished before I could taste my first tear.

I stood by the door of the building for a while. Crying unconsolably (I say that because every teacher and I remember even the janitor would come by and try to comfort me and get me to s.t.f.u.!) hoping that any minute Mom would burst in through the door saying “Aaaah! You got Punk’d!” or “Aaaay! Tu fuiste Punki’da”, nevermind that the show wouldn’t be created until years and years later (but not so many years, I’m only twenty s--ish). Nothing, absolutely nothing that the adults would bribe me with and promise would get me to stop crying. Didn’t they understand that my tears and screams were the only way Mom could hear me from such a distance, come get me, and take me to get some ice cream? So yeah, I didn’t believe them when they’d say Mom would come get me soon as I stopped crying. Pfffft!

After almost half a day, I started running out of water. I started wailing softer and soften, then whimper, and suddenly was able to hear how pathetic I was starting to sound. Besides, I was looking around a bit and the place didn’t look so bad. There was different areas where in the future we would learn math, and reading, and art (yeah I graduated master of ceremony there and was able to read by the time I was out of that place, but I won’t brag). I finally quiet down and accepted that if I had in fact been left there I had to deal. So I was now concentrating on counting down the hours/minutes until I got to eat my lunch. Mom was at least kind enough to abandon me with a full meal and a drink. It consisted of her deliciously famous bean and cheese flour tortilla tacos (which are not at all to be confused with bean and cheese burritos), and a chocolate milk. Since I didn’t move from the spot my mom had left me–er abandoned me at all, I still had my lunch box with me. It wasn’t quite like the typical lunch box. In fact, I don’t think its purpose was to be a lunch box at all. I remember it had Strawberry Shortcake picture on it, with lots of little hearts or something, and was a weird shape. Before I joined the class at whatever it was they were doing at the moment...it looked a lot like dancing and celebrating my shutting the fuck up finally...I walked to the lunch area where I was to leave my “box”. I looked inside as I walked over to reassure myself that I would be having what I saw Mom make in the morning, and in hopes I found a note from maybe Dad instructing me to meet him by the back door where he’d be waiting to rescue me all along. Pfffft! Tacos? Check. Chocolate milk? Check. Then suddenly I remember Mom had told me “Make sure your box is always this side up, otherwise your chocolate milk will spill.” I’m pretty sure the container she had put the choco-milk in wasn’t meant to hold liquids. I put my Strawberry Shortcake box of yumminess in a safe place, and proceeded to join the rest of the kids who had by now labeled me the class cry baby. Bastards!

“This place is kinda cool” I thought to myself while I finger painted in the art area with a couple of the kids. “I guess my ending up here might be for the best, and Mom probably left so quickly because it was so hard for her to leave me and didn’t want me to see her break down. After all, I am her favorite.” Ha. Just as I had finished with my thought, one of the teachers asked loudly, getting everyone’s attention, “Who does the Strawberry Shortcake box belong to?” I immediately walked to where she and all the lunch boxes were thinking she had probably caught a whiff of my lunch and wanted a taste, or even worse, half.

“Is it yours?” she asked when I was standing right in front of her and a pool of chocolate milk.

“But how did this happen?! I was so careful! I placed it the way my mom told me to!” were all things going through my head as I, yes you guessed it, began to cry...with a vengeance.

“No, don’t cry. It’s ok. It was an accident. Let’s just clean it up, ok” the teacher told me in a tone that said both ‘I understand’ and ‘Why won’t you shut up!’ at the same time.

I spent maybe an hour crying and cleaning the spilled milk (yes, I cried over spilled milk). Then after that it must’ve been nap time or something because I don’t remember much of what happened....*SCENES MISSING*...

The next thing I remember was us, kids, standing by the door as one by one was picked up by their parent(s), sibling(s), or other loved ones. Of course I was one of the last kids to be picked up, only making this event even more traumatic and melodramatic. I was about to begin crying again in panic that I would be the only kid left there when I recognize the person by the door who was there to pick me up. So I cried anyway because I was so happy that I was going home. They hadn’t forgotten about me. They didn’t trade me for a puppy, or a monkey. Yes, those tears at the end of the day were of joy. So much joy, that I don’t really remember who picked me up. It could’ve been Mom, one of my sisters, or a neighbor. I think even the teachers cried a little in joy that I was finally leaving and they’d have peace and quite for the rest of the day (and the rest of the semester, year, or whatever. I’m a fast learner. I knew how things worked now).

