Jesus Would Eat Meat Today

I plan to make dinner tonight.

On the menu is pasta with shrimp and knackwurst.

I’m no where near Catholic enough to give up meat today. First of all, I don’t know why it’s done, and secondly, I’m too poor to have sushi.

I plan to marinate the shrimp in basil, oregano and olive oil, sauté the wurst, yell at my girlfriend for being in the way, sauté the miscellany (bell pepper, mushrooms, onion, garlic [perhaps eggplant]), yell at the mushrooms, sear the shrimp quickly, and mix it all together along with the pasta so as to let it finish cooking with the shrimp. I’ll add butter and grate parmesan over it to bring it all together.

Why would God want me to give that up? Jesus and I are buds, he’d eat this with me, too, and we’d probably get drunk and fly around to bars or something afterward.

“frank,” he’d say, “that girl is checking you out. Go for it.”

“I can’t, Jesus, I have a girlfriend.”

“True, true. Be my wingman then.”

“Alright, Jesus,” and I would totally be Jesus’ wingman but he wouldn’t need one because he’s Jesus. “My friend can turn that into wine for you,” I’ll tell the two women.

“Uh, we’re drinking vodka,” one would say with an attitude.

“You don’t wanna talk to those bitches,” I’d tell Jesus.

For dessert we’ll probably have ice cream.

Read my Journal

[I found a journal I wrote fifteen years ago. Some are boring, but several are pretty funny in retrospect. I'm sure most guys will relate. Have a read.]

Dear Journal,

Today I had my first kiss. I hope she’s not pregnant and I’m really worried. I think I kissed her really good and it felt really good, but I’m sad because she told me I couldn’t tell anyone because she would lose her job and she’s a really good teacher.

Dear Journal,

I had my second kiss today. I think it was her first kiss because she said, “I’ve never kissed a boy before,” but I think she was lying because how can a babysitter never kiss a boy when she’s always taking care of boys?

Dear Journal,

I didn’t do anything today.

Dear Journal,

Today I tickled a girl so good that she started screaming really loud. I thought I was killing her but she said not to stop. When I asked my dad why, he started crying and broke up with his girlfriend so I guess I’ll never tickle her again.

Dear Journal,

Last night I felt so grown up when I went to the restaurant with my friend’s family and his mom bought me a wine. I drank it really fast like my dad does and started walking crooked. My friend’s mom said I should sleep over and I slept in her bed. When I woke up she brought me juice and said, “ready for more, tiger?” And she took off her big shirt. I said the juice was good.

THE MONDAYS -or- Things Happen for a Reason

Whenever someone actually says, "Someone has the case of The Mondays!," I actually start having a case of "The Mondays" regardless of whether I'm already having one or not. For this Monday, however, I had it real bad.

Let's start off with the fact that today was my first day doing a weekly Monday entry. For those who have been wondering (I doubt any have), I do have a short list of general concepts to write about when a blogging day is approaching, and it's not very certain what I'll write about until I sit in front of a computer to compose my next entry. This past week in general was a pretty busy and tiring one for me, leaving me little time to plan for this, and I figured that the headache that induced an early bedtime for me Sunday night would allow me adequate rest for me to prepare for yet another crazy week.

And crazy it was from the get-go. After a restless sleep, I was roused around 5:30AM this morning by a text message from my roommate, asking me to take her to urgent care. She was feeling poorly for about six hours before she asked me to take her, and after putting on some clothes, we made the squeaky trip up to urgent care, where we stayed there for over three hours as we watched Oscar wrap-ups and I played a bit of Sudoku and Animal Crossing on my Nintendo DS. I'm glad that I wound up sleeping earlier so that I'd get that extra bit of sleep so that I'd be able to take her when she wanted to. She is going to be okay, by the way; she's doing a bit better.

After our stint in Urgent Care, we stopped by Trader Joe's to stock up on more fluids for her, which provided me with the opportunity to go across the street to try this infamous breakfast burrito I keep hearing about. After going home and trying to put some damage in what's probably a one pound behemoth, I did a bit of freshening up to clock in some work time.

Not that I am glad she is not feeling well, but if we didn't have to be in Pasadena at such an early time, I probably wouldn't have had the motivation enough to get my butt over in time for this burrito...the burrito that eventually contributed to my demise for the rest of the day.

