A Tale of Two Friends

Tall and lanky she stood in disproportionate size; hands too large for her delicate, freckled wrists yet feet wide like snowshoes to support her heavy strides.  An elegant little boy, a walking contradiction- there she was, new comer Aussie Kristen Caprino. 

She was the new girl at Saugus High School and much to the popularity of the late Steve Irwin; Kristen was exotic within the SCV bubble.  Every square inch of her 5 foot 11 inch body glowed a golden tan yet her long blonde hair was still virgin to a proper comb.  This 15 year old was just forming into a woman and hitting puberty in inconsistent segments- her total babe potential was only beginning.   

“Hi, I’m Kristen” her deep voice bellowed like the drone of a fog horn as she introduced herself to me.  Having never heard a fellow female reach the baritone levels of Hades, I was impressed.  I cleared my throat and lowered my vocals an octave lower than my harmonic competition; it was an acapella duel of subterranean voices.

“I’m Janica.” Introductory words left my mouth and traveled an auditory wavelength so low that only transmitter radio and seahorses could hear.    

“Wot?” She reverberated in an inaudible twang while the booming bass in her voice vibrated through the valves of my heart- I had found my choral twin.     

Kristen has been my best friend since 2004; my ethnically inverted twin, my comical counterpart and my non-judgmental confidant.  After having gone through radical cosmetic dental reconstruction, she understands the worth of adjusted beauty.  Her humility is recognized by the blessing of not physically peaking too soon and now at 24 years old she has grown into the handsome woman that she is today. She has top of the pyramid, naturally selected genes and God has naturally selected her bangin’ bod- she’s a full rack, baby back babe.

I have watched Kristen eat a Big Mac in 2 minutes flat. She doesn't chew because chewing is for the weak.  To Kristen, inhaling food is the quickest method of nourishment and time isn’t an option for her. Her body constantly needs sustenance for optimal performance, she is a beasting machine.  The circumference of her bites exceeds maximum allowance- objects in Kristen mouth appear smaller than actual size.  Consumption records are set and indigestion is triggered when food is in the line of sight of Kristen.  The only obstacle that stands in the way of Kristen and her food is self-control and that is a force she lacks.  A real testimony of dedication, Kristen eats like a malnourished refugee.    

On a recent trip to Las Vegas, Kristen and I had adverted crisis.  Her sound judgment during a moment of peril saved us from having a threesome with an Italian playboy.  We swooned over his chiseled jaw line and genuine Italian tan; he was symmetrical from head to toe and our ovaries were burning with desire. But no amount of Italian love potion could make Kristen and I have lesbian interaction. 

“Gerrrls, gerrrls, I go to bathroom and when I come back we make mangia tutte bene!”

Kristen and I looked at each other signaling emergency response Morse code with our eyes and   like a specialized military SWAT team, we ran.  We grabbed our purses and ran. 

 “KEEP RUNNING!” Kristen commanded.

Out of breath we giggled down the hall as we ran barefoot and clenching onto our belongings.  It was a sly move if we hadn’t of slammed the door, left a sock and telephoned Mr. Italy to apologize.

Kristen’s DNA is missing the unnecessary compound called “drama.” This allows her fun and easy going energy to fill a room with joy in any circumstance.  Give Kristen some lemons and she will smash that shit with her bulky palms to make the best god damn lemonade known to man.  Ah, shit that’s fresh.  There are only two people in the world that can bring smiles to one’s faces just by looking at them: Magic Johnson and Kristen Caprino.  A single glance at her unsuspecting face can lift spirits up in their darkest hour, like witnessing a birth of a blue whale looking at Kristen is a privilege. 

I have the honor of calling Kristen my best friend.  She is loyal, funny, motivated, a gorgeous future lawyer and the best damn human being to walk the face of the earth.  Be thankful to have the opportunity of knowing her.  Happy 24^th Birthday Kristen Caprino.  

Crying on a breeze, the pain is calling.....Oh Sandy.

