The Devil Wears Pigtails: How I Insulted My Mom Via Handmade Greeting Cards And More!

I was out at dinner a couple of months ago with my father, aunt, uncle, and boyfriend, when it dawned on me to write something about my youth. We were sitting around the table, stuffing juicy steak into our faces, when my father decided to recount "episodes" from my childhood. Some of them, albeit hilarious, were not new to me. I distinctly remember how I was moved from preschool to kindergarten because I wouldn't stop biting this one kid named Eugene. I also kept sticking markers in his ears. Why? Because his name was Eugene. I would bite him and color his ears now if I saw him. His name sucked and so did he.

Babby "Hunger Games."

ANYWAY (Sorry, Eugenes of the world), my father then told us all a story of my poor behavior which quickly nestled its way into my heart and became my favorite story ever. Even better than Pan's Labyrinth. I will retell it to my kids as a bedtime story while flipping through the "Cat in the Hat." Sure, they'll wonder what the cat and the grumpy fish have to do with anything, but their reading comprehension will be so poor that they'll just accept what I'm saying to them and move along.

BACK TO THE POINT AGAIN, I was a Girl Scout (and a ballerina too, as most girls are forced to be). Let's be honest, the best parts about being a Girl Scout were the snazzy outfit and the COOKIES (Samoas 4 lyfe, bro). Your parents had to buy a shit-ton in order to appear supportive and make you look like a baller in front of your troupe. But where did those cookies eventually go? That's right, into your face hole. What were we supposed to learn from selling those cookies anyway? Was that supposed to be a lesson in business, sales, and consumerism? Thank God I didn't waste my cookies by setting up tables in front of old-school department stores like Caldor and Bradley's and selling them to strangers like some of my more entrepreneurial counterparts. Instead, I just marched up to my mom and dad and said "BUY THEM. BUY ALL THE COOKIES.  >:(  ," but I digress.

While enjoying his peaceful two hour break from his demon daughter while I was at my weekly Girl Scout meeting, my dad received an unexpected phone call. He got out of his lavender-scented bubble bath, took the cucumber slices off of his eyes, and set down his black truffle caviar to retrieve the phone (this is all speculation but EDUCATED speculation). The voice on the other end was my troupe leader, but she was not her usual, poised self. "What's wrong, Mrs. Troupeface (I don't remember her real name, but this is probably really close)?"

Violin: favorite weapon number two, second only to saliva.

"Mr. Blakin? You have to come and pick up your daughter."

"Why? Is she ok? Is something wrong? Is she hurt?"

"Nothing like that. She's just...she's spitting on all the other Girl Scouts."

"Oh..."


That was probably the moment when my father lost all faith in me as a youngin'. Good thing my parents were divorced and I still had my mom to shower with love in order to garner her good will and trust. The other week, while my mom was cleaning, she found a bunch of handmade cards from me. Here they are, in what I assume to be chronological order:

I love her more than chocholte. This surely won her over.

Note the strategic use of cats to lure her into a false sense of security.

At first glance, this card seems cute and friendly, BUT LOOK AGAIN. Twisters are dangerous and destructive. As depicted by my sketches, they wreck homes and put peoples' lives in danger. This isn't a silly card from a 12 year old, this is a death threat (and could the figure running and screaming "help" be my mother? possibly...possibly...)

My mom's name is Debra and as you can tell, this card means business. She must not have been taking the cards very seriously because this one is both insulting, aesthetically accurate (my mom always matches her socks to her shirt/cardigan numbers and talks to people smothered in feces), and terrifying.

I'm sure most of you spent many a day pondering silently to yourself and your pets, "I wonder if Taylor was this much of a asshole growing up..." The answer is yes, yes I was. So, if there's one thing you can learn from this post, it's that if you have kids or plan on having kids, make sure you give them all the Girl Scout cookies they want and take their natural disaster-related death threats seriously. Speaking of natural disasters: an earthquake AND a hurricane last week? I'm sure Ryan Gosling is on it but in the meantime, I hope everyone is safe and sound.

