Bitch bettah have my money!

I was invited to a baby shower, by phone of course since I don't merit an actual hand-delivered or mailed invitation, for this Saturday. I was informed that I needed to look nice and to please fix my nap (hair - for those that don't understand ghetto lingo).

Since I'm a total Walmart addict, where I can't leave the damn place under $200, I decided to head on to the ritzy side of the tracks and pop into Sears to see what kind of trendy fat-people clothes they might have. Yeah, I'm fat. And?

Walking into Sears, I was assaulted by the Hope-You-Have-A-MasterCard-scent. Yes, I know this is just Sears, but damn does it smell like money when you walk inside. I grew up shopping at Pic'N'Save and K-Mart so to go to the mall and walk into a store like this one is like having a money-tree in the backyard. Last thing I bought of value at Sears was a state of the art Kenmore 6-burner stovetop at $599. Shiny black. I was in 7th heaven! I sho do luvs ta cook, yo.

The one bad thing about being fat is the fact that there isn't much of the newest trends you can wear and look good in unless you're strapped down with ductape and major spandex, or you have enough money to splurge on a plus-size designer in Rodeo Drive. I'm probably going to get my ass kicked for saying this, but...

FAT IS FAT! No matter how good your self-esteem is, and I have a bit of it, you do not look good in too tight or too small clothing. Cover yourself up! It does not look good. It doesn't. No.

Now where was I? Oh yeah...

Perusing the one corner of the plus-sized selection at Sears, I found everything on clearance. Yes, one corner. Small corner. Six clothing partitions in one corner. I guess 90% of the shoppers are all petite or a size 6.

I found the most amazing top. In red, gold and green!
Red, gold and green! Red, gold and green! Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon! Oops. Sorry, had an 80's moment there. It was perfect. Looked exactly like the one shown here but in red, gold and green. I'm being redundant, right? Whatever.

Then I looked at the price tag. Beverly Drive Women's Plus Butterfly Print Tee with Shirred Sides $44.00.

You gotta be kidding me. Freakin' printed-on tee-shirt at $44-effen-bucks?! Seriously?! Serio?! ::sighs:: I eat freakin' bowls upon bowls of ramen noodles at the end of every month because of my responsibilities, and I'm supposed to pay $44 for a damn t-shirt because my sister wants me to look nice?! Hell no.

I love you, but I don't like you enough to spend that type of money to make you look good in front of people I don't know and don't care to.

Why did I want this shirt specifically? Because it reminded me of the butterfly tattoos the Lords of Underworld have in the Gena Showalter book series. Don't ask. I've been reading a lot lately. A LOT.

Back to searching for a nice top.

Mr. No-Captain-No had accompanied me on this trip and handed me the shirt you see here after five minutes of diving into a heap of clothing in a bin. He stated it was slimming because of the color, that it would fit me well, and it also reminded him of Mexico. My hand started itching.

Exactly when did it become illegal to hit kids?

The Laura Scott Women's Plus Embroidered Peasant Top with a price tag of $14.99.

He was right. Like always. Wonder where he learned that from. The color is slimming, It fit really well. And yeah, it was very folkloric. Too bad they didn't have a skirt to match. I bought it anyways. Also bought hair dye for the skunk streak and wax for the 'stache 'cuz I gotta looks nice, yo!

On our way back home, I decided to stop by my parental's to see if there was any help needed for the festivities tomorrow. Such a bad idea.

On arrival, I couldn't find any parking for a block. There were vehicles for a party planner, decorator, house cleaning and pet control. Uh, what?! This is a baby shower, right? Right?! Of course not. This is for the Academy Awards in the suburbs.

I slowly walked into the house trying hard to not trip over boxes of decorations, door prizes, booze, food stuffs, and people running amok as if the INS had just shown up. It blew my mind.

I happened upon my pops in the garage as he was storing some items and asked him if any help was needed for the baby shower. He gave a look of complete anger and said in some major Mexicanese that translates into Americanese in the simplest terms "Fuck. No." and for me to look on the dining room table at the paperwork.

So I did. I really shouldn't have.