I do have a witness how that huge thing kicked my butt all day, and as of this posting, I still haven't gathered the courage to polish off the three bites of this dense and greasy thing. I'm starting to develop a phobia of it, even. I thought that having something like that to help me power through the day would help, but instead, I staggered through sleepy AND groggy, thanks to all the grease and starch that was weighing me down.

By the end of the day, I was sleepy with a headache, and couldn't think of anything better than to take some pain killer and nap. The way I was feeling today, one would think that I was the one who was sick.

But I guess I am sick: Sick with The Mondays. And to top the day off, here I am, fresh from said nap, writing a perfectly crappy blog entry in the spirit of this perfectly Monday day.

Of course, there's a reason for all this crap: I've set the bar so low at this point, I'm sure these new Monday entries by Yours Truly can't get any worse...right?

HAPPY DAY!

Adventures in Politics

It was my first time in a hot air balloon. I’d finally gathered the courage to conquer my fear of heights after a case of vertigo ruined a romantic evening atop a swaying building. I figured hijacking a hot air balloon in the process of take off would be the best way to “force” myself off the ground. Once your grappling hook latches and your feet are dangling, you’re hard-pressed to back down.

“What the hell, get off the damned balloon, you stupid imbecile!”

“You get off the balloon, you . . . ballast!” I responded, jabbing in their direction with my three-pronged hook. I released the sandbags and soared higher, nervous as if I were on a sinking ship. I had the flame run until out of fuel and I was high enough to be able to see the city, the ocean, the desert, the forest, and the mountains in one glance. I felt confident and safe in that basket, drinking the wine and having the cheese left behind. My euphoria kept increasing until the wake of a passing plane toppled the balloon and bucked me out.

Luckily it was a plane filled with sky divers and I was able to land on a rectangular parachute that looked like the American flag. It was comfortable, like landing on a giant, patriotic pillow. I heard someone singing below me.

“No need to ask.
I’m a smooth operator,
smooth operator,
smooth operator.”

“I know that voice,” I said.

“Is that--.”

“Mr. President!”

“Frank, how have you been!” Barack asked ecstatically.

“Oh, just conquering my fear of heights. Has an irrational fear ever thwarted a night of pleasure for you?” I asked and slid to the edge of the parachute and looked down at him as though we were bunk buddies.

“Once, but to be fair, it was a very large spider,” he said. “So did your parachute fail to deploy?”

“Hah, no, I stole a hot air balloon. By the way, do you have my back on that? Might turn into a legal issue.”

“No problem, Frank.”

The president and I floated down together slowly. I landed with a thud and was dog piled immediately by secret service agents, but Barack peeled them off and pulled me out of the rubble and that’s how I conquered my fear of heights.

Making it Personal

A friend admitted to me this game she played with another friend of hers: they would see how long they can touch someone in a crowd before they noticed.

Being someone who like to do strange, social experiments like that (or just because I'm strange), I was interested in such a game. It also doesn't help that I play little games in my head, like when someone unknowingly encroaches in my personal space (sometimes due to a big purse) and I time to see how long it takes for them to notice that we've made a physical connection and them to freak out and profusely apologize.

In most contexts, I'm okay having very little personal space. It's something I've developed after years of attending concerts and being smooshed up against hordes of sweaty, crazy people who are trying to get as close to their favorite band as possible. It's this lack of boundaries I like to exploit to get past the "cool kids" crowd, AKA those who do have large personal boundaries and are freaked out as I dash between the negative space between several cool kids spaces to get closer to the stage.

So when my friend told me about this game, I found it interesting they'd do something of that nature in the open, when one's not smooshed up and sweaty against someone else. And when she went ahead and demonstrated an attempt to touch someone while not noticing, I freaked out and wanted her to stop...because she was going to employ THE CREEPY TOUCH.

One of the few contexts when I have to have a large personal boundary is when you have THE CREEPY TOUCH. It's that touch that you can feel on your skin and it radiates creepiness even before the creepy toucher makes actual, physical contact to your being. Nothing is creepier and gross feeling than an eerie, "Hiiiiii...how are youuuuu?" followed by the lay of creepy hand on your arm, small of back, whatever. Actually, what IS worse is the Creepy Rub, where once the creepy touch is laid upon you, the Creepy Toucher proceeds to move his/her hand in a light, creepy motion, which multiplies the creep factor ten fold.

