Blob Blog: Part IIII

"Why do you want to lose weight so bad?" My friend Jen asked me last week during a late-night power walk. "I mean, what's your motive behind all this?"

"I don't know how to answer that," I sighed. "Honestly? No one's ever asked me that before."

"Well... What is it?" She prompted with a smile. "Is it like, health reasons? Low self-esteem? Vanity, perhaps? You look fine to me. Most women are a size 12 so I don't see what the big deal is."

Okay.

Let me begin by saying that for as long as I can remember, I've been "trying to lose weight." Even in college, when I was a curvy size 6, I stared at the mirror and my reflection never failed to scare me:

In retrospect, I realize I will never be a size 2. Because I'm lazy. And I like food too much. And because I'm too attached to my boobs and posterior. But with all this knowledge under my belt, I can't comprehend that when I was healthy and looked like this:

My self-esteem was in the garbage under a pile of banana peels and empty beer bottles.

Why is it that we can't ever appreciate what we have until it's no longer ours?

-------

That night after our workout, I told  Jen I'd get back to her, and although I could come up with 100 reasons why I want to lose weight, the main one makes me a little embarrassed. I admit that even to me it sounds ridiculous and I'm ashamed for humankind in confessing it, but it is what it is.

The next morning I picked up the phone and called Jen. Before she even got a chance to say hello in her groggy morning voice I blurted it out: "CLOTHES."

Jen: Huh?

Me: Clothes. *That* is the main reason for losing weight.

Jen: It's too early for this.

Me: Just listen to me. For as long as I've had breasts and you *know* that's been a damn long time, I've been super finicky about what I wear, because I'm incredibly self-conscious.

Jen: Um... I didn't know this. You practically dress me half the time.

Me: It's a fact. Remember that bikini I bought after high school graduation? The white one with the little strings?

Jen: At that boutique place on Washington Ave?

Me: That one. It fit perfectly, but instead of wearing it that summer, I put it away for a time I'd lose those five pounds and it'd be "just right." Guess what, Jen? I never lost those five pounds. Instead I gained 60, and now that fucking bikini doesn't even cover my nipples.

Jen: Well fahhhh... If you put it like that, I'm going to throw up last night's McFlurry. How depressing, dude.

Me: Not depressing. Real life. Of course I want to be fit and healthy and energetic and no longer resemble a sloth who's smoked too much marijuana and ate three slices of cake. But the *real* reason, is clothes. I love fashion more than the average human being loves that show Friends with that Jennifer Aniston lady. I just want to wear pretty things and feel good and not try to disguise a muffin top with a stupid frumpy sweater or hide fat arms with a cardigan that doesn't really go with the outfit.

Jen: God, I fucking hate cardigans.

Exactly.

So there it is. I hope you're not disappointed in me for being completely self-centered and girlier than the average female. I guess it wouldn't be a weight loss blog series if I decided to forgo honesty and just say whatever I thought people wanted me to say.

And speaking of honesty...

It's probably a gross image for most Miami people, where the average girl weighing over 120 lbs. wouldn't dare bare any skin for fear of looking repulsive.

And it's not the white string bikini from that overpriced boutique in South Beach. It's not the body I imagined having at twenty-eight. It's not the way I want to look forever, but it's the here and now, and I refuse to let a little fat get in the way of a glorious holiday weekend with a man who thinks I'm sexy most of the times.

So what if all the snobs gasp in "horror" at the sight of a chubby body exposed for the world to see? It's a vast world out there, and no one is forcing anyone to look anywhere they don't want to.

Off to Dallas for some weekend fireworks, but back before you have a chance to miss me.

Have a lovely Independence Day Weekend and let it all hang out.

Hallelujah!

Disclaimer: I wanted to draw lots of pictures for this post but my burnt hand looks like this:

Today's going to be all about great story telling so take two of me and love me in the morning.

-------

When I was 23, my best friend Olivia still hadn't betrayed me in exquisite fashion and high-tailed her ass to Manhattan to become a flight attendant while leaving me in a heap of sweltering Miami heat and cheap men. People often think that because I have such an active social calendar I'm some sort of party animal but I'm here to put an end to that slander and explain that I'm not.

When it comes to luring me out into the dark side, my friends are very persuasive and I'm very weak, so long live peer pressure and let's get this party started. In the dynamic duo that is Annahlivia (that's our couple name), it is she who's got the itchy feet and always a good reason to go out and look for trouble (excuses be damned).

 

 

 

 

 

It was because of her -and only her- I'd drag my ass off the couch during college. I would've gladly stayed home in my cotton underwear watching Sex & The City re-runs while drinking Miller Lite but nooooo, Olive Oil (the nickname she loves to hate) had to be out living life!

