Ramblings of an Overexcited Twenty-Something

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Playing God

I always assumed that by the time any of my friends decided to have children, I would be much older and mature enough for anyone to see me as an ideal candidate for godmother. I could be the quirky, "oh-there-she-goes-again-being-weird" kind of godmother that a kid could easily take to school for Show and Tell. Yes, 8 years from now, I will surely be in high demand as a godmother to all of my closest friends, and naturally I will agree to be all the (cute) children's godmothers. Because I have standards.

I was caught unawares a couple of weeks ago when that fateful day when I was asked to be a godmother came sooner rather than later. Before you ask yourself "which of her high profile celebrity friends has a bun in the oven?!?" in complete shock, let me clarify. I was asked to be the godmother to the baby of the cleaning lady at my office.

At first, I assumed my extremely brown skin and general latina appearance (mushroom-like nose and asian bowed legs excluded) led her to believe that I was one of her people; however, when I explained to her in a purposefully white person accent that I was "un parte japones, un parte BLANCO", she acted unsurprised. She then asked another spanish speaking staffmember to translate our conversation and told him that she thought I was a good lady and a "people person"(PUH LEASE) and she wanted me to be the godmother. Why does everyone think I am a people person? I am NOT. I am a people-I-like person, but not a people person. But I digress. Anyway, now she wants me to attend a class at her Honduran Catholic Church and learn how to properly hold a baby. Here's why I should have said no:
1) I don't even think there is such a thing as a Honduran Catholic Church in America and if there is on, it's probably an abandoned location where a serial killer will undoubtedly murder us both, or maybe just me if her husband turns out to be a killer and this is one of his twisted games. I watch too much Dexter.
2) I have never held a baby for more than 30 seconds before I hold it away from my body using as few fingers as possible and say "oh, it doesn't like me!" regardless of whether the child is crying or not.
3) If she doesn't have any sort of citizenship in place, the chances that she will leave her child with me and head for the hills, or beach, or shantys, in Honduras are very high.

Here's why I said yes:
1) I have difficulty setting boundaries for people
2) I desperately wanted to tell Lindsay about this entire story

I have since learned that my future godchild's name is Luis and he is 1 year old. She showed me a picture of him sitting in a shopping cart and I said "Oh my gosh, I have a picture of my dog in a shopping cart too!" which didn't really translate well and even if it did, it still makes no sense why I would put my dog in a shopping cart.

So here ends my story...for now, until I take my first How to Not Drop a Baby as it is Baptized in Oil at a Real or Unreal Honduran Catholic Church class. To be continued....unless I get killed.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Going Postal

I hate the post office. Every time I have a day full of errands to run, the post office is inevitably involved. I always save it for last, thinking that it won't be as bad as I remember, but it is. And it's always worse. I'm writing this blog from the post office (I'll post it later), and I think I might actually be in hell. Here's why:
1. There is a crying baby. He alternates between crying and joyously pulling off and replacing his spiderman bandaid. I can see from 5 people back that there is pus on his finger. I find this disgusting, but the elderly woman filling out her hold mail form keeps playing with him. Clearly she is too old to see that there is an oozing, throbbing pustule on the boy's index finger. Blind Broad also doesn't seem to notice that the line in front of her is moving. This really bothers me, just like how it bothers me when people don't scoot their cars up all the way at an intersection. Even though the line is 10 miles long, I still would feel a lot better if she just moved up so the construction worker behind me would stop grunting at the weight of the box he is carrying. Every time I turn my head slightly to indicate that his overexertion is irritating me, I see his knees buckling and I worry he'll fall forward and kill me.
2. There is a mentally retarded asian teenager in the front of the line. I feel really bad for him because he's alone and quite helpless, but he's holding up the line! All boxes are supposed to be taped before they reach the counter. There's a large sign emphasizing this rule but of course no one has read it. No one wants to cross the teen, seeing as he has currently covered a large portion of his torso in priority mail tape. He is repeatedly scraping his forearms along the counter to try and remove it while simultaneously flinging his body in every cardinal direction.
3. Despite there being more people than the entire construction crews of every Extreme Makeover: Home Edition episode combined, there is only one employee working the counter. While there are 4 other visible employees in the back, I can't understand why one of them, clad head to toe in a muted, subtle fuschia, is walking down the line asking everyone what they're at the post office for. This doesn't help anyone. It only helps me think of more reasons why I want to scream.
4. There is an automated postal center for a reason. It means do it yourself, and it is in fact the most self explanatory machine ever. So why is there a man hovering over every person there asking them what zip code it is when the machine is already asking that? Why is he not behind the counter helping the woman who resembles Tess from Touched by an Angel?
5. Tess. She's moving at a glacial pace, which normally thrills me, but seriously, she could not possibly be more of a sloth. I understand that she doesn't want to be here any more than I do, but it's her job, and she has to do it. There is literally no more room left in the line and it is now going out the door.
6. There is a lovely Chinese couple in front of me speaking in loud, rapid Mandarin. It appears they're arguing over how to spell the word "jacket" on the Customs form that Fuschia Franny decreed they fill out. I don't know if it's them or Construction Carl behind me, but someone smells rank, and I'm not pleased. Tess from Touched by an Angel has just informed the woman that she must have her jacket in the box and taped by the time she reaches the counter. I'm only one person away from freedom, and the woman can't speak english, so she takes all of the stuff out of the box and places it on top of the box and smiles. I don't understand. Tess asked her if her box weighed over 4 pounds, which was a stupid question seeing as I'm pretty sure they use the Metric System or like jade stones to weigh stuff in China. Naturally, she doesn't understand this either, and I'm starting to feel sorry for her, so I just pop her stuff back in the box and hand her some tape. She almost snarls at me, which is nice to see when you help someone.

