Man, I Feel Like a Woman

My mom has a serious problem of misreading labels. It's really quite frustrating. One of our family traditions is eating mozzarella cheese sticks and drinking weak piña coladas for New Year's. It's a great tradition and we look forward to it every year. We even built up this trust in her ability to purchase the most delicious cheese sticks and to make the weakest piña coladas (before she passes out). This trust was shattered in 2008 or 2009 (clearly I don't remember which year because of those crazy strong piña coladas!). She came home with JALAPEÑO cheese sticks. There are various problems with this, number one being, SHE RUINED NEW YEAR'S. The second problem is that she has acid reflux, which now I also do.

The background story on the second point is funnier and less heartwarming than the first. I was in the shower and about to shave my legs when I heard a weird whizzing noise. I couldn't figure it out until after my shower, when I took out the shaving cream can. It was exploding! On the inside! There was a hole in the bottom of the can and shaving cream was oozing out. With my natural journalistic sense, I took a picture.

Since I couldn't use my shaving cream anymore, I had to ask my mom to buy me some more. Once again, I had trust in her ability to get the right shaving cream... simply because it is such a specific item. The last thing I expected to specify to her was WHICH GENDER SHE WAS BUYING SHAVING CREAM FOR. Yes, she bought men's shaving cream. She bought shaving cream that is meant for the faces of men. Immediately, I complained. Her response? "Shaving cream is shaving cream. Who is going to care?" I'll tell you who is going to care; ME. After I shave my legs, instead of smelling like I just shaved my legs, I smell like my legs are actually faces of men and I shaved them.


And then I can't help but think sarcastically, "Man, I feel like a woman!"


Her response to this post: "Buy your own!"

El Pasado pt. Dos!

10-15-09

Being friendly has rarely worked out for me so far. I mean, of course, taking the initiative to talk to someone while I'm not on the clock. I didn't find myself as popular in high school, but well-known, and unfortunately, approachable. This didn't really bother me so much because I was never lonely. Life is different in college. I tell people it's harder for me to make friends because I don't live on campus, but that's bullshit. It's harder because I don't know anyone here and I am somehow less approachable. So, sometimes I try to reach out when I am feeling... sorta social. It's pretty sad, actually. At least I can admit I'm a bitch. I mean, my sarcastic and dry humor is understandably mistaken by the masses as bitterness. I just wish these poor innocent bystanders would understand I mean them no harm. On the other hand, there are people who may not find me approachable, but more so available, after I poorly attempt to start lame conversation. These people are not o-fucking-kay in my book. Today, I was sitting at a table in the cafeteria and this girl sat diagonally from me. I noticed she had this sort of hot dog-sized pig in a blanket thing, and for some reason I started talking before my mind could go, "STOP! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?! SHIT!". The feeling of regret soon sunk in when she started talking about why she chose the asiago bread over the plain. I guess that's normal. Still pretty un-fucking-interesting, if you ask me. So, I went back to my "homework" of copying answers from the back of the book. Everything was great again. I may have even thought, "This girl is alright. Who wouldn't get asiago?" The joy and peace lasted for about five minutes. She started chuckling and talking about random shit. Maybe it was from the book she was reading. Maybe it was from some other unknown universe that nobody is familiar with except her. All I could hear was some shit about the mind and body. Well, what I really heard was: "I'm fucking up that nice silent peace we just had, and I dip my asiago shit in mayo, mustard, AND ketchup because I'm a freaky bitch!" Obviously, I did not respond. And when I got up to leave, I did not say goodbye. I hope she took that as, "Fuck you, freaky bitch!" Or maybe she just figured I had somewhere to go and thus, I am the bitch.

I guess my whole point is it was easy to see myself as how I wanted others to think of me. This growing up thing is busting out all the cracks of this glorified image of me until all the imagined pieces fall away, and all that's left is me: the cold-hearted girl who won't open up. Or eat asiago hot-fucking-dog-sized pig in a blanket shit and then talk to a goddamn stranger about the nirvana of an experience it must damn well be.