In Case You Care

While at the movie theater last night, Avery and I saw the "Bourne Ultimatum," a movie I wasn't absolutely thrilled to see. I got bored, started to fall asleep, Avery yelled at me for falling asleep, and I decided it was time to entertain myself by doing what the young'n's called "going down."

The totally interesting part is that he chastised me for giving him head because he could not pay attention to the movie at the same time. Oh yes, the man I have chosen to procreate with happens to go far beyond being a dish of the short bus special. He also just kissed goodbye to ever getting the road head he so desperately yearns for every time we go road tripping.

Recap: My boyfriend didn't want his dick sucked in a movie theater because he was watching a movie.

Trollop

It seems my beloved boyfriend has, contrary to all my beliefs, taken to reading my blog. I don't particularly care because it's not like I have anything to hide, but his silent observation of my life that he has a front row seat to at all times has become not so silent. He came home last night with a smug look on his face, and over our lovely dinner of Mac'n'Cheese he told me how disappointed he was in me.

You see, I've lied to you, sort of. I really haven't done much blogging lately because I really do have nothing to talk about, but the reason I really have nothing to talk about is because I spend every waking moment of my free time glued to the guitar remote that comes with Guitar Hero II. I'm addicted, and it's not pretty. What's worse is that my father, of all people, is insanely awesome at the game, thus making my compulsion to totally rock out that much stronger because I am the only person in my entire family with any musical/artistic ability. I refuse to let a 55 year old engineer take me down in a video game! REFUSE!

I'm sorry I lied. I hope you can understand why I did {think ashamed}.

Jislaaik, I'm Boring

An anonymous person asked if I’m still alive and for the sake of all things dignified, I’ll assume said anonymous person is not the person who ever so pitiably went on a self-declared matchmaking spree on my comments section. Not that I find anything wrong with finding love on the internet, I just think there are better ways to go about such an endeavor and those ways most certainly do not include anonymity nor a blog comment section.

I am alive, I just don’t have anything to talk about outside of the drudgery that comprises day to day, and the network at work has been down therefore curtailing my ability to even access the web. Not to mention, the neighbor we so affectionately regarded because he unknowingly allowed us to use his wireless internet moved, thus leaving Avery and I with absolutely nothing in our apartment. Some people just have no manners, I swear! How could he just up and move like that, without giving us fair warning that our free internet was going bye-bye? Ungrateful sons of bitches!

I will say that Gwen Stefani depresses me more than anything lately. I think most chicks who were hip to No Doubt and her rather awesome ways are looking at her now and thinking “Ew! Ew! Ew!” I mean, not only does she have her own clothing line, her own shoe line, her own fragrance, but she’s also got two solo albums under her belt that make me ears want to reach out and grab a toothpick to end their own pain. If you like it, you like it and that’s your prerogative, but it just makes me want to rewind my life and take her out of the running for being a huge influence on the reason I want to pursue music to begin with.

Nurture This

Last night, after realizing we’re now going on week three of having nothing edible in our apartment other than pet food, Avery and I figured it’d be a good time to re-affirm how broke we are. We were standing in front of the wall-o-yogurt looking at fat content to price ratios when a kid went running full force into our shopping cart and then dropped like a rock. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, with the soundtrack of Avery saying “Daaaayummm” rounding out the experience, and finished with Avery and me doing the kind of laugh that sneaks out when you are desperately attempting to not laugh at all because of the seriousness of the situation. The kids mother wasn’t paying enough attention so as to realize her kid was running on a trajectory ending in our shopping cart, but she was all eyes and ears when she heard us laugh at her fallen, precious, little angel. Naturally, prior to this juncture of the evening, she was doing the stereotypical ignoring of her out of control children with intermittent pleas/yelling for the brats to stop behaving like a wankers.

