That Noisy Inner Child…

Preface: I am a grown-up woman, approaching the mature late-twenties.

Now that you know this important fact, let’s not waste any time…

 …A couple days back, I was sitting in the chair of a not-too-shabby salon.  It was one of those “narcissistic to the max” kinda days, and in the midst of it all, my hairdresser and I were indulging in a talk on all things wang-related…you know, regular 2pm stuff.

About halfway through our 18+ conversation, we heard the squeal of an 8-year-old mini-chick.  The entire salon looked up to observe the commotion.  A few seconds later, a collective “awww……” was spoken.

And why?

‘Cause she was pretty much the cutest little mini-chick ever.  Smiling, giggling, and batting her eyes at her effeminate man-boy hairdresser, she was charming the entire crowd.  All the while her mother looked on with glee, as if her precious little girl had just pooed chunks of gold (she was also one of those girls with cherry-red lips and giant dimples, a serious cutie).

So as mini-chick stole the show, you could see how everyone’s heart was growing warmer. 

Except for mine that is. 

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t like the mini-chick…not at all.  The more she giggled, the darker and colder my heart became, until eventually…I wanted to step on her face.

(is that horrible?)

Even as I write this, I’m shocked and appalled by my reaction; part of me thinks that my maternal instincts are frighteningly under-developed, and another part of me wonders if I’m seriously psycho.

The psycho-explanation is probably closer to the truth, but before you go ahead and lock me away, I think I have a reason for it all…

The truth: even though I’m all grown up, there are parts of my childhood that never died.  I think we can all relate, but let me just take it a couple steps further:

-there’s a noisy, whiny, “unsatisfied with how it went down in the 80′s” version of myself that lives in my heart, and every now and then, she comes out to play.

She looks like this:

As you can tell, she’s an angry mini-chick, and one of her glaring traits is really bad hair.  That’s an accurate historical description, because until I was 18-years-old (YES, 18), my mom would cut my hair.  It was a money-saving option for the family, so we could spend all our earnings on high-end curry for our Indian bellies (and no I don’t regret it…mmm…).  Despite the soundness of it all, “haircuts with mom” were a cold and unhappy experience.  She would take me to the musty basement (in the corner where the furnace was), bust out the scissors, and essentially hack it up.  No music, no mood-lighting, no aromatherapy, just “hack, hack, hack!”.

Not surprisingly, all my childhood haircuts looked like this:

 (why is the snowman better-looking than me?)

I suppose that explains why I wanted to hurt that 8-year-old chick.  I mean the simple fact that she was IN a salon, getting all pampered and feeling happy, it filled me with resentment; a stark reminder of the life I never had.

Of course, looking back on the incident, I sit here and laugh, because YES I’m a grown-up, and NO I’m not “bad-bangs-McGee” anymore.  Nevertheless, I can’t quite kill that bitchy inner child.  She’s still underneath the surface, a dormant psychotic sea-monster, eager to smack all your daughters.

And you know what the worst part is?

There are more of these chicks inside me (does that sound inappropriate?).  Like there’s the 10-year-old Romi who never got neon-bicycle-shorts, the 13-year-old Romi who wasn’t allowed to shave her legs, the high-school Romi who never had an actual date (sad but true), it’s just layer-upon-layer of regression…WHY WON’T THEY DIE?

Since I don’t have an answer to that, I think it would be totally cool to hit up a team of shrinks, and let them go nuts with the “psycho-analysis”.

If nothing else, it’d be excellent fodder for a medical journal, and maybe I could earn a tidy profit (so everybody wins!)

So yeah, can someone hook me up with Dr. Freud’s digits?

Hello World, Is There Someone For Everyone?

It was supposed to be an evening of hot chocolate, blanket-curl-ups, and hiding from the snow.

I accomplished all of the above, whilst surprisingly adding some writing to the mix. 

This post is a result of Josh’s, where he talked about a lot of things, including: being alone forever, wtf soul-mates are, true love, personality clashes, and everything in between.

After reading his many thoughts, I found myself twirling my hair, biting my lip, and fondling my ear (nervous habits), so I knew I had to write.

Now since I have the time and head space to write about/think about love, it has to mean that I live a good life.  Yes that’s true, but if I’d really achieved the pinnacle of “appreciating life”, I probably wouldn’t think about “finding love”, as I’d instead be focused on the things I DO have.  I love the things I have, but I am not a robot; everyone can grow and mature and try to save the world, but as we search for broader meaning, do we have to ditch the hope of finding someone special? Whether it’s a look in the eye that says it all, a moonlit cuddle, or a vomit-inducing first kiss, who doesn’t wanna be swept away?

