Sweet Brown, I Love You

In case you were wondering where I've been, I've been being held captive by that Mexican little person I met a few weeks ago at the bar. We've been eating tacos and playing Jenga in our underwear. Truthfully, I've been swamped with fine dining at establishments where THIS is the decor.

Don't be jealous because I'm a baller. I was hoping by eating in a restaurant that had 3 million pics of animals in it, 2 things would happen. 1. It would be a less challenging environment for me to ask my mother if I could borrow money 6.5 million dollars to pay my cable bill-porn is pricey. (And so is renting Steel Magnolias, and Silence of the Lambs, 4 times a week. That shit adds up.)
2. Perhaps being surrounded by pics of animals, would illicit some sort of emotion in me. You see, I didn't grow up in a house with pets (and I don't count my goldfish whose heart exploded on my 10th birthday. It's an open investigation so I'm not allowed to talk about it. We're thinking it was a homicide.) So watching me around pets is officially the most uncomfortable event for other people to watch. I'd say, it's just as awkward as the time a few years ago, that my Dad saw my vagina when I wore an incredibly small bath robe, thinking he wasn't home. That was a dark dark day for me and my cooter. 

I often wonder what my face looks like when I listen to other people tell me stories about their pets. Not to be insensitive, but the new lamp you bought for your hampster's cage doesn't get my panties wet. Don't get me wrong, I'm super happy you've found love'n all, but as Sweet Brown says, "Ain't nobody got time for dat!"
If you don't know who Sweet Brown is, you're missing out. 

I'd like to take a moment to plea with the public to put me in touch with Sweet Brown, as I feel we were meant to be besties. I too, wake up in the middle of the night to get myself a cold pop. 

Sidenote, I could spend bloody hours on Youtube. Sometimes, when I'm on my period, I google Dawson's Creek montages that really creepy super-fans put together, and I cry. Like, ugly cry. Riveting stuff right? I never understood a frigan word those under-sexed, straight laced little fuckers were saying, but it didn't matter, I just wanted Joey and Dawson to be together SO badly. Who would have thought Joey would marry TOM CRUISE. Dang, that girl can't catch a break. 
Or another topic of interest, is seeing other fucked up people, so I Youtube clips of TLC's My Strange Addiction. I take comfort in knowing that I most likely will not ever have sex with my car or eat my husband's ashes or lick my pussy...cat. I usually Youtube these clips after I've gone shopping for pants and discovered new pockets of cellulite. I FEEL SO ALIVE after, you should try. 

In other news, I travelled to the tropical paradise of Pickering, Ontario to spend sometime with my mother. To understand my relationship with my mother, I've decided to break it down into increments of time, rather than launching into a full blown story, because it's the same thing. Every.Time. 

Minutes: 1-3: My mother asks me if I have brushed my teeth and has made some comment on my how bad my shoes are:
Minutes 3-5: I'm responding/yelling at my mother for the teeth brushing question with a "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm 31 years old. Of course I've brushed my fucking teeth. Don't ever ask me that again." I typically ignore the shot at my shoes, as if she feels sorry enough for me, she'll buy me a new pair. Only problem is, since my drunken high heel accident last year, my left foot looks like a clubbed baby seal so there really are no shoes that fit my foot. Whomp. Whomp.
Minute: 6-8: She asks if I'm dating anyone and I tell her I'd rather set myself on fire than discuss that.
Minute: 9 to hour 3: She tells me what pricks men are, and how I couldn't pay her enough money to be single in this day in age because society is riddled with sluts and men who have sex with strange women on their lunch hours, followed by complaining about my driving while she simultaneously slams on the "imaginary brake" that's on the passenger side, takes me shopping, then raids her freezer to stuff my purse with cans of tuna and frozen chicken....then I head back to the city. 

Although, I must say, this week she took me and the cashier at Walmart by surprise while we were standing at the register. My mother whipped out a piece of paper from her wallet, looked at me, then yelled at me in Chinese. You can probably guess by my profile photo on my blog, that I'm not of Asian descent. Well, neither is my mother. In fact, being incredibly pale, pasty and awful at accents, would pretty much sum up our ethnicity. The unfortunate part about people trying to speak in any type of accent, other than their own, is that it's often incredibly over-pronounced and VERY VERY LOUD. So you can imagine the shock on my face when my mother screamed at me in Chinese.

Me (whispering) "Mom, what the hell are you doing?"
Mom: "Speaking Chinese to you!"
Cashier: Silence.
Me: "Ummm, I realize that, what did you just say?"
Mom: "I said you're very cheap, in Chinese."
Me: "I'll be in the car."

My mother works at a school in a predominately Asian community, where she's like the Godfather of secretaries. She often comes home with tons of gifts and stories on how she "gets shit done."  Recently, she's been getting tips from some of the Chinese parents on phrases she can use on me while we're shopping. Yesterday, since her asian monologue in Walmart, wasn't nearly enough, Rosetta Stone made me sit in the car and listen to the other phrases that she's learned. "That looks bad" and "You can't afford that" were amongst the front runners. 

Well I'm done talking about the inner workings of my relationship with my mother. And I'm sure you've already checked out. Speaking of checking out, have any of you ever watched VH1's Couples Therapy? (Yes, only quality programming gets passed these retina's) But watching Angelina from Jersey Shore try and give DMX (the rapper recently released from prison) life advice, has to be one of the most fascinating things I've seen in a long time.  It's like watching a prostitute counsel a porn star. WHAT A FUCKING MESS. 

Peace Out, 
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