The kid drops, the kid screams, Avery and I do the don’t-laugh laugh, and Mummy comes running over to the kid, then looks at Avery and me who are very obviously holding back huge smiles and barrels of laughs, scoffs, and proceeds to yell at us for running our shopping cart into her child. Not a smart move. It’s never a good thing to accuse people of your mistakes in public, and it’s really not good to accuse people who are a mélange of emotions none of which are on the side of decent or good, and Avery and I were in foul, foul, foul moods. What do you expect? We had $65.00 to feed ourselves for the next 3 weeks. And people wonder why we’re skinny.

Shitty Mum: “You should watch where you’re going. My God, I think he’s got a concussion.”
Avery: “We weren’t going anywhere, our cart wasn’t moving. We were just standing here when your kid ran into the cart.”
Shitty Mum: “Well you should have moved the cart so he wouldn’t run into it!”
Me: “Well, you should have been watching your kid.”
Shitty Mum: “I have two other kids to watch after too, what are you two looking at?”
Avery: “Your kid drop like a rock to the ground.”
Me: “They aren’t our kids, they aren’t our responsibility.”
Shitty Mum, after giving Avery the evil eye: “Well you could have a little decency, you know? To help others out.”
Me: “We already missed that opportunity, seeing as you procreated.”
Shitty Mum: “You two have a lot of nerve telling me I’m an unfit mother.”
Avery: “Well, if our opinion doesn’t matter, we can call Child Protective Services to verify your mothering abilities.”
Me: “You know what, Avery? Out of our decency and our desire to help others out, we should call them. I’m sure once we tell them she was ignoring her child until he was potentially seriously injured they’ll be very interested.”
Shitty Mum: “You two are crazy.”
Avery, after pulling his cell out and waving it in her face: “It’s a phone call, or you shut up and keep moving. You decide.”

She kept moving.

A Pick Me Up

I think anyone who haphazardly lets the spectacle of VH1 grace their TV screen is sucked in. There’s no method nor reasoning behind it, other than VH1’s programming is that entertaining and is the equivalent of visual crack. Thus, on those rare occasions I can actually take the remote from Avery’s cold lifeless hands, I switch the channel from Sports Center to VH1 and let my brain shut off and the good times roll.

The latest onslaught of visual crack is this show called the “Pick Up Artist.” If you’ve seen it and you’re female you may understand where I’m coming from, if not, I somehow still think you’ll understand where I’m coming from. The premise lies in the fact that there are 8 calignyephobics who are so frustrated and dismayed with their endeavors to attract and engage dollies they have decided to go on national television to let all of TV land know how pathetic they are and seek help from the worlds self-proclaimed best pick up artist: Mystery.

Problem Number One: This guy claims to be a master pick up artist and claims to have the expertise to engage any woman. In theory, I can see how that could be true, especially if every time he and his crew are going to pick up women they do so at a bar and they continually go for the same type of woman, but women aren’t really that simple. You men shake your head, but in reality, women aren’t. And guess what? Men aren’t that simple either. I’m not going to lie, men are much more simple then women, but in the grand scheme of relationships I’d say nothing is simple enough that it can be taught, otherwise, couples therapy wouldn’t be such a crock of shit, right? Not to mention people are individualistic enough that there can’t be a 100% surefire way to hook, line, and sinker them. Where men and women differ most is their objectives as a single person, and this is where the bar scene comes into play. Engaging a single guy at a bar, with initial attraction being a given, is as easy as some sexual innuendo and some allusion to him getting some form of action sometime during the night. If all goes to plan, that guy will be eating out of the bokkie’s palm no problem. Don’t believe me? How often do guys go out of their way to meet up with a group of chicks they’ve talked to sometime during the night, even if only one guy may possibly get laid? How many times has a guy “taken one for the team” so his friend could potentially close the deal? Now switch it: How many times has a group of women done the same? Not nearly as often, and I’m almost positive that no woman would sit idly by and talk to the ugly fat friend just so her friend could chat up the good looking bloke, let alone so she can hook up with him. Why? Because women are inherently fucked up in the head.

