Feminine Woes Continued

Ladies, have you ever been at a job interview and suddenly realized that you needed a pen? Like you know, maybe to fill out some tax form here or maybe just a little signature there? So I was in the same exact predicament just a few days ago. I'm sitting across the desk from my future boss and we're discussing some highly convoluted scientific concept. As we're doing this, he shoves a paper towards me to sign. Uh oh, no pen! So I reach into my pocket, feel for a cylindrical object, and whip it out in front of my face:


A chilling silence pervaded the office. I totally forgot that I shoved all these free tampons in every possible place that they would hold, i.e. backpack pockets, jeans pockets, and yes, coat pockets.

Now, this situation would've been passable if I was interviewing with a woman. But this here was a man. And apparently a shy one because his face turned beet red. I casually shoved the thing back into my pocket and said "Well, I guess I DON'T have a pen." His rosacea calmed down after a few minutes, but damn. I don't even think I should call into work now.

My school caters to closet drug addicts but not menstruating women

Sorry, guys. I'm going to talk about it. Call it whatever you may like, but I prefer the scientific version- menstruation. All women do it, just like how we poop and pee and vomit, so I don't see why its such a taboo topic. Especially amongst men, but who cares about them anyways.

As my post title implies, yes, I am menstruating. Stupidly, I forgot to bring my "feminine bandaids" to school with me today because I had overslept and just felt lazy. I figured... eh! I can always just get the cheapo kinds for 25 cents at the bathroom, right?! NOT! I scoured the entire campus for a bathroom with these mini-pillows of goodness. It was like searching for the Holy Grail. I passed by countless numbers of high-tech vending machines for soda addicts (with a credit card systems to boot) and snack kiosks for sugar addicts but NO, no coin-turn operated tampon/pad/napkin dispensers, something I would consider a fundamental human need! Worst off, in every bathroom, I saw this:


How the hell can the school shell out the cash to have a dirty needle disposal receptacle conveniently placed next to private bathroom stalls, basically a welcome sign for drug addicts galore, and not install a woman's-best-friend dispensary that basically consists of slots drilled into metal (and would TAKE money)?

I was mad. I was so mad that during my scavenger hunt I came across this small sign with little letters on it that spelled out "Women's Resource Center." The sign pointed in the direction of a wooded area, but I trusted it. I walked through the plants, hiked up the hill, and came across this small hut the reminded me of my days in Africa. I went inside, was greeted by the nice receptionist, and I slammed my hand on her desk and was like "What the hell does a woman gotta do to get a damn tampon around here?" Startled, she explained to me that the Women's Resource Center provides complimentary tampons, which are donated to the center by "patrons," and I was free to take as many as I'd like. SCORE! Free tampons. I may never buy another feminine hygiene product again. But I still can't stop wondering... who in the hell actually takes the time out of their day to DONATE feminine hygiene products to the Women's Resource Center? Whoever you are. Keep doing it. And I'll do my part and go ahead and keep taking them.

Ah, To Be Young and Racist

Today, I was walking around downtown, minding my own damn business, until I came upon a WASPish mother and son standing on a street corner. Suddenly, the boy catches a glimpse of me, his rosy cheeks ablaze. Tears start running down his beautiful blue eyes. My god, am I really that beautiful?, I thought to myself for a moment.

Nope. He started yelling seconds later, pointing at me with his stubby little fingers and screaming "Mommy! Animal! Animal!" Man, I thought, looks like bigot training starts earlier and earlier these days. The mom turned and looked at me. She gave me an "I'm so sorry" look and tried to quiet her child. I was about to give that little Hitler a piece of my mind, but I just kept walking, disgusted that the Aryan Pride movement is still going strong. (Unfortunately, the skin cancer epidemic hasn't reached its peak yet in wiping out their breed, especially when their shaved heads and basic uniform of remaining bare-chested all day long to show off their latest swastika tattoo makes them susceptible to it).

I sound tough, but I was a little hurt. Tears were welling up in the rim of my eye, and I had to run to the bathroom to clean myself up, and possibly whip myself a few times with my gym towel to punish myself for being born brown. That is when I looked in the mirror and saw this:



I totally forgot that I was trying out faux fur today because the whole animal print thing didn't work out for me so well. And yes, little boy, I did look like an animal. I'm so sorry for calling you a bigot and a young Hitler. It was only in my head, but still. I'm sorry.

