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Superheroes To The Rescue

16 Jul

The emotional highs and lows of this weekend was more than any chocolate could handle. It took superhero strength to get me through Saturday and Sunday … the Batman and Wonder Woman kind.

 

:)

🙂

 

Celebrating my kids birthday party one day and then remembering the anniversary of my father’s death the next definitely took me for roller coaster ride of monstrous proportions. Thinking about my dad and knowing how much he would have loved our Superhero Bowling Party made it difficult for it to be a cartwheel-worthy experience.

Seeing my dad laugh and give my son a high five on his spectacular spare would have been great. Having him teach my daughter how to roll the ball down the lane and hit that one awesome pin that would eventually wobble and fall would have been even better.

 

My dad with my son ... thinking about future Grandpa stuff.

My dad with my son … thinking about future Grandpa stuff.

 

Not seeing him on lanes 11 and 12 celebrating my little Guats birthday party was a little difficult to handle, but seeing my son and daughter dressed up in their Justice League attire creating their own high-five moments made it a little easier. I don’t know how it’s possible to be happy and sad at the same time, but I was … emotions were all over the place, which was why I took a three-day weekend away from writing.

Luckily my two superheroes created moments that I wanted to witness and be present for, stuff like tiny bowling shoes, rolling their first strike, bustin’ out their best Justice-League-Defend-The-Universe pose, blowing out the candles on their awesome superhero cake, playing arcade games and being able to hit the 100+ ticket jackpot in the Slam-A-Winner Game that sent everyone in high-five mode. That was the stuff that helped me get through the day … well that and the craziness of a freeway closure due to an overturned semi-truck that made many people late to the party.

In addition the chaos of preschoolers, their parents, food party platters, and the bowling alley staff kept me busy enough to keep my emotions from spilling over in public. Although I don’t think that would have happened, I had more of a private chocolate-induced coma at the cemetery the day after the party. Those kind of emotions tend to put a damper on the Happy-Birthday-To-You moment as well as the unwrapping of the presents, so I kept them reserved for the next day. This was my weekend of roller coasters, so glad I had Wonder Woman and Batman riding along with me.

 

A little souvenir to get the party started ...

A little souvenir to get the party started …

 

Waiting ... waiting ... waiting for people to get passed the Sigalert on the highway and make it to the party.

Waiting … waiting … waiting for people to get passed the Sigalert on the highway and make it to the party.

 

My little Wonder Woman waiting for her turn to knock down some pins ... she bowled an 85 that day :)

My little Wonder Woman waiting for her turn to knock down some pins … she bowled an 85 that day 🙂

 

Getting reading to put the candles on the birthday cake ... so hoping I wouldn't drop it when I took it out of the box.

Getting ready to put the candles on the birthday cake … so hoping I wouldn’t drop it when I took it out of the box.

 

The Jackpot

The Jackpot

 

My daughter helping her older brother cash in his tickets

My daughter helping her older brother cash in his tickets

 

While opening his presents I made sure he opened all the cards. As a knock-knock enthusiast I was glad that my card cracked him up.

While opening his presents I made sure he opened all the cards. As a knock-knock joke enthusiast I was glad that my card cracked him up.

 

:)

🙂

 

A Lot of Bad Decisions and One Good One

25 Mar

Four Band-Aids. My weekend getaway involving a friend’s wedding ended up with four Band-Aids and sore feet.

I’m not much of a dress and high-heel wearer. But it was a special occasion so I showed up in full chick attire, and my feet paid for it in the end. I didn’t even make it to the reception with my black strappy cha-cha heels. I wore them for about an hour and a half and that’s all they needed to make their mark. And in truth there wasn’t much walking going on at the church, but the standing, sitting, and standing routine in addition to waiting outside in order to give the bride a hug was enough to torture my feet to break the skin.

