After a long holiday weekend, returning to work to watch old men starring at You Tube videos of Selena Gomez while helping others who refer to me as sweetie or mama post self portraits taken with phones in the public bathroom -- stalls, green tile, and all -- onto Plentyoffish.com is particularly cumbersome. *omgididntgotocollegeforthis*
Last night, before dozing off to sleep, Neno asked how much money I make a year. You married me for my money! We calculated that I make less than $15,000 per year. Way to ruin my night, babe. (However, let it be duly noted that I'm ever so grateful to have a job and a home. I may come off as a Complaining Cathy, but I appreciate what I gots).
Edfinancial would like me to jump through hoops to prove I can't afford my monthly loan payment. Sending my pay stubs and a letter from HR noting that I don't get paid shit -- her words, not mine -- wasn't enough. When I send them my pay stubs again with my tax info from last year (which was even worse) imma add an invitation to Take-Your-College-Loan-Officer-To-Work-Day. Like for realsies. I have a lot of unused creativity waiting for a craft project.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Skinny Coronarita
Forgive me if I slur my words. I'm on the verge of being plastered thanks to Bethenny Frankel. Lemme es-plain.
Pictures of something Texans refer to as a "Dosarita" have been popping up all over my Facebook news feed for months, as all of my alcoholic friends and family members back in San Antonio like to document the beginning of their nights -- for future reference, I suppose.
Because I live in Orlando (lame), I can't find a Dosarita (big ass margarita with a Dos Equis bottle inside) anywhere. There aren't many good Mexican restaurants here. Actually, there aren't many good Anythings here. Unless your name is Disney or Universal Studios or Major Tourist Attraction, the city of Orlando doesn't give a shit about you.
Anyhoo, I've taken matters into my own hands. I need this Dosarita in my life. And I don't even like margaritas....or beer. But something told me, the two together are alcohol bliss.
A few months ago, while I was in the liquor store for my weekly perusing, I asked the Pakistani owner if he had any Skinnygirl Margarita. He said, "Yes, yes!" as he enthusiastically walked me over to the Jose Cuervo margarita mix. Yeah, that's not it. Haven't you seen The Real Housewives on Bravo? I replied, and then went into a drawn out explanation of The Real Housewives of New York and Bethenny Getting Married and how I don't really like margaritas, "like at all, but I'm curious and want to support a home girl...without drinking too many calories."
Then two weeks ago, on my weekly liquor store perusing, I screamed, "He got it!" spotting the row of red capped Skinnygirl Margarita bottles. I couldn't buy any, though, because I was sure I was pregnant. I was just torturing myself in the liquor store. But this weekend, knowingly without child, I bought two bottles.
I'm delighted to report that I actually enjoy the Skinnygirl Margarita, although I generally hate tequila. My first and last time drinking tequila was out of a teacup (keepin' it classy) for a friend's pre-party 21st birthday party. The next day I laid in bed, occasionally running to the bathroom to vomit, next to my mother who was also miserably sick....from cancer. My dad took care of us. Isn't that cute?
Even better, I created my own knock-off Dosarita. It's Skinnygirl Margarita with Corona Light mixed in. I call it The Skinny Coronarita. Imma bottle it....post Real Apartment Wives of Orlando fame and after the success of my Poorbitch Cocktail, of course.
PS: Happy 4th of July. John Adams would be rul proud of me.
EDIT, a year later: If you came here to find out how many calories you drank last night and ended up reading that bullshit up there, my sincerest apologies. If you're still anxious to know how many tequila, sugar and beer calories you need to burn at the gym, I'll tell you here.
Pictures of something Texans refer to as a "Dosarita" have been popping up all over my Facebook news feed for months, as all of my alcoholic friends and family members back in San Antonio like to document the beginning of their nights -- for future reference, I suppose.
Because I live in Orlando (lame), I can't find a Dosarita (big ass margarita with a Dos Equis bottle inside) anywhere. There aren't many good Mexican restaurants here. Actually, there aren't many good Anythings here. Unless your name is Disney or Universal Studios or Major Tourist Attraction, the city of Orlando doesn't give a shit about you.