Engaging a single woman is damn near impossible. For starters, women always travel in herds that resemble a silent dictatorship in the sense that even if 9 girls are having fun, if girl number 10 wants to leave, the herd will evacuate and follow girl number 10’s instructions. If you want one of us you have to somehow engage all of us, and if one of us wants to go there goes the woman you’ve spent all night talking to and buying drinks for, and, though she may have enjoyed the conversation and though she may think you’re a swell guy, odds are the only thing you’ll have to show for making a connection with her is a higher than normal credit card bill. Also, if the girl does show up where you are, you can bet she’s brought her drama gaggle as well, and that crew, whether consciously or not, has one goal: to cock block you. Most often, it comes down to the fact mentioned above, because while she has you, they have no one and that’s not allowed. Even if there are 10 guys in the group and 10 girls in the group, not all 10 guys will be “attractive” and there’s no way girl number whatever will sit back and take one for the team, like anyone in the group of guys would. Catty bitches that we are, if she’s chatting up a hot bloke and we aren’t, then she won’t be for long. Even if you have the girl all alone talking to you, it’s not 100% she’ll give you her number, it’s not even 100% that she likes you. She may have her eye on a guy across the bar and, being as fucked in the head as we women can be, thinks that by talking to you she’ll get him to talk to her. Hell, she may just be waiting for the other gals she’s there with to come out of the bathroom so they can go somewhere else, and getting a free drink out of you is far better than shelling out $8 for a drink she’ll only drink half of.

Basically, the only surefire way to pick up a girl in any setting, but in particular a bar setting, is to hone in on the girls who are there for the same reason the single guy is there, which is to get physical, PHYSICAL! {pardon the 80’s song reference} You know the girl I’m talking about-the one who’s sloppy drunk, buying shots, and who generally fits into the stereotype for a sorority girl whether she is one or not. She’s the only girl that will willingly talk to a random guy that approaches her without some holier-than-thou who-the-fuck-are-you attitude prefacing the entire interaction, and in general she has nothing but getting some dick on her mind, which is a great thing for that guy, but does it really quantify as picking her up? Does doing the smack-jiggle all night and most likely never seeing her again quantify as picking a woman up? Or is it just getting into drunken debauchery? These 8 sods are characterized as “good guys,” and they all said, without falter, they would like a girlfriend. Sure, practice is practice, but is chatting up a future hook-up really the same as chatting up what could be your future? Arguable, to say the least.

Problem Number Two: The “master pick up artist’s” name is Mystery, and as part of completion of the course, it seems, each guy is assigned an equally poof nickname, like Matador and J-Dog, who happen to be Mystery’s cohorts and helpers on the show. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with their real names, and I’m guessing they proudly wear these monikers for the sole reason it makes them feel cool, but do men really think women are into the nickname thing? What girls do you know call their female friends by a nickname that isn’t something like Becks, for Rebecca? If she does have some nickname that isn’t logically related to her name, then it’s more than likely only guys call her by it. That’s beside the point, though. The point is what women in their right mind would talk to a guy that came up to her and said, “My name is Mystery”? I’d do the quintessential eye roll and attitude-soaked sigh before I’d even flutter an eyelash his way and talk to him, and the same goes for the guy named Matador. J-Dog would get a similar response, but would probably get a giggle somewhere in there and a “You let people call you that? You sure are holding onto your youth, ay?” tossed into the mix. Even if these guys were Versace model gorgeous, the nicknames alone are enough to put an end to their Pick Up Master ways. Not to mention, Mystery dubbed himself so because of the mysterious way he can pick up women, and Matador received his name because he goes in there and has to fight off women like a bullfighter. So, these guys come up to you, utter their laughable appellation, and when you ask where they got such a ridiculous nickname, I’d say their game is over. There’s something not at all desirable about a guy who is so awesome at picking up women it’s a mystery how he does it; therefore, he’s taken this apparent axiom upon himself and has dubbed himself Mystery. Mysteriously, I think the majority of women would walk away.