I didn’t see anyone else in pain. All I saw was smiles and stylish opened-toed shoes with nicely painted toenails in bright peaches, reds and pinks. I saw no wincing and no discomfort on anyone’s face, so I did my best to pretend that I was stylishly comfortable too. But I couldn’t take it. I asked my carpool friend if she was ready to go and I was so grateful when she said yes. I wobbled over to her car, sat in the back seat, and took my shoes off.  Yeah … I saw the damage right away. Two scraped toes and blister on the back of my heel already bleeding.

My feet were pretty angry with me.

How could I do this to them … again? Yeah again, could you believe it?

The last time I wore these shoes, they didn’t do as much damage because I had decided to wear nylons. But I was still in pain. However for some reason I thought that shoes sitting in a shoe box would magically make them pain-free. But shoeboxes are not magic. I guess wearing nylons would have helped minimize the abuse, but apparently the nylons didn’t make it into the suitcase. I know nylons are so not cool for a night out on the town or fancy shin-dig wedding, and they should only remain with business suits and skirts, but when it comes to heels, comfort is always my thing. And it was so unfortunate that it didn’t work out that way for me. I couldn’t even stop by a store to buy some, because the traffic was so disastrous. So I had to battle the high heels on my own.

I lost. Four Band-Aids in one hour. I lost big time, and the party hadn’t even started. At least I had a two-hour window to give my aching feet some rest.

But then come around six o’clock I’d have to undergo a high-heel marathon until Midnight. An arduous event that included dancing. And not just regular dancing, this was dancing that involved cumbias — hip shaking like washing machine cumbias. So I knew I had to do something drastic. The fruity drinks I was having weren’t helping forget about the pain, so I did what any self-respecting New Balance wearer would do. I took them off and went barefoot.

The relief. The awesome relief. My ankles and the backs of my heels were thanking me, although they were still calling me stupid, they thanked me anyway.

And as the night progressed I realized I wasn’t the only New Balance wearer to rid herself of the blister-causers. A few us out there on the dance floor were tapping a bare naked feet to the rhythms of our Latin music. One of the girls even thought ahead and brought black socks to wear. Visionary. A total forward thinker. I would have never thought to bring a pair. Perhaps I’m not as smart as I think I am. My feet sure didn’t think so.

But nevertheless the night went on, the after-party continued, and the laughs kept coming. And even though I didn’t plan or think ahead, I was glad I thought of one good thing. I made one good decision that day. The card. I was proud of it … my card. Every wedding is different and you have to find the right card for the couple — the one that shares your vision of the journey they will embark on and what is to be gained of this joyous union.

 

The best idea I had all weekend

The best idea I had all weekend

 

IMG_4540

 

 

I truly hoped she enjoyed it.

.

The Crazed Egg Hunter

7 Apr

Look at them … at first glance they look pretty normal — even caring.

But put a golden egg in front of them and they become this crazed, seething hunter trampling on anyone and anything in their way, including their own kid.

I’ve seen parents get a little pushy, but crazed egg-hunter bitches? That’s a whole new level.

Easter eggs

Easter eggs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Easter egg hunts happening all weekend long and you’re bound to run into parents like these. Easter egg hunts are supposed to be family friendly. They’re supposed to give kids a chance to get their own eggs, that’s why they split the kids up by age. They should split the parents up.

It’s funny how everyone followed the rules at first. There’s a multitude of brightly colored eggs scattered all over the baseball field. Everyone is lined up in the outfield and along the fence. They tell you to stand back. Don’t start ’till you hear the whistle.

There’s no caution tape. No ropes. No red tape. Just you and the honor system. And everybody follows it. A kid walks out and the parent hauls him back in line and explains that it’s not time yet. Everyone was lining up — waiting for the countdown.

5-4-3-2-1!

A marathon of parents rush the field along with their toddlers and three-year olds. Most follow the egg protocol, where they head to a patch of grass and collect five, maybe six eggs. Kids are happy, parents are happy.

But then there’s the crazed hunter who sees the golden egg, glistening in the sun. Is there something special to it? A dollar bill? A gift certificate? A Willy Wonka Golden Ticket? Yeah, maybe. I dont’ know I’ve never been the crazed parent to get one. But there must be something special because the guy with the microphone said they were special. Plus there were only five of them on the field.

