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

Bars and Books - My Favorite Combination

Molly 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.

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.

Bar: Wine Affairs
Book: The Man in the High Castle or anything by Phillip K. Dick

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.

Bar: Blank Club
Book: Breathers: A Zombies Lament by S.G. Browne

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.

Bar: Cinebar
Book: Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov

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.

Bar: Teske's Germania
Book: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

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?

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 here. Now lets drink!

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.