Technology Has Failed The Modern Dating World

As I've reached the gates of hell better known as the late 20s, for a brief period of time I grew concerned that I may not ever find someone to share my life with. I repeat, share. Not a man to service by birthing their planted seed from my loins, cooking their favorite accoutrements, or cleaning their soiled underpants and other items of that nature. Share. Unfortunately, I've been facing the truth, which is that most men are idiots and it doesn't get better with age as I had expected while I patiently waited all these years.

It is not only the use of telephone this day in age that quells this hope of mine. There is instant messaging, text messaging, social networking websites, and video chatting applications to worry about, additional avenues by which men can conveniently show me that they are not the right person for me and I must abstain from social interaction with them immediately. Not only that. It makes me wince in actual physical pain when I have to deal with these inevitable failings.

Instead of indicating a potential love interest as something more serious by taking the leap of calling them some cutesy nickname such as "sweety" vis-a-vis, they resort to hiding behind a computer screen or cell phone keypad when doing it for the first time. Don't get me wrong. Being called some crappy pet name too soon makes me cringe in horror no matter how you cut the cheese. But in the case of doing it in person, I can retort with some wonderful comeback as "Woaaa slow down there Cowboy. I'm not ready to let you mount this pony quite yet" and create a lighthearted environment from which I can quickly and seamlessly escape.

The same goes for those strange, unhindered text messages I receive the morning after having a date that followed standard protocol, that in turn send me in mourning. "I was tempted to do stuff with you last night" or some permutation of the statement usually glows from the screen. I'm often perplexed as to whether this is an attempt to be flirtatious, crude, or somewhere in between. But who the hell am I fooling. 50% flirtatious or 50% crude may it be, but 100% disgusting it is.

Worse yet though is when the message does not follow the standard rules of the English language. "Last nite wuz amuzingggg babes!" I do grant some leniency when the said person claims English as a second or third language. But if that's the case that why not choose a word indicating your positive mood that you can actually spell. "Great" would do just fine. "Last night was great." PERIOD. No "babes". No. No. NO.

So a word of advice to all you guys out there who have shown a poor track record in indicating your interest to a girl. Just don't do it. Stick to the telephone.

Nigerian Scam Artists

I found this in my spam folder today:

United Nation Secretary
IN CONJUNCTION WITH FEDERAL
GOVERNMENT OF NIGERIA


ZENITH BANK COMPENSATION UNIT, IN AFFILIATION WITH THE UNITED NATIONS.


Attention Beneficiary,

Hope all is well with you and family?, you may not understand why this mail came to you today. In regards to the recent meeting between the United Nations and the Present United Senates Government to restore the dignity and Economy of the Nations. Base on the Agreement with the World Bank Assistance to help and make the world a better place for all with the sole aim of abolishing poverty.

[yadda yadda]

This funds are in ATM visa card for security purpose ok? So he will send it to you and you can withdraw money in any ATM machine of
Your choice. This meeting was first held on the 8th of April 2003. You can view this page for your perusal:
http://www.un.org/News/Press/docs/2003/ik344.doc.htm Therefore, you should send him your full Name and telephone number/your correct mailing address where you want him to send the ATM visa card to you. Contact Mr. Godwin Emefiele immediately for your ATM visa card with the following information.

1. Full name
2. Phone and Fax number
3. Address were you want them to send the ATM Card to
(P.O Box not acceptable)
4. Your age and current occupation
5. Attach copy of your identification

Person to Contact: Mr. Godwin Emefiele
Office Email: mrgodwinemefiele.bankplc1@gmail.com


Good luck and kind regards,
Making the world a better place
Mr. Ban Ki-Moon Secretary
(UNITED NATIONS).
http://www.un.org/sg/

What I wrote back:

First of all, anyone that thinks that they can pass as an employee of the United Nations with such blatant errors in English grammar and spelling is not going to be very successful at scamming people. Secondly, stating that you are from a legitimate organization as a representative of the NIGERIAN government is not helping your plight at all. Finally, please come up with a better scam email. United_Nation@yahoo.com just doesn't seem to cut it.

I hope my tips help you snag some idiots social security number some day!

Godspeed!

To Meat or Not To Meat?

Every religion appears to have its ideological divisions. There are the Protestants and the Catholics. The Shiites and the Sunnis. And then the... Vegetarian and Non-Vegetarian Hindus.

For a lot of Hindus, eating meat is a form a rebellion. It is almost like how binge drinking and doing hardcore drugs is to the rest of the world. And when I visit vegetarian relatives, it is guaranteed within a few minutes that I'd be asked point blank if I eat meat or not and if I say yes, they proceed to run to the store to stock up on the various frozen meat entrees as if I'm some animal flesh addict that can't go a day without. Sure I enjoy a chicken leg now and then, or maybe a few nibbles of wings at Hooters. Should that automatically make me a protein feasting whore as well as a raging lesbian to boot?

I love how all these so-called non-veg Hindus brag that they eat meat as if they're really cool or manly or something. They often times proceed to argue that it is important to eat meat for that extra protein in your diet. Last time I've ever heard of anyone in this world - both developing and developed - die of a protein deficiency is well, never. So just admit it like I openly do. You eat it because it tastes good. It's like heroin but legal and comes at a cheaper price for larger portions and its consumption is unnecessary for human survival. End of story. Ok, now time for Turkey.

Unemployment Sucks and So Does Your Face

As I was chain-smoking another day of being homeless and unemployed away today, I came across an interesting specimen. She was blonde with highlights, average height, and wearing a long khaki Banana Republic trench coat. Not like I'm the type that recognizes high-end fashion produced by sweatshop labor from afar. I just assumed because every asshole living out here in DC wears Banana Republic.

Anyways, as I proceeded to speak with this office vixen about her job as a "consultant," another shocker because every other idiot walking the streets out here is, the cogs began spinning in my head. There are plenty of overpaid yuppies living in DC and what do yuppies need more than anything else? Overpriced clothes and accessories that are plain, boring, and uninventive. That and bite-sized restaurant food at incredibly high prices, otherwise known as "haute" cuisine. But food is difficult. You can be sued for food poisoning. But then again, you can always blame it on the sushi that the DC yuppie most likely had the night before, the hallmark trait of an gainfully employed person working in this damn city.

So here, I present to you my new clothing store: Avocado Democracy, which will basically be the haven for all those that enjoy purchasing solid-colored shirts and pants. My business plan is to have a 10000% markup of clothes produced by factories in India, thereby maximizing profit and minimizing human dignity. And it'll be exclusive to those that 1. know what an avocado is and 2. can afford to eat avocados. So the branding is built into the name itself! I'd even go as far as to having the motto: "If you can't afford to eat avocados, then get the fuck out of here!" with a big green monster as a mascot saying it at the entrance of every one of my locations. But I'm still debating that part.

Anyhoo, I'm looking for investors. Considering that I have no money, please approach me with a cash sum of some sort and possibly some avocados because I don't want to be a hypocrite.

Modern Day Imperialism

I came across this ad today.



I immediately suspected it was for some carcinogenic-laden triple-powered skin bleaching treatment combined with methylene blue injections to the irises of the eyes.

I then proceeded to ignore the ad.

Easy, No Bullshit Tactics To Safeguard Your Heart

Oh so you met someone. Possibly on a plane or even barside. You hit it off and talk for endless hours. That infamous "spark" never seems to dissipate and feeds that burning hope inside that he might be the next target for your cupid's arrow. But if the world of dating were just that straightforward. That kind gesture of letting you wear his coat when you were chilly may not been kind after all. Maybe he was finding a tactful way of brushing up against your boobs to assay their net worth in gold, trying to estimate if they are worth the investment of a couple more drinks to be able to see them bare that night. Or he pulled out that chair for you to see the spread size of your backside while you were sitting down, wondering if he should offer to buy you dessert so he'd have something more to grab later down the line. That's right you assholes. I know what tricks you are up to and i have come up some tricks of my own tucked away in my bra cups to fire back at those blank bullets.

Tip #1: Never program his number into your phone. Never.
He may be nice at first, but you never know when he will inevitably turn into an inconsiderate asshole. It may be a week from now, months, or hell, even after 10 years of marriage. But when you know it is all over, do you really want to sit around wondering what went wrong and fighting the urge to call him for god knows how long. So unless he's your husband AND your emergency contact on your health forms, don't even bother trying to memorize his number or keeping it handy. Let him do all the calling and when YOU are done with him you can stop picking up his phone calls.

Tip #2: If he doesn't want to make plans with you for the weekend, go ahead and let the other guy take you out instead.
I cannot stress the importance of maintaining a quarry of single men in your life. Because lets face it. All men are practically the same. In the end, they will fail at something or another when it comes to women. This way, you will always have a fresh guy to turn to after you have become bored with the previous one. And since you never had the first guy's number anyways, why even try rescuing something that wasn't even worth saving?

Tip #3: Keep men that you have hooked up with too soon in purgatory.
Ok, so we've all been there at one degree or another. Never let these guys out of the darkness. Keep them at a distance from your life and make sure you shut the door very tightly after you are done with whatever your agenda was with them. Just admit to yourself that these guys cared about you only because you were giving something to them in return. It was a give-and-take relationship as if he were buying a set of melons at the grocery store. Which isn't a bad thing because melons are tasty, but they also spoil very quickly.

