I'm not so good at keeping secrets

I used to date this guy, let's call him Virgil. He was overweight, and had been that way for as long as he could remember. He made the best german chocolate cake. But that's not the point of this story. After a few dates, and more than a few drinks, he felt the need to open his soul and tell me his deepest, darkest, childhood fears.

Why Virgil? Why? I didn't particularly care to learn about what made him into the individual person he came to be. Aside from his cake skills, he wasn't that good of a boyfriend. I wasn't that good a girlfriend either. But he wanted to share, and I was too drunk to come up with a reason why he shouldn't.

Virgil confessed that he'd been a fat kid. As a young boy, he had reoccurring nightmares; where he would have a feast set before him. He would eat, eat and eat. Until, a la Monty Python, he would explode! He would wake up crying, screaming for his mother.

I asked him what she would do to comfort him, and "make it all better" in the way that only mothers know how.

Virgil told me that she would let him have all the ice cream he wanted, until he felt better.

He then asked me stop laughing. It wasn't funny. But like I said, I wasn't a good girlfriend.

Plus those special 3D TVs are too damn expensive.

Remember back in the day when VHS and Betamax were battling it out for dominance in the home video market? (I sure don't. But good for you if you do.) How about when Blu-ray discs were competing against HD DVD's? It's no secret that the porn industry helped sway that decision for consumers. Porn favored VHS, and Blu-ray.*

So far, I've never send a 3D Blu-ray porn, which means that my well-endowed brothers and anus-bleached sisters are supporting me, in my fight against 3D technology. Because no guy needs to see "the money shot" in 3D, flying out of their TV towards him. It smears those special glasses, and you have to keep replacing them. Consider the money that you constantly have to plug into that investment; it's not worth it.


*Porn beat Betamax so completely**, that my spell check doesn't even recognize it.
**It's has frequent crier miles at the local S&M dungeon.

Are you a Mexican or a Mexican't?

I use live in an apartment complex, with a neighbor that spent most of his time outside, talking to anyone and everyone that walked by. If he could see you, he'd strike up a conversation. He didn't have many interesting things to say, so if you were like me, you'd pretend you couldn't hear and walk very, very fast. But usually this would only make him shout at you louder and follow you. This left me with few options. Typically I'd wait until someone else exited their apartment, watch out my peep hole to make sure he was busy chatting away them, and then sneak out. Or, I'd leave at the same time my roommate needed to leave, I could outrun her, forcing her to deal with him. I'm not a people person. For six months I lived like this! Avoiding my neighbor, who I'm not even sure lived in one of the apartments, since he was always outside. 

He was missing enough teeth to make eating an apple impossible, but he didn't smell like booze. He seemed like a nice guy, who I never caught trying to look down my shirt/up my skirt. He really just seemed like a lonely guy who was just trying to be friendly. I just didn't see how we could have anything in common. I like the inside of my apartment, I keep to myself, and I have a job. He didn't, at least not that I could tell. It would be very sweet if I could say that he and I finally did have a conversation, and I realized that we really did have a lot in common. How inspiring would it be if I wrote that I overcame my prejudices and we became friends? THAT'S NOT THE KIND OF STORY I TELL, PEOPLE.

Despite my careful planning, I would occasionally find myself forced to talk to this old man. The conversations, almost always went like this.

Old man : "Buenos dias!"

Me : "Hello!"

Old man : "No, no! Buenos dias!"

Me: "B-when-nose Diaz?"

Old man : "Buenos dias! It means g'morning in Spanish. You speak Spanish." It was a statement, not a question. Every time it was a statement. Never a question.

Me : "No, I'm afraid I don't speak any Spanish."

Old man : "But your father, he speak Spanish."

Me : "No, he doesn't speak Spanish either. Please excuse me, I really need to get to work."

Old man : "Your father, he speak Spanish. You should learn Spanish."

Me : "I know, I should. But I'm going to be late. Excuse me." And I'd run hastily away. Far, far away.

Every time I was stuck talking to this man, who was obviously extremely proud of his Hispanic heritage, the conversation would go the same way. He'd say some greeting to me in Spanish, I'd mispronounce it back to him and he'd feel shame for me. I was not embracing my Hispanic heritage. I should be proud to come from such fine stock, but I was shaming my family and my people by not learn my culture's native language.

 Except the last time I talked to him, I was late for work, and was heading out to my car. He yelled out, "Buonas tardes" (Good afternoon).

I pretended to be hard of hearing and hurried to the parking lot. HE FOLLOWED ME! "You should learn Spanish, your father, your mother, speak Spanish." He was smiling, and I wasn't threatened, I just had to go to work!