It was these five special golden eggs that created the madness.

So after countdown I see him sprint by, dragging his poor kid past all these rainbow-colored eggs. She reaches for an orange egg during the race, but it’s out of her reach as her dad pulls her toward the golden egg. He picks up speed as he sees another crazed egg hunter sprinting toward the same egg. His daughter’s shoe falls off, but he doesn’t stop. She cries. He runs.

As he sprints to one of the five special eggs, he crushes a blue plastic egg that a kid with a dinosaur shirt was planning on putting in his basket. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He keeps going. It’s a race to beat the other parent.

He finally sees it within his grasp. He bumps into another kid, and sidelines an adult. He notices the other crazed parent is close, but according to his estimate he’s closer. A kid with a baseball cap pops out of no where and it becomes a three-way race. I’m rooting for the kid, but as he stretches his hand out for that special egg the man busts out his Andre-the-Giant hands and grabs that golden egg in one swoop. The kid looks startled, as the man clutches onto the prized egg. The other crazed hunter is upset and continues her scramble.

There are no more eggs on the field. He’s got one. The one. Everybody stares in amazement. He shows the egg to his daughter. She’s angry because she wanted the orange egg. She gives him a dirty look and walks back to the outfield, looking for her shoe.

He calls her name and shows her the egg again. She rolls her eyes and turns around.

I look at my son. He peeks inside his red bucket and smiles. He’s got seven eggs, all different colors. He picked them himself.

 

My U2 Experience and Why I Won’t Eat at Jack-in-the-Box

11 Mar

There it was … the big red box with white letters, spinning flashing its sign. She wanted to go inside. There were no other fast food places around. I insisted that her GPS said there was an In-and-Out about seven blocks north, but apparently she was starving.

I’ll wait.

What’s the big deal?

Are you kidding me? What’s the big deal? Bono…The Edge?

Oh.

In-and-Out it is.

Bono and The Edge of U2 at Gillette Stadium, F...

Image via Wikipedia

I had never been to a U2 concert. They said it was an experience. A must see. I thought I would surprise my boyfriend (at the time) with floor tickets.  He was a huge U2 fan. Apparently he’s known and loved them since Bono had a mullet. I wasn’t aware what floor seats were and whether they were any good, but when he opened the envelope I realized they were amazing seats and I was an amazing girlfriend.

The day of the concert was so rushed. We didn’t eat home-cooked meals, but thought we’d pick something up along the way. We saw a Jack-In-The-Box and McDonalds on our way to the arena. I wasn’t a big fan of either one. I told him maybe we should look around, I’m sure there’s something else. It’s this or eleven dollar hot dogs from the arena. Jack-In-The-Box it is I guess.

I got the basics: Burger, fries and a lemonade. But then I saw the sign and changed my mind. “We make are shakes fresh. We use real vanilla ice cream, Oreo cookie pieces, whipped topping and maraschino cherries.”

The chocolate lover in me said: dude how can you not order that, I mean really lemonade, or Oreo Cookies Milkshake? C’mon now.

Milkshake, please. Large.

After we ate, we made our way to the arena and something didn’t sit well with me. My stomach began swelling and I had that bloated feeling.  He asked whether I wanted a beer or wine cooler before going in to the stadium. I politely declined, said I wasn’t feeling too well, probably full from the meal. One won’t hurt, may settle your stomach. All right.

So I picked the strawberry kiwi fizzy wine cooler. Thought it’s carbonated, it may help.

Always listen to your gut. It’s trying to tell you something.

We entered the stadium, bought our souvenir t-shirts and made our way to the floor. The floor. It meant the floor next to the band. The floor, where I could see the microphone stand and wires and if I reached my hand up toward the stage, Bono would probably high-five me, well he’d probably high-five my dude. Sweet, I thought. These were good tickets. He was happy, I was happy.