Anyways thats it. Follow these tips and you will probably never experience heartache and stay fabulously single for the rest of your living days.

DSM: Desi-itis

Desi-itis, not to be mistaken for Arnaz mania, is condition inflicted upon South Asian progenitors of children. The characteristics of this disorder are fraught with hypocrisy, double standards, and social biases towards caste, religion, and race. If you believe that you or a loved one is suffering from this disorder, the results of this quiz will once and for all confirm that you are insane as always suspected.


Question #1
You have lived away from home for over 5 years and in addition to taking an overload of graduate school classes, you have a part time job, leaving you with very little spare time for phone conversations. Your progenitors call you to say hello in the middle of class and you are unable to pick up. Do they:

A. Leave a nice voice message and equipped with the knowledge that you are incredibly busy, know that you will call once you have a free block of time?
B. Make 3-5 additional phone calls to you, getting you to frantically search for your phone in your backpack since you forgot to put your phone on silent that day and the class is beginning to get weirded out by your "Sexy Lady" ringtone?
C. Make 10-15 additional phone calls within a 1 hour block of time, leaving the same exact voicemail every time, resulting in a full voicemail box that keeps potential employers from leaving messages about interviews?


Question #2
After having no luck in the job market post-2007, you decide to go to graduate school as a way to make positive use of your free time while awaiting for the job market to improve. You figure, at least meanwhile you are improving your credentials and increasing your earning power down the line. Do your progenitors:

A. Applaud you for sacrificing immediate gratification of having a small income from a full-time job in an industry in which you had never intended to enter such as fast foods or retail for a greater, more financially stable and intellectually challenging career in the future?
B. Wonder why you aren't an accountant like cousin Raj even though you majored in the sciences?
C. Have no idea what graduate school is, the challenges it presents, and doors that it will open for you, but are still nagging you about focusing on career and a positive financial future. When you remind them of what you are doing, they will immediately forget all the details, including the name and location of your graduate school, and the nagging returns by the beginning of the following day?


Question #3
You casually mention to your parents that you are now lactose intolerant in passing one day. Nothing more is said about it, until months later, you go on a last minute trip to visit family across the country. Do they:

A. Wish you a safe trip and to come back home with a refreshed spirit to tackle the upcoming school year with full force?
B. Wonder why you chose to spend your free time with anybody else other than them even though you had just visited them for a week two months prior?
C. Accuse you of being completely irresponsible and having no direction in life and to add insult to injury, bombard you with inquiries of what you've been eating while you were away from home since "they worry" that you are lactose intolerant?


Question #4
After going through three stressful months of nothing but work, school, and sleep, you get an invitation to an anniversary party out of town thrown by a friend who you met while traveling overseas. After arranging transportation, you inform your progenitors out of sheer courtesy that you will be out of town for a friends anniversary celebration. Do your progenitors:

A. Say thanks for letting them know and ask you to pass on a congratulations to the hostess?
B. Worry that these supposed friends are bad influences, and try to convince you not to go?
C. Begin calling your phone incessantly, demand that you tell them the first and last names of everyone you will know there, the address at which you will be staying, and a detailed description of how you know these people and for how long. They spend the rest of the weekend staying up at night because they are upset that they haven't met this friend and therefore have no basis of passing judgment on them?


Question #5
You are called by your progenitors on Friday evening to see how you are doing. You inform them that you are at home knitting a pair of socks and watching TV as usual and plan on going to sleep by 10pm because you have to work and go to school early the next morning. They then call you on a Saturday night and you inform that you are the gym as you usually are those nights. Do they:

A. Beg you to go to a bar and have a beer to take the edge off and to also pull the dildo out of your ass?
B. Applaud you for leading a very low key life in order to focus on things they find are the most important?
C. Are extremely happy to see that your focus has been purely on school and a job you hate to boot and reward you by offering to let you fly home for a weekend to spend time with them?


Results:
Mostly As:
Hold off on the Fair and Lovely, your parents are most likely white. These types of parents encourage their children to have a well-rounded life and see them through with any challenges their children are facing.

Mostly Bs:
Your parents are most likely desi. They are overbearing and critical idiosyncratic of most desis, but in a way that is largely ignorable and/or forgettable.

Mostly Cs:
Desi-itis. See a mental health professional.

Ladies, Has This Ever Happened To You?

You're at the gym. Perhaps on the ab machine trying to sculpt a 6 pack and as your swinging up and down, you spot a hot guy. You suddenly become mesmerized by the way his arm muscles flex as he's lifting those dumbbells, even notice the way he purses his lips at every jostling rep. You begin fantasizing about the naughty things you'd do to this Michael Scofield lookalike. How you'd rip his sleeveless shirt off to reveal the Statue of David underneath (but with much more hefty package). How you'd put your lips to his caramel skin. How you'd bounce quarters off his chiseled ass when he wasn't looking.

Oops. He turns and looks at you, realizing that you've been staring. All flustered, you suddenly look away... and your eyes meet those of a middle-aged obese man in chucks and hairy legs on the hip extender machine. He smiles and waves. You proceed to go home empty-handed once again.

Never in my life had I felt so humiliated. Ok thats a lie.

5 Things I Learned About Gujus in New Jersey

Gujratis are a notorious clan. They are known to be cheap, tacky, and... vegetarian. Yuck! Having taken a long, extended hiatus from such people in hicksville otherwise known as Portland, OR, I was a reacquainted with my people, those to whom I have the closest genetic and cultural ties, during my two week stay in Edison, NJ. The findings were shocking and eye-opening.

1. Gujus do not understand, or rather, want to understand what orange cones mean on the road.

I came across this poor bastard when I attended a Friends of Gujrat event in nearby Brunswick. After having to roll down my window and yell at the Patel parade that rolled out of a clown car that literally blockaded me from finding parking for a good 15 minutes, I felt for this poor guy when I was trying to escape the circus. Yes, they basically needed to put human flesh in front of an entrance to a full parking lot because drivers couldn't clue in on the row of orange cones in front of it. Leave it to us Gujus to have to be threatened with a wreckless driving and manslaughter charge to keep us having our own way. "Friends" we may be, but not of the "Friends of the Road" variety.

2. Guju women flock to sales like hyenas feeding off of a single kill in the middle of a famine.

At "Friends of Gujrat," I was excited to find junk craft stalls. However, this was the booth that took the audience by storm. I tried to get a piece of the action. I mean at $15 per salwar kameez, who wouldn't right? So I squeezed between two overweight middle-women to get my own piece of that sweet sweet pie, and not only did I leave empty handed, I was elbowed in the side and kneed in the groin. Ok so I wasn't kneed in the groin. But might as well been.

3. Gujus like to tip in terms of Indian currency using American currency

This was my cousin's tip jar at a popular restaurant at the end of a hard day's work. After splitting it between 5 employees, he had enough money to buy a gumball at the mall. That is, after he traded in all those pennies for a shiny silver quarter. Nice going, chaiwalla!

4. Gujus take professional photos like they are mug shots.

This was the photo that was chosen by at dentist for his ad in the local paper. Thanks, Dr. Patel, but I think I'll pick someone else to remove my wisdom teeth. I'd like to spare being molested while under general anesthesia.

5. Lastly, Gujus think I'm white. Not ABCD. White.
It was okay though because that somehow made me feel quite superior. Even my cousin was shocked when they'd roll out the red carpets, crown me with a tiara, and hand me a fresh bouquet of red roses every time I went to the local Cash and Carry. I was a celebrity without having to do anything! I guess this is how Lindsey Lohan feels. Or Julia Roberts, post-"Eat Pray Destroy", that is.

Online Dating Advice

Admit it. You have turned to online dating because you got no game in person. It's cool. I don't either. We are all not born with the gift to charm the pants off a member of the opposite sex. Thank our lucky stars that we are living in a time that all we need to do is put up a photoshopped pictures of ourselves taken under very flattering lighting and write a description of "how we wish we were" to lure poor souls into our lair of dating mayhem. Unfortunately most of you assholes aren't getting it right still.

I have created a flow chart of how I approach online dating to summarize how I go about my selection process.



I find this flowchart to simplify the selection process incredibly. Unfortunately, after all the time investment, I have yet to find a man amongst the 200ish that actually have reached the level of "Acceptance with Reservations." I may possibly be too picky. Nonetheless, I do not think there is anything wrong with not wanting a guy that thinks that best picture of himself is one of him wearing some aviators leaning against a wall to accentuate his girlish figure. Neither do I feel that I am too picky to want a guy that has had at least a junior high school education, as indicated by his ability to speak proper English.

Whatever.

Caucasian People Better Recognize

The other day, I was cooking, well rather, chopping up some veggies to make a delicious salsa. I skipped on purchasing one of the "musts" of making a perfect salsa - cilantro - because I was told by my roommate that he had some in the fridge that he wasn't using. So I get home and unfortunately, he was not present to help me locate my favorite leafy green in the fridge. His girlfriend was, and having been bragging that she has been working in a Mexican restaurant as a line cook for the past few weeks, I thought she was the right person to command to fetch me the cilantro from the fridge.

