Saturday, June 30, 2007

The ick factor

I'm house sitting for my sister this weekend. She has 5 dogs (two of which went camping with her) and I have to take care of them and their fish and their turtle.

So I arrive at her place tonight after an especially busy third day of work. I ran through the house to let the poor little guys out back (before taking off my shoes...don't tell her it's a secret).

After a few minutes I got up to let them back in. No one is allowed to wear shoes in her house. So there are a couple pair of their crocs at the entrance to the dog room. I put my left foot in one of the brother-in-laws' crocs. Next came the right foot. As I was stepping in, I felt something tickle my foot. Thinking it might be a hair or something similar I shook my foot...you know, to shake it off. I then felt the "hair" tickle up my ankle. I look down and see nothing, so I keep shaking my foot. It crawls up my leg. I frantically convulse my leg to shake off whatever is causing my panic. I feel wings flutter. Finally, it's off. I look down and see it. A big. Huge. Cockroach. It was the ick heard round the world.

I didn't know what to do. I absolutely HATE...and I mean hate with a fiery passion...cockroaches. The are disgusting little freaks of nature. Usually I make the closest boy kill it for me. But alas, I am all alone. I jumped up and down for a second or two trying to decide what to do. I decided I had to take action because there was no way I was going to be able to sleep with such a creature in the same house as me. I picked up a croc and very quickly, very forcefully smashed the roach.

I slowly lifted the shoe to make sure that I had, indeed, successfully killed it. It was smooshed to the ground. Although creepily enough still moving it's little head and antanae. I strategically placed the shoe back over the remains. There is no way I'm cleaning it up. I guess I'm just going to have to find a big, strong man to clean it up for me. Helpless isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Irritatedsville, population: Me

When I painstakingly write out an entire blog that's longer than five sentences (which doesn't happen often) and all of a sudden, it's gone. Poof. Just like that. I guess I wouldn't really say poof. I guess I would say that the cursor was on the 'x' from closing a second window and my finger grazed along the touch sensitive pad and closed the window. Meh, what's a girl to do. Nothing. Because hell if I'm going to write it all down again. Stupid apple iBook.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Whistle while you work

I got a job. Hallelujah. You are now looking at (reading?) the newest counter bitch at Club Tattoo. Save it, I know what most of you are thinking. You know who you are.

I'm excited that I'll finally be making more than $5 a day. Mama needs a new pair of shoes. Not to mention that I get free tattoos and piercings. I've seen a few of the artists custom work and it's really good. So irregardless of all the tattoo snobbery I'm surrounded by, I'm excited. I get to see my old best friend, money. Oh how I've missed him.

Friday, June 22, 2007

My not-so-great adventures in Horrorland

You can call me a bitch. You can call me a mom. You can call me bitchin'. But one thing you can't call me is graceful.

When I was in high school, when the ex and I had just started dating, I went looking through his backpack. Not for anything in particular, but just because I'm nosy like that. Besides, he was sitting right there, so I don't count that as snooping. As I flipped through the loose sheets of papers in his English folder, I glanced my name. I pulled the paper out and realized it was an essay (read: three four sentence paragraphs) written about yours truly.

I read through it against the ex's wishes and thought it was the sweetest thing anyone has ever written and/or said about me. Although one thing that caught my eye which I knew to be false was his analogy of me and the gracefulness of a cat. I laughed so hard when I read it and asked between fits of giggles if he even knew me at all. When asked to explain my utter lack of appreciativeness, I explained that I, in fact, was not as graceful as a cat. In all actuality I have the gracefulness of a bull in a china shop, so to speak. Maybe even worse, because while a bull in china shop merely breaks and ruins everything in its wake with clumsiness, I tend to hurt myself, usually pretty bad.

Severely sprained ankle. Sprained wrist and thumb. Busted knee. Torn meniscus. You would think all these injuries occured while doing roller derby. Or maybe some other sport. Well, you would be wrong. With the exception of the wrist. Everything else, in addition to an endless list of other such disablement, was the cause of me simply being alive. Sometimes, and I'm not even making this up, I fall over from just a standing position.

