I have yellow fever.
No, I’m not into Asians in the sexual sense, unless you count food as porn, then I’m definitely into Asian sex.
I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been eating a lot of Asian food… almost daily, and not the shitty Chinese take-out either. Wait, I take that back… I did have really shitty Chinese take-out a couple weeks ago but I’m trying to forget the experience. How can you fuck up rice and vegetables? Go to this restaurant, they’ll show you.
I’m seriously loving spicy, spicy food and Asians really know how to blow your fucking taste buds out of your mouth with the spicy: Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Indonesian… all of it.
I think as I’m getting older, I’m losing my sense of taste (especially in men, but let’s not go there). Okay, let’s go there… there’s a very narrow scope of available men who have any sense of quality, integrity and looks, who are in my age group. Plus I live in suburban hell, so the good ones are married and have a bunch of kids, and who the hell wants that?
So I may or may not be seriously compromising my taste in men… I don’t know. I haven’t had a lot of action as far as dating, so I’ll have to get back to you on that one.
So let’s get back to the deliciousness of spicy Asian food because it’s way better than sex: It’s not as messy and it tastes better… and it’s free…
No, I do not pay for sex.
Not only do I pay for sex, I watch it on video!
That’s not what I meant! I meant sex as in food, okay? Let’s not confuse the two. I pay for spicy Asian food (sex) and I watch it being prepared on the internet (porn). See? There’s a difference.
I don’t know if you knew, but there’s a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos out there who make these Asian food videos and there’s a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos who watch them.
Do you know what Mukbang is? (just Google it). It means Monster Eating in Korean and I’m totally obsessed! Whenever I feel like a fat pig, I watch these videos and I don’t feel so badly.
There are the two Cambodian girls who live in the country and they eat everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. They eat every single part of whatever poor creature they’re preparing. I’m talking feet, innards, beaks… plus insects, reptiles… you name it. It’s gross; it’s truly horrible and disgusting and it’s like watching a train wreck; I can’t take my eyes off it. But it’s their culture, that’s what they eat. They’d probably be disgusted watching an American eat fast food full of sodium and preservatives.
Not me, by the way. I don’t eat that stuff.
I’m not saying I’m perfect. Okay, I am saying I’m perfect… and better than you, because I’m a vegetarian… almost vegan, if you will.
Mostly… sort of.
My fridge is full of spicy sauces, spreads, and pickles. Every time I see something that looks good, I’ll buy it. Now, is that strange considering I have the weakest digestive system on the planet? Maybe. But it doesn’t bother me for some reason. You know what bothers me? The fact that I can’t eat chocolate or ice cream without my digestive tract getting revenge.
There are a lot of things that bother me, come to think of it. I’ll have to get back to you on that though. I’m hungry.
I live in the suburbs about 35 miles northwest of Los Angeles. We’re not that hard to find, and if you happen to be a flat-earther it’s even easier: just head north on the 101 freeway and right before you drive off the face of the planet, take a hard right. I go to L.A. a lot, but I avoid certain parts, like Venice Beach, because I eat carbs, exceed the weight limit and am considered fat.
Okay, I’m not really fat, I’m chubby. I certainly don’t fit into the L.A. stereotype of a woman (or the entire North American continent’s stereotype of a woman): the type who exercises and starves herself to death just to fit into someone else’s ideal of what a woman’s body should look like.
Fat was in the cards for me. I was a fat kid, which was difficult because no one likes fat kids. I got fat-shamed by pretty much everyone: schoolmates, teachers, my parents, and especially the media.
School was difficult also. I hated it because it had nothing to offer me. Kids were mean, teachers were mean, what was the point? The only thing I was learning was to hate myself even more. I didn’t fit into the narrow mindedness of school administrators and teachers; I was a round peg and they were square, rigid, and tried to fit me into their square holes.
I ended up dropping out of high school. Yep, I’m a high school drop out. They really should change that phrase though, it makes it seem like I was the failure, when really, it was high school that failed me, so I left.
In elementary school, I did have this one teacher who, although wasn’t the nicest person, was really into books and reading, and I loved that because I did too; books were my escape. I was a voracious reader, I always had a book with me. I would hole up in my room, safely tucked away from all the heartbreak the world was offering me, my nose inches from the pages that were capturing my attention.
