Weblog
Friday, May 16, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
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My Three Closest Friends
These are my three closest friends.
I am a close friend of social nervousness. When I am alone in a party of people I don't know of, my heart begins to race and social nervousness comes through the door, sits next to me in my corner, and asks me if I'm okay. I'll say, "No, I'm not, social nervousness" and he'll say, "That's' okay. You're okay with me." He'll then suggest for me to go up to a bunch of people and say an awkward joke that no one gets -- you know to break the ice and smooth the whole "me existing here" thing out. So, I do and I come back running to him in sheer terror, "They didn't get it!" and he'll reply, "And that's the point." Then, he'll suggest that I sit in on a group conversation that I couldn't care for and listen in. When I do and I end up being bored and becoming "that quiet girl that no one knows." I look to social nervousness for support and he just kind of pats my back and tells me to continue. "This is boring," I say to social nervousness, "Why am I here?" And then social nervousness smiles pleasingly and says, "Exactly." I always forget that I am not a party person and I have never needed a big group of friends to define me. Social nervousness reminds me of that.
Anal retentive is another good friend of mine. Anal retentive will sit with me as I make a list, rip it apart, make another list, rip that one up, make one final list, and stick to it until anal retentive reveals a teeny-tiny blemish ... And then I rip that last one up to shreds as well. When I'm late for work, anal retentive encourages me to push the gas pedal a little bit more. When I am breaking a rule, anal retentive holds my hand tightly as I fake my nonchalant face. When I am feng shui-ing my refrigerator, anal retentive will stand by me as I defend my feng shui-ing against Nick's mockery. The last time I saw anal retentive was after my car accident. A few days after the accident, I laid down in bed, turned to my side, and found her laying down next to me.
Anal Retentive: I heard you got into a car accident.
Me: Yeah.
Anal Retentive: Was it scary?
Me: Yeah.
Anal Retentive: I bet.
(silence)
Anal Retentive: How come you didn't put that in your plans?
Me: What?
Anal Retentive: Life happening.
Me: Oh. I didn't know it happened.
Anal Retentive: Me neither.
Me: It's kind of fun though.
Anal Retentive: What's fun?
Me: Life happening.
My final and probably my closets friend is Sad. Sad and I have known each other for years. When I was confused about the meaning of life, sad was there to borrow philosophy books with me as I moped over existentialism and free will. When I had let myself down, sad was the first person to know and hear the news. When I buried my grandfather whom I was close to, sad let me have the comfort of being in my own solitude and understood that I didn't want to be touched. Sad knows me more than any friend I know. Recently, we were eating ice cream like we normally do when I turned to him and said, "Sad, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think I have anything to say to you any more." Sad wasn't offended and nodded, "I know. I don't think I have anything to say to you either." There was a bit of welcoming silence. "Why don't you travel the world for a bit and come back so we have something to talk about?" I suggested. He thought that was a good idea. I won't miss him. I know I'll see him around every so often in the future and when I do, his presence will be welcomed. I expect a pint of rocky road to accompany his return.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
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The Homeless Guy Story
I've left some incredible comments about my mother on other people's Xanga sites (i.e. her selling me to the zoo, leaving me in the back alleyway of a bar, wearing a Darth Vader mask in an attempt to convince me that she is NOT my mother, etc.) and almost all of these stories are a work of fucked up fiction. There are, however, true stories -- really fucked up true stories -- about my mom that I love to share with my friends. These stories make up the unique relationship I have with my mother. I figured, I should share them with you.
First, let me say a few things to introduce my mom. My mother is a short Filipino woman who is mischievous, competitive, and downright insane -- In the good way. Not the Tom Green way or the Microwave-My-Babies way, but the "I'm going to wear all of my metal bangles on my wrists when I walk through airport security" way. My mother is the kind of woman whose only fun moment at Universal Studios was attacking complete strangers with the super soaker and screaming, "YEEEAAAAHHHH!" like the hardest of all Spartans.
When we were growing up, my mother had a tendency to lie and scare me and my sister for fun. When I asked her why I only had one dimple on my cheek and not two, she said that when I was born, I had no dimples. To fix that, she sharpened her finger nail and carved one out. Unfortunately for me she only wanted one.