Having been the recipient of THE CREEPY TOUCH more than one human should bear made me want to grab my friend and scream, "NO, NOT LIKE THAT!!!!," only if I actually did that, the entire bar would have turned in silence to look at us, the two creepy girls in the dark corner of an already dark space.

So make this a lesson for all you who are working on your social skills: THE CREEPY TOUCH KILLS.

Cooking with a Loved One

So, as many of you know, I’ve been doing much more cooking ever since I’ve had a girlfriend to clean up after me. We make a good team as I love to cook and hate to clean, and she hates to cook and hates to clean.

It’s not all roses and butterflies, or whatever stupid metaphor people use to describe paradise. For example, she’s always in the way while I’m cooking. When I need to deglaze a pan with water, I’m not one to have a cup of water at my side ready to pour into the searing hot pan. I bring the pan to the water, the way God intended pans to be deglazed. There’s a good six feet between the stove and the water, and if you’re standing within those six feet, well, I hope you’re wearing shoes. And a face mask.

Now, I’m a strong believer of the “you live, you learn,” tenet people so graciously spout. I, though, am not so heartless. I’ll give her fair warning before turning for the water. I figure a quick “careful” through my teeth will suffice, and usually she gets out of the way fast enough. Sometimes, though, she stands there doing I don’t know what, getting water probably, and ends up with a face full of hot pan. Don’t ask me how the pan ends up on her face.

Other times, she’ll pick something off the cutting board . . . while I’m chopping. “Can I have some of that bell pepper,” she’ll ask. “I love raw bell pepper.”

“Yes, of course,” I say happily and she ends up with a cut across the back of her hand and legs.

The worst is when I’m making cheesecake and I’m transporting it to the oven. “Make yourself useful, honey bunches of oats,” I tell her. “Can you open the oven?”

“Sure!” she says and, somehow, ends up entirely within the 400 degree oven.

What a pain in the ass.

I hope that one day we’re as two ballet dancers moving to a beautifully choreographed dance in the kitchen, she the yin to my yang, complimenting each other like a pair of symbiotic beings. Until then, we’ll have to laugh off the third degree burns and lacerations.

Happy S.A.D.

I was bitter at an early age.

Once, when presented with a single red rose on valentine's day, I without hesitation assumed that it must have been some kind of cruel joke. High school was an all around traumatic experience for me, and I was sure the gesture was an elaborate trick to humiliate me. My fifteen year old self would have bet her beans there were snickering girls hiding around the corner, waiting for me to smile and fawn over the fake flirting. I think I turned the rose upside down and stuffed it into my backpack. I could barely look the presenter in the eye but I mustered enough gumption to respond "I don't know..." to his date request, and tore off in the opposite direction. Since I grew up to be a florist, I know just how much effort & money he had to go through to obtain that rose. The only one who was cruel that day was me. I didn't even notice the handwritten card attached until I got home.

I know it's easy to jump on the "I hate Valentine's Day" bandwagon, but I truly do. Despite my reputation of being a serial monogamist, I've never been a fan of the holiday. I do partake in an occasional conversation heart or two, and I can never turn down a chocolate covered marshmallow heart. As a florist and candy lover I am all for promoting of the new holiday "S.A.D., or Singles Appreciation Day. You can buy any kind of flower, get fantastic candy in a box of any shape, and celebrate being able to eat the entire thing without sharing. Sadly, couples still have to celebrate Valentine's day, but they will have to come up with something truly romantic and personal in order to outshine S.A.D. gifts.

For instance, you can make reservations for a hotel room for your sweetheart to stay in all by themselves after a long hard day of work at the flower shop so they won't have to deal with the daily routines of home. Or how about a handmade gift or dinner? That's what valentine's day should be about. Not what it is today: a generic, trying to make your co-workers at the office jealous, trying to get laid, red roses & heart shaped Russell Stover chocolate box kind of day. Writing a poem or drawing a picture is so much cheaper and way more romantic than all that will ever be. Even one rose is still a thoughtful gesture, especially when accompanied with a hand written note that says something more that just "Happy Valentine's Day".