Well maybe some people don’t, but I sure as hell friggin’ do.

So it’s a nice idea, but what’s the plan?  And how do you make it last?

These are the questions that plagued me, as I thought about Josh’s post…

My Stats

26 (OKAY, 26 and two thirds (dammit)), female and single…is this okay?

I suppose it’s okay for now, but am I putting my best foot forward?

Sometimes I look in the proverbial mirror, and I find myself starting to sweat.  It’s not an appearance thing (’cause there’s enough money, sleazy surgeons and scalpels to fix all that), but it’s more the internal stuff, which forces me to grab the deodorant. 

I know what I am, and it’s THIS:

-sincere, funny, caring, passionate, irrational, bitchy, and annoying as fuck.

As you can imagine, it’s the last 3 that get me into trouble.

Now everyone says you should “be yourself”, and that true love’s all about accepting another’s “bad” qualities, as well as the good.

That’s all just GREAT, and maybe I agree, but what if your percentage of good vs. bad is a little bit off? What if you don’t exactly “match up” with the average joe?

If I could affect my ratios, I’d do it like this:

-sincere (25%), funny (15%), caring (40%), passionate (15%), irrational (4.8%), bitchy (o.1%), and annoying as fuck (0.1%).

As it is, I fear that I’m a lot like this (DISCLAIMER: only the people who REALLY know you can give you the true percentage, but hey, it’s an educated guess):

-sincere (15%), funny (10%), caring (15%), passionate (10%), irrational (10%), bitchy (15%), and annoying as fuck (25%).

So it seems like the bad things are a hefty fifty percent, when really they should be around five percent…

Again I hear the phrase “BE YOURSELF, and find someone who loves you for THAT“, but what does that even mean? To me that’s a “defeatist” attitude; it’s an excuse for being an asshole, and explaining it away by saying “oops, it’s just my personality“.

But I ask you, isn’t there a way to get better?

Like what if there was a mis-hap at the Romi-Plant, way back in ’81?

Is there a way to set it right? Or was I stamped with the ”NO EXCHANGES” symbol before I escaped the vagina?

While I didn’t read the fine-print, I will tell you this: I do NOT accept defeat for my mutant personality, so I propose the following:

-a new procedure called “reconstructive personality surgery“.

It might sound crazy, but if science can give you a brand new face, why the fuck can’t it tweak your personality?

So to scientists at large, to doctors, to NASA, to whomever, I challenge you to make my idea happen.

Here’s how it would work:

-You’d arrive at a central factory, where “the change” would start and finish (the factory I picture is a lot like the one in Edward Scissorhands, where Edward’s dad/creator would make all those crazy contraptions (just imagine a lot of metal, and A LOT of noise))

-As soon as you’d enter, you’d be directed to one of the “showering stations”, where’d they’d strip you down, and wash you with a “disinfectant agent” (I’m not sure what hygenics have to do with a personality change, but I feel that it’s important)

-Once cleansed, you’d be patted dry with a towel, and put into a standard “personality-change jump-suit” (the suit would be lemon yellow, with reflectors on every limb (in case you tried to escape at night (you sneaky bastard…))

-Once the prep-work was done, they’d place you in a standard office chair, and roll you onto a conveyer belt (at which point the fun would start)

-After a series of weirdo laser beams stabbing you in the eye (I figure we’d give you corrective eye surgery while you’re there (why not?)), your chair would approach a human-sized oven (like the kind they use to make pizzas (but without the awesome smell))

-You’d then spend a full seven minutes in the personality-changing oven (kinda like that game “7 minutes in heaven”, where you make-out with a 12-year old in a closet (assuming you’re also 12 (of course…))

-Now there wouldn’t be any making-out in the oven (unless you caught a factory-worker’s eye), but instead it would be a whole lot of…ummm…well…I don’t know WHAT it would be, but hey, that’s where NASA/the science nerds come in!

-And once you escaped the oven, “tada!”, you’d have a much more balanced personality; the crazies would be less crazy, the bitches would be less bitchy, the physical abusers would take up knitting, and EVERYONE WOULD BE IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE

——————————————————————————————

Sigh…and that’s my wish for the world…

So if someone can build my factory (please), I might just make it after all. 

In the meantime, I struggle as the “psychedelic sock”, which doesn’t match with anything!  This may sound strange, but think about it: black socks go with everything right? And what about white socks? Well they’re very matchable too.  Even blue socks have some options, when it comes to finding an outfit.

But what if you’re the multi-coloured sock from hell? 

