Another Chapter in Awkward Handbook

If 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.

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.
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.

Let me explain.
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.
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.

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.
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".
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!

This is going to be fun.

TT: This could take a while

It's Theme Thursday...and boy do I have a grocery lists of things that I am proud of...and its a list because I am a lazy duck today and am not up for formatting a paragraph.

1. Myself...because I am a motherfucking self proclaimed genius...agree with me or not, but deal with it!

2. My musical taste - I can jam out to Siouxsie Sioux while dancing cumbia with the family...my taste is all over the spectrum...except for pop, keep that Britney Spears/Rihanna blasphemy away from me.

3. My book collection, it is a fire hazard, and can potentially get much bigger, but its a nice size and readily available...I love it.

4. My drinking. My boyfriend might be able to win at the chugging competition, but I can out drink almost everyone when it comes to tequila. I don't get crazy, I just get loving, and I can drink it all night. Bring it the fuck on.

5. I can dance mexican  folklorico, and whether these nimrods like to admit it or not, I was amazing. I had the feet of an angel, with the grace of a flamingo. My skirtwork was on point, and I look like a god damn authentic rancherita when I am on that dance floor.

6. I am proud of my sister, who after having a rod inserted into her hip, can still rock those stilletos, and manage to make a hospital room look like a vegas nightclub. You rock Chavis.

7. I am proud of my brother, who is about to embark on the AIDS/LIFECYCLE, riding his bike from SF to LA...to cure AIDS.

8. I am proud that I am a college graduate, and semi educated (despite what I said on number 1). I think I have a long road of education ahead of me, but I made it this far, and I am not going to lie, I am still excited for myself.

9. I am proud of my WWII collection, which is mostly a Nazi collection, that consists of a 1939 SS Panzergrad special edition cigarette case, made for those that were stationed in Athens, my 1932, first Edition of Hitlerism, written by Louis Leo Snyder, and my 1942 edition of Mein Kampf. No, I am not a Nazi, I am just fascinated by World War II, its atrocities  and how gullible the world can and will be. I have more books...but...you know.

10.This was a really difficult topic for me, despite the joking at the beginning  I don't take pride in a whole lot, but I do take pride in my life, my relationship, my family, and my future.

Mama, Mamon, Mamitis

In the Hispanic/Latin culture, there is an epidemic that has plagued the people, nay, men of these lands. I am sure that other cultures may have a similar epidemic, however being a Mexican, it is fucking prevalent and debilitating to many of the men, boys, and potential coupling that could ensue. It is called Mamitis, and to those who have it, we call them Mamon. Now you may have no fucking clue what either of these words mean...probably because a) you don't speak Spanish  b) you have never encountered said plague, and or c) your man/ex man/brother/cousin/dad may never have suffered from this umbilical cord disease.

Now I am going to explain exactly what these words mean. And I am going to provide crude and very offensive examples of this disease. But I feel that I must post this disclaimer...read it carefully and don't draw any fucking conclusions...take it for what it is:

1. I am not referring to any one that is in my life today, these examples are from men/boys that I knew years before, and may not have necessarily been in a relationship with, could have just been an acquaintance.

2. I am about to get offensive towards Peruvians. Now if you ask yourself, whats the difference between a Peruvian and a Mexican, my knee jerk reaction would be to say "fuck you". But, geographically, physically, and culturally, there is a huge fucking difference. I do not have a personal vendetta against the Peruvians, I was just once highly annoyed with one and made a greatly offensive comment to that asshole which I am about to share with you. I promise to be as equally offensive to my Mexican people in future posts, if I haven't already.

3. Take it in stride..this post is for fun, not educating, so before you get all up the ass, just chill.

4. I love men who love, respect and honor their mothers. If they treat their mother's in such a manner, chances are they will treat you with the same honors. I can attest to this now. I think there is a balance with family, and I have found the perfect man with the perfect balance.

Now, mamitis is a condition when a grown man has yet to detach from his mother's umbilical cord. this is a very popular phenomenon that goes far beyond the mother land. Every decision, every meal, and every bowel movement is done with the hand holding of his mother. She may at times wipe his ass, make rude, comparison comments to his girlfriend/wife (this has never happened to me...because I am fucking perfect), and get all up in his shit with other woman. He in turn, may compare his girlfriend to his mother, making comments about her cooking, her manner of ironing, and whether or not she is the god damn goddess like his mother. Now his mother may be a fucking saint, but he may just be an asshole with an Oedipal complex, it happens.

I'll give you an example...

I made this giant mistake and had a relationship with a Peruvian. Now this Peruvian, was a little special. I shit you not, he went to his mother's twice a fucking day. Once in the morning, and once at night. Each time picking up his little care package, because god forbid he make himself a fucking sandwich. Now I decided to be nice, and make him dinner. Fuck me right? Well here is how that dinner went...
Sits at dinner table -
Him: whats this?!?!?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: I mean what is this? This isn't how my mom makes food?
Me: I am sorry? What do you mean? I am not understanding?
Him: well its not my mom's, my mom doesn't make food like this, she doesn't use this ingredient, or this ingredient, and she always does this to...
Me: Do you see a fucking tree in my house?
Him: What?
Me: Do...you...see...a...motherfucking tree...in .... my...house??!?!
Him: What is that supposed to mean?
Me: I am not sure if you knew this, but Motherfucker, I am a Mexican...not a Peruvian...my people do not still swing from fucking trees like your people. And take a look at my face...its not your fucking mom's face...and smell that? It's my god damn food and it smells amazing!!!!!!! Call your fucking mom and tell her to set an extra fucking table in the tree!

