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.