Friday, September 30, 2011

I'm the Mistress of Alliteration, and I Remember....

The other day I was talking to a friend about being a thug, and maybe something about ho’s and pimps, and eventually we got to the subject of my blog. She said something to the effect of “I’ve been waiting for you start talking about you know, your story on your blog, are you going to?” I replied with laughter, and a quick answer, “well I think I want to keep it light. I’ve got so much blah blah blah blah going on right now, and I really like the humor. I guess I could go there when things settle down, but I don’t know how serious I can get.” But you see, I was lying, not on purpose, not to be mean, but really I was lying to myself.  If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s making up excuses, which is not to be confused with procrastination. I am after all the Queen Grand High Poohbah of Procrastination; but what I’m getting at here is actually finding a stupid reason for not wanting to do something. (I know, you’re saying, but Becca isn’t that really the same thing… well no, not really actually. Procrastinating is a lot more fun than actually making up flimsy excuses as to why you don’t want to do something that actually doesn’t have to be done…) 

I guess I felt that I just didn’t want to get into it, my sordid past (actually not very), and all the heavy luggage that goes with it (I don’t recommend trying to lift any of it).  In an ironic way I didn’t want to make myself vulnerable to you, the readers, because everyone loves a fun time gal, and NOT a Debbie Downer, right? Right. Or at least this is what I managed to convince myself.  But perhaps it’s worth a shot. If it doesn’t work I can go right back to slapstick and pirate curses, and we can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Deal?

It’s a motherfucking deal then.

So Snarksters, in an effort for you to get to know me, shall we start Familial Fridays? (Oh man, do I have a way with alliteration—no not illiterate, alliteration, dude: look it up) Hmmm…. Now where to start… We could always go the traditional route ie “it was a dark and stormy night…” or the non-traditional route, ie "sometimes you’re the statue and sometimes you’re the pigeon"… but all of that seems so convivial and trite at the moment and I’m in an erudite sort of mood (ok apologies my snark bugs, but I do sometimes use words that are difficult to pronounce because they’re rattling around in my head, but not because I want you to be more confused than you already are). Maybe we can try something more like this...

I remember.

I remember the first time he hit me. I thought it was a mistake. In fact I was sure it was a mistake because there was no way that this shining example of what it means to be a total shit bag of a human being would in fact actually raise his hand, pull it back and hit me. It was more shocking than hurtful.

I remember.

I remember being frozen between halfway sitting and halfway standing, my fork precariously balanced between my fingers threatening clattering on the floor, bleeding out spaghetti. The tingle like insect legs on your palm is what woke me up, as tears began to surge forward.

I remember.

I remember thinking, “why am I crying?” Why was I crying? The hot pools of shame wrestled their way down my face, leaving angry streaky comments in their wake. He had already sat down and had continued eating dinner. “Sit down, and close your mouth.” It was almost whispered, and thrown at my way as to suggest I was the one who had caused the interruption in our dinner routine. One more daggered glance sent me scrambling, limbs in every impossible and wrong angle to regain my composure and my seat, which only delayed the actual process of sitting down. “What’s wrong with you that you can’t even sit down.”  I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me, but it must be something.

I remember.

I remember we just kept eating. I did not utter one single syllable. I did not get up and leave. I did nothing. “It must be my fault” I told myself, repeatedly. I must have done something wrong. But what? I rewound the events before the conjecture of his hand against my skin, to ascertain what could have sparked such a discourse. We had been laughing over something stupid and inconsequential. He had asked me if I could go to a gallery opening, but I couldn’t. I had a final to study for, and eventually had to go back to my own place. I had told him I couldn’t. We argued. It was settled with his physical punctuation that I would indeed attend the gallery opening.

I remember.

I remember I felt like I had eaten fistfuls of garden dirt followed by a cement chaser.  Later there was whispered kindness, comforting embraces, and an insecure relief began to settle at my feet, like a dog thumping its tail, warming the edges of my being. I stayed on. I stayed silent.