Tanning Salons and Brown People Don't Mix

Everyday as I'm walking to the bus stop, I pass by the tanning salon. Every time I pass it, the hot brown-but-white salesperson, sensing that a possible customer is approaching, looks up in anticipation. Every time, she sees my brown face and goes back to reading her US Weekly.

I used to not "get" why people tanned. It seemed like a waste of money, causing skin to appear as if it were the pigskin ripped off of a 10 year old football. All to just look like us brown folk. Let me give it to you straight white people, you're not cool enough to be us. You never will. No matter how much melanoma you'll get.

But then a friend showed me a picture of a girl with a complexion that could even make polar bears a little jealous. Now this works if you are slated to star as the next villain in a crappy Dan Brown thriller, but probably not out in the real world. So I now rescind my initial response to tanning as stupid. I encourage pale people to go ahead and reap the benefits of an artificial sun. It'll be convenient for me as well. I won't need to wear sunglasses anymore in the dead of winter to deal with the blinding effect caused by the light reflecting off of you people's skin.

So after coming to this conclusion, I became a little self-conscious of my own skin tone. The next time I walked on into the tanning salon instead of just passing by it. The blondie at the counter put down her latest edition of People and asked me if I was the mail woman! I said no, that I was interested in getting a tan. She tilted her head, confused. I, as a result, became confused, grabbed The Economist that had laid untouched on the coffee table, and ran away. I now walk a different route to the bus stop everyday.

My Mother The Firecracker

I wouldn't exactly characterize my mom as simply a firecracker. She is more like that type of firecracker that doesn't light up the first time, but when you walk back to it after waiting a safe 10 minutes, the damn thing just explodes in your face, throwing shrapnel to and fro. So I guess more of a landmine with a delay timer. That, my friend, is my mother.

Lately, I've been contemplating giving the whole marriage idea a heave-ho and throwing in the towel in the tricky game of dating. Dating is a true blood sport that I will never be able to keep up with. Then I started dreaming what sort of a life I'd want as a spinster. Children can still be an option. I can have my very own designer baby shipped in from Ethiopia nowadays for god's sakes! What is better than screwing up our future generations by raising a fatherless child in a multiracial setting?! Welcome to the 2010s.

I decided to run this idea by my mother first. After all, a mother's opinion should be held in the highest regard. Unfortunately, the conversation did not go the way I was expecting it. She was taking a nap in the living room. With the sudden urge to run the idea by her, I nudged her awake and asked "Mommy, what would you do if I had a black baby?" Her eyes were bloodshot and she gave me a mean stare. I recoiled and put up my boxing fists. "WHY?!" she said very loud and bluntly, all the while staring at my stomach area. "WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS?"

Uh oh. I guess we really hit a language barrier. I was hoping for a heartwarming conversation about how adopted children will be part of the family no matter what flavor of the month they are. She, on the other hand, mistook this confrontation as a confession that I was "with child," a black child nonetheless.

I concluded the conversation by saying "nevermind" and walked away. Far away. We haven't discussed it since. But you never know when that favorite landmine of mine will blow. There will be body parts. Beware.

Vegetarian Rebound

Hindus are the biggest fundamentalist vegetarians in the world. The strictest of the strict do not even eat eggs! I asked my grandmother, who has never even eaten a morsel of egg white in her life, about this recently. She said eggs smelled bad. I proceeded to smell an egg in the refrigerator. Smelled like nothing to me. Hmmm...

Yea well me and the male members of my family threw that whole vegetarian thing out the window a whole hell of a long time ago. We love the egg. We love the bacon. And yes, we love the beef the most. So it's not surprise that my brother, my father, and I opted to go get a fancy steak dinner the other night. But of course, as we were planning this fabulous and expensive dinner, we decided to keep the dear old sweet grandmother in the dark. After all, ignorance is bliss. So whenever we discussed the evening's plans, instead of just saying "steak" or "meat" we'd spell the words out.

Me: "Daddy, are you ready to eat some delicious S-T-E-A-K tonight?!
Dad: "Yes, I am craving M-E-A-T."
Amit: "Dude, I think grandma knows how to read English."

Turns out that my brother was right. She knew what we were talking about all along. God bless her soul and also my brother's, who has perfected the knowing but aloof aura about him over the years. After the whole Hindu "cow is our mother" speel from our grandmother, we just looked at each other and moved our pre-game to the car.

