White Kong in love

"You'll never believe what White Kong just did," my mom quipped while we chat on the phone, "He just came into the kitchen for cookies, took the hot ones for himself and then put the cold ones on a plate for his friends." Sounds about right. I laughed, "White Kong knows what he wants." Clearly, White Kong is an alpha male. A few minutes later, I heard David Guetta's techno beats blasting and White Kong belting out "Sexy Bitch". Apparently, he was putting on a show for his guests and did not think he was too far a cry from Akon.

"mom, what kind of shit is going on over there?!?" I was a little concerned. White Kong was acting sketchier than usual.

"oh it's just white kong being White Kong," my mom said, "did I tell you what he did last night?" My mom then went on to inform me that White Kong had volunteered to work at some Halloween event at the park as a member of the Varsity Club. As part of his volunteer role, he was supposed to wear a costume while he passed out candy. On his way out the door, White Kong ran down to the basement and grabbed a demented Halloween mask that might be well embraced by anyone who has pedophilic tendencies.

"Michael, that is what you are wearing to pass out candy to children," my mom had queried, "don't you think you scare the children?" White Kong shrugged and said it was the easiest costume he could find and jumped in his race car to go volunteer with the children. This was also a red flag that White Kong was more or less embracing his capacity to fly his freak flag.

But then, again, I guess love can make you crazy. While I was home visiting, I learned that while White Kong dominates athletics, academia, gaming, and most things in life, really, his heart is actually dominated by an unrequited love. White Kong, is, in fact, a hapless and hopeless romantic. Unfortunately, the lady of interest had moved East for her senior year of high school to attend some ritzy private school as she was hoping to attend Harvard in the fall. Either that or she really want to know what its like to be a Gossip Girl. White Kong had been crushed.

Anyhow, White Kong in love is a different animal from White Kong not in love. White Kong in love is sassy and blasts eurotrash techno. White Kong in love flexes his biceps at any chance and walks taller and prouder than ever before. White Kong in love did not want to ask another date to homecoming. "I'm not buying some chick dinner and paying for her ticket," he said, "I can get a steak if I don't have a date." Then I saw it. White Kong was in love and did not want to waste his time or his hard earned golf caddy money on some bra he didn't have the hots for. It was like that .38 special song, "so caught up in you" was constantly blaring through White Kong's teenage mind.

Even though he will eventually get over it, I am actually quite proud of my brother for his first step toward love. It confirms that he is really just a human and actually not a super-human. And, since White Kong is such a catch, I am sure he will find love again soon enough.

Adventures with ManRam

I'll never forget the moment Noreen called me with the big news. I had just been dropped off to pick up my car after a night a gallivanting around Old Town. All I really wanted was a bagel and powerade zero. However, I got a lot more than I was bargaining for that fateful Sunday Morning.

After she revealed to me the new situation at hand, I responded, "Omg. We are going. This is out of control." You see, Manny Ramirez who, at the time, was still one of the most noted, notable, and noticed players on the Boston Red Sox had just invited Noreen and her girlfriends over to his apartment at the Optima in Scottsdale. The purpose? His uncle's birthday party. The time and date? Today at 1 pm.

We acted quickly: I called Kate who was ecstatic and bopped right over. Noreen dug our roommate Stephany out of her room (as this was early in the period of our friendship, I really do feel that this brush with fame brought us all a lot closer). After rounding up our little girl band, it occurred to me that I was missing a piece of the puzzle:

"Um, Noreen? Why and how does Manny have your number?"

Noreen was lounging on the floor playing with a digital camera in her pajamas.

" Dirty Pretty," she shrugged. The name Dirty Pretty was explanation enough for acquiring a professional ball player's number. Apparently, she had met him a few weeks ago and had chatted him up while we were out clubbing. Last night, she had run into him again and had gone to his VIP table for probably no more than ten minutes- little girl who leaves a big impression, apparently. Anyway, Noreen's charms over Manny were about to give us a great adventure.

En route to ManRam's casa, Kate called her mom to tell her about her pending adventures. Of course, though Mary Ann was probably equally as intrigued as we were, she pulled the concerned mom card. Kate promised not to accept refreshments.

Once we rolled up to the Optima, arguable the most expensive apartment property in the metro Phoenix area apart from a few high rises in the Biltmore, Noreen called him up to figure out how we would get to his humble abode.

"oh hey" she said casually, "where do we park and how do we get in?"

ManRam directed her to park anywhere and said he'd be right down. Moments later, a pearly Escalade truck (I am fairly certain it was pearl, but perhaps silver) rolled by slowly in drive-by fashion. The tinted drivers window rolled down slowly; meanwhile, I was blinded by the ultra rims. Custom rims, I can assure you.

