Teach Me How to Sexy

I must have missed the class on “How to be Sexy” because on a scale of 1-Adriana Lima, my level of desirability is at a Rosie O’Donnell.   I don’t know what demon spirit consumes me when it is time for the sex kitten to come out, but instead I have an aura of an aging goldfish- boring, undesirable and just waiting for the day for someone to tap on the glass tank. 

A seasoned sex pot oozes sex out of her pores attracting men like a moth to a bright light but a veteran vixen puts a love spell on her men that has five times the strength of Viagra with an erection lasting longer than 8 hours.  He must immediately seek medical attention-and she must win the Nobel Peace Prize. 

Women in movies always make it look so easy to seduce a man but believe me I’ve tried to study their craft like I was preparing for the LSAT.  There was no surprise that I did not pass “Go” and I did not collect $200 dollars.  I’ve observed that sexy women speak slowly with a deep, sultry voice and have that come-hither look in their eyes.  I’ve tried that: I sounded like a scatting Louis Armstrong suffering from a pair of dry contacts.  Not sexy.   So I tried another technique: flirty lingerie.  I surveyed the delicate threads in front of me- I saw the ties, hooks, jewels, shackles and ball bearings that hung from the lace miracle worker.  “This string hooks to here, the jewels snap onto those and that tie wraps around where?”   My overnight cure was much more complicated than I thought; there were no instruction manuals and no tutorials. You could bet your bottom dollar that the tags are still securely attached on this counterproductive garment til this day.  

I have not been able to figure out if being sexy is an inherited gene that all buxom babes are born with or if it is a learned trait that the off-kilter woman must develop like survival of the fittest.  Either way I am determined to understand the art of sexy until the day I have desire sweating from my armpits and Elton John wants to “do” me.   

Mommy?

Have you ever been so scared that every nerve combusts with panic and your body shuts down into a paralyzed state?  An electrical surge is sent through the palms of your hands to break open the sweat glands and an unstable shiver is felt at the top of your anus.  This is a moment of sudden panic, also known as Panica.   

I remember the first time I experienced Panica- I was 6 years old. 

It was a cold evening in the city of Torrance, heavy fog laid low like an aging woman’s breasts- dragging, but never touching the floor.  My mom, two older brothers and I went to the local Pick ‘n Save; where you could purchase recalled items at a bargain price…it doesn’t get any better than Pick ‘n Save.  While my mom pushed a wobbly wheeled shopping cart that screamed for an oil lubricant, my brothers walked ahead of her and I stayed close by her side.  The shopping cart is a symbolic item; it becomes your property within the first rotation of its wheels, it is like “home base,” where the family must convene after items have been chosen.  It is the fort of safety.  In the unfortunate situation when you are separated from the pact, always trace your steps back to The Cart. 

I followed my mom up and down the aisles collecting senseless items like a $0.75 beaten box of rat traps because “it will come in handy someday.”   She took sluggish steps as she slowly scanned the shelf for more products- although, I hardly consider marshmallow Easter Peeps “product” in the middle of winter.  A suicidal contraption caught my attention; I reached my hand toward the Swiss Army Knife-like death trap to understand its features and pulled it open.  BROKEN.  Pick ‘n Save products:  made in China, recalled in Tijuana and resold at Pick ‘n Save.  I put the disabled Edward Scissor Hand device back on the shelf then turned to follow my mom... 

SHE WAS GONE.  THE CART WAS GONE.  I WAS PANICA. 

A sudden shock of anxiety took over my body; my blood went cold, my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and I lost all sense of reason.  The familiar aisle started to crack in half as hot lava pushed its way up separating me further like I was in an Alice in Wonderland film on acid.  I felt pounding heartbeats in my chest and in my bladder that triggered an urge I could not control. Dang it.  I struggled to move my legs and walk forward but just like in a bad dream, I made no progress.

"Mommy, mama, mom, mommy, mommmmaaaa?" I frantically searched for my mom, looked left and right while yelling out for “MOM!” it was only other mothers who responded to my cry for help.  Where is my momma?   I saw a dark haired woman in the distance- MOM!  She slowly looked over her shoulder to reveal her George Lopez face….RAPE!  She was not my mom.