Anyhoo, I've taken matters into my own hands. I need this Dosarita in my life. And I don't even like margaritas....or beer. But something told me, the two together are alcohol bliss.
A few months ago, while I was in the liquor store for my weekly perusing, I asked the Pakistani owner if he had any Skinnygirl Margarita. He said, "Yes, yes!" as he enthusiastically walked me over to the Jose Cuervo margarita mix. Yeah, that's not it. Haven't you seen The Real Housewives on Bravo? I replied, and then went into a drawn out explanation of The Real Housewives of New York and Bethenny Getting Married and how I don't really like margaritas, "like at all, but I'm curious and want to support a home girl...without drinking too many calories."
Then two weeks ago, on my weekly liquor store perusing, I screamed, "He got it!" spotting the row of red capped Skinnygirl Margarita bottles. I couldn't buy any, though, because I was sure I was pregnant. I was just torturing myself in the liquor store. But this weekend, knowingly without child, I bought two bottles.
I'm delighted to report that I actually enjoy the Skinnygirl Margarita, although I generally hate tequila. My first and last time drinking tequila was out of a teacup (keepin' it classy) for a friend's pre-party 21st birthday party. The next day I laid in bed, occasionally running to the bathroom to vomit, next to my mother who was also miserably sick....from cancer. My dad took care of us. Isn't that cute?
Even better, I created my own knock-off Dosarita. It's Skinnygirl Margarita with Corona Light mixed in. I call it The Skinny Coronarita. Imma bottle it....post Real Apartment Wives of Orlando fame and after the success of my Poorbitch Cocktail, of course.
PS: Happy 4th of July. John Adams would be rul proud of me.
EDIT, a year later: If you came here to find out how many calories you drank last night and ended up reading that bullshit up there, my sincerest apologies. If you're still anxious to know how many tequila, sugar and beer calories you need to burn at the gym, I'll tell you here.
Monday, June 27, 2011
AF
Email to Neno dated 6/14:
Calabaza! I took another pee test this morning. The result was not pregnant. (I just thought of something funny: a pregnancy test with your results read by Borat. You are *not* pregnant. Very nice!)
I hate errbody this morning. I'm in too much pain --such that the idea of being stabbed repeatedly in the uterus sounds refreshing -- it's too hot, and work is too busy.
Yesterday marked the end of an era in my life, a time when I was sober for four solid weeks for fear of being knocked up (as in the condition, not the possibility). I was getting really into that whole I'm-gonna-be-a-mom-time-to-get-all-self-righteous thing. Growing up, on my birthday or whenever my mom wanted a back rub, she'd say "Did I ever mention how painful it was to give birth to you?" To which I'd respond I didn't ask to be born. As I was eating for two these past four weeks, looking longingly at my husbands longneck (and I don't even like beer), I thought of the ways I was going to guilt this child of mine. Did I ever mention how long I went without a drinky drink for you?
Lo and behold, the universe plotted against my selfishness and sent that bitch aunt flo upon me instead. To be real, it was a long, restless few weeks of not knowing what was happening underneath but I actually believed I must be pregnant. I'm at a point in my life that if I get knocked up it wouldn't be so terrible, so it was an exciting thought, despite the sobriety and prospect of cankles. Thankfully I'm past the days of frantic google searches done on behalf of friends (I've always been a prude living vicariously through the misadventures of my friends) eliciting gems like "Help! Plan B failed and now I need a Plan C!"
Calabaza! I took another pee test this morning. The result was not pregnant. (I just thought of something funny: a pregnancy test with your results read by Borat. You are *not* pregnant. Very nice!)
I hate errbody this morning. I'm in too much pain --such that the idea of being stabbed repeatedly in the uterus sounds refreshing -- it's too hot, and work is too busy.