Instead, she brings me a different vegetable altogether. Parsley. Reasonable mistake at first glance, we all know that, but then I said something. "This is parsley," as a I examined the vegetable. "No, honey, this is cilantro." She appeared so confident, indicated by her use of the interjection "honey," as if she harnessing all the culinary knowledge of the world.

What a bitch. I wanted to slap her. Who the hell tells a DESI person what cilantro is? White people. That's who.

Matthew Fox's Hotness Has Led Me To Expand My Dating Criteria

Let's face it. The man is hot. In fact, I had to stop watching 'Lost' because I was too distracted by his beautiful face and toned arms to even pay attention to the convoluted plot lines. I find his physical appearance particularly versatile. Shaved head. Hot. Normal hair. Hot. Suit. Hot. Jeans and T-Shirt. STILL HOT!

But then I thought to myself. A man THIS good-looking must have some sort of character flaw. So I did what any normal, run-of-the-mill celebrity stalker would do. I wikipedia'd his ass, but unfortunately it got my oven burning a tad bit warmer. He grew up on a cattle ranch. Hot. He played football in college. Hot hot. In fact, I had to stop reading his biography in fear that my love fumes would set my clothes ablaze.

One thing that I noticed though was that he is 43 or 44 or some shit like that. I have now officially expanded my Match.com search criteria from 25-30 to 25-45 years of age. Hopefully a look-a-like will be slithering my way in no time, with possibly a better body, to which he will have no objection of sending pics of.

In the meantime, I will be renting 'We Are Marshall," and watch it on mute so that the story line will not take away from his perfection.

::Swoon::

A Love Story

Boy meets girl.
Girl reluctantly gives boy number.
Boy begins to annoy girl.
Girl proceeds to ignore boy.
Boy sends text message reading "You're nose was too big anyways."
Girl gets annoyed with this poorly designed ploy to insult her.
Girl replies "Hit me up when you grow up. Too bad I'll be dead in 80 years."

Girl wins.

WTF to the "Third" Degree

In the United States, we find ourselves debating politics over an iced mocha made with water that doesn't require a good boiling prior; we most often cross crosswalks without wondering if the car that just passed will suddenly start speeding backwards into you; we enjoy the luxury of wearing sandals without the worry that we might step in poo on the side of the road if we aren't careful. Sure there is stupid in the US. I've seen it. I've even been there. Americans still piss in public, but we have paved roads and concrete gutters to collect said liquid and reroute it to our excellent sewage systems that probably dump the excrement into pipes that end in Malaysia. We are just that awesome.

You don't really start thinking and even appreciating these small conveniences of Western life until you begin traveling or attempt to live in a Third World country. You will still see the same old day-to-day stupid minus the modern plumbing, but this concept extends further to those the govern the country themselves. In Nairobi, the government just miraculous decided literally overnight that smoking was to be banned in all the city proper except two roped off areas. Literally, roped off. It wasn't even a rope, it was more of a ratty twine that was tied around trees with spray painted signs that said "smoking area". WTF? Then in Nepal, I showed up for my 12pm flight only to find out at the airport checkin counter that my flight was rescheduled to 9am. WTF?

But nothing tops this experience more than my dealings with the Indian Consulate right here in fabulous America. Unbeknownst to me, the bigwigs up in New Delhi just woke up one morning and declared that all tourists wishing to enter their damn country require to furnish a copy of their birth certificate for visa processing. Damn son. I wouldn't even need a copy of my birth certificate to repair a ruptured appendix sans insurance so why would I need one to enter a country where traffic goes 100 times slower due to major "cow" blockage? Well I guess it was because of the Mumbai bombings and wanted to ensure that my Indian -Hindu name, is in fact, Indian-Hindu. Ok, fair enough. I will tolerate such great demands.

So I have a copy of my birth certificate at hand. Then I came across another conundrum. NRIs are supposed to apply for a SPECIAL visa with LONGER processing time and that is MORE expensive than the standard "tourist" visa for basically white people. Wasn't the terrorist that bombed Mumbai PRETENDING to be WHITE so shouldn't white travelers to India be the ones under greater scrutiny? Nope not to those Rajas in New Delhi. It is the American-born Indians that they're after with all there coconut-like qualities and perfect English. They are the ones to pay for their misfortunes with a visa fee $50 more than its counterpart. So while other future traveler's to India can get a 5 or 10 year Tourist visa to India, I'm stuck with just a small possibility of getting a 5 year visa. I hung my head down, ashamed of being Indian for the 5th time that day, signed the damn papers and sent off my money, passports, and dignity to the Indian consulate.

Then I get an email from RAJ at the Consulate asking me to furnish my parent's birth certificates and my grandparent's Indian passport information. WTF? Damn son, the last time I was ever asked to provide copies of my parent's birth certificates was well... never. And grandparent's passports? Would there have been a passport issuing agency within my grandparents' vicinity in rural India in the 1930s? THEY DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEIR BIRTHDAYS WERE. In fact my grandmother just called me a few months ago to ask if I KNEW. So here I am. Close to giving up because this is almost too much bullshit to deal because I feel like I'm in India already. I'm going to start to boil my water and brush my teeth with it for the full effect of what it feels like to be living and dying as an Indian American rejected by her own mother country.

Total Domination

A few years back, I had a friend that was inflicted with a brain aneurysm. Her recount of what happened when it burst was fascinating. She told me that she just woke up one day and she couldn't move the entire left side of her body. She had to have her boyfriend piggyback her to his car so he could drive her to the hospital. When she got to the hospital, they showed her pictures of horses, cows, chickens, and pigs. She told me that she'd be able to recognized these animals in her brain, but when she tried to say "horse," she wouldn't be able to. As a scientist, I thought that maybe she just forgot her barnyard animals since kindergarten was so many years ago at that point. But then she proceeded to say the same thing happened with pictures of fruits and vegetables. Then I was convinced. Her brain was messed the fuck up.

I am only reminded of this story since I underwent a similar experience just recently. It was suddenly dark and I had to squint to even distinguish whether or not a person was female or a male, let alone a friend or a foe. I would waft through the crowds of people like a toad fighting to swim upstream. I was leaning on people for balance because my entire left side of my body, particularly, hurt so much. I was getting nauseous. I remember getting a little panicked. OMG, do I have a brain aneurysm. Someone call an ambulance PLEASE, I wanted to yell out, but I couldn't.

For a brief moment, I thought the end was coming near. I shut my eyes, took my last breath. Then I realized. Oh wait. I'm drunk.

Adventures in Stripperland

I finally did it. I went to Acropolis. I've heard about it for years as a resident of this fine city. It has become some sort of a buzz word amongst the shady men that I meet and has reached such a level of fame that it is now referred to as simply "Acrop." I hear about "Acrop" as I'm switching light rail lines, as I'm walking down the street, as I'm passing by under-the-table drug deals.

Acropolis is legendary for another reason altogether. It apparently has the "best steak in town" and at $5 for a 6 ouncer, that is a deal that I, myself, would run around naked for. However, the thought of walking into a white-trash-esque strip joint, as a woman and alone never seemed appealing to me. I mean, if I want to get groped, might as well don my own stripper gear and make some money off of that deal right?

So I finally had the opportunity to go with an entourage of thugs. They wore their chains and workout clothes. (Bonus points for any of you who know why guys like to wear sweat pants to strip joints. But I digress.) I wore a sensible top and jeans, ready to chow down on the "best steak I'd ever have in my life." And it sure was. I was on my second plate of steak as I occasionally glanced up and saw some breasts the size of grapefruits swinging around some pole or bouncing around. It was a combination that was appealing to all 5 of my senses.

It wasn't until I took my last bite that things got a little wild. I waited a few minutes to allow the meat to digest and settle in my belly and decided to sit up front row and center. A Betty Page look alike come out from back and man, could she work it! She was swinging them hips and shaking those coconut sized breasts like no other. Then she did this "laying down" routine that exposed all the strange piercing she had in the nooks and crannies of her body. One guy took a look at one of these piercings and was like "man that's gotta hurt." And she laughed and just said "yea I'm like a jewelry box." She sure was and she got paid handsomely for it. Or at least I hope she got tipped out with some of that 20% of the $10 I spent there. Bravo Betty, bravo!

When Will It End?

Every morning, I wake up. Brush my teeth. Dab a little sunscreen on my face. Dress in the finest clothes that Nordstrom Rack has to offer, which usually entails a sensible pair of pants, a button-down shirt, and a blazer of some sort. I look at myself in the mirror one last time to make sure that the claw clip will successfully hold my french twist for the remainder of the day. Then I am off.

Considering that my sense of style is seemingly bland and lazy, the inevitable still happens. Some bad boy in corn rows, basketball jersey and baggy sweat pants, thugged out chain, or a combination of any of the sort "hoots" at me and yells some form of the phrase "Yo 'girl', can I 'holla' at 'chu'?". To this day, I still cannot figure out. Is it some sort of joke? Here I am, this brown girl with an apparent "granola" sense of style involving dated hairstyles and even more dated outfits getting chased by a man who literally has to hold up his oversized basketball shorts as he's talking to me (or attempting to at least). Or is it just simply a fascination, a deeper desire to cross the boundaries that hold us to our stereotypes. The "coconut girl". The "thug." Is it their intellectual drive to cross the bounds that keep us apart, an effort to achieve some sort of world peace, starting in the microcosm that is Portland, OR?