At that moment I fought hard to hold back my tears, it was as difficult as trying to sneeze with my eyes open.  Simply impossible.  Salty tears rolled down my cheeks and onto my lip, the knot in my throat felt as if I had swallowed a sock but suddenly like a mirage in a sandstorm my mom appeared from Aisle 5 nonchalantly pushing her faulty cart.  All my fear, panic and anguish turned to anger, rage and resentment.  I escaped flowing hot lava and suffered from a mild stroke all while she continued to shop for a 6 pack of tube socks?   All the stress she had caused me in three minutes,  I aged 14 days.  I could not believe this woman.  

We Got a Bleeder

My head fell between my knees as I let gravity take over to pump blood back into circulation.  A tingling shiver rolled down my spine and an increasing ring echoed throughout my ears.  Goosebumps quickly covered my skin while beads of sweat pushed through my hairline.  With a weak stare I looked up to the window and said “Jesus, take me now.”

The voices of concerned people bled together as they watched my soul settle into a deep, dark abyss.  At that moment, I knew I had fainted.

I lay collapsed in fetus position cradling the pains in my stomach then I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar room.  Holy hell.  Have I been raped? I checked to see if my pants were still on and I was relieved to see that there have been no signs of trauma.  I continued to rock back and forth holding my stomach as I waited for the medicine to kick in, but even the strongest drugs from the streets of Brooklyn couldn’t ease the pain in my stomach.

Every month, unfortunate women suffer from the Menstrual Monster.  It takes over the lower abdomen with Wolverine claws scratching at every surface like a volatile maniac.  It feels as though Billy Blanks is taking double time Tai-Bo jabs on my uterine lining.  It makes me wish I was born a dude and I’d rather repeatedly kick myself in the balls with a steel-toe boot.

The cramps were unbearable and my pain tolerance had given up- I surrendered to the Red Dragon and let her wrath swallow me whole.  See you next month, jerk.

Oh No She Didn't.

I tend not to gossip; I keep my personal opinions to myself.  Gossip only hurts others and weakens thyself (I made that proverb up, hopefully it catches on.) But who am I kidding? I am the shit talking queen! I judge people from their head to their toe like a blue ribbon show pony.  I may not verbally express my opinion just for the sake of the victim..but oh boy! My mind explodes of demented thoughts, accusations and inferences.  You won’t even know it but I have already categorized you into a tri-level train wreck based on your splitting hair ends and Ed Hardy track suit.  Oh, and that Situation look-a-like boyfriend of yours obviously means you must be suffering from a herpes outbreak too.


It is no surprise that girls are vicious, or for lack of a better word: bitches.   Squinting, judging eyes immediately scan other women who appear as threats.  A jealous woman surveys every ounce of her competition through the corner of her Gucci shades all while justifying that her boobs are perkier than her rival.  She is envious of her Hermes handbag therefore she concludes that a 63 year old/Viagra abusing/sugar daddy bought it for her.  This statement alone gave the jealous predator a boost of confidence knowing that her prey is shagging a pair of old balls.  She then continues to observe for more faults the unsuspecting victim may possess: growing out blonde roots, extra-large pepperoni nipples, feet like a beaten ballet dancer or Gary Busey veneer teeth.  Whatever the green eyed devil notices, she will talk trash on that attribute until her yeast infection heals then she will no longer be cranky.

The psyche of a woman in one word: HATER.

PanAm-ica

Plane rides have become similar for everyone.  We all sit facing one direction, fastened to a chair floating in the sky.  We squirm every ten minutes to find a comfortable position on dual usage-seat cushion/flotation devices and we make useless small talk to the passenger next to us on topics of our future destination.  Mam, I don’t need your opinion on the weather- I looked it up on Google.  But first, we must pass the people in first class.  Hello dickwads.   I enter the plane after your bourgeoisie ass and see your nose stuffed into the pages of the Wall Street Journal yet you don’t even have to decency to look up at me as I am stopped to halt and uncomfortably stand with my crotch eyelevel to your face.  I continue to shuffle past the first ten rows, glance down at my boarding pass but subconsciously do not retain my seat number, I pass the next ten rows and come to a complete stop because some idiot over packed their suitcase then finally arrive to my seat: 45 E.  Neighbors with the lavatory and trapped as the bitch in the middle.