Yesterday marked the end of an era in my life, a time when I was sober for four solid weeks for fear of being knocked up (as in the condition, not the possibility). I was getting really into that whole I'm-gonna-be-a-mom-time-to-get-all-self-righteous thing. Growing up, on my birthday or whenever my mom wanted a back rub, she'd say "Did I ever mention how painful it was to give birth to you?" To which I'd respond I didn't ask to be born. As I was eating for two these past four weeks, looking longingly at my husbands longneck (and I don't even like beer), I thought of the ways I was going to guilt this child of mine. Did I ever mention how long I went without a drinky drink for you?
Lo and behold, the universe plotted against my selfishness and sent that bitch aunt flo upon me instead. To be real, it was a long, restless few weeks of not knowing what was happening underneath but I actually believed I must be pregnant. I'm at a point in my life that if I get knocked up it wouldn't be so terrible, so it was an exciting thought, despite the sobriety and prospect of cankles. Thankfully I'm past the days of frantic google searches done on behalf of friends (I've always been a prude living vicariously through the misadventures of my friends) eliciting gems like "Help! Plan B failed and now I need a Plan C!"
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Neno is a lucky man
I walk through the front door, delirious from a long day working in front of glowing computer screens. I'm greeted with a kiss by my husband, decked out in his jammies, sitting at the kitchen table reading medical study guides -- which is surprising, because usually he's playing call of duty when I get home. I'm giddy and hyper, because that's what happens when I see my husband when I'm tired. I go to the bedroom to change and notice the bed is made. "Calabaza! You made the bed! Thank you! I love my Calabaza!" I shout in the childlike voice I save for my closest friends.
I wasn't looking forward to straightening up my morning tornado of reject clothes or making the bed. (I have to make the bed before getting into it to sleep again). To show gratitude, I bend over, lift my skirt, and moon Neno, displaying my pink, zebra print underwear. "Calabaza look!"
Unfazed, he briefly looks up from his book offers a pity chuckle and says, "I like that underwear."
Pointing to my hanes-her-way on the table (isn't that where you keep your underwear?), he suggests "You should only wear those for working out. Lately you've been wearing them every day. The underwear you're wearing now are better."
The underwear I'm wearing now are the cotton victoria secret variety. It's tighter, but still comfortable, than my beloved hanes briefs (hanes should pay me, or do I wear fruit-of-the-loom? I don't know, something like that, you know what I mean). I recently went to Walmart to stock up on my XXL granny panties and bought new briefs while I was at it. When I pack to go on a trip, my underwear takes up most of the space. I have different underwear for sleeping, running, and daily life.
"What, you don't like the hanes? You think I look bad in them?" I ask laughing, plotting to wear them every day.
"Yes, those are flaggy." He means saggy, but isn't that the cutest thing -- flaggy. "I prefer the Victoria Secret underwear you bought. It's tighter."
Did I mention I'm tired? So this conversation is so funny to me. I laugh throwing my head back. "But the granny panties always turn you on, right?"
He mumbles something like, "yeah only for sleeping."
I'm humored and perplexed, I always thought he was as much a fan as I of the belly high, 'flaggy' look. Does anyone have a picture of me in my granny panties to post? If not, I'll snap a new one when I get home. It's about time the internet sees me in all my glory.
I wasn't looking forward to straightening up my morning tornado of reject clothes or making the bed. (I have to make the bed before getting into it to sleep again). To show gratitude, I bend over, lift my skirt, and moon Neno, displaying my pink, zebra print underwear. "Calabaza look!"
Unfazed, he briefly looks up from his book offers a pity chuckle and says, "I like that underwear."
Pointing to my hanes-her-way on the table (isn't that where you keep your underwear?), he suggests "You should only wear those for working out. Lately you've been wearing them every day. The underwear you're wearing now are better."
The underwear I'm wearing now are the cotton victoria secret variety. It's tighter, but still comfortable, than my beloved hanes briefs (hanes should pay me, or do I wear fruit-of-the-loom? I don't know, something like that, you know what I mean). I recently went to Walmart to stock up on my XXL granny panties and bought new briefs while I was at it. When I pack to go on a trip, my underwear takes up most of the space. I have different underwear for sleeping, running, and daily life.