When this first started happening, I fought it. Conversations went something like this:

Man: How you doin' homegirl.
Me: Why hello there mister. How do you do?

Man: Gurrrlll. The burgers at Burgerville are fucking offff the hookkkk.
Me: Indeed they are. I find the Black Bean Burgers equally appetizing.

Man: Yo, where you usually go fuck around at after school?
Me: I'm a virgin. Sorry.

However, I've learned an immense amount from these incidences. As much as these fellows were indeed pushing with their ebonics and golden teeth, I too was pushing back with my penchant for Olde English grammar and manners. I have since attempted to let go of these habits, as I've identified as just a subconscious way to "fit" in the world.

The Male Species

The male species is an interesting lot of animals, yet quite diverse in nature. After giving the whole dating ritual thing a shot, as well as excavating precious data from other male (or semi-male) friends of mine, I am now teem full of data that allows me to develop a scientific phylogeny based on character, personality, and physical traits. Here, I will share with you what I have so far.

Homo oaf
This type of male, as the name implies, is an oaf. He's lazy, eats often, and enjoys playing video games while eating. While out on dates, he often digresses into conversations about food, particularly fast food and even more specifically, the newest fast food items to hit the market. He will wine and dine you, but once he's got his talons into you, will proceed to strictly only hit up drive-thrus and throw in an extra $1 sundae for you on an anniversary or birthday. And beware, members of this species come in small, medium, and large sizes. And please don't super size it for an extra 25 cents.

Homo yuppie
This type is easily spottable. He'll wear a Cartier watch to go buy groceries in your local yuppie neighborhood. He'll flash his LV wallet when he's paying for toll as he's cruising down the New Jersey turnpike in his leather-interior vehicle. If that's not enough, he'll wear designer jeans to go play baseball and on rare occasions, women's designer jeans. He'd fret at the thought of sullying his freshly manicured hands by allowing them to touch the dirt to pick up said baseball. Often mistaken for just plain homo.

Homo loser
This is the guy that has no game whatsoever, knows it, and still tries. He's the one that tries to get you into bed on a first date by asking you subtly and blushes in the process i.e. "So uhm quick question... like... uhm... what's your favorite position ::blush::." A good response is "you under... a bus". He would then proceed to laugh awkwardly and act as if he was just "joking". Right. On days when I feel gutsy, I'd order an extra meal to-go and walk away with my doggy bag. At least I'd get my nookie!

Homo backwash
This is the guy that uses poor helpless lonely women to make the woman they actually want, usually an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, jealous. He'll take you to events where his ex's will just "happen" to be, grab you so tightly by the arm as you are awkwardly introduced to each other, that you are left with bruises that could be enough cause to file a police report. The minute the other woman walks away, this species tends to instantly lose his smile, want to go home, cry on your shoulder, and then want meaningless sex. It makes you feel like you are sloppy seconds, but then again you are... in spirit.

Homo cannabis
He smokes pot. He talks about pot. He even smells like pot. It is impossible to land a decent job while a dating a guy like this because the contact high alone from his immense pot smoking will prevent you from ever passing a drug test. This type usually does not have any money because he spends it all on pot. He usually does not have a car either because he not only, once again, spends all his money on pot but he is more often than not carrying a license that is suspended due to being caught in the possession of pot. Relationships involving these types of males usually end wherein the ultimatum is presented "It's either me or marijuana," and he sadly chooses... the marijuana.

The Invasion of The Candy Snatchers

Ladies and gentlemen, the unthinkable has happened. I would have never fathomed that such a disgusting, self-deprecating accusation could ever come to realization, but it has. Yes, I have been accused of being a... Reese's Pieces thief. It all began when I cleaned my house, which involved shuffling other people's possessions around. At some point in this process, a brand new bag of Reese's Pieces, once in the custody of my roommate, magically disappeared like Kaiser Soze. Oh my. I'm sure The Oregonian would jump at the chance at publishing a front page news story about this poor bastard's lost 65 cent candy. And this is The Oregonian and the damn candy wasn't even King size!

So I get home from school and here he comes barging into my room, and the conversation went something like this:

Roommate: Did you go into my backpack, steal my Reese's Pieces and eat them?
Me: WTF, do I look like ET (muthafucka)?

He then proceeded to woddle away. I felt like throwing three quarters at him, but felt sorry for the bastard so I gave him a crisp $1 bill instead.

Single Brown Female

Living in Portland has its downfalls for the straight, brown female. Mostly because I am considered a minority in all 3 categories, which basically means that I have to constantly check myself before taking any measure, drastic or not. However, just like any other human being, I do have a slip-up now and then.

For example, the other day I was waiting at the bus stop and this woman comes and waits with me. As we're both standing there in silence, we saw a truck pass by on the street rather slowly and as said situations normally dictate, two rubberneckers came bobbing out of the window as well.
"Looks like they like you," she said.
"Yea, probably the dress." I said.
"Yea, I mean I ain't no looker now, but I am damn sexy in a dress too," she announced. She smiled at me. Her teeth had her magenta lipstick smeared all over them.
I smiled back at her and was like "Oh you're sexy even now, baby!," and nudged her on the shoulder and started laughing.

...She didn't find it funny. Rather, she instantly turned away and avoided making eye contact with for the remainder of the wait as well as the bus ride itself. At some point, I was tempted to say something "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like a lesbian," but the moment obviously escaped me.

Yea right. Like I wanted her magenta lipstick smeared on my teeth too.

The Student Becomes The Teacher Grasshopper

After having to deal with this idiot stalking me for weeks now, I came across a brilliant opportunity the other day. Instead of showing up early to class, I resorted to coming 5 minutes late so that he wouldn't come and sit next to me.

Recently, I came late, took a seat in the back in the stadium-style lecture hall and start learning about physics. Then I peer on over at the dolt and see a classic moment. He was wearing his signature basketball shorts with a shirt that was a tad too tight for him.. and his ass was hanging out like a lot. I found this to be the perfect Kodak moment to use and whipped out my Blackberry to take a snap (yes btw, I do plan on dying in corporate hell).

As I was zooming in on the guy's ass crack on my comfortably large cell phone screen, I had an epiphany. Then I turned around and saw that someone was sitting behind me and was watching me do the whole thing. Clearly, the epiphany came a moment too late. The guy raised an eyebrow at me. I smiled back. I wanted to explain, but I didn't want to talk over my Physics professor. Oh well.

My Closet

I really resent the designations of "Type A" and "Type B" for people's personalities. Mostly because I do not consider myself either. Yes, I'm an organization freak. Yet, I'm a lazy organization freak. Figure that one out.

For example, for weeks I've seen my room gradually turn into a melting pot of clothes, dishes, and books. I just ignored it, relegating it to the confines of the primitive side of my mind. The gorilla side of me didn't care. Sure I tripped over shoes on the way to school in the mornings or managed to miss the bus because once again, I couldn't find my house keys or a clean pair of bottoms or... my other shoe. And I let it get this way because if it's not perfectly organized from the get go, I'm not even going to bother until I finally get that kick to want to finally become human again and live like a normal person with two pairs of shoes, a set of house keys at hand, and sheets that actually cover my mattress.

That kick was today. I went through my closet and finally threw out all those clothes that I "thought" I would wear eventually but never did. Then I did this:



From left to right: shoe rack [unpictured], salwar kameezes, dresses, slutty dresses (aka dresses destined for the discard pile), hooded outerwear, unhooded outerwear, cardigans/sweater outerwear, unbuttoned sweaters, long sleeved shirts, short sleeved shirts, short sleeved dress shirts, "sick day" outerwear, unoccupied hangers.

As I was proudly performing my organization duties, all the while imagining what a great day I was going to have tomorrow when I walk into my closet and pick out my outfit with such ease and finesse, something happened. This bastardly top came popping out of my collection, throwing my world completely off kilter.



I panicked. My heart started racing. Ok, so it is a sweater. So it should go in the sweater section, I thought at first. Then I thought some more. Wait, it is short-sleeved so it should go in the short-sleeved section... Or should I just make a new section altogether for this ONE top? But if I did that, where would THAT section go? Between the sweaters the short-sleeved shirts or between the short-sleeved shirts and the dress shirts? I went over this in my head for at least 30 minutes.

I threw it away. Evoked too much thinking and my heart couldn't take it.

Then I looked at my phone and saw that it was 8 pm on a Friday night.

Damn.

I need a boyfriend.

Marijuana Enthusiasts Need To Find Something Else To Be Enthusiastic About

People assume that since I live in Oregon that I'm some big pothead or something. No, I'm not. I find that marijuana dulls the very hatred that fuels my blog entires, and that would be a lose-lose situation for all of us now, wouldn't it? In fact, most marijuana users bug the crap about me and considering that my tolerance level for stupid decreases exponentially on THC, I try my best to avoid the stuff unless one day I choose to end up in prison for murder.

