Another Excursion Around the Sun

First, I must address the change in the title of this blog.  If you have read the previous blog regarding my hair, you are well apprised that I no longer have a fro’ due to a tragic flat iron incident about this time last year.  A moment of silence please for my fallen fro’.  Also, let us face it, even when I did have a fro’ I did not have a picture of myself with one.  So this blog name is now accurate.  I feel lighter now that I got that off my chest, even though I wish I were a few pounds of fluff lighter, but that is subject matter better left to a future blog.  However, we now return to the original blog at hand.

So, here I am, encroaching upon yet another birthday.  One more trip around the sun on this journey that began many years ago, even though I have somehow managed to look like I have not taken that many voyages around that golden orb that warms our planet.  So at least I have that much going for me, which is nice.  Otherwise, I am not looking forward to it.

I have never really liked my birthday.  Most of the memorable ones have been for tragically embarrassing reasons.  Let us not forget the car accident on my 16^th birthday DURING my driver’s license road test, and the infamous breakdown on my 22^nd birthday.  I do not think I will ever live that down, but at least I got it out of my system then rather than at an older age where such behavior would really be embarrassing.  I will blame it on my immature youth and alcohol.  Mostly alcohol.  For sure the alcohol.  Damn alcohol. 

Really, the top two birthdays happened in the past two years.  Two years ago, I spent my birthday in Safad, my mother’s Palestinian hometown in what is now Israel.  I saw my mother’s home that my grandfather built for his family; I touched the stones, sat on the steps, walked the streets, and picked lemons from the lemon tree that was in the backyard.  I also took back the knocker and handle from the back gate.  Those were my family's, and I gave them to my mom, their rightful owner, as gifts.   I almost missed that chance because we did not know where the exact house was, and as my hosts and I were in the car ready to leave, in my head I had wished that for my birthday I could see my mother’s home.  Not one minute later, we were stopped by the historian of Safad, and he knew the house and took me there.

Last year, I got to spend my birthday with my family.  My mom, dad, sister, brother and I have not been alone together as a family like that in almost 20 years.  We all met in Washington D.C. in honor of my brother, an FBI Special Agent, who was accepting the Attorney General’s Award for a case he had worked on involving cybercrime.  I could not have asked for a better birthday than to spend it with my family to celebrate my brother’s accomplishment.

Now here I am again, but with nothing monumental happening.  No Oscar wins, or Nobel Prizes.  I cannot even claim a new car.  Man, I really want a new car.  But I digress.  I do not know why my birthday puts me in such a mood.  I have had a wonderful past six months and have no reason to be bummed.  I have made an amazing new friend that I always hangout with, as well as a new group of friends that I see and spend time with often.  Despite a rocky start, this has truly been the best year of my time here in L.A. emotionally and socially.  I have some great people in my life, have been to some great events that some people would kill to have gone to, and despite a recently acquired new job that I do not like that makes me cry often, I have never been happier.  Yet I feel sad.  Mostly due to the job that makes me cry, a lot, and because I want a new car and shoes, but also because of my birthday.  Stupid job and birthday, making me blue.  I need a shame shower now.

I know this feeling will go away after that fateful day in which I was born to this world (you are welcome) passes, but until then, this feeling will remain.  Sniff.  Even though I have some wonderful people in my life, I feel lonely during this time.  I have no family in L.A., and I know that is one of the reasons behind these feelings of melancholy, and the fact that there is no significant other is another.  I had always thought that at this point in my life that I would have a successful career in entertainment, and be married to Ricky Martin (Read "A Part of me Died on Monday") and getting ready to start a family of half Palestinian and half Puerto Rican children.  They would have been brown and beautiful with rhythm.  A moment of silence please for those children that will never be.

Yet I remain single, I am not even Ricky’s beard, living alone in a one-bedroom condo that granted I own, and doing a job that I do not like that makes me cry, a lot, and is the cause of copious shame showers.  No dreams have come true, and I do not feel that sense of accomplishment I had hoped to have had by this age.  I think those are the real reasons.  Not about getting older or aging, for there are wonderful medical procedures to remedy those problems, it is about just not being where I thought and wanted to be by now.  Ask the chubster teenage Yasmine many moons and pounds ago, and this would not have been her dream life.  Parts of it, for sure, like many of the wonderful experiences I have had, but not all of it. 