Find me and outfit that matches that, and I will seriously make-out with you, in a porno kinda way…

SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #3 (conclusion): Fools Rush In…

Well hello again!

Before I begin another love-themed post, do me a favour and click on the Elvis song; seriously, I DEMAND that you have a soundtrack!

 

Now for those of you unfamiliar with ”Part 1″ of my “embarrassing brush with love”, here you go. 

And for those of you who joined me last time, here’s a refresher on the “set-up”:

-I was 12 and I developed a crush on a man-boy (a delicious one at that)

-I accidentally touched his sleeve, and became all “weak in the vagina”

-I decided I loved him

-I found out he had a big-boobed girlfriend (fuck!), became all sad, but then became determined, resolving to “blossom” with time.

(And then some time passed by…)

***

 With 2 years of ”growing” behind me, I had changed in a lot of different ways:

-My hair was really long, and I had this idea that “flippy-ass” hair was sexy….??? (Is it relevant to note that my hair was also greasy and knotted?)

-I had started wearing flannel shirts (that I had begged my parents to buy me for $10 a piece), because Nirvana and other “grunge-acts” were cool at the time; I thought I’d look hip and sexy as a fan (another slam dunk)…

-In addition to not wearing make-up (as mentioned before), I had not yet discovered the benefits of plucking my eyebrows…on a positive note, maybe the un-plucked version made me look more mysterious (oooh) and dramatic (ahhh)??? (am I reaching here?…am I?)

-I still didn’t have any boobs, and I couldn’t ask mom for a padded bra, because hellllooo, bras are for sluts who have unprotected sex (another one of my mom’s firm beliefs; I think she should write a book).  Sadly then, I was bra-less and FLAT (side-note: it’s 2007, and though I’m not too far from a flat-chested state, there’ve been remarkable advancements in bras; these days, I wave around my big ol’ holographic knockers, and the men on the subway LOVE it ). 

So yeah, that’s what I looked like at age 14.  You’re probably thinking, “Oh god, I hope she didn’t try to hump him, not while she looked like that“, but hey, I had some good points too!  Seriously, check it out:

A: He has just broken up with his big-boobed girlfriend (she was forced to get a breast-reduction due to back problems)
B: He and I were now friends, laughing and joking every day (and we all know what that means right? Don’t you? No? Well FINE, I’ll spell it out for you: “girls with good personalities ALWAYS win… “ )

It was time to make my move.

Since we were only 14, the best plan I had was the ”pass a note and ask him out” type-thing.  I had this one friend who was ALL about “helping me out”.  Though she wasn’t my best-est friend by any means, she seemed real excited to lend a hand (at the time, I thought she was my biggest fan, but in hind-sight, she may have been looking for a show…).

So I let my friend write the note, and here is a re-creation (and no Jeff is NOT his real name…)

Now WHY it seemed like a good idea to ask BOTH questions in an “all or nothing” approach is beyond me, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So my friend went ahead and passed him the note in French class (come on baby, it’s French class, the perfect romantic setting! ).

I sat in the back well away from them both, pretending I couldn’t see.

Of course I observed every detail, and here’s what I saw: he read it, his face turned all red (good sign?), he wrote down an answer, and passed back the note.

My friend read the note, put it away, and didn’t even look at me once (uh-oh, bad fucking sign right?).

After class, she took me aside and read me his answers:

Oh.

After finding out the answer, I felt like the ugliest, most retarded fucking loser in the world.

The worst part was, I had 3 or 4 classes with this guy! From that day on, I couldn’t even look him in the eye; I even stopped answering questions in class (which was very unnatural for a brown nerd like me).   In addition to losing my intellectual spirit, I stopped washing my hair, my feet, and my ears (everything else was fine, but those three things went on a “wash strike”, for maybe the next 3 years…)

This story may not seem like an obvious form of embarrassment (like when the bucket of pig’s blood landed on “Carrie” ), but it was more like a prolonged, gutting humiliation, the kind that lasts for a lifetime. 

And listen, all sarcasm aside, this brown chick’s heart got a little bit hurt. I mean yeah, maybe I grew up, and maybe I stopped looking like a greasy long-haired dude, but for AGES I was insecure, wondering if I’d ever be worthy of a date. 

And sure, I may have only been a kid, but when I was “in it”, those were some “be all and end all” feelings, hell fucking yeah…

I think that’s why the embarrassment stands out like a stick in the mud…you never forget your first crush, and you NEVER forget your very first rejection (or the 10 or 15 that follow it…I mean…uhhh….shut up).

Amazing Smelling Shampoo + Lawsuit = Profit

So I was taking a shower tonight, and I had what you would call a “frightening brush with death”.  Nothing bad actually happened to me, but it could have.  