This particular night was a Saturday, and even though Miami has more nightclubs than women with real breasts, our favorite party joint was a hole-in-the-wall named Bougainvillea's.

Bougie's -as the regulars fondly called it- had a live band which played reggae and R&B tunes on Saturday nights . Said band was made up of young, college guys, and attracted the same sort of crowds every week, us included. With broke college kids, come cheap, potent drinks.

Ever since frequenting said establishment and becoming somewhat of a groupie of Scorching Tamale (fictitious but eerily close name), I developed a huge crush on the bass player, Danny. With his boyish good looks and a sweet personality to boot, he had me at "Mic check, one two, one two."

Each Saturday night, as Scorching Tamale played their sets, Olivia and I would dance and drink near the stage, as I'd try my best to make eye contact with Danny and make him see that:

Mostly, Danny would play his sets while I bore my eyes into his soul sending subliminal messages of love and lust and everything in between. Sometimes he'd glance at me and smile, which would undoubtedly send me into a tizzy that usually ended with me drinking my beer in a bathroom stall while hiding there until Olive Oil came to my rescue.

That particular Saturday, I was five drinks in with no dinner when the universe aligned and shone Danny's eyes on me. I tried my best seductive smile as I attempted to look nonchalant:

But I really felt like this:

When the band finished their set, Olive Oil and I were chatting on the patio when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Olive Oil gave me a strange eye twitch and when I turned to see Danny facing me, my knees weakened and the ability to speak English eluded me.

Danny: Hi.

Me: Hrmph?

Danny: I'm Danny. I play in the band.

Me: Hot Tamale. I love Hot Tamale.

Danny:Who?

Me: I mean, I'm Annah (extends hand for awkward handshake).

Danny: So... Want a drink?

Me: That would be best.

With Olive Oil's blessing and a shot for courage, Danny and I retreated to the dance floor. After an hour or so of screaming over the music and dancing, I was sober enough to recognize just how drunk I truly was; whether it was from the alcohol or the smell of him, one will never truly know. Suddenly, Olive Oil approached us and expressed her intentions of calling it a night. At this point I didn't know my rights from my lefts but Danny said he'd take care of me and drive me home. My best friend initially hesitated but later told me I seemed sober and eager to stay, so she conceded.

After Olivia went home, Danny and I stayed for another half hour before heading back to his place to watch a movie. I didn't think I could muster the energy for it, but when we arrived to his apartment at three in the morning, we watched the entire movie from opening to closing credits, popcorn and soda included. By five, Danny led me to his bedroom and I plopped down on his bed like it'd been mine all along. Two minutes later I was snoring loudly and drooling on his pillows, dreaming of an alternate universe in which I was wiser and mature enough not to drink so much, having the sense to seduce the shyness off Danny and propel him directly into where I wanted him.

The next morning, he woke me up and said he had to "go to work." I was lucid enough by that point to realize it was the end of something that didn't even begin, when he interrupted my thoughts.

Danny: So... You snore super loud.

Me: I know. (no longer caring to be alluring/sexy/deceitful)

Danny: It's cute.

Me: You can seriously cut the crap now.

Danny: It *is* cute.

Me: If you say so...

Danny: Want to go to work with me?

Me: Right now?

Danny: Yeah. I only have to be there for an hour. I'm playing a set and then we can spend the day together.

Thinking his set was probably at some beach bar and feeling relieved he didn't want to kick me to the curb after the previous night's multiple failures, I happily agreed. After brushing my teeth with my finger and making love to some Listerine, we were on our merry way. In retrospect, I should've known something was up when the conversation turned to religion on the way to his job. He seemed relieved when I told him I was Catholic, which seemed completely out of place to me, as he didn't strike me as the religious type whatsoever. He grabbed my hand and I sat back while we drove in silence toward our destination.

The Church of Jesus Christ.

By the time I realized what was happening it was too late to protest and risk looking like Satan, so I got off the car and swallowed my immediate desire to run away. Instantly, I was rushed inside with hundreds of other people as Danny went to join the other members of the band onstage.

Everyone seemed nice enough to me, except they were wearing their Sunday best as I sported my Saturday worst.

They rocked intricate hats and nicely pressed suits.

I rocked the stench of cigarettes, laced with the faint scent of Coco Chanel.

They seemed very well-rested.

I was completely hungover.

They were all African-American.

I was fit to play an extra in a vampire movie.

They looked confused by my presence.

Well at least we shared one sentiment.

As the service began and the preacher spoke against the evils of this world, I sat in my low cut shirt with vodka oozing from my pores and smiled like my life depended on it. Danny watched me with a look of amusement from the stage and I plotted his slow and painful death under the vigilant eye of a huge cross holding Jesus.