I know, I am exactly where I am supposed to be and everything happens for a reason, blah blah and such and such, but something has got to give soon.  I am too old for this shit.  Frankly, I am tired of the struggle.  I know it is not about the destination, but about the journey, but damn it all to hell, I am ready for the journey to be less turbulent and I am tired of the TSA of life asking for and performing a cavity search.  However, despite my whining of which I am told I am annoyingly good at, I am incredibly grateful for the life and opportunities I have which have not gone unnoticed.  I have my health, an amazing family, amazing friends, live in an incredible city, own my own home, have the freedom to do as I please, no roommates, I am super awesome and ridiculously good looking (not in the morning, really, it is quite tragic and unsettling), and really have a lot going for me.  I just do not like my birthday. 

I do not even have anything planned and would honestly be fine just spending it at home eating popcorn (mmmmm, popcorn) and watching a movie.  I just want it to go away.  Unless something super awesome happens, like the windfall I have been wishing for so I can retire early.  That would make life really nice if I did not have to work anymore and were able to buy my dream home.

So as of this writing, I have no bloody idea what I am doing to celebrate the day of my birth 23 years ago (shut up, I know that age is a lie, just go with it damn it.  I also lie about my weight and dye my hair, get over it), but I am sure it will be spent with some amazing people no matter how low key it is and will be filled with much laughter, and they will definitely make me feel good about my birthday even though I am currently not too happy about it.  This is just the same old song and dance I do every year, but hopefully this will be the last year I feel this way.  I am very blessed to be alive, and celebrate my life in different ways everyday, because I truly am grateful for it.  However, if anyone can help me out with that windfall to make my birthday happy, you will really make things great for me and will kindly save me from yet another shame shower.  

Where's the Fro?

As many of you maybe wondering, why is it that I have no fro' in my picture although my blog clearly states I am a tall Palestinian who rocks one?  Who am I kidding, none of you are wondering because if you were or any of you were paying any attention I am sure ONE of you would have pointed out the contradiction. 

Well, I thought I should address this, even though I will feel like a traitorous bitch.  I simply look prettier with straight hair, and so my vanity won out over my logic.  There, I said it.  I am vain and I am proud, and one day I will share with you how vanity literally saved my life.  But that is another posting.

Yes, I had super curly hair, and the super curly hair was cute, but that was it.  Just cute.  I do not want to be "cute."  I want to be pretty, beautiful, stunning, earth shattering, I think you get the point here.  I just did not think that cute was working for me.  So I chose a straight haired photo.  However, I also have another confession.  I have relaxed my hair.

Yes, the fro' is pretty much gone, save for very loose curls and some straight bits.  You see, what happened was I bought a wicked strong new flat iron, and that apparently coupled with a heat protector that I used in conjunction with said wicked strong flat iron relaxed part of my hair.  When I say relaxed, it made the hair on the top of my head and what would be considered bangs bone straight.  I have spent YEARS trying to grow my hair out all nice and even, and this freaking happens.  It did not go back to normal, so I had to do something to fix it, so I bought an at home keratin treatment, and relaxed the rest myself.

Now, I am not going to lie, I really really like my hair the way it is now.  It is a little wild, kind of beachy, and a lot less cute.  I still have straight bits, but I guess it kind of looks like I do it on purpose.  You can actually tell my hair is long now, which is what I have been going for for years.  So I hope there is no permanent damage, because I will cry if my hair starts breaking off and I have to start growing it out all over again.  That is not fun considering my hair barely grows half an inch a month.  However, I will go over the roots in a few months to maintain what I have now.  Apparently it is not supposed to be permanent, but who knows.  Until then, I am rocking the new look, but will not change the name of this blog, for I still have a fro' at heart.

The Story of Me

May I just tell you how much I hate having writer’s block? I really, really hate it. I mean, it has lasted for way too long and I want my writing mojo back. So here I am resorting to recycling another blog from back in the Myspace day (of which I will continue to do, but hopefully not only because I have no other material). But recycling is good. It helps the planet. The less time I leave my computer on the less my carbon footprint. So really, I am doing my part to save the Earth. You’re welcome.

