Will Work for Cheese (Among other things)

Well for those of you who don’t know, I’ve been back on the grind in search of another job. And like a good majority of Americans right now, I am BROKE. I’m not even Bobby Brown/MC Hammer broke, I’m Tara Reid/random homeless person broke.

Life is becoming a little less luxurious everyday.

I had to cancel my gym membership, but at the same time I can’t afford to buy food. So lately I just jog around the block and fuck my boyfriend for exercise. Then I eat canned tuna and drink lots of tap water to stay healthy.

I can’t afford to go out and get shit-faced either, so technically I’m in rehab. Therefore, I am still doing ok on the physical level. Mentally, I’m unstable. Instead of cable, I’ve been reading books. With the economy the way that it is, some of us have no choice but to learn how to adjust.

I heard a comedian mention the other night, "When was the last time we've heard Obama say 'Yes We Can!'"? It's like he got into office and started looking over some paperwork, (the big fat binder labeled, "Shit Gone Wrong" next to the Manila folder entitled, "We Fucked Up"), now he's like, "Shit, um maybe we might be able to do some shit, kind of...if we're lucky, we'll see. I'll get back to you."

Most people grew up with some sort of plan in mind. Usually it’s something substantial like go to college, get a job, get married, have some kids, retire and die. I never really had that plan or any other plan for that matter. My mom did. Her plan for me was to make sure that I went to college, which I did. Now I’m fucked, because I didn’t really have a plan for what to do after college.

I mean it was inevitable that I would eventually have to get a “real” job. One that I didn’t have to wear a hot pink mini, cup balls in my hand or contributed to my drinking problem. However, job-hunting (again and for the record I wasn't fired) during this whole economic crisis thingy has me straight struggling.

I have a job interview on Monday. Let.Us.Pray.

Youtube + lots of free time = a new way to enjoy dance music ...

Love will choke you and throw you down some stairs if you let it...

I have a friend from high school, who has been dating her boyfriend since high school. A few years ago they packed up and he moved her from sunny California to Oregon, closer to his family. Nine years together and I wouldn’t necessarily call him abusive, but when asked when they’re getting married he says things like, “I’m never going to marry that bitch” or “Ha, yeah right.”

Not understanding why the person she had devoted so my of her life to over the years thought so negatively of her, my friend did what any female would do, she complained.

“If you don’t like it,” he said. “Then why don’t you just leave?”

Fed up, my friend said, “Ok maybe I just will.”

“If you try and leave me,” he threatened later, “I will slash all four of your tires.”

So what did my friend do? She cleaned. She washed the dishes, fed the animals, did the laundry and scrubbed the floors. The next morning she waved him good-bye and as soon as he drove off to work, she threw all of her clean clothes into her car and drove back to Cali.

When she told me the story about a month ago, I was proud of her. However, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. She would have to stay strong.

The good news is that she’s only 24, so she still has plenty of time to start her life over…

I called her this weekend to see how she was doing. I was in town so I wanted to stop by her mom’s house for a visit. Her response was, “I’m actually on my way back to Oregon, we are going to try and work things out.”

I wasn’t surprised about the news, but I wasn’t happy.

The rumor is that Rihanna and Chris Brown are back together and everyone is angry that Rihanna went back to him.

""All the abusive men are celebrating," Highroller33138 wrote in a posting on the mtv.com Web site. "It sets a terrible example for women everywhere. Rihanna really disappointed me.""

I mean, what exactly did people expect? Shit, look how long it took before Tina left Ike.

Not to be the cynic of all people who see their glass half empty, but I expected it from my friend and I expected it from Rihanna. Most victims return to their abusers for seconds and thirds.

Eve said best, “Love is blind.”

The only thing that really bugs me out of the whole Chris Brown, Rihanna case is that these types of situations happen all the time to people everywhere and now its suddenly an issue. Ugh. Kind of makes me want to punch someone in the face.

Would you still hit it, again?

Well I came over to my boyfriend’s house the other day, (yes I have a boyfriend) and he nonchalantly had a porno playing on the TV. It wasn’t a plastic titty DVD with bleach blondes, big fake boobies and airbrushed booty. It was one of those real raunchy pornos where the viewer can see the chick’s razor bumps on her cooch during the penetration close-ups.

