tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42302106125343642562024-03-13T10:15:23.602-07:00Rarita Vanesita -The Obnoxious WallflowerBetween my desk, and my bed, there lies a mediocre life filled with wine, travel, history, and marriage. The wit is few and far between, so when it comes, I share it all here. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-44884843301399439732017-05-22T21:31:00.000-07:002017-05-22T21:31:31.278-07:00Hey DadPerhaps it is because it is still fresh, or maybe it is because I just went to the the doctors and had to get a MRI (a tale for another day), but I thought it was time to share with you.<br />
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My dad died. I am probably going to write about this a lot. Or maybe not at all. Just this one time. I am notorious for starting something and not finishing; the classic epitome of over promising and underachieving. This isn't going to be some sad story. Or maybe it will. But I need to remember everything about the last five months. And I need to remember it in laughter. Because that was my dad, a mass of lightheartedness and laughter. Even through the pain, the endless hospital stays, and countless procedures, my dad still managed to joke and laugh with his family.<br />
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The quick wit and snark was strong too.<br />
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They told us that he had dementia. To a daughter who prides herself on being remembered as the favorite, this was a fucking nightmare. (Yes guys, this was all about me.) I will get more in to that later. Maybe it was the pride that nagged him. Being talked to like an invalid by a man several decades younger in a lab coat didn't sit well with Dad. The long drawn out sounds of "misssssttterrr Aaaanntttooonio. What is today's date?" or "whhooooo is the pressssident?"; the latter of which he never really grasped as we all agreed that the truth was too much for the old man. When the doctor would dare to ask his name he would stick his tongue out, respond with "ice cream" or "bingo" throwing the medical team in to a frenzy. Or the time that the nurse attempted to be friendly, sharing the fact that her mother shared the same birth date as my father, only for him to respond "what the fuck do I care". <br />
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In the end, he demanded his cream of wheat be buttered and slathered in maple syrup, followed by copious glasses of milk drank like it was IPA winner at the Great American Beer Festival.<br />
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This is not a long post, just a post to remember my Dad.raritavanesitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10313823165155943874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-90922067874100355962016-04-12T21:11:00.000-07:002016-04-13T08:18:04.855-07:00Travel Tuesday: I pooped in Hitler's ToiletSo...It was not exactly Hitler's toilet, in fact, if you know your history, you'll know that Hitler hated Eagle's Nest it was situated so high on the mountain. Nice try on the birthday gift assholes. And the home that he did have close to Eagle's Nest was uber bombed by the Allies...but I digress. This is about poop, my poop, disgusting poop.<br />
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If you don't like poop, stop reading. Because this is about me pooping. I am giving you so many fucking warnings here.<br />
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So I was in Germany for my honeymoon this past October. It wasn't my first time in what I consider "God's land" but I was on my honeymoon and dead set and making a bunch of memories in some awesome places, those places being Hitler's summer retreat we all know as Eagle's Nest. Its the one place that remained semi intact after the war, and the looting of Allies. Totally justified, it is the spoils of war, but sad for some of us historians. But still, the place is pretty fucking cool.<br />
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Our nights were filled with beer and debauchery as we explored the rebuilt streets of Munich. We were, after all, in the land of beautiful beer, and we'd managed to make friends with an Iraqi refugee bartender who HOOKED IT UP. He also felt it pertinent to inform us that he comes from the same town as ISIS. We didn't know how to take that information, but he gave us the biggest smile as he complimented us on our bilingual skills of Spanish, English, and drunk German.<br />
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Here's the thing....I have IBS. And drinking beer makes me super sick. It's so fucking good, but in the last three years, I have switched to wine, or tequila. It's a beer lovers nightmare, because Gluten free beer is the biggest bullshit known to man. And I don't even think its the Gluten, I think its that God knows that I enjoy something so amazing, so he's punishing me for my vices. I know it is only a matter of time before I start violently reacting to Tequila. So I cut back. But this was my honeymoon, and cutting back is for bitches. I was going to drink my God-smiting beer in Germany, just like a German, with my Mexican husband and Iraqi best friend for the night. I did not care. I got the heaviest, most flavorful beer, and I savored the fucker till the last drop. Then we had more beers, then we stumbled to next beer haus and drank the shit out of their beer. I metaphorically flipped off the heavens with every drop that danced on my lips. It was mine for the taking.<br />
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It all seemed fine. I was on top of the world. I had even managed to confidently walk in to the one of a million sex shops and not feel like a perverted whore. I was good.<br />
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We woke the next morning panicked. We had slept through the alarm, and the bus was leaving to Eagle's Nest in 40 minutes. Showers were rushed and breakfast was optional. This was the last tour to Eagle's Nest before it closed for the winter and I was NOT going to miss this opportunity. I was determined and brazen enough to say a "fuck you" to the U-Bahn ticket machine and get on the fucking train without paying. I was so bad ass. Hell, we even made it on the bus. My partner in adventure, affectionately called husband, was sooooo hungover. and the ride up the mountain wound horribly. He vomited, a lot. I was concerned, but a little vomit was not going to stop this from being a supreme trip. He's miserable, and I am cold. But we were there.<br />
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We arrived to Eagle's Nest. It was beautiful. A waltz through a tunnel, with a quick hop in the elevator and bam, you were there. The dining hall, deck with the view of the mountain, the mantle where the american troops carved their names...it was mine for the experience. this was the place created as a gift for Herr Hitler's 50th birthday.This place, along with the parking lot in Berlin over Hitler's bunker, was hallowed ground for WWII history buffs, and I was standing in it.<br />
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I'm basking in the glory of history when I felt the rumble, a tap dance upon my intestines. And then a flash mob dance, and then wave. It was shit that I felt pummeling through my innards and making its way to my rectum. Without hesitation, I lean in to husband's ear and lovingly whisper "I'm going to poop". The look of panic is shared between our gazes as we briskly make our way to the bathrooms. A small line threatens my dignity, and my pants, but my Jillian Michael squats (and premature kegel exercised) are saving me from total explosion. The stall opens and without hesitation, I push myself in to the stall, dropping a pre-unbuttoned pair of jeans and decimating Hitler's summer retreat toilet. It was the shit to end all shits. And it was awful. I was sweating as the poison raced out of my ass and in to the toilet. My intestines were re-positioning themselves. My nostrils were burning while my eyes were stinging as the smell of my crap filled the bathroom.<br />
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It was at this time that I realized that I was completely alone in the bathroom. No sooner had I made that realization, did I see that the toilet paper was completely out. Normally in this kind of an emergency, I would use the toilet seat liners to clean up as much as possible until I could safely pull up the trousers and waddle over to the next stall. But in my quest to expel in a toilet and not on my pants, I had failed to check the liners as well. And guess the fuck what, I had no toilet paper liners. But wait! I could always text my husband to ask a woman to come in and help his wife. But you have to remember, I am in the fucking mountains. I had no reception. I could not send a fucking text. Nothing. And my ass dripping in shit. Literally dripping. Had I attempted to pick up my chonis, they would have been covered in shit. Shit, I tell you! And there was no guarantee that the shit would be contained to my chonis. The devastation that was my butt was enormous. The shit could have been anywhere if I stood up.<br />
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So I sat there, waiting for a woman to pee. It's the one fucking time women don't have to pee desperately. So I waited a long fucking time until an Asian tourist took pity on me and understood that I was asking for toilet paper. She laughed at me (if it wasn't for the toilet paper I would have killed her. JK...sort of).<br />
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"I was getting nervous" my husband exclaimed 20 minutes after I had first walked in to the bathroom. "Yeah, there was no fucking toilet paper and I had to wait for some asshole to walk back in to the bathroom". He lovingly laughed as described the ordeal. At least I can say I shit in Hitler's toilet.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-23607252523800750072015-12-28T20:12:00.003-08:002015-12-28T20:12:44.874-08:00The TalkI was 5 years old when I walked in on my aunt and uncle having sex in the basement of the family home. I thought they were playing barn yard animals, so I hopped on his back while he rode my aunt and yelled "go horsey". I am sure their mortification far surpassed mine once I was old enough to realize that what transpired under the covers was not meant for anyone but the two of them. I also thought, what the fuck, make sure the door is fully closed and possibly locked you sick fucks. This was the same aunt that told me that I needed to keep my neck and ears clean in case some boy might want to nibble on them when I was older.<br />
My mother, a large uber catholic that married the one man that got in to her pants, producing a son 8 months after the wedding, hammered in to my head that sex is dirty, and only for marriage. And porn, porn is the devil's magic and "your father is disgusting for having those videos". When she caught me with my hands down my pants she made me confess that same day to the priest because only dirty kids that might turn in to homosexuals play with themselves. I would like to insert here that these are not my beliefs at all. I would also like to further point out the fact that my mother is not a bad person, but she is small town girl with a small town mind, she grows in thought and soul every day.<br />
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So maybe my view of sex was a little fucked when puberty hit. There was not much that I did know, and the knowledge collected to that point went from clean ears for the off chance that some random guy kissed my head, to not being a dirty sex girl that enjoyed dirty sex. At the age of 13 I asked questions like "what's a blow job" and "what are woodies". R-rated movies helped my imagination, but it mostly left me with the idea that slow jazz should be playing while I non-awkwardly tumbled on top of a fire truck or in the back of a vintage car on the Titanic. In my mid 20's an ex would further hinder my sexual journey by being disgusted with masturbation and vibrators. I thought I was disgusting, that there was something wrong with me.<br />
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So when I was asked by a close family member to give their preteen kid "the talk", I was flattered but scared. Although the kid was older than I was when I decided to join in on the "rodeo", this talk could be the very first introduction to sex this kid will have. Would I be graphic and scientific? What if I said something that made them feel disgusting? Should I be gender neutral so that they are comfortable exploring their sexuality? My mind was everywhere!<br />
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When the time came to execute my speech, I made sure to do so in a car, on a freeway, so the kid had nowhere to go, with no choice but to listen. I gave him/her the following information -<br />
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1. Maturity is required when deciding to partake in sexual activities, but it doesn't always happen.<br />
2. You should be respect the partner you are about to be sexual with, and they should respect you as well. Love is an emotion that can be fleeting, but respect, respect holds steady leading to love and friendship.<br />
