Travel Tuesday - Margarita in Rome

So let me tell you about this one time when I went to Italy...

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.

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

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?

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.

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.

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..."
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."

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!

So began my lone travels, as a  Stupid (Mexican) American. 

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5 Ways to Survive a Shopping Mall

I 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:

1. Arrive early. 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.

2. Have a Plan. 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.

3. Go Alone. 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".

4. Don't Shop When You Absolutely Need. 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.

5. Don't Shop at a Mall When Starving. 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.

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.

Travel Tuesday: If you can't Travel, Watch a Movie

Travel 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. 

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. 

Belgium - In Bruges

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. 

Spain - Vicky Cristina Barcelona

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.  

Japan - Lost in Translation

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?

Africa - The English Patient

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. 

Travel Tuesday: Freak out on Route 99

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I can't wait to visit Seattle again.

America, the beautiful Nazi State

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 "I mean, [we are] very much like Nazi Germany. And I know you’re not supposed to say ‘Nazi Germany,’ but I don’t care about political correctness.(: http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2014/mar/12/ben-carson-americas-now-very-much-nazi-germany/#ixzz2vu2dqf32) 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. 

Here are my top five reasons why Dr. Carson is so fucking wrong...and ultimately a lame cock:

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. 

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?

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. 

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. 

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. 

So NO Dr. Ben Carson..we are not equal to Nazi Germany... pass some horrific legislature and then we will talk. 

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 have nothing to Offer but the haphazard that is my current state of mind

Week 2. Still Fat. No weight loss. But no weight gain. I guess that's good.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I hope I didn't drive you away, or maybe I've attracted a new reader...

Resolutions are for Assholes

Jan 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.

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:
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.
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.
So the remainder of my vacation is plagued by a back pain...

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.