It's finally my turn, and NOW of all times, a new employee comes to help Tess. Wow, awesome. I'm never coming back here again, unless of course my time has come to leave this earth and Tess comes to take me home to Jesus.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008


A couple of years ago, my half indian friend introduced me to the brilliance and wonderment that is the art of eyebrow threading. While it is, essentially, the act of hair being forcefully yanked out of some of the most sensitive skin on your body, threading makes your brows look fantastic. That is, once you get past the first day when your eyebrows look like a gay man's.

I'm writing this blog directly from this salon in a place I like to call India, which consists of a shopping center containing Indian clothing stores, Bombay Chinese cuisine, and a vegetarian restaurant, and it wouldn't be complete without the ever-popular TJ Maxx and Party City, garrisoned on either end of the strip mall.

India has recently been renovated, and it looks simply stunning. Gone are the days of yellowing floors and fraying wicker furniture. Oh no siree, they've upgraded to a new formica floor in some sort of mottled pattern that is supposed to look like marble. Elegant white stone pedestals draped in ornate plastic roses give the room classic Athenian feel. And the smell? Lysol Lovely.

The best part about the waiting room in India is the 50 inch, 9,000 pound television that is constantly playing the latest in Middle Eastern soap operas. Right now, there are two heavily made-up women abusing a crying child and undoubtedly inducing shaken baby syndrome, Bollywood style, lighting up the screen. This is only mildly disturbing, given the previous scene of several men dressed in traditional women's garb dancing through a marketplace and occasionally hitting a meek beauty, laughing more uproariously with each smack.

My eyes are wandering, and I begin to read the Salon and Accessories Menu. Keep in mind that there are no accessories of any kind listed on said menu, unless you count accessories to the crime of misspelling. Threading. It appears one can get a full face threading for only $10.00. For an added fee, one can have one's neck dehaired also. This is only offered for women. Women with beards, apparently. There is only one service for men, and that is an eyebrow thread. A full or half stomach wax is also available. If you're going to wax your stomach, I really don't know why you wouldn't go through with the whole thing. Hair and make-up is also available, including "bridle" make-up for a cool $125. I'm perplexed. I was unaware that horse mouthpieces and accompanying harnesses really required all that much make-up, but I guess I was wrong. Horses can be so sensitive about their looks. The bottom of the menu says "Your Satisfaction is Our Success." I understand the message they're trying to send, but it still doesn't make that proclamation roll of the tongue any easier. Not to mention that I don't believe they care if I'm satisfied or not, seeing as the heavyset woman largely resembling Roz from Monsters, Inc. who mans the register hates me. She hates me more if I compliment her, I don't know why.

The other threaders are eyeing me anxiously. They know that I'm waiting for my usual torturer who never messes up my eyebrows and always mentions any and all pimples for no apparent reason other than to call more attention to them than is already being done by the heaps of concealer I have subtly covering the geysers. They can stare all they want, I am waiting for my threader. Call me sentimental, but I just couldn't stand to peek out with one eye at anyone else besides her in her red chunky Tommy Hilfiger sweater that I may have owned in 6th grade. I was really into wearing the most exclusive designers back then. Today, she's wearing a baby blue lycra tee proudly emblazoned with "Banana Republic". She's such a fashion trailblazer. Lifetime should make a movie about her next, it would be way better than the Coco Chanel Story, even though I watched that twice.