So this teacher would read to us every day for an hour after our lunch break, which was my absolute favorite part of the school day. I remember her reading us The Hobbit, which would not necessarily be one of my preferences, but she made it magical. Every day I looked forward to resting my head on my desk, closing my eyes, and listening to her bring Tolkien’s characters to life.
One day, she thought it would be a good idea to have her students learn speaking skills by reading aloud from a book in front of the class, like she did, which would be a good idea if you weren’t a fat introvert like I was. She brought in a big pile of books and told us she would go through a stack, call out the title of the book, and when you heard one you liked, to raise your hand and she’d hand you the book to read.
Well, the way my mind worked, there was always a delay in processing any information I would receive, so it would take me a moment to capture it, process it, and then respond. The teacher called out this one book that sounded really good to me, but because of my mind’s delay process, it took me a moment before I excitedly raised my hand.
By that point, she has already moved on to the next title, which ironically, was called The Fat Cat… and can you get where I’m going with this? As the title suddenly registered with me, the enthusiastic hand that was suspended above my head slowly sank, and any joy I had about the task completely drained out of me.
I sat there frozen.
My teacher, the one I counted on to guide and educate me, asked out loud, in front of the entire class, “Do you want to read The Fat Cat?” To say she was insensitive is like saying Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump have bad manners.
You could hear a pin drop. The entire class was staring at me, waiting in anticipation for my answer, because they knew my life at that moment was over, and they wanted to bear witness.
It was a lose-lose situation: If I said no, I was going to be humiliated because everyone was gonna know I didn’t want to read a book titled The Fat Cat… but if I said yes, I was going to be humiliated because I’d be reading from a book titled The Fat Cat.
See what I mean?
The pressure was building. I sat there contemplating my fate, and I could sense my teacher’s impatience, so I blurted out a shaky “Yes.” Then I had to get up in front of the entire class and read from this fucking book! I could’ve said no. I could’ve ran out of there crying, hopefully garnering some sympathy in the process, but I didn’t. I stood up, took the book from my teacher’s hand, and proceeded to read it out loud.
It was a kid’s book, sorta like Dr. Seuss, so every other sentence was talking about the goddamn Fat Cat. I must have said that phrase 20 times, and each time I said it, the class snickered and guffawed. To make matters worse, the boy I secretly had a crush on was sitting in the front row.
I was inadvertently fat-shaming myself.
It was one of the toughest days of the school year. But you know what? I finished the book, walked back to my desk with my head held high, pretending I wasn’t humiliated and that it didn’t hurt me to the core to have my fellow classmates laugh in my face, and took my seat with as much pride as I could muster.
I did it, and I survived, and I found out I had a propensity for public speaking. It made me a little stronger, and I believe I made a tiny dent that day, momentarily taking the shame out of the word fat. Not for them… not for my classmates or my teachers or my parents or anyone else that was cruel towards me… but for me. The kids could snicker and point and laugh at me, but they couldn’t take away my my resolve… my bravery and courage.
And to me, that lesson is more valuable than anything that comes out of a school book.
If you’re a man and you’re confused about us women and how and why we operate the way we do, I can totally understand because I do shit all the time that confuses me.
For instance, I was in the market yesterday during my lunch hour buying some items I didn’t need, to fulfill something that isn’t there. Along with those items, I bought a bag of pretzels, which I did need, because I had an upset stomach, and pretzels always ease my upset stomach.
But I was debating whether I should buy them or not because this particular market only had large bags of pretzels, not small bags, and they were almost four dollars… for fucking pretzels?! (is what I said to myself), so I almost didn’t get them. But I did.
After I ate a couple, I wished I hadn’t gotten them because they weren’t that good. You’d think you couldn’t screw up a pretzel, but you can. Anyway, as I got back to work, I remembered our office vending machine sells small bags of pretzels and I laughed about it because if I had just waited ‘til I got back to work, I could’ve saved a few bucks.
I forgot to bring some of those mediocre, expensive pretzels to work with me today, and I was craving some, so I went downstairs to the vending machine and bought a small bag.
