Tagged: mexican

May 17, 2012

AmHam’s Blog: The Secrets of the Ancient Maya

This is one in a series of custom blogs I’m doing for my facebook friends. I asked if there was anything they wanted me to blog about, and I’m writing a post for each person that answered.

AmHam, who happens to be the prettiest princess I’ve ever met said: The world is not ending after-all: Found: The Oldest Maya Calendar

First of all, I don’t know how much I want to trust Time Magazine after the eye raping horror that was this weeks cover. Getting past the creepy things pretty women do because someone forgot to tell them that attention from men doesn’t equal intelligence, let’s consider that this is actually a legitimate news source and not just a clown college gazette at this point. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on Time, it’s just that I’ve always wanted to call something a Clown College Gazette. Well, not ALWAYS always, but at least since I first wrote that phrase roughly 15 seconds ago and I’m not deleting it now, were too damn far away.

As a fully actualized, educated Mexican American woman, how much do I care about the achievements of the ancient Maya? This much:

But believe me, the weight of how much I should care is hanging onto my shoulders like an overfed zoo gorilla. So, in the spirit if lessening my stress levels: Oh, they did math? That’s cool.

Alright, look: I’ve never cared about present day math. What makes anyone think I’ll care about elderly math?!

Math has never done anything for me except make me feel really, really stupid for at least an hour a day for every living moment of my scholastic career. Oh, and when I was a math tutor, I guess it did earn me about $20 an hour. So, at least I got a little payback for my misery. Still don’t care, though. I tried, but I couldn’t.

That ‘end of the world’ crap is the best thing that’s happened to the Mayan calendar, because if it weren’t for that (clearly unfounded) intrigue, no one else would care about it either.

If you would like to get in on this kind of awesomeness, be my friend on facebook and post a response next time I ask for blog ideas!

May 2, 2012

Why I Dwell on Death in Times of Stress and Why You Should Do It Too!

a very old picture of a skeleton seated on a chair as if relaxing

Yesterday I had a headache, and as I was walking down the hall rubbing my temples, a random guy said “Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.” So of course, I said “Yeah, eventually I’ll die,” and he was like “Oh, don’t be like that.” Which totally surprised me, because isn’t that what he was talking about in the first place? Whatever.

I remember one time, I was crying (literally sobbing) on the phone to my sponsor about some fool thing I’ve since forgotten, and she stopped me mid-blub with one simple phrase. “Well, eventually you’ll die.” You know I shut right the fuck up? Suddenly my stupid problem and my entire life came into rack focus. How could this shit matter when DEATH IS COMING?

How many years does the average human really have? Life expectancy in the US is 78.4 years. Add a couple for being a woman, college educated, and half white, lose a couple for being half Mexican, being fat, eating red meat, and living in Los Angeles and my personal life expectancy is roughly 78.4 years. I’m 27.4 years old now, so I’ve got 51 years left. Accounting for end of life sickness and frailty, and the fact that we spend 8 out of every 24 hours asleep, I only have 27 more conscious years. And that’s just if nothing goes wrong. Based on past experience, shit will ALWAYS go wrong.

So why am I wasting my precious little living time on petty fucking bullshit I won’t remember a week from now? No reason! Acknowledging my own mortality really keeps things in perspective. In 100 years will anyone remember me, let alone who made the first pot of coffee at the office every morning for a week? No. I’ll be forgotten, as I should be. No one should carry the burden of remembering my boring life when they have their own to live. And no one should carry the burden of petty day to day problems when we only have a few precious decades to eat and fuck and play and love and learn and be awesome. Everybody, think of death, feel it’s icy indifferent breath on your neck and remember: it’s coming. For you. Live your life while you can!

January 25, 2012

Twitter Tells Me: Prime Minister Crampy, the Cheese Senorita

It’s that time again: I feel I’ve neglected the blog long enough that I harass my poor twitter followers until they tell me what to write about. It’s a good system.

MooPigMoo: Any homeopathic remedies for crazy bad endometriosis pain? Heating pad and Tylenol aren’t cutting it.