PHEW. That was HEAVY. And I’ve decidedly don’t do heavy anymore.  Such a burden. Really. But in all seriousness I dated a total douche bag of a human for about 4 ½ years. It/He was a large part of my adolescent life, shaping me, molding me in all the wrong ways. Things I’ve had to re-teach myself, re-learn what is or isn’t “normal.” In all of this I have managed to keep intact my sense of humor, somehow, and here I am on the other side. Definitely, defiantly defying (ohh there's that alliteration again) the statistics about being the product of an abusive relationship, what that means for future relationships, what that means to the future you.

Here’s a little bit of advice that has taken me YEARS to learn, and I’m still struggling with it:

You, YES YOU, are a person of immeasurable worth.
You deserve to be treated with respect.
You deserve to be loved in an appropriate manner.
You are capable of loving in an appropriate manner.

Snarksters, NO ONE has the right to lay their hands on you in a manner that is physically abusive. Don’t stay silent, and don’t think that this is “NORMAL.” I assure you, it’s not. Please seek help if you are in an abusive relationship and can’t leave.  Help and resources can be found here.

Now that we’re done with those un-pleasantries you will all be very happy to know that this weekend I’m attending the belated birthday party of Ms. VamipreS; so next week’s Conversational Mondays should be super AWESOME. I’ve promised to try to behave myself, but shit, who are we kidding? It’s me, after all.
“Pictures of last night ended up online, I’m screwed, Oh well…” (Katy Perry, Last Friday Night) I'm guessing that's summing up my weekend... how about yours?

Monday, September 26, 2011

Don't Drink and Tweet

It seems to be just about that time....


Imma tell you a secret.....
gimmie yer wine, and I won't
shank you, yet....
I'm not even going to begin to lie to you and say that I heard all kinds of interesting things this weekend while I was out and about.  I didn't. 

Mostly because I wasn't out and about.


It may have something to do with the entire bottle of Fetzer Riesling I thought it was appropriate to drink, by myself, on Friday night. You know, after I had my rum and coke. So instead of rounding up the latest juicy gossip, I'd thought I'd share most of what I can remember about Friday.

We went to a nice dinner with my family.  At a nice little Italian restaurant where happy hour was still going strong, and it was $3 for any "well drink" i.e. vodka tonic, gin and tonic, rum and coke, etc.  I settled on rum and coke, and somewhere between me finishing it, and thinking about ordering another, lo and behold MY FAVORITE bottle of wine of all time miraculously appeared at the table. Still not sure who ordered it, but I do know for a fact I'm the only one that drank it. 


My dad recently had gastric bypass and alcohol is on the list of "Drink this and DIE" things...
My mom doesn't drink at all (anymore) because she gets a wicked migraine (what a freaking cop out)
My husband didn't drink because someone had to drive me home, and oh yeah, watch our kids...

Which means I was left to drink the entire bottle, because if you don't finish it they won't let you take it. No use in wasting perfectly good wine right............ right. 

While standing (I think  I was standing) and washing my hands in the bathroom after dinner and wine, my mom said:

Mom: "I feel bad for the phubster tonight, hope he doesn't mind the state you're in."
Me: "You feel bad? What for, I'm just going to pass out in the car."
Mom: "Oh that'll make it easier"
Me: "You know it. This is why I don't just have two or three drinks. He's always telling me just have two or three but I'm onto his game."
Mom: "His what"
Me: "His game. I mean shit, two or three drinks means more kids. Drink a whole bottle and you're ensuring you're just going to pass out, no kids. How'd you think the other two got here."
Mom: "oh wow"
Me: "I know, I'm smart right."
Mom: "hahaha, yeah something like that."

After that and at home I drunk texted Ms. VampireS. Here is our text conversation...