Food Review: Arctic Zero Ice Cream

Let me start off by saying that I'm sincerely embarrassed by the state that my blog is in BUT, I do have a legitimate excuse. See, the boyfriend (you may know him as Sam "Stupidface" Gimbel) and I have been apartment hunting since the end of July and finally found a place late last week. If you've never apartment-hunted in New York...DON'T. I cannot stress this enough. I would rather spoon with Miley Cyrus or poop only in empty Poland Spring water bottles for an entire year than ever have to deal with New York apartment-hunting again. Sam and I plan on writing a team post about the experience so stay tuned.

Naturally, the past week I have used my free time to scour Craigslist for a replacement roommate in my current apartment and drink all the champagne and eat all the cheeseburgers in celebration of our new place. That, and troll the decor and DIY section of Pinterest and come up with zany ideas for the new place like a table made out of vintage rulers and mason jar chandeliers and shit. Our new place is in Park Slope, Brooklyn and it's majestic. I would give you all of the boring details on what trains are nearby (2, 3, 4, 5, A, C, B, D, G, N, R, Q, AKA ALL OF THEM) and how delicious bagels are also nearby (Bergen Bagels hollaaaaaaaaa), but I don't think that will impress any of you non-New Yorkers. Universally impressing is that there is a Target a stone's throw from our apartment and that we have our own private backyard that looks like this:

The wooden planters are being left for us but the Great Dane, unfortunately,  is not.

But I digress. I also apologize for all the bullshitting, belly-aching, and bragging...and alliteration. I hope you can take a couple paragraphs solely about ice cream as compensation for sifting through my nonsense. I discovered this ice cream on Tumblr, where it said very clearly on the container that it only had 150 calories PER PINT. Being someone who is figure-conscious but also loves to eat horrible food, I was immediately turned-on (not sexually...OK a little bit sexually). I made a stop at Whole Foods one rainy day on my way home from work and picked up some of the ice cream in chocolate and strawberry. I finished them within the next couple of days, GUILT FREE, and bought some more flavors (mint chocolate cookie, coffee, and vanilla maple).

Look at all of the choices!

I must say that the strawberry, vanilla maple, and coffee were by far my favorites, but I'm also not a huge chocolate person. They don't taste like full-fat ice creams and if you expect them to well, then, you're kind of stupid. These ice creams are, again, 150 calories PER PINT. You can eat the whole thing with the same amount of trepidation as you would exercise eating a cucumber wrap. Of course some of the flavor will be lost with the calorie cut, but if you ask me, it's well worth it. The ice cream is a nice, smooth, consistency and the flavors are true to form. In my opinion, the strawberry tastes like strawberry milk and the chocolate tastes like a fudgesicle (and the snozzberries taste like snozzberries). OM NOM NOM. The ingredient list also isn't long and foreboding like some other, more processed, ice creams:

INGREDIENTS: PURIFIED WATER, WHEY PROTEIN CONCENTRATE, ORGANIC CANE SUGAR, CHICORY ROOT, GUAR GUM, XANTHAM GUM, NATURAL FLAVORS, SEA SALT, ORGANIC MONK FRUIT.

Woops! The cat is out of the bag. This ice cream is also diary-free. Lactose intolerant readers just peed their pants with joy across the globe.

But furrealz, this stuff is pretty good. That being said, it's also not the best ice cream I've ever had. That also being said, The only foods I don't like are olives and cilantro (And I'll still eat them anyway, folks. Why? Because they're edible and I'm gross). Taking those facts into account, this ice cream might be disgusting. Who're you going to trust though: your own instincts or me in a face mask eating Arctic Zero?:

The choice is yours...

I'm Fine With Immigrants, As Long As They're White!