This is something my awesome Mexican dad used to do for me, and it worked. It takes about 20 minutes, but my endometriosis cramps almost totally went away. Boil about 4 real cinnamon sticks and 2 lemons, sliced in a medium pot of water. Strain the sticks and lemons out, drink the water as a tea and lay back and relax.

Tuttle88: Ive been trying to think of a question for you but I got nothing. I’m asking ppl who their fav prime minister is though

That’s an excellent question. My favorite prime minister is Margaret Thatcher. Not because I respected her hard as nails exterior and rotten to the core interior, not because I believe her revolutionary attachment to red mirrored and inspired my own feelings on the color, but because she is and probably always will be the only one I can remember. Oh wait, Winston Churchill was a PM, wasn’t he? Never mind, my favorite Prime Minister was Winston Churchill. For obvious reasons (we’re both fat).

And I know that other countries have PMs, not just England, but damned if I can remember them either.

ManagerJohn: American cheeze vs Bleu Rubber chickens VS Whoopie Cushions? something there I think

Of the multitude of cheeses I enjoy, American and Blue both fall into the “not so much” category. Yes, there are times my culinary life where no other cheese will do, but those are rare. I much prefer the subtle delicacy of a Munster, the strong yet understanding tones of the Havarti or the sharp and simple clap of the Jack. Alas, my cheese dance card is full to overflowing with healthier and less offensive cheese than American and Blue respectively. As for rubber chickens and whoopie cushions? They both have their place: outside in the trash.

AldoC81: I just got a crockpot. Write about how the fuck I’m supposed to use it. Are Mexicans even allowed to use them?

I have been told that the crockpot is the gateway to excellent foods without any effort on your part. It is the antithesis of everything Mexican children are taught about cooking. For Mexicans, in order to have good food, you must first wake up before the sun. Good Mexican food involves lots of standing, repetitive motion, multiple pots and pans, lots of mixing and cutting and sweating in a hot kitchen. Mexican mothers start Christmas dinner on Thanksgiving. No amount of preparation is too much! The crockpot, on the other hand, is a stew maker. You cut things a little bit, but not too much, you throw them in the pot and you punch a couple of buttons. Go to work, go out with friends, the crockpot doesn’t care. You do you. It does dinner. The closest this thing gets to Mexican is a batch of Fiesta Chicken. Yum.

Wotusay91: wot about us men who giveup work toB primary full time dads of little peoples (I,m a builder doing it &love it )-discuses please

I used to be pretty hypocritical about the stay at home dad thing. I would get all self-righteous when women decided to leave their careers to stay at home with kids, but I thought men doing the same thing were totally alright, admirable for doing that, even. Eventually I realized (or, more likely it was pointed out to me) that I was holding women and men to a different standard, violating the very principals I claimed to believe in. By saying that all women should hold their careers as more important than their children, I was applying my value system to someone else’s life. In truth, I have no authority to say one way or another what the right thing is for another person to do. And the older I get, the more I believe that things like career success mean fuck all when it comes to your children. My dad was never successful. In fact, he was homeless for most of my childhood. But he took the time to talk to me, and hang out with me, and make me feel cared for and important. That’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten. If you have time to be with your children, that’s an amazing thing, no matter if you’re a dad or a mom, aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa or genderqueer 5th cousin twice removed.

May 23, 2011

Twitter Tells Me: Bulk Food Edition

mr_bithead wanted to hear “about things in your area that you like. Favourite shops, salon, grocery store, restaurants, and why!”

I live in Hawthorne, CA, a city for which being named after a famous literary figure has not been an educational boon. In other words, it’s a little ghetto. But, unlike most of the ghetto’s in the world, this one is 6 miles from the beach. I’ll take it!

Anyway, most of the shops and restaurants I like are in the surrounding cities, namely Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, Torrance and El Segundo. Major exceptions to this rule are local chains The Chicken Maison and El Pollo Inca. The former is healthy and delicious Mediterranean food with a little bit of south bay style. The latter is cheap, fast, and loud Peruvian food to die for. Both places require a visit any time you’re in the area.

Other, more popular eateries, in the better parts of town are:

Uncle Bill’s Pancake House - everything there is good.
El Tarasco -not the best I’ve had, but the South Bay seems to have trouble producing good Mexican food, and this stuff is the top of the heap so far.
Mama D’s - cheap, fast, simple Italian food with good service and a cozy atmosphere.
Rinaldi’s – Simple, affordable, delicious, meat-packed sub sandwiches.

