Studying Is For Peasants

As part of my general education courses, I have to take some silly things that don't really relate to my major. It's stupid. I end up paying hundreds of dollars to take classes that are a.) boring and b.) information that there is no possible way I am going to retain after the final exam. You need to know the chemical reaction that occurs in humans when they "fall in love"? Sorry, can't help. My Human Sexuality course ended two semesters ago and that information is long gone.

But, because it's higher education and they're just after your money (and your braaaaaaains!), they insist you take these assface courses. Something about having a well-rounded education. I don't know, I'm not a professor.

One of the classes I'm taking that at least somewhat relates to what I'm studying is Spanish. I have some major issues with Spanish. The first of which being I am Mexican. That's right, third generation, baby. I know more Spanish swear words that I know what to do with (probably why there's no room for real information in my head). I watch novelas and know my way around Sabado Gigante. But I'm not fluent.

That's right: I'm a fraud.

An impostor.

A pretender. A poser. A big, fat phony.

I have a huge arrogance complex with learning Spanish. I refuse to put my 100% effort into it because I feel like I should already know it. It's embarrassing, especially living in the southwest. Especially living in the southwest with a Mexican name. Especially living in the southwest with a Mexican name and having a family who SPEAKS PERFECT SPANISH. And the Mexicans hate you when you're one of them and don't speak Spanish. They look at you and you can see it in their eyes. They're thinking, "You're not one of us, gringo. You can only say donde esta la biblioteca and un mas cerveza, por favor in Spanish. Pinche pendeja."

It sucks. I'm willing to do anything to learn Spanish except actually dedicate the time to sit down and study it. My pride simply will not allow it. Thus, I'm dedicating the time I would normally set aside for learning Spanish to making a time machine.


Roads? Where we're going we don't need roads!

Why? Because if I can go back in time, I'd insist that my parents teach me Spanish so I could avoid this whole situation. Plus, if I made a time machine I could patent it, sell it and pay someone to learn Spanish for me. Everyone wins.

Wednesday Boycott

I'm in a mood today. A terrible, face melting, punch in the head inducing mood. I went to bed tense last night and woke up with my entire body rebelling. The area between my shoulders and the small of my back insist on spasming every five minutes. Hey, guess what back of the body area-- I didn't forget that you existed. So chill the fuck out with all this spasming business and let me be. Live and let live, right?

Aside from feeling like someone sat on me all night, I'm trying to cheer myself up. It's not really working. I think it's cause I don't really want to be cheered up. I want to be angry today because I'm just that filled with rage. Karina angry, Karina smash!

So, in the spirit of being a bitch, I am officially saying that today can eat it. That's right, I declare this entire Wednesday a complete and total waste of time and effort. Eff Wednesday, in other words.

Tuesdays? I'll take it.

Thursdays? Hell yeah.

Wednesdays? Wednesdays need to roll themselves in a carpet, walk itself out to the nearest dumpster, pour a bowl of day old lo-mein on top of itself and wait to be taken to a landfill where it truly belongs. Better yet, Wednesdays can stroll on down to Uncle Tony's Footlocker, invest in a pair of nice, comfy cement shoes, walk itself down the most remote fishing harbor, take a leap in and get to know a couple of great whites. Mafia deaths are only fitting for snake in the grass Wednesdays. You think you can rely on this unassuming day of the week? You are mistaken. Wednesday is the day your car will run out of gas. It's the day you'll realize you owe money all over town. Hell, Wednesdays will sleep with your wife if you let them. They're the biggest dick of all the weekdays, besting even that dingleberry wiener Monday.

Worst of all, Wednesday blog posts are totally irrelevant.

"I thought I was coming here to read about something entertaining," you thought.

Well, guess what? It's Wednesday, and Wednesdays are assholes.