You may have all heard: there was once an old woman who lived in a shoe then she decided to blow the whole East Coast like a discounted whore.  Her name is Sandy and she is filthy little thing.

On the night of October 28, the storm had arrived.  I couldn't grasp the concept of “the eye of the storm” that the weather forecasters spoke of because the only “eye” I could relate to is “the eye of the tiger.”  It baffled me as to how a storm could travel up the East Coast, do damage and move onto another town. It sounded to me that Sandy just tooted and booted. The winds grew stronger and just like contractions, the more powerful and sooner the intervals meant we were closer to delivery.  I closed my curtains in fear of a lightning bolt striking through my window to aim for the metal in my eyeglasses and I would be struck right between my eyebrows.  Then, I would be paralyzed and left to die before my popcorn finished popping and my roommates found me.  My chances for freak accidents were greater during a storm and statistics show: so was everyone else’s.  Heavy rained poured, strong winds blew, lights began to flicker and within two hours the power went out.  It was happening- colonial life began.   

Candles were the light of my life for the next six days and sponge baths became a familiar routine.  Bathing in candle light would have been a romantic scene if I hadn't of had rock hard nipples that could etch glass and shivering like a wet Chihuahua.  With every cold lather I brushed over my body, all I thought was how fortunate I am to not have grown up in a power-less and shower-less era.  Viva la hot showers!  Cold baths became my enemy and like other New Yorkers we pushed our hygienic limits just enough until we had to succumb to yet another frigid wash.  Dirty hair was a predicted trend for the week and I did not see one unfashionable person in sight. 

Every day I walked thirty blocks uptown in search of heat and electricity; I was a metropolitan refugee.  The value of a power outlet had increased overnight and at the sight of an available outlet, refugees scrambled like piranhas to plug their cell phones causing an outright duel in the middle of Starbucks.  The anxiety of losing power to one’s cellphone felt as though you were losing your leash to the rest of the world and suddenly you were scared, cold and alone.  I watched my battery diminish from 40% to 20% to 10% to dead.  As soon as my screen went blank, the world became a little more dangerous, I forgot the directions to get home and I needed a bowl of chicken noodle soup more than ever.  I would hurry home before sunset to avoid descending down into the abyss of darkness where figures of the unknown existed.  Most of the time they were innocent people walking their dogs but in my imagination I was surrounded by third degree murderers and face eating zombies waiting to attack their next victim.

On the sixth day, ConEd said, “Let there be light!” I woke up Saturday morning to electricity, heat and hot water.  I immediately took a HOT, HOT, HOT shower until my fingers turned pruney and I simulated a fever.  Then, I turned on my phone, turned on the TV, turned on my computer and microwaved any object in sight…just because I could. 

I want to be a kid again.

I want to relive the days when all that mattered were watching cartoons and coloring within the lines.  I want to be praised for saying monosyllabic words and successfully peeing on the potty.  Gone are the days of nonchalantly wiping sticky boogers under the table while trading pudding packs for fruit gummies during lunchtime festivities.  Oh, how I miss those days. 

Life was much simpler when we had limited responsibilities of washing our hands, brushing our teeth and memorizing our home address.  Our parents willingly did everything for us as we were so helpless and terribly cute.  If we had spilled our food, who cleaned it up?  Not I! Our innocence was our most cherished feature as it shielded us from disappointment and obligation. The simple phrase “I’m just a kid!” allowed us to avoid making effort while granting us permission to continue playing in our state of the art blanket fort. 

I vividly remember the time I peed my pants in kindergarten, but it was ok because I was just a kid. It was on a rainy day during music hour where 5 year olds actively participated in banging blocks of wood to create music; the most primitive form of song was produced in Mrs. Butler’s kindergarten class.  We were taught to form a quasi-gang sign/sign language symbol with our hands as a symbol for permission to use the bathroom, no voices needed- just gang signs. I vigorously held my little hand up but amongst the aboriginal commotion Mrs. Butler failed to notice me. With each bang on the blocks and as every minute passed the urge to release myself yanked at my bladder and heightened my vertigo.  Being the obedient child I was, I struggled with the idea of doing right from wrong; “well…she hasn’t given me permission…” but suddenly a cold shiver crawled up my spine then a warm tingle dripped down my legs- I did wrong. 