I overhear conversations all day long.
"Dooood, did you see the crystals on that nug?"
"I'm blazed as f$%k, should I go to class?"
"Man, John scored some BOMB ASS weed called Blueberry-Afghanistan-Love-Not-War."

And it's not only about the marijuana itself, but also its accompanying equipment.
"I just scored this tight pipe that my friend up in Eugene made himself."
"We decided to call it The Sherlock because its a bubbler."
"Damn dude. I'm depressed. I broke my piece last night."

Finally, then there are those creative souls that like to experiment.
"John is so smart. He figured out how to turn his bath tub into a huge bong last night."
"My girl Amber just found a new pot brownie recipe. It's dope. I should email it to you."

My response: if these people found more productive creative outlets, the world would be a better place. You know, like finding a hobby that actually results in something tangible rather than an entire day wasted on the couch staring at the cobwebs and contemplating whether or not the same cobwebs are forming in your brain. Which is more often the case than not.

I mean how creative are these names for marijuana strains? Whoever came up with names such as "blueberry chronic," and "hydroponic stinger" are oozing with the potential of being a Nobel Prize-winning poet. Then there are those with the scientific gift of figuring out how to maximize the THC content of every puff, either through the mechanism by which the said marijuana is smoked or by cross-breeding under the perfect ambient temperature and lighting. How successful would these people be at being physicists, creating nuclear weapons for the government, or as botanists working for Greenpeace. Ok fine, maybe working for Greenpeace is not exactly where anybody wants to be but it's something at least!

All I gotta say is be free my children and not in the hippie kind of way.

On Harassing Family Members Virtually...

This is what my brother has to put up with. Everyone of you should be glad you're not my family.

Blackberries Can Do More Than You Think

I just got a Blackberry. It's purple and looks like a mini-computer. Now, having a Blackberry may not be a big damn deal for some of you people, but considering that I've always sought for simplicity when seeking out a new phone, me owning a Blackberry is like Bill Gates buying a Macbook Pro and... liking it, a lot. It just doesn't mix... or does it?

So the thing is pretty cool. Can check my email, use instant messaging, go onto Facebook blah blah. Basically, annoy my friends at a greater extent than I already am as a former strictly laptop user. And you know, everyone reaches that threshold where they just get used to owning a Blackberry and it's not as exciting anymore. I was getting there within the 12 hours I've owned the thing.

But then something happened. I was riding the bus, and this guy approaches me. I had met him before on the same bus line and he would attempt to romance me by telling me how he'd moved up here from California "for love" and how it didn't work out. What a loser. Anyone that is willing to move states in the name of an internet-based love needs a huge slap in the face. Anyone that is attempting to use such a story as a way to get another woman needs to be punched. "Yea, that sucks dude," I would say and turn away but he'd keep talking about his broken heart. Sometimes to the point that my knuckles would turn white from forming a fist for too long, but don't worry I restrained myself.

So I'm sitting on the bus and here the loser comes. "Hey remember me?" He says. "Oh hey." I say back. He starts talking to me and it was one of those situations where he attempted to sound smart but he just sounded stupid without knowing it.

Him: Yea, so how was your trip to Nepal?
Me: [pretty sure he doesn't even know where Nepal is] It was good, but I'm glad to be back
Him: Yea, I bet. I remember when I went to Mexico I couldn't be there for more than 3 days.
Me: [doubtfully] Where in Mexico were you?
Him: Tijuana.
Me: You know that's not really Mexico right?
[silence]
Him: Well you know in other countries there are no sidewalks or roads really and like the cops are enterprising and stuff.
Me: Yea...ok...

While he continues on his stupid talk, I turn to my Blackberry and start checking the news and my email. He notices that I stopped paying attention to him. He gets up and goes back to sitting in the back of the bus where all idiots belong.

Man, that was awesome. My Blackberry, in addition to be the best communications device I've ever come across, wards off men like some kind of witch's broomstick. I'm going to use this trick from now on and see how more successful I can be. Meanwhile, I want to write a letter of thanks to the makers of Blackberry. And my last sentence will read: "Because of you guys, I can wear makeup and do my hair but still have a powerful tool within the palm of my hand that sends loser men off like kryptonite does to Superman." Awesome, just awesome.

What's Suppy?

I found myself hungry today so I woddled on over to Safeway to get sushi. Blasphemy, I know. Who the hell gets something like sushi at a grocery store? Well, I guess me.

I was already looking like a weirdo when I was too lazy to use chopsticks and was just shoving each little roll in my mouth with my hands. I find this method easier, in general. No more accidental drops, resulting in major trouser stainage if you ask me, and in the long run I get less stares from strangers for my food- and coffee-stained clothes.



As I'm eating and studying (or rather studying and eating), I find that what appeared to be a little sliver of avocado that accidentally fell off of the roll I was about to grab. I love avocado so I scoop the entire piece of it up on the entire roll and proceed to shove it in my mouth. Well. It. Wasn't. Avocado.

My mouth started perking up, my eyes started popping out of the orbitals of my skull. It felt as if my brain had sprung a leak and my cerebrospinal fluid was gushing out of my sinuses. A mother sitting a table over noticed something was not right and started shielding her toddler, expecting that I'd be transforming into The Hulk at any moment.

Well, I didn't transform into The Hulk, but I'm sure I lost a few brain cells. That, my friends, was my penultimate experience with wasabi.

Why isn't the Tyra Banks show cancelled yet?

I'm a strict believer in the scientific method. I observe, I hypothesize, I experiment, and then I draw a conclusion. I am going to step you through this method, which I used to explain the phenomenon that continues to perplex me of any reasonable outright explanation: Why does Tyra Banks continue to get air time in order to suck the fat out of women's brains and injecting it into their butts?

Here is a simple breakdown of my ponderance:
I. Observation:
Tyra Banks is a complete idiot and yet women continue to worship her as if she were the Queen of Sheba, as exemplified by this disturbing video clip.


2. Hypothesis
In mathematical terms:
Tyra = Idiot
Her fans = Idiots
Her fans= (Tyra)(x)

3. Experiment
I approach an open Tyra Banks fan and ask her if she likes Vaseline. She says yes. I ask her why. She says its because Tyra believes in it.

4. Conclusion
The general idea in chemistry that "like" dissolves in "like" can be proposed here. Tyra banks is an idiot. So are her fans. Therefore both phenotypes' airheads are capable of dissolving into each other, to create an even larger mesh of empty space within the confines of each individual's skull. This is all possible by the medium known as television, though the lack of essential nutrients within this medium makes me want to deem it an "anti-growth medium" rather than the more traditional "growth medium" used in cell biology.

To answer the proposed question, why this woman is still on the air, remains elusive. It is possible that she has rerouted her neural functions to another part of her body, thereby surviving instinctually via an uncharacterized nutrient residing in her adipose cells. Such neural focal points may be her gluteus or pectorals. This remains to be unstudied. We shall propose that study at a later time.

Thank you NIH.

Man, I'm Disgusting. Oh Well.

Last night, I found myself in a predicament. As most evenings go, I was starving but lets face it I'm usually too cheap to eat out unless I'm near death or need a picker-upper to help me recover from a mild case of depression. I step out of the gym, and book it to Whole Foods where I run inside and grab a banana and Pirate's Booty Bermuda Onion, my favorite.

I don't know about you, but I really love these what I can only describe as little kernels of joy. They are extremely puffy, have only a mild touch of flavor, and crunch AND melt in your mouth like some strange science experiment that actually went right rather than wrong. I immediately rip a bag open amongst all these people in the store and start stuffing the handfuls of these bundles of miracles into my mouth.

So I'm eating and eating and just wandering around the store. Sometimes a stowaway kernel would miss my mouth and get trapped in my scarf or fall on the floor. Poor thing. Missed its opportunity to come into contact with Meera saliva, a rarity for food and boys alike. I decide to buy some coffee while I'm at it. So I grab a bag and go up to the cashier to pay for both.

"How are you?," the cashier said politely. I try to talk with my mouth full. Unfortunately, most of the kernels in my mouth were not at full salivation yet and one of them flew out of my mouth and knicked him in the forehead. "I'm fine," I say. But it was too late. I had already assaulted him with Pirate's Booty. He wiped his forehead with a paper towel and avoided eye contact with me the rest of the time. Yea... I'd be grossed out too, but from this experience I learned that Pirate's Booty would be better for a makeshift assault weapon rather than the marshmallows that have gotten so popular lately.

Body Language

The other day, I was wandering around and found myself at a bus stop across the street from this burger joint.

I was just standing there, minding my own business while also feeling for the pepper spray in my pocket, when a man came out of the front door of this darkened restaurant. He just stood there in the shadows with his hands on his hips, staring in my direction. I just kept standing there, acting like I didn't notice him. He started waving his hand to say hi. I don't even acknowledge it. Then he started waving at me to come across the street in increasing tempo. I continued to not partake in this strange miming game. I did, however, uncap the pepper spray in my pocket.

He continued to try to get me over to his side of the tracks up until a few minutes before the bus pulled up. As I boarded, I yelled "Sorry, I didn't feel like getting raped tonight. Try tomorrow." He then went back inside the restaurant.