With all that said, here's a gander at my day. Upon waking, I got up to pee. I ran into the wall. That doesn't sound so bad since I had just woken up. As I was peeing I reached for the toilet paper...and hit my hand on the counter. Hit at just the right angle, it can bring tears to your eyes. Fast forward to my afternoon theory class...the aestetician doing a demonstration on facials wheeled her chair over my big toe...twice. Now there you would think that wasn't my clumsiness but her mistake. I assure you this would only have happened to me. This evening as I was walking out the front door in my platform flip flops, I stepped on and fell over three pairs of shoes...I ate shit. Now I sit here with a throbbing big toe, two scraped knees, a cut on my elbow and foot rubbed wrong by the canvas material on my flip flops. That's gonna leave a mark

Cumbersome is as cumbersome does, some might say. And by some, I mean me. Futile isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.

Sidenote: The genius has, in fact, inherited my gracefulness, or lack there of. Gawd help him.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

An ode

"Daddy, how did you know I was a girl when I was born? Did I have tiny earings?"
How my dad laughed at that. Ask him and he'll tell you all about it. Over and over and over again. He'll also tell you how I used to say "I wanna do it my byself". If you can believe it, I was stubborn. Well read and well spoken by the age of three thanks to my pops, and I was still dyslexic when it came to certain phrases and naive as to the ways of the world. But he was always there to softly giggle and humor my beliefs.

Growing up, he was a columnist for the El Paso Times and the El Paso Herald Post, respectively. About twice a year he would write a story or other about me, his, at the time, youngest. Most children would shy away from and be embarassed about said articles. But surprisingly enough, not me. I read his column every day. And if there was even a smidge about me in it, I would rip the article out of the paper and take it to school waving it in the air for all to see and admire. "My daddy's a famous journalist!" I would say, chest swelled with pride, old articles crumpling with sweat in my little hand. "He likes to write stories about me on my birthday! I'm special!" I would brag to all who would listen, friends and strangers alike. I pretty much thought I was the shit.

An accomplished playwright, poet, opinionist and published author, he was recently named El Paso's very own journalistic icon. Using his words to paint pictures about a life in Mexico, to support Chicano Activism or simply to entertain. He is my dad. And I was, AM, proud.

Being the literary lothario that he is, he had high expectations for my sister and me. Though at times, they seemed higher for me. I would get grounded if any of my grades dropped below a C. However, C's were just as unacceptable as F's. He always told me I was smarter than the average kid. That I could do anything I wanted. Granted I attend college. Preferably an above-average university. I'd hoped of attending his alma matter Colombia. I wanted to be just like him. Traveled, relaxed, an intellect in his own right. Hearing about all his adventures and travels, I'd decided at a young age that I would travel. Experience life before I got tied down by the proverbial travails that are suburban America. My dad shared in my future dreams for me. He often told me that he always pictured his baby girl traveling the world, writing poems and basically just enjoying life.

Then came the day I found out I was pregnant. At the ripe young age of 17, I was terrified to tell anyone. Though completely lax in attitude, I still felt pressure from the expectations my family had of me. After telling my mom and sister, it was time to tell my dad. I. Was. Petrified. I cried and pleaded with my sister to not make me tell him. Or worse yet, for her not to spill the beans. We argued for about 20 minutes. "You have to tell him!" she said, "This is not something you can keep from him, he's your father!" To which I redundantly replied, "Why?! I can just be pregnant and he doesn't have to know. Ever. He's in El Paso, we're here! Don't make me tell him, please. He's gonna be so pissed!" I eventually relented at the behest of my sister. She dialed the number. "Daddy, I have something to tell you," I said somberly. When I broke the news, the floodgates opened. "How could you get pregnant mija?! You had so much going for you. Your life is going to be so hard." I involuntarily received a new ass hole. Four years later the second pregnancy wouldn't go over so well either. Lectures about how now being a mother of two and a housewife would make it even harder for me to go to college, get a degree, be a writer like I'd so wished. " I'll go to college daddy. I'll be a writer. I promise."