My favorite bed time story came from her. When it was bed time, I would ask my mommy to tell me a story and she agreed, beginning with a soft, sincere voice, "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Christina who was just like you and she lived in a castle. One day, Christina wanted to runaway into the forest so she did. As she ran through the forest, she stepped on an anaconda and it ate her and then she died. The end." Then she'd turn around, turn off the lights, and leave me in the dark.
Another story involves me being five or six. I remember standing in the doorway of our kitchen, watching my mother slice fish. She saw me in the corner of her eye, but stood there silently slicing the skin as I watched. Then suddenly, she stopped, and as she raised her butcher knife, shaking, she turned towards me wide-eyed and psycho. "Mommy? ...." I whispered in horror. Then she said in her best Exorcist voice: "I'm not your mom!" I'm pretty sure I heard her laughing as I ran in away in sheer terror.
The story that tops them all though (This is the last one, I have so many) is what I refer to as The Homeless Guy Story. My sister and I shared the same room and bed, situated near what was once our backyard sink and washing machine. One day as I was getting ready for Driver's Ed class, my sister lay on the bed listening to the water run outside.
Z.: Tina, where's mom?
Me: In the kitchen.
Z.: And uncle?
Me.: He's not here yet.
Z.: And dad is in California.
Me: Yeah.
Z.: And papa's in the living room.
Me: Yeah.
Z.: So if you're here with me ... Who's outside?
There was a long silence between us. My sister jumped up, ripped open the blinds, and looked.
Z.: Tina. There's a man outside. And he's not wearing pants.
I ran to my mom who was in the kitchen and I told her what my sister saw. My mother wasn't phased and said, "I'll check, but I think your sister is trying to scare you." As she went towards the back, I ran back to my room just in time to hear her scream, "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
(Or some shit, like that. I don't remember, but it was funny)
It was a homeless guy in our backyard who was brushing his teeth with the toothbrush we use to scrub tires. And like my sister said, he wasn't wearing any pants.
The man apologized profusely and explained that he just needed a place to brush his teeth and as soon as he could spit, he would leave. My mother surprisingly cooled down but kept her stern demeanor and told him he had to leave quickly.
She went back into the house and called the police who said they would be there immediately. When she went back to check on the man, she caught him stealing.
This is where we say, "The shit hit the fan."
My mother ran back into the house to get a baseball bat. Remember, she is a short Filipino woman and this guy was an average Caucasian man. As she came out, she found him walking away with our stuff. We didn't see it (as we, ourselves, didn't want to get our face accidentally smashed in) but we could definitely hear it. My mother cornered this poor bastard and started swinging away.
"YOU MESS WITH DA WRONG ONE, BRADDAH! IMMA KICK YOUR ASS, BRADDAH!" was all you could hear.
It's safe to say that at that moment, my mother would've pummeled Hulk Hogan and made him cry.
The guy, luckily, got away right when the police came. Though they found the whole story pretty funny, they warned my mother that she shouldn't try to do that if the situation ever came up again as criminals (unfortunately) have more rights than citizens. When we checked on what the guy stole, he took away a bottle of old pennies we left outside, a pair of pants (obviously), and my bright orange bikini bottom for non-obvious, but probably perverted reasons. The guy never came back and although he took a few things from us, he left us with a memory of our mother as a lion'ess.
It seems like a strange thing to say, but I'm pretty grateful for all of the strange stories I have of her. I could've ended up with a boring mother, but instead I got someone who helped shaped my sense of humor. I'm not sure how I'm going to top her with my kids. I'm definitely stealing that bed time story and making it my own, though.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
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My Ideal Dog
I've always wanted a dog. I ask Nick for one on a weekly basis and he always replies with, "No." This makes Nick a fascist tyrant in our complicated romance and if you feel the need to picket outside of our studio, chanting, "Puppy Hater!" to him then by all means, I will not stop what you must do. Until the day he relents his authoritarian powers and hands me four legs and a wagging tail, I will continue to sit imprisoned in my dreams of becoming a dog owner.
Let me tell you about my ideal dog. In my dreams, evolution is a genie and it grants me the life long wish of owning the perfect dog that fits my personality and lifestyle.