Hopefully you made it past the above title and are reading this sentence right now. For the record, I ABSOLUTELY do not feel that way. The sad thing is, a lot of people in the United States do. From talking to a handful of extremely close-minded and ignorant people in my life, the general consensus seems to be "Come on over if your skin is light and you have a sexy accent, but if you're Hispanic, Middle-Eastern, or African then you're not allowed in." Since Mexico is attached to us, and the border can be easily traversed by foot, a lot of the hubbub surrounds Mexican citizens who illegally cross the border. Canada is right above us and also attached to the United States. I can guarantee you that there is a good quantity of illegal Canadians currently residing here. But it's OK right? Because they mostly speak English (albeit North Dakota-English, don't ya knowwwww?), have been wearing flannel long before hipsters have, love bacon, and most importantly, look American. Is Avril Lavigne even a legal citizen? I say it doesn't matter and we should deport her anyway.

Some Canadian humor to lighten up this post. I was born in Montreal and am a dual citizen by the way!

I know not everyone feels this way and that there are kind, open-minded people in this country who want nothing more than to have equality. However, every time I hear someone passionately complaining about foreigners, only to rave about how hip and cool people from Europe and Australia are moments later, a part of my soul dies (it's like destroying one of my horcruxes). White people with sexy accents are foreigners too. In fact, WE'RE ALL FUCKING FOREIGNERS. News flash: unless you're Native American, you're a foreigner. Yea, put that in your pipe and fucking smoke it.

And while I can definitely admit that illegal immigrants can take a huge toll on our country economically, is killing or imprisoning them really a viable solution? I ask this because some people do believe that it is. Here's a recent email I received from my father (who isn't the epitome of rationalization and fairness, as you know):

LET ME SEE IF I GOT THIS RIGHT!!!

IF YOU CROSS THE NORTH KOREAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET 12 YEARS HARD LABOR.
IF YOU CROSS THE IRANIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU ARE DETAINED INDEFINITELY.
IF YOU CROSS THE AFGHAN BORDER ILLEGALLY, YOU GET SHOT.
IF YOU CROSS THE SAUDI ARABIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE JAILED.
IF YOU CROSS THE CHINESE BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU MAY NEVER BE HEARD FROM AGAIN.
IF YOU CROSS THE VENEZUELAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE BRANDED A SPY AND YOUR FATE WILL BE SEALED.
IF YOU CROSS THE CUBAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE THROWN INTO POLITICAL PRISON TO ROT.
IF YOU CROSS THE U.S.BORDERILLEGALLY YOU GET
1 - A JOB,
2 - A DRIVERS LICENSE,
3 - SOCIAL SECURITY CARD,
4 - WELFARE,
5 - FOOD STAMPS,
6 - CREDIT CARDS,
7 - SUBSIDIZED RENT OR A LOAN TO BUY A HOUSE,
8 - FREE EDUCATION,
9 - FREE HEALTH CARE,
10 - A LOBBYIST IN WASHINGTON
11 - BILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF PUBLIC DOCUMENTS PRINTED IN YOUR LANGUAGE
12 - AND THE RIGHT TO CARRY YOUR COUNTRY'S FLAG WHILE YOU PROTEST THAT YOU DON'T GET ENOUGH RESPECT
 
I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE I HAD A FIRM GRASP ON THE SITUATION.


Naturally, I had to write back:

A lot of those countries listed are doing terribly economically and socially. Under normal circumstances, people like you think very poorly of countries like Iran, Afghanistan, and Saudi Arabia. Why would you suddenly want our country to be modeled after them?

Explain...


To which he responded:

Missing the point. Enter LEGALLY. 


And my final retort, with some editing from Sam:

Rather than suggesting all immigrants become legalized for the betterment of our nation, your original email implied that punishments (such as death and lifetime imprisonment) are justifiable when someone is an illegal immigrant and said punishments should be carried out in the U.S.

Love,
T


I tried really hard to maintain my composure near the end. I'm not sure if my anger is still palpable. My last response was originally this:

Your original email didn't imply that at all. It probably would've been better to write/send an email laying out how taking care of illegal immigrants is poorly affecting our nation economically, socially, etc. and also include a sentence stating that for these reasons, immigrants need to become legalized. Your email was bullshit Republican propaganda which implied that said punishments that occur in those other countries are justifiable and should be carried out in the U.S. You really think KILLING people or making them "disappear" is a viable solution for illegal immigration? If so, then I feel sorry for you.