The lights dimmed and the opening act, The Pretenders, took the stage. As I nodded my head to the tunes, I got a funny feeling in my stomach. It wasn’t the butterflies of a new romance. It wasn’t the boom-boom of my inner musical soul thriving. It was the disharmony of a Jack-In-The-Box. It was my gut, calling me a jackass. I had no Sal de Uvas Picot to save me. But I tried to shake it off. I tried to dance it off.

The set continued, the band rocked on, and the people continued trickling in, filling up the arena. It began getting crowded on the floor … and then that’s when it happened.

It just came out. I threw up. I couldn’t stop. I was like Paul Rudd in I Love You, Man. My dude turned and looked at me, then at the floor. A couple of fans witnessed the spectacle and then probably wished they hadn’t witnessed it at all.

Disaster.

Oreo Cookie Milkshake indeed.

I was mortified. I couldn’t stop. The band didn’t stop jamming. The other floor ticket holders didn’t stop rocking. They didn’t hear me or the Oreo Cookie splat. But I did hear massive profanity as a few fans accidentally stepped in something that shouldn’t have been there. I needed to evacuate.

I didn’t know what to do.

What do you do when you lose it on a date? But not only a date, a concert … a most awesome U2 concert? Probably get ready to take a cab home, who wants a throw-up chick in their car?

I was unsure of my standing with my date at the moment.

My dude looked at me, walked me up the stairs, found the nearest bathroom, handed me one of the U2 shirts, and nodded his head.

After twenty minutes I came out of the bathroom, a little more refreshed and unsure of what was to come. We’d probably need a different spot on the floor. We’d probably be in the back, not even close to the microphone stand. We’d probably be better off in seats. And there would probably be no good-night kiss … No … there was no probably about it. I was sure of it. No kiss. But I was O.K. with that.

He took my hand, led me back to the floor, found a different spot, and he continued to rock on. Just when I felt the need to say something, an apology, a this-doesn’t-usually-happen-to-me-speech, he said:

I guess next time we’ll eat tacos, no milkshakes. Just lemonade.

He smiled and rocked as Bono took the stage.

Regardless of his compassion for my Oreo Cookie Milkshake mishap, I have yet to eat at Jack-In-The-Box again.

Fresh milkshakes with real vanilla ice cream … yeah … I’m not sure about that.

The Rise of La Chona

29 Feb

It happens, even if you don’t have rhythm. It happens.  There’s a song that does it for you. Not just humming or singing the lyrics. It’s starts there, but then your head begins nodding. You hear the opening run and your knees bend a little as your hips start swaying. All of a sudden you’re having a Winona-Ryder-Ethan-Hawke Reality Bites moment at the liquor store.

As I mentioned before I love all kinds of music, I got old school, funk, country, and the 80s submerged in my bones. But this does not have me bustin’ a move in random places.

This happens to me every time I hear La Chona. Now Tucanes de Tijuana don’t play typical Guat music at all. My people listen to cumbias … groups like Sonora Dinamita and Fito Olivares but we dance it all. In my family we got marimba, cumbia, merengue, and salsa. But Tucanes de Tijuana … not so much. I don’t know how it happened but it did.

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

The song first hit the air waves in 1994, but I didn’t hear it until a couple of years later at a Mexican wedding and I was hooked. That little tune jump starts my battery and I’m out of the chair. It’s funny … the song is about a woman who loves to dance and party. Her husband doesn’t know what to do with her. She’s a dancing machine … they call her La Chona.

I was reminded of my Chona Reality-Bites moment, as I was looking through  old college pictures for this week’s photo challenge. I came across a couple of photographs of our ten-year college reunion: A group of friends at the local college pub.

This is where it happened.

We stopped by the campus pub after the homecoming game to get a few drinks. It was crowded, full of typical rugby-shirt, flip-flop wearing white dudes, and giddy, as well as hot-looking, blond chicks. Then we arrived: Latin Invasion. We reminisced, laughed, drank  and ran into old friends. But as everyone else was getting more drinks, a few of us checked out the jukebox, which was filled with Rock, R&B, and some 80s.

And then I saw it.