Mind you, I don't have any lifestyle and my personality is just sort of ... there. But that's what I need in a dog: A pet that has no life and is just there. I watch The Dog Whisperer from time to time and hear Cesar Milan explain how it is innate for dogs to want to be active. I can't have that. I need a dog who lounges around and thinks to himself, "Should I go for a walk today?" and then decides to blog for half an hour.
Ideally, I will have one of those small dogs, but not the yapping chihuahua kind. I can't have a dog that whines. I need a dog that puts Chuck Norris facts to shame.
Additionally, my ideal dog will not poop on the ground. Instead, it will creatively use the toilet like any normal human being. After flushing and washing his paws, he will warn me if I need to light a candle or two.
When I'm in a circle of friends and tell a joke that fails, my ideal dog will bring out the tape player and play an audience laugh track to break up the awkward silence. Then he will proceed to laugh at the joke himself and make me feel like I'm the star of "Everybody Loves Raymond."
When Nick goes in to pet him, my ideal dog will not snarl, but will be nonchalant towards him. My ideal dog will be the first pet that Nick and I have owned together who likes me more than him.
When I am sleepy, my ideal dog will want to curl up next to me and cuddle. When I am having a dinner party, my ideal dog will serve cocktails and entertain guests. When we are playing board games, my ideal dog will let me win. When I am feeling philosophical or moody, my ideal dog will want to talk about free will and the complexities of his dog-ma. When there is an intruder in the house ready to steal my belongings, my ideal dog will know kung fu and proceed to tear this intruder another asshole.
I am determined to find this kind of dog. I know somewhere he exists. And I already know what I'm going to name him. In fact, I've already planned how I'm going to tell people on the origins of his name.
Person: How cute! What's his name?
Me: His name is Biggie Smalls.
Person: Like the rapper?
Me: Yeah.
Person: Okay.
Me: Ask me why.
Person: What?
Me: Ask me why, damn it!!
Person: ... Why.
Me: Because he's my dawg.
My dog is going to be my dawg.
Get it?
.. Fuck. Where's the laugh track?
Monday, May 05, 2008
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Cinco de Mayo
May 5th is Cinco de Mayo. Did you know that Cinco de Mayo is a celebration of alcohol and Spanish festivities? You did? Well, good for you. And did you know that you are absolutely wrong about that? Cinco de Mayo marks the day that the French were defeated by the Mexican Army in the Battle of Puebla. Did you know that? Of course not. And I didn't either. Who would? Albeit Google and Jeeves, nobody has access to that kind of historical information on hand (But who asks Jeeves anymore? I mean, really, Jeeves is like the guy that tells you what he kinda knows and then says, "But you can google it just to make sure," therein defeating the whole purpose of asking him in the first place.)
In commemoration of this Mexican holiday, drunks, alcoholics, and English professors will fill up the bars and drink their Western accents away for a Spanish one. How many blank stares do you think I would get if I stood up in a bar, raised a glass, and shouted, "Fuck the French!"? Probably way too many. I just find it amusing that we've taken a holiday that isn't even ours and transformed it to fit our understanding and comfort level.
But this is nothing new.
We human beings -- particularly Western civilization -- will adopt any festivity as our bastard holiday in order to get drunk, eat up, and be the good consumer multi-million dollar corporations want us to be. Don't believe me? Take a look at the facts: Almost every important holiday in the calendar year originated somewhere else and was created for something other than what it stands for today. Halloween, Valentine's Day, Christmas, Easter (For chrissake, Easter! How can you fuck up Easter?) And now, as the Hispanic population rises in America, Cinco de Mayo will be added onto this very long list.
Alcohol is a booming business. If it wasn't enough to drink away your mother's high expectations at Thanksgiving, Cinco de Mayo is here to help.
One day, I intend to create a simple yearly celebration and see what happens to it in the future. If you were to make a holiday today, what would you make? And how do you think Hallmark will fuck it up for you centuries from now?
P.S. And how do you like me pretending to be Featured Question for today?
Friday, May 02, 2008
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Respectfully Yours
narymesah216@yahoo.fr
From Mrs Nary Mesah
Tel: 00225 47023126
narymesah216@yahoo.fr
My Dear,
Please do reply me with this email address above for more details about this transaction. It is my pleasure to contact you for a business venture which I and my Son Musa intend to establish in your country. Though I have not met with you before but I believe one has to risk confiding in succeed sometimes in life.