Me: Rgery sucks iambic shit.faced right
Ms VS:  Wow yes you are
Me: I can't
Ms VS: You cant what hun?
Me: I can't, read it's reilly hard
Me: I meancant
Me: Shhhhh
Me: I think phubster is pottery pissed at me
Me: Oh well
Ms VS: Uh yes I bet hun lol
Ms VS: You're dunzo lol

And if that wasn't bad enough, for some reason I decided to take it a step further and send out the following tweets:

Officially shit faced and loving it
LET the drink Skpung begin
Ur can't read. Us toys bag?
Finished a ngihtly of ey're hi nearly is thIrd bag
Looking drynk svary is thIrd bad?

At this point I think I did actually pass out, in the middle of the bed, fully clothed, with the lights on.  And since the phubster is such a loving and caring man he did wake me up at about 3 am to make me drink about 5 gallons of water because as he put it, "I'm not cleaning up your puke, and I'm not dealing with your headache tomorrow. Drink the water." Ahhh, such a loving man, how did I get so lucky.

In all actuality, I did feel really good the next morning. No hang over whatsoever.  I was a little tired, and a bit light sensitive, but other than that I was feeling pretty chipper which may be due to the fact that it was the first uninterrupted night's sleep I've had in about ohhhh 4 years. In fact I was feeling so dandy that I got up, made breakfast, bathed the children, and started the laundry.  I even had an in depth conversation with the phubster about the rest of the night that I couldn't remember.  It's apparent that when I get really, really, really trashed, I get very---> apologetic. According to the phubster I spent the majority of the night apologizing for the following things, breathing, sitting down, opening the door, lying down on the floor, brushing my teeth, flushing the toilet, talking, walking, moving, scratching my arm, having children, making him buy me dogs, etc. In fact snarksters, I apologized so much, that I am banned from saying the phrase "I'm sorry," for at least the next six months......... later that afternoon I crashed hard, on the couch for four hours or so....what, I'm old....

The final score:
Me: Winning!
Phubster: NOT   (<-- I am so on to your game you bastard!)

Soooooo, what'd you do over the weekend? Drink entire bottles of vodka, make it rain up in the club, hear anything scintillating worth sharing? Do tell..... Can anyone figure out what the hell I meant to tweet up there? If so, send your interpretations and I'll give you a prize, or a virtual hug and pat on the back, whichever is cheaper....

Friday, September 23, 2011

Under Pressure I Apparently Don't Become a Diamond....

I was linked to today by an awesome blogger who always makes me laugh, or at least say What.The.Fuck man.... That's right Shane, big shout out to you over at  If you haven't checked him out yet you better, or prepare for knee cap destruction by pencils.

However, this put a lot of pressure on me to write something epic-- something hilarious wherein you the reader, would spit your beverage out all over the screen or chortle devilishly to yourself while people point and stare.


I have choked.

Under the pressure.

And the best I could come up with is sharing my two favorite jokes of all time. But hey it's better than nothing.

Joke 1

Q: What's brown and sticky
 (no it's not poop)
A: A stick! (hahahahahahahaha you know you're laughing)

Joke 2

Two peanuts were walking down the street.
One was a salted.
 (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, oh my God that's funny)

Check back in with me on Monday, for more Conversational Mondays, and I promise to shape up a little for next week..........

Monday, September 19, 2011

I'm Going to Have to Spank You....

I’m going to go out on a limb here and institute something new, something that I think is going to be pretty fucking awesome (and no, I will not take your comments if you think otherwise, in fact all negative comments can be placed in the black rectangular receptacle under my desk, and for those that are challenged it’s called the fucking trash can.).

Forthwith I bring to you….

Conversational Mondays

Just a little roundup of the tom foolery I heard snippets of this weekend. Things I thought were funny or stupid or both.

Without further ado…

At La Salsa waiting in line for lunch there was a guy and a gal standing in front of me chit chatting, and I practically wanted to barf all over them.