$3,017.02 spent for a baby shower. A baby shower.

I had to borrow money to buy a blouse, hair dye, wax, get gas for my truck, and buy a present, from Mr. Rooney, plus money for my damn Friday buffet tradition, from my mother. And my sister's baby shower is $3,017.02?! All paid by her.

I sound jealous, don't I? I probably am. I most definitely am.

It must be nice to not have a care in the world and take money that doesn't belong to you then get bailed out by a sibling which you then ruin all their finances because of your stupidity and never pay them back. Must be nice to get your hair extensions did and spa treatments once a week. To go out to party at a drop of a hat, to travel internationally with a disregard to house payments and bills, to verbally abuse people to get your way, to wipe your ass with your loved ones in talking about them to others about how bad they treat you and all the bad things they did to you while growing up. It really must be nice to be selfish, inconsiderate and disregard your own daughter when she needed you the most. Must be nice to lie to everyone and keep all aspects of your life separated so you never get called out on your bullshit. Must be nice. To be you.

What's going to happen tomorrow? Nothing.

I'll put on my peasant shirt. Put on some spackle. Get my nap fixed with the help of Miss Clairol and a curling iron. I'll even put a drop or twenty of Estee Lauder's "Beautiful" behind my ears and on my wrists. I'll arrive, greet, hug and smile. Deliver my gift. Find a corner and sit there with my Android, taking pictures and talking shit in #akaradio, while there is a kegger IV stuck in my arm. No drama in such a happy occasion...'cuz that's what I do. That's how I roll, son!

I'll just wait til Monday to say...

BITCH! WHERE'S MY MONEY?!

I hate washing dishes...

Everyone hates to wash dishes. It's a given. Most folks I know have machines to do it for them, or as my parents tell it, that's what kids are for.

I hate washing dishes. I so do.

It feels as if that's all I've been doing my whole life. Washing dishes. Mine. Others. Everyones.

Standing there at the sink. Staring at that same damn floral and yellow-green-orange pinstriped window curtain in front of me like I did as a kid.

Hell. I bought a pair at the Goodwill some years ago to put in my own kitchen sink window. So retro. That's me. Always living in the past.

My first memory of washing dishes at such a window, I was 7 years old. I was informed by my father that I needed to learn how to be a woman, and that was what they did. He slammed a chair in front of that sink, with the floral and yellow-green-orange pinstriped curtain, proceeded to lift me by my left arm and dropped me atop it.

"You have to wash these fucking dishes! Help your mother! You're old enough! She works too hard for you to just sit there on your ass and do nothing while watching that bullshit American TV! DO IT NOW!" he yelled in my ear as he clutched a pigtail in his hand, jerking me around. That's a Mexican-Spanish-to-American-English translation. It's so much worse in it's original form.

My father, Mister as he was called by everyone, wasn't a bad father. He was just..not himself at times. It happens to everyone.

He was pretty much drunk when he did that, the first time. I didn't turn to look behind me as he dragged my mother across the dining room and down the hall by her hair after she told him to not treat me like that. I was just a baby she told him. I didn't know anything yet. I was her baby number one she screamed in his face! To this day she tells me I'm her baby number one. Always.

I remember the yelling, the crying, and my brother holding onto my leg in fear as I stood atop that chair washing the dishes. Staring at that damn floral and yellow-green-orange pinstriped curtain above the sink. I made my brother join me on that high-backed chair to help me with the dishes. In a way I was trying to make him shut up. If he was loud in his crying, that meant Mister would come back and probably hit him in trying to make him man-up. My brother was baby number two, ya know. I had to take care of him. Always. I was a woman now. At 7 years old.

We spent many a year standing side by side like that. Atop a chair. Atop a foot-stool. On our tippy-toes as we grew older. Just washing dishes. Keeping each other company. Staring at those blasted curtains while I told him stories. Stories that I read from the school library. Freckles was one of my favorites. The Grimm's Fairy Tales was his. I was more into really old books while he enjoyed the scary and adventurous ones. I lived my life in libraries. Even in high school I lived in one. I bet that to this day my name is still in those books. But that's another story....I digress.