Here’s what went down: I was in the shower, and before I knew it, the “shampoo phase” was upon me. 

This was one of those days where I’d get to open a new bottle—same brand, but fresh bottle.  Needless to say, an exciting time. 

So I put a big blob of it in my hand, and the lathering began. Pretty standard, right? You’d think so, but 3 seconds later, something happened: 

-I was overcome, by the “god-damn-holy-crap-awesome” smell of the shampoo. 

At first I was confused, but then I saw the print on the bottle: new fragrance! 

As a few more seconds passed, the aroma raced up my nostrils, and began to creep into my brain.  

Things became a little warped… 

…I closed my eyes, and I was suddenly somewhere else: white sand, clear waters, and scantily clad beach-goers, as far as the eye could see (they weren’t hot though…dammit).  I blocked out the ugly beach people, and replaced them with an island native (yay, island natives!). The native smiled at me warmly, whilst handing me a fruity cocktail (he was employed by the hotel for 25 cents/hour; not much by our standards, but enough to furnish his mud-hut).  I then saw myself stepping out of the ocean, propelled by my SUPER-curvy strides (like Halle Barry in Die Another Day).   

I don’t know how much time I spent in fantasy-land, but when I finally remembered I was showering, I had worked up a massive lather.  I still couldn’t get over the smell though; it was SO freaking yummy.  It smelled just like a beverage, and I wanted to drink the whole bottle. Like I really, REALLY wanted to drink it. 

And that’s when it hit me: what if I had drank that bottle of shampoo?  I wouldn’t be here right now; I’d be dead!  I know, DEAD!

And who’s fault would that have been? MY fault? for being overcome by a toxically-good aroma? Or the fault of a manufacturer, who put a bunch of addictive drugs in a bottle, without any concern for human life?  I mean what if a school started serving 6-year olds crack for breakfast, heroin for lunch, and “E” for recess?  This is EXACTLY the same situation; isn’t it frightening?  

In my case, I know I survived, but I’m thinking I smell a lawsuit.  And why? Because “new fragrance” is an irresponsible message.  The bottle SHOULD say:  

“This smells so god-damn good, you’ll want to drink it, but don’t do that dummy, ‘cause it’s toxic and it’ll kill you”.    

But was there any such warning?  

NO, and that’s why I’m sitting on a gold mine.  All I have to do is drink the bottle, and I’ll make millions!  The only problem is, if I drink the bottle, I won’t be able to file a lawsuit, ‘cause I’ll pretty much be dead… 

Hmm… 

Well…what about…an almost dead scenario? What about “controlled shampoo” intake?  I don’t know how much shampoo will kill a man, but if I drink let’s say…1/3 of the bottle, and immediately call 911, I’ll probably survive right?  I’m sure they’ll have to pump my stomach and keep me overnight, but other than that I should be good. 

Once I recover, I’ll start the legal proceedings, and then it’s just a matter of time… 

Alright then, I’ve got the “get-rich” scheme figured out, but what about the “here and now”?  It’s just that my hair smells really awesome, and I’m not sure what to do about it.   

I can only describe my scent as the female-version of the “Axe Effect”.  It may sound great on the surface, but I’m just not ready to get mauled by horny men.  Now before you roll your eyes at the whole “Axe Effect” concept, let it be known that I have SEEN the impact of the “Axe Effect”. I’m talking about guys literally getting dry-humped by packs of girls in broad daylight.  The guys in these scenarios were definitely wearing Axe (I know this, because I was the main one “dry humpin’ it up”). Oh, and they weren’t just any guys: these were the ugliest, lumpiest, most DEFORMED guys you could think of (one of them had a 3^rd eye, lobster-claws for hands, and an actual ASS for a face (I’m thinking he grew up near a nuclear power plant; either that, or he has some fucked-up looking parents)).   

And this is the power of the “Axe-Effect”. 

I’m definitely worried about tomorrow; I don’t look forward to the humping-attack (you might think the aroma will fade, but trust me, this smell is built to last).   

I could always rub some dirt in my hair and hope for the best…who am I kidding though? This is some powerful shit. 

Instead of dirt though, I suppose I could drink myself senseless, and then NOT hold my hair back when I spew.   

Yeah, that would do it.   

Alright then, I better get started on the drunkery…  

Before I end, you might be wondering about the name of this AMAZING shampoo.  I guess I could tell you, but then you might beat me to the punch, in terms of the “drink shampoo, get rich” master plan.  That would really piss me off; get your own damn lawsuit ideas!  Frickin’ hacks…