Love,
T


I think cutting down the anger percentage was a good choice on my part. He FWDed it to my two cousins in California as well. I rarely ever speak to them (which I should do more of since the two of them, my dad, and myself are the only people left in the world with our last name). I can only hope they don't feel the same way and don't think that I feel this way either. I'm almost tempted to send a response back to the original sender, the elusive Holly, who I've never even heard of. I won't.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is, why can't we just accept all legal immigrants from all nations? Perhaps we could come up with a more informative legalization movement and an easier way to help those who are living here illegally become legal. I honestly don't think people like my father are against illegal immigrants so much as they are against non-white, non-English-speaking immigrants of all kinds. Again, not everyone feels this way. Not even all right-wing Republicans feel this way. The ugly truth is that there are a lot of people who do believe this. Far too many, in fact (one is too many if you ask me). This sentiment needs to be replaced with love and acceptance. Would any of us be here today if our ancestors or even us, personally, didn't receive love and acceptance in this country at some point? No. We'd probably be illegal immigrants.

Looking Back On Being An Embarrassing Daughter

I first heard the word "testicle" from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. He exclaims "HOLY TESTICLE TUESDAY!" in response to the sexually-ambiguous Einhorn/Finkle entering a room. A couple of days later, after my dad hit a bump while pulling into an Exxon gas station, I shouted "HOLY TESTICLE TUESDAY!" as loud as I could from the passenger seat. I was seven years old.

This was one of about a hundred times that, looking back into my childhood, I have intensely embarrassed myself in front of my parents. Other awesome moments include listening to songs like If You Want It To Be Good Girl (Get Yourself A Bad Boy) by The Backstreet Boys and Give It To You by Jordan Knight alone in the car with my father. If you don't know what's wrong with this, please reference the below lyrics. I have taken the liberty to bold the important parts for you:


If You Want It To Be Good Girl (Get Yourself A Bad Boy
by the Backstreet Boys

If you want it to be wild, gotta know just who to dial baby (And that's me).
If you really like it hot get someone who hits the spot, Honey (oh yes).

Bridge

I found this when I Google-imaged "Backstreet Boys." Jury is still
out on whether or not it's real but either way, I LOVE IT.

And if you wanna get it done then you gotta get the one, the one who's got it goin' on.

Refrain
If you wanna make it last gotta know just who to ask.
Baby's gotta be the best (and that's me).

Chorus
If you want it to be good girl get yourself a... bad boy.
If you really want it good girl get yourself a... bad boy.
Get it like it could be (would be), yeah like it should be.
If you want it to be good girl get yourself a...bad boy.

If you like it innovative better get someone creative, Honey (yes).
And if you want it to be jammin' gotta get somebody slammin', Baby (oh yes).

Now listen:
These are things your mama shouldn't know.
These are things I really wanna show.
These are things I wanna show you how.
So won't you let me show you right now.
Oohh baby...


Give It To You 
by Jordan Knight

You say its been too long since you had some.
You say I turn you on, like a fire that's burning inside.
You think that I'm the one you see in your dreams.
I know what you mean yeah.

Refrain 1
It's creepin' around in your head: me holding you down in my bed.
You don't have to say a word.
I'm convinced you want this.

Chorus
Baby you know I can give it to you.
I can't deny you do it right.
Just let me know and I'll give it to you.
Just show me where, I'll take you there.

"Stingy" huh? Is he referring to how tight he is with money
or how the gonorrhea is making his balls burn.

Baby you know that I'll give it to you.
Your body needs a man like me.
Anything goes when I give it to you.
You know without a doubt, I'll turn you out.
I'll give it to you.
The feeling is fine, giving you everything of mine.

I'm the place to be and soon, you'll see.
I don't care who leads, as long as we move horizontally.
Anyone can make you sweat, but I, can keep you wet.

Refrain 2
It's creepin' around in my head: me holding you down in my bed.
You don't have to say a word.
Just relax, I'll do the work.
I can't wait to give you some.
I'm convinced you need one.