Year Round Dickery

It's been a rough morning. It all started at 2 a.m. I slept on the couch last night because I was alone. My family is in New Mexico for Christmas and when they're not home, the house feels too big. The couch seemed like the only welcoming place. My dog spent half an hour barking at the front door, something both irritating and kind of creepy. I woke up when my alarm went off with a crick in my neck and a dog on my back.

Then, in a rush to find an umbrella and make it into work without being late, I locked myself out of the house. And since I am a certified genius (I won a grant and everything) and keep my house and car keys on the same keychain, I realized that I was a.) royally fucked and b.) locked out of the house...in the rain...without an umbrella...with a mean case of the frizzies. Someone cue the violins.

After a knight in shining armor showed up in The Black Egg (thanks again, M!), it was off to work where things were a little hectic. Nothing I haven't handled before, but I couldn't shake off the crappy bits of the morning and I felt kind of bleh in general.

By 10:30 or so, things were looking up. Work had quieted down and I was starting to unwind. Then a guy came in. He was scruffy looking with a red beard and fogged glasses. He was tense and annoyed the second he came through the door.

"I need a permit," Red Beard grunted. His voice was gruff and he slapped down an envelope on the desk. He's not here to fuck around. I understand that, nobody wants to waste time doing unpleasant errands. But if you needed a permit by the end of the year, maybe coming in December Motherfucking 23rd wasn't the best idea.

Of course, because the Universe has a sense of humor, we don't have the permit he needs. In fact, he's at the wrong place entirely. The only place he can get the type of permit he needs is in Phoenix. Great. I let Red Beard in on the bad news.

"You people keep giving me the run around!" he bellowed. "I'm not going to Phoenix when you should have what I need here." I've dealt with assholes before, this guy should be no different.

"I'm sorry sir," I said. "We don't issue those permits here because that piece of land isn't part of our property. I can give you the Phoenix number if you'd like."

"I'd like to tell you where you can take this whole damn state," he said. Deep breaths, I tell myself. I smiled him, trying my best to remain courteous.

"You're ridiculous," Red Beard growled at me. He picked up his envelope and stormed out.

Fucking prick, I think. A guy from down the hall, who heard the whole exchange, walked up to me.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We didn't have what he was looking for," I said. I could feel my face start to get red and tears began to well up. It wasn't just Red Beard. Everything shitty about the past few days and the morning that preceded it had finally caught up to me. Being alone in a house that's too big, trying to accomplish goals that seem unattainable, feeling grossly inadequate about everything in my life. Everything I'd been successfully avoiding for the past couple weeks found me the second Red Beard walked out the door and took my confidence with him.

"Hey," the guy from down the hall said. "If someone is ever acting like that, my office is only a few doors down."

"Yeah, I've dealt with people like that before," I say. Christ, I can't believe I'm about to cry at work. "It just takes me a minute to process it. I mean, it's Christmas, the time of year people are supposed to be on their best behavior."

"Don't worry about it," the guy says with a shrug. "Some people are dicks year round."

I laugh. Can't argue with that.

Also, I think this may be the last post before Christmas. I'm leaving Thursday to New Mexico to join the rest of the familia, so I'll be on Christmas Vacation* until sometime next week.

Happy Christmas, all.


*Sans Chevy Chase, of course.

Feel Sorry For Me Like I Feel Sorry For Me

Guess what the fuck is up? Give you a hint: *my estrogen levels* Being a chick sucks sometimes. I've had a serious case of the fugs lately. I feel disgusting and am pretty sure I still look like Godzilla. So today, I decided to do some retail therapy.

Nothin' cures the blues like spending some greens.

Except, oh right, my wallet is empty. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. I gathered all my clothes that don't fit anymore or I don't wear anymore and decided that instead of donating them to charity, I was going to be selfish and sell them so I could get a little charity. It's a win-win situation, for me at least.