She just finished doing my eyebrows, and they look just as I want them to: partly homosexual and raw around the edges. Look out, world, here I come.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Lost in Translation

Every time I venture to a foreign country (and/or 5 minutes away from campus and end up in either Mexico, India, or Sudan), I always notice the often mistaken English language translations. I'm pretty sure everyone has noticed this, the same as mostly everyone notices when something on a dinner menu is spelled incorrectly at a restaurant (i.e. Braised Pork with Sweat Potatoes). Here are just a few things I have recorded in my brain or sometimes a tiny notebook because my memory is crowded:

1) Angus Meet Balls. This was on a menu in Puerto Vallarta to describe spaghetti bolognese. I was unaware that Angus had to actually meet Balls.
2) Jingle's Bells. My senior year of high school, I went with 4 boys to a Theravada Buddhist temple for a world religions project. We figured we'd stay for 30 minutes or so and then leave, but no. They made us gift baskets that they tempted us with if we converted (it was difficult to resist the strong pull of a large, multi-colored streamer and several cakes that appeared to be made out of a crude mixture of play-doh and dead ducks). They fed us "lunch packs", also known as apple juice boxes. They told our fortunes to us, which was nice for the guys until I got one that said I am as dried up as the roots of an old tree and will grow old alone and bitter. And finally, they asked us if we would join them in a round of Christmas carols (it was October), starting with the old classic "Jingle's Bells", accompanied by Pancho, yes, Pancho, the Theravada Buddhist monk, on the bongos and myself on the tambourine. The lyrics were written on a dry erase board and said: "Jingle's Bells, Jingle's Bells, Jingle's got a way. Over what fun it is to drive a one horse open hay. Hay!"
3) Chicken Pepe Will Play With Your Children. I saw this sign in Mehico as an advertisement for a playplace at a fast food restaurant called Chicken Pepe's. I guess it meant that the mascot was in the playplace waiting to goof off with your kids, but frankly, I wouldn't really let my children go into an area where a middle-aged man dressed as a chicken would play with them.
4) "Piece of chicken". A friend of mine is a personal trainer and was teaching this asian lady how to work the leg press. When asked if the weight was too heavy, the lady replied "No, it's easy! Piece of chicken!" I think she might have meant piece of cake. We may never know.
5) Special cocktails for the ladies with nuts. I saw this sign outside a Korean bar in Hawaii. I believe it was intended to say that there were special prices for women AND there were nuts at the bar. But you never can be sure.

I'll post more of these later, I just wanted to go ahead and write down the few that I can remember before I forget. Have a nice day and don't go near Chicken Pepe.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Why Braille is Not Always Necessary

Recently I've been noticing Braille writing more. Maybe it's because I've recently developed a love for the impaired or I'm just bored of reading normal signs and have moved on to a different reading language, but still, I've noticed it more. I am beginning to question just how important Braille actually is on certain signs. Here are the examples that I have gathered where Braille might not be so important.

1) The drive-thu ATM. This is an Automated Teller Machine. It is not easy to use if you can't see the screen. Yes, there is Braille on the touchpad to type in your pin number, and Braille to tell you where to insert your card, and a place to put a headphone jack, but unless you've memorized all of this, there is no way a blind person would be able to actually get money from the machine. Also, WHY ARE THEY DRIVING? That is a hazard.
2) Outside of public restrooms. If a blind woman goes into the men's restroom, she can't see anything. As long as she doesn't sit on a urinal, it's okay.
3) On the touchpad to enter pin numbers at Best Buy. Are they buying movies? They...can't see them. And I know hearing is just as important, blah blah, but NOT REALLY.
4) AT LENSCRAFTERS. This is self explanatory.
5) I have no more, but keep an eye out for weird places to have Braille. It's weird.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Overeaters Anonymous