Thank You!

So I got on a crowded bus one morning, which I hate because then I'm forced to stand and rub up against people I wouldn't normally want to rub up against or even smile at for the matter. Well that, and the fact that I'm usually lugging like 100 pounds of crap everyday. Then there are those assholes that just decide to sit on a seat and put their bags on the seat next to them, as if its some clever ploy to get people from sitting next to them.

Well, I'm standing and my back starts hurting. The guy sitting in the closest row of seats finally decides to take his bag and puts it on his lap. Relieved, I instantly take the emptied seat. "THANK YOU!," and I was indeed genuinely thankful. The guy looked back at me like "you want a crown with that princess?" Turned out that he just moved his briefcase to get a handkerchief from it to blow his nose. He did not sacrifice the luxury of having a personal desktop space on public transit after all.

People are assholes and enjoy making me look stupid. What else is new?

Idiots are leeches that suck the life out of me

Like everyone else, I run into idiots on a daily basis. On the bus. On the street. Yada yada yada. But then there are the kings and queens of the idiots that only manage to come swarming around me as if I have a bowl of honey hidden under my blouse and they're out to pollinate. Unfortunately, I ran into both your highnesses today. I wonder what the statistical significance of that is? Probably 1 in 100 trillion with one degree of freedom. Go figure that it happens to me.

Mr. Highness is a grown ass man in my physics class. He comes up to me today after he sees me loafing around. He goes "hey did you study for the test today?" I go "nope, need to do that." Then he goes, "well, I have a question" and starts whipping out his notes. Did he not hear me? I DIDN'T STUDY, you idiot. But he pulls out his notes anyways and goes "I don't know how to solve this. Could you show me." I peer over at his chicken scratch and I see something like this:


"How do you find the hypotenuse?" My jaw nearly dropped to the ground. At first, I thought this was a ploy to hit on me, but I don't find feigning stupidity attractive or even funny at all. "It's the Pythagorean Theorem." "Huh?," he says. "Dude the answer is 5 meters." "How did you know that!?" Fuck. I get up and pretend I need to go to class. "Listen, if you don't know how to do that maybe you should take a math class and take physics some other time." I start climbing the flights of stairs to get to my morning class. He follows me. "Wait wait, I have more questions..." I don't think I need to list off the questions I was asked during what I can only characterize as the 10 most miserable minutes of my life. Miserable mostly because they made me remember the awkward middle school years when I learned most of it.

It didn't end there. I thought he had lost my scent after he was forced to depart my company after I entered my classroom. I made an effort to find a cloistered space to study for the exam, which turned out to the be the topmost floor of the library. He found me. And the campus is not that small. I was sharing a table with 3 other people, and he would come up every 10 minutes and ask me some other dumb question. The last time he did this, I had a breakdown. I slammed my hand on the table and was like "Look, I'm trying to get through my own studying here. Maybe you should go find someone else for help." Everyone at my table looked at me like "what a bitch!". Great, I thought. Just great. I'm the bitch. Yea okay.

So I get up, pack my things and decide that maybe I should go use the restroom, splash a little water on my face, get back to equilibrium. I have a favorite restroom on campus, the only one that has gotten an A+ on my inspection checklist. No stalls with cracks where strangers can peep through, regularly cleaned, always smells nice, one room, etc.... I high-tail it over there, turn the knob, and... some girl is on the toilet. Now, I don't know about you, but LOCKING the bathroom door is something that can never just SLIP my mind. It is as automatic as eating and sleeping, not matter how 911-ish the situation is. But clearly not for this anomalous one. She'd like to take the risk and make other people uncomfortable with her stupidity. Great, I thought.

I spent the rest of the evening walking in the rain, wondering how much a private island would run me so that I can live on it alone for the rest of my life. I later wanted to go home and take a relaxing bath. Unfortunately, I already had a moron steam bath for the day.

I Heart Chicken

Some of you may wonder how I garnered the nickname "Juicy" everyone calls me. Ok, not exactly everyone. Just one person, but its a nickname nonetheless and a strange one to boot.

For those east-coasters out there, there is a little darling fast food corporate chain called El Pollo Loco scattered across every major highway in California. I love El Pollo Loco. I call it the ethnic KFC because its menu consists of an array of pseudo-Mexican delights such as rice, pinto beans, and corn. Then don't get me started on the roasted chicken. Absolutely divine. Man, if I could roast a chicken in such a corporate fashion and learned how to employ the techniques of artificial flavorings like that, I'd keep a chicken coop in my backyard and order a lifetime supply of flavor injectors from Pfizer. For real.

So one faithful night, I was on the phone with friend that was hitting up the El Pollo Loco drive through. He goes "hold up, let me order." I'm like "okay..." And then I hear him give his order. "Yea, I'd like the 2 piece chicken meal with rice and beans. Oh yea, and I'd like the chicken JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY... JUICY." He gets back on the phone. "What the hell was that?!," I ask.

He proceeds to explain to me that, and I can't make this shit up, he knew some Ethiopian guy that told him that he used to eat at El Pollo Loco on a daily basis and knew a little secret. Apparently there is a "JUICY" button on all El Pollo Loco cash registers and every time you say it during your order, the cashier presses the button and the cook adds an extra spoonful of juice on top of your chicken. Where this juice comes from, don't know. But it was juice nonetheless and it sounded delicious.

I got all hot and bothered about this new discovery. But I wasn't planning on going back to California any time soon. But I started having dreams about this juicy chicken, and my friends voice kept replaying in my head: "It is the JUICIEST chicken I've ever had in my life." That's it, I thought. I'm either buying a ticket to go visit the folks in LA or I'm straight up driving to the closest shithole city on the California border to get my dibs on it.

Thank god for modern technology because I soon discovered at El Pollo Loco's official website that there was a grand opening of a new one in Vancouver. (No not BC. Washington.) Eh, I thought. Driving to a shithole city across the Oregon border is a lot easier than driving to another shithole city on the California border, which would've required chains and a ski mask in the dead of winter. So I get all dressed in my Sunday's finest, actually crossed state lines with my sight glued towards the horizon, waiting for the El Pollo Loco sign to come up at the edge of my vision. And it did. I was nervous. I was excited. I was hungry.

I walk inside. Decided that I was going to go with the 3 piece chicken meal this time and I go up to the cashier. "Yea, I'd like the #3 with corn and salsa. Thanks. Oh..." I hesitate. It was the moment of truth. "And I want that JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY..." I couldn't stop. It was like word diarrhea coming out of my mouth. And as I kept saying JUICY in succession, the cashier got a more and more horrified look on her face. I finally calmed my mouth to the point that only the corners of my lips were quivering.

"Uhm... I don't know what you're saying." The cashier said. I peer over the buttons on her cash register and was like "Well, I heard you have a 'juicy' button or something." "No. No I don't." I wanted to explain, but it was too late. The only words that I could say were "Sorry, I'm from California."

I am sure that the cashier was close to pushing the hidden panic button they keep at all the registers nowadays, but she took mercy on me and just gave me their regular chicken that day. So now if you're ever walking down the street with me and someone yells out "Yo! Juicy!," no it's not because of my ass or my thighs though I wish it was.

Meera's Got Game!

Ok maybe not. But I'm getting there. Lately I've been trying to find excuses to talk to cute guys for entertainment purposes. I just had an epiphany the other day. I was sitting at a park bench and turned my head and there was a creepy old guy that looked like a walrus that was staring at me. You'd think that he would turn away like any other embarrassed creeper would once they were caught in the act, but he just kept staring straight at me. Odd. But why the hell can't I do the same thing albeit in a more socially acceptable manner!?

So today I took the plunge. I saw a cute guy studying. He looked within my required age range (up to 10 years older or younger). The chair next to him was empty and he was seated in front of an electrical outlet. I shuffled on over to that chair, sat my stuff down, and slowly approached him. "Mind if I plug her in here?" He looks back at me all distraught. "What?!" he said. I look down at my feet. My line wasn't as smooth as I had envisioned it to be. "You know. Plug her in. Her. My laptop." He gives me a look that basically said "Why couldn't you just say laptop."

"Yea sure whatever." He was peeved that I disturbed his concentration. I was heartbroken. Not only was he cute, he was studious too!

White Lies Can Cost You You're Stomach Lining

We've all been there. You say you like something someone does or makes, but you actually don't. You just don't want to break their heart into little pieces with honesty. So you tell a white lie, and then it snowballs and snowballs until in my case, your stomach lining has dissolved into sludge. Let me elaborate.

My roommate decided to cook tonight, which is a rare thing to occur in the house. And he was drunk. As I'm coming downstairs to refresh my glass of green tea, I smell something... interesting. "What are you making?" I ask. "I don't really know" he says. "Well, what did you put in the pot you got going over there?" I take a peak under the lid and god help me if it was the entire US of A because that was soooomee melting pot. I saw chunks of meat, vegetables, and beans.