I want to satisfy your every wish and mine, baby.
I know just what you need, (you need) to get you off.
No one could ever do you like I do you right baby.
There's nothing we can't do...
The feeling is fine giving you everything of mine.


Here I am, 12/13 years old, having NO CLUE what any of those lyrics meant, rocking my shit to these songs with my father sitting right next to me, and he is listening to every single, overly sexual innuendo-ed word. When I think about it too much, it feels like my butt is trying to migrate north and eat my lower jaw...whatever that means. It feels like when you accidentally scream "HOLY TESTICLE TUESDAY!" in the car with your father at age seven and you have to sit there and listen, unexpectedly, to your father describe man balls in graphic detail for 30 minutes.

If you haven't noticed yet, my father had primary custody of me so most of these stories involve him. Another awkward habit of mine was always leaving the room when Jack and Sally kissed at the end of The Nightmare Before Christmas. I did this every single time my dad and I watched the movie together and claimed that I just had to use the bathroom. Truth is, I couldn't handle watching anybody kiss in front of my father from ages 3-16, regardless of if they were made entirely out of clay or not. Watching a movie that I had never seen before with my father during those 13 years was always a huge gamble; Would someone kiss someone else? Would the F-bomb be dropped? Would a boob be palmed? I never knew and so, I went to the bathroom very frequently when any sort of heightened emotion was expressed in order to avoid the aforementioned. This might be why I have trouble expressing emotion today, come to think of it, but more on my fragile psyche at a later date!

For now, I'm heading out of work early for July 4th weekend. I NEVER get out of work early. Wrapping up this post in a graceful and polite manner is infinitely less important than my leaving this office right the fuck now to go home and eat my weight in Trader Joe's Edamame Hummus. Peace and Happy Independence Day to all my fellow, stupid Americans! Eat all the cheeseburgers you can fit in your mouth.

Why You Shouldn't Butter a Bagel While Driving

So in between getting my cervix biopsied (yum) and taking a business trip to the hot, steamy, armpit-esque Florida (sorry Floridians, but your state is not hair-friendly with its consistent 99.9% humidity), I haven't been able to update in a while. Sorry about that. I thought I'd mark my return to trolling the bowels of the internet with an anecdote about my childhood. Shall we?

Every summer since I can remember, my mom and I drove up to Quebec, Canada to visit my aunt and uncle (the ones who own the ostrich farm). It takes about nine hours to get there, but with my mom speeding like a maniac and getting at least one ticket each way, it took about seven or eight hours. On one particular trip, when I was about six years old, my mom decided to pack a dozen bagels and a big tub of butter so that we wouldn't have to stop for food and could get to our destination faster (What kind of behavior is that?). Since she was trying to save money on gas, my mom refused to use the AC for as long as she could stand it. Instead, we drove with the windows wide open on the highway so that we didn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the giant tub of butter from melting.

About halfway through our trip, I decided I was starving. My mom, not wanting to pull the car over and therefore "lose time," decided she would butter my bagel (this is not a sexual euphemism) while she drove. She reached into the back to grab the melted tub of butter, which was nestled in a pile of my bedding (we had to bring extra pillows and blankets to my aunt's house). After procuring the tub and stabilizing it on her lap, she reached back again to grab a bagel and a butter knife. Then, without taking her hands off of the wheel and instead, taking her eyes off of the road, my mother proceeded to butter a bagel for me while cruising up the highway.

As you can imagine, within about five seconds, we were skidding off the road at 70+ miles per hour and doing a life-threatening donut on the shoulder of the highway. The centripetal force of the car spinning in tight circles caused the entire contents of the butter tub to be dumped on my face. By the time the car finally stopped spinning, I was hysterically crying, drenched in liquid butter, and resembled a baby lobster at the mercy of Paula Deen.

Some people stopped to help us out, but overall, everything went better than expected. The car had a dent in the door from the sign post we had swerved into, but was otherwise in perfect, working condition. I wouldn't let my mom clean me up with my pillowcases because I didn't want to get them dirty, to which she responded, "Taylor Paige, you are covered. In. Liquid. Butter." The evidence she presented was irrefutable and I let her clean me off with my bedding while weeping full-force.