3. ALWAYS USE PROTECTION<br />
4. Sex should be fun. This was important for me to convey, given my history (I will save that story for another post). It should not be forced, it should not be a chore, or a tool. The idea of sex with a person you respect and care for should give you the feeling of euphoria, not dread.<br />
5. No one should touch you in an unwanted manner, nor should they force you to touch them.<br />
6. Herpes and AIDS are forever.<br />
7. I will always be there for you. You don't have to tell everything, and I won't ask questions if you don't want me to, but I will always be there for you, without judgement.<br />
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The conversation was awkward and we were both happy when the last statement was made. And when this kid starts high school, or when they start dating, I am sure I will have the conversation again, because I don't want them to think they are alone, that they are disgusting, or dirty. And maybe they won't need to talk to me again. Maybe they will have others to turn to who will provide insight and life experiences without the awkwardness that we once had during our talk. But I can only hope that they love and embrace who they are and who they will be.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-5047354747113138922015-08-25T11:44:00.001-07:002015-08-25T11:44:26.927-07:00Travel Tuesday: Mexicans in Germany! - The Honeymoon Part IIt should be known, if it has not been established, that I am in the midst of planning a honeymoon, and the wedding prior to the honeymoon. My goal is to marry the best guy ever. That part is almost to completion. My second goal, is to introduce said best guy to my favorite country outside of Continental America. If this is your first time reading one of my posts, you will have to ask yourself "what country could that be?" Otherwise, from my multiple odes to Alemania, you may already know. The third goal is to have the reader join us on the honeymoon, in a literary manner, not physically. The cynic in me is tamed by contributing to my blog and allowing you to follow my neurotic road to travel bliss, dare I say, it brings me joy. So here it is, the words, the process, the mind behind the decisions we will make on our honeymoon travels.<br />
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It is a given that we should spend time in Germany as a post celebration to our union. The honeymoon was booked before the wedding date was settled. If it was not clear before, I love my travel. I am serious about my travel. Don't fuck with my travel. This had been the dream I would whisper to my love even before we vocally said "this is it, you are the one". I wanted to introduce him to the beauty of Berlin. I wanted him to drink the beer. I wanted a beautiful excuse to return to Germany for the 4th time...this was definitely it... Since we were so close, and because we love our beer, it was only logical that we decided to include a trip to Belgium...drinking a beer in an Abbey while quoting Colin Farrell is on everyone's bucket list...right?<br />
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But the trip can't only be about beer... Well it can, but I am older than I was the first time I was in Europe and drunkenly kicked a tour bus' glass door in before hauling ass down some alley with a fake sword in tow. Recreating the scene for my love would be awesome. Getting arrested would not. The debauchery that once flooded my excursions can only be allowed to trickle. I can't be continuously drunk, I can't bounce back from an all night drink and dance fest in order to wake and tour the cities. It just does not work like that anymore.<br />
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I am unsure of how we will handle the need to be young at a time when we are slowly feeling our age in a country that is woven with interlacing strands of history and present future. Will we acclimate to a the time change or sleep though a game of Eisbaren Berlin Hockey? I suppose I will leave that for a later post.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-14756049552942456962015-05-11T20:57:00.000-07:002015-05-11T20:57:31.384-07:00Travel Tuesday - Earl Gray, Germany in Seattle, and a Funeral HomeTravel is not travel without a stop at the local watering holes. An affinity for excellent wine, beer, spirits is more than just a need, a yearn to intoxicate the senses. It's like getting lost on a beaten path of a city, taking the stroll down the avenue natives so often traverse. Sitting at the local tavern allows the traveler, me, to truly appreciate what the current surroundings offer, be it a person, a drink, an atmosphere...It's the moment in which you are able to observe the natural state of some, the uninhibited moments.<br />
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In short, I make it a point to visit as many cool drinking establishments in any city I travel, as much as possible. It's not that I am a lush, but yeah, I am a lush. My quest for the coolest of the cools are measured by the following criteria:<br />
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Proximity<br />
Distillation<br />
Atmosphere<br />
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Proximity is exactly as it is written, the distance from "home base" to the location of the drinking establishment. Proximity is not necessarily essential, but it's convenience can greatly boost the rooting on the PDA scale. Distillation is the ensuing product(s) available to me, the consumer, and the variations available. A previous post on the subject of bars and books would have rated many of the bars with a low Distillation number given the small choices in liquor and brew, therefore, their atmosphere rating was needed to keep them in the running am these two up can ruin the remaining drinking experience. Ultimately, all three categories would reach an absolute 10 for the perfect bar experience. In my recent travel to Seattle, short as it was, I was able to visit 4 bars that embodied the experience of the PDA. This week's Travel Tuesday will break down the PDA of the best bars in Seattle.<br />
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<b>Bar: </b><u>The Pine Box</u><br />
<b>P: 10</b><br />
<b>D: 10</b><br />
<b>A: 10</b><br />
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Our hotel, The Paramount, was located smack in the middle of downtown Seattle; walking distance to Pike Market AND the space needle. It was perfect! But its perfection was only met once we realized how close we were to the Pine Box. It is important to note that my visit to Pine Box was on a night of much drinking. However, a seasoned drinker and Seattle local who hates drinking at bars but loves to discover new beers introduced my traveling troupe to the amazing Pine Box. Previously a funeral home, the bar retains the original wood craft, recycling the pews for seating at side booths. This is a place where the beer snobs take solace in the selection, while maintaining a full bar for those rum and coke lovers. This is also the location where our palettes were introduced to a sour that we (the fiancee and I) can finally appreciate. Rodenbach. If you have not tried Rodenbach, and you previously hated sours, this is the one you need to drink. The servers were helpful, and the food was delicious (albeit drunkenly devoured). The quick cab ride back to the hotel was a mere 10 dollars.<br />
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<b>Bar: </b><u>Rhein Haus</u><br />
<b>P: 8</b><br />
<b>D: 10+</b><br />
<b>A: 7</b><br />
<b><br /></b>In fairness, I will preface with the following disclaimer: I FUCKING LOVE GERMANY AND GERMAN TAVERNS...which is why it is hard for me not to give this bar an all around 10. The beer selection was beyond any amazing German beer listing I had ever seen. The actual structure of the bar replicated a traditional beer hall AND included a bocce ball court in the middle of the bar. All it was missing was sumo wrestling to complete its AXIS Powers ambiance (historian joke...). It was almost perfect...<br />
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Located in Capitol Hill, not so far from the Paramount Hotel, but most certainly not within walking distance, the place was ideal for a quick and cheap cab ride. The scene is young, but the beers are in abundance and the location is huge. You can certainly make do with the surrounding ambiance.<br />
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<b>Bar: </b><u><a href="http://www.dillerroom.com/" target="_blank">The Diller Room</a></u><br />
<b>P: 10</b><br />
<b>D: 10</b><br />
<b>A: 9</b><br />
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It would be hard to find anything I didn't like about the Diller Room. I loved it so much I insisted on visiting the place two nights in a row...on a weekend trip! Located on the corner of 1st and University, it is in prime downtown location, literally walking distance from almost every awesome Seattle site, as well as a multitude of restaurants to choose from.<br />
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But the best part of the Diller Room are the amazing craft drinks. Have you ever heard of tea infused gin? Bartender by the name of Justin beautifully creates elaborate, tasteful cocktails that at times can be lit on fire. Us non crafty connoisseurs would refer to these as tiki drinks, but they have a names like the Jamaica Barrel or the the Madame Pele (think sparklers a top a daiquiri looking cocktail). They are delicious, they are beautiful, and they are delicious. If you are fortunate enough to have a drink at this place, be sure to order their signature house cocktail "The Earl". It has that tea infused gin I mentioned, whiskey and some other ridiculously yummy spirits all masterfully blended together over ice. Have I said delicious yet?<br />
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And lastly, but most certainly importantly...it has little to no douchebags, as well as some awesome seating options. The staff was great, the music was awesome. I sat there with the love of my life, my only brother, my two sisters, and a family friend as we laughed and reminisced to the sounds of Ian Curtis. I do believe the Diller Room provided the most perfect memory.<br />
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<u><b><br /></b></u>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-26945835187250184632015-05-05T09:53:00.000-07:002015-05-05T10:05:02.051-07:00Cinco de Que?: A Brief Education of Cinco de MayoThe small kitchen TV atop the refrigerator sounded a noise similar to the sounds of "El Cinco de Mayo, la celebracion de Independencia". My mother's spoon stopped dead in the meat and chile filled pan.<br />
"Que dijieron?" she asked as she walked closer to the TV. The verbal hell that ensued is a lesson neither or nor my siblings will forget. My mother has prided herself on raising her children as Mexican as possible, while respecting the country she has adopted. While our school mates were leaving out cookies for Santa to retrieve, my mom was making us wrap the tamales that El Santo Claus would devour with a hot cup of atole. The Fourth Of July was met with hot dogs, history, and aguas frescas in our back yard, only to celebrate Mexican Independence Day two months later with enchiladas, sparklers and coca cola. We were raised to know it all, to acknowledge the reasons behind the celebration, el significado, as my mother would say. The significance.<br />
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You will have to excuse my crassness when I say, don't wish me a Happy Cinco de Mayo. I am not from Puebla, that is not my either of my two Countries' Independence Day. Too many times I have been asked how I will be celebrating Mexican Independence Day on May 5....Answer: I am not. But I am going to enjoy the history of culture of my family and take the opportunity to advocate the significance of the day. So if you feel compelled to celebrate this day, here are five things you need to know:<br />
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1. September 16 is Mexico's Day of Independence...not May 5.<br />
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2. 5, Mayo de 1862 is the date of the Battle of Puebla. It commemorates what many considered to be the unlikely victory of the ill prepared Mexican troops over the French army.<br />
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3. Although the Holiday is considered popular here in the U.S., Mexico as whole does not celebrate the day. Most of the festivities are in the state of Puebla.<br />
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4. If you have to celebrate with a drink, try a Paloma rather than a margarita. The margarita, although delicious and now a predominant staple of the Mexican drink, was popularized in San Diego in the 1940's. Palomas still incorporate the delicious tequila and lime, but are mixed with a grape fruit soda, and an optional salted rim.<br />