That morning, I prayed while holding the hands of strangers who couldn't get enough of the words Hallelujah and Amen to that! The grandma to my left and seven-foot-teenager to my right seemed more terrified of me than of the devil himself, but I was just relieved to have five crumpled dollar bills in my pocket for when the basket made its way to me.

After the service, we spent the day listening to Caribbean music while sipping frozen drinks at a place of worship much more to my liking: The Bar of Booze & Beer.

Amen to that.

Blog Blob: Part III

One afternoon via text, as I'm at the office and he's finished a long shift at work:

John: I'm home. Cannot *wait* to eat breakfast.

Me: Awesome. I'm starving too.

John: I didn't eat anything yesterday at the hospital except a bagel with my coffee.

Me: So you haven't eaten in over 24 hours?

John: Yup.

Me: How does that even happen?

John: Well I got busy around lunch time so I thought I'd eat at night. But then dinner time came and a new patient was brought in so I didn't have a chance to eat. Then my hunger went away, and I just kind of forgot.

Me: Forgot? How do you "forget" to eat?

John: I don't know, babe. Just didn't think about it until this morning when I realized I was starving. Making french toast now with bacon.

Me: I see... (complete and utter confusion on my end)

This week has been a complete clusterfuck of stress and anxiety for me with too little sleep and too many people pulling me in a gazillion directions. When I'm stressed, or anxious, or any other intense emotion felt by the human mind, I eat.

And as hard as I've worked at the gym I recently joined (more on that next week), I haven't succeeded one tiny bit at this thing called dieting for the past seven days. Friday night I even caved and made pizza:

Proceeding to give myself a huge burn on my right hand, which is the hand I use for drawing and a variety of other acts I feel no need to mention on this post.

Hoping to kick off next week with a renewed sense of faith in this whole weight loss situation. That is of course, until I depart for Dallas Friday night and spend four days with John.

Maybe he can teach me a little bit about this whole "forgetting how to eat" art I seem to not understand.

Perfect Teeth

Maybe you've been hiding under a rock... But I was born in Cuba..

As a young girl growing up in San Francisco and Miami, I dreamed of trips to Africa and far away lands.

Instead, I got a yearly trip to Cuba where there are no lions (or any other pets for that matter), because they've been used to feed the people.

During our first decade in this wonderful country, we were so broke we ate cheese and ketchup sandwiches for dinner and a water heater was a luxury we didn't know existed.

FAST FORWARD TO MY MID-TEENS...

I was blessed with clear skin and strong legs from my mother's side of the family. From my dad's team, I inherited beautiful almond shaped eyes with extra long eyelashes that people often pull because they're certain they're fake. From both sides, I was blessed with teeth looked like this:

As I entered high school, I found myself being treated like a fly on a wall in a room full of butterflies. It was time for drastic measures.

As any teenager, the idea of two years laden with social awkwardness and no making out as a result of braces terrified the acne out of me. Yet the thought of looking like this for a lifetime:

Was simply too much to bear.

One day, I decided to bring the idea of braces up to my mother, knowing the answer was a certain no.

Me: So... Did you see how pretty Penelope's teeth look after the braces.

Mother: Uh-huh.

Me: I was thinking... Maybe I could get braces too.

Mother: What for?

Me:

Mother: They're not that bad.

Me: Mom...

Mother: Well you know we can't afford that, my love.

Me: Okay. (insert sad face here: ___________)

Mother: But you know? My cousin is a dentist in Cuba. You can do it there.

And so it was settled that in three months I would be getting braces in Cuba at an illegal clinic that performed at night time with zero anesthesia at the hands of cousin Beatriz.

There isn't much to say about the experience except anesthesia is probably the most underrated drug there is. Also, getting braces in a half-dark room full of roaches as salsa music plays in the background while someone holds your feet down is the bravest thing I've ever done.

Five hours and half a bottle of Havana Club later, my braces were on and ready for their close-up.

Two years later, I traveled back to Cuba feeling happy and anxious at the thought of a beautiful smile. When the day finally arrived and the braces came off, a giant mirror was placed in front of me and I slowly raised myself to what was surely to be a pleasant surprise.

And a surprise it was.

The smile was perfect. Perfectly stained with a bad reaction my front four teeth had to the adhesive used, staining them a lovely shade of gray.

There was no consoling me. And no fixing the atrocity that became my permanent "constipated smile," a tight lipped attempt at representing happiness I perfected for a whole year, as I saved a shitload of money for porcelain veneers.

After last month's tragic drunken episode, I fondly recalled the days as a teenager when a few crooked teeth ruined my life for years and I didn't possess the confidence to not give a shit.