On the way back home from Canada, we picked up more bagels and butter for the way home. This time, the AC was on full blast and when I whined for a bagel, my mom pulled over to butter it.

Two Truths And A Lie: The Reveal

So since there was only one response to my last post, I'm assuming most of you must've made mental lists with your answers or even jotted them in a notebook at home. There is just no way a game THIS GOOD would go unplayed. So, without further bullshit ado, here are the answers:


1. I shoved a crayon so far up my nose that I had to go to the hospital to get it removed.

TRUE

To my mom's horror, she could not get the crayon out of my nose herself and had to bring me to the emergency room. Accordingly to her, I looked her square in the eyes as I slowly inserted the crayon deep into my nasal cavity. In the E.R., they had to strap me down with harnesses like something out of Girl Interrupted in order for me to stay still. They did manage to extract it though. No word on what color it was.


2. My father sneaked (I always thought the past tense of "sneak" was "snuck" but spell check is telling me NOPE) backstage at Woodstock.

TRUE

My father has always been quite the slippery eel when it comes to outmaneuvering people in order to do something awesome. This time, it was making it backstage at the greatest concert of all time. He noticed someone unloading equipment near the stage, picked up something that wasn't his, and wandered backstage saying he was with the crew. That never works right? Well, it did. It also worked for the friends he was with and all of them watched the entire show from the best seats in the house. That is, until one of his friends cut open his hand and had to get air-lifted by helicopter out of Woodstock.


3. I was born in Brooklyn, New York.

FALSE

My dad was born in Brooklyn, New York. I was born in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. I have dual citizenship yay!


4. I have never had the chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine.

FALSE

I did have the chicken pox vaccine and fell into the .0000001% that develops pneumonia from the vaccine. I also fell into the percentage that develops chicken pox from the vaccine. As the cherry on the itchy sundae, I was also allergic to the pneumonia medication, Biaxin, and broke out in hives everywhere (including my fucking EYELIDS). I don't know how I survived my 12th year on Earth, to be honest. I have a strong memory of thinking I was healthy enough to eat, snarfing down a container of my father's roasted peanuts, and then vomiting extremely fresh, organic peanut butter into the bathtub less than 30 minutes later. Parents are saints.


5. My aunt and uncle used to own an ostrich farm.

TRUE

Yep! They had two breeding couples and would sell the eggs to a nearby restaurant and the shells to jewelry makers. I still have a hollowed-out shell that they gave me on top of my kitchen cabinets. They almost feel like porcelain. I wish I laid eggs. What am I talking about? Anyway, after a particularly harsh winter, one or two or all of the ostriches died and that was the end of that endeavor. I can say I learned three things from my visits with them during that time: ostriches do not stick their head in the ground/sand, if you put your ear up to their necks while they drink you can hear the water going down, and you never want to see ostriches breed up close and in real life. Trust me.


6. I can speak four languages, including English, French, Spanish, and Russian.

FALSE

Yea, right. Like I'm that wordly. I speak English, a bit of French (enough to get me a bathroom, a snack, a drink, and a friend if I were lost in France), and Pig Latin.

 
7. I used to weigh about 200 pounds.

TRUE  

All those cheeseburgers and spoonfuls of Nutella eventually do catch up with you. At 5'7", I topped the scale at 196 pounds my senior year at NYU and my Wii Fit categorized me as right smack on the line between "Overweight" and "Obese," if I remember correctly. Due to my intense fear of the line tipping over into "Obese" and me hitting the 200 pound mark, I decided it was time to lose weight and start being healthier. I started counting my calories every day using one of the many websites available, eating lots of fruits, vegetables, lean meats, and whole wheat carbohydrates, and eliminating snack foods such as french fries, candy, chips, chocolate and basically everything that I loved (don't get me wrong, I did let myself have these things sometimes, but I didn't make it a habit). I also used my Wii Fit for exercise in the beginning until I was in need of more of a challenge. At that point, I switched to running 2-3 miles daily and then when that got that old and it got cold, I switched to Jillian Michaels' 30-day shred. As of right now I weigh 135 pounds. I still eat the same way as I did when I started my "diet" but I don't need to input my calories into a website anymore (it's all tallied up in the ol' noodle). It was a lifestyle change for me, but not everyone would benefit from this. If you're 5'7" and 200 pounds and you feel happy and healthy, then more power to you! I didn't and so I had to make some changes. I still eat like a monster every now and then though.