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5. No tacos! Puebla's location in the heartland of Mexico provided an opportunity for all rich flavors to meet. It is famous for its mole poblanos (a thick rich sauce heavily seasoned) and molotes (corn meal and cheese biscuits filled with sausage, squash flowers, and potatoes). Test out your culinary skills and whip one of these dishes up!<br />
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Now stop being an ignorant asshole, read up on your history, and enjoy our culture!<br />
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Begrudgingly, Happy Cinco de Mayo but more importantly, VIVA MEXICO!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-11396334305893437642015-04-10T13:52:00.004-07:002015-04-10T16:20:12.783-07:00Dear Barbara Walters, This Interview is DisgustingDear Ms. Walters,<br />
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You have failed us. You have failed women, you have failed victims, you have failed equality of the genders. That is not to say that your own career is not commendable and that your own battle for and equality is to be ignored. Your career commenced as a writer and segment producer, covering stories that were of women's interest. Did you feel belittled? Was it not you that wrote in your own biography that you felt that woman would never be taken seriously? That real or hard news would never be assigned to a woman? You showed them all what it was to be a woman and amazing journalist. How is it then that you have come to this point? Are you desperate for ratings?<br />
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If you are confused by my statement, allow me to further explain my fury to you. You are currently scheduled to interview a known pederast on 20/20 this evening. You, a renowned journalist who has interviewed obscure dictators, queried politicians, advanced great advocates for human rights, will sit down with Mary Kay Letourneau, and interview her, her husband, and teenage daughters. I ask you, will you be interviewing Oliver O'Grady as well? Will he be allowed a moment to shine on prime time television as he details his "relationship" with his Parishoner's children? It would only seem fair since you have what seems to be enough esteem for a woman pedophile. And let me make it clear, Mary Kay Letourneau is a pedophile. Her victim was only 13 years old, nay, younger, when she began a sexual relationship that resulted in two pregnancies. 13 years old. Can you remember what you were like at 13? Were you eager to sleep with your middle school teacher of 34 years old? If you had, would it be your fault? Would you have seduced your vulnerable teacher, waited for him to be discharged from prison, then marry him? Or perhaps I should present it to you in a different manner, what if it had been your child, your daughter Jacqueline, that was targeted by her teacher. Would you think "well it must be true love so I think it's ok"? Would you interview them on the eve of their 10 year anniversary knowing she was fucking him at the age 12? I would bet you the answer would be no. You probably would have hosted a series of "talks" on your daytime talk show highlighting the horrors of child molestation and victimization and the forever impact on your family's life.<br />
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Did you know that male victims are so confused by what may at times be their first sexual encounter, that the probability reporting their crime is so low that there is barely enough information to accurately profile female sex offenders? These young men may be even more confused because of how easy it is for them to get aroused. Can you imagine the outrage of someone was to explain to a 12 year old how she must have "wanted it" if she had self lubricated during an assault?! Or how about the fact that there is currently a double standard in the perceptions of male and female offenders? You may be guilty of perpetuating the double standard of being seemingly more sympathetic towards a woman who has repeatedly admitted her crime and is now married to her victim. She even got a Lifetime Movie out of this ordeal!<br />
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Mary Kay Letourneau was a 34 year old married woman who began a sexual relationship with the 12 year old Vili Fualaau. She was tried and granted a lenient sentence of six months in jail, and three years of sex offender treatment. She was not obligated to register a s sex offender. Did you know that Frank Rodriguez of Texas, is a registered sex offender since the age of 19 years old. He was convicted of statutory rape of his girlfriend, after being reported by her father. She was 15 at that time, she is now his wife. Still wrong, but can you imagine, the four year difference and he was automatically forced to register as a sex offender. No major corporation will hire him, he cannot attend his children's school functions. Do you think he is worthy of a 20/20 agenda this evening? Should he and his wife be given the opportunity to highlight their long standing marriage on your show? Even after Mary Kay was handed such a light sentence, and after the birth of her child, she continued to have sexual relations with her victim, once again becoming pregnant. It was only then that it seemed appropriate to force her to register as sex offender. Did you know that Vili hosts DJ Parties called "Hot for Teacher". A slap in the face for any student victimized by a teacher.<br />
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Ms. Walters, although I did admire you, I am saddened and disgusted by this interview. It is a mockery and disgrace for anyone who has fallen prey to a sexual assault. Rape, molestation, abuse are all problems that transcend race, gender, and epochs of time. We should never be glorifying or justifying the actions. Your interview of this pedophile is a gross misstep and a slap in the face to all victims. Mary Kay's gender, her past, nor her previous pitiful marriage exempt her from the disgusting actions against her former student. May you look on your conscience and think clearly on the message you are sending by conducting this interview.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
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A Woman Who Thinks We Should Be Treated Equally, Even When We Commit CrimesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-66687738709448209152015-03-26T17:01:00.000-07:002015-03-29T18:24:03.188-07:00Bars and Books - My Favorite CombinationMolly Sanchez from the Bold Italic recently wrote an article called "The Best Bar & Book Pairings for SF Bookworms and Barflies", two of my favorite pastimes concisely packed in to one amazing listing. I decided to prey on this idea and present to you my version of books and pairings, San Jose, CA edition.<br />
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The majority of you that follow my blog are able to comfortable say "yeah, she always has a book in her purse." It's true, my over size bag that routinely bashes itself in to my surroundings ,without impunity, carries the contents of would be writer: a writing notebook (random flashes of creativity scribbled under one cover), a wedding notebook (currently planning a wedding to the best guy ever), a work notebook (I carry work with me, a lot...it is a bad habit but great work ethic), at least one book for leisure (sometimes two depending on how much I want to carry), and an assortment of pens. I do this because on the off chance that I have a moment to myself (free of emails and phone calls), I like to partake in what I consider the best hobby ever, reading and writing. Sometimes, I get to do this with alcohol (cue the brass band and fireworks). Here are my recommendations for the best bar and book pairings in my hometown.<br />
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Bar: <a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CB8QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.thewineaffairs.com%2F&ei=2pcUVZ25OcbnoASkgIHIDA&usg=AFQjCNGWEpOJkfNsdRLRZrlN-mbRQkp2Bw&sig2=JzXOyq_-O6NCVj5Vcgk5ww&bvm=bv.89381419,d.cGU" target="_blank">Wine Affairs</a><br />
Book: <i>The Man in the High Castle </i>or anything by Phillip K. Dick<br />
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This picturesque bar on a lovely avenue known as The Alameda, is settled among the beautiful outskirts the rose garden neighborhood of San Jose. It shares a block with the historic Bank of Italy now inhabited by the hair salon as 5 Color Cowboy (they have a tattooist onsite now as well), resting amid the rows of streets beautifully lined with tudor style homes, original wood crafted moldings, wrap around porches, and front yards rivaled only by Don and Betty Draper's house in Ossenig. A new Whole Foods sprinkles the perfection in to the neighborhood. It's the perfect setting for the perfect bar. The patrons of this establishment range from young to old, all of them eager to try the vast wines and craft beers served on their rotating taps. The bartenders remember your face and greet you with sincerity. It's perfect. Which is why a dystopian novel is the perfect genre for this type of place. Wine affairs is my favorite bar to read, but sometimes the idyllic surroundings force me to forget a life that is scary, dirty, and sometimes menacing. Mixing it with any of PKD's novels is the perfect combination of living. Wine in one hand, destruction of society in another.<br />
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Bar: Blank Club<br />
Book: <i>Breathers: A Zombies Lament </i>by S.G. Browne<br />
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Ideally, you would be reading this novel at 9 pm on a Thursday, right before the full "Atomic" crew arrived. Arriving that early would secure your place at a table, hopefully by the stage, lulled by the sounds of "cities in dust" or "love will tear us apart". In hand would be a cocktail, perhaps a tequila gimlet (fresh lime juice), considering the beer selection is sub par and there is no wine. But the atmosphere is perfect for a person who never really knows where and how they fit in this life, always wondering if this moment is the moment they are truly living. Sadly, the Blank Club closed it doors this past February. The owners have moved on to another location now called The Ritz...but the book is still around.<br />
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Bar: <a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=2&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CCgQFjAB&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.yelp.com%2Fbiz%2Fcinebar-san-jose&ei=sJsUVfPsDoOrogTe1IGIDQ&usg=AFQjCNGC5P1w8XgpafYVAC5xPNo5AJcyBg&sig2=RqJtSTJzeeVK2HDWa2Ps_g&bvm=bv.89381419,d.cGU" target="_blank">Cinebar</a><br />
Book: <i>Lolita </i>by Vladimir Nabakov<br />
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Look, it's not the prettiest place. It's beers are meh, and sometimes the people can be a little much. But where the hell else can you read a book about about a 13 year old and her vindictive hold on Humbert Humbert and not be thought of as a pervert? The Cinebar is one of those places whose patrons are the most well read, well thought and open minded. Nabakov was a genius, leaving the reader to express empathy for an adult man who quite literally preyed on a young girl. But how many people can you openly discuss this book without fear of judgment? Not many. Cinebar embodied this type of literary freedom, a place I could read anything I wanted, discuss any thing I wanted without the societal judgments. It was great! I'll admit, Cinebar is also the place I am most likely to black out. Those whiskey and cokes are mean.<br />
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Bar:<a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CB8QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fteskes-germania.com%2F&ei=gJsUVazDMYbuoATT5YHIDA&usg=AFQjCNHafadwU0-tloGIUqGnDtsARvBA1Q&sig2=Z3w7FbW9JRDCFwG4SdI71w&bvm=bv.89381419,d.cGU" target="_blank"> Teske's Germania</a><br />
Book: <i>The Unbearable Lightness of Being </i>by Milan Kundera<br />
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Besides the fact that Teske's is amazing in their food, amazing in their beer, and amazing in their service, the place is GERMAN BAR IN SAN JOSE! San Jose can often be snubbed, considered culturally devoid. But it is small treasures such as Teske's that redeem my home town. Since I cannot visit the best country ever (Germany) at any time I would like, I take solace in Teske's, granting my instatiable German fix with rich beers and schnitzel. Being there instantly takes me to Germany, and being in Germany reminds me of reading Milan Kundera for the first time. It kind of goes hand in hand...right?<br />
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If able, check all of these places out (except for the Blank Club because its closed), and while you are out it, read the books. It's time well spent. If you are interested in the book and bar pairings for SF, Molly Sanchez's article on the Bold Italic can be found <a href="http://www.thebolditalic.com/articles/7072-the-best-bar-and-book-pairings-for-sf-bookworms-and-barflies" target="_blank">here</a>. Now lets drink!<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-43665773545590995932015-03-03T19:53:00.000-08:002015-03-09T10:28:34.150-07:00Travel Tuesday - Margarita in RomeSo let me tell you about this one time when I went to Italy...<br />
