I only have one reason to drink Bud Light…
Pitbull!! Ay! Que rico!! Dale!!
I only have one reason to drink Bud Light…
Pitbull!! Ay! Que rico!! Dale!!
You. Only. Live. Once.
It’s a mantra for those of us being BRAVE this year. (And by “us” of course I mean “me”)
I went out for Dim Sum with some people from work, “Kikita, would you like to try chicken feet?”
I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to ride on the back of a motorcycle.
I made it happen.
It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time.
I’ve wanted to have braids in my hair forever. Not corn rows, just braids. I thought I could rock it, but was worried because some white people look REALLY STUPID with them.
There was only one way to find out…
I bought the hair.
I made the appointment.
And then I was done.
I have braids now.
My family HATES them. My mother was very diplomatic. She said she loves the braids, she just doesn’t love them on me. My sister, however, said they look horrible on me and she hates the color and I look bad and she proceeded to stomp around.
Most of my man friends love them. A couple asked that I not call them until I take the braids out and go back to being myself.
One idiot went so far as to say, “Why don’t you leave braids to black girls?”
I love them. I love the color of brown. I love how the blue pops and the purple blends. I love how I can tie them in a knot.
I was not ready for how much attention they would bring. It has taken some getting used to. Everywhere I go, eyes are on me. That alone would make me think twice about getting them again. The other reason was just sitting for 8 hours was brutal.
Yes, I can wash them. That was an adventure in itself. I’ve learned that I have quite the sensitive scalp. The moment the water hit the exposed places on my scalp, I got chills. They didn’t stop. It was wild. And DRYING my hair… It’s been two days and my hair is STILL wet. 😉 (Ok, that’s not true, but I swear it took a long time)
If I HAD looked like an idiot (which I don’t think I do), hey, it’s just hair…
Yes. I did. I’ve never done anything except red or natural. JOLO!! (Ju Only Live Once)
Once upon a time, many years ago… I was getting ready to go out dancing.
My girlfriend had turned on the tv and it was then that I saw my very first CSI: Miami episode ever.
It was Season 3: Episode 8 “Speed Kills”, a story about speed dating gone awry. It was the first time I had ever heard of speed dating and was fascinated by the idea. Granted, I decided I was too young to be speed dating, that it was something that people with “real careers” did.
It came up again when the movie “Hitch” came out and there was a scene of speed dating, but I was still not quite “old enough” to be resorting to such measures with my singlehood. Regardless, it looked rad.
For $20 (instead of the regular $44), I was given the opportunity to finally attend a real speed dating event!
Plus, I finally have a “real” job (SEE: impressive) and am old enough to not feel like a bimbo.
Of course, while I am a professional when it comes to doing things alone, I thought the whole experience would be heightened by having another girlfriend there with me. Unfortunately, I have a shortage of single girlfriends. (Well, single girlfriends that I think would be fun to go speed dating with, that is.)
However, I was able to convince a girl from work to join me. We carefully planned our outfits. We decided dresses were more appropriate than pants. So I wore a long dress of hot pink paisley on a white background (it looks way hotter than it sounds) with perfectly matched heels and jewelry. We had also decided a bit of “pre-game” was essential (aka a shot of Wild Turkey, no I don’t know why we chose that, but we did).
As we entered the bar where we would be speed dating, we were given a score card and a number. The number would let us know what table we would be sitting at for the duration of the event. The score card was to help keep track of the gentlemen callers who would be stopping by our table.
We arrived just early enough to get a drink before the hosts led us all to our tables.
My girlfriend’s table was as far away from me as possible.
My table was actually an open booth on a step with it’s own chandelier… basically, I looked like I should’ve been wearing a tiara as the queen of the event. I was thoroughly amused by it all and ready for my first date.
Beyond that, all I really remember is that he seemed nervous and was thoroughly interested in my love for cigar smoking.
Date #2: Obviously Latino. Mmm, my drink was delicious. He was an underwriter which I mentally interpreted as “lots of money, but can’t spell.” He lived super close to me. He was obviously interested.
Date #3: Asian.
Date #4: Asian. I didn’t get to finish telling him about how great cigars are.
Date #5: Break time! There were more women then men, so I got a breather… and another drink.
Date #6: Late arrival. Black guy.
Date #7: How many frakking “Billys” are there at this thing?
Date #8: Break time again! Phew! Time to text people and tell them how freaking fun this is.
Date #9: So… what kind of Asian are you?
Date #10: More breaking! Oh good! Texting!