I couldn’t believe Tucanes were in a place like this. So I dropped my money in the jukebox and made the selection. B-17. I went back to the crowd and waited. Thirty-minutes later I hear the accordion and drum beat. I smile, kick the stool out the way and begin bustin’ a move…Guat style.

There was no official dance floor, but I made one. My friends stared at me as I hopped, swiveled, and kicked my legs around, while swishing my hips. My friends smiled and laughed. Do you think they joined me in this display of La Chona enthusiasm?

Hell yes.

We took over the bar for the next three minutes and seventeen seconds. We were so amusing, that  a couple of flip-flop wearing dudes stopped their dart game and began swishing themselves. This was the rise of La Chona.

Any time I hear that song … I hit the dance floor, even if there is no dance floor.

How about you … do you have a song?

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Indulge

28 Feb

Indulge

 

Indulge.

Indulge in face painting.

Indulge in tailgating.

Indulge in touchdowns.

Indulge in high-fiving perfect strangers because your team scored.

Indulge in interceptions caused by defense.

Indulge in beer.

Indulge in losing your voice in overtime.

Indulge in friends that stay ’till the last second.

Indulge in meeting the drumline at a local bar.

Indulge in pizza at midnight.

Indulge in the college football experience.

Indulge.

Hoo-Raw!

 

Party of Two: My Dad, The Oscars, Nachos and Me.

26 Feb

Different moments, different occasions remind me of my Dad. Random times. When most people are checking out what the stars are wearing down the Red Carpet and wondering why so many breasts are making appearances, I would always check the clock, because I knew my Dad was on his way home, ready for our Oscar Party.

Most people who I know don’t really make a big deal of Oscar Night. I mean they may or may not watch it. It’s not a DVR kind of event for them. But for me and my Dad…we had “the Dreamer’s Disease.” Well I had it and my Dad got it by association. I would tell him … “the day I become an awesome writer and get nominated for award like the Oscars or Emmys you will be date, Dad.” And when most people would laugh or just say get your head out of the clouds, his response was … “well I guess I’ll have to rent a tuxedo.”

The Oscars

The Oscars

It was a night where we hoped our favorite picks got selected. We also looked for the person with the most genuine enthusiasm as they received the golden statue, as well as the best speech. So far my Dad’s top pick was Cuba Gooding Jr. for Jerry Maguire. He smiled to see someone so happy. That’s probably what I would look like if I won. No he said…that’s probably what we would look like if you won.

Aside from looking for the most genuine, we’d also have a pool and side bets. My Dad would always choose Clint Eastwood, even when he wasn’t nominated he’d say Clint Eastwood would have won that one. Sometimes he’d go with Jack Nicholson. Sometimes he’d get it right, other times well …

But he’d get over it with food. Even though our Oscar party wasn’t ice sculptures and caviar, it had good eats, ambiance, and Guat humor. Carne asada, rice, beans, enchiladas, and nachos. I know it sounds like Super Bowl food, but for a writer and a dreamer the Oscars is the Super Bowl. With all the savory tasties you would think we had like ten people there, but no. It was just me and Dad. My mom would hang out for a little bit, but then go upstairs and crash, or watch something else. Premios Nuestros or Cristina, something like that. So for the most part it was just me and Dad, sometimes my cousin…the moocher.

But the best part was hanging out. Sitting on our worn-out couch stuffed with food, we’d sip our after-you-pig-out drinks: ginger-ale for me, coffee for my Dad. We hung out like buddies surrounded by decorations from the 99-cent store or Pic-and-Save, which I used to make it look more festive.

So today as I poured the cheese on my Tostitos, and covered them with chicken, pinto beans, tomatoes, avocados, cilantro, jalapenos, and sour cream I thought about my Dad, and how he’d probably enjoy the fact that Billy Crystal was hosting it again. I looked at this towering dish of awesomeness oozing with monster calories, and I missed my Dad, wished he hadn’t passed away.

I shook my head … too bad Clint Eastwood wasn’t up for it this year, Dad would’ve liked that.