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Prior to the first trip to Italy, my international travel was comprised of accompanying my parents to family visits in Mexico. My mother's prim and proper upbringing meant that I was attached to her hip while the quebradita (Mexican for dirty dancing) was practiced by the adolecents in the plaza. In high school, over priced schools overseas schools would send their recruits for us traveling dreamers who wished to spend their summers away from their parents. I thought then that some semblance of freedom, to travel without the leash of propriety (my mother) was attainable. For a moment I thought I had heard the whisperings of my mothers acquiesce to a semester in Egypt. As I geared myself to make the final pleadings for an allowance to leave, some assholes decided to put two fucking planes in the Twin Towers. It was the beginning of my senior year. It took less than a moment for my mother to say "ni creas que to voy a dejar en un avion" (Translation: Don't even think you are getting on a plane anytime soon.). My appeals in the form of arguments resembling phrases like "the best time to travel is right after something like this, everything is on lock down and super safer" fell on deaf ears.<br />
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It was three years later when an opportunity to vacation to Italy was presented to me. Settling on Rome and the neighboring area, my father and passed me a credit card. I was elated. Rome would be the destination for a nerdy history freak whose study of the bloody battles in the Coliseum were easy Saturday reading, and to top it off with Spaghetti? It all was too fucking fantastic<br />
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So there I went to Rome. I am in the mind set that travelers should acclamate the local culture and fully immerse oneself, not standing out like a "stupid American". I studied Italian language and Italian fashion, filling my bright yellow suitcase, with wheels and a handle, with nothing but pastels and mesh over shirts. Have I mentioned that I am a plushy girl? Pastels make me look like a fucking easter egg. So I am in the airport, and because I want to be one of "them", I think, hey, I can do this, I am going to take the trolley, to which I have no map, all the way in to town, get off with my big ass yellow suitcase, and find my hotel..how fucking hard can this be?<br />
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The trolley dead ends in the middle of town...and there is no hotel in sight. I am close to some ruins, but if you have ever visited to Rome you will quickly realize that almost everything is a ruin with a modern building on the inside. The trip was in August, a sweltering month for almost every part of the world, Wearing two sizes too small jeans (because tighter is better in Italy) and a knitted pastel blue short sleeve sweater...its fucking 90 degrees at 11 in the morning. I walk along cobble stone streets, all the while wheeling a big ass bag that screams "Tourist". But no, I am convinced I fit right the fuck in. I take a right turn, I take a left. I can't fucking find the Trilussa Hotel. Someone is king enought to point me to the street Trilussa, but he knows nothing about the Trilussa hotel. I hobble down some more, all the while fully conscious of the fact that I am sweating, my crotch is rubbing against the fucking jeans, I am tired, I am hungry, and on the verge of a melt down.<br />
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I decide that before the tears commence that I take a seat at this cute little cafe. I waddle in, trying to ensure that I get some breeze towards my crotch. A few weeks prior I turned the ripe age of 21, making me eager to get started on what is to turn in to a long history of drinking. I take the seat at the table closest to the street, and I order the only alcoholic drink I can name, a margarita. I order in spanish because because italian and spanish are the same...right? The waiter smiles, responding in English "sure, I'll bring it right out, and what would you like to drink". I take a breath...I am thirsty and I want my motherfucking alcohol, clearly he had not understood, so I repeat "a margarita". The waiter continues to smile..."I'll bring some water, no gas". I wonder if the no gas comment by the waiter meant he was planning to fart in my water cup.<br />
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I took the next few quiet moment to enjoy my surroundings. I had never crossed an ocean by myself, never been so far and removed from my "Pacific Standard Time". Rome is fucking amazing. Despite modernity its history is captured in every stone, every building, and despite the crotch sweat and inability to find the hotel, I was enjoying this non parental adventure. Twenty minutes passed when the waiter came out to my table, with a pizza. I look at the waiter, and back down to my pizza. He is still fucking smiling. I look at the pizza again and before I can look up, the waiter has skipped his happy ass back to his counter. I politely flag him down..."sir, I still haven't received my margarita..."<br />
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."<br />
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I stammer, and start to cry...why? Because I am a fucking girl, my pants are stuck in my crotch, it's hot, and all I want is my god damn alcohol...I compose myself, explaining that my flight was so long and that I am very tired. I muster in broken italian/spanish "back home a margarita is a cocktail". My waiter, an angel in disguise I would have to assume, who was kind enough to politely and sweetly deal with my emotional vagina bullshit, smiles again, and says, "a bella, I get a you a bellini". That fucking saint got me my drink, and a cab to drive me to my hotel...that was only a block away!<br />
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So began my lone travels, as a <b>Stupid (Mexican) American. </b><br />
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h<img alt="IWSG Badge" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZXqF3UBZSUgSuYWK7Sdz8JQO6zp4y2xIopl6Q0J8x5uFxNk2IGGqHi7o8BRn6A7ooOBCIeVILx51Nf7zVYRIXVAMhN7c-mrqj44aq98tfWzjaW1hwcqW9sDt_6GHHhjg7B4Q-oU9Itdw/s1600/IWSG+badge.jpg" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-9308017728653124382015-03-02T13:47:00.002-08:002015-03-02T13:47:42.538-08:005 Ways to Survive a Shopping MallI hate the mall, and I hate shopping at the mall. I hate crowds, especially over excited tween shopping crowds. And yet, I have no choice sometimes but to partake in the shopping mall excursions. I endured full blown anxiety attacks among the rows of rainbow Mac lipsticks waiting for my mother to purchase a birthday gift...it was embarrassing but my point was made and I no longer get invited to accompany. Problem solved, right? Big nope on that one. Unfortunately, because the big cities have moved away from small neighborhood businesses, to large shopping centers, I have no choice but shop at a mall. In order to survive this ordeal, I have engaged some survival tips:<br />
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1. <b>Arrive early. </b>When I say early, I mean "be at that gate before its rolled up so you can herd in before the rest of the animals." This will eliminate/dissipate the pre-established lines at the customer service desk. The ability to peruse a sales rack without the hovering of other bargain shoppers is a an enormous incentive. <br />
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2. <b>Have a Plan. </b>I like to be in and out. No bullshit. No day dreaming. No "trying on just to try on." I like to get in there, know the stores and know what I am looking for. This allows me to dissipate the wandering through herds glued to their iPhone screens as they aimlessly parade the common area. I park by the store, I enter the store, I get the fuck out.<br />
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3. <b>Go Alone.</b> My fiancee is great about mall shopping. He knows where to park, when to arrive, and always has a plan. My mother not so much. She kind of just meanders through the parking, stops at random displays, thinks of that one store where she needed to buy that one thing that is not so conveniently located at the exact opposite end of the mall. This drives me the brink of a full on meltdown. Circling the mall in the middle of a Saturday while the crowds are fully entrenched in shopping mayhem is NOT what I had in mind for "winding down".<br />
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4.<b> Don't Shop When You Absolutely Need</b>. Look, I understand that sometimes this can't be helped. You were invited to that last minute birthday party and now you have no choice but to buy an overpriced gift. Or worse, you can't seem to settle on the perfect overpriced gift. It can't be helped. Which is why I try to shop when I don't need. I realize this is scary on a financial perspective. "why would you buy something you don't need" Answer: Because I will need it eventually. Allow me to explain. The time constraints of needing have led me to make purchases on overly expensive items that I eventually detested and shoved in a closet. Example: A dress for a wedding. There was a time in my life that dresses and I did not speak the same language. It was foreign and uncomfortable. But then came the day that the typical fancy jeans would not fit the bill of the event. I had to purchase something formal and classy (read girly). I trudged every store until I settled on some ruffled piece of shit that fit. And I paid well over $60 which for me, and my love of bargain shopping, is a ridiculous amount of money for something that will so seldom be worn. But I needed the fucking thing. I lost a Saturday of my life and overpaid on an item that I needed, but hated. Don't do it.<br />
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5. <b>Don't Shop at a Mall When Starving</b>. It makes you an angry bitch. It makes the line to pay seem like the wait to receive an AIDS test. It makes the crowds feel like an abyss of flesh and sweat. It just sucks. Finding a place to eat sucks, its all chain fatty food that tastes like seasoned cardboard, and you have to share your dining experience with other people. It's like being in sixth grade again, only this time, the bullies are in heels and rather than backpacks, they carry the most current Coach purse. I think that's it...is Coach still relevant? Just be well fed. Have that fuel to get in and get out.<br />
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I treat mall shopping like the zombie Apocalypse. Avoid the mass zombies, be well fueled, and if needed, travel solo, quiet and swift. But to be honest, if zombies attacked and I had to choose between the mall or being eaten, grab the tortilla and start feasting.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-16235230806023870152014-11-10T21:04:00.000-08:002014-11-10T21:04:30.801-08:00Travel Tuesday: If you can't Travel, Watch a MovieTravel and Movies. I can't get geek out any harder than if I was to include reading and travel. Which I can. In the last decade, I have traveled to Italy twice, Germany thrice, Mexico, Czech Republic, Greece, and a multitude of continental U.S. States. I have jumped in a car to vegas and LA, hopped on a plane to San Diego, a train to Oktoberfest in San Francisco. No place has been too close or too far for me to visit. I love to travel. I love to write about my travels. I love to read a book, watch a movie, and dream of the settings of the story, In the following Travel Tuesday segments, I will introduce to you the films that have inspired my lust for world gallivanting. <div>
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Despite my journeys to a number of countries, the vast majority of the world's canvas has yet to carry my foot print. That is not to say that I do not to continue to dream of the day that I bless these locations with my wit and charm. For the moment, however, I have films to fill my head with visions of Spanish threesomes, drunken exploration in tokyo, making friends with a midget in Bruges, and having an affair with Ralph Fiennes in Africa. Sometimes I do it all at once, but then reality slaps me in the face and reminds me to save my money and actually get my ass on a plane. So in the interim, here is a list of the places I plan to visit, and the movies that inspire my dream to travel. </div>
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<b><u>Belgium - In Bruges</u></b></div>