Manny poked his head out the window, "Hi girls," he called in his still thick Dominican accent, "get in, I take you my apartment." Now, I am a tall woman but I virtually had to jump into ManRam's hoss. In the backseat, of course, there were the stereotypical practice balls rolling around the floor. I thought about the prospect of how Manny might have thrown them in there just to tempt me to steal them. Well it was working. Luckily, I had a small purse which enabled self control.

Sitting right behind Manny, I was just inches from his magnificent dreads. I wanted to pull one. Weird, but it would be a good story had it happened.

"So Manny," Noreen asked, "how old his your Uncle turning?" Manny looked at her really long and hard for a minute as if he had no idea what she had said. He either needed me to translate or had totally fucked up his own fascade for inviting us over.

"Oh, you have to ask him." Using context clues, maybe one of the only skills I gained from majoring in English Lit, I knew I was not going to be gorging myself with really expensive birthday cake that pro ball players must get for family and friends on their birthdays.

After a slightly awkward elevator ride, we were at the door of Manny's apartment. I have to say, the apartment was not the Moorish palace I was expecting. Decor was simple. And there were no streamers. I still decided to play up the birthday party.

As we entered the kitchen area, a fifty something man entered the room wearing an all black track suit. It was the uncle.

"Happy Birthday,' I said to him, " where are all your other friends hiding out?"

Manny looked a little guilty, "Oh, it's just you guys," and began pouring drinks with copious amounts of vodka. Noreen helped him serve; I was convinced they were roofie coladas so i put mine down and flipped on the plasma. The uncle sat next to me and I learned that he was also Manny's trainer and did not, in fact, speak very much english. Lucky for him, I shared an interest in Rock of Love and am fluent in Spanish, the only other useful skill I accrued in college.

As the aging uncle and I engaged in small talk, Kate and Steph hung out in the living room wiht us. Meanwhile, ManRam cranked on the salsa music and within moments was spinning little Noreen around the kitchen. After a few minutes, he excused himself for a moment to take a call.

Noreen gave us a look, it was probably time to go. Things were just going to get weird. Not that they were not already. We all stood up and conjured up that leaving look in our eyes. We told ManRam we had to get back to prepare for work tomorrow. ManRam looked a little sad and a little in the mood for more salsa. Unfortunately, a few twirls around the kitchen were all he would get from Noreen. And as for his uncle, he would never fully understand Rock of Love without my translations as we could not figure out how to get the subtitles going.

As we drove home, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in Manny. For a celebrity, he was actually pretty boring. Not much of a conversationalist and with a pretty simple apartment. And didn't even use good mixers in his drinks (ok so i had to try it).

However, Manny was still a celebrity so we continued to pursue contact in a friendly way. As luck would have it, Manny began blowing us off and his wife came into town. Several weeks after that, he bailed on Phoenix for Ft. Lauderdale and changed his number. To think I had been just inches from his dreadlocks and now could not ever contact him again (of course, this was not a huge loss because Manny is not really that entertaining).

If I learned anything from ManRam though, it is that certain adventures and opportunities only come around every so often. If you don't take them and run with them, you will be one dreadlock short of a really, really good story.

Bloggversary

Believe it or not, it is the one year anniversary of my blog. After reflecting on a year spent regurgitating adventures and spinning somewhat snarky tales, reviews, and commentary, I have to say I can surmise one observation about my blog: it's utterly random and smattered with everything from family profiles to tales of childhood to commentary of pop culture along with many random day to day adventures.

Now, my blog is certainly not the most popular. Nor does it get any more than 50 hits or so when i publish. But i hold those 50 hits so much closer to my heart than thousands of meaningless hits. These are the people who appreciate the random and do not require me to squeeze my writing into some annoying, limiting category.

In the new fiscal year of my blog, I would like to expand it horizons to a new level: guest writers. Yes, I promise to find the wittiet, weirdest and most hysterical people to comment and query about life. Look forward to it!

White Kong

At 6' 5" and 190 lean pounds, White Kong is not someone you want on your bad side. I am thinking about this as White Kong stands in the kitchen while loading two peanut butter sandwiches, 2 banananas, 5-6 assorted granola bars and rice krispy treat bars, along with two bagles and cream cheese into a now bulging plastic bag. This is lunch and breakfast. For some reason, White Kong is also not wearing a shirt and pauses momentarily to flex his gargantuan biceps. When he shoves the sandwhiches in the bags, the bags nearly burst from the force of his fists. He staggers across the kitchen, thud thud thud, and cranes his neck around the stairwell to yell into the basement:

"Muu thhhh er. Can you bring me up 3 waters and 2 gatorades, pulllleeeasssee!!!!" My mom is in the basement doing laundry. White Kong actually happens to be my 17 year old brother, believe it or not. An All American swimmer, White Kong is currently in his senior year of high school. He spends his days swimming, yawning through classes that bore him, and cruising to and from school and practice in a two door Ford Escort coup from the early nineties. When i drive in Kong's car I am afraid i am going to die. White Kong, however, lives on the edge, the edge of 17, if you will. After school and practice, White Kong does not spend much time studying or doing school work. He much prefers to spend his time gaming, recently mastering all of the expert level songs on Rock Band. Having mastered the bass and the guitar, White Kong now is working on his drumming maneuvers to Journey songs. 

