Curvy Escapades

I know I say this often, but it merits being repeated over and over again: I have the best friends ever. I think of it as God’s little way of making up for the family he gave me (he played a mean joke on me there).  As I’ve gotten older, I have also noticed that the quality of my friends has improved. In other words my friends rock: they are the best reflections of me.They support me, they love me, and most importantly they always keep me entertained.

Prime example is my girl Eva- a transplant from North Cali, but with an L.A. heart.  Last year her and I had perhaps one of the best stay-cations ever. I mean who else would fight with me over who was going to go around the beach asking for a red solo cup to use for the eco-friendly box of wine she brought, and end the fight by saying “Fine, I’ll go. It’ll give them a chance to check me out”, and then sashay around the beach asking for a cup so she could unwind? Eva, that’s who.Essentially we got tipsy at the beach, marinated at a dodger game, hammered at a bar… and had fun all the way. Why, well because she is the best aspect of me: a loving heart just wandering through life in hopes of finding a good laugh.

Eva and I however, don’t have to be marinated to have fun. Hundred percent sober we have the most amazing conversations. We talk about our glowing smiles and how we look anorexic after one day of dieting. However, give us a little something to sip on and we sing Mexican Regional music at the top of our lungs while deciding to take last minute road trips up north.  Eva is my sister, we cry with each other, laugh with each other, and most importantly always keep each other up. Part of the reason my life is so amazing, is because she is in it. She allows me to be me, and even joins in making sure I’m never short changing myself on fun much less life. She was the second friend I told I was getting a divorce… She responded with ” Awesome, He’s just holding you back, and you’d make a hot single lady anyways”. When I told her I wanted to move to NYC, in spite of not being a fan of the idea, she sat with me and said let’s make the plan to make it happen. She is my support system.

And as I a writer who uses her blog for free therapy (because yes, this bitch continues to be broke), it is important for me to use this space to thank all those in my life that keep me sane (or at least, less crazy). Friends are chosen not given. And for the longest time I used to keep friends who were not the best reflection of me, solely because of this false sense of loyalty I had.  Eva is a reminder that I made the best choice for myself, and that was to cleanse myself of people who did not reciprocate being the amazing person I am… it was only through that act that I could chose people in my life that were worthy to be in my my life.

Eva, I love you girl! I often dream of us as two hot ass viejas sipping on jack and coke on a fancy beach in Mexico… still having fights of who will go and get a red solo cup to be checked out.

Although much blush was used for this picture, all that is apparent to me now is how sun burnt I was. First sun burn ever.

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Dearest Readers,

I want you to know that my fake love affair with the fireman I met over trying to put out the fire I set by leaving my curling iron on… is officially over! Not because he wasn’t totally into me, because he was… it’s because last week I got a ticket while driving in this lovely city and now need a fake love affair with a cop to get me out of this $175 dilemma. But for purposes of ending my romantic fake fairy tale let’s say it ended because we went out on two dates and he failed to propose marriage to me. The fireman was obviously just trying to string me along… homie don’t play that.

So, I met this cop (who honestly, I imagine as a downgrade from the dreamy fireman I had invented in my head… but what-eves  I’ll deal). We met while I was working the corner to earn some extra cash ( life has been rough lately) .  I was working my regular corner, which for the moment has been Suydam  (pronounced Sa-dam by natives) and Knickabocker (pronounced Nic-a-bak-aaaaa.. the R is silent, apparently), when this cop walking his beat (cop talk for avoiding work) came up and asked me what I was doing (code for I’m madly in love with you.) And because you never tell a man everything about yourself on a first date… they’ll think you’re needy, I responded with:

” I’m just taking a walk to clear my head. I just got out of a long tern relationship, where this guy just played with my emotions… and I’m feeling vulnerable……………………I just want to get married………….wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

See, I kept it short, but shared enough to intrigue him while giving me enough time to pull down my pant leg a little so I wouldn’t look like a cheap hooker. (And yes I said pants, in these here parts a turtle neck and pants sans coat is trampy as hell). He then asked me for identification, which was his way of getting all my information for stalking purposes (totally cute, right?). Anyways, he later offered me a ride in his back seat (he must of smelled tramp on me), I of course declined. He then said :”alright, but this better be the last time I see you out here.”