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If you have not watched "In Bruges" then you have not lived. I don't care what you think about Colin Farrell, this movie far beyond redeems any reservation held against him in any way. He's a genius in an awesome movie that is set in the city of Bruges. For the readers that are well acquainted with me, you will already know that I love my beer. Not shit water beer, I mean good beer. The kind that leaves morsels of flavor on your pallette long after the beer has retreated from your tulip glass and settled in your bowels. PLenty of beer drinking is done in this movie, and plenty of the drinking is done in a setting of medieval buildings in a place that is often described as "the Venice of the North". Colin Farrell's character hates this beautiful place. He spends his nights wandering the cobble stone streets wishing he could get the fuck out of there. So he distracts himself by keeping the company of a drug dealer and midget. Now I might be a little naive, but I seriously want to meet a midget in Bruges. When I travel to Bruges, it will be with the hope that I am going to share a beer with a midget. A midget in town for the filming of a movie. It has to happen, or Bruges is going to fucking suck just like Colin Farrell said. </div>
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<img 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" 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<b><u>Spain - Vicky Cristina Barcelona</u></b></div>
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Besides the fact that Barcelona is beautiful and rich in architecture and history, you have a threesome with Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem. I don't know about you, but those two are the hottest Spaniards ever. Sure, I want to visit Barcelona, drink wine and immerse in the culture. But I really really want to be the turkey in the Javier Bardem/Penelope Cruz sandwich. According to this movie, a girl eager to find herself and develop her passions can get scooped up by a world renowned artist and his super hot, albeit, bat shit wife. Sign me the fuck up. </div>
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQTOQMn1xMdXXSfjg9y5WfNPI6uVtn7I47EQ87SIpGIRY2BNpR-lQ" /></div>
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<u><b>Japan - Lost in Translation</b></u></div>
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Tokyo is the back drop for what is easily one of my favorite Sofia Coppola films. She managed to capture the a beauty that is often lost in a modern metropolitan setting, and create a world of wonder. while still allowing for the traditional aspect of the culture to inspire your absolute nee to travel to Japan. In an attempt to create transperancy, I will tell you that the prospect of traveling to somewhere like Japan terrifies me. Not so in the sense that my life would be in danger, or that Japanese people are a violent. It is quite the contrary. My fear is that in being raised here in the States, my manners and loss of my own culture at times, may contribute to an act that may be viewed as a rude American. Never has this thought been more apparent than in the prospect of traveling to Japan. What if I did something to offend them? What if I come off as an animal? What if I can't hide the "what the fuck is that on my plate" face when they bring me what I thought was going to be chicken katsu?</div>
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT48f2nmHNc5WhxUmQlAZ2wB_8vOlNss1-4IKHp7NgVG3yURBFz8w" /></div>
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<b><u>Africa - The English Patient</u></b></div>
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I have an obsession with Ralph Fiennes. I also have an obsession with Egypt. Egypt is in Africa. I want to go. Maybe I will run in to Ralph Fiennes, maybe it will happen in a pyramid. Who knows, but maybe. </div>
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcROv0RcSwXb4VFCOCo1kE4efTHc3rlMMKir0ELIUkjUZNzahVmsrA" /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-74394675312052812782014-09-02T21:17:00.001-07:002014-09-02T21:17:39.026-07:00Travel Tuesday: Freak out on Route 99The travel part isn't so hard. I consider myself a master of the basics: shoe and belt removal at TSA check points, essentials in your personal item bag while the rest is checked in, no large liquids in your carry on. I know to not show up to the gate smashed, and to try and stick to the present time zone schedule to minimize jet lag. I walk the blocks to absorb the scenery and adapt to the locale. I check out downtown and then head to the smaller neighborhoods. I've got this shit down.<br />
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A recent trip to Seattle was no exception. It was 4 in this party of awesome, and a hotel would simply not do, not for space and not for the budget. Seattle is gorgeous, and with its beauty comes its inflated costs. A decent hotel guaranteeing non Heroin injecting inhabitants on the stair landing started at a minimum of $200.00 a night, and that was just for a room. And for as much as I love my family, I really had no desire to share one room with three other adults. I rented a studio on West Seattle from a young couple who were nauseatingly enthusiastic on Airbnb. What can I say, I like being buttered up with free beer and sea salt hand soaps after handing over my money. 420 bucks for 3 nights, two rooms, and all night binge drinking...yeah, I will fucking take it! Didn't even dawn on me that the short "10" minute drive to downtown would be an impediment...amateur fucking move on my part! Of course it was an impediment. We either relied on cabs or car2go. But car2go is a 2 seat smart car. So unless we wanted to split up in to teams, we were shelling out for cabs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpJpxjsjrVHjBbE8D78tXjWvZMqvIgGcOkBrg6VHOJGkQq42ifSl_jwJZtS19cF7Hgr2C-XZrsJYE6i-tXfBCOxmHRusztP0U0ILhJF-i0WFNww_cfDhKS-TDX2fwmHaQM0pUciYhDKM/s1600/car+2+go.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpJpxjsjrVHjBbE8D78tXjWvZMqvIgGcOkBrg6VHOJGkQq42ifSl_jwJZtS19cF7Hgr2C-XZrsJYE6i-tXfBCOxmHRusztP0U0ILhJF-i0WFNww_cfDhKS-TDX2fwmHaQM0pUciYhDKM/s320/car+2+go.jpg" /></a></div>
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Let me lead you to the main reason we are here. I know that at some point in your history with me, you have read previous posts. Maybe you know me in real life. I am cute. But I am also a borderline nervous wreck that trips on her own feet with the occasional seasonal snot in her hair. I have a car, I drive the car, but I am not a lover of driving. I get nervous, I get angry, I get antsy. I yell at inanimate objects and threaten to burn down a city. This is just a few of the occurrences that happen in a familiar place. Driving to a new location creates a completely different experience.<br />
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The Seattle trip was coming to a conclusion. In our quest to be the coolest kids on the block, we ventured to Sonic Boom in NW Seattle. We were scheduled to be on a flight to San Jose at 8 pm that night. I love to be early. And it was only three in the afternoon. There was just enough time to shop, get a bite and catch a cab back to SW Seattle, roughtly a 20 minute drive. It was all timed perfectly. I called the cab company at 4:30 pm. When able, I tend to contribute to the under dog establishments. I prefer small owned companies who could potentially benefit from my patronage. I decide to call Orange Cab Company. The dispatcher was abrupt, but assured me that the cab would be at the restaurant in 20 minutes. Wonderful! We concluded the final meal of the trip and headed to the street awaiting our ride. We allow the five minutes to pass the pick up time...not a thing. I try not to panic but I begin to call the cab company. The phone dies. My future sister in law passes me her phone. I call, I wade through the ridiculously long prompt for such a small company, it rings. It rings. And it keeps fucking ringing. Mother Fuckers. Followed by an audible, "mother fuckers". The panic begins to set in. I call again. It rings and continually rings. We walk to the corner hoping to catch a glimpse of some god awful prius with a terrible orange glow. Nothing. My boyfriend dials Yellow Cab. They tell me that because I am in Ballard (NW Seattle) it will take 30 minutes to arrive to our location. This is not including the traffic we will have to sift through to get down to SW Seattle and then to the airport. Suddenly the ugly troll of anxiety is tip toeing on my chest. That bitch. My boyfriend quickly locates two Car2Go cars right next to each other. He turns to me and says "you take my sister, I will follow you. Call the yellow cab and tell him to meet us at the house." Bless his heart for entrusting me with his sister in my car, or entrusting me with the ability to navigate a mobile sardine can in to unknown waves of what is considered the worst traffic north of San Luis Obispo.<br />
<br />
We begin navigatgion from the phone. From the multiple cab rides, I am well aware that I need to get to the 99 and on to the bridge. But machines are assholes. It gives us directions to First, and then gives us directions to Fifthe Avenue where it will eventually lead us to Highway 5. The difference of taking 99 and Highway 5 is 30 minutes. The troll is now tap dancing on my chest and this shoe box with a motor has suddenly shrunken down to a pill box. I can't breathe. I make a rash turn right. I don't know where I am. The navigation is continually re-routing. I am screaming at inanimate lights and threatening to perform crude painful acts upon the participants of normal rush hour traffic. "Oh my God, what have I done! We aren't going to make it on the plane." I am almost crying, but the fact that I am hyperventilating stops the tears and has me clutching at my chest. My saint of an almost sister in law continually tells me we will be ok, that the worst that can happen is that I will pull over and she will drive. I want to believe her, I am listening to it all and apologizing for her witnessing what can be considered a full blown anxiety attack. The signs for 99 are a quarter of a mile away, and there, I see the turn right. AND I FUCKING MISSED IT. There are tears, but I just want to get to the 99. We turn the block, I am on the 99...and then I realize, I am about to piss my pants. I peddle my go cart hard enough to reach 80 miles, I am flying and I need to pee. Once I am on the bridge, the panic has subsided but the reality of pissing catastrophe is eminent. For the first time since 2nd grade, pissing my pants while sober, is a mother fucking reality.<br />
<br />
We make it to SW Seattle. I scramble out of the car where my boyfriend was already waiting. He found the 99 much sooner than I. I let him finish the Car2Go session, or rather, he tells me he is ending the session as I rush in to the house and expel sheer relief that I have not had an accident. I am sailing in to relaxation. Only I begin to cry and become embarrassed. Fuck. The anxiety regarding anxiety is now toying with my chest, lightly but with a perserverance. Fuck you anxiety. And fuck you Seattle traffic.<br />
<br />
I can't wait to visit Seattle again.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-71534460355306517912014-03-13T21:07:00.000-07:002014-03-13T21:07:00.407-07:00America, the beautiful Nazi State<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Recently famed Neurosurgeon Ben Carson, a conservative, god fearing Republican spoke out against tyrannized America, equating the nation to Nazi Germany. That is correct...the Nazi Germany that occupied Sudetenlands in the name of racial purity, and whose ovens still burn in to silver screens and texts of history. Now normally, I am appalled by such verbal excrement. Phrases such as "<span style="background-color: white;">I mean, [we are] very much like Nazi </span><a href="http://www.washingtontimes.com/topics/germany/" style="color: #164a6e; padding: 2px 2px 2px 0px; text-decoration: none;">Germany</a><span style="background-color: white;">. And I know you’re not supposed to say ‘Nazi </span><a href="http://www.washingtontimes.com/topics/germany/" style="color: #164a6e; padding: 2px 2px 2px 0px; text-decoration: none;">Germany</a><span style="background-color: white;">,’ but I don’t care about political correctness.(</span>: <a href="http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2014/mar/12/ben-carson-americas-now-very-much-nazi-germany/#ixzz2vu2dqf32" style="color: #003399; padding: 2px 2px 2px 0px; text-decoration: none;">http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2014/mar/12/ben-carson-americas-now-very-much-nazi-germany/#ixzz2vu2dqf32</a>) typically boil my history loving blood. But at this moment, I feel it is best to take Dr. Carson's words, and use them as a challenge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here are my top five reasons why Dr. Carson is so fucking wrong...and ultimately a lame cock:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. Ben Carson went on a national news media and criticized his country..TO MILLIONS OF VIEWERS! Now normally, under Nazi Germany at least, a man/woman critical of the government would have lived in fear of being thrown into a "work camp". Many of the resistance fighters printed and distributed anti-Nazi propaganda in secret, covert and in FUCKING FEAR. The fact that Lord Media Moron openly proclaimed the notion tells me a couple of things - A) Homeboy does not actually believe that the United States is anything like the Nazi Germany; and/or B) Homeboy aint afraid of shit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Despite the many times states have attempted to discriminate against the gay population, they fucking can't. You know why? Because despite the bullshit, we are in evolving people that will not stand for discriminatory laws no matter how hard these bullshit laws try to take us back to racist and bigoted times of America. There was this thing in Nazi Germany, they were called Nuremberg laws...those fuckers were passed. And you know what happened, mass discrimination sanctioned by law... Dear Dr. Carson...seriously?