It seems I have a problem remembering pretzels.
Anyway, what’s my point? Well, my point is… I was taking issue with how much the bag of pretzels cost at the market, but I didn’t hesitate to buy some from the vending machine, which are .85 cents for a very small bag, and I could buy two large bags of expensive pretzels for how much I spend weekly on the small ones from the vending machine. So I’m not only buying a large bag of pretzels I don’t even like, I’m spending extra money on the small bags at work; money I could use to just buy a large bag of pretzels I do like*
If you’re a man and you don’t follow, or are perplexed about my reasoning, I just want to say… I fucking get it. I get you, man.
*This may not be a gender issue. There may be plenty of men out there who would do the same pretzel thing I do, but I can’t be too sure.
But it doesn’t stop there. I bought some jam jars online because if you can fucking believe it, I’m making more fucking jam because my life sucks right now!!!*
ahem… I’m making more jam.
*Confused? Read my post from a couple weeks ago.
Yeah, I found this peach tree down the street from my work and this time, I wasn’t stealing the fruit. No, not at all… I was helping myself to the fruit because the branches of this fruit tree were hanging over the wall of the owner’s property and California law states that “Any fruit that is hanging over the wall or fence of the owner’s property is fair game for anyone to take”… or something like that (I’m paraphrasing), so that wouldn’t make me a thief, I’m a… I’m a…
Okay, okay, okay… I stole the fucking peaches!
I’m a fruit thief.
Say that five times quickly.
So I made some peach jam when a few weeks ago it was apricot jam. Where I am going with this anyway?
Oh, yes… I bought more jam jars online, which cost more than the ones I initially bought at the dollar store a few weeks ago. I hesitated buying all of the dollar store jam jars because I didn’t want to spend too much money, so when I made this second batch of fucking delicious homemade jam, I needed more jars, and by the time I went back to the dollar store to get them, they were all gone.
I could’ve saved time and money by just buying all the goddamn dollar store jam jars in the first place.
Now, one could argue that this is really a money issue, not a “you’reafuckingcrazylady” issue, but I can’t be too sure.
Want some jam?
Independence Day, a.k.a. Fourth of July.
I dunno know… I’m just not that into it; call me un-American. No really, call me un-American because I’m not a natural born citizen of this country, I was born in Italy. Not that I don’t love it here… sort of.
Listen, I’m not a fan of Italy’s politics either, but at least they’re honest about how corrupt they are. Plus, they elected a porn star to parliament in the eighties… how bad could it be?
So, a couple things:
The Declaration of Independence wasn’t actually signed until August 2, 1776. I have no idea why we celebrate our supposed independence on July 4th… and I don’t care.
Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner while sitting in Chesapeake Bay after the Brits bombed the shit out of Fort McHenry. When he awoke the next morning, he saw an American flag waving in the dawn and was inspired. He promptly pulled out an envelope and wrote the first initial verse. The poem later became a song, which ironically, is sung to the tune of a British drinking song. Remember that next time you’re singing it with your hand across your heart.
It’s interesting how few people refer to this day as Independence Day; we call it Fourth of July. Probably not a coincidence.
We don’t actually have independence, do we? I mean, we’re dependent on a lot of things. China, mainly. Maybe in a hundred years we’ll be signing a totally new Declaration of Independence. Unlikely though, since they supply the things we savagely consume, like smartphones and other electronics we can’t seem to disconnect from. Plus we owe them trillions of dollars.
We’re dependent on oil from the Middle East, too. But hey, wave that flag because it represents our “Independence”… from Britain… two hundred and forty-something years ago.
I suggest a revolution. I’d start one, but I’m too busy writing this.
I used to love watching the fireworks; that was the best part about Independence Day, but after 50 or so years of watching them, year after year after year after… you get the idea… they just don’t thrill me anymore. And how can they when Flint, Michigan still doesn’t have clean water after five years and we’re putting innocent children in cages at the border?
The only fireworks I wanna see are the ones going off in my head when I’m with the right guy doing the right things to make a bang, know what I mean?
At least I’m starting my day out with a bang… just had an earthquake while sitting here writing this.
It must be California’s way of saying “Happy Birthday America.”
