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.

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.

Slut Babies

Ahhh the tender age of preteens or as some call: tweens.
I call them Slut Babies.

Barely menstruating with a training bra yet to fill and mouth full of braces these pre-whores know how to get any predator to come knock on the door with a bag full of condoms and beer. They provocatively pose for pictures as they show off their pierced bellybutton and baby fat. “Kissy face” is a popular look among the slut babies; it’s a mating call to their puberty stricken male counterpart. In two simple movements by pursing lips together and looking to the upper corners of eyes, you have: MySpace whore circa 2004.

Nonsensical chatter of peacock cry like voices are heard from the row behind during a movie.  They kick your chair, they smack their gum, they don’t stop moving and I want a pack of wild wolves to chase them back to Limited Too.  Where are your parents? Oh that’s right, they dropped you off at the mall because they can’t stand you either.

In grade school there is always that one girl who is the “ring leader” in a group of friends.  She is the pretty one with all the stylish clothes and an attitude of Napoleon.  She is the first among her friends to wear makeup, the first to shave her legs and the first to get mono.  She is: Sovereign Slut Baby. Every move would be followed by her cohorts and by the unfortunate mistake of disagreeing with her choice in lip gloss; you are exiled and sent to the lunch table of dweebs. Brrr, that’s a dark corner.  If her majesty got a push up bra, then you must too.  It is the law of the playground; zero tolerance for reform. Enjoy your time in office Sovereign Slut Baby, you are at your prime because after high school you will wear a size 14 and work at Dairy Queen- the anticipated curse of every “popular girl.”

Slut babies can be seen anywhere.  They stand four feet tall bunched into groups that multiply by the minute like an infectious bacterium.  Usually spotted at shopping malls, frozen yogurt shops or the local In ‘n Out.  We must take a stand against slut babies, pre-whores and micro hookers to cover their midriff, remove their makeup and wash away their juvenile promiscuity. INNOCENCE! Alas, we meet again!

The Kids of Holmby Park

A warm summer breeze tunnels through a vine crawled colonnade while the sounds of children playing, cars passing and rustling of leaves seep through my headphones.  Strollers lap along the perimeter making it a showcase of who pushes the most advanced design -if the stroller doesn’t have air bags, then I’m not interested. Muffled music playing through an aching phonograph attracts a small crowd to stop their activities and rush towards a white rape van decorated with peeling ice cream decals.  Anxious children drag their mommies, nannies and mannies to be first in line. The cries of bratty kids who demand the popsicle with bubble gum eyes overpower the patiently waiting boy rocking a Jew-Fro.  The baby Zach Braff stands quietly gripping his two dollars as he carefully observes the selection of ice cream. Judging by the intent look in his eyes, his correct choice of ice cream has the power to rid all conflict between Israel and Palestine.  Make the right choice kid, your people are relying on you. Feeling the heavy pressure upon him, he requests for the orange creamsicle. Wait, what!? An orange creamsicle? I hope your proud, you just killed the hope of your people.

A terrorized squirrel gets chased across the park by a hefty, sweaty red head as he used his yo-yo to lasso the furry squirrel.  I immediately don’t like him. He passes me and I give him a stinking face of disapproval.  Suddenly a shrieking reprimand in Farsi was yelled by a high-strung mother who scolded her son for throwing sand at a group of kids.  He probably imagined it was magical wizard dust protecting them from an evil force or he’s just a naughty little punk influenced by his dear mother. A two year old girl with a Pampers booty slowly walked around the playground for the fifth time; she must be a hooker. I saw her eyeing on the young boy riding his shiny new tricycle which obviously displayed “money.”  What kind of juvenile delinquency is all this?
 
I sit on a shaded bench feeling out of place as I have no child to look after. Just observing as if I am waiting for the right moment to say “hey little kid, want some candy?” I give a tired, no-teeth smile to each of the mothers as they pass by just for reassurance that I have no intention of touching their kiddie’s privates.  A blushed, sun-kissed boy stops in front of me and tells me “I am going to hammock.” I could not understand his gibberish and I am convinced that “hammock” is not a verb in toddler talk, but his big brown eyes and eagerness to do “hammock” has melted my heart.