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. Obama is not Hitler, neither was GW Bush. Guys, I am not a fan of NSA, I was not a fan of the Iraq war, in fact I am not a big fan of any part of our government. But those men, with their bullshit legislation, and their fucked up wars, and those fucking drones, I am sorry, but they are not Hitler. They are not the leaders of a Nazi state. Have they done wrong...of course. Have they rounded the usual suspects and burned them for greater purity glory? No. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. In a place like the United States of America, you can't have racial purity. This is the biggest melting pot. We have people from all over. Dark, yellow, black, brown and purple, we are all sorts of shades. And now you've got bitches painting themselves another color. Good luck with weeding out one type of person. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. WE DON'T PERSECUTE THE JEWS OR CHRISTIANS! Guys, the only people that really get to bitch is the Islamic community because since 9/11 we have held them in Guantanamo without a trial. And yeah, there is a lot of controversy surrounding this and its an embarrassing mark on America's history. But no one gets to say they are persecuted, and they sure as fuck aren't being rounded up in to concentration camps and systematically being turned in ashes for the neighboring town to wake up to. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So NO Dr. Ben Carson..we are not equal to Nazi Germany... pass some horrific legislature and then we will talk. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.222222328186035px;"><i>Disclaimer: Please take this as tongue in cheek. I am not an American Eagle wearing, flag waving, lover of the United States. I am incredibly critical and do believe that we have enacted atrocities against other nations. This is just my fuck you to Ben Carson. Because Ben Carson sucks. Next week I am going to bring up how the treatment of Muslims DOES equate us to Nazi Germany...maybe. </i></span></span><br />
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<br />
The week started much like every week, in tears on a scale in too small underwear and a bra that barely contained my tits. I checked and rechecked...no change...fuck you scale.<br />
<br />
I prompted my weight loss with a hike with friends. Only because of my stationary lifestyle my ass and legs were on fire for the next three days. I walked like I had taken a few up places that God would not condone.<br />
<br />
So we go to Monday. I measure and dissect everything I eat that day. I keep the food to a minimum and the water to a maximum. I'm pumped and excited for the work out that I am going to do when I get home.<br />
<br />
Recently the babe and I purchased a smart TV...Samsung. These smart TV's...these things are beyond me. Many buttons, all these apps. It is important to note that I am technologically retarded. I still ask if we own a Blu Ray player...we own a PS3. So I create an account for the fitness app. I put in my stats...and do you know what the fucker tells me? I'm obese. Fuck you Samsung, you are obese. And although it caused another round of tears for the day, I decided to follow through with a work out.<br />
<br />
I stand in my living room following the moves of "cardio kick butt" instructed by some asshole who has never measured their food. I am bouncing here and there all the while making my old house rattle, causing thee empty beer cans on the coffee table to make the sweet sound of embarrassment. I stopped at the ten minute mark, half of the 120 calories that I was projected to burn...so why the fuck am I not skinny yet? Just kidding. I know that answer. Kind of.<br />
<br />
I feel that I should mention that I just watched a show called OZ. In this particular episode, Chris Meloni shows his very circumcised penis for a good ten seconds...that was a lot of Stabler dick.<br />
<br />
I hope I didn't drive you away, or maybe I've attracted a new reader...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-5022661433914513712014-01-05T20:15:00.001-08:002014-01-05T20:45:35.976-08:00Resolutions are for AssholesJan 5, 2014... The sharks won. I weigh 172 lbs, and I am coming off of a week long "vacation". I put the word "vacation" in quotations because fuck me...I was sick, I was emotional...and I'm still overweight...as if a week off from work was going to melt off the tamales and vendor gifted chocolates. Fuck me.<br />
<br />
I woke today hurting from a fall, and in the constant bad mood that I perpetuated since my brother left for boot camp. I fucking cried this whole week. For nothing. That's right, I fucking fell. Let me start from the beginning:<br />
In the interest of being proactive, I decided to take down the Christmas Garland that was hanging in the living room. It was my way of surprising the babe while he was in the shower, one less thing he would have to do...right? We had recently purchased a ladder specifically to reach high places. However, in this quest for productivity, and in the interest of time, I utilized the leather foot stool gifted to us by my old boss. What could have possibly gone wrong? Nothing...except that I am klutz, a self professed and well documented klutz. When I was 6, I was climbing a cherry tree with the aid of an empty bucket. I fell landing open legged allowing the edge of the bucket to give my pelvic region a nice jab...explaining the bruise during bath time resulted in a family meeting. Another time, as I was putting the fitted sheet on to the mattress, I managed to hit the corner of a windowsill and knocked myself out. No fucking joke, I did this...and then I fucking did it the next week after I washed the sheets and proceeded to put them on the bed.<br />
So you could guess where I am going with this...I pulled down the garland while stepping on the foot stool, when it gave way. I caught myself for a moment, but only long enough to "eek" and re-position myself so that I fell on my back on the edge of the couch. I wish I was making this up. The wind was knocked out of me and when it finally came back I yelled for the babe. Only he was in the shower. And to be quite honest, I'm glad he didn't catch me in the position, it screamed of klutz.<br />
So the remainder of my vacation is plagued by a back pain...<br />
<br />
I promised myself last year that this year I was going to look like Monica Bellucci circa 1997, instead I resemble Kirstie Alley...circa now...Here's to another awesome year.
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-25840399574495604512013-11-01T07:12:00.003-07:002013-11-01T07:12:47.645-07:00The one where I get super gushy and romanticI was going to start by telling you all how cynical I used to be...but a majority of my readers have known me since birth, therefore, there is no need.<br />
<br />
Two years ago I went on a coffee date with the cutie that played hacky sack at in high school. The coffee tasted great and the conversation was awesome, so we walked to the used book store. That was entertaining, so we decided to get dinner. Conversation continued to be great, but dinner had been devoured, so we went for a drink. The talking continued, and by the time we knew it, the whole afternoon, and a lot of the night had flown by us. I could easily say that I was immediately smitten by this tall Mexican Clark Gable. And in my reminiscent moods I will ask, "when did you know" and he will say "very early on, pretty much right away". And it really was like that. Since that day, not a day has gone by without each other.<br />
<br />
And let me tell you about this cutie. I can't say he tamed the girl who joked about the holocaust, but he never was ashamed of her inappropriate humor. In fact, he reveled in it, provided additional jokes, laughed with her, even boasted about her. If there was ever time that I had gone too far, he never showed it to me, and he never made me feel ashamed. This was the guy that nurtured my love of history, and allowed the vast collection of WWII history books to be displayed on the mantel. This is the guy that told me to not be embarrassed, that I was perfect, even after gaining weight.<br />
<br />
This is the kind of guy that loves and respects his family, and treats my family with the same love and respect. This is the guy that turned some hard women in to softies, my mother smiles and hugs him, and my aunts adore him. My sister calls us "america's cutest mexican couple.".<br />
<br />
He is the man that surpassed the dreams that I never thought I had. He is the man that I believed did not exist in this life. A myth, a movie. And so every day, when I get the "buenos dias hermosa" text from him, I bite myself to make sure that this is all real. The butterflies still flutter, I steal glances of him every chance I get. And for the last year, I've had the privilege of living with him.<br />
<br />
So, to the man, my dream come true, my adolf to my Eva, the greatest love of this life, and the next, a giant thank you for loving me, without condition, with giggles and tears, with the strongest open arms and the best hugs. Te adoro.<br />
<br />
Your tumor.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-6001975991865385242013-09-28T20:57:00.000-07:002013-09-29T21:03:12.976-07:00Mexican in Rome Part 2Welcome to the second installment of my Travel Tuesday. If you are still following my blog...thank you and I promise to get as gross as possible in future posts. This one won't be so gross...<br />
<br />
As mentioned previously...I was in Rome once when I was really young. I was a novice at this travel thing despite thinking I was the shit and knew everything about travel. I had my fluorescent clothes so I could blend with the Italian locals, I used broken phrases to get around. But I had made a few mistakes.<br />
<br />
The first was that I had scheduled a trip in crotch sweat August. Everything stuck to me. It was hot, it was smelly, it was gross.<br />
<br />
The second was that I had booked two week accommodations in one location. What that meant was that I would be stationed in Rome while only being able to travel on day trips. The trip was prepaid and it would have been a waste of money if I had taken off. I made the best of the situation and went on trips to Capri, only being able to spend two hours on their beach before hauling ass back to the docks to make the last boat back to the mainland.<br />
<br />
It was on one of these day trips that my story begins.<br />
<br />
The guided tour traveled to little towns that dot the Tuscan hillsides. The expeditions took us to places that sampled Orange flavored liquor and shoved raw hide goods in your face. So we ended up on this town called Orvieto. It was a medieval town located on some cliff. It was told to our group that this town was so exclusive, that it never allowed any tour buses to or cars and therefore had to hike up to this town. Made no difference, I was in Italy, I would have hiked to a death camp. So while in this town I find a novelty store that was selling swords....SWORDS. And this was no little plastic sword, this was metal, and big, not too sharp, but big. I buy the fucking thing because back home I had a teenage brother that would have believed me to be the most awesome sister ever if I brought a sword to him.<br />
<br />
I was sitting on the bus making my way back to Rome and my hotel. I was tired, I was hot, but ecstatic. I had a sword. So the bus driver, an oily man with a profuse belly, announces the stops, Trilussa being one of them. My stop. At this point I had been in Rome for almost the two weeks. I knew exactly where Trilussa was in Rome. So we get to a stop, the bus driver mumbles something, no one gets off. Ok no biggie, he continues to another stop and says some other stop, a couple gets off. I start to worry. I make my way to the front.<br />
"um, excuse me, Trilussa stop?"<br />
If you had been there, you would have seen the large belly swell as his breathing became labored, saying "I stopped at Trilussa, you no get off! So you get off here!". He stops the bus on this narrow little Roman road. I look in disbelief as he opens the door, yelling "this isn't my stop". His fat face retorted, "I no care, you get off here."<br />
"This isn't my stop, you have to take me to my stop"<br />
"you get off"<br />
"I paid to get taken to my stop!"<br />
"you get off or I arrest"<br />
"Fuck this!" I yell as I gather my bag and my sword. I make a huge display, stomping my feet and dragging the sword like some Edward Scissorhand. I step on the asphalt, and as the orca closes the bus door, I turn and use all of my body weight to kick the shit out of the bus door. It cracked.<br />
My eyes widened and I see that this bus man is trying to open the door and get his ass up to yell at me, but more likely to call the cops on me. I yell "hi-ya" as I dash down some random alley way, with a sword in hand.<br />
<br />
That sword was confiscated at the airport.