Guy: So, wow hey, that’s a sparkler
Lady: Oh this, (holds up ring finger), it’s nothing really (I’m interjecting here to say this thing was a big as my FREAKING eyeball)
Guy: No, that’s pretty substantial
Lady: Yeah I know, right (giggles) 7.5 carats. I had it appraised.
Guy: How much do you think he (which I’m assuming is the fiancĂ©) spent?
Lady: At the appraisal they said it was worth $27,000.00. But I doubt he spent that much, probably only $17,500.00 or something, he does have that connection.
Guy: Oh yeah, wow, I mean that’s a lot of money (said with a bit of disdain)
Lady: I know right, I mean it’s just like over the top (said all breathy and giggly)
Guy: Well how’d he propose? (trying to sound genuinely interested, but he’s really not)
At this point I just stopped listening because I don’t do vapid well. And I was hungry and cranky, and therefore fighting  the urge to shank the ho with my car keys since valley girl on an empty stomach is really hard to take. Plus I was feeling bad for the poor shmuck with her because it was clear he had a thing for the bimbo. You’re better off buddy, TRUST ME.

In the produce section of Albertson’s, again a guy and lady dressed in scrubs scrounging around the pre-made sandwiches…

Lady: So what you’re saying is the Jerry is filing for bankruptcy?
Guy: And I’m going to fire him.
Lady: But why?
Guy: Because he also hasn’t filed any personal taxes and the IRS already sent me several letters about something else they want to look into regarding him.
Lady: Really?
Guy: Yeah, but I you can’t say anything.
Lady: Oh I won’t. But I mean he has all those properties and the boat, and then he flashes that watch around…
Guy: That doesn’t mean anything.
Lady: But what about Vegas?
Guy: What about it?
Lady: His penthouse in Vegas? (Mother fucker has a penthouse?!)
Guy: You mean the one he embezzeled funds for? (OMG OMG OMG, this is what I was thinking, followed by, he embezzled company funds, the IRS is in on it, FUCK...)
Lady:You’re kidding.
Guy: I wish I was.
Lady: Oh my God.
Guy: That’s what I said.
At this point they started walking away from me and shooting me dirty looks because I suppose when you’re literally two feet behind someone and run and trying not to do the creepy stalker thing of breathing down their backs it’s pretty obvious you’re eavesdropping. But I REALLY am DYING to know more about Jerry and his money problems now….

And my snarksters I have saved the best for last, a gift from me to you…. This is a conversation I had with my 4 year old daughter, the Little Monster…

LM: Shit.
Me: What did you say?!
LM: (without missing a beat) that’s a bad word though. I just wanted you to know, so don’t say it.
Me: (sputtering, wheels spinning thinking of an appropriate disciplinary action) well, umm you’re right. Ok.
LM: (smiles) I love you mommy when you don’t say bad words.
Me: But I didn’t say any bad words.
LM: But sometimes you do.
Me: Yes I do, but I’m a mommy, and you’re a little girl.
LM: Yeah but daddy’s going to spank your butt.
Me: Uhhh… no he’s not.
LM: Yeah he is. You’re going to be in trouble. And then when you say bad words you get your butt spanked.
Me: That’s true, that’s why we don’t say bad words right.
LM: Yeah, but that’s why you’re going to be spank-ted.
Me: Well no, mommies don’t get spanked.
LM: No?
Me: Well… (and at this point if I don’t concede the implied fear of being spanked without actually being spanked will stop being an effective tool, I realize I just have to bite the bullet here). You’re right, I’m going to get spanked.
LM: See I told you. Silly mommy.
Me: Yeah, silly me.
LM: I’m going to tell daddy you said lots of bad words today (evil giggle)
Me: Oh yeah…
LM: Yeah because you do, say a lot…………..
Shit and fuck. She’s right. God Dammit.

And there you are, the greatest conversation snippets of the weekend. Hear anything more interesting… please do tell… and if you’re going to say any bad words, you best prepare for the spanking that comes with it.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

How to Avoid A Burt Bee's Chapstick Shanking...

I try to set goals for myself that I know I probably won't achieve.

I am fairly certain that this means I am totally awesome at failing.