But seriously though, this blog is a little back story on me. Very limited in information, but enough to let you know where some of my issues come from. Just some. You cannot just learn everything at once. Then what would you have to look forward to? I do have a confession though. For those who are going to expect part two, do not hold your breath. I never wrote it. Blame ADD, writer’s block or just shear laziness, I never really got around to it. Maybe I will now. Maybe my posting this will be the catalyst for me to write something new because I simply must write chapter two lest I let you down.

Who knows, I am not promising anything. All I hope is that you will get a little bit of a laugh, maybe a cry, but really I just hope people are reading this. Please read it. Read all my posts. Pass it along. I need to get a good following so I can get a book deal like Carrie Bradshaw and be able to buy shoes. I really, really want to buy some new shoes, and to be able to pay my mortgage. Not exactly in that order.




The Story of Me: The Life and Times of Palestine's Finest; Chapter One



On a fall night in 19__, in the desert city of Riyadh, just as morning prayers began, a Palestinian Princess was born, and God said the world is right.

Yes, it was I who was born that fateful October morning, and the world has been a better place ever since. Well, not noticeably yet, but it will once I have some power, money, and influence. It was the foreshadowing of good things to come is basically what I am getting at, okay, just work with me here.

Freakishly tall, even at birth, the nurse commented to my mother that I was going to be very tall. It is not every day that a newborn girl comes out a whopping 22 inches, and freakishly tall I became. And might I add, insanely smart and good looking, and not lacking confidence.

However it was not all peaches and cream at first, but what is life without struggle? I first disappointed my family (first in a long line of disappointments) by popping out a girl. They were expecting an Omar, but I came out a Yasmeen. Suckers. I was also, like many a newborn baby, quite ugly. Ugly enough to warrant my sister to tell my mother to take me back. Thankfully, she did no such thing. 22 years later, I grew out of ugly, and turned into the swan I always knew I was. All it took was to stop eating and putting a little makeup on, and getting rid of my glasses, braces, and getting control of my afro courtesy of my dear father's genetics, and a few other little tricks.

Hopes were high for my parents at first. I excelled at things at an early age. I walked and talked early, my mom started teaching me how to read at age one, and I was potty trained at 18 months and would have been sooner had it not been for my grandmothers ailing health that required my mothers attention. Yes, I was to be a writer, or a doctor, or a lawyer even. Something to make my Arab mother proud when she gets to tell people what her daughter does for a living knowing that deep down inside she is saying "my kid is better than yours." So let us just say that she is not so keen on the idea of saying her youngest daughter is an aspiring actor. Especially when other people are saying how their daughters are so successful, and have such a great job, and graduated college, blah blah blah. Now, I am not saying my mom is like that, but more so the Arab culture is like that. You show off through your kids, to show how wonderful you are that you gave birth to that. I am sure many other people relate.

Well, there was another disappointment. I excelled in elementary school in all things academic and artistic, even in P.E., which was one of my favorite classes, although I hate the gym now (more so on the transition later). Then things took a major turn. Junior high. Kids who were your friends were your friends no more, there were more kids who were bigger and meaner, and you were just thrown into it to either sink or swim. And sink I did, as though someone tied an anchor to my feet.

I hated junior high as much as I hate dirty feet (I REALLY hate dirty feet). It sucked major asshole, and the kids sucked more. The cliques were more apparent, and the judgments even worse. So, naturally, the more I sank into my own pit of despair, the peak of which was when one of my best friends was killed in a car accident, the more my grades suffered, and the more my parents were disappointed.

So, the actual confusion lay in the fact that I knew quite a bit of information, did well on tests, and truly was smart, however I never did my homework, and my grades did not reflect my intelligence, even in P.E. I did not do well, which was once one of my favorite classes, but alas, no more.

I had a heart murmur and the hooker of a P.E. teacher I had kept making me run the mile until I did it under 12 minutes. Well, the whole heart condition, which I later grew out of, did not allow for such a thing to happen, and she would not believe me. Until one day in the rain, on yet another attempt to make it under 12 minutes, I hyperventilated so badly I actually threw up. I totally blew chunks in some bushes by the track.  Maybe I should have used that as a lesson to lose weight back then, but I digress.  That was the last straw, and told her what happened: that I was never running again and would like to see her make me. Good times. This is why I hate the gym people, I am still traumatized by that incident. Looking back, I should have sued the school.