<div align="center"><a href="http://www.elleroywashere.com" title="I Don't Like Mondays Blog Hop "><img src="http://elleroywashere.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/I-Dont-Like-Mondays-Grab-Button.jpg" alt="I Don't Like Mondays Blog Hop " style="border:none;" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-28631914124283360022013-09-18T21:54:00.000-07:002013-09-18T21:54:26.042-07:00TT: Goals...not the futbol kindIn stages, the goals in my life:<br />
<br />
Age 5-11: Meet Rhett Butler, and possibly marry him in a Southern Wedding. Be the most perfect Scarlett O'Hara. Do this by dressing up as her for every halloween. If this does not work, try being the "little mermaid". She got the dark haired guy in the end...he can pass for Rhett Butler, can't he?<br />
<br />
Age 11-13: Lose this baby fat before high school. The rolls are not cute and no one will ever kiss me. NO ONE. Meet Weezer, possibly be their band bitch. Become an Egyptologist, discover something awesome that changes every anthro/archaeology text known to man. Do this while entering in to the FBI Academy, meeting Fox Mulder, and having fraternal boy/girl twins.<br />
<br />
Age 14-18: Don't get pregnant. Study for the SAT's. Get into AP English and History. Scrape through math and science. Don't get pregnant. Make friends, not enemies. Be a good friend. Don't get suspended...again. Don't get pregnant. Graduate and go away to college.<br />
<br />
Age 19-21: Transfer in to SFSU. Don't party too much. Don't fall in love. Start to remove yourself from everyone. Develop a bad attitude. Travel. Travel a lot. Do it alone, or do it with someone, but do it.<br />
<br />
Age 22-26: Get a job at a law firm in preparation for law school. Graduate and start working on the LSAT. Travel more. Don't have kids. Don't fall in love. Try something new. Make new friends. Keep your old friends too...<br />
<br />
Age 26 - Present: Find a new career, because the law thing is a no go. You hate lawyers. Write more, because its what you love, and if you don't do it now, if you don't risk the criticism, you'll wake from a lifelong dream full of regrets. Marry the man that surpassed all of your dreams, even the ones that you never thought you could dream. Have a family. Adopt a dog. Travel the world with the person you fell in love with. Show him all of the things that you love. Move to another city, try it for a bit. Tell your family you love them because they have always loved you. Buy another car, the one you have is a your baby but its starting to fall apart. Get your credit in tip top shape, and dwindle the debt. You are almost there. Find the people you love, the friends, the family, and respect them for what they are. Find the people that bring the worst of you and cut them. Don't be afraid of this. Enjoy it, this day, this time, this moment. Because its going to be over. That life you knew, the people that you loved, they sometimes go when we don't want them to, and there is not much you can do about it. So make sure that its today that you do whatever your goal was to do.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-86490381521616873592013-09-04T21:24:00.000-07:002013-09-08T19:23:18.637-07:00Another Chapter in Awkward HandbookIf you are my friend on FaceBook you may have already read that I made a career change. I did, after all, blast the shit out of my recent change. Leaving the law office was bittersweet, leaving it for a different field? That's some exciting shit right there.<br />
<br />
After seven years of working in the law field, and after briefly flirting with the LSAT, I left this field. Seven years of other people's health and liberty within the grasp of my pudgy fingers.<br />
I wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted to get experience. So I decide to work for attorneys to get experience before graduating college. I didn't want to get myself in to law school debt only to find out that I fucking hated it. And guess what...I fucking hated it. Attorneys are weird. Helpful, but lack empathy. Not all of them, but some of them. They are the poster children for successful asperger stories. I thought I would fit right in....But I failed. I thought I had empathy, but my client's annoyed the shit out of me.<br />
<br />
Let me explain.<br />
I loved what I did. I helped the disabled population get their SSI benefits. And while doing this, some of them died on me. That's right...they fucking died waiting for the US government to give them their medical benefits after working their whole life and losing it all because they were sick. Well I left that and dabbled in Immigration law. I got to tell people that because the notary they used when they first got here because they wanted to save a buck, filed their papers wrong, that they were going to get deported and permanently barred from the US. Didn't matter who they married, that they were educated, hard working, etc.<br />
Immigration is a personal passion. And regardless of what you think, its an ass backwards institution. It's set up for failure. It's set up to mentally fuck.<br />
<br />
I spent many years caring about the lives of others while failing to make a dent in mine. I was unhappy in what I did, I hated the money, and resented the people I chose to help. So I left. I jumped at the opportunity to enter the glitzy corporate world of commercial property management. You know the kind, pant suits and fancy coffee mugs kind of place.<br />
And here is where the story gets awesome. Because this awkward Mexican walks in to the upper echelon of propriety. And do you know what I say? Do you know what I answer when I am asked how I like my change in career? I say, "its great, its not like the buildings I manage are going to get deported".<br />
Their bleach blonde smiles went limp as I caught "the fuck?" expressions they exchanged. Oh well. Wait until they see my cubicle covered in Fox Mulder pictures... I might even bring my WWII SS Panzergrad cigarette case to show and tell!<br />
<br />
This is going to be fun.<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-29813693961711653962013-08-08T09:02:00.000-07:002013-08-08T09:02:30.137-07:00TT: Geek and Freak?Let me tell you gentle readers, I never imagined this subject would make me think so hard and ponder on what to write. Geek. Its connotation once held such negativity that I sometimes shudder to hear the buxom blonde with black framed glasses to proclaim her moniker as geek. The fuck chick, the only thing geeky about you is your barbie collection softly stored in the hall closet, and even I have something like that. But its true, in this day, the word no longer means the end of a social life. Geek no longer encompasses trench coats and dungeons and dragons ( I had a brief d & d phase, and I didn't call it d &d). In this day, almost all can quote Star Wars, make references to Khaleesi, and explain the history of House Harkonnen. But in my infancy, in my dawn of creation, I had many phases of geekdom, many of which lead people to believe that not only was I this geeky chick wearing two sizes too big pants and band shirts, but that I was a amrginal frreak. I present to you, my many stages of Geektacity:<br />
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<u>The Truth is Out There</u><br />
The truth is out there, and I was certain that the love of my adolescent life, Mr. Fox Mulder was going to lead me to this truth. Let me tell you people, the X-files was more than just a show, this was THE show that introduced me into puberty. I didn't know what crushing, daydreaming, or tingling was until I watched this show. Yeah, I know what I just said. This was more than sci-fi, this was my life. It helped that I had been softly steered towards sci-fi whle I was still a toddler, but it was Fox, Mr. Hot man Mulder that really dragged me in to the depths of the unknown. He was the one that made me question our existence and to look for signs everywhere. I didn't care that they weren't on the cover of teen people, or that his hair didn't wisp like JTT (in case you didn't know, that's Jonathan Taylor Thomas), this was a man's man, with a gun, and a badge! I was going to join the FBI and find this man, and together we would gather the evidence to prove once and for all that the existence of aliens is here!!! And then after we would settle down on Catalina Island and have geeky FBI babies. I had to settle for the X-Files special edition barbie dolls. But I want to believe.<br />
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<u>ASOS</u><br />
Let me tell you, if you don't know ASOS, you don't actually know Game of Thrones. And if you only know Game of Thrones through HBO, that's ok, but shut the fuck up, because you don't actually know shit. You don't know what it is to sit there, at 16 years old, and cry yourself to sleep because the hero of the hour just had his head chopped off in front of everyone. You didn't lay awake at night wondering why George hates you so fucking much, why he chooses to pick off those people (and they are people, not just characters) and leave you there in a vat of tears, your heart in your throat, compounded with a loss of appetite. I do want to take this time to thank my friend for introducing me to the series and essentially making me the most annoying girl that my boyfriend has ever had to endure. Thanks for letting me geek out on you babe. And quite honestly, I am grateful to HBO...that show is fucking amazing.<br />
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<u>History</u><br />
I spent my Senior year perched on a tree in the quad of my high school, or in the corner of the media center reading about Henry Rex (VIII) and his marital conquests. Why? Because he was bad ass whose dick prompted a religious reformation and broke ties with the Pope. He was also a bad ass because the guy married six times...six times!!! I believe that number can only be rivaled by Elizabeth Taylor, who conincidentally was married to Richard Burton (twice), who played the role of Henry in "Anne of the Thousand Days". But now I have gone off on a tangent.<br />
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Lets not forget Schindler's List and the impact it made on my historical brain. Ralph Fiennes in a SS uniform. Holy shit...I was sold. I had to know everything and anything about World War II, Germany, the SS, Hitler, genocide...my world had become endless, a vast canvas of lives and events that had all come before me. I had to learn of them all. I had to know them, their speech, their dress, their friends. I devoured each sentence and voraciously searched for the next chapter. I still do.<br />
It doesn't stop there. Each event that passes I somehow tie in to fascism and fanaticism. My references to the wars, great or civil, sometimes are too much for my listener to comprehend. Many a time I have gotten the "here we go again the with nazis" or "the romanovs are dead".<br />
But those that know me and love me, and maybe not love me, but know me, will tell you, "that's just her, she really geeks on this shit."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-5313175025225653942013-08-01T09:37:00.000-07:002013-08-01T09:37:05.419-07:00TT: Yankees vs. ConfederatesFor those of you unaware...I am a big fan of "Gone with the Wind". Film and Book. My three year old little mind basques in the southern charm and beauty of hoop skirt and pantalet. Now, this movie might be set in the Civil War, but it certainly does not share the true atrocities, or the content for which the United States had decided to turn on each other. To me, and maybe to many, but mostly me, this film was about a southern way of life completely destroyed by those "damn dirty yanks", the scoundrels of the north whose sole purpose was to uproot a tranquil, quiet world. It was not until I wandered in to the history section of Empire Library that I learned about whipping posts and middle passage. As I got older, I felt guilty for rooting for the Confederates. After all, the dashing Clark Gable/Rhett Butler (same man) enlisted at the end of the war, but fought for the South none the less. So naturally I was torn. How I could I choose between the dashing men of the South but still accept the atrocities of the "S" word. Eeeek. So I did what I do as always. I made a list of why Confederates suck, and why Yankees suck.<br />
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Enjoy. <br />
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<u>Confederates</u>:<br />
1. It's the South.<br />
2. Slavery.<br />
3. The cute Southern accent, its not so cute anymore.<br />
4. They threw a monster hissy fit because they didn't get their way, and they fucking seceded. Wah.<br />
5. The men don't actually look like Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler, not at all.<br />
6. Gone with the Wind was fiction, Margaret Mitchell lied to us ALL!<br />
7. Jefferson Davis. End point.<br />
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<u>Yankees</u>:<br />
1. They tried to kill Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler.<br />
2. They tried to destroy that beautiful Southern way of life, <i>a world of cavaliers, gone with the wind. </i><br />
3. They raped and pillaged many of the unmanned homes of the South...those women were not the enemy. Well, I guess they were, sort of, but still. There was no uniform on them.<br />