See How Suggestively Happy
this woman is to her beloved
office pen... 
When I birthed this blog I set a goal for myself, at least 3 posts per week. I figured this was an acceptable amount of pressure to put on myself, because, hey what the hell else was I going to do at work besides pen the great american novel (which is actually harder than I originally assumed). Like any great love affair it started out wonderfully, full of that butterflies in your stomach-- I hope we don't get caught dry humping in the car -- let's meet up at lunch in a remote location induced thrill/panic. Inevitably the blog started becoming really clingy and demanding; I was spending more and more time on Twitter and then I started seeing other people, namely other projects that required my full attention, unrelenting little hot numbers like monthly financial reports and those slutty work related emails with their pornographic requests for certain types of pens to be ordered with the monthly office supply run. It was just too much fucking temptation.
Total adoration is my kryptonite.
This Stack of Papers is just sooo SEXY

To make matters worse this sexy, slinky minx of a devil aptly named "my boss's Visa renewal hell" has completely consumed me, and like the jealous whore she is has threatened to ruin me if I don't comply with her every whim. I'm really beginning to hate that bitch.

So this is where my blog productivity dropped to 0% and gave me the finger and threw all my clothes at me while pedantically screaming "really, you stepped out on me with sans serif font mother fucker, that shit isn't even readable! Serif font gives definition to each letter so your eye can pick it up and read it faster dumb fuck. Don't touch me!" Suffice to say my break ups are always super messy.

But just before you get all "team blog" on my ass can I mention that this hooker right here stole my God Damn funny and forced me to write bitch ass posts of pure literary torture....oh the horror!
If this doesn't make you spill all your
secrets, I got a tape of high pitched baby
screaming that will.....

In the mean time my children were busy at home getting the stomach flu, a sinus infection and a double ear infection which means that I haven't slept in about a month -- which means that if you want to live you better get the fuck out of my way and just smile nicely at me unless you actually want to get shanked by my Burt Bee's chapstick.

I was pretty sure that my blog and I were finished, we weren't really even on texting terms, but what can I say except that I really like punishment. I think the make up was mutual and I promised I would make every effort to swing by more, maybe twice a week, you know take it slow... so far so good.

While I was on haitus from here and seeing other textual (like the new word... sounds like sexual, but it's not, chortle chortle!) sluts I attempted to drown my overwhelming grief in box wine with my sister in laws and cousin. Forthwith please find our life altering conversation... (and for the simplicity of this conversation said sister in laws shall be named thing one and thing two)

Me: You know what we should do
Thing 1: karaoke
Me: Awesome.... but no
Thing 2: What...
Me: Have a passion party. How funny would tbat be
Thing 2: I always wanted to throw one.
Me: Let's get really drunk first so we can giggle inappropriately through the whole thing
Thing 1: What's a passion party?
Thing 2: It's where you like get together and look at vibrators and lube and stuff
Thing 1: And why do people have these parties
Me: To get drunk
Thing 2: To spice up the bedroom
Thing 1: Oh... (takes a big sip from cup) is there like strippers there?
Me: That's called a bachelorette party
Thing 2: We could get strippers
Cousin: We're going to see strippers, males or females?
Me: No we're going to throw a Passion Party
Cousin: Are we getting drunk first
Me: Hell yeah
Thing 1: So wait what do you do at a Passion Party?
Me: Get drunk
Thing 1: But don't we already do that without the party?
Cousin: Hell yeah
Thing 2: But I really want to throw one
Cousin: What, throw a stripper?
Me: Me too
Thing 2: No a Passion Party
Thing 1: Why is it called a Passion Party?
Me: We're out of wine
Cousin: Shit
Phubster: What the hell are you girls talking about
Cousin: Strippers
Thing 1: Lube
Thing 2: Passion
Me: You really don't want to know....

And there you have it, more proof that I should be more faithful to my blog and little less faithful to my box-o-wine. I should also probably take the girls to go see the "Thunder Down Under," who's coming with me.............