As you might discern from the initial scene of this essay, in which White Kong makes sandwiches in the kitchen, that White Kong is not your average seventeen year old. Yes, he goes to school. However, in order to avoid utter boredom, White Kong has enrolled in every Advanced Placement Course possible. During math, because he has exhausted everything the public school curriculum has to offer, White Kong takes Calculus III online with Stanford. He really enjoys this course because he teaches himself, meaning he has plenty of spare time to play on his facebook account and play computer card games. 

On top of being a phenomenal athlete and complete brainiac, White Kong has the wit to match. Quick with a joke and in possession of an extremely sardonic sense of humor, Kong can jest with the best of them.  White Kong was not always so self possessed, however. He, too, went through his awkward teens where he refused to talk and picked at the patchy peach fuzz on his face. This, however, was before he became White Kong. 

I am not really sure where the name originated. During his childhood, we called him Snow Monkey, because he spent his his days at the pool, thus chlorinating his hair to a stark white and, with the help of the sun, he looked like a roma tomato in the face. His haircut also contributed to his resemblance to a monkey. However, as he grew and got stronger, he grew out of Snow Monkey. During this growth period, my brother also accrued an acute skill to dominate video games and swindle peers in basement poker matches. As White Kong began to grow into this swindly pre-teen body he began to encompass a very powerful persona. 

As White Kong' s love for cards, swimming, and games grew, he joined an online XBOX Live gaming community. To be part of this community, one had to submit a name. This, I believe, is where White Kong truly materialized. White Kong took the gaming community by force until my mother realized he was becoming a little too passionate about this cyber world and ended his subscription. However, by this time it was too late to deny the Snow Monkey's remarkable transformation into this formidable creature we know as White Kong. 

Whenever I fly home from Arizona, which is about 3 times  a year, White Kong seems to have grown in bicep and intellectual strength. His sense of humor is just increasingly sophisticated and he has turned into a young adult. When I accidentally signed into his email account, White Kong's friend had sent him an email with the subject line, "he's the study guide, you little twat". Seeing that White Kong now communicates with an adult sense of humor tears me up a little because it, apart from the fact that he looks like a body builder, is an indicator that, though he is my younger brother, he is no longer my little brother. 

White Kong is going to college next year, which is scary because in my world of denial I still consider myself, after having been out for 3 years, as a recent graduate. Everyday White Kong gets piles of renowned universities vying for his acceptance and bribing him scholarships and other assorted treats. Most of the letters, he shrugs while reading them and tosses them in the garbage. I did not have the same volume of Universities soliciting my attention. However, I cannot help but feel a sense of familial pride for White Kong's honors, awards, pool records, SAT scores, poker winnings and gaming domination. To top it off, it won't be so bad to be that-really-good- American- swimmer's sister at the 2012 Summer Olympics in London.  

Chicken Nugget

As I have mentioned before, my sister Sarah and I had a penchant for nicknaming males after clothing stores. This was actually a very complicated and somewhat esoteric process as it required us to actually know the male of mention. In my recent years, I have developed a new, shallower means of classification: food items. Yes, classifying men as food items, more specifically as types of meat, judges them less as individuals and provides more of a generalized sort of classification.

In thinking about it, I got hooked on this methodology once I was introduced to the term "Nugget", commonly used by the comedian Chelsea Handler to refer to all of the small people she meets and embraces, figuratively and literally. I now toss this term around quite frequently. The word nugget is rather vague though. While it could refer to a food item, it could also refer to golden nuggets or those pellet like things you throw in rabbit cages. Naturally, though, nugget had to evolve into primarily a food item. Anyway you shake it, a nuggety person is just a more compressed, round version of his stretched out counterparts. This is where the chicken nugget comes in.  Chicken nugget is a more descriptive version of the word nugget, adding color, flavor and smell to the formerly ambiguous nugget. Chicken nugget men are a little crispy on the exterior but soft inside, and most certainly round, compressed and can be consumed in just two bites, maybe one if you are ravenous. They are small and squat and should not come past your collarbone. 

In thinking about chicken nuggets, i did not think it was fair to leave the other genres of male out in the cold and thus the following have ensued:

Popcorn Shrimp: tiniest version of all nuggets, unfortunate enough to have a snappy high pitched voice. The popcorn shrimp is more likely to bouncing around any given venue and has a shorter attention span than the chicken nugget. 