He’s obvi, totally possesive, which is fine with me as long as he hurries up and clears this ticket for me and like Bey says : “put a ring on it”.

I’m totes getting married.

Xoxo,

Not single for long.

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I have always prided myself in being much like the slogan goes: an “Easy, Breezy, Beautiful, Cover Girl ”(I’m sure this is trade marked by Cover Girl… so full credit goes to them, thank you for giving me my life motto, don’t sue me for using it). I go with the flow, do things when I feel like it, the less effort the better, and look drop dead gorgeous in the process.My logic in life planning best exemplifies this life motto (i.e. there is no logic, and especially no planning. There is a lot of doing, however.)

Example A: On Moving Back To The East Coast

In three months, the genius that I am, decided to move across country, again. Let me re-phrase, the broke genius that I am has decided to move 3,000 miles just for the heck of it… again. No planning, no logic, just moving. I decided in December, and here I am in February, packing boxes, biting nails, and counting pennies.

I can’t say this is proof of my immaturity. If anything it is proof of how much I have grown. Last time I packed up and moved across state borders, I did so within 5 hours of making that decision.

Example B: This Is Not The First Time I Have Moved

Yes, one day not too long ago, I woke up in Chicago at 10 am, said “I hate this witch of a city, with their bad taste in baseball and its quirky personality people”. Five hours later, I found that I had packed my eco-friendly(not really) SUV  with my most prized possessions (clothes, shoes, and my paintings). My poor car weighed more than my aunts mini-van packed with 30 of our heavy-set relatives. I then hopped in and drove two and half days to California. Hey, like some people have black-outs during fights… I black-out while packing, it’s like a medical condition or something.

Moving back to the east coast, is perhaps the most thought out thing I have done in a very long time.

Examples C thru F- Not Very Thought-Out Things

1st time moving to New York: 2 weeks. I wanted to go to college far away from my parents, I applied for late admission, got accepted, and fled.

Moving to Chicago: 3 days. I got offered a job, I took it, and moved my most worldly possessions (clothes and shoes) in three days.

Getting married: 30 minutes after being asked. He asked, I said yes, we eloped right there and then. And no, it’s not romantic when you elope in the middle of Indiana. That my friends, is just hill-billy-ish.

All trips/ adventures I have embarked on in the past 15 years have been thought of, planned, and executed in less than two weeks. If you need proof of this, I can show you my empty savings account.

While being easy, breezy, beautiful, and a cover girl have gotten me many splendid experiences; they have also caused me a lot of over-dramatic grierf (i.e. getting married to someone I barely knew that couldn’t appreciate my beauty and humor as much as I did). And as I’ve aged, I notice that I stress more and handle it with less grace. Perhaps, it’s been the scars left from previous ill-thought-out choices, that have me more worried this time around. Perhaps, it’s the scars that are making the wrinkles from my “wtf am I doing” frown more noticeable. Perhaps, it’s the combination of scars and wrinkles that are making me feel so bleh during this moving process.

Thing is, I am familiar with stress. As easy and breezy as I try to be; I’m a Virgo  I have my moments. Feeling that I look horrid, however, is not something I know. Perhaps when I was a young schmuck, way before I knew the magnitude of my beauty, I knew what that felt like. But not anymore.

The last time I remember relating to feeling ugly, was when I was 12. Not only did I feel ugly, but I also doubted everything about myself. I doubted being smart, I doubted being liked much less loved, I doubted the possibility I could be anything in this world, that I could do anything. I was filled with doubt.

And to an extent, that’s how I felt this past week. Filled with doubt. Perhaps that’s why I don’t plan anything over a two-week span; it opens up the doors to doubt. I doesn’t allow me to be breezy which is essential for the Cover Girl part of my life motto.