Photos courtesy of

Wednesday, September 7, 2011


I only have one thing worth saying today.

Writing the great American novel is akin to saying you're going to shove your foot up someone's ass.

Comment away....

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

My Shit's Fucking Real

Since we're on the topic of self loathing and the fakeness (<--new word)....

These are photos of my wedding ring, yes my actual ring. Notice the grime and the old lady hands, which is just great, since at 28 I want to have like 80 year old hands--> yuck.  I also have problem taking pictures, they always come out blurry, which is probably why my hopes of being a famous photographer have been broken like a good china plate...
Hello Granny Hands!
Good thing you went and did your
nails before you posted a picture
of your hand online.....

Now pray tell, why would I post a picture of such a lovely piece of jewelry? Well besides bragging rights.............

I have an acquaintance through a really good friend of mine. I knew her in high school, we were cool but indifferent. Well over the years my good friend got really close to this other person who we'll just call Heather for the sake of me not having to say acquaintance in every other sentence.  So needless to say at my good friend's functions there was Heather and her Husband, Mr. Stanford, as in "remember that time at Stanford..., or they say the hardest school to get into now is Stanford..." (have I mentioned I hate pompous pretentious assholes as much as I hate ignorant fucktards... they pretty much balance each other out on scale of fucking stupidity).  They are cool and polite. Distant and yet approachable. I can't really wrap my mind around them, so for the most part I ignore them, until....

Heather looks down at my ring and goes, "oh hey that's nice." I say the usual thank you, and compliment her on her wedding ring, which bears a resemblance to mine but is not quite the same. I genuinely think it's lovely. I give her a sincere compliment. She returns the compliment by saying very snobbish, "well you know it's quite old, it's been in Mr. Stanford's family for awhile. What about your ring, has it been in the family?" Wow. That's to the point I suppose. But I  brush it off, I'm practicing being nice, and I don't want to start shit at my good friend's party. So I say, "well, no it hasn't. I did pick it out though, I mean the stone and the setting."  So Heather (who's been eyeballing my bling for awhile now) says, "Ohhhh. Well, what does your husband do for a living then?" Excuse me.... WHAT THE FUCK. I swallow down some vehement cuss words, and tell her, "He's an Operations Manager." Heather is bored now or something because she says in a very nonchalant voice, "oh, I didn't think they made that much money." At this point my eyes are bulging out of my head and I'm about two seconds away from shanking the hooker right there with witnesses around. Instead my voice gets really tight and I say, "what do you mean."  Heather says, "oh, nothing. I just, well what do you do again?" I can tell where this is going, and exactly what she's trying to get at. This is a thinly veiled attempt to say "hey bitch, I think your ring is a fake because there's no way you could afford that shit." The fucking nerve of some people.  This bitch used to cry at lunch time over stupid boys and then went out and acted like a freaking whore, literally. And just because she married some yuppie white guy she is suddenly better than me? Classier than me? (<-- actually I might be willing to give her this one, because well.... it doesn't take a lot to be classier than me, but you get the point) FUCK. THAT. SHIT. It doesn't matter what the ring cost, if it's fake or real, none of that crap matters. You can't outclass me hooker, fuck that. If it's a game of words and slight insults you want to play at, game fucking on.

I say, "Well I'm an Executive Assistant for a small start up Biotech, in which I own stock, and get paid very, very well."

Heather: "oh, so you're like a secretary."

Me: "Not really, I oversee all the Administrative Operations within the company, I head the Human Resource Department, etc."

Heather: "Oh, so you have to work."

Me: "Actually I don't, I just don't want to sit at home letting my mind get stale, or thinking that you know I'm entitled to be yuppie upstart while my husband makes all the money." (Ok, ok, so I really didn't say anything past "actually I don't." But I did think the rest)

Heather: "Oh."

Me: "So anyway, I had this ring custom designed. I picked out the stone and everything. The setting is vintage Cartier, how about yours?"

Heather: "Uhh well like I said, it was in Mr. Stanford's family."