I decided to sell my homemade apricot jam to my neighbors because I’m a great person.
I happen to make some fucking delicious jam. I’m not a homemaker type in the least; I really can’t stand living in the ‘burbs and talking about this kinda shit, but that’s my life at the moment until I can get a more reliable car and get back to chasing my dreams and being a menace on the highways of Southern California.
Anyway, I got these beautiful apricots from a neighbor down the street. She wasn’t really “down the street”, it was more like three blocks down and one block over… and she didn’t really “give” them to me… it was more like I did her a favor and took some off her hands because her giant apricot tree was overflowing with them and they were falling all over the ground, going to waste.
I always ask her first if I can have some and I intended to ask her this time too, but it was nine o’clock at night by the time I remembered to get some and I didn’t want to bother her.
Okay, okay, okay… I stole her fucking apricots.
So I made a big batch of delicious jam and put them in these jars that I decorated with an idea I got off Pinterest and Jesus Christ I sound so pathetic. This is not me, people… I don’t log onto Pinterest ever!
I have way too much time on my hands. See, the thing is, my car is not running well and I’m afraid to drive it too much and I’ve been looking for over two months for another car and I don’t want to get into detail about it… let’s just move on.
You know what? Thank God I am an apricot thief, otherwise my reputation would be fucked.
So I packed up these pretty little jars of jam in a cute basket like the friggin’ moron I’ve become and walked door to door in my neighborhood to sell them. You know, you can learn a lot about your neighbors when you’re trying to sell them something.
Like, for instance, the woman down the block: when I told her I was selling my delicious jam and would she like to buy a jar? she said “Maybe, how much is it?” and when I told her eight bucks, she acted like I was asking for a thousand. She said that was too expensive, even though she had two BMWs in the driveway of her huge house. Poor thing… couldn’t afford it.
Then there was the guy two doors down and across the street; he’s a builder, and right now, he’s adding onto his house and it’s a major project. It’s annoying as hell because of the noise, the trucks coming and going, and the general nuisance that goes along with building.
I used that to my advantage though… he knows he’s being a big pain in the ass so of course he would buy a jar, and he said apricot happened to be his favorite. Doesn’t matter if he hated apricot jam, he was gonna buy a fucking jar whether he liked it or not.
I sold a couple to his builders, too.
The mom of the nice family that lives next door to the builder has her dad visiting from Czechoslovakia and I can hardly believe I spelled that correctly, but anyway, he invited me in after saying the rest of the family wasn’t home.
He then proceeded to tell me in broken English how he escaped communist Czech during the Eighties. At least, I think that’s what he was telling me, I could barely understand him. After about fifteen minutes of listening to him talk, I knew exactly how it felt to want to escape.
The one neighbor at the end of the block, I didn’t even bother going to because it looked like no one was home. I noticed he had one of those statues of a footman on his walkway, you know the kind I’m talking about? They’re called lawn jockeys, and his was a black footman… so I knew right away he was a Southern white dude, and we all know the implications of that: he would never buy apricot jam, Southerners only eat peach jam. Plus, those accents make me want to plug my ears!
Whenever a neighbor said they didn’t have any cash, I told them I accept PayPal and Venmo because I’m persistent and persistence pays off. Plus, I wanted to sell the goddamn jam, which was getting really heavy.
The good news is I sold every last bit of it and let my neighbors know next month, it’ll be plum jam.
I’ll be sticking needles in my eyes if I’m still making jam next month.
I’m a little embarrassed to tell you this, but I recently got scammed by a little old lady.
I felt like a complete sucker, and who wouldn’t?! I mean, no one is prepared to be scammed by a little old lady. You’d expect it from a lawyer, or financial planner, or a car salesman, a college exams administrator, an insurance company, a government, a president, a dictator (same thing)… but never a little old lady!
You know, I’m a really well adjusted human being, and a total sweetheart, which you can probably tell from reading my blog, so when a little old lady asks me for a favor, I’m ready to oblige, which is what happened last week while standing in a long line at the supermarket. This little old lady standing behind me asked if she could go ahead of me. This was after she struck up a conversation; she was quite the character.