Technically, I was right to pee in my pants because I was not given permission to use the bathroom but as an act of a civilized human being, I was wrong.  A serene feeling of calm consumed me, I felt as if I had fallen into a state of euphoria and all my senses were enhanced.  This evil mind game that challenged my self-control was over. Peeing was my drug.  No one noticed that I had coincidentally peed in my pants and in my eyes, neither did I.  This naughty act of negligence created a deep and twisted secret in my heart.  When it was time to go play outside, I got up and took long, suave strides towards to door without flinching at the uncomfortable chafing feeling of wet pants.  Like a true criminal, I fled the crime scene.

 It was a perfect day to pee in my pants; the rainy weather had given wet pants on the other kids as well.  So what if the other kids only had the bottom of their pants wet?  Mine was wet all over which obviously meant I play harder- I am such a badass.  When I had returned to the class room I saw two kids on their hands and knees cleaning up my misfortune.  Mrs. Butler thought it was rain water that the kids had dragged in after playing outside, so two teacher pets volunteered to clean it up.  They were so naïve.  I stayed far away from the evidence as questions were continually raised of what that mysterious puddle substance could be.

“It smells like coffee!” One kid yelled.

“But I didn’t spill my coffee...” Mrs. Butler replied in confusion.

I remained in the corner watching my accident’s aftermath from a distance while taking great satisfaction as I witnessed two kids clean up my coffee smelling pee.  But it’s ok because I was just a kid.    

Thrilla in Manila

I recently took a trip to a third world country- a burgeoning country plagued with poverty, mosquitos and Soap Opera superstars. This is the Philippines and this is where I come from. 

Historic Filipino Town in Los Angeles is where you can find Christmas lanterns hanging all year long and health code violating Filipino restaurants serving dry beef under a heat lamp.  The streets are unkempt, the people stare and the dogs have no leash; a true gem in the heart of Los Angeles.  There is no pride in this “historic” town and unfortunately this is my understanding of the Philippines.  I had never seen genuine Philippine land and by this misinterpretation, I had no desire to visit. 

After 21 hours, I arrive in Manila and wobble towards the jet’s exit.  I stood a foot taller than my Asian affiliates and immediately felt as though we were all related; I couldn’t help but smile at the fact that I was in the mother land- the land that brought us Manny Pacquiao and the yoyo.  As I walked out of the airport I felt like I had walked into an armpit.  The thick humidity suffocated my skin as if I were wearing a latex body suit and the smell was comparable to boiled potatoes soaking in a wet leather bag.  Now I understand why Asian people always wear Michael Jackson surgical masks.  I was greeted by airport attendants with warm smiles and perfect English diction, along with thirsty mosquitos and cigarette smoke. 

The driving in the Philippines has one rule: F*** the rules.  Get from point A to point B as quickly as you can and it doesn’t matter how many people you piss off.  Yellow light means hurry up and red light is just a suggestion.  Driving lanes aren’t specified, they are constantly being created.  And pedestrians? There is no such thing.  Metro Manila is an expert level in the game of Frogger.   I heard the growl of an exhausted engine barraged down fifteen feet of open space - a rare scene as bumper to bumper traffic is customary.  It struggled to transport a dozen squished passengers in a decrepit stainless steel bus embellished with colorful decals and ornaments. Imagine Liberace’s extravagant jackets draped over WWII military jeeps then wrestled in a puddle of water colors…you get: Jeepney! Jeepneys are the most common form of public transportation but no two Jeepneys look alike and that is what makes them special. 

I was constantly being approached by vendors.  At the sight of my pesos vendors abruptly swarmed me like a street vendor gang bang.  Children, adults and handicaps come in every direction and call for my attention as they proudly show their product, “Yes Mam, you buy!”  From handmade crafts to single pieces of gum to feather dusters- just as the saying goes, “Bahala Na” meaning whatever will be, will be.  Whatever the vendors can sell for the day determines whatever they will eat for the night.  Despite the hardships in their life of living day to day, Filipinos have an admirable attitude toward life.  They choose to smile and live happily besides the fact that their clothes are torn and their teeth are missing.  Life may be hard but their philosophy of life is much simpler.  Bahala na.