Date #11: Holy cow! You’re HOW old? Don’t look at me like you like me. You’re old enough to be my father.
Date #12: Lemme guess… Flipino? (shoot! I hate O.D. Churroman and his use of racial slurs! And I hope homeslice over here did not hear it.)
And then it was over.
The Latino immediately came over and offered to buy me a drink. “Sure!” (Of course, I should have followed him to the bar to make sure he did not slip anything into my drink, but this was a private event in the O.C., the odds were in my favor.) While he was getting me another drink (the better to seduce me with), one of the gals came over to sit with me and chat about the event. Then my girlfriend came over. I was walled in by women so when the Latino Drink-Getter came back, he had to sit at the end of the booth and attempt to charm me from afar.
My girlfriend was ready to go, so he followed us out and asked if I’d like to meet at a bar near where we live. “Sure!” (Of course, I should have told him some other time, but I was caught up in the fun of the moment. Besides, he seemed harmless enough.)
I met him at the bar. He drove a very nice car. I switched to water. We chatted for about an hour about everything… He used to be a Marine. For some reason, he started quoting Jack Nicholson’s “You Can’t Handle the Truth” monologue from A Few Good Men. I laughed in an appreciative, “Hey! I know that movie!” way, but he didn’t stop.
HE. DIDN’T. STOP.
He did the WHOLE MONOLOGUE. – Strike 1, sir.
He walked me to my car and asked, “What? No good night kiss?”
I proceeded to lecture him on how any potential for a good night kiss had just been ruined by asking. He interrupted my lecture and kissed me. (Not bad, but I’ve definitely had better.)
I thanked him, said it was lovely to meet him, and good night.
He asked, “That’s it then?”
Me: Umm… yeah. It’s late. I have to work tomorrow. Oh, and I. JUST. MET. YOU.
Him: Can I come over?
Me: No. Are you kidding? NO.
Him: Ok, do you want to come to my house? I live right down the street…
Me: No. I’m going home. Good night.
I left. And quickly.
Multiple text messages and a phone call later, I was finally able to sleep.
The next morning, the texts started again.
Was I available for lunch? Dinner? A quick coffee? Dinner tomorrow?
I was busy.
Midnight: Was I awake?
The following day I explained that I don’t like when people message me late at night. His response: Could I escape work for a quick coffee? What about dinner after work?
I get an email from the Speed Dating people.. I have TWO matches! TWO people thought I was cool enough to see again.
The really old guy.
And one of the Asians.
Not the Marine who was trying so hard to see me again.
Saturday night, Midnight: Would I like to go to breakfast the next morning? If I said no, then he would never call again.
I politely reminded him it was Easter and then silently kicked myself for responding. For some reason, I felt like I should give this poor guy a chance… he HAD served our country, after all.
He didn’t see a problem with it being Easter.
And, really, there are plenty of people I would happily get up and go to breakfast with, none of them are so pushy, though. I don’t like being pushed. Strike 3. Latino is out. (And thus endeth the one last chance I was giving Mexicans.)
Yay! Speed dating!
Truth be told, I would SOOOOO do that again (without the after-party-for-two-at-another-bar scene, though). 🙂
I know plenty of musicians. There is only one or two that I would ever refer to as rockstars, but that is beside the point.
I think a huge part of being a rockstar is about your attitude, how you carry yourself, and how you present yourself.
I never considered myself a rockstar… until recently. I was much better at being a groupie. I made the best groupie. I was that girl you loved to have at your show because it was so obvious how much I loved the music. Musicians love their music and so they love it when someone else loves their music.
Some musicians hide their true-selves under a facade of deep thoughts. These are not rockstars. These are tortured artists.
One can be an artist and a rockstar, but you don’t have to be a rockstar to be an artist. (In fact, there are plenty of rockstars that are NOT artists, but I won’t name any names here.)
Rockstars have a quiet confidence about them. They KNOW they are awesome and, more often than not, can be seen enjoying the music they are making just as much as the audience. They also know how to connect and engage with their audience in ways that the tortured artists are sometimes too afraid (or too distracted by their own music) to do.
My friend, Michael Pancier, is a different kind of artist; he’s a photographer (Yes, of course, he’s a musician, too.) and was kind enough to take me on a photoshoot while I was in Miami.
He made me feel like a rockstar shooting an album cover.
Here are some of my favorite shots from our shoot. (The ones that I think best capture me… or just make me look like the bad ass timbalera that I am now. 😉 )
I took off my 5″ heels, stepped into the full body scanner, put my jazz hands up, and smiled for the camera.