Me: "Oh how nice, so he didn't actually but it then?"

Heather: "Well no."

Me: "Oh, well the phubster bought mine, CASH. Which is nice, because you know we're not like a slave to payments for it or anything. And I had it insured, you know just in case.

Heather: "In cash?"

Me: "Yeah."

Heather: "Can I see that again?"

Me: "Actually I have to go now, the phubster's probably looking for me."  

At this point I jumped off my bar stool in the most lady like way I could (legs closed) and walked away very smugly.  So answer me this Snarksters... why are people so quick to assume the worst, or to be pretentious or just flat out rude.  First is started at the grocery store with me, and the encounters I have just keep stacking up out of my favor. It's a quandary  If I were a thinking person I might argue something about Karma, and being a bitch before, but I mean who's got time to ponder the infinite mysteries of the cosmos? Not I. Nay, not I. 

At any rate, haters, self loathers, pretentious asshole, fakers, losers all ABOUND and I am drowning in them. Which I hate. Don't front what you ain't got. That's what I say. And here's the thing about Karma, or just life in general. If you can't genuinely be sincere, and give out nice compliments now and then you're going to burn in hell. Even if you think your shit smells like roses for realz, stop to be kind, at least once a day.  You never know who's watching (like the Devil, or God for that matter), and your one act of random kindness will make a difference. You don't have to do a major "Pay it Forward" act, just something small.  Case in point, yesterday I opened the door at the Mexican taco shop for my phubster. He got the stroller stuck, and when he finally pulled it through I clapped for him, to which he gritted his teeth and said, "Really? Thank you." Oh phubster you ARE so WELCOME. It's the little things people, the little things. 

Lessons Learned:

1. My ring is fucking real. God Damn it. Challenge me and DIE.
2. How is it that 100% Asian girl, who only dated Asians marries a white yuppie guy and then thinks she's the Golden Calf. Home girl's about to get knocked the fuck off her pedestal
3. Be kind, Karma will get you
4. Stanford is not the be all and end all of colleges. FUCK THAT.

So got anything to share, got a hater you want to put on blast? Do so.... we can have a group shanking............

And in case you're wondering.... box wine did strike this weekend, but that's a post for another day because I don't know if I can handle talking about Passion Parties and Lube right now, which is another kindness I've done today. Shit I'm good at this stuff.

Friday, September 2, 2011

I'm Not A Self-Loathing Asian....

I'm just going to come right out and say it. I'm not fucking Thai. Not that I have a problem with Thai people, their language, food, or customs; in fact I rather LOVE Thai food, but that aside, NO I AM NOT NOW, NOR HAVE I EVER BEEN THAI. Nor am I Hmog (from Laos), Filipino (and why do you spell the Philippines with a "ph" but refer to the people with an "f"?), Vietnamese, or any other ethnicity from those Eastern Asian Countries below China, which is not to be confused with countries adjacent to China.

Call me Chinese, ehhh, no big deal, Japenese, I've heard that before too.  Correctly guess I'm Korean and I'll do you a song a dance right there. Where is all of this coming from....  The other day I was at the grocery store, looking at salsa (of all things), when this woman comes up to me out of no where, invades my personal space and asks,

Lady: "Hey you know that sauce."
Me: "Uh what sauce, salsa?"
Lady: "No, that sauce that has peanuts in it, and you put it on stuff."
Me: "Peanut sauce?"
Lady: "Yeah I think so. Do you know where it is?"
Me: "No, not really."
Lady: "But aren't you like, that type of Asian?"
Me: "What do you mean...."
Lady: "The kind that makes and eats that sauce."
Me: "You mean Thai?"
Lady: "Yeah, that's it, Thai."
Me: "Nope. And I don't know what isle that sauce is on either. Oh by the way, do you happen to know where the nearest KKK clan is?"
Lady: "What?"
Me: "Aren't you that type of white person?"
Lady: "What."
Me: "Yup, seems you are: totally ignorant."