The only thing that got me through that hell of a school, and through another hell by the name of Tigard High School, which is another blog in and of itself, was my friend Heather who liked me even though I was fat and ugly and could not run to save my life.  Thank goodness for Heather, for she gave me at least one good reason to actually go to school, and helped me go through high school.  However the high school years will be left for another chapter from "The Story of Me:  The Life and Times of Palestine's Finest." 

An Oldie But a Goodie (First of Many)

Since I have been absent from the blogosphere due to a wicked case of writer's block, I have decided to share with my loyal nine followers some of my old Myspace blogs (do you even remember Myspace?), of which I used to contribute regularly.  Some are dated but funny (at least I would like to think so), but some are still relevant.  I believe that the one below is, because although is was some time ago (I shan't tell you exactly as it would date me), when I read it, it shocked me how my life has not changed in all this time.  I still have the same feelings, the same problems, and the same loneliness.  More so now as my sister moved out of California over two years ago, and my best friend/cousin/bff/soul mate has also moved out of the L.A. area.  If anything, I am even lonelier now because of their leaving, and I thought by this time things would have been better.  But this is life, and although I do not have my loved ones geographically close to me, I know that they are there for me.  So, I thought I would share, and I hope you enjoy some of my earlier work.  Who knows, maybe I can get my followers up to a whopping 10 :)



"2_ and Fabulous, albeit a bit lonely"

Well, it is official. My golden birthday has come and gone, and I am creeping closer and closer to 30 than feels comfortable. But I am okay with that.

One of my friends took pity on me tonight, and took me out for a couple of birthday drinks. I have him to thank for sparing me the actions of downing an entire bottle of Aleve, chased by a bottle of vodka, and then followed by an attempt to take a razor to my arms. Okay, that was a bit dramatic. He really only saved me from watching Ghost Whisperer alone and eating a pint of ice cream. Which I ended up doing when I got home anyway thanks to the wonderful world of DVR. Sans the ice cream however (yes, I watch that show. I like it, and I am not ashamed. And I would kill for Jennifer Love Hewitt’s breasts).

Another realization I had is that now that I am older, I really have to start watching what I eat more closely since I will not be able to burn it off as easily. What the hell am I talking about? I was never able to burn it off, and I am thinner now than I was as a teen. I just cannot eat is basically what I am getting at, because that is how I lost the weight in the first place. Either way, I must stay away from the ice cream. And cake. And cupcakes. And fries. Mmmmm, fries.

Anyway, as I wipe the drool away from my chin and keep wishing for a freakishly fast metabolism, back to the story. I cannot remember what I was getting at, but I think the basic gist was that although I could not see my friends or family, I am glad someone took me out, and showed me they cared. And that is all a girl needs. A phone call and/or a hug.

But this whole ordeal made me realize how much I miss my friends and family. I realize that I have a lot of people that I know, but not many true friends whom I can call and just say "Hey, is it cool to come over and watch "Lost" with you?" I know that some of you who may read this might think I am getting a little touchy, or may get upset because I am not calling you a friend, but I do not mean it as an insult. It is just a fact.

For my own little birthday treat, I went to the Getty Center today. Alone. Do not get me wrong, I really enjoyed my time alone there. I walked around in their garden, took in the view, read on the terrace, and enjoyed multi-million dollar paintings. It was lovely, and I need to do things like that more often. But I could not think of anyone to call though who would have gone with me. So many people are busy, so many people have other lives, and especially in this town, it is hard to become a fixture into those lives. It is an eternal hover on the outskirts. I guess lucky for me, although it kind of sucks sometimes, I can do many things alone. Like going to a museum, movie, mall, or coffee shop alone without feeling judged. However, I miss those times where I would go with a girlfriend and just be able to talk and be girlie and get a yay or nay on an article of clothing, or be able to discuss a movie after having seen it, or talk about a piece of art and take in a view.

The older I get, even though technically I am still quite young, the more I realize how important it is to have people you can call on. It does not have to be a posse of 20, but at least a couple of true, true friends. Ones that will pick you up if you need a ride, someone to count on for a ride to the airport, someone who will bring you soup if you are sick, someone to just be lazy with, and for certain people that will help you move without having to bribe them. True friends like that, which are a rarity.  No matter what, people need others and a human connection, or life is not worth living with no one to share it with.

