Hey Dad

Perhaps 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.

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.

The quick wit and snark was strong too.

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".

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.

This is not a long post, just a post to remember my Dad.

Travel Tuesday: I pooped in Hitler's Toilet

So...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.

If you don't like poop, stop reading. Because this is about me pooping. I am giving you so many fucking warnings here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

"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.

The Talk

I 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.
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.

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.

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!

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 -

1. Maturity is required when deciding to partake in sexual activities, but it doesn't always happen.
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.
3. ALWAYS USE PROTECTION
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.
5. No one should touch you in an unwanted manner, nor should they force you to touch them.
6. Herpes and AIDS are forever.
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.

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.

Travel Tuesday: Mexicans in Germany! - The Honeymoon Part I

It 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.

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?

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.

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.

Travel Tuesday - Earl Gray, Germany in Seattle, and a Funeral Home

Travel 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.

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:

Proximity
Distillation
Atmosphere
(PDA)

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.

Bar: The Pine Box
P: 10
D: 10
A: 10

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.

Bar: Rhein Haus
P: 8
D: 10+
A: 7

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...

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.

Bar: The Diller Room
P: 10
D: 10
A: 9

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.

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?

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.

Cinco de Que?: A Brief Education of Cinco de Mayo

The 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.
"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.

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:

1. September 16 is Mexico's Day of Independence...not May 5.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Now stop being an ignorant asshole, read up on your history, and enjoy our culture!

Begrudgingly, Happy Cinco de Mayo but more importantly, VIVA MEXICO!

Dear Barbara Walters, This Interview is Disgusting

Dear Ms. Walters,

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

Sincerely,

A Woman Who Thinks We Should Be Treated Equally, Even When We Commit Crimes