"What, you don't like the hanes? You think I look bad in them?" I ask laughing, plotting to wear them every day.
"Yes, those are flaggy." He means saggy, but isn't that the cutest thing -- flaggy. "I prefer the Victoria Secret underwear you bought. It's tighter."
Did I mention I'm tired? So this conversation is so funny to me. I laugh throwing my head back. "But the granny panties always turn you on, right?"
He mumbles something like, "yeah only for sleeping."
I'm humored and perplexed, I always thought he was as much a fan as I of the belly high, 'flaggy' look. Does anyone have a picture of me in my granny panties to post? If not, I'll snap a new one when I get home. It's about time the internet sees me in all my glory.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
educated citizenry
Although I joke and bitch a lot about paying my monstrous college loan debt while being utterly underemployed, I love and agree with this article from NPR about a book expressing that college education is more valuable in more ways than just the potential income that one might make in the end. College shouldn't be dismissed altogether, even though one could end up like me -- scraping by on a crap hourly wage that goes mostly towards paying $500 in loans each month.
http://www.npr.org/2011/06/11/137093258/professor-value-of-college-extends-beyond-paycheck?ps=cprs
I may be a lowly worker, but I know how to get along with anyone while hating everyone. Plus I can charmingly bullshit my way through anything (I went to a good business school). And nothing feels better than knowing that I'm more educated and cultured than...I don't know who, someone rich and embarrassing -- like Snooki.
I'm kidding (except I am proud I'm not Snooki). I actually came away from university feeling so small and stupid, as my horizons were expanded and sense of relativity awakened. Now I'm small, stupid, poor, and I know a lot of smart people who do amazing things, so I also have really low self esteem. But I would never vote for Sarah Palin...so that's a win for an "educated citizenry."
One day, driven by my low self worth but masked by my desire to help people, I'll acquire more education -- and more debts, of course -- and hopefully do something useful for my fellow man (whom I loathe). I have plans, but I don't tell people because I'm shy like that.
Edit: I just spell checked this post. College should offer spelling (as an elective course, maybe?)for those curious to learn how.
http://www.npr.org/2011/06/11/137093258/professor-value-of-college-extends-beyond-paycheck?ps=cprs
I may be a lowly worker, but I know how to get along with anyone while hating everyone. Plus I can charmingly bullshit my way through anything (I went to a good business school). And nothing feels better than knowing that I'm more educated and cultured than...I don't know who, someone rich and embarrassing -- like Snooki.
I'm kidding (except I am proud I'm not Snooki). I actually came away from university feeling so small and stupid, as my horizons were expanded and sense of relativity awakened. Now I'm small, stupid, poor, and I know a lot of smart people who do amazing things, so I also have really low self esteem. But I would never vote for Sarah Palin...so that's a win for an "educated citizenry."
One day, driven by my low self worth but masked by my desire to help people, I'll acquire more education -- and more debts, of course -- and hopefully do something useful for my fellow man (whom I loathe). I have plans, but I don't tell people because I'm shy like that.
Edit: I just spell checked this post. College should offer spelling (as an elective course, maybe?)for those curious to learn how.
Friday, June 10, 2011
TGIMFF
I generally shouldn't admit this, but I'm at the part of my day where I avoid eye contact and pretend to be busy in hopes that the person walking towards me at the desk decides to figure-it-out instead.
Today I started off in an optimistic, isn't-life-grand kind of mood, then I got to work. I'm good at what I do and I enjoy helping people (idiots), but I have an alter ego in my head who screams obscenities all day.
When I say, "Hi, how can I help you?" with a customer service smile, my inner bitch says What now?
When I say, "I'm sorry I don't understand what you're asking me. What is it that I can help you with?" with a concerned furrowed brow to someone who has a long, drawn out, melodramatic explanation to a probably simple question, the voice inside screams, Bitch, I don't know your life! Just get to the point.