So I packed my shit up, stuffed it in a trash bag and went to the phenomenon that is Twice is Nice. Twice is Nice has a serious arrogance complex. It's above a Savers but definitely below a Buffalo Exchange. I'm sorry, you want me to pay how much for a pair of Kathie Lee Gifford jeans? But being poor and in desperate need of new jeans (but not desperate enough to buy anything from the she-devil known as Ms. Giffords), I sucked it up and went in.

Now, this may be icky, but everyone knows that shopping when your, uh, estrogen levels are off the fucking chain and you've gained five pounds in water weight is probably a bad idea. But time of the month be damned, I was going to try on some jeans. Big mistake.

Nothing fit. Nothing. Every pair of jeans in my size were tight in the waist or loose in the leg, or squeezed my leg to the point where I lost circulation or gave me a motherfucking muffin top. My dressing room was like a war zone. It was like I was young, fresh faced America and the British were coming back after all these years to claim my thighs in the name of the Queen. As if the Queen doesn't have enough stuff, the greedy bitch.

There were one pair of jeans though. Dark wash, boot cut and didn't make my ass look like it was two watermelons shoved in denim.

Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.

So I look at the tag to see how much they are and what the brand is and find something terrible. They were Daisy Fuentes brand. DAISY. MOTHER. FUCKING. FUENTES.

Needless to say, I stripped out of those jeans like someone was gonna pay me money, threw them on the ground, stomped on them, collected my $50 in trade and bolted. Daisy Fuentes jeans deserve worse. So do my ovaries.

Backup Plan

Today I feel like this:



Which sucks for two reasons. The first of which being that feeling like I resemble a 50 foot tall dinosaur doesn't quite give me the self-esteem boost I'm looking for. The second reason being that if I were going to be any monster, I want to be a zombie. That's right. I want to be a rotted, green, eyeball missing, people eating zombie.

I'd make a good zombie because it'd be the easiest profession* ever. Their only goal in life, er, un-life, is to eat. Granted, what they eat is human flesh, but that's just a small price to pay to be a member of the everlasting un-dead party. All my worries about school, work, social standing and self-esteem would be gone because I'd be dead and wouldn't care. The only thing Zombie Karina would care about is eating and trying not to trip over my decomposing peers. My estimation of what a day would be like in the life of a zombie would go a little something like this:

7 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
8 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
9 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
10 a.m. -Wander around looking for food.
11 a.m.-3 p.m. - Groan.
4 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
5 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
6 p.m. - Stare at something off in the distance; wonder to myself if it's food.

I think you get the idea. If my plans to be a professional, well educated and well adjusted adult doesn't work out, I plan on becoming a zombie. So if in the distant future you see me wandering around, dead with half my arm missing, you'll know that behind my cold, lifeless eyes I'm smiling. But, uh, you probably don't want to get too close.


*This is of course assuming that being a zombie is on scale with having a full time job. You would have to have qualifications like, "Can eat up to 10 pounds of brain" and "Has 2+ years experience in being un-dead" and "willing to work holidays, weekends and dark, foggy nights".

Teach Me, Sensei

I'm by myself at work today and bored. It's quiet and my dance party music isn't all that great company this morning.

There's a janitor here that kind of flirts with me when he comes up to do his janitorial business. He's a nice enough guy, but it just makes me really uncomfortable. He used to bring me flowers of the hand picked from someone's garden variety. I didn't have the heart (read: I'm a giant, passive aggressive, heartless robot) to tell him to fuck off, so I made up some story about how I already had a boyfriend. I thought that would pretty much be the end of that. I assumed that the boy radar in his head would say, Bummer, she's already got a hunky, super fly if not completley made up man and look elsewhere. It's not even like it was a good lie on my part. He gave me some flowers and I was all, "Oh cool, my boyfriend, who I've been dating and who I am seeing exclusively and who is the only guy I'm ever going to be interested in ever and please leave now, gets me flowers like this all the time."