In contrast to the unpaved roads and rabid dogs, the skyline of Manila glistened with sleek high rise buildings.  The architecture, the structure and the façade displayed modern engineering.  It felt as though I had entered into another world of cleanliness, pampering and luxury.  Workers spoon fed me and wiped my ass; I was a princess in this world.  As I walked through the automatic doors, a strong gust of air conditioned wind pushed my hair back like a Beyonce music video and I relished that moment.  

“Please, no pictures.”

I continued my steps through an elegant lobby and followed sounds to a live band.  Filipino musicians are talented; they have a knack for perfecting cover songs to sound like the original band.  Just don’t look at the band and you may believe you are at the real concert.  The audience was filled with smiles and laughter of beautiful people.  The women looked elegant in their fair skin, shiny black hair and designer clothing of Channel, Guchi, Louis Buitton and Prado…it’s Asia you never know what’s real or counterfeit. 

So why can’t Historic Filipino Town be like Manila? There is so much more to be proud of the Philippines than Pacquiao and Pan de Sal.  I believe it is hard for Filipinos in America to take pride in our culture because Filipino Americans want to blend within American society so much that they bury their Filipino ethics in the past. For many Filipinos, having the chance to live in America is a dream therefore they are focused on all things American and lose sight of where they came from.  Prior to my trip I was racists towards my own kind, call me anti-ethnocentric but I was blind to the beauty of Philippine culture.  Now that I have experienced the Philippines for myself I appreciate and acknowledge my heritage with pride and respect.  

Be all the Awkward you can Be.

There are some people who believe that meeting new people is as painful as pulling nose hairs with plastic tweezers.  There are some who love to meet new people to talk and talk just to hear the sour sound of their own voice.  Then there are the rest of us who think it could go as awkward as finding an almond in your purse and having the tempting urge to eat it but you are too concerned if someone is watching because you are in line at the bank- that has never happened to me, I don’t know what you’re talking about…

The times I meet people with the most enthusiasm is when I walk into a Super Wal-Mart or make eye contact with dogs.  Dogs cannot get enough of me.  They make B-lines straight to my crotch like I am smuggling Bacon Bits in my panties then they proceed to vigorously hump my leg until their “lipstick” has gone raw.  I know what you’re thinking and the answer is yes, my milkshake does bring all the dogs to the yard. 

Meeting new people is awkward for me.  Or I continually make it awkward by extending my hand to give a confident, firm shake and by hand I mean left hand.  I don’t like shaking right hands; I don’t know where it’s been.  Safety first!  Two hands hesitantly hover in front- like puzzle pieces, the hands don’t connect and frustration builds with every attempt to meet.  I cup my hand to cradle the backside of the unsuspecting hand like innocent spooning.  I am the big spoon, you are the little. 

“Pleased to meet you” I say in a suave manner.  If I had a gold tooth, now would be the time to let it peek through my coy smile.  By now, the awkwardness of the situation has just been confirmed and my victim scans through their internal rolodex of viable excuses.

“Well would you look at the time? I forgot I have to go to…to…to that corner, over there.  Far away.”

What a shame, I didn’t get a chance to talk about my arthritis.  

Teach Me How to Sexy 2

“NEVER DO VOICES. Especially Borat.”  If I have one piece of advice that I wish to leave in my legacy it’s this quote.  I want it written on my tombstone.  I want to vandalize every bathroom stall with these words whose value weighs more than the 2 dollar bill.  I want it engraved on the soles of my shoes so that I may leave tracks of precaution wherever I walk.  I say this because of experience.

Everything was perfect; the mood was right, the stars were aligned, soft notes of Lou Rawls played in the background and pheromones were jumping out of our skin, yes?  Not quite. It wasn’t right because it’s me, PanicaJanica-Sexy in Training-Mood Killer at her finest hour. 