"Well yea, I got this canned sloppy joe mix. Put in a can of tomato paste. Added a little celery seed and cinnamon and sugar. Saw some vegetables and rice in the fridge so thought I'd throw some of those things in. Then I thought, hey why not a few strawberries too?" Those vegetables he was referring to were nearly 3 weeks old. The rice had been sweltering in the Gladware for longer. I wanted to say something, but I was like whatever, if he eats it at least all the alcohol in his stomach would kill the microbial cesspool that was his meal. "Yummmmm that sounds delicious!." I said with a minor hint of sarcasm. "You're down on having some of this too?," his face lights up. "Yea sure," I say hesitant. I didn't want to anger the drunken beast in my kitchen.

I book it to my room. I did not get around to turning off my lights to fool him into thinking I was asleep before I heard the knock on my door. "Meera meera! I have something for you." He presented his alphabet soup to me on a platter. I was like "Great! Thanks!" I wait for him to leave so I could throw it out in my toilet, but he just stands there beaming with joy. Damn. I pick at it for a few seconds. Then I repeat a "Down the hatch" mantra over and over again and until I take a deep breath, scoop up a chunk of strawberries, canned meat, and month old rice in a spoon and shove it inside my mouth.

"How is it?" he asks with a huge grin on his face.
"Great, just great." LIES!
"It's almost like a sweet compote with meat on it."
"Yea totally." LIES! "I can't believe you came up with something so delicious!" LIES!
"But it's not jelly like. More watery."
"Yea totally, it's like a spicy meat soup with a touch of sweetness." LIES! LIES! LIES!
"Well, theres a huge pot of it downstairs so you can have at it whenever you want."
"Thanks, I'll totally come down in a second."

I proceeded to spit out what I can only characterize it as an English triffle with a sloppy joe filling. I'm worried about what tomorrow is going to bring in the plumbing department.

This whole situation is like the age-old lesson where parents wash their kids' mouths out with soap after they have said some inappropriate words. Looking back on this fateful night, I would say that my initial white lies were in fact, inappropriate, and the lesson was learned with a meaty strawberry lining.

Yea I'm GUJU and I'm Proud

For those of you that don't know the terminology, Guju is short for Gujarati and confers that following fabulous definition on urban dictionary:

Guju
A race of genetic failures that will not spend a penny to give an infant a breath of air. They are known to murder their own family in order hord free items, such as water, dirt or oxygen. Guju refers to a race of individuals that are incapable of using any other ingrediants in their food besides oil and sugar (with the occasional stray onion added). They are known to borrow a knife from an individual and then proceed to plunge it into said individuals back, and then ask to borrow 20 bucks to dry clean said individuals blood off of the guju's clothing.
I.e.: The IRS learned their trade from a Guju.

While I don't agree with the violent tendencies illustrated in this definition, I have become cheap over the years and like to share my money-saving tricks, even if that means I would have to destroy the environment, insult/annoy people, and yes, be a little gross.

One trick for one is at Starbucks. After spending a few weeks bringing my own mug for a coffee pit stop on the way to class every morning, I realized that I was sick and tired of being asked to pay $1 when refills in their own crappy paper cups is only 50 cents. So then instead of lugging my thermo-insulated cup, I started saving their paper cups and stopping in acting like I had already purchased the coffee that morning.

Well, looks like the cup I have been saving for the past 2 weeks had seen better days. It was clearly... old. It was soggy and nearing collapse. But I didn't care. Anything to save 50 cents, and according to urban dictionary, as a guju "I will not spend a penny to give an infant a breath of air" so saving 50 cents is a big damn deal!

So I go up to the register and ask for a "refill" and girl looks at the cup. She proceeds to examine it and looks back at me. Clearly she'd been in the coffee biz for a while since she almost immediately identified that it had been used way more than once. She didn't say anything to me though. After all, I'm brown and I could potentially be hiding a gat in my pant leg. She just got a new cup and gave it to me, but she didn't look to happy about it.

Then she asked me for the 50 cents and I realized that I only had a 50 dollar bill in my wallet. So I hand it to her and she doesn't even touch it. She just looks back at me, and says that she doesn't accept bills larger than 20. "That sucks," I say. "I'd put on my card, but don't you think its stupid to charge 50 cents to a card." She glares back at me. I shine my award-winning smile back at her. She takes the 50 dollar bill and shoves it up her ass. I wanted to throw a few gang signs at her and be like "I'm guju bitch!," but she was white so I doubt she would've understood. Whatever.

Bible Pushers are Annoying and Stupid

I was sitting in the cafeteria and then I spotted them. I could tell who they were from the moment I laid my eyes on them. They wore really boring clothes, and walked from table to table, being rejected in succession. They were... The Bible Pushers. Having had sullied my white coat with tomato juice that morning, I was definitely a target. Such a sight would've even made the Virgin Mary cry out to the heavens. I know I did.

Anyways, they come up to me with this stupid smile on their faces and a Bible at hand. And they go "Would you like to talk with us about Jesis?!"

"Sorry, I don't know who that is. The girl at the next table might." I put on my headphones and started blasting Ludacris and go back to my work.

Turned out the girl next to me did know who this Jesis character was and they had an apparently exciting conversation about him because their voices were louder than Ludacris at full blast! I was a little jealous, but I don't like to talk about other people behind their backs so thought I'd just stick to that moral code for the rest of the day. I'm sure this Jesis guy would appreciate back-biters telling him what's on their mind to his face.

Who needs illegal narcotics when there is sleep deprivation?

Enough said. Good night.

Enslaved By The Bell

In the middle of studying about the lipopolysaccharide receptor recognition of dendritic cells in our immune system, I suddenly had the urge to watch an episode of Saved By The Bell. I needed something exciting and thought that seeing Zack Morris's face one more time would cause a big enough of an adrenaline dump to keep me coasting for the rest of the night. (I would've said A.C. Slater but his hair always scared me.)

So I'm sitting in the school cafeteria, watching the classic episode where Jessie gets addicted to caffeine pills, when some random guy just comes and sits right next to me. In the practically empty cafeteria room. For a minute, I felt sorry for the lad. I mean, he clearly just wanted to watch some classic TV shows on YouTube and I assumed that he didn't even own a laptop, so I let him enjoy the remainder of the episode on my luxurious 13 inch screen.

After the episode was over, trying to maintain my friendliess, I turn to him and am like "Isn't this episode a classic? Jessie is soo annoying!" He just sat there with a blank look on his face. "Yea, I guess," he said. Ok, I thought. "Wasn't it so cool that Zack and Kelly got together at the end?!," trying to take another stab at it. "Yea..." Then he confessed. "Actually I've never even seen this show before."

I don't know what is creepier: randomly sitting inside the bounds of a stranger's comfort zone in an otherwise empty room or not knowing what Saved By The Bell is. For me, the two compounded each other. I packed up my laptop and moved my things across the room, leaving him there wallowing in the pity that is a Zack Morris-free world.

OBSERVATIONS OF THE DAY: Foreigners

There are two observations about international students I made today that I find to be a breakthrough in my most recent sociological research.

Firstly, Japanese girls like to scream. A lot. About what, I don't know, but they do it. I was in the restroom today, and they were chit chatting away in their language and then one of them screamed, then the other followed suit. I'm guessing it had something to their makeup because they were applying it at the time. Goopy mascara maybe? We all leave the restroom together and we all just happened to head out to the cafeteria. It turns out they were meeting their other Japanese girlfriends at a table. The Japanese girlfriends at the table all start screaming in unison when the see the other Japanese girls walking towards them, who screamed soon thereafter. They hugged, sat down, and started scarfing down their tempura. I jotted down the events in my trusty notebook.

Secondly, desis in general enjoy traveling in herds. If you spot one while sitting on the bench, you'll be sure to eventually see another handful trailing behind. Sometimes they walk in a diamond formation, with a leader that charges on and clears up sidewalk space for those following. Other times they are in a staggered 2-by-2 conformation. On rare occasion, I have seem them in more of a circular formation reminescent of a jalebi. The etiologies of such walking patterns continues to be uncharacterized. I will continue to research this and get back to you.

Pita Pit? More like STUPID Pit!

I walked into a Pita Pit recently, a fast food chain whose motto is "Healthy Thinking, Healthy Eating." I saw the sign and thought to myself "Well, I do think. And I do eat. So I guess this is appropriate." I gained entry through the double doors and was welcomed by a vast menu of options. I was a little bewildered by the fact that Pita Pit's corporate office enforces certain rules that keep the company from living up to its motto. One in particular is making all their employees wear an idiot cap emblazoned with their green and red logo.

I glance over the menu and turned to the blondie behind the cash register. (Her locks were peeking through her cap.) I proudly say "I'll have a Baba Ganoush Pita, please." She gives me an inquisitive look, raising an eyebrow. "Do you know what Baba Ganoush EVEN is? It's EGGPLANT, okay. Do you like EGGPLANT?"

OH MY GOD. WHAT A BITCH! First of all, considering that I have been mistaken for reigning from every 3rd world country spanning the globe (and Italy), I would've preferred that she just assumed that I was Arab like everyone else in this god damn city and gave me my damn pita. Second of all, and please excuse my racism, but what the hell is up with white people's aversion to vegetables!? I always grew up watching Full House and other wholesome family shows where in every episode some stupid Troll-like kid is sitting at the dinner table, being forced to eat brussel sprouts and broccoli by their parents and the audience laughs. Excuse me, but I always liked broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, peas, kale, and yes, even EGGPLANT you dumb blonde bitch.