In conclusion, I’m pretty sure when people use the expression “cried like a little school girl” they are referring to me.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

I scream. You scream. We all scream when there's an earthquake.

With all the Earthquake “fun” lately, I came up with a list of places/times I would NOT like to be when an earthquake hits.

Here they are, in no particular order….

- Driving on the freeway.

- Pooping

- In the shower.

- Just getting out of the shower

- Whilst dancing around naked in the apartment.

- Watching tv. It’s bad enough commercials already interrupt my favorite shows.

- Sleeping.

- At an amusement park while on one of the rides.

- In an elevator.

- Walking up/down a flight of stairs.

- Crossing a bridge.

- Sitting Indian style at the park/yoga class/home/driveway/or wherever. Or maybe…hmmm.

- While practicing your balance on your left foot.

- At a movie theater.

- Anywhere in downtown.

- Did I already mention pooping?


Those are some of the ones at the top of my head. However, now I’m thinking of a few times/places I wouldn’t mind an earthquake to hit.
For instance….

- The supermarket. Worse case scenario: trapped in there but won’t starve. Best case scenario: free groceries.
- Whilst Break Dancing/Rocking out/etc. Would make for cool added effects.
- While I’m (and all my loved ones are) out of town.
And finally…

- While I have no control over what music is being played on the radio and Hotel California is on, and “Bam!” Earthquake right in the beginning of the song so they cut to breaking news. In your face HC!

In conclusion, I think it is safe to say that all earthquakes are assholes.

The End.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Happy New Year to me!

I meant to blog about my birthday weekend sooner, but like Kathy said “better late than pregnant”.
It was a long weekend and yet not long enough, but finally for the first time in a real long time It was a good birthday (not including my Grandma passing away on my birthday, but luckily it worked out that the family was all together and my sibs and I were able to come together and be there for mom). I’m not quite sure why past birthdays have turned out to be crappy. Ok, that is a lie. I do know why, but if I’d told you, I’d have to pay you for your silence. I already have one therapist on payroll, can’t afford another.
Truth is, for me, it isn’t about doing something on my birthday, or partying, or any of that. It really is just about the Happy Birthday wishes. Yup. Don’t care about the presents, or the cake, or the drinking…ok that’s a lie, the drinking and the cake are also important though not necessary, but always best when combined. Doing the alchie and cake is far better than doing the ice cream and cake. The chances of the latter getting you laid are as real as my imaginary cat “Fifi”. My imaginary cat does hang around with me a lot more when I do the alchie and cake, but I am sure there is no connection. I digress.
Anyway, this birthday, to ring in year twenty-si…er…um…let’s leave it at twenty, I decided to spend it with the people I love the most and love me too…I think. A four day weekend away from the city with family and friends. Round up the girls and met my brother and his wife and my adorable Godson James up in Redding to visit the rest of the family. Long drive, food, singing, drinking, laughing, site seeing, crying (R.I.P. Grandma. We are here for you mommy), sleeping, farting, hiking, more driving, playing, farting again (shouldn’t’ve eaten that many burgers), and talking, but more importantly a lot of learning and growing.
Here are some of the things I learned this past birthday weekend, in no particular order:

1. Migraines are my bitches now.

2. Jennifer is a big geek…and also a racist. Not so sure I remember how we came to the conclusion of the racist part, but I remember we came to the conclusion nonetheless.

3. Cameras don’t float, but they don’t break if they fall in the water instead of big rocks.

4. It is convenient to have a birthday days after my mom so I can enjoy two different types of cake. Yummy in my tummy.

5. My nephews will always be adorable, and super smart…and stronger than me.

6. People think I am obsessed with the color green. I am, but they shouldn’t think it.

7. Waterfalls are pretty and Twilight is a pretty lame movie about squirrely vampires.

8. The promise of a rattlesnake sighting is just as frightening as actually seeing one.

9. Never eat two (or more) charcoal burgers past midnight, even if it is your birthday.

…and finally….