Problem Number Three: The “pick up artists” are nowhere near Versace Model status. They aren’t even attractive, and even though I think Mystery may very well be a decent looking guy underneath it all, the fact he wears more eyeliner than I do and the fact he insists on making macabre fashion choices are already two strikes against him. In the first episode, Mystery actually went out into the bar to show the poor caligynephobes how it’s done in none other than a pimp hat, complete with fashion goggles, a dew rag, and what appeared to be smoky eyes. I appreciate a guy I can get make-up tips from and dresses so audaciously it’s on the verge of grotesque, but I can only appreciate it if the guy has taken the steps to be forthright enough with himself to come out of the closet and openly embrace his love for all things Cher. If I were one of those 8 guys who apparently needs so much help {and I won’t lie, they are rather shoddy when it comes to chatting up women}, I’d be hard pressed to take advice about picking women up from a guy wearing fashion goggles and eyeliner. Matador makes decent fashion choices, but he’s not attractive and is a bit tubby which is something most women will not readily overlook. As for J-Dog, he’s short, he’s nerdy, and he has two black lines in his hair on each side, which is rather a faux pas unless your Vanilla Ice and it’s still 1983, and his only saving grace is the fact he has a hint of a British accent, which American women find dreamy.

In the end, what these guys need is an ounce of self-confidence and an aura of not giving a shit. That’s the secret to reeling in women, and that appears to be the mystery behind Mystery’s work. I’m not sure what’s groundbreaking or mysterious about it, I always thought that was common knowledge, but if hearing it from a white man in pimp attire on national television is what these caligynephobes need to finally understand that the initial world of dating is 90% how you portray your self and 10% who you are, you better believe I’m going to be sitting on the couch laughing my ass off all along the way.

A-Go-Go Agog

Mid afternoon Monday I received the following voicemail from my mum:

"Manu, I'm not doing well. Can you come over as soon as you get a chance?"

Naturally, I call her back but she doesn't pick up. I call my brothers, none of them have heard anything from Mum, and my father chuckled to himself and said she's fine, but if I'm so concerned to go check on her.

Naturally, I go into panic mode and storm into my boss' office and proclaim that I have a family emergency and must go right away. She said "Of course, Elena, take the rest of the week off," because that bitch refuses to remember my name but that bitch also gave me four paid days of work off. I don't even bother calling Avery. No, I just stop by and trade cars with him because his Audi is much faster than my Honda. I did leave a note on the windshield saying I switched cars with him though. I'm caring.

Now, behind the wheel of an Audi, I proceed to make it from Portland to Gold Beach in a little less than 4 hours. Traditionally, that's a 5-hour drive. I get to my parents house, I immediately run into the house, and there's my mother sitting watching Scrubs on the couch.

Mum: Manu, what are you doing here?
Me: You told me to come over as soon as I can.
Mum: I did? Oh! I remember. Yea, I went to the mall today and something horrible happened, but I'm okay now.
Me: What happened? Did someone hurt you? Were you in an accident or something?
Mum: No, no. Don’t be ridiculous. It was nothing, I’m fine now. I made kunafi, it’s in the fridge, there’s some muhalabiy-yah left too, unless your father ate it.
Me: Are you kidding me? Mum! You didn’t sound fine on the message you left me. So what happened?
Mum: I was trying on pants and it seems I no longer fit into a size 2. I was near tears when I had to ask the woman for a 4. Can you believe it? How fat I've become?

Most women would die to be a size 2 at all, let alone at the age of 53 after being pregnant 4 times and having twins. Dare I say it; my mum is far from most women. For those of you who have asked how to get abs like mine, aside from surfing and kayaking which really are the best ab work outs on the planet, my answer to you is simply genetics. My mother is tiny. Before she got married and had kids, she would wade in a size 0, much as I do now. Number wise, she’s still a waif, but in her mind it’s the same as if she just went from a size 12 to a 14. That’s a shift I think most women would be aghast with.