I can confide on you for the brighter future of my children since you are a human being like me. There is this huge amount of Fifteen Million five hundred thousand United States dollars. ($15.500.000.00) which my late Husband kept for us with a Security Company here in Abidjan Cote D'ivoire before he was assassinated by unknown persons. Now I and my son Musa decided to invest this money in your country or anywhere safe enough for security and political reasons.
We want you to help us claim and retrieve these funds from the Security Company and transfer it into your personal account in your country for investment purposes on these areas:
1). Telecommunication
2). The transport industry
3). Five star hotel
4). Real Estate
If you can be of an assistance to us we will be pleased to offer to you 10% of the total fund.
You can call my son Musa for more explanation on this number: 00225 47023126
I await your soonest response.
Respectfully yours,
Mrs Nary Mesah and Son.
Mrs. Nary Mesah and Son,
I am sorry for your loss. It's not everyday that a father who is worth $15,500,000.00 is shot down mysteriously in West Africa. If my father were assassinated and left behind millions, I too would confide in one of the many trustworthy Xangan bloggers here in America and seek their assistance in guarding my inheritance. You can no longer turn to banks or mutual fund companies in this nation -- only bloggers on the internet.
I feel privileged that you would want access to my private account to host your riches. On top of that, I am amazed at your willingness to conduct business and share your exuberant amount of wealth with me. When I read your letter, a little tear ran across my cheek. It's not often that you find such trusting, giving people from foreign lands, especially in these unfeeling times. It makes me feel as though we're like family. In fact, I am encouraged to call you mother as my own biological mother recently promised to leave behind Taco Bell coupons as my inheritance. With such a sincere letter like the one you've written, you have shown me the kind of love that I have never encountered before.
And that's why it pains me to inform you that I am unable to share my personal account information with you at this time. You see, I was recently in a serious car accident (See my blog, Car Day) and at the moment, I am unable to conjure up the necessary information and passwords you would need as I am still shaken from the event that unfolded. I am sorry if this disappoints you. I am certain of your concern for my well being, but rest assured that I am okay and doing better every day. In the mean time, I will try to recall whatever I can as humanly possible. Perhaps if you were to tell me the information to your own private account this will help me refresh my memory more quickly.
While I try to remember what I can, I have taken it upon myself to publicly post your letter and email in hopes that you may find someone else to confide the brighter future of your children to. My fellow bloggers are human beings like you and me. Surely, you will find someone trustworthy here.
No need to thank me. After all, we're like family.
Respectfully yours,
Tina Hawt
P.S. And the next time you want to send a scam, send it over to myspace or one of those dating sites. You see, this is Xanga -- a place where people have to choose words in order to form coherent sentences. This requires some intelligence. We are not that stupid. Sometimes we appear to be, but looks can be deceiving.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
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Whoa!
*Note: Don't count this as a real entry. I just wanted to get this out there and I refuse to do it on pulse. I don't do pulse because a) Too facebook-y and b) I love the fact that when you check my pulse it reads "Tina Hawt has no pulse."
Whoa! WTF. There was this girl who posted about being suicidal on featured and .. well .. you know where that leads to: Drama and more drama on the internet. It seems everybody and their mamas are arguing with each other.
People relax -- breathe!
*inhales in*
*exhales out*
Great. Very good. Now lets go have some pie and talk things out, k? -
Car Day
Cop: It was like one carnival ride, yeah?
Tina: Yeah, it was.
Cop: You like carnival rides?
Tina: Not this one.
Today I washed my car and cleaned the interior of trash. Then I took it down to Jiffy Lube for a safety inspection. Then I drove to the library and borrowed a book on Oahu activities. Then I swerved into a hill, crashed, and almost killed myself.
You wanna talk about blog worthy ...
Car Day, Part II (edit: 8.24 pm)
Okay, so I think I have finally reached the mindset of accepting the fact that the experience happened and it's gone now. The memory isn't as vivid and my nerves have calm down enough where I can make clever remarks about it.
Basically I was on my way home and was about to take the off ramp towards my neighborhood. The car in front of me began to slow down and I began to do the same. Suddenly, it shifted into the next lane and standing right before me, ready to take me down with the strength of a Chinese army was ... a bucket. I wish I could say it was Neo from the Matrix, palm flat out and ready to defy the laws of physics, but no. It was a fucking bucket that almost killed me today.