4. Lincoln was a liar whose last resort was the Emancipation Proclamation. He really did not care if slaves were free. He wasn't a fan of slavery, but rather, at best, ambivalent.<br />
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If I was asked which side was the better side, what little semblance of humanity I have left inside of me would always say the North. Slavery was deplorable, an institution that remains alive in the world today. It's disgusting and barbaric.<br />
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On a lighter note, I always wanted to be the Mexican Scarlett O'Hara.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-19485897742433487322013-07-30T22:22:00.000-07:002013-07-30T22:22:38.936-07:00Ode to Canelo v. Mayweather. September, you are much too far for me.<br />
I long to see those heavy arms as they smash in to the face of the one I loath.<br />
"Hit him, kill him", I yell as my hero of the flat screen lunges towards the king of pomp and arrogance. The dip splattered across my chin, a chip left crushed among the sea of unwashed rug.<br />
The pre-fights, oh how they drag on. Those men who dare to call themselves fighters, mere pansies tap dancing in the ring.<br />
Come to me September 14, come to me as I host an early Mexican Independence day party.<br />
Come to me as I eagerly watch that beautiful Guadalajaran beat the arrogance out of that dick whose father etched his name in boxing history.<br />
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I will wait for you. I will read on you. I will watch you.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-44294098567910111022013-07-08T09:50:00.000-07:002013-07-08T09:54:02.601-07:00Because its MondayAfter an unintentional hiatus, I decided to come back on to the keyboard and type something that had nothing to do with Immigration Law. So here I am.<br />
After this unintentional hiatus, I have come to appreciate my blog, my rough and unedited writing, and to toot my own horn.<br />
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While I was gone, I received the news that someone I love is dying faster than I would want them to go. It's a certainty that we will die, but the time frame is what I hate. This dwelling on time forced me to dwell on this word we use, "love".<br />
I had a grandmother that died almost three years ago. It was sad, a lot of people cried. But in an effort to maintain transparency, I only cried because she was my father's mother. Yes, in the last years of her life I had gotten to know this woman through and through, more so than when she was virilent. But it was not until she was close to the end that she seemed to care on who I was and whether or not I came to see her. It was nice to see her so humbled, and in turn, creating an emphatic and humbling experience within me. But the day she died, it was not sadness for me or for my loss, but a sadness for my father who's complex relationship with his own mother has yet to be unearthed. I often wondered if he was sad, regretful, angry? But I have never dared to ask him. And it was for those reasons that I was sad, that I cried. Not for the love of a woman, but for the selfish answers that I will never have answered, and for the father who couldn't seem to bring himself to visit his own mother in life.<br />
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Now it is me that is legitimately crying. This will be the first "family" member that I have loved, and will now lose. Perhaps I have lost this person a long time ago. I had stopped my frequent visits to Texas years ago, and only recently resumed on a vacation a few months ago. A wave of guilt went over me. These were people I loved, that loved me. These were people that were excited to receive my call, and embraced me with the largest hugs I have ever felt. And now one of them is leaving sooner than I would want.<br />
I got to visit with him one last time. He sat up at the table, proudly showed off his PICC Line, and told me how the next time I visited, he was going to kill and grill a goat in my honor. He still looked the same, just slightly slower and with a bit more white hairs. That is how I want to keep it.<br />
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You will have to excuse the "dear diary" entry. But its been quite some time and there is so much I want to say. I will have to cut it here. I can't seem to continue without shedding a tear.<br />
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<div class="elleroy-was-here-button" style="width: 150px; margin: 0 auto;"> <a href="http://elleroywashere.com" rel="nofollow"> <img src="http://elleroywashere.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/I-Dont-Like-Mondays-Grab-Button.jpg" alt="elleroy was here" width="150" height="150" /> </a> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-70360900713426902002013-06-20T09:08:00.001-07:002013-06-20T09:08:07.121-07:00TT: Sigur Ros and Vomit do not mixI was a late bloomer in many if not all part of my life. I was raised with some awesome people whose musical tastes were all I could hang on to, unbeknowst that I had free will to like my own music.<br />
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Last year, for the babe's birthday, I bought him a pair of tickets to go to SF Outside Lands, this awesome music festival located in Golden Gate Park San Francisco. We were excited to see the multiple bands, but more importantly, the fact that we would be seeing Sigur Ros, those beautiful Icelandic voices lulling is in to a dream like state. As the date approached, we realized that the Saturday of the festival was to be the same day as the Mexico vs. Brazil Olympic game, a match for the fucking gold. We had to watch regardless of where we were and what we were doing. I quickly called a bar that we had frequented before to make sure that a) the soccer match would be on their tvs at 630 in the morning, and b) they would be open to the public at 630 in the morning. The bar confirmed both.<br />
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We were headed to a bar on a Saturday morning to watch Mexico dominate the shit out of Brazil. Didn't matter to us that we, the Mexicans, were the under dogs, we were pumped and ready to kick some South American Ass. We arrived to a surprisingly busy bar. Everyone was in there already drinking, shouting. The far corner of the bar was decked in yellow, rooting for Brazil. We took a seat at the bar, ordered our breakfast, and tequila shots...yeah, that's right, tequila shots for breakfast.<br />
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As fate would decide, Mexico won Olympic Gold (VIVA FUCKING MEXICO). This only meant that my babe and I would continue the shit show and down the tequila. Shots were bought for the bar, the bar bought us shots. It was great...until I hate the wind outside.<br />
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We decided it was time to retreat, only that by the time I made it to the street, I was piss drunk...literally. We went outside and I passed out on some patch of San Francisco grass, and then pissed myself. No vomit, just piss. The poor babe, equally as shit faced, but no piss of his own, was left to his own to try and get us a cab back to our hotel, and who drives up...a fucking cop. Luckily for us, we were the tamest of San Francisco's shit show, so rather than cuff us, SFPD hailed a cab for us. As soon as I am in the cab, my German speaking skills kick in. Yeah that's right, German...A Mexican girl is speaking German to the Filipino cabbie...this of course made no sense making the drive to the hotel amusing for me, cumbersome for my babe, and annoying as fuck to the cab driver.<br />
There is a point...<br />
I pass out only to wake a few hours later realizing we have a Sigur Ros show to catch. I pull my shit together, shower, and make it out the door. But the fun didn't end there. As we are getting ready to park the car so that we can catch the shuttle to Golden Gate Park, I puke all over the front seat of my car. In some sick twist of fate, I did not puke on my clothes, but it was all over the fucking car. No time to clean, we get on the bus. And then I puke on the shuttle, on a cloth seat. No big deal, I put some paper towels, mutter some "uh someone puked back there" and get off the bus.<br />
So we make it to Sigur Ros, and its beautiful, only I am STILL FUCKING VOMITING!!! And I am vomiting in a crowd, among the feet of these poor souls who will soon trample me if I don't stop vomiting. It was no matter, we were going to watch these Icelandic angel voices ...<br />
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We only lasted ten minutes...I was forced to retreat to greener or pastures, or at least to an area I could vomit without being stepped on...<br />
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I am too old for this shit.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230210612534364256.post-70885941974000939112013-06-18T12:59:00.000-07:002013-06-24T08:56:08.883-07:00Dissecting a hate siteRecently I stumbled across this site <a href="http://shesahomewrecker.com/">http://shesahomewrecker.com/</a>. Well, stumble I did not, but rather came upon via Facebook.<br />
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The site is filled with women dragging their marital indiscretions, detailing their pain at the hands of their man some "nasty whore". Its riddled with written excrement, berating this other woman, publicly shaming them for "wrecking" their home.<br />
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Let me preface by stating that I am not excusing the action of women who involve themselves with attached men (or women, whatever the preference). I am however condemning sites like these that solely target the woman. At some point we have been cheated on or have cheated. Its happened. You can admit it or sweep it away. For whatever the reason, we took the asshole back, or we were the asshole and begged them to take us back. But the issue remains that there were two willing participants in order for this to happen.<br />
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A dissection of this pitiful site produced the following:<br />
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Target words like manipulative, and home wrecker and splattered throughout. If a man is willing to stick his dick in something else after years of a "happy" relationship, then he is a weak shit that was easily manipulate. This man probably believed that Jesus really did turn the water in to vodka and that Santa shit the coal in his stocking Christmas morning. The reality is that it is the weak that are easily manipulated, the unhappy and distressed that welcome such destruction. Its an excuse to leave, to create a conflict, a passage to exit. Its the thrill and drama in an otherwise considered mundane life.<br />
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Terms like "on a break". I had a field day with this one. A break is a break up. If you want to fuck around and get back together after, then just say so. If you need some space, and a few days to be with your friends, then just say that, but fuck off with the break. Breaks happen in high school in between periods, they should not be happening in over 21 relationships. Break the fuck up already. You were not on a break. You were on a "hey I am going to fuck this bitch, and grind on this guy, but there is still a chance we are going to fuck around together in the future so make we don't find out about it...bitch."<br />
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Too often the descriptions started with "my guy was calling this girl, but she was the one that wrecked my home because he was with me". Oh my my my. Mi amorcitos, you are so deluded. There was a hard lesson I once learned - they were never yours, they were never with you. They were just there. The fact remains is that the commitment was made between you and the significant other, not you, him/her, and the third party love triangle. You are responsible to the feelings and commitment, not this random third party. Your heart was in your partners hands, he/she was the one to fuck things up, not this "other" person. "Other" person was not in a relationship with you, they do not owe you anything. Your significant other did.<br />
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Ladies, don't be pendejas. We are better than this. Yes, we are woman, we are human, thus subject to petulance and insecurity. We have all made mistakes, impulsive choices, and emotional decisions. But we are women. We all struggle. Don't do this to each other. Nothing that was beautiful and sacred was ever wrecked by this one person. She was one person, with so little power that was given to her disposal.<br />
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The internet has some scary shit out there.<br />
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Disclaimer: May I note that I am not ok with cheating. I am not ok with being in this immense amount of pain. I empathise wholeheartedly and feel that the anger is justified. I am just opposed to shaming sites such us this. There is usually so much more to these stories, and rather than tearing women down, and splattering them for anyone with an internet connection to see, we should be building up our own self esteem. I never ever mean to hurt anyone with my posts.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00832925752390747352noreply@blogger.com1