10. Rah rah ah ah ah. Roma roma ma. Ga ga oh la la…

In conclusion, things are good. Hugs and hand slaps all around.

Photobucket

Friday, January 22, 2010

45 million dollars is a lot of dollars...

Coco is gone! :/ (from tv’s late night line up, let’s not start any rumors here). Now what??! He was the funniest choice of late night hosts, in my opinion. Well, ok I didn’t actually watch Conan much before. He was just on way to late for this *points at self* viewer. Then after the move to an earlier time slot I tried, but…*pulling out deck of cards*… Pick a card, any card. I got the “wake up early for work”, “lazy/sleepy”, “The News before sent me into a depression coma”, “drank too much of the funny liquids and passed out”…ok, I’m throwing them all in. But still, if Hulu counts in the ratings, I watched some of those clips a lot…ok once. Maybe I’m not a big late night tv watcher person. Ok, that’s a lie, I was watching infomercials and old episodes of Oprah and Dr. Phil ok! (I’m kidding, I don’t even know if they air old episodes late at night.) Actually, by the time Conan starts I am already jumping into the 3rd dream.
Now, of course what NBC (which stands for Nothing But Caca-brains…we can start that rumor) pulled on Coco & Co. was shitty. But I mean they all still got to make some money out of it. Like a whole shit load of money. Conan (because if I called him Coco one mo’e ‘gain, I was gonna feel racist or creepy) got paid 45 million dollars to leave. I mean even after taxes that is still more money than most of us will ever see in a lifetime. So should we feel that bad about what happen? Eh. I’m sure Mr. O’Brien will be just fine.
So anyway, when I read about how much Conan was paid to leave NBC, I cussed, then I felt hungry (because it was past my breakfast time), then I thought about the time Conan fell on the show, then I wondered if I should make scrambled eggs or just eat some cereal, and then I thought “That is a whole lot of money. What would I do if I had that much money?” Pretending here that I lived in a land where I didn’t have to pay taxes for all that cash, I came up with a list of what I would spend the money on…(of course, after I buy houses for family and pass some out to some charities and stuff.)
So here are some of the petty things I would spend some of that money on…

1. Buy a sports team I hate.
This would be a good idea for a couple reasons. Since it is a team I hate, like the Lakers, I would help bring them down. Make awful trades and whatnot. This would make me feel good because who doesn’t feel good when bringing down an arch nemesis, right? And also, It would help me make more money since I would place bets against the crappy team I own. Granted this is a lil evil, but hey that’s how rich people do, I learned from a soap opera once.

2. New clothes.
Not very original, I know, but I would never have to do laundry again. Just buy new clothes anytime I needed to. P.S. I hate doing laundry more than I hate the Lakers. P.P.S. No I don’t. I hate them just about the same.

3. Brain Surgery.
Since the Men in Black flashy thing doesn’t exist and the “Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind” isn’t for real, I would have to physically remove the parts of my brain where the bad stuff and people live in my mind. Maybe I should leave this one until the very end, just in case anything goes wrong on the operating table.

4. Fly to the Moon.
..or really anywhere out there in space. As far as I can go. I would love to go see such beauty up close. Of course, while I’m heading up there I might as well take advantage, kill two birds with one stone (Note: I Do NOT advocate the stoning or killing of birds, unless it’s big bird. He is just annoying. And hurts my eyes. Too bright.) and I would take with me every single recording or what have you, of Hotel California and burn it and spread its ashes out there in the universe to float about to a galaxy far far far away from me.

5. Private photographer.
I’m not vain or anything. But just come to think of it, it would be cool if someone gets to capture all my adventures so I can put into albums and later look at and remember. Because let’s face it, the Brain surgery would probably have some side effects.

And finally…

6. Boxes of peanuts, walnuts, almonds, etc.
Because sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. But I always feel like a nut, or boxes of ‘em.

In conclusion, I am going to buy a lotto ticket for tomorrow.