El Plato…The Take-Home Plate

29 Jan
Carne Asada Taco

Image by revrev via Flickr

I don’t know about your culture, neighborhood, or upbringing but in my inner-city, working-class, Latino culture there is something called el plato…the take-home plate. Whether it’s a quinceanera, birthday party, baby shower, bachelorette celebration, or Tupperware party you got the take-home plate. There was an etiquette to these social gatherings — a certain unwritten code of behavior that my people followed. As a guest you didn’t even have to ask. It was just something given to you, like the air you breathe. However, this day was only the second time in my 35-year existence that it didn’t happen. It was weird…like an inexplicable X-Files that Moulder and Scully needed to investigate.

I didn’t know what to make of it. I mean I barely survived my mayonnaise chocolate cake encounter the other day through the awesome power of  Sal de Uvas Picot antacid. I mean even the Mayonnaise Lady offered me a plate home…granted it was denied because I was on the verge of throwing up, but it was offered. Perhaps  things were changing, but when I got home I realized they hadn’t.  

There I was enjoying the baby shower festivities, which included a nice carne asada tacos, rice, beans, and tostadas. I thought I was having a great food weekend with the spring rolls and cookies and then this savory meal hits my taste buds … whoa. Did I have seconds? Yeah… I did. I even had thirds. My people make enough to feed King Kong’s family. There’s no shame in getting thirds, my people encourage the curvaceous look.

As the celebration came to an end, people started picking up casseroles, moving chairs, cleaning tables, drinking Budweiser and singing Chente’s Volver Volver. Vincente Fernandez‘s song for those of you that don’t know, this is THE HYMN that usually appears towards the end of the festivities. Drunk and sober people sing it all the time.

So as I’m making my good-bye rounds, I notice I’m getting closer and closer to the door and no plato in sight. I make my final good byes to the guest of honor and her family at the door and nothing.

I linger…still no Dixie plate with aluminum foil any where in sight. But I know they still had enough food to feed half of the New York Giants. So I try to drop some hints.

“It was a great party. The food was great. So delicious.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yes it was. We have so much of it.”

“Oh yeah it was good.”

“Thanks…Glad you made it out.”

“Oh, you were?”

“Of course! We always love having you ladies over.”

I glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. No more stalling. It’s just not coming.

“Well, O.K. Gotta go.”

They stare at me. I stare back.

“O.K.”

I open the screen door and leave. No carne asada, no rice, no beans, no salsa. No plato.

 I walk through the door at home. My mom sits on the couch watching something  Don Francisco related. I put my keys on the table and sit.

“What happened? I thought you went to a party?”

“I did.”

Y el plato?”

No plato.”

“No plato?”

“No…no plato.”

“What happened?”

My aunt walks down the stairs and says hello. She looks around the kitchen and table.

“So you didn’t go to the party?”

“I did.”

Y el plato.”

“No plato.

“Do they not like you?”

“Yeah they do… just no plato.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, not anymore. But initially yeah they did.”

My husband comes down the stairs and gets a beer from the fridge.

“Where’s the plate?”

“No plate.”

“No plate! What’s up with that? Was it an unvitation party?”

“No dude. They like me. There was just no plate.”

“Not possible. Maybe they don’t like you enough.”

So after a thirty minute analytical  inquisition by family I realized, sometimes there are just no plates. Not even an offer of one. It happens. People have brain farts all the time and the unwritten rule remains unspoken and without action. You chalk it up to too much alcohol and their family living on the west side.  

West siders…an interesting no-plato species.

Sal de Uvas Saved Me From This Chocolate Cake

28 Jan

I don’t think I’ll look at chocolate cake the same way again. I love chocolate. It’s my go-to choice for anything catastrophic in my day. I mean other than profanity, chocolate does it for family interactions, writer rejections, traffic, baby blowouts, college football losses and cliffhangers on some of my favorite AMC or FX shows.

English: Chocolate cake with chocolate frostin...