Embarrassingly, I had to face that nice guy who gave me the rose quite often since I worked at the video store where his family rented videos. In my socially awkward lame way I tried to make up for my stupid bitchy behavior by secretly giving him discounts, the occasionally free rental, and I would hold new releases behind the counter and offer them like little apologies. I am sure he never even noticed. So if you have a significant other, I am sorry for the daunting task at hand.

To all those singles out there, relax and have a happy Singles Appreciation Day!

Optimism on a Cloudy Day

Despite being semi-superstitious, I haven't really been freaked out about Friday the 13th (save, perhaps, for the movie franchise). Such a disbelief remains unflappable even after officially starting a relationship on a Ft13th that ended up failing, and a small slew of other unfortunate happenings that just so happened to fall on that day.

Perhaps to further prove my point, I attended Farmlab's third ever Optimist Breakfast, which are held on the notoriously unlucky day. The event piqued my interest, but when I saw the 8am start time, I almost decided against going. Then I thought such thinking isn't much in the spirit of the event so I promised myself, by hook or by crook, I would go. At the very least, I had the advantage of living very close to the venue and it fell on my day off, so at the worst, I would go sleepy and grumpy and return home to rest some more.

I managed to muster the energy and motivation to get dressed and over there in time, even with a later-than-hoped bedtime last night only to wake up to a cold and rainy morning. I had no expectation of being fed despite the event coined as a breakfast, but we were bacon'd and OJ'd as we listened to great speakers talk on this inception's theme, "What Patriotism Means to Me" as we sat beneath Spring Street with the LA River at our side and Metrolink trains passed, causing unexpected dramatic pauses in the speeches of the guest speakers.

The morning defied the maligned prejudices of this day: listening to inspiring different takes patriotism in a cold I haven't felt since being in Europe at the end of November, watching the breaks in the clouds while kind of hoping more rain would come, and sharing this experience with other people who think the same (or at the very least, enjoy free bacon and eggs).

Although I have my moments when I feel a little down, I like to consider myself an optimist for the most part, and though I don't have to prove it by getting up despite all odds. Let's just see if I continue to think that way next month when the next breakfast has a 6am start.

A Nerd is We

In their grand effort to make sure they have every online technology utilized, Google has now integrated voice/video to their Gchat client. This feature is useful for people like my friend who suffers from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome on both wrists, so voice/video chatting is much more efficient and painless way of communicating so long as she's willing to look decent while on camera. Even when I don't have video or voice for me to communicate, we sometimes chat with her talking while I type my replies.

Other times run the risk to steal more time while under The Man's clock.

It just so happens I now work at a place that uses a computer with a built in microphone and camera that allows me to video chat at work. Around the same time, a friend who we will call "Fran," got a brand new, sexy computer (Windows-based, fancy that!) that had the same. With our powers combined, a lot of nerdiness ensues.

Is it because of the novelty? Perhaps. We actually don't chat over voice as not to be TOO disruptive to those around us, but we are easily amused by the fact that we can see each other read what the other has written and witness that LOLing is truly an LOL (or at the very least, an LMO - Laugh Mimed Out). We also try to make each other laugh while on the phone by saying random things and give each other hi fives. Because when we break from chatting, a high five is the perfect bit of motivation to do a job well done. We can also see when the other is a bit annoyed by a certain comment when eyes roll or if the other finds the linked YouTube video amusing. One can also do fun things like notice your friend's freakishly huge zit on her face or see when your friend is taking a camera phone picture of video chat, only to send as a picture message that is emailed and put on a blog.

Little work breaks are a bit funner this way, chatting online is a nice, casual thing to help the time pass and perhaps prevent stress from building when working on something that could be stressful, and otherwise nerdy conversations about comic book heroes and cell phone reception is further heightened by visual aids. It also provides an opportunity to help point out bad grammar while being creative when writing songs to certain situations, like when your friend all of a sudden is stuck to the ceiling.

I'm not writing this to say that your entire day should be spent teasing your friends via Internet. What's helpful for me is that I keep my social skills relatively sharp this way, as I don't usually work with co-workers in-office; even though there are other offices on this floor and I can happily saunter over for a quick chat, I can't really get much work done when I'm away from my desk. At least this way I'm kept company in this corner office, and the PIP image of how I look on video makes me a bit self-conscious and I try to have better posture since I know someone may notice.