I think as this point this woman turned five shades of red and made some strangling gurgling noises as she more or less ran away from me. After my last fiasco in the grocery store I was going to make DAMN sure that this time I would say something, anything. I might have gone too far.  As I related this story to the phubster later he assured me that I am really totally rude (duh), and wondered aloud if I was a self loathing Asian. What. The. Fuck. Really phubster, you wanted to go and play that card huh... FINE.  Then I asked him, "if I just walked up to you in the store and said, hey can you put your hands in my front lawn and ask the grass why it's dying, that wouldn't be rude?" (I should mention that the phubster is one sizzling hot Mexican) That son of a bitch said (with a glint in his eye), "I'm pretty sure that's a come on. And I'd certainly take you up on the offer." GAH, BARF, EYEROLL. He's so cheesy sometimes.

The point of all of this? I'm not even sure if there is a point. I just thought it was kind of funny. I mean really "self-loathing Asian?" Ok there was that one summer where I almost went blonde, and that other time where I got really tanned and tried to pass myself off as... oh just forget it. I don't think I'm that self loathing, no more than the average adoptee. What, hmm... oh yeah that's right I am adopted. Into a completely WHITE family. I've been suffering WTF looks my entire life. So you'll see now that it's totally understandable when I get touchy about being an ethnicity I'm not.  As my brother often tells me (who is also adopted), "we're just bananas, you know, yellow on the outside, and white on the inside." This is true.  For the most part our parents tried to give us cultural advantages, a couple of summers at "Korean Camp," books, information, etc on our ethnic and cultural roots, but really it just wasn't quite the same. The only thing I've managed to walk away with from all of that is a deep and pornographic love of Korean Food. I want it all.  This is ok with me. It really is. I just don't like being lumped together in that "all Asians look the same, therefore they must be the same" category. I mean, should I just assume every white person I see is Italian or Irish? Nope, didn't think so, works with Asians too. Self loathing-->no; people loathing--> Hell to the yes.

And since we're talking about loathing...

I've been reading a blog... I can't tell if it's real or not. SERIOUSLY. I don't want to link it here because if it is real and there's a ton of traffic over there because ya'll are checking it out, that doesn't look so good. But in all honesty I can't make up my mind. There's a part of me that thinks this fucking shit CANNOT be true (it's not a happy blog BTW), I Mean people don't just do that to other people, this is NOT TRUE.  And then there's that other part that's like, OMG what if it is true, this poor girl, I mean fucking sickos out there. But the writing is so advanced and articulate for her "supposed" age, which I've had to take a guess at because she doesn't actually mention her age, just talks about maybe enrolling in High School, and her home schooling studies, and if it is true then the girl's a freaking genius because her ramblings are extremely intelligent, her concepts and connections are light years ahead of her peers, and then some.  I don't know it's confusing, like that time in college when I kissed that girl... I just don't know what to make of it, it's a hot mess. I mean are there fake blogs out there? Sort of new and naive to this whole thing, I guess it's a possibility.

In the blogosphere is there blogism (kind of like racism), just judging the blog by it's category without actually seeing if it fits? There's been a couple of other things I've read lately where I've thought to myself, "self, this is going to be about xyz," and BAM, WAS I WRONG. In reality it was about vibrators, and IVF babies, and shit. Really Snarksters, I'm curious to know, is there a group of fake blogs out there floating around, am I being duped at this very moment, feeling sorry for someone who may not technically exist? I hate being duped. I will shank you.

So Lessons Learned:

1. I'm not Thai
2. I could stand to be a little more patient
3. I should not have a serious discussion with the phubster, or mention anything about lawns or grass because apparently that's a turn on for him, fucking weirdo
4. Wondering why someone would post a fake blog is really time consuming and possibly pointless
5. Restricting yourself to boozing it up on Fridays and Saturdays only, SUCKS.

So... read any good fake blogs lately? Been totally rude to someone who thought you were some other kind of ethnicity that you are, in fact, not? Share.... I promise to be nice.......