I am still smart, gorgeous, and fucking fabulous. However, I am for sure more than a little lonely in this City of Angels. Sometimes so lonely it is palpable. It is not enough to make me leave, but enough to make me wish for my mommy and daddy when I am feeling blue to feel that unconditional love that I am missing out here, and so desperately wish I had.

I Don't Shoot Puppies in the Face

As we all know, the world in which we live is very diverse; from cultures and geography to cuisine and clothing. Considering that the human population is damn near 7 billion (way too many for the planet. India, China, I’m looking at you), you have to expect a high degree in different beliefs and ways of life. For the most part, a lot of people embrace the beauty different cultures give us. I mean, the different food alone is freaking amazing (if only I could eat), music, film, traditions, customs; it really is a wonderful menagerie of human existence.

One other thing that is as varied and diverse as the cultures are the multitudes of religions and religious beliefs. Hell, there are some 40,000 different denominations of the Christian faith alone. I am not even going to try to get into the different sects of Islam, Judaism, Baha’i, Hinduism, Buddhism etc.; you see what I am getting at. There are a lot of religions and a lot of different ways in which they are practiced, and because of that, there is a lot of infighting, which, call me crazy, sounds counter-intuitive.

The reason why I am getting into trying to breakdown all these different faiths is to show what kind of diversity we have when it comes to faith, belief and religion. It is as varied as Jelly Belly’s, but most of the time, not as sweet. But there are several that I left out, because these are the most feared for some reason: Non-believers.

Now, if you want to know how to freak people out, tell them you are an Agnostic or an Atheist, basically anything that falls into the non-believer category and watch people stare at you like you just shot a puppy in the face. Seriously, shoot a puppy in the face, and then tell someone one that you do not believe in god, and they will be more disgusted that you do not believe in god instead of the fact that you just shot a poor, cute, cuddly wuddly fluff ball of a puppy in the face. I do not know why such a revelation elicits such a reaction, but it does. You could be volunteering in a soup kitchen, just donated a kidney to a dying kid, cured AIDS and cancer together and made world peace a reality, but you are the devil because you question the existence of god. It really freaks people out.

I fall into that category of puppy shooters. I was raised Muslim (which is a degree above puppy shooting non-believers these days), I used to fast during the holy month of Ramadan, toyed with the idea of praying when I got older, and was for the most part, a good Muslim kid. Yup, I was a semi-practicing Muslim all up until a few years ago, when something changed, and I became Agnostic.

Religion no longer made any sense to me. In the end, the basic tenets of religion is to be a good person, don’t steal, don’t kill, don’t screw your neighbor’s significant other and just don’t be an asshole. Those are all really good lessons, but I did not need a religion or “god” to tell me what was right or wrong.  And here is a thought for you, I believe that god is like Santa. He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows when you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake, or you are going to go to hell. Where do you think the lump of coal came from? We use Santa to make children behave, but he does not exist. Then does that not make god the adult version of Santa?

The seeds of doubt have always been there. Being Palestinian, I always thought that if there was a god, why would it make my people suffer? Or why would it have let the Holocaust happen? Why would it have George W. Bush be president? TWICE?  Why do good people die all the time and the assholes live, hell even rewarded? What kind of a god would let bad things happen to innocent people?  And why did you give me this hair and a slow metabolism? I have heard the crap of god is testing us, blah blah. Tell that to the poor innocent children being used as sex slaves and dying of AIDS that god loves them and is only testing them. What the hell did they do?

Also, upon taking a mythology class in college, I learned that every single religion out there was recycled from previous polytheistic faiths. Sorry to burst your Noah’s Arc bubble everyone, but that one was copied and just tidied up a bit. As was the virgin birth, creation, Adam and Eve, the commandments and just about everything else. NONE OF IT was original, and that shook my belief system.  It was like someone shot my puppy in the face.  Even before hand, I never believed all those stories to be literal, but dammit, I thought they were at least original! So why would I still believe in a virgin birth, a son of god, a great flood or a prophet that went up to heaven on a rock when all of it was pretty much made up, plagiarized and written by man several times over? I could not any longer.

So you now have the short version of why I drop kicked religion to curb, however, but not a higher power altogether. I am Agnostic. I do not fully believe in the existence, or non-existence of a higher power. I am on the fence. I really, really want there to be one. I really do. But I am not convinced completely that there is one. It does not make sense. There is no proof. And if anyone tells me “that is what faith is” and “god is love,” I will punch you in the throat. You may not be in front of me, but I swear to your dear and fluffy lord, if you tell me god is love one more time, I will hunt you down and punch you in the fucking throat. That is not proof.