The doubt was so bad, I was contemplating becoming a cutter with blunt butter knives(don’t worry, I would never harm this body… I’m just dramatic).I was especially fake suicidal, after I caught myself frowning. I was looking at craigslist’s as a viable search engine for a new place. Big mistake. (Just FYI cozy=small as hell, vintage charm = old as hell, charming neighborhood= weird as hell, and great price= you can’t afford all of this charm). The frown was so bad, I believed it would leave a permanent wrinkle.

The mere thought of having a deep wrinkle knocked that doubt shit right out of me. Nothing in this world, and I mean nothing, is worth getting a deep wrinkle over.

Thank you potential wrinkles for scaring some sense into me.

Facts are: The choice is made, actions have been taken to support choice, and unless I want to look like a motherfreakin prune, I better slap on a blank- botox-like face and make this move as easy and breezy as possible. I have always succeeded in anything that I have wanted, I shouldn’t doubt that my move back to New York will be anything less than a success. Moving back, is what I want, it is where I am meant to be, and I will ensure I get there sans wrinkles.

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I’m not sure if I have ever shared with you that I LOVE the zoo. Something about watching animals from far away lands in my back yard that makes me feel like a small itty bitty person. And we all know that I’m always up for feeling itty bitty.… especially when I don’t have to grease myself up, roll on a girdle, and run the risk of suffocation by tummy taming contraption.  There used to be a time in my life where I would stroll around the zoo for hours on end. At least once a week I’d make fun of the camels for having camel toes, the hippos for having disproportional tiny heads… kind of like me, and the sea horses for being somewhat of booty-do’s. Lately, however, due to being an adult and spending my time responsibly in a mall wasting my life savings by working, there hasn’t been much zoo time.

So instead of spending my time trolling the zoo hating on the giraffes for having slender necks, I have found that I have been spending my time assigning zoo animal names to people. It’s a great way to chuckle to yourself  and get an hour long ab workout…. Because yes, I will laugh for that long. And before you get on me and start calling me mean or whatever….. I need you to know that: I don’t really care. To be honest it’s really my way of paying tribute to everyone’s spirit animal (like how I got all spiritual there?)

Anyways, this post was just to inform you I am currently watching The Hairy Horse Show and her gallery of Hyenas ( aka the Wendy Williams Show… love her!Hayyyy you doing?)

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I am often asked where I get my crazy sense of humor from. Truth is I am not sure, but I can assure you it’s not from the little a-holes in the following picture.

From left to right: A-Hole #1, Poor Little Cyn, Adult A-hole, A-hole #2, and A-hole #3

But let’s do a little family inventory and see if we can trace back my crazy.

Father’s Line of Crazy Heritage:

My Father (who prefers to be called Papi Chulo): does nothing but talk about his amazing hair any chance he gets and blatantly treats his cat better than his daughters (said cat currently occupies my old room, or as he calls it ” El Cuarto de Chuchi” I hate that cat).

90 yr old Aunt: openly talks about what she would do to President Obama to make him feel like a man (wink wink wink) to her teen age grandchildren, and calls it sex education.

My Grandmother (RIP) : version of sex education was as “a lady should always cover her tortilla so it doesn’t get stale.” She was on her 8th marriage when she gave me that sage advice. She also refused to take pictures, saying she didn’t want the FBI to have a picture of her new face.

My Uncle: loves to drive… even though he is blind. When confronted with his dangerous habit, he replies with “Hey no worries, people see me coming and they pull to the side”. This brother is also the same brother who is building my dad a house in Mexico…. they call it the Leaning Tower del Pueblo.

Mother’s Line of Crazy Heritage:

Aunt #1: claims her disability is due to wearing cheap shoes, in other words she threw a tantrum until her doctor signed a paper stating that she could only wear Louboutins.

Aunt #2:  once claimed she lost weight due to a virus. Apparently code words for “I had lipo and a face lift”.

My Mommy Dearest: her famous line is ” You have enough shit to cry to Oprah about yet? Because I’m ready to move on to material for your memoir”

Yea, I don’t see where the funny comes from. May be my real mommy can clue me in on where my funny bone comes from.

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