Twenty-eight years later, his baby girl is all grown up. A mother of a six year old girl and a soon to be ten year old son, I've somehow reached adult hood, no matter how immature I may seem at times. A writer in my own right, a soon to be licensed cosmotologist and most importantly, still a dreamer, I owe a lot of my wit, charm and sardonic humor to him. Granted, the other players in my life who made me who I am today are my mother and my big sister, but in different ways. Every time I talk to my dad is like sitting with Plato, Socrates, Chuck Pahlaniuk. At least in my eyes. So tonight I'll raise my glass to him. A little late on the sentiment, but you know me, better late than never, right. Happy Father's day daddy. Now I get to write stories about you.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

How strange

The past few weeks have been strange, at best. Nothing too bad, but a little surreal, to me at least.

First we have the whole situation with the ex-psuedo bf. He's called me a couple of times, nothing too bad. Last night he woke me up because he "wanted to see" me. It was 1:30 in the morning and I had been in a very deep, drool inducing sleep. I caved and had him come over. We just talked, but we talked until about 2:30 or so. Needless to say, I overlept. Right through my alarm. I was so late to school. No more late night visists for me.

Today I ran my first student council meeting as El Presidente. Ambular (whom I miss severly) got terminated for two months and I moved up in student council rank. I think it went pretty well. After wards, I went into the new class to make some announcements and they were damn quiet. I made a joke and laughed. They stared. I asked if anyone had any questions. They stared. I made fun of someone. They stared. It was a little awkward. But hey, I remember what my first couple of days were like. Speaking of which, I have approximately only four more months to go. F'n f'yeah. Move over Sally Hershberger, make room for Mal Vicious.

That's all I can think of for now. My bladder is so full right now, it's about to explode, thus making it hard to concentrate (read: i'm doing the pee-pee dance right now).

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Aneurysm bop

Stressed out. There's really nothing I can say right now that won't launch me into a 5 page long rant, so I won't say anything more than this. I'm not taking a 2 week leave from school like I so hoped. Hate my instructor. Presidential duties. Miss my sbff. Kinda don't wanna be single right now. Poop.

Take a few drinks. A couple of pills. Repeat.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Update on my so-called life

School: school is slow. I need clients. So if you know anyone who wants a bitchin' hair style, send them my way. As much as I like to sit on my ass and do nothing, the day drags when there are no clients. Not only that, but my tip quota goes down.

Boys: I told the psuedo bf that we should just be friends. I'm kind of high maintenance. And he doesn't have room for me in his life right now. But of course, in true fashion, I'm jonesing a boyfriend. Go figure. Seriously, and any other boys I find are married. What's up with that?

Job front: I just had a job interview with Club Tattoo. I hope I get it. I needs to get paid.

Kiddos: The genius is going to be 10 in less than a month. TEN. Weird. I still can't get used to the fact that I have a kid so old.

I think that's pretty much it. Besides my random thoughts on racism, sexism, stupidity and idiocracy, its pretty much the same shit, different day scenario in my little horrorland. Take a few drinks. A couple of pills. Repeat.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

A brief history in Whoreland

Last week, my pants ripped at school. It could only happen to me. And I'm not talking about a little rip...I'm talking about a huge, from-the-top-of-the-pocket to the bottom of my ass rip. Were the pants too tight for my fat ass, you ask? No. They just decided to rip. Renee said it was a good thing I was wearing cute butt covering underwear. I said it was a good thing I was actually wearing underwear.

I've been super busy at school. SUPER BUSY. I'm tired. Oh so tired. So I've decided I'm going to take a two week leave of absence. I need the break. I had to try real hard to hold back tears on Thursday after my frustration over the perm I was doing took over. Maybe considering I'd already done a relaxer that morning, all the chemicals were getting to me. Cause I was stressed. So I' taking the couple of weeks to:
1. try and find a job
2. find somewhere for my kiddos to stay for the summer while I'm in school, and
3. try and find a place to hopefully, maybe move into by July. I have some shit to take care of. Plus, being uber stressed at school is making me not want to be there. As much as I love it.

And speaking of embarrassing things happening to me. This last Thursday, I was rocking it at karaoke. Angela and I were singing a duet, of course, on stage. As I jumped off the stage in my platform flip-flops, I landed on Angela's shoes, and in front of the whole bar, ate shit. But, being the graceful klutz that I am, I stood back up and kept singing while shooing an old man's hands from my ass. It was funny. Although my ankle is currently throbbing with pain and is swollen. Meh. Wouldn't be the first time.

I'm going to now try and finish off the week without embarrassing myself any further. A girl can dream, right?