"No, my parents don't speak Spanish."

Still smiling, "But your grandpa, grandma, they speak Spanish."

"No, no one in my family speaks Spanish."

He looked smug. He knew what to say to prove to me that learning Spanish was the best way to honor my ancestors. "You are Spanish. I'll show you, what's your last name?"

"Anderson."

The smile was replaced by shock. "Anderzen?"

"Yup. Anderson."

He smiled again. "Oh! Then you must learn Norweeeegian!" He chuckled and left me alone for the rest of the time I lived there. He'd still wave at me, and I'd wave back. But he was no longer interested in being my friend. 

Racist.

Why does my head hurt?

This morning I awoke with a headache. This could only be the result of one of two things.

Last night a catholic priest and a rabbi strolled into my bedroom. The rabbi watched as the priest punched me in the face.

"What the fuck was that for?!" I screamed.

"You never go to Sunday church anymore." The priest replied.

"I'm Jewish! You cannibalize your God! Leave me alone!" I screamed again. I then rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

Then the rabbi punched me in the face.

"JESUS CHRIST! What was that for?" I was starting to get pissed.

The rabbi calmly said, "You never go to temple, and you celebrate Christmas."

The priest then slapped me upside the head, "That's for taking the Lord's name in vain." He said "lord" with a capital "L".

"Yes, I'm a bad Jew, now leave my house."

OR.........

I'm hungover from all of the margaritas I drank with my family last night.

You decide.

Breaking blogging rules, blogging about work.

I work in a office full of cubicles. And today I was finally given permission to cover my dull grey cubicle walls with fabric. As long as it isn't political, religious, have nude pictures, have swear words, and isn't offensive. That limits my options greatly, but anything is better than grey. I now have a zebra print cubicle! There is now one more tick mark in the "I have the best job ever" column of the score board.

My cubicle is grouped with three other cubes. I call the four cubes a "quad", because I have no desire to look up the actual term. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in the work going on my cubicle, that I ignore what's going on in the rest of the quad. This leads to awkward conversations, like "What are you three laughing at?" "You went on vacation?" and "Why is there a dead chicken, lying in a pool of it's own blood, on your desk?" Add a tick mark in the "I have the worst job ever" column of the score board.

In the four plus years that I've been working for this company, I have had to ask "Why is there a dead chicken, lying in a pool of it's own blood, on your desk", twice. Each time to a different person. ................... uh...at least my score board is now zebra print!!

I won! I won!

Last night I dream't that I was going back to school. Which I am. In my dream I had to choose my major. Which I do. In my dream I chose to major in Canada. Not Canadian history, literature, all of Canada. Then, this morning, I got an e-mail. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Subject line & contents:

Your Mail Id Has Been Awarded £1,000,000.00 In The British Tobaco Online Promo:‏For Claims

vaughn-c@sbcglobal.net

6:16 AM (9 hours ago)

Send Your Details Name.. Sex.. Location.. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's weird that The British Tobaco (one "c") Association has it's spies tracking my dreams. But if they want to financially support my relocation to Canada, who am I to ignore such an obvious sign, ey?

Oh, Canada!

Last night Mr J asked me why I hate fireworks. I feel that this is an unfair representation of my feelings towards fireworks. I don't hate them. I don't love them either. My true opinion on fireworks? They're loud. Not bad, or good, just loud.

If I were to guess how the rumor of my hatred of fireworks began, I'd bet my last dollar that it got confused with my hatred of drunk people with fireworks. Especially if they're in my neighborhood. If you are yelling, slurred lyrics to a Bruce Springsteen song, and shooting bottle rockets at your fence/your neighbor's garage, you deserve to have the cops called on you. I find it ridiculous that once a year, in the United States*, this is acceptable behavior.

Drunk people with explosives is definitely on my hate list. Right up there with arson.



*I can already see the nasty e-mail now. "If you don't like it, you can leave! Unpatriotic bitch!!" And while there are many clever responses, that I could say. I'm just going to tell you all "Go back to blowing your cousin Earl, you aren't finished yet."

Job Posting

I have been so busy at work. How busy, you probably aren't asking? I'm too busy to go shoe shopping! Do you have any idea how much I have to have going on in my life, to prevent me from buying shoes?!

I'm thinking of hiring a personal assistant. You know, to pick up my groceries, do my laundry, wash my car, screen my phone calls, shower for me, go to the gym for me, take my cats to the groomers, fetch my lunch, and separate the border pieces of my puzzles from the rest of the puzzles so I can get to the fun part faster!

The pay will be next to nothing... actually, it may be nothing, with no benefits whatsoever. Any one interested?