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.