No excuses though. I’m well aware that my mother is bat shit crazy. Bat shit crazy, though, got me a week off work. Huzzah!

Strange Ficiton

Fact: The more racing stickers you have on your car, the shittier of a driver you are.
Fiction: Women cannot drive a manual transmission with 6'' stilettos on. I do it almost daily.

Fact: If you are of Asian descent odds are you fall on one of two extremes of the driving continuum--absolutely horrid or wannabe fast and the furious yet still fairly horrid.
Fiction: Rice rockets are race cars. A giant fiber glass spoiler does not your car faster make.

Fact: Dressing to flatter your figure will always trump whether or not you are categorically thin.
Fiction: Maternity style flowy shirts will look good on people of all body types. Sorry, it only works if you are pregnant or get fat in such a way that you already resemble being pregnant.

Fact: I cannot talk to Avery on any medium because he will drive me absolutely crazy. This applies to everything that does not involve vocal conversation while in close proximity.
Fiction: I talk funny. Sorry, to me you’re the one who talks funny.

Fact: The best way to entertain a 3 year old is to hand them a pile of dough and food coloring.
Fiction: Your child is special and precious. Your child is special and precious to you, but to the rest of humanity it’s just another child.

Fact: The duck billed platypus is the most amusing participant in the animal kingdom.
Fiction: Seals are cute. Once they reach maturity they aren’t so much cute anymore, as alien like in their appearance.

Fact: Women will not drop a deuce in a public restroom unless there is absolutely no way around it.
Fiction: Women appreciate when a guy is comfortable enough to break wind in front of her. We don’t work like men, we think it’s disgustingly and yearn for the days of yore when you wouldn’t have muttered the phrase “Know what I think?” and then sound your ass horn.

Fact: It’s better to regret doing something than regret not doing something once it’s too late.
Fiction: Money isn’t happiness. I’m not unhappy, but if I had a bit more of a spending budget I’d be a whole lot happier.

Fact: The majority of South Africans are surfers.
Fiction: Every South African is an expert on great white sharks. I know just as much as you know, and the fact I’ve actually had them swimming within 10 meters of me doesn’t make me an expert whatsoever. It just makes me slightly crazy. Stop asking me such strange questions as what decibel level white’s are most attracted to, or I’ll be forced to make it the sound of your voice.

Jaws

For those of you who do not partake in the mighty and awesome wonder that is Shark Week, then not only am I jealous of the fact you can go to sleep before 2am because you aren’t nerdy enough to get sucked into the awesomeness, but you are missing out on a wonderful showcase of my homeland. If there’s one thing we got, it’s sharks. Lots and lots of Great White sharks. And yes, before you ask, I’ve seen a Great White, I know someone who’s been bitten by a Great White while surfing, and I continue to surf the Cape in light of that “attack.” Shit happens, aye? Can’t hate on an animal for doing what it’s intended to do just because you’re not the seal it was hoping for. Jy weet 'n blou hond se kont daarvan* the rules of the ocean , so, can't rightly get pissed at a shark for your invasion of his world and disobeyance of the rules, ay?

So, I’m sitting and watching Great Whites maul random things, listening to peoples attack tales, and the entire time I’m pining for South Af and getting more and more homesick. I’m saving up my vacation time for the inevitable moment Rachel gains another ten pounds and vows to kill my brother for getting her pregnant and am required to offer her sanctuary in my apartment, but mark my words, I will go back to South Af this year if I have to slap a jetpack onto Avery and ride his ass all the way there. I will say “Howzit?” and hear a “Ja, well, no fine” in response, and I won’t get looked at like a total idiot when someone asks me how I’m doing and I say “No fine” instead of “I’m fine.” Momma! I’m coming home!

*roughly translated means “You don’t know the rules of”