...and no, before anyone asks or mentions it, this video chat capability will not be used for monetary gain for strange people with unique fetishes for things I cannot even begin to imagine to have.

Spicy Bitches

I used to think I had a high tolerance for spicy foods. I’d slop spoonfuls of my parents’ chile sauce onto my carne asada and relish the burn. I’d even relish the less enjoyable second burn, what my Korean friends call BTS (Burning Tonkomong [asshole] Sensation), because once it was over it was like conquering a great evil, one whose pleasure was to shoot flaming arrows into your ass in the most heterosexual way possible.

This thought was dashed when I came across an extra spicy batch of chile. It was carne asada Sunday and my father’d made the chile, so I knew it’d be spicier than average. It was so spicy, I was crying while eating. Crying. While eating! Have you ever cried while you ate? I’m sure you have, it happens often in America, but not as a result of eating chile.

Anyway, I turned to my girlfriend and noticed through my fiery tears that she wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I asked her.

“What the?”

“You don’t find this shit spicy?”

“It’s good!”

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” By this time I was bawling. “How come you’re not crying? This shit is fucking spicy, what the fuck!”

“It’s not that spicy, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but it’s fucking habaneros. I can’t even smell this shit without my nose burning. How c-could you f-fucking eat this,” I sobbed into my elbow. “You fucking bitch I hate you goddammit!”

“Oh, God, this chile’s so delicious!” I took her immediately. When I kissed her, I started crying because her mouth was so fucking hot, it felt like a can of pepper spray exploded in my face.

Naked Pets Disgust Me

[Here’s a post by an LA Times staff writer who asked to remain anonymous. Corazon wasn’t able to post today, so my friend volunteered this “piece.”]

I have pets. My pets shed. I shave pets. Pets get cold. Cold pets get clothes?

I went clothes shopping for my pets today. I folded under pressure from the vet who recommended they stay warm during winter as their abnormal shedding may indicate other complications. He didn’t care about the dozens of pets I’d had with the same abnormality.

I left my two cats at home. I figured cats will loathe any clothes I force on them, but that was just how I rationalized not wanting to carry two cases full of cat while walking two dogs. I walked aimlessly for fifteen minutes, dogs in tow, too embarrassed to ask for the clothing section. Sadly, the notion of shopping for clothes for my pets wasn’t embarrassing until shoppers asked about my dogs’ lack of hair. Turns out hairless dogs are just as grotesque and offensive as a person with a coarse coat of hair, walking around naked.

Those brave enough to approach the hairless eyesores next to me asked, “what happened to your dogs?”

“Fire accident.” Listen, I’m not a complete monster. I didn’t shave the beasts myself. I took them to groomers and told them to lop off as much as they could.

“Oh, that’s so sad.”

The clothing section was not what I expected. I was surprised by the selection seeing everything from dress shirts, to khakis fitted for dogs, to those intentionally hideous holiday sweaters. I perused and pulled out garments to eye before my dogs like a mother pressing a shirt onto her son’s chest. I had several sweaters in hand when I saw something my sister would love for her daughter. It was a Miley Cyrus sweater. I don’t know why a dog would want a Miley Cyrus sweater. I considered buying the sweater for my niece who was, apparently, roughly the same size as a large dog when I realized something.

I put the clothes down and drove until I found a yard sale. “Oh no! What happened to your dogs?”

“Nothing. Are you selling children’s clothing?”

“Yes, right over there.” I walked over and started dressing my dogs in merino and fleece sweaters. “Those aren’t for your dogs, are they?”

“No. It’s a well-known fact that dogs and children have similar builds and may thus share clothing.” I perused the rest of the yard sale and left with eight sweaters, a tennis racket, and a Nintendo.

The sweaters aren’t bad. I might gift the fleece sweaters this Christmas to my nephews. The dogs’ hair will have grown back by then.

The Nose Douche*

I've been told I do "edgy" things, but when it comes to abbreviating sickness and getting rid of boogers without having to "dig for gold," I am all ears. That's why I use a neti pot.