We recently got a Sprouts Farmers Market in Redondo Beach, which I am super happy about. Any hippie native to Southern California will remember Wild Oats markets from the early 1990′s. Sadly, they folded in the mid to late nineties, but their spirit has lived on in a chain called Henry’s, that I used to shop at when I lived in Orange County. Now, Wild Oats/Henry’s clones are popping up all over Los Angeles in the form of Spouts. Unlike my least favorite store ever, a store I call the Whore Foods, Sprouts has an excellent vibe and affordable, natural foods in an astonishing variety. They also have the one thing that every hippie child remembers so fondly: the bulk food buckets!

Unfortunately, I have yet to discover is a good sushi place. The only one I’ve been recommended was way too pretentious and expensive for me.

Thenoid13 asked about “ice cream melts in your trunk when you lock your keys in you car.”

Yes it does.

March 22, 2008

Race Race Race

This was an assignment for my African American Literature class. We were told to write about our first memory of race in a non-linear way.

Race? I’m thinking in the shower. Shaving your legs is so gross-it’s totally just another way for the autocratic beauty industry to tell women that our bodies are in need of discipline. It’s a phenomenon that goes back thousands of years like how orthodox husbands can’t touch any women but their wives, and not even then when she’s on her period. Feminism is about being able to do what you want anyway.

So I do what I want and I shave my legs in accordance with the beauty autocracy. Do you know that I never actually had real leg hair? You know how there’s two kinds of leg hair, the little kid kind and the grown-up kind. I bet that’s every woman in the western world. Gross. Why can’t capitalism give me back my leg hair? I want all the leg hair I’ve ever shaved off right now. I want what you took from me. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about lotus feet, especially when I shave my legs. I always wondered why they didn’t just cut off the women’s feet completely and put little shoes on their amputated ankles. Oh that’s a horrible thought. I feel sick. That should really be deleted. Maybe that;s just too much subjugation. How is it that we always think we know when to stop? After six years of constant orthodontia they tell me I’m not good enough yet. We want to create a hairline fracture in your upper palate and expand the bone plate a little every month. I started crying. Upper palate? That’s my face. You want to break my face. They make midgets do that to their legs. My face is like a midget leg. Fuck. I’m supposed to be talking about race. My grandmother jokes that I’m not a real Mexican because I don’t like spicy salsa.

You’re not supposed to say midget anymore. You’re supposed to say little person. Am I avoiding the subject of race? Possibly. I have no idea what to say. I think I had bigger problems as a kid. I wasn’t from the most tranquil environment if you know what I mean. But midget is a legitimate term. It applies to all adults five feet tall or under. My friend is a midget, among other things. Is it arrogant to suggest that I had bigger problems as a kid? That I was some sort of anti-racist messiah? Maybe I was just way too concerned about real shit. Everyone knows that race is just a social construction. Maybe it’s the bi-racial thing.

Once I was watching In Living Color with my dad and the Waynes sister came on and she was dressed like a little kid, and her mom was a maid, and she had a monologue about how in black world you mom doesn’t have to be a maid, and how in black world everyone likes you and and and you get new dresses everyday or something. I thought it sounded good. I’ve always wanted to live in a world where my mom is different than what she is and I get whatever I want, which is basically what the television tells me I want. Kim Waynes, we should hang out. Right, race. I’m getting sleepy. I can’t think about this. My dad once told me that we were the only family that he knew that drank cool-aid after the kids grew up that was not black, and by we I mean them, his family. I wasn’t allowed to have cool-aid. So cool-aid belongs to black people and my dad is drinking it on the sly. What do they need it for? What is it about cool-aid that makes black people drink it? If only black people drink cool-aid then why do you drink it too? Because he had black friends in high school. And that’s not what he said, he said that the predominant amount of people who drink cool-aid after childhood are black, but we do it too. It’s funny because we’re a statistical outlier: drinks cool-aid, over eighteen, not black. I mean them, not me, I wasn’t allowed to have cool-aid. I didn’t even especially like it.