I said to myself, “Self, you’re going to get some tonight.  Your hair smells good and you’re wearing an irresistible pair of cotton hi-brief cut panties...deep breaths...1,2,3 BREAK!”  After a boosting pep talk to myself, I was on my high horse- but not just any high horse this horse was daring, dominating and a natural born citizen of Kazakhstan. 

“I would liiiiiike to make sexy tiiiiiime with yoooou.” I cackled into his ear.

While I waited for his reaction, I let out an out of tune nervous laugh and embraced a look of confused pain on my face.  Time seemed like it had stopped and choked, then spit out the moment to repeat itself in all of its horrific glory. 

“What?!” he said in a repulsive manner.

“I said: I would liiiiiike to make sexy tiiiiiime with yoooou.”  Time did repeat itself.  

The lights turned on like closing time at a club, the pheromones jumped out the window to avoid witnessing the mood’s painful death.  There was silence once again so I let out a high speed nervous laugh like a pubescent machine gun. 

“Why would you say that?” He asked in fear rather than curiosity.  With each explanation of my foreign behavior my voice got quieter as more uncertainty set in and by my last reason, I had begun baby talk.

 

“Shoobeedoo sexy time, I dunooooo.”

In an instant I killed the mood.  OF COURSE I WOULD.  I knew I had made a mistake, a big mistake.  I should have used the Shrek voice. 

 Is there any hope for my sex kitten or will it stay as a stray kitten trapped in a deep well of Macedonia to never be rescued???

10 cc of Epidural

The two most horrifying sights in life are rotting carcasses deteriorating from genocide and childbirth. 

Blue bodies covered in goop remained unnamed as it cries in pain.  My heart mourns for the humans suffering from bloodshed and the brutal beatings that a vagina goes through for a 6 pound 7 ounce human being to push its way to life.  Childbirth looks horrific.

I like my vagina.  I don’t want it robotically opening up to ten centimeters and release a baby body like a Pez Dispenser.  If a baby could escape that gaping hole, imagine what could go in it?! A portable stereo, a shoe box, a small collection of essays & short stories…this could be the cause of many infections! My insides would most likely be rearranged and out of alphabetical order due to the growing baby.  How will my food know where my stomach is? It’s like being in a new city without a Google Maps App. 

We have all drawn a cute smiley face on a balloon, then popped it, then looked at the remaining pieces, then saw the cute face we drew and said WTF?! It’s Benjamin Button.  The face is not cute anymore; it stretched and shriveled to an ugly, wrinkly textile.  That is what would happen to my belly.  I’ve unwillingly seen my mother’s stomach and after three kids it looks like a soggy brain.  Sarongs and cover ups FOR LIFE.

I've had encounters that I consider are genuine contractions- like that miserable night I suffered from afflicted Taco Bell.  Every ten seconds when the contractions arrived, I would squeeze the toilet paper roll and cry out to the Lord for deliverance.  I’ve seen women go through contractions on TLC’s A Baby Story, they screamed the Lord’s name in vain just as I had.  This lady featured on the show said “I am going to poop on the table.” Hold up, hold up, hold up…she said what? Poop on the table? That is not kosher.  I’ve always knew the “pushing” part of child birth could get a bit extreme and I did have some curiosity of what the chances a baby’s first bath would be in fecal matter.  That woman proved me right, thank you disgusting mother. 

Once the baby has been yanked out and the leash has been cut, the goopy, blue baby is placed on the mother’s chest.  OK, I’ll admit that part is precious.  I think I was crying during that segment of the TV show, but it was one of those uncertain cries- the kind where you smile at the same time because you are uncertain of why you are crying.  I could have been crying in fear of my vagina or my motherly instinct was showing emotion. 

Babies are cute and someday I can’t wait to have them (I only want cute babies, no negotiation.)  I guess the trauma and deformity that my body will go through is worth it to have the joys of baby puke smothering my face, right? Only if my baby is cute! Only.