I was introduced to this process when I was having a bout of really gnarly boogers that eventually led to my becoming a bit under the weather. I happened to run into a thread that recommended to use this ancient Ayurvedic technique to clear your sinuses from bad stuff and watched this lovely video:



The concept is simple enough: use water to flush your sinues from gunk! I'm lucky that I don't suffer from allergies to pollen, dust, dander and the like, but I have a pretty weak respiratory system, and knowing that using a cute, ceramic pot to help shorten sickness is all good in my book!

I do admit it does seem like a strange thing to do, but hey, if Dr. Oz on Oprah says it's okay, it shouldn't be bad, right?

I have heard people who tried using it to help get better faster, and neti pot use only made the sickness even worse. Not knowing the details of that try, I 'm surprised that it did more harm than good, but it's not deterring me from using it.

I've been using the neti pot for a bit over a year now. I used it particularly after running on a dirt track on the outer edge of Downtown Los Angeles, just to get particulate matter and other bad stuff out of my system, and also for the aforementioned booger bust (Works like a charm). Any time I'm feeling a little congested or snotty, I get some warm water, a bit of epsom salt and flush my nasal passage! I remember getting sick on vacation, and while I was miserable and congested, I wished I had packed my neti pot to clear myself from all the sinus pressure of snot.

I'm not going to lie and say using it is like taking a deep breath of clear, mountain air, but yeah, it's sometimes uncomfortable to use, particularly if you haven't used it in a while, or if you use too much salt, or the water is too hot or cold. In the end, I find the momentary discomfort worth the investment of not being so sick for so long.

Yes, it is possible to flush one's nasal passage when congested, but it takes A LOT of time and patience. Yes, I have tempered discomfort with patience while holding a slowly cooling pot of hot water tilted into one nostril while nothing comes out of the other. Given a lot of time, physics and the properties of water finally managed to create a snot poop out of the other nostril and flush most, if not all of that gunk out of my system.

I know such a practice isn't ideal for everyone, but I like it myself. Just some warm water and epsom salt through my nasal cavity will do me fine. I will not, however, fathom to try more "advanced" techniques that I've read about, like allowing the water to go down your throat to spit out, or using milk or ghee, or even crazier...your own urine (I AM NOT MAKING IT UP...CLICK ON THE ABOVE LINK). Supposedly, with the right balance of diet and I don't care what else will help balance you so that when you flush your body from outside toxins from your own waste, it won't be that bad. I'm not that "edgy" enough to try that.

And for heaven's sake, please don't try flushing out your sinuses with alcohol.


*No, this wasn't my wording. It was a Google ad that I came across.

Did Someone Fart?

The devil’s toilet is never clogged up. Don’t accuse me of being cryptic! My logic is simple: the devil lives in hell, hell is filled with magma, volcanoes are filled with magma ergo volcanoes are hell; volcanoes emit sulfur gas (devil burps), thus the devil pisses concentrated sulfuric acid cleaning and unclogging his satanic plumbing.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of pouring concentrated sulfuric acid into a drain, you know my misery. My father and I underestimated the awful power of sulfur and thought a simple door would contain the incredible stench. It’s an hour later and the entire house smells like a fifty ton chicken who’s been dead for five weeks popped out an egg stewing in its sweltering body, cracked it open, mixed it with—wait, better: it smells like the Jolly Green Giant took a shit on our house. Ho, ho, ho, fuck you, Green Giant!

Concentrated sulfuric acid is toxic. I’m not kidding, it’ll burn through your skin, eat away your eyes, and fuse the alveoli of your lungs shut. An accidental sniff will trigger your gag reflex, even if you’re a seasoned prostitute.

The bottle instructs users to wear protective face masks and to invert a pan over the sink to prevent splattering in case of an explosion. But my dad and I are men, men no need protection. A face mask would’ve helped.

It was classically revolting, appealing to nearly every one of the five senses. The sink gurgled like an animal with a fresh slit across the neck, it smelled like the inside of a whale sitting in the sun for a month, and it spewed a black, viscous, bubbling liquid reminiscent tar or what you’d imagine the grim reaper would bleed.

Anyhow, this stuff didn’t work. It served only to bring us a step closer to death. The sink is still clogged and the house smells more like shit than ever before. God damn you, Green Giant! God damn you!