I swerved and lost control of the car.
When I stumbled out, cars began to stop and a guy on the side of the road came by to help me. I think this is the guy who dropped the bucket in the middle of my lane but at the time I was pretty shaken and didn't put two and two together. The EMT's drove by and checked up on me. I told them I was fine though when they asked me what date it was, I told them it was January 30th from being so hysterical.
Then the cops came, the tow truck came, and Nick and my dad eventually came like the calvary. Nick said he broke a few rules while driving to get to me. I've never been more appreciative of his disregard for the law.
To answer Meis760's question, yes time did slow down. Or it didn't. It's hard to explain. Because trying to recall it is hard as it happened in moments. These moments, however, were very long and vivid. I guess the best way to explain it is to picture a flip book. When you flip the pages, you get the just of what's happening in seconds. Yet, when you take each page, you can only remember certain pages because of certain details. I find this the best way to describe it.
As I was turning down from the hill, I remember seeing the ground in front of me and thinking, "Okay this is it."
And that's it. Literally. That was all. I didn't scream. I wasn't sad or angry or scared for that matter-- At least, not in the moment. I just thought that quietly in my head. Looking back on that thought, I now realize what I was really coming to terms with: "Okay, this is it. The pavement is going to slam on my face as I make my way down and I am going to die and that's okay because it's just going to be another experience I will have to deal with."
All of that in one single, simple thought. It's so weird to recall that now. It's like I was watching a movie.
I'm not trying to be melodramatic here. (Of course, compare this to your average "Ways Xanga Has Disappointed Me" blog and hands down, I should be expecting a "Welcome Back to Not Dying!" pie of eprops from the Xanga team.) But as I stumbled out, I looked at my poor, trashed car and realized that somebody else would've had to explain what happened to my dad today if it didn't end up the way it did. And that's pretty damn lucky.
Tomorrow, I don't have work. I don't have a car, either. But I don't think I want to worry too much about that right now.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
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Cinderella Didn't Do Shit
Cinderella didn't do shit. Yes, when we women first heard her story at a young, impressionable age, we were wooed by her martyr complex and how her sacrificing led to the kind of perfect, harmonious marriage one finds in 1950's printed TV dinner ads. But now in this generation, Cinderella just doesn't cut it. When you compare her to recent cartoon heroines, she lacks the spunk and charisma that appeals to today's female demographic. I mean, lets look at the facts here: Cinderella cried over prom night until her rich, spooky relative waved a wand and provided a designer gown and limo service for her; Mulan got shot down by a gangster and still managed to save China.
Question: Who would make it as a Spice Girl?
I'm no feminist, but I'm liking the direction that Disney is taking. The progress is slow, but it's taken a slight turn away from our cut and dry "Gee, I'm female, I can't do shit for myself" phase of cartoon movies. There've been a couple of times where the Donna Summer in me sprung up from my chair at the theatres and started singing She Works Hard For the Money. And they have worked hard for their drawn-in currency. Pocahontas is a good example of that. What I digged about Pochahontas was how she stood up for her own people and rejected a man's offer to take her to a foreign land. That rejection alone showed that Pochahontas was Disney's "Jenny from the block" -- keepin' it real with that street cred business. Tupac would've been proud.
From here on out, Disney movies will only get better. I can feel it. Female protagonists will no longer be the burden of the movie, but rather the savior, the refresher. I can see a movie being made about a poor, single mother who rises to the highest position in queendom and helps the needy get out of poverty. Or maybe they'll write a story about a risky astronaut who risks her life for the welfare of others and saves the galaxy. Or even better, they should make a movie about a cutthroat entrepreneur who rises to fame using her homemaking advice-- selling off magazines, books, and home designer products for KMart. All goes well for her and her mighty empire until the evil known as the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission catches her committing corporate fraud and sends her to five months of home confinement.
Oh, wait a minute. That story's been done already .
tinahawt
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- Name: tina
- Birthday: 9/15/1986
- Gender: Female
- Member Since: 5/21/2007
About Me
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I'm 21 years old and I still believe Angelina Jolie will adopt me.