“Why are you watching a porno right now,” I asked. “And why this nasty one?”

“Oh my boy let me borrow it, I was just checking it out,” he replied. “I’m not really paying attention.”

Oh.

I was silent for a moment as I checked out the porn. Some perverted looking white guy was eating out this fat black chick’s pussi.

At least it was embracing biracial relationships.

“I’m sorry, but that chick is gross,” I said.

“Why,” he asked.

I don’t know, she just is,” I said, making a face, before asking the inevitable, “Would you have sex with her?”

“Ummmm, yes,” he said turning his head from left to right looking at her intently. “You will be surprised to find out, my dear, who a man will have sex with.”

Then he went on to tell me that given the opportunity he would have sex with Omarosa, Whoopi Goldberg, Star Jones (before and after surgery) and Paris Hilton. Thus opening the door to one of my most infamous debates, would you still hit it???

Usually for the fellas, but ladies feel free to toss in your oh so necessary two cents, because you know we always do…

Fellas, would you have sex with Oprah if she was broke? Doesn’t matter bigger or smaller, without money is Oprah still f*ckable?

What about Octo-pussi Nadya Suleman? Sure she might have a gaping vagina, jumbo sized stretch marks, be able to make her nipples hard with her knees and even attempt to pull off the condom during sex, but she looks like she can give a mean blow job...

And if the rumors are true and Rihanna did give Chris Brown herpes or the clap, does her sex appeal override the possibility of attracting a life long std???

It's my party, I'll get motorboated if I want to!

I celebrated my 25th with a ladies night out. It's impossible to feel old when you still have girlfriends who will stick their face in your cleavage...

Rub on your cleavage...

Blow on your cleavage...


Take cheap porno flicks with you...

or feel on your booty...



Thanks bitches for a wonderful birthday!!!

Reason #385 Why I'm Going to Hell

I studied Spanish in school for about seven or eight years. I can understand it enough to get at least the gist of what someone is saying, but that’s pretty much it. It’s sad really. And I don’t want to offend anyone with this post, because I love the language and culture.

However, we just weren’t meant to be.

After working in the restaurant industry for six years and then living with my roommate who is Mexican for three years, I honestly know more Spanish slang than whatever I learned in school. However, I still can only speak Spanish as well as that Russian chick on For The Love of Ray J show speaks English.

I’m with Ray J on that one, she’s hot, but wtf is she saying? I guess on VH1 it really doesn’t matter does it?

I digress.

For someone who is fluent, having a conversation with me is probably like talking to a retard. I wonder if Hispanics really do think I’m retarded? In fact let me clear that up now.

No estoy retardada. En serio.

Anyway, I still like using my battered Spanish from time to time. It’s fun and most of the time people humor me anyway. They act impressed that I can say, “hi, how are you?” or “those jeans make your ass look fat”, in Spanish.

Unfortunately, when I get drunk and I’m around other people who speak Spanish it’s all bad, because I tend to try and get into the conversation too. And if alcohol isn’t enough to help me make an ass out of myself already…Remember the night that I puked in my hair?

Well that was the night that I thought I would become a Spanish speaking intellectual. Uh huh. My roomie and her friend came to pick me up that night. They had also been out partying and decided to stop for some food on the way home.

They stopped at this Mexican restaurant called, Tacos al Carbon that is open until 3 a.m. Kind of like what Jack in the Box is for white people. I decided to stay in the car, but after I puked (not in the car), I felt better and ended up joining them inside.

I remember it being crowded and I probably was the only biracial, non-Hispanic person in there. We all sat at a table, my roomie and about five of her friends’, guys and girls. To the far left of us sat a table of about six Hispanic guys all decked out in black and tan cowboy hats, western buttoned up shirts, tight jeans, the works.

My roomie ordered me some nachos to try and sober me up. Surprisingly even after just recently vomiting through my nose, I was starving. Eventually, in between bites of chips, cheese and chicken, I noticed one of the guys at the other table to the far left motioning for me to come over. Yeah right. I had beans and cheese dribbling down my chin, how was I even going to be able to walk? And how the hell did he find me attractive?