Just accept my belief, like I accept yours, even though we do not agree, and do not look at me like I just shot your puppy in the face.  It is none of your business.  No really, it isn't, just walk away. There are many non-believers like myself out there, many of which I honestly believe are still in the closet about being so just because of the stigma and people trying to save them. We do not need saving, and don't judge us, because according to your beliefs, that is your god's job. We are happy. We sleep fine at night, and we are good people. We give to charities, do no harm to others, and do not start holy wars. We are good for the sake of being good, not for fear of going to hell. And if there is a god, when we die, I highly doubt that it would punish us for questioning its existence if we lived a good and honest life, especially if god loves each of its children. I would be more worried about those using its name to do bad things, like war, murder, stealing, and shooting puppies in the face.

The Fight For Fluff

Okay, so it has been a while since my last posting. Blame it on not having a life, ergo no fun stories to write about as well as a serious case of writer’s block. And I am still mourning the outing of Ricky Martin. That will always hurt. But here I go.

So, since last we met, other than my Ricky Martin breakdown, I was in a life and death battle with fluff. Okay, maybe it was not that dramatic, but I was in a fierce battle with fluff with my never ending desire to get rid of the excess fluffage of which my body vociferously holds on to despite the fact that we are not in a famine, other than a self imposed one. It has proven to be a worthy adversary.

My “model” diet of not eating did not work out so well. I was able to last for a few days on only lettuce and green tea, but you can only go so far when the sight of a cupcake brings you to tears and you would trade your left testicle (if I had testicles which I assure you, I do not) for said cupcake. However, I am a few fluffy pounds lighter, and have been able to keep them off even with the re-introduction of solid food back into my diet. I even had a cupcake. Yay! But I still have much fluff to lose. Boo.

So, I am now trying a different approach. I am going to attempt to accept my fluff and its stubborn nature to adhere to my belly and my thighs, rather than my boobs and my butt. Why could you not just stay in my boobs and my butt? But I digress, and no pun intended. So, in this attempt to “love” my body, maybe I will start exercising since I need to anyway. But rather than doing it to get less fluffy, I will do it to get healthier. Blah, blah, blah, who am I kidding? Deep down, it will still mostly be for aesthetic reasons.

And so here is the fight for fluff. As you may know, I am trying to break into an industry where you are based on your dress size. Zero and negative digits are preferred, and you may be able to slide up to a size 2 or 4 if you are almost freakishly tall like me. But you are really pushing it at a size 4, especially in the modeling industry. However, if you are on the opposite end of the spectrum, you can be a “character” actor or a “plus size model” if you are overweight. Does this sound wrong to anyone else? What about us fluffy girls in the middle? Why do you have to be icky thin or overweight to get work in acting or modeling? Why can we not just be actors and models without the need of being either or on the dress size scale? We can act and model too god damn it. Give us a chance, and let us eat a damn cupcake without feeling guilty.

Would the world really end if there were a size 8 or 10 model in Vogue or she be the latest starlet? Me thinks not. In fact, I think the women of the world would rejoice in finally seeing someone who actually looks like them, and has a body type and size that is actually achievable. Now I know there are women out there that are naturally super skinny. However, they are an extreme minority and do not represent the rest of us who are just medium in size. Also, it is not a healthy thing to promote either extreme of skinny or overweight. Healthy should be promoted. Why is this something that the entertainment and modeling industry are so vehemently against?

I for one, who has major body issues and is in need of thousands of dollars worth of therapy to help address, would like to see some size 6-10s in magazines and the silver screen. I would like to see a girl with a little fluff and not have it be viewed as gross. Because whether we want to believe it or not, this does affect us all: men, women and children. It shows that only perfection will succeed, get the girl or boy, and that they are the only ones worth anything. When I do see an actress get butchered in the media for having gained a little weight, making her to be gross and less than for that minor little flaw, I cannot help but feel they are butchering me. Because even at her fattest, she is still thinner than me or most women I know or the same size. So if she is gross, what does that make us?

Hence, the fight for fluff, because fluffy girls need to work too.