The moment between taking off and 30,000 feet is as uncomfortable as standing face to face with a stranger in an elevator.  You cannot use electronic devices so putting on headphones to block the window to conversation looks just as pointless as wearing sunglasses at night.  Do you strike up a bland conversation? Do you browse Sky Mall and finally order that virtual reality 3d glasses you’ve always wanted?  No, you just wait and stare at the balding head in front of you and count the last surviving hairs.  Finally, when permission to use electronic devices has been granted it is a sigh of relief; like unbuttoning your pants after a Thanksgiving meal.  People scramble for their headphones, iPods and laptops to become one with solitude.  Until, the nosey passenger looks over your shoulder to see what you are reading, listening or typing.  I see you in my peripherals; don’t even try to be sneaky.  I expand my chest by taking in deep breaths in hope of blocking their view of my personal belongings.  I turn angles against their line of sight but only making it more obvious I am hiding something like in a game of Battleship.  When all else fails, I must resort to my last weapon; I unwrap my stinking tuna fish sandwich.  Aw, yeah- smell it, take it, and waft it.

Turbulence arrives.  Ahoy there! My heart just fell through my ass and I have tuna on my forehead. Turbulence is a bonding experience.  You make fearful, lasting eye contact with passengers you have never acknowledged and you share a moment of anxiety while offering smiles of comfort.  This is a moment where first class and economy have no gap in between- we are all shitting our pants.  The turbulence finally passed and so did a few passengers’ bowels but no fear there is plenty of single sheet toilet paper to clean up the mess.

What the Fupa?

FAT. UPPER. PUBIC. AREA. 

Most commonly found on people who do everything in big portions, who have a hunger for life and who tips the scale... Ok, let’s stop trying to be polite and let’s get real. These people are fat.  They have fatty tissue engulfing their pants with buttons struggling to stay tacked on by the grace of an exhausted thread.  Fupa varies in size but its distinguishable characteristic is the look of a pouch; the fleshy fanny pack.  Although this pouch is not detachable nor does it hold compact valuable goods, it can smuggle a Subway footlong by tucking into the crevice of fupa and thigh.

“Honey, have you seen my keys?”
“Have you checked your fupa?”

Fupa has the ability to absorb shock, retain heat and terrify humans. It sits in the pubic region like a buoyant floatation device that grows larger with every setting sun. Victims of fupa are unaware of the eyesore they possess; therefore they continue to wear spandex like material which accents the fupa into a raging moose knuckle. What’s a moose knuckle you ask? It’s camel toe’s fatter, uglier sister.  Once you’re at that point there’s no turning back, just a downward spiral towards chafe and despair.  God speed to you, young chap or shall I say hung flap?  


A more graphic image of FUPA.  Viewer discretion is advised.

Useless Things: Pennies

These bronzed disks accumulate at the bottom of my purse and add more weight which contributes to my worsening scoliosis. They collect in my car’s cup holder with no hope of returning back into circulation since they are not welcome in parking meters.  They smell like a kindergartners hands and have more germs than a public toilet.  When was the last time you gave exact change to a cashier? Not since that impatient nimrod at Starbucks scoffed at you as you scrambled for change, right?

Sure pennies keep numbers from rounding to the nearest tenth; no one wants to be ripped off 5 cents from their paycheck. But $1.99 what the hell is that?! Is this some kind of joke?! It’s $2 dollars you cheap bastard.

Just remember the next time you find a lucky penny on the ground, it probably has been passed through a few curious children’s digestive tracks since 1956 and that’s not so lucky anymore.

The Fly Fable

Darting vibrations cut through the silent room; interrupting my peace and interfering with my solitude.  My Spidey Senses start to tingle and I immediately stand on-guard prepared for combat.  With a t-shirt in one hand and a slipper in another, I wait.

A buzzing little fucker darts back and forth, hitting stationary objects that changes direction in its course like a first punched pin ball.  Traveling at speeds close to mach 4, my human eye struggles to follow it and I must rely solely on auditory senses.  It’s silent. I must have scared it away by my stature, girth and choice of weapons.  WRONG.  The fly has landed- on my delicate lamp.  I slowly raise my hand and carefully move closer to the victim as I keep eye contact along the way.  We both have an equal understanding of the situation; there’s no negotiation here.  By the force of momentum and the strength of my biceps, my hand plunges straight down onto the lamp. BAM! Pimp hand strong.  Shattered pieces and broken glass- that fly didn’t stand a chance.