So I decided to mess with him. I started yelling across to his table, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”

The whole table I was sitting with and his fell out laughing. I looked around and was like yeah, yeah. I’m pretty badass. My Spanish is muy bien. So I started up again, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”

You see in my mind, I thought that meant, “do you have paper?” Roughly similar to saying, “Are you ballin’?” Like if you want to talk to me you have to have paper, money, cheddar, etc.

Right? Wrong.

I guess what I was really asking the guy was, “Do you have your papers?” Like as in, are you even legal in the United States of America? Like as in I’m a total drunk jackass.

Needless to say he left me alone after that.

Suddenly, I was in the champagne room...

As I’ve mentioned before, I frequent strip clubs because they are the easiest place to get free drinks. See most guys in the joint think that if they liquor up the girls who don’t work there, they might get lucky and catch a last minute amateur show. It’s usually a hit or miss. You never know. I have seen it happen, but it’s never happened to me. Honest. (See my halo :0).

The last time I went to a strip joint, I bumped into a friend of a friend. I love the male reaction when I bump into them at strip clubs. First there is the initial reaction of, “oh sh*t, I’m caught.” Then second there is the, “wait, what are you doing in here, you’re a girl? And last but not least, they second guess, “you don’t work here, do you?”

No I don’t work here, just enjoying my tax-free beverage thank you very much.

Anyway, I bumped into this guy who is a friend of a friend and apparently he got into his head me watching ass and titties was some sort of pastime. So he went ahead and called me up Friday night inviting me to a “gentlemen’s party” at the Hilton.

“Oh is someone getting married or something,” I asked him.

“No,” he said. “I’m just throwing a party, invite only.”

Cool. I'm special. I'm V.I.P. Sounds good.

In my mind I was naïve enough to think that maybe he was just throwing one of those parties where it was a good place to network, but half dressed women were part of the mingling crowd. No worries, I can handle that.

Or so I thought…

I get up to the 18th floor where he had rented a Suite. When he pushed open the door, it was like the scene from The Players Club when Eboney got beat up and raped, except with a younger crowd. Intrigued, I decided to stay. What girl doesn’t want to put herself into that situation?

There was a portable stripper pole in the center of the room that three dudes were desperately trying to readjust. Unfortunately from the look of the thing, one swing and any lucky lady might learn how to fly that night.

There was a bar, but it was old school house party style. Audaciously drinks were $10. I was too anxious to see how the night was going to play out to even worry about getting a drink.

I was also a little embarrassed, because I had invited a new girlfriend of mine to go with me. I guess I felt guilty because I haven't really broken her into the situations I get myself into, yet. Although, she seemed just as eager as me to find out what was going to happen next.

Every ten minutes or so, a handful of guys would saunter through the door of the Suite eagerly awaiting the festivities.The girls were hidden in a room adjacent to the Suite, digging through suitcases full of plastic high heels, bikini tops and bottoms and other bright colored accessories.

Eventually, the girls started filing out into the Suite room. They looked nothing like the Rock of Love/Flavor of Love girls. It was more like Phat Booty Hoes meets BET Uncut. Soon that didn't even matter, because it all became a blur of ass, titties, dollar bills and private lap dances. Rap music blaring in the background.

Wait, what the...how the...hold it. Am I in the champagne room? Hmmm, it's different than I imagined. This was definitely not the same experience as a strip club.

Why in the hell would somebody think that I would enjoy a party like this? I go to strip clubs to get free drinks not lap dances. Even if I did get a lap dance, this seemed like the type of crowd that was paying for a boner. Praying for a blowjob.

Um, I don't have a penis. I might have been sold if it was open bar. Otherwise, I have ass and titties, why would I pay to see someone else’s that are not going to turn me on because, I, like, dick?

The icing on the cake was when one of the girls turned to me and informed me that some of the girls were in fact performing in front of family members. It was then that I decided to make my exit. Parties like that should only be seen on VH1...

MsP and The City

(This is a long post, so grab a cocktail and stay awhile. My posts have been few and far between anyway, so you have time to get drunk and enjoy ;p). MsP

I was sober on New Year’s Eve.