Sadly, my boyfriend lie kind of backfired. Now The Janitor asks me about him all the time. My fake boyfriend works in a store not related to my job, has dark hair and is named Jason. I'm like a black widow with all these lies I'm spinning. Here's the thing though: I CAN'T STOP. I could be like, "Hey, I don't have a boyfriend. I made that up so you would leave me alone," but who actually says things like that? This isn't a Saved by the Bell special.

Unfortunately, this exchange happened today:

The Janitor: How's your boyfriend today?
Me: Oh, he's just fine. Still working at the store with his hair (I may not have said this part out loud).
The Janitor: So when are you guys getting married?
Me: Not for a while.
The Janitor: But you will get married some day, right?
Me: Probably, just not anytime soon.
The Janitor:Oh good, because you wouldn't want to be alone all your life, like you were before your boyfriend, right?
Me: Uh...

I think I may have met my passive-aggressive match! I still have so much to learn about the subtle, seething art that is passive-aggression.

Also, Happy Halloween everyone! Costume Blue Barracuda is making it's debut tonight on the streets of Tucson. Pictures to follow. Have a fun time tonight. Or don't. Whatever. I don't care.

Happy Faux-Lumbus Day!

Do you know what today is? Columbus Day!



On the scale of holidays, Columbus Day just barely makes it. It is nowhere near the same level as Christmas, Thanksgiving or Halloween. I'd rank Columbus Day between Arbor Day and Summer Solstice. But, if my place of employment demands I take the day off to observe the day Columbus accidently discovered America, I'm not going to object.

To properly celebrate the day, I did what most people with the day off do: shop. I decided it was time to update my wardrobe for the fall and my bank account was all, "Sure, go ahead and shop for some new things...at the thrift store." So much like Christopher Columbus who came before me, I discovered and raided the thrift shop in the name of cheap fashion. I went in with a positive attitude. There was even a point during the first few minutes I was there that I thought to myself, Gee, I wonder why I don't shop here more often. Oh wait, now I remember.

CRYING BABIES WERE EVERYWHERE. How is it even possible to have that many crying babies in one place?! It's like the amount of crying babies are directly proportionate to the quality of the thrift store. I'd say the crying baby to grown-up ratio was about 1:3, which means the probablity of me banging my head against a rack of old hats drastically increased. It was terrible. But I will say that like Columbus I didn't leave empty handed. I purchased four shirts (the only clean shirts in the place) for less than $20.

Thanks for bringing disease, Christianity and dirty, crying babies to America, Columbus. God Bless America.

Northern A to the Z

This past weekend, my clan packed our bags and drove to Sedona. I had all these witty stories but I don't really feel like writing about it anymore. So, to sum up, this is everything that happened:

1. Watched Austin play football. It was awesome. Austin, who is my not so little younger cousin, cleaned up. He's #1, both literally and figuratively.

2. Ate at a Sizzler

I'm serious when I say I really did not know Sizzlers were in existence anymore. Ugh, buffets are gross unless it involves breakfast or Chinese. There were some upset tummys that evening in Sedona.

3. Drank at the hotel bar with a dozen stuffed game animals.

4. Partook in some "haunted eating" in Jerome, AZ

Now I will say this: I like haunted things. Haunted houses, hotels, inns, corn mazes and even the occasional hamgurger are all very appealing things. I am the biggest baby when I'm actually at said haunted places, but I still really like to go. So when someone mentioned the eating establishment "The Haunted Hamburger", obviously I was game. Hey, I thought. Maybe I'll see a ghost or if I'm really lucky, a zombie. Nope.

What the hell?! There were no ghosts or zombies anywhere in sight. I wasn't expecting bleeding walls or anything, but I don't think it's too much to ask for a poltergeist to throw some dishes around or my burger to moan. Especially when I realized that the H.H. has help from the DEAD AND THE UNDEAD.

Um, last I checked the undead were awesome. As far as being haunted goes, this place was not so awesome. But I'll forgive the H.H. because my veggie burger was delicious, even if it didn't contain the souls of the recently deceased. I guess I can settle for that.