A Part of Me Died on Monday :(

As you all have heard by now, Ricky Martin came out of the closet.  Yes, this was not a surprise to all of you, but for some of us who have been living in the sweet denial that he was straight and we actually had a chance with him, it was a sad, sad day.  We no longer have a chance with Ricky, but gay boys, rejoice, he is all yours.  Be kind to him.

I still remember the day my cousin told me about this hot Latin guy named Ricky Martin, and had me listen to "La Copa de la Vida."  I am not a fan of soccer, but that day I yelled goal.  This is before his soaring fame in the U.S. and "Livin' La Vida Loca" infamy.  He was our little secret, along with all of Latin America, and his sweet bon bon was all ours.  He was our Elvis without the jumpsuit.

After that fateful Grammy performance in 1999, everyone had heard about Ricky Martin.  From there on, he was everywhere.  Including a live performance and signing at the previous Tower Records on Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles.  I had just moved to San Diego at the time, was unfamiliar with Southern California, and I was determined to meet my man.

I woke up uncharacteristically at 5 a.m. (I never woke up before noon if I did not have to) to get ready for the two hour drive to L.A.  I get there safely and without trouble, and find the obvious line that was forming to meet him.  Where did all of these bitches come from?  Do they not know he is mine?  After being herded into the parking lot to wait in line to see him, then began the wait.  One hour.  Two hours.  Three hours.  Four hours.  Did I mention that it was a very hot day?  Well, it was, and there was no water or food in sight.  In fact, some people actually passed out from the heat, but I stood strong. 

And then he came.  Although he was several hours late due to interviews and needing to do some yoga, we still rejoiced!  He was here!  He was now going to sing for us!  No he wasn't!  Apparently, the sound system failed, and so said performance was now canceled.  Dammit!  It's okay I kept reminding myself, I am still going to meet him, and he will be entranced by my beauty and will pull me aside, after which he will fall madly in love and marry me.  Yeah, it did not quite go as I imagined it.

So, after so many disappointments, and another two hours waiting in the sun to actually get inside and get his autograph, I am literally the next one in line at the door to be let in.  I am reeling with excitement.  This is it!  I am finally going to meet him in person!  My heart is beating, my stomach is fluttering, it's going to happen!  No, not really!  I was foiled yet again!  What does the cat herder at the door tell me?  He is not signing autographs anymore because he wants to meet everyone.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!  I am the next person in line!  You cannot do this to me!

Well, they did that to me.  When it was finally my turn to go in, I was rushed through.  "Go, go!" they were telling me.  As I rushed through, they handed me a black and white photo of him with the autograph already imposed on it, a chain necklace that read "Loca" on it (which I still have), and then, there he was.  He was a vision to behold.  I can truly say he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.  So I walk up to the elevated table at which he was sitting to get my quick handshake, and he says to me, "Hola.  Thank you for coming.  Thank you so much for coming."  I stare into his beautiful eyes, and all I can say to him before I was ushered out so the next bitch behind me can get her five second handshake was "ekh."  Yes, I ekhed at him in disgust then walked away shaking my head in disappointment.

That was it!  After a 10 hour freaking day, all I got was an hola and a bloody necklace?!  As I stood outside the door, I stared at the photo and necklace in one hand, and then at my empty hand that touched Ricky.  Damn it, I felt robbed.  And that is exactly why I started yelling "all you get is this stupid necklace!" at people in line after I left.  That they may as well not waste their time since you don't get to stand there, chat and take a picture with him.  A necklace, a handshake and a don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. 

After all of that, I still loved him.  Loved him so much that I covered most of San Diego in a period of 40 minutes going to four different Ticket Masters to buy tickets to his concert in Portland, OR.  But that is a different story.

So as you can see, I went to great lengths for Ricky Martin.  This is why the news of his now confirmed homosexuality has hurt me so.  Do not get me wrong, I love my gays, I am all for same-sex marriage, homosexuals serving in the military and having the same rights as everyone because damn it, we are all human.  But why did Ricky have to be gay!  Why?  Oh well, somethings are just too beautiful and not long for this world, and I guess it is better knowing that since I cannot have him, no woman ever will. I will never be able to compete with a penis.  But the loss of hope is devastating, and it will take me a while to get over this loss.

Ricky, if you read this, I still love you, and I wish you all the happiness in the world.  But you owe me a proper meet and greet dammit.