I recently learned that there is a support group for just about everything, even overeating. You have to pay to be in the support group and everyone talks about how they eat too much and how fat they are, and then they all probably go out for Krispy Kremes and Java chip Frappuccinos afterwards. Why would I pay to be in this group when it comes for free every year? From around the date of October 14th until January 7th, almost everyone gets a free membership to the overeating support group. October 14th is around the time that grocery stores start selling Halloween decorations and candy, which of course we all must indulge in because we suddenly believe that candy corn is the most delicious food on the planet and stuff ourselves full of those delectable orange Brach's bags. Imagine if we ate that much REAL corn. Corn is a starch and all, but at least we'd be getting something made from nature and not created out of the leftover candle wax from making "creepy" skull and "haunted" tree candles with which to deck our homes and terrify guests with our overzealousness for the holiday.
After Halloween, there is some residual eating due to leftover candy on sale at Target, plus the candy that you didn't pass out to the neighborhood children (after deciding at 8pm that it's past their bedtime so for their own good it would probably be best if you kept that extra 5lb bag of individually packaged Whoppers). It always feels better when you open a pack and there are only three inside. Until you eat 29 of those little packs. Anyway, the Halloween candy aftershocks only last about a week, giving you 2-3 weeks in November until Thanksgiving that you use to half-heartedly exercise. By then it's already getting too cold to want to get up, leave the house, and get into the freezing cold car, drive to the gym, and realize as you pull into the gym parking lot that the car has just started warming up and now you have to get out and repeat the whole process again. Most people just decide to do in-home workouts at this time. This is probably the most lucrative time of year for home exercise DVDs. Yoga for Beginners (for the older set) and Carmen Electra's strippercise (for the younger, more "adventerous" group) fly off the shelves as people sit on their carpet and pretend that they're getting a good workout. No. This does not work. I am not judging because I am one of those people, except usually I play DDR. And if there is no DDR, I do jumping jacks, which wreak havoc on my sacrum. My bottom 2 vertebrae are probably severely impacted as a result of my not wanting to brave the weather, sit in the car, feel the frustration of the slow heater, look at the people who really did have too much candy and are now wobbling around on the elliptical in front of me, etc.
The first few hours after a Thanksgiving meal are probably the worst for the Overeaters Anonymous club. This is the one day a year where almost all Americans complain about their weight. They speak eagerly of the meal to come all morning/afternoon and then as soon as the thirty minute frenzy remniscent of a pack of hyenas devouring a weak and elderly zebra, dentures and all, is finished, they suddenly realize that they are probably 14 pounds heavier and they've made a huge mistake. Eating 4 types of stuffing and the extra rolls (fluff food, really) was not the best of ideas. They unbutton their top buttons (if they were dumb enough to wear jeans to begin with; seriously, opt for the leggings or at least the roomy underpants) and groan about how full they are. Then the men watch football and pretend that it is them out there exercising. At halftime, the women come in to see Carrie Underwood or Celine Dion or someone important do the Halftime show and watch the cheerleaders parade around and pretend that is them out there with the flat stomachs. This is basically a day for complete and total self-deception. And it works.
Thanksgiving leftovers will last, at best, 4 days. After that, the turkey begins to turn and the pumpkin pie is a little harder than it was before. Having a shared Thanksgiving at someone else's house tends to be beneficial in keeping leftovers at bay because then as you're bagging and tagging everything, politeness takes over as you tell the hostess, "only one bag for us! We won't eat that much turkey." This is a lie, and 2 days later when you want a turkey sandwich, guess what? YOU CAN'T HAVE ONE, because you didn't speak up. While this is safe in keeping any extra fat from accumulating, it is also disappointing and brings about a lot of self-loating. Plus whoever decided to be courteous will be persecuted by their hungry family that is banging their elbows on the table chanting WE WANT TUR-KEY.
And then there's Christmas parties. I read somewhere once that you shouldn't go to a party hungry because then you'll just eat and eat and eat. Too bad, no one eats before a party! Again, manners come into play. You must be polite and try everything, preferably more than once if you want to be considered a really good friend. Christmas cookies, eggnog, the lure of frothy drinks in Starbucks red cups- it's all too tempting, and since everyone is in a loving mood (except the traffic cops at the mall- they hate EVERYONE), they give in to these tiny temptations which turn out to be tiny fat pockets on one's thighs and stomach.
The most common New Year's Resolution is getting in shape. Good luck staying at the gym, because it will be 1) Too crowded and 2) Said crowd will be comprised of really fat people who don't know how to accept that they should keep their junk in their trunk completely hidden. This group of overachievers should really just accept that they are overeaters and allow the pounds to slowly fall off until October 14th of the New Year.
Excuse me, I must go do my workout video now.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

What is it, a stampede of elephants? Har har har.