It wasn’t intentional, believe me, I did everything possible to try and get drunk. I brought my flask to the party I was attending, but couldn’t get it passed security. I dressed like a skank, but so was every other heffa in there. I did the Tyra walk with Oprah’s enthusiasm, but almost ate sh*t in my hooker heels.

Still sober by 11:50 p.m., I gave up and took it as a sign of how I should embrace the New Year.

And as I drove home that night passing up at least five different cars being pulled over on the side of the freeway, for once I was proud of my sobriety. There was a new year ahead of me full of opportunity and enterprise. It was time to start thinking positive and about my future.

In other words, I’m getting too old for this debauchery sh*t and if I don’t get my ass together in the next couple of years, I’m going to be living alone watching Lifetime with my cats or my AA sponsor. Tragic.

So in order to get my ass in gear, I started applying for jobs in my related field. No more hooking or doing other odd jobs with midgets, it was time for the real deal. Not too soon after applying (surprisingly) I landed an interview, in the city, for a fashion website. Perfect.

I woke up for my interview and was tempted to cancel. Honestly, why do people get up so early in the morning?

After getting ready I typed the interview location into my TomTom and headed out. A 45-minute drive later I found the street I needed to be on, located the cheapest parking garage and parked. I figured I could just walk the rest of the way. I still had twenty minutes to get to the interview.

Unfortunately, when I got to the main street the interview was on and I checked the numbers I was in the 1300s and I needed to be in the 600s.

I thought to myself, “Once I figure out in which direction I’m headed, I should be fine.”

I swooped into a little clothing shop and the lady told me I was headed in the right direction, however, she also told me that I might want to catch the bus. I told her thanks, but I was convinced I could walk it. I still had ten minutes to spare. I continued walking in my four-inch stilettos, convincing myself to remain calm and positive.

Another block down I began to realize that I was a little over dressed for downtown in the daytime. Other women had on flats, over sized sweatshirts and dragged mini luggage-on-wheels behind them. I had on skinny jeans, four-inch heels and matching purse. I could feel the male species eyes upon me.

I was now officially a walking rack-of-lamb, fresh off the grill, ready to be served with A1 and mash potatos. And that's when the inevitable happened. Not because I’m so unbelievably, ridiculously good looking, but because I was walking around downtown, looking lost, dressed like a slut.

As I walked past this rent-your-own-cheap-ass-furniture joint, there was a group of guys out in front staring, taunting and whispering to me as I walked by. Whatever. I had other things on my mind aside from sexual harassment. Like, I was going to be late and for some reason I couldn’t feel my big toe. Eventually I realized that one of the guys from in front of the store had fallen into stride with me.

“Hey there beautiful, can I talk to you for a minute?”

I looked to my left to discover a young man with his pants hanging somewhere between the lower half of his ass and his knees, a gold grill and some Sisqo colored hair. Really!? I’m not one to judge, but really?

“I’m sorry, not right now,” I said. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“Me too,” he replied. “See I’m walking with you, we can both be in a hurry.”

“Um not right now,” I said. “I really got somewhere I got to be.”

“Well then we both got somewhere to be,” he responded.

I sighed heavily, he was a persistent little f*cker.

“Sure whatever,” I said slightly under my breath. Stupid four-inch heels, I could just not walk fast enough!

“Can I get your number?” he asked.

“No I’m sorry, look I really have to get going,” I said.

“Well fine then, BITCH!” he said.

Yeah, he said it.

Suddenly not only was I late, but I was also a bitch.

And to prove it, he hawked the fattest loogie and blew it in my direction. Lucky for me with a little quick maneuvering I was able to dodge the wad. WTF!?

Did he really just spit at me?

“You’re lucky I didn’t spit on you bitch,” I heard his voice echo in the background verifying my lingering thoughts. And with that, I stuck my hand in the air and hailed a cab.

Five minutes later I arrived five minutes late to my interview. (Depending on whose watch you’re looking at). My hair was in my face, I was a little out of breath and sweaty. However, on the bright side of things I didn’t get spit on and it is still only just the beginning of 2009. I could do nothing but laugh at my little mini adventure.

So I took a deep breath, put a smile on my face and stepped off the elevator…