That was just the tip of the comparisons, and mind you, I was already at my wits with this asshole for continually comparing my body type to a playmate...my tits are real asshole! So I already had some pent up anger...but this incident was the most notable. I wish I was making this up ....

Another time, when I was visiting this one place in another country...I need to be a little vague, I encountered a forty something year old man whose umbilical cord was severely attached and possibly moldy. Now this fucker owned his own house down the street from his mother, but remained living in her house. He would literally walk through the door, drop trouser for his 80 something year old mother to pick up and wash. She made his meals, she rubbed his back. She would sit at his bedside at night and rub down his legs. You all know the Oedipal story right...well I thought I was in the fucking episode of the twilight zone. I pity the rancherita than ends up with that animal.

So "M" is for mamitis.

Beaner

Yeah, that's right, I said the word beaner.

As you may already know...I am Mexican, and I grew up, within the US borders, as VERY Mexican  I have the mariachi outfit to prove it. My house spoke primarily Spanish  and we ate beans and rice all the time.

We were so entrenched with the Spanish and being Mexican, that I grew up thinking Charlton Heston was a Mexican because our copy of "Ten Commandment's" was dubbed in Spanish...I was not a bright child.
I mean everybody knew that Jesus Christ was a Mexican,  look at his beard for Christ's sake. And didn't everybody have goats in their back yard and mariachis come play for their 4th birthday? Did I mention that I was also a brat?

Food was a major item in the house but wasn't it for everybody? You come home, and mom immediately wanted to shovel beans and carne down your throat. "Oh mija, you aren't hungry anymore, here! Let me make you a quesadilla". And if there wasn't a newly killed chicken boiling on the stove, there were always tortillas and beans to eat a plenty. All of this is normal right? All people in the US grew up like this...right?

FUCKING WRONG!

So I also had the advantage of being sent to a Catholic private school, which had one other child who had goats in their backyard, and that fucker was filipino, not a mexican. And my mom wasn't a fan of having other little fuckers, that weren't family kids, in her house. So when I did get permission to invite some of these little shits...this is what they told me...

Him- "you have all those people living in the house? you have goats in the backyard? Dude, you're a beaner"

Me - "oh yeah, thanks. I love beans"

Laughter erupts. I didn't get it.

Later that night, I picked the perfect opportunity (while she was watching Sabado Gigante)  to tell my mom about the day. "A'ma, sabias que soy una beaner porque me gustan frijoles" Translation: Mom, did you know I'm a beaner because I love to eat beans....The look on her face was priceless, and the next words out of her mouth were epic! "QUE CHINGADOS DIJISTES?!?!?!" Translation: what the fuck

did you just say?

And that was the day that I learned that the word beaner is derogatory...and that my upbringing was slightly different from some of the other kids.

Not so Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

I am the oldest by six years. This meant that my summers were spent terrorizing my younger siblings in to playing school, where I was the evil head master and they were disgusting and vile students. I was such a shit to them, they had no choice but to play outside and entertain me because until July rolled around, I was stuck in a backyard filled with chickens, goats, and some cactus...this is downtown San Jose, California by the way.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jk7uXaNuWNEBut then the end of June/beginning of July would roll around. You see, from the age of 8 up until my quinceanera, I had the good fortune of being shipped to Texas. I realize how ass backwards this may sound...."good fortune" and "Texas" do not typically jive in the same sentence. But to me, this was all I could think or talk about.

My godparents moved to Texas when I was seven years old. They had a ranch about an hour south of Austin. But it might have been hours and hours away because most of my time was spent on that ranch in a town that was notorious for its great pecan...I wish I was joking. But it didn't bother me because I was care free, kid free, and my days were spent watching Mexican smut television and eating my godmother's home made tortillas. As to why I wasn't a tumbler is beyond me. My tummy days came way later. We would take a drive in to town, blasting Selena y los dinos, or some other tex-mex station. One year, at the age of thirteen, I earned my right of passage and was allowed to drive the truck from town to the ranch...I didn't kill anyone...but I did scare the shit out of everyone in the car. It should also be noted that my driving skills come from learning to drive in a monster truck on the solitary highway of Texas....so yeah...

Once in a while when my aunt Linda was in town we would take a trip down to Corpus Christi, where we would try to swim in an ocean but couldn't because of the warm salt water scratching the sight out of my eyes. Also, my aunt and godmother don't swim...so I would have been fucked. Other times we would drive to Mexico, spend the day in Piedras Negras buying candy and eating tacos from the street vendors.

I have spent a lot of summers in other places in the world. But I have to admit, Texas is place I loved to be.

My Final Wishes

Let me tell you how it's going to go...

There is going to be a huge party! With tequila, chicken chow mein, enchiladas, tacos, beef chow fun, pizza (from round table) and caprese sandwiches. There is going to be a Mexican conjunto playing nothing but Norteno (NOT GANG NORTENO. Region Norteno) music, and then I want an hour of Sid Vicious, Siouxsie and the Banshees, New Order, Weezer, and then Schindler's List and Gone with the Wind playing on a huge screen. Maybe even a clip from Downfall.

There won't be a mass, there won't be an open casket...that shit freaks me the fuck out. And quite honestly, I want people to remember me for my Nazi humor and off colored jokes rather than some gray skinned corpse that for once in her life is quiet.

I can't say that my babe will say some words because after watching this documentary the other day I made this promise that I would wait for him to die first and then I would follow...details to come in the next blog.

I don't want anyone to cry...well...that's a lie. Crying is ok. But I want them all to dance, eat, and be really drunk.

I don't care much about cremation or burying, as long as I am with the babe.

Wear black, I love when people wear black...it looks so fancy.

MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL: DON'T FORGET THE TEQUILA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!