Image via Wikipedia

I love the cacao tree. It’s awesome, but what this lady did with it in cake…not cool man…not cool. Bad things should not be happening to chocolate cake.

I went to another get-together in the afternoon and I didn’t repeat my food-a-thon from yesterday, but when I realized that they had chocolate cake, it was on. I was already thinking up an excuse as to why I  needed to take two pieces home with me…you know, invent a relative that’s staying with me and say I’d like to take her some, knowing full well that I’d probably devour it at the stoplight.

I grabbed my piece of cake, not a sliver, not a slice, a healthy ginormous chunk of the bad boy and began eating before I sat down.  The texture was different. Something was different about it. It was softer, but something was different.

When I asked where she got it, she said she had baked it herself.

“It’s my mayonnaise chocolate cake.”

“Your what?”

“My mayonnaise chocolate cake. I saw the recipe it’s sometimes called the ‘Depression Era‘ cake because I guess in those times people used what they could find.”

If you don’t have butter, don’t be making it. Or at least put a label on it and say this is my mayonnaise cake, dig in.

Dude. Depression Era indeed. After hearing that I was depressed. In fact I was sick. All I could think of was a white vinegar-smelling blob trying to molest my chocolate.  Apparently mayonnaise is an emulsion of ingredients that are normally un-blendable. Who wants that with their chocolate. I mean in a sandwich, I get it. Although I don’t really add mayonnaise to my stuff, I’m a deli mustard person myself. But I understand why people put it on sandwiches. It was intended to be a spread, not a major ingredient in chocolate cake.

I was completely grossed out. I mean I know there are eggs and oil in this white blob, but dude sometimes ingredients need to be mixed the cake way instead of forming a sandwich spread and then adding it to your cake as if it were pudding or frosting. I could feel my stomach yelling obscenities at me. It was one of those moments where you so wanted to throw up, but it doesn’t happen so you’re left with this sick feeling.

Sal De Uvas Picot…My Savior

I was grossed out the entire day until the little white, blue and green packet rescued my stomach. Sal de Uvas Picot saved me. It’s an antacid imported from Mexico. One of the best things other than their Tecate or Dos Equis beverages. It rebooted my system and was thankful we had some in the medicine cabinet.

No more visits to Mayonnaise Lady. I don’t need anymore Tupperware, they sell Rubbermaid at Costco.

The Unvitation

19 Jan

Have you ever gotten the unvitation? These bastards. You know, someone is having a party, simply because your other friends made you aware of it. The big event, which probably took weeks to plan, party favors to buy, and meticulously researched invitations to purchase. But you get the unvitation in a casual conversation the night before. You get the fake smile and the “oh yeeeeeeeeaaaah, you should come.” Or you get the actual invitation in the mail the same day the event takes place.

Custom Invitations

Image via Wikipedia

It’s not that they invite out of obligation either…they invite you, because they know you’re not going to show up: the unvitation. It’s like a slap in the face without the hand. Pretty creative I guess.

What do you do in situations like these? I mean do you go out of spite, and show up with a bunch of drunk friends? Or do you play up the guilt factor and buy the best present ever and wrap it up professionally just to see how the guilt swarms over? Either way you’ve wasted gas and time. Is the gas worth the trip? Do you know how much unleaded is these days? I’d rather buy myself dinner, table for one please. Or least a nice bottle of wine. Riesling. Framboise. Drinking alone is underrated.

On top of considering the travel arrangements to this soiree you have to shell out money on a gift…well unless you re-gift and leave the previous to-and-from tag. I mean that’s the perfect gift for an unvitation. I mean do you honestly want to be at a place where you’re not wanted and spend money on the people who do not want you there?  I mean unless its to throw a pie in their face money spent would suck.

But the unvitation. What is that? I don’t really come from that school of thought. That sounds like Dynasty-Melrose Place passive aggressive crap. I come more from the aggressive-aggressive school. No conspiring. No colluding. Just profanity and flipping the bird. No unvitations. Just giving people the shaft. They know you don’t want them there, you know you don’t want them there. It’s a win-win. Everyone is happy.