Everyone has heard someone say the previous sentence at least once, or they've said it themselves. Make no mistake- it is a relatively funny thing to say when used in the proper context with good inflection and appropriate comedic timing, but it stopped being an original and hilarious thing to say about 700 years ago, or whenever it was that multilevel buildings were erected.
Every single time loud noises are heard from above, we automatically think and/or say "WHAT ON EARTH IS MAKING ALL THAT RACKET?" This question may never be answered. After all, no one has ever given me a straight or definite response to this question ever, yet I still MUST ask it every time I hear stomping.
There are, of course, different levels of loud ceiling stomping. Here is a list of them including descriptions and a few anecdotes in order of least to worst stomping noises.
1) The Deliberate Stomp: This noise has clear direction and purpose. 50% of the time, it is a one-way walk that stops at the door upon which the stomper leaves and the walking noises can still be heard, albeit faintly, as they travel down the hallway. The other 50% of the time, this noise is a round trip ticket and is usually intended to go to the fridge or the bathroom. The one form of The Deliberate Stomp that I have never heard and kind of want to hear (but also kind of not because it's really horribly morbid) is the one where the walking ceases and a loud thud can be heard. This will probably mean that the person dropped dead.
2) The Uncertain Stomp, indigenous to those plagued with Attention Deficit Disorder. This type of noise sounds like the person is really not sure what it is they got up to do so they kind of meander around doing various things until they lose steam and sit down again or leave (after which TUS becomes TDS). This stomp annoys me because if I bear witness to it I keep thinking, "When will this person stop and figure out what it is they meant to do?" It's such an indecisive noise and it makes me upset because what if this is how they deal with their lives? What if they never have a purpose and end up aimlessly stomping around until the day they make that final meandering stomp towards the light? It's none of my business but I'd love to hear them get their act together. As much as TUS annoys me, what's worse is...
3) The Possible Sports Game In Progress Stomp: My family used to hear this stomping all the time when we lived in an apartment while we waited to move into a house. I was 5 or 6 and I remember listening to the inconsistent stomping noises that varied in volume and level on the Richter scale. After one of my dad's nightly fits of anger followed by much speculation as to what the cause may be, I remember watching the NBA finals and saying, "maybe they're playing basketball along with the people on TV." My mom told me that this would be rather difficult to act out, seeing as sports are so spontaneous and unpredictable, BUT you cannot blame me for offering up this explanation. It literally sounded like 11 men playing basketball up there. My dad went up to investigate and found the culprit. It was a little boy named Lloyd (seriously, TERRIBLE name for a small child) who later ended up going to my school. Needless to say, we didn't get along that well when he realized I was the daughter of the man who almost exploded on his doorstep. Lloyd was later cast as the lead role in our school's production of Willy Wonka. I hope that he has continued to allow drama to be his creative outlet to keep him from stomping anymore. Lloyd's jumping continued every night until we moved out. I don't know why Lloyd's parents, Mr. and Mrs. WeLikeNamesFromThe1950's didn't just let him run around outside to tire himself out.
4) The Unclassifiable Stomp: This is in some ways a more general category that often encompasses TPSGIPS. I hate this stomp. It drives me insane. I want to know what it is they're doing up there! It sounds like a bunch of people going in one direction while the other mops the floors with their feet and then a small quartet stomps out the trumpeting portion of "Tequila". This is the kind of stomp where the question "What is it, a stampede of elephants?" is asked, and rightfully so. I mean, what is it? A STAMPEDE OF ELEPHANTS? That's what it sounds like. Last night I heard this noise while walking in the hallway and as Bruno looked at me quizzically (he is foreign and not entirely familiar with stomp classification system), I said that a group of friends had most likely decided to dress as the cast of The Lion King for Halloween and this was the group of Wildebeest that trampled Mufasa. And I was probably correct.
5) The At This Hour? Stomp: Living on the first floor has its perks, like I don't have to drive down three levels of the garage which shaves off a good 52 seconds of travel time to get to every destination so I can leave a little bit later every day. But also, I hear every little sound. The people above me have luckily been pretty quiet except for the occasional moving of furniture; I suspect they are very into feng shui, as the furniture moving usually occurs every fortnight and they were especially active during the equinox. I believe that is when the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter aligns with Mars. Or maybe that is the Age of Aquarius. I do not know. But the 4am stomps begs the question, At this hour? I mean, why? What could you possibly be doing at 4am that requires the running back and forth of one's apartment? This is the only stomp that makes me really want to go upstairs and ask them what is so important that they stomp around at this hour?
Obviously, stomping is not really intentional. I'm sure I'm a stomper, too, and I've probably been guilty of all of the above stomps, except for maybe the stomping out the beat to "Tequila". I would never do that. I only like shouting TEQUILA! the two times it appears in the song. Other than that, I'm guessing stomping really can't be helped, but that doesn't stop it from being quite possibly the most annoying sound to ever be made by a human being...besides a wookie call. But that's not necessarily a human noise.