8. My dad drummed for a Billboard Top 100, Number 2 song.

TRUE

My dad is a recording engineer and when he was sitting in on a session and ~learning the ropes~ from a more experienced engineer, the band's drummer didn't show up. Having played drums for most of his youth and dropped out of college to play drums in a band, my father was able to sit in and play for them on the recording. He's not credited for the track anywhere and we certainly do not get any royalties for it (IF ONLY), but you may know it:

9. I hate all bugs and immediately kill them when I find them in my apartment/personal space.

FALSE

I heart bugs and I never kill them when I find them in my apartment. Usually, I will place a cup or glass on the wall or floor that they're crawling on, slide a piece of paper over the top to trap them in the cup/glass, and release them safely outside.


10. I am half Chinese, a quarter Native American, and a quarter English.

FALSE

I am not one of those nationalities. My heritage can be summed up by the following drink:

White Russian

 
11. I have a scar on my upper thigh from riding my bike too slowly.

TRUE

Unfortunately for Sam, this is why I'm so unwilling to go on whimsical bearded hipster Brooklyn bike rides with him. That, and when my bangs blow back I look exactly like Joe Dirt. How does one get so severely injured from riding too slowly, you ask? Well, first of all, if anyone would, it would be me. Second of all, I just let the bike slowly tip over onto the ground and didn't dismount. I don't know if I was distracted by a Backstreet Boys song or something (I was 10) when it started to tip over, but when I hit the ground, some sharp, evil part of the bike went right into my leg and cut a hole (BONE DEEP) that required ten stitches. Yum.


12. My mom is a blonde republican.

FALSE

My dad is a salt and pepper republican. My mom is a blonde democrat (naturally a brunette democrat). Thank God one of my parents has some political sense.


So, who should win the prize of nothing? I hope everyone had fun learning a bit more about me and the nonsense that is my life. Maybe you already knew me but didn't know any of these things. Now you'll mention it in conversation next time I see you and I'll get all freaked out because you obviously creep me on the internet. Just kidding, I'll play it cool.

Two Truths And A Lie: The Presentation

Everyone knows this game. It's on the list of silly icebreakers that you're forced to participate in when it's your first team meeting at a brand new job or you've just moved into your dorm and the whole floor decides to get together and go ice skating in Central Park where you clutch the hand rail for dear life the entire time and look like Bambi when he walks onto that frozen lake (oddly specific). I've decided to amp it up a bit so that my followers/readers/subscribers/whatever the fuck you guys are called can get to know me on a more intimate level. And what better way to do that than by lying to all of you? So, without further ado, can you guess which of the following facts about me, my family, and my life are true and which are false? The winner gets nothing!

1. I shoved a crayon so far up my nose that I had to go to the hospital to get it removed.

2. My father sneaked (I always thought the past tense of "sneak" was "snuck" but spell check is telling me NOPE) backstage at Woodstock.

3. I was born in Brooklyn, 

New York.

4. I have never had the chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine.

5. My aunt and uncle used to own an ostrich farm.

6. I can speak four languages, including English, French, Spanish, and Russian.

 

7. I used to weigh about 200 pounds.

8. My dad drummed for a Billboard Top 100, Number 2 song.

9. I hate all bugs and immediately kill them when I find them in my apartment/personal space.

10. I am half Chinese, a quarter Native American, and a quarter English.

11. I have a scar on my upper thigh from riding my bike too slowly.

12. My mom is a blonde republican.










So those are the fact (or are they?). Make your guesses now because tomorrow I will be revealing which of these are truths and which are lies. If you know me personally and I have told you one of these things (Sam, Aparna) or you are one of the people I'm talking about (hi, mom!), then keep your trap shut and don't ruin my life.