The sun is going down, the kids are getting tired and I must return home to creep on other things.

Useless Things: Male Nipples

I understand through natural selection we have lost the need for certain traits such as wisdom teeth.  At one point in time our ancestors needed wisdom teeth to accommodate their diet, but at which point did men need nipples? God forbid the thought of a newborn babe suckling on its father’s teat, but if it was ever necessary why are they still apparent on the male species?

After a little research and a few mild pornographic images of male nipples I came to the conclusion that nipples are formed on a fetus before any sex hormones have been developed.  Autosomes (which nipples categorize into) are the chromosomes that are given regardless if you are male or female. The sex hormones determine if those nipples will be fully functioning breakfast-lunch-dinner nipples.  For example, autosomes gives us a voice box but the sex hormones determine if the voice will be masculine or feminine…but if you’re Gilbert Gottfried then you’re just a genetic glitch.

Basically once the sex hormones determine you will be male: you’re screwed. You have a pair of useless man nips.  Aesthetically, the nipples create some sort of cohesiveness among men and women but nipples are not needed to distinguish sexual dimorphism.  Quite frankly, it would be straight up weird if a man’s chest looked like his back. Male nipples have not died off through natural selection because it does no harm to the body. The only harm it could do is birth more midgets.

Bless Your Soul

It’s that time of the year again, where horror films publicly display their haunting advertisements on national television.  I am a scaredy cat, afraid of the dark and a prime victim for the boogie man.

After a thirty second commercial break of Downey Fabric Softener, a gruesome image of a devilish creature appeared without warning. It's peeling face looked as though napalm had burned to the bone then dragged face down by a chariot...twice.  What happened to the fluffy teddy bear rummaging in the warm sheets? Strobing images of Satan’s childhood flashes on the TV; an eyeball hung from the socket of a tumor stricken face, bloody hands tightly gripped onto a machete and a possessed child blankly stared with no soul.

Maria full of Grace, Jesus-Mary-Joseph! Show me blood, witches, goblins and ghouls but dare to show me an image of a child who has Lucifer running through its veins. Oh, hell no. I scrambled for the remote in dire need to change the channel but once again Time Warner’s second hand equipment had failed me.  Buttons are stuck! I pressed harder, swayed it towards heaven and hell to catch receiver signal but unfortunately these efforts would have benefitted more at Wii Tennis.  I yelled “la la la la la” to muffle the audio but it was too late- bloodcurdling images are now burned into my memory.

I see dead people.

What's That Intoxicating Smell?

I am not very fond of pungent smells. Who is? Unless it is of gardenias or carnitas burritos I can deal with it, but the thick musky smell of unbathed human flesh makes me cringe at the sight of this sentence.

Walking into the public library I see an old, dried out librarian whose nose crinkled and mouth furrowed like she had just smelled pee.  Fact is, she did smell pee.  The whole building smelled of pee. A wave of heavy funk charged at me with odor particles attaching onto my clothes, hair and skin.  Pockets of stinging, peppery smells wafted through the aisles and it was not redolent of pages from naturally aging books.  It was homeless people.

 But before I ridicule the homeless for causing my olfactories to panic, I commend them for spending their time reading and learning rather than aggressively beg for money at the freeway exit.  Back to the point- DUDE, I CAN SMELL YOU ALL THE WAY FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHIES! I truly thought I was going to faint.  I imagined waking up with the first three volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica scattered on top of me, a medic wafting alcohol swabs and a crowd of homeless people witnessing my post-timber experience.  Panic starts to set in- I am going to faint.  The circulated essence of unbathed skin and pee soaked clothes started to constrict blood flow to my brain.  I gasped for a final breath, unwillingly tasted the remnants of Homeless Man No. 5.