During pre-game, I passed out favor bags to my dad and my brother. There were toothpicks, dental floss, mouth spray, a couple tablespoons of Metamucil, and a napkin. Coming from a long lineage of vegetarians and not knowing jack about meat, we were all very nervous about our meat-eating etiquette, we quizzed each other and gave each other tips/encouragement before we walked into the restaurant.

Me: "Daddy, what do you think I should do if I get a piece of fat in my mouth and I keep chewing it."
Daddy: "I asked my co-worker this and she said that you just spit it out into a napkin while no one is looking."

Daddy: "Do you think I should take Metamucil before or after a steak dinner to ensure continued regularity the next day?"
Me: "I googled that. It said after would be better."

By the time we got to the restaurant parking lot, we were ready to fill our stomachs brim of red meat. We took our deep breaths and walked in.

Long story short, we ordered a 3 course meal. The steak was delicious. Blah blah blah. We did everything right and looked like meat-eating pros all the way through until the end when we whipped out our favor bags and started picking our teeth and mixing up our Metamucil at the table. We got stares from other tables. We just shrugged and kept doing it. Hey at least we were nice enough to not floss until we got into the car! My grandma would call that KARMA.

Southwest, You are not the Party Bus of the Skies

I used to like Southwest. I even used to watch their awesome commercials by choice on YouTube. Maybe it's the fact that they used ugly actors and actresses to play the role of baggage handlers and stewardesses to give a "real life" effect to their intended sincerity for not charging for bags like the cheapskates Delta and United do. Or maybe it's the fact that if you owned a printer, you could check in 24 hours early thereby be privileged to board the plane earlier than anyone else and thus feel like a princess (an honor reserved for only the rich and/or famous with competitor airlines). Unfortunately, I am not rich enough to buy a printer so I am usually relegated to the "C" boarding class, and watch all the other women less worthy than me board and get their preferred seats. My goal in 2010 is to one day own a printer and show all those spoiled woman what I'm made of. But I digress.

I don't know about you, but when I board a plane, I just want to sit there, not talk to anyone, and get the whole thing over with. Thank god I recently lost weight because I no longer am forced to experience that uncomfortable stranger-on-stranger thigh rub which beckons an occasional "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me." Phew for that!

But then Southwest does have one flaw. Their employees try to be funny. And not quarky funny, but more like "I've memorized the oldest flying jokes in the book and try to make you laugh with them but inadvertently end up offending you because it undershoots your IQ" kind of funny. This has happened more than once, and its worse if you're seated in the vicinity of idiot passengers that are actually actively engaged and even verbally responding to these jokes.

Like today for example. I'm on a 3 hour flight to Portland from LA, and the pilot gets on the speaker and is like "We'll be arriving in Portland in 18 hours. Have a great flight." Woaaahoaa Mr. Pilot man. That was funny. You lied about the flight time to freak out the passengers, and somehow expected to garner a few chuckles at least from the slight error in calculation! As expected, no one laughed. Mostly because they weren't paying attention. Disappointed he gets back on the speaker. "Did anybody hear that? Huh? I said 18 hours." Then of course, I'm seated next to the only dolt in the entire airplane that starts laughing at the top of her lungs. "Oh I get it! That's hilarious! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Fuck. I was pissed.

It didn't stop there. When we landed the pilot started making cowboy and horse noises to recreate some kind of scene from a John Wayne film. I personally didn't see the connection between flying a 4 ton airplane with 100 passengers to some overweight man riding a horse through the desert. (But then again, I'm not white.) And then the final lamest flying joke in the book. "Hope everyone enjoys Honolulu" while we were taxiing. Everyone in the plane laughed again. Except me. Then that idiot next to me piped up again. laughing and yelling back "We're not in Honolulu silly!". (Seriously, for someone well-to-do enough to own a Coach bag, not very bright.) I wanted to bang my head against the window at that very moment. But my forehead was already sore from pressing my head against the window to see the view right before we hit turbulence.

So here I am, nursing my splitting headache caused by the danger that is airplane windows. Weird that they don't have any warnings about that on their safety cards. I'm going to write the US Department of Flying about this and also about having a segregated section for idiots. As for Southwest, they really need to send their employees to comedy school or some shit because what they're trying to do right now is just not working. Well, not for me anyways. If I wanted to laugh, I'd go out and watch a drama starring Jennifer Lopez not board an airplane to go home.