Maybe I have far more imperfections than I ever did as a younger girl these days, but when horrifying things happen which surely diminish my already not-so-good-looks, I take them in stride.

Because I'm too old to focus on things like a tiny bald spot or a boob that's bigger than the other. Because life's too short to try and emulate the photoshopped robot on the cover of Cosmopolitan. Because I'm lazy, and I'd rather put my hair in a bun than spend an hour blowdrying it. Because I hear that nothing in life is perfect. Not even my teeth.

I Seriously Have Too Much Time On My Hands But I Will Cease This Behavior Soon And Possibly Write A Tutorial On How To Use Twitter

A few weeks ago my friend sent me an email of these free picture-editing programs (which you can use here and here) and as usual, I ignored him and went about my merry way. When he insisted I "must use these for my blog!" I finally checked them out and spent two hours glued to my computer like a pre-pubescent boy with a new video game in his dirty little hands.

Here are a few effects I stumbled upon and thought you would like hence why I'm sharing because people who don't share really suck (I'm talking to you, ice cream truck man).

And I realize this week I haven't been up to par with my blogging but it's only because my friends are going to Mexico without me and I'm down since I couldn't afford the airfare but will eventually come out of the dumps and entertain you the right way.

In the meantime, here's one more:

Okay, I'll stop now.
.
.
.

Now for realsies.

I'm Not Cut Out For This

Previously, on Red Means Go, I mentioned the delicate but rewarding act of knowing how to mix your very own vodka slushie. Tonight, I attended my first baseball game featuring the often imitated, but never duplicated Florida Marlins. And although I forfeited my time of writing this evening to watch a game I hardly understand and excites me as much as watching my dogs poop, some noteworthy things are worth mentioning.

1) As mentioned before, the best place to buy your slushie concoction and insert the vodka into is McDonald's. Granted that this may just be my point of view, but the makers of the McCafe fruit smoothies are cocktail lovers in disguise and thought these puppies up with one intent and one intent only: the vodka slushie.

In Miami, there's an often ridiculed town called Hialeah that's deemed low-class/ghetto and is mostly inhabited by Cubans that just arrived from the island and can't utter the words "cat" or "hat" without somehow butchering them. I was happy to discover a McDonald's in Hialeah the other day that makes mango/pineapple smoothies (also known as, the ultimate tropical vodka slushie). It infuriates me to admit no other McDonald's in Miami mixes this delicious nectar of the gods, but if you're so lucky to have one in your town you'll love me forever (just add two oz. of vodka and mix vigorously).

2) Britt can be incredibly amusing when she's drinking... Especially when attempting to be taken seriously. Overheard tonight after mango slushies while waiting in the car for the torrential rains to subside.

"Jo (real name spoiler alert)... There's too much slushie in my vodka."

"All the air in this straw is making it impossible to consume the fun stuff."

"Awwwww, I hate getting sober."

"Which is your biggest boob, the left or the right?"

There's just no being good when bad influences are so easily accessible, guys.

Marlins lost tonight but I assure you that somehow, I'm still winning.

Face

Once upon a time in a land far away, a boy so beautiful was born, the town called him Face. With a penchant for trouble and a propensity for mastering the art of bad assery,
Face quickly found himself in the wrong circles.

***Disclaimer: It's probably a terrible thing I put up this picture of my father on here, isn't it?

On the other end of that land and around the same time, a girl so sweet was born she immediately became the darling of her town. With a love for science and a propensity for mastering the art of nerdiness, she quickly found herself engaged to a soon-to-be doctor and on the path for her own phD.

When he turned twenty, Face devised a plan to leave the country illegally by boat on a Tuesday morning. Unfortunately for him, one of his neighbors disclosed his plans to the police and he ended up in jail for a little over two years as a result. His cell mate -an older guy in his thirties- found himself incarcerated for the same reasons and they soon struck a friendship.

One day, Nerd Girl traveled cross country to visit her brother in jail but when she arrived, found it impossible to concentrate on their conversation, as Face wouldn't stop interrupting with what he thought was funny input and witty remarks.

She hopped on a plane the next day and told her best friend about this annoying guy who was constantly butting in with nothing but crass remarks and ridiculous anti-communism ideologies. Over beers she confessed of being plagued by thoughts of him on the flight home, yet the thought of someone so forward and open made her blood boil.

When Face was released from jail at twenty-two, he bid his new friend goodbye and promised to find Nerd Girl, thanking him profusely for disclosing her address.

"She's getting married, dude," said the brother. "Plus she'd never go for a guy like you."

"Of course she's getting married," Face retorted. "To me."

And four months later:

To Face: For taking a giant leap of faith in the name of love and being the cool half of a very unlikely duo.

Happy Father's Day.