Okay, looking back, I can clearly see she was a friggin’ nut job, but at that moment, she was just a good conversationalist; she did most of the talking. In fact, she wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just as I was about to get to the cash register, she asked if she could go ahead of me, so seeing as how she only had two items and I had several, I told her to go ahead.
Turns out, just because someone only has one or two items, doesn’t mean they’re going to take less time.
She was able to flimflam me; she charmed me with her chattiness, then slid in front of me where she began to create all kinds of drama and stalling and holding everybody up in line behind her.
First, she asked for cigarettes, which are kept locked up in the front of the store, so the manager has to come with the key to open the cabinet to get them. Then she started in on the price, saying she wanted to have a clerk double check it. But when he verified it was correct, she started loudly arguing with the clerk about it and wouldn’t back down, so now all of us are stuck behind this cigarette-smoking troll, disguised as a little old lady, and were forced to wait while she created this unnecessary drama.
Not once did she look over to me and apologize for causing this inconvenience after I was kind enough to let her go ahead of me, because it was her plan all along. She’s the type of person whose only goal in life is to cause conflict and suck other people into it with her so everybody’s miserable.
You know the type.
I got pissed off that I fell for it, and I promised myself I’d never fall for it again.
Well I got tested on that promise yesterday while at another supermarket. I was just about to have my groceries checked out by the clerk, when a little old lady with three items asked if she could go ahead of me.
I almost… almost… let her go, but remembered the little old lady flimflam from last time and quickly shut her down:
“Not if you’re going to write a check.” I snapped.
Clearly, she was going to write a goddamn check. I get steamed every time some idiot pulls out a check book at the register. Really? You can’t use a fucking debit card like ninety nine percent of the population? Or… well it used to be ninety nine percent of the population until the ability to scan a payment from your smartphone was invented. I’m not sure what the percentage would be now and… hmm, well I can’t be bothered to research it.
It doesn’t matter, the point is… the point is…
What? How do I know she was gonna write a check? Well she looked like the type who would write a check. Plus, she gave me this look which I can only describe as getting busted… or maybe it was exasperation… whatever, it wasn’t my fucking problem. I quickly checked out and left, not looking back. I’m never letting a little old lady in front of me again, I’ll tell you that much.
You know, I just realized, no matter how much Botox I get injected into my forehead, it’s never enough to hide the disgust on my face.
Searching for the perfect used vehicle? Frustrated dealing with the scum of the earth on Craigslist?
Look no further! I have the perfect car for you!
This car has everything: check engine light, visible damage, high pitched noise while running… she’s got it all!
You say you want:
High miles? Check
Torn leather driver’s seat? Check
Non-existent air conditioning? Check
Useless sunroof? Check
This hot mess has been waiting for Y OH U.
Why am I selling such a blessing, such a hot hunk of metal, you ask? I couldn’t take care of her the way she wanted, the way she needed… because honestly, I never liked her.
She was thrust upon me by a self-absorbed ex-boyfriend who, besides being an idiot that didn’t know how to inspect a used car, wanted me to be seen as a tame suburban housewife, but I couldn’t abide. I’m an out of control, hot, sexy MILF (Mother I’d Like to Feed). Sure, I’m chubby and I don’t have kids, but don’t judge me… a girl needs butter and chocolate and to be free of commitments.
I never wanted to drive a Volvo… a name that closely resembled parts of a woman’s vagina… that’s not sexy. What’s sexy is having a car that’s reliable but doesn’t say “I’m boring and a moron.” But hey, that’s just me, don’t let that stop you from driving it.
If all this hasn’t yet tempted you yet, check out these features:
Brand new tires, sorta.
New oil pan (whatever the fuck that is).
New car smell – if the new car was fourteen years old.
I haven’t farted in it in at least a week because I stopped being a fuckin’ vegan.
Whatever is stuck between the seats and the console is your to keep!
This car will give you hours and hours of asking yourself why you bought it, only to be reminded that it’s a status symbol of true suburban mediocrity.
But wait, there’s more! If you buy it in the next 10 minutes, I’ll throw in The Club (remember those useless pieces crap?) It’s an Eighties icon, you’ll be the talk of the town!
Call now before it’s gone: 1-800-I’m a lonely piece of shit.