When I respond "No problemo!" with a smiley face to a supervisor who sends a passive aggressive email demanding something disguised as a request, complete with bitchy smiley face emoticons, the smart ass inside of me types I'll think about it.
When I kindly tell the man yapping on his cell phone, "Hi sir, please whisper or refrain from talking on the phone as it disturbs those around you," the bitch inside growls you're on my last fucking nerve right now, buddy.
It's really exhausting being nice with this bitch inside. I'm also rul (not real, but rul, when you spell a word and use it grammatically incorrectly, the intensity doubles) hungry, which is like fuel to the bitch fire. Tonight is date night, so Neno and I are going to our favorite Indian restaurant. I just have to hang on and act sweet for one more hour, then I'll knock this bitch out eating some spicy, vegetarian South Indian grub with my papi chulo. Grub? I hate when people say shit like that.
I had an eating disorder for 13 years and a popular therapy strategy that worked well for me -- besides chasing my heavy medication with alcohol -- was referring to the eating disorder as "Ed," and distinguishing myself from him. I didn't have a problem; it was that asshole Ed. I liked this blame game so well, I use it all the time --for example there's "The Bitch" that I spoke of earlier and "Vinny" who likes his wine. I don't have an eating disorder anymore, but I'm a little schizophrenic. Which is so much better.
Today I started off in an optimistic, isn't-life-grand kind of mood, then I got to work. I'm good at what I do and I enjoy helping people (idiots), but I have an alter ego in my head who screams obscenities all day.
When I say, "Hi, how can I help you?" with a customer service smile, my inner bitch says What now?
When I say, "I'm sorry I don't understand what you're asking me. What is it that I can help you with?" with a concerned furrowed brow to someone who has a long, drawn out, melodramatic explanation to a probably simple question, the voice inside screams, Bitch, I don't know your life! Just get to the point.
When I respond "No problemo!" with a smiley face to a supervisor who sends a passive aggressive email demanding something disguised as a request, complete with bitchy smiley face emoticons, the smart ass inside of me types I'll think about it.
When I kindly tell the man yapping on his cell phone, "Hi sir, please whisper or refrain from talking on the phone as it disturbs those around you," the bitch inside growls you're on my last fucking nerve right now, buddy.
It's really exhausting being nice with this bitch inside. I'm also rul (not real, but rul, when you spell a word and use it grammatically incorrectly, the intensity doubles) hungry, which is like fuel to the bitch fire. Tonight is date night, so Neno and I are going to our favorite Indian restaurant. I just have to hang on and act sweet for one more hour, then I'll knock this bitch out eating some spicy, vegetarian South Indian grub with my papi chulo. Grub? I hate when people say shit like that.
I had an eating disorder for 13 years and a popular therapy strategy that worked well for me -- besides chasing my heavy medication with alcohol -- was referring to the eating disorder as "Ed," and distinguishing myself from him. I didn't have a problem; it was that asshole Ed. I liked this blame game so well, I use it all the time --for example there's "The Bitch" that I spoke of earlier and "Vinny" who likes his wine. I don't have an eating disorder anymore, but I'm a little schizophrenic. Which is so much better.
Monday, May 2, 2011
mini vacation
Right now I'm at a beach. It's serene and quiet, cool and breezy. There seems to be an unspoken rule of silence; the only sounds to be heard are of waves and seagulls; unlittered scenery the only sight. No one is distracted by phones or music or food, nor conversations or work. Unpretentious and unoccupied, we all are just being, either relaxing on blankets in the sand or walking along the shore. It's the epitome of calm. I've been waiting for this moment for quite some time.
I'm not really blogging at the beach; that would defeat the moment. I'm really at work, where the rule of quite is never realized and the symptoms of neuroses abound(including my own). I was mentally escaping while I had a free moment.
I'm not really blogging at the beach; that would defeat the moment. I'm really at work, where the rule of quite is never realized and the symptoms of neuroses abound(including my own). I was mentally escaping while I had a free moment.
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