It was the end of the day. I was tired. I just looked back at the idiot cap and was like "Just give me my pita." She was shocked by my bluntness and nervously put it together. I took my pita and left. I will not be going to Pita Pit again.

ATTN: White Coats Cause Racial Blindness

Some men have a cherried up Mustang that they keep polished in their garage, waiting for that one special day to take it out for a spin. Some women have that special pair of stilettos that they only dust off when they really want to wow. Me, I have a white coat that I got for $20 from Kohls that I only wear when I'm feeling like not sitting or leaning on walls and walk around with my hands stretched out to the sides because I don't want to get it dirty. I call this signature move "The Show Stopper," and boy does it impress.

At first, I thought it was The Show Stopper that caused all the stares that I received today. I don't blame people for staring. I'd stare too if I saw someone appear as if they wished they were a bird and wanted to fly away. In other instances, I stopped traffic as I was crossing streets. I guess its some kind of traffic signal?

After my arms got tired, and a becoming a little meek from the attention, I decided to just hold my breath and walk like a normal person. Worst comes to worse, I can always get it dry-cleaned, right? But the stares just kept coming. I was confused. Then people started asking questions... all day. Random men just flocked to me like vultures with sights out for the next kill. Not men I'd normally want to talk to, but men nonetheless. I was riding on the bus on the way home tonight, with probably a big goofy grin on my face because I was recalling something funny, when this Toadstool sat next to me. My grin instantly disappeared.

"Hi my name is Warren." We shook hands. I then went into my backpack and used my antibacterial gel. (I wish that amongst all the crap they taught me in grade school, that they actually could've taught us something useful like not shaking hands with strangers. I'll be sure to teach my kids that.)
"Hi, I'm Meera," I replied, annoyingly.
"What's that?" He drew in closer, with one hand to his ear. "You said Maryanne?" He pretended to lean in to better hear me but instead took a gaping look at my breast region.
"Yea sure. Lets go with that." I'm buttoning up my coat as I'm saying that. Beginning to pack my things. I checked my pockets to make sure he didn't have magical fingers that could've stolen the five bucks in my wallet. (Another thing to teach the kids.) I press the stop button.
"So what's your nationality if I don't mind you asking."
"Indian."
"Oh, I find you stunning. Absolutely stunning..." His voice trailed off as the bus stopped, where I proceeded to get off 15 blocks too early to get away from the breast monger.

As I'm walking these 15 blocks with a 20 lb backpack and a gym bag over my shoulder. A couple of skateboarders passed by, during which time one of them asked me "Yo you Native or somethin'?" "No," I said. I kept walking. A couple blocks later, I pass a bar. All the fart (oops I mean frat) boys outside with their beers almost instantaneously waved and shouted "Hola!" (No surprise there as a group of 10 couldn't possibly make up a complete brain quite yet.) I kept walking.

Granted it was dark, but damn. It must be the coat. The whiteness of it visually confused the onlookers somehow. Maybe it was the light reflecting off of it and into my face or something? No, that couldn't be. It was 9pm. Sun was already set. With the breadth of scientific knowledge I retain in my brain, I still cannot formulate a proper hypothesis. I think I should submit my story to Unsolved Mysteries and have them take a crack at it.

And then he kissed me

My experience tonight reminds me of a medley of old hit songs, most notably Then He Kissed Me by the Crystals & and Her Boyfriends Back by whatever band, but not necessarily in the same context.

So last week I went out to lunch with the soccer player. Yea, I know big mistake, but damn, I was hungry. After yet another hour of hearing him cry about how his ex girlfriend of 9 years had just dumped him one morning and ran away to Asia (can't make this shit up), I try to say my goodbyes because I was tired of hearing his whiney voice screeching through my ear drums. Then he did it. His sushi breath came up close to me and as he attempted to plant one on me, I ducked away and he missed the wall behind me by an inch. "Dude, WHAT are you doing?," I screamed. Not like the situation was awkward enough. People were already staring. I tried to block the embarrassment out by playing the Crystals in my head, but changing the words around to suit the current debacle: "...and then he didn't kiss me..."

Long story short. He was very apologetic, and continued to be annoyingly apologetic through text messages that interrupted every single lecture that I had during the week. On occasion, I'd say something like "Don't worry about it" or "It's cool," but his apologies would just come back with greater frequency. It was a lose-lose situation. So I just stopped replying after a couple of days.

Just as I was about the publish a simple post about this occurrence on the blog, HE WAS BACK. No seriously, he was down the hallway waiting to see the same event as I was planning on going to. Damn. I attempted to cover up my face with the laptop screen fast like a cat, but clearly I'm not a cat because eye contact was made within those microseconds. Damn. I smiled back. Damn. Then he proceeded to turn away and act like he didn't know me. OHHHH HELL NO. That asshole stole a smile from me!

I felt like a used piece of kleenex stuffed in a seat cushion somewhere. Did he just 1. make me listen to his sob stories for the last few months 2. then try to kiss me and crown me as his rebound queen 3. and then finally use me for a smile to boost his own ego? I hadn't felt this helpless since I tried to volunteer at a school for the blind. I had nothing to get back at him for stealing something so precious to me. I also left my light saber at home that day so I couldn't slice him in half with it. I was at an impasse. I know one thing for sure though. Ain't no one, I mean NO ONE ever gonna ROB a smile from me again.

Dating Criteria

Because looking back on my dating history makes me cringe, I've decided to set forth the following criteria to keep me on track with my dating goals. I've also rated the level of my preference of said criteria to give a little leeway for men that need a some tweaking but are almost a perfect 10.

Here it goes.

#1
Acceptable: Watches Cartoon Network for a minimum of 30 minutes a day.
Preferred: Doesn't watch Cartoon Network at all.

#2
Acceptable: Fitting into my size jeans, as long as there is major muffin top action going on.
Preferred: Jeans explosion! If he can even get them on that is.

#3
Acceptable: Similar-sized hands so that hand-holding is a mutual activity.
Preferred: Gorilla hands that have the capacity to manhandle.

#4
Acceptable: Walks at least five minutes a day
Preferred: Walks at least five times a day

#5
Acceptable: Boyish charm
Preferred: Manly charm

Thats all folks. Let me know if you meet someone that fits this description though I must admit that I am very stringent with my new criteria. So much so that I've gotten them tattooed... on my ass.

Failing

I hate professors that "encourage" questions in lecture. Mostly because then all those dumb morons in the class feel like they have the license to ask the most idiotic questions ever and waste class time. I used to hate this phenomenon more, but now with the advent of wireless internet and texting, I can easily be entertained within those 5 grueling minutes of idiotdom by making fun of them via modern communication tools.

Then there are those that appear to be the royal species of the idiot genus. I mean, have you ever sat in class and then that particular idiot stupidly waves his/her hand, hoping to score a few brownies points with the professor by asking a question, and it ends up being a question that basically tells everyone (including the professor) that you are going to fail (but the waving idiot doesn't realize it?). For example, today in Virology class, a class the employs advanced molecular genetics, a woman raises her hand. The professor's voice goes completely flat and dull when he sees it. "Yes, Veronica?" Not like this was a tip off to this Veronica woman already. "What is an operon?" she proudly asks. Ok for non-science people, this may not sound like a no brainer. But imagine sitting in a graduate level public health course and asking what "E coli" is, or taking a political science class and not knowing what a democracy is.

In that moment, I wanted to pour my hot McDonald's coffee over my head so that I could induce some kind of psychological trauma that would make me forget that the question was asked in the first place. Luckily, I restrained myself. All I KNOW is that I'm going to sit as far away from Veronica as possible from now on. I don't want her idiot fumes to infect me with a rare case of stupidity.

The Union of Two Lonely Souls...

There is nothing creepier than being hit on by some loser in the library. And I wasn't even doing my usual Meera shuffle amongst the stacks, trying to muster up the courage to crack open a book or two. I was actually studying, at a table, purposely BY MYSELF when some thuggish monstrosity came up to me, complete with a sideways basketball team-themed hat and a gold chain.

"Yo, whatch ya studyin'" He asked.
"Uhm, physics." I reply and turn my head back to my books. This boy clearly failed at American Sign Language (and English 101) or some shit because he took me as wanting to continue to talk.
"Whatch yoo studyin' here?"
"Don't know. You?"
"Don't know. Got mah Bachelor's though."
"Oh ok, in what?"
"Don't know like Hissstorreee or somethin'. Don't know what to do now."
::Silence::
"Listen if you got any ideas, hit me up sometime. Mah email iz acleo@pdx.edu."
I pretend to write this down and I proceed to read it back to him:
"Ok so its A-C-L-E-O at P-D-X-dot-E-D-U. Correct?"
"Yea das me. See ya later."

::Sigh::. Finally. I got him to go away. Little did he know that this is what I actually wrote in my notebook:


Listen if you're going to prey on girls at the library, at least do a little research about the school so that you can actually appear as a student rather than a deadbeat that hopes to score a little pootie tang under the romantic reading lights. I wished to email that to him, but clearly I wrote his address down wrong.