This is not a post about some horrible childhood. Shit happened. In most old-fashioned traditional Mexican families it's a given. We have many happy memories that completely make us forget the bad ones. It's just that I remember the bad ones more as I grow older.

I'm not here to put blame on anyone. Not my parents or anyone else. It's not their fault at all that I am who I am now. It's mine. I let it happen. I allowed it. I didn't know better. You were supposed to do what you were told to do. No questioning it. No one spoke to me about "free will". I just thought that you had to follow the "rules and regulations" put forth by them and everyone else. I didn't understand what "free will" was until it was too late. And by then...I rebelled.  Thanks to my high school counselor. She was my very own "Mr. Shoop".

I rebelled alright. I did things in those years that could be considered a Lifetime Movie Channel marathon. I may not be proud of it, I may not regret some of it, but in the end I still remember it. While washing dishes.

I hate washing dishes in front of that floral and yellow-green-orange pinstriped curtain.

If I had the money, I'd buy a dishwasher and install it my own damn self. It'd be the end of the "therapy" I have to go through every day as it is now.

Don't get me wrong. I don't live some shitty life with beatdowns or trauma. Hell. My life could be considered perfect by some.

My work is fulfilling and beyond my expectations. I have a great guy that thinks I'm the bee's knees and lets me be me, though it could be considered scary for some. A whole slew of kids that think I'm better than Chuck E. Cheese in awesomeness, which makes some of their parents feel like second-class citizens.

I live in a household filled with love and laughter alongside headaches and annoyances. Same as any other. Homecooked meals on the table. Oxy-Cleaned laundry in all the drawers and closets. Bills paid up. Treats for their lunch and smiley faces on their lunchbags. A roof over their heads with no worries to be had. Plus I'm creative to the max in anything and everything and it surprises them all! Because that is what a woman does. That's what I'm supposed to do. All the time. It's my job. A woman's job. A JOB. JOB. J-O-B.

Yet I find myself in front of the sink every day. Staring at that curtain as I rinse a glass and I start zoning out. Dwelling on the past. On things I shouldn't have to think about. Things that I did which make me oftentimes slap myself in the face and tell myself to STOP thinking about. I know I'm not the only one that feels like that or that does that. It's just not me. There's no fucking possible way I'm the only one!

In those years that I did what I did without giving a fuck for myself or anyone else. It was wrong. I did wrong in believing it wouldn't matter. That the consequences did not pertain to me. But they did. Still do. I have to live with it every damn day. Somehow. Someway. Sometime. Now.

What I regret is what I did to others. What I did to myself because of it. I lied. Big time. I have scars to prove it. Mental and physical ones. Not something to be proud of, let me tell ya.

When they would ask if I was okay, if I was happy, I lied. I would tell them that everything was copacetic. It wasn't.

I wonder sometimes...if they had just pushed a little bit more? Asked a little bit more? Been there a little bit more? Coulda? Woulda? Shoulda? It always comes down to that. Doesn't it?

Nah.

What it all comes down to is the fact I'm just me.

Me, myself and I.

I'm dominant in relationships, yet a pushover. I always want the last word, yet I'm understanding. I rebel when I'm restricted, yet I'm loyal when it happens. And I'm fucking stubborn and strongwilled. I'm black or white, no shades of grey. Sometimes. Do as I say! Not as I do! Plus my logic is beyond absurd...even though I always win. jeh.

Anyways, I'm tired...

After further analysis, the above statement holds true...

I hate washing dishes.

Another Year...

Check that out! It's 2011. Wasn't it 1999 just yesterday? How time flies. How time flies and I rarely post. Nothing different there. I need more time to keep up with a dozen things daily. Some folks believe I sit all day on the internet doing nothing; more like they do from what I've seen. Whatever.

Here you go - The first post of the year and I'm already complaining. Blah. Blah. Blah. Don't get me wrong, year started great, yesterday was Valentine's Day and it turned out great, today is going to be great, tomorrow will be great too, etc. 2011 is going to be completely great, even if it pisses everyone else off. That's my goal. ::smirks::