Why You Should Never Elect My Father For President

My father isn't a bad person. He's had some life struggles and a big chunk of his adolescence involved copious experimentation with a smorgasbord of drugs (I once asked him which drugs he hadn't tried, to which he respond, "Well, I never tried cocaine"). Sometimes I think that pieces of his brain disintegrated entirely somewhere between 1963 and 1978. In my childhood, I knew him as a lonely, bipolar alcoholic who, for obvious reasons, wasn't the best parent. But a lot has changed since I was a kid (such as being prescribed medication and kicking the sauce) and in the past couple of years, we've actually developed a somewhat friendly and stable relationship. Plus, he does one of the best Jerry Lewis impersonations I've ever seen.

Last night I went to dinner with my dad for the first time in a couple of months. We went to my favorite spot, Friend House, and he tried Pad See Ew for the first time in his life. We chatted about our jobs, my roommates (if you're reading this, you guys suck rule), our respective significant others (hi, Sam), and many other things. We even reminisced about that time I tried to add him as my father on Facebook and he rejected it twice and then, when I finally sent him a message asking him why, he responded with "Maybe I'm not." Dark, no? It wasn't until the topic switched over to politics that I was clutching my proverbial pearls.


And here's why:

♥ My dad is a tea-partier. I really don't need to expand on this.
♥ He thinks that the couple who recently decided to raise their children in a gender-free household should be sterilized, sent to jail, and have their kids taken away by Child Protective Services. These were his exact words.
♥ After ranting for a bit about how he believes that the government should have very little involvement in everything, I dared to ask him how he feels about abortion (my question was inspired by this Anthony Weiner video). First, he asked if his response could come with some sort rule set that he feels is morally accurate. I said absolutely not. By now you probably guessed that he did that anyway. My father's view on abortion is that he "is pro-choice as long as stupid girls don't repeatedly use if for birth control while places like Planned Parenthood pay for it free of charge with our tax money." I told him that this doesn't happen as often as he seems to think it does and that any instance of this is a reflection on the government's inability to provide proper sex education and resources to young women (especially in lower-income areas). You will

My dad: looks harmless, right?

see here and here, that no abortion at Planned Parenthood is free or paid for with taxes, but you probably already know that. I shared this with my father too. Unfortunately, it remained unabsorbed.
♥ Next, we decided to delve into gay marriage. What can I say? I needed to know. My dad thinks that committed homosexual couples should have the same rights as committed heterosexual couples but it should not be called "marriage." According to him, this is because "marriage" is defined as being between a man and a woman. I asked him if he meant that his argument was one about preserving sanctity. He said yes. I cited drunk, drive-through weddings in Las Vegas that get annulled the next day (think Britney Spears) as not preserving sanctity but still being legal. He said that that's just "goofing around." I asked him why we can't change the definition of marriage since our society is growing and changing from what it once was when these definitions were set in place. He said that if we change it to include LBGT people, what's next? Bestiality? Pedophilia? I told him that it was disgusting to even compare gay marriage to those things considering they are non-consenting and that by saying gay couples cannot call it "marriage" and cannot use the same terms as straight couples, is saying that they are unequal to straight couples. He said that these rules/definitions were founded upon Judeo-Christian morals and that everyone should respect these religions and follow their guidelines. I brought up the point that many Jewish movements support gay marriage and that other religions do not have to respect or follow any other religion's guidelines since this is a country that is supposed to separate church and state and uphold freedom of religion. He scoffed. For the record, my father isn't even religious.
♥ Finally, as the icing on the cake, he told me that he can't wait to stop working at his job because of how "ghetto" the students are. I would bet my life that what he meant to say was "black."


My co-worker, Scott, suggested that I should take his TV away from him. I concur. That, or I should just permanently block FOX News. I guess it just boggled my mind to actually know someone who believed, in earnest, all of these wackadoodle things I hear spouted from intolerant, right-wing mouths in the media. I wish there was a way to change my dad's mind and believe me, I've really tried to. You can't teach an old dog new tricks though, and 64 is REALLY old in dog years.