Petit Filet: leaner and more sophisticated than the nugget but still extremely small. Likes to work out and has very little body fat. Doesn't mind an equally petit side or two. a bit of a dandy. 

Filet Mignon: The larger version of the petit filet, still likes to work out but very lean looking. Extremely finicky and likes to swap out sides frequently. Sides must compliment the filet mignon as it tends to take center stage. Decadent dandy. 

Kung Pao Chicken: more adventurous than his cow part friends, sometimes of the ethnic variety. Likes to travel. 

Salisbury Steak: Very rough around the edges and suffering from a severe case of 'roid rage. for sport, he might let you watch him blast his pecs. 

Beef Brisket: loves to eat and has a much higher BMI than a  filet. Beef Brisket has a fear of cardio though he will ocassionally wander around the weight room in sandals and an offensive cut off sleeve tshirt. Then he will get on his phone: "hey bro, yeah, just workin' out for a few.", do another set, and then hit the bar. 

Chicken fried steak: has lard in his ass. 

This is just a short list, but I feel it is very appropriate to classify males as varieties of meat. And, by no means, have i done this to be demeaning or to belittle the male gender at all. Think of this, simply, as a quick index for describing males. For instance, while engaged with a conversation with a friend, I can easily describe a guy I had met the night before: "oh yeah, he was a total Salisbury steak and would not leave me alone." Contrarily a friend might say to me, " Omg I am going out with the cutest petit filet tomorrow!".

Moreover,  if the Gym Class Heroes can write a song called Cookie Jar, in which they classify women as "oatmeal raisin asians" and "puerto rican butter pecan" and "oreo creme" if you got em, then, contrarily, I can have my own little mixed grill of male terminology. 

.

Short stuff

I'll admit, I have a huge case of selective hearing. My mother was the first to diagnose me with a raging case of selective hearing during my childhood. Selective hearing is not a hearing impairment, it is moreso an impaired ability to engage actively in a conversation if that conversation does not suit one's interest range. Outbreaks of selective hearing could crop up at any mention of cleaning and other fairly undesirable activities. I still have it today and it kind of sounds like this:

Other person: blah bleh WTF blah blah ehhh and then.... 

Me: omg

Other person: yeah no kidding...blah blah blah and I....

Me: ohh i see ( I see? aren't you supposed to be using your ears?)

Other person: Can you believe he did that, I mean what a fucker!

 (at this point i have no idea a) who Other Person is talking about or b) what Other person is talking about and c) I probably don't even care) 

Me: Seriously. 

(other person goes onto gripe. If i am on the phone, i am probably watching tv, doing my nails or on the computer. Or just playing with my hair because sometimes that is more interesting than talking to people. The rest of my responses to the conversation might include any of the following remarks: a) yeah i know b)oohhhhh  c) ughh  d)  haha but usually e) uh huh)

Now, for all of my friends reading this, I do not want you to think that on any given phone call with me i am not listening. this is not true, i am very good at actively listening, when i want to be and I usually am but sometimes, my focus gets the best of me. So, please, continue to call me and talk to me because i really do like having friends. 

The problem with selective hearing is that it can morph and grow into other diagnoses. Of these include: Selective Vision and Selective Logic. Now, I usually do not fall fodder to selective vision, which is a syndrome that can allow you to not notice things as simple as red lights and stop signs to slightly more complex things as a substandard late night hook up or, far worse, the fact that your boyfriend is making out with someone else in front of your face. I mean, i occasionally turn a blind eye to a too high for purchase price tag and decide it is in my budget and have been known to glide a few stop signs, but  I certainly would not be so dumb as to waste time with someone who would much prefer to play tonsil hockey with someone else- gross. 

Selective logic, is however, a bit more complicated than the other two as it is completely based in mindset. While your ears and eyes play tricks on you, if you have selectively decided that only "a is possible, and b is not possible because it is simply not logical" you have an entirely new problem on your hands. Unfortunately, I have been a victim of selective logic when it comes to one particular theme: Short men. 

As a 5' 10" woman, ever since I have known what a boy was, I have had this mindset " because you are tall, short men will not be interested. Therefore, you really don't need to worry about them!  They will never come onto you and are bound to be your friend." So here, it was: i had this mindset that it wasn't logical for a short man (note: I do define short as 5'7" and below because I know the term is relevant and that men with heights ranging from 5'8" to 5'10" are in every contemporary sense of the word actually just "average") to, for any reason at all, be attracted to me. 

Well, after a few situations this summer, which i will not reveal to protect myself and those involved, I realized that maybe this was not actually true. While having a truly active conversation with Noreen, she shook her head and basically told me that I am a delusional. 

"You are 5'10" and blonde-- do you really think they are not interested? Do you really think short men don't give models a 2nd look?" I really enjoy the way this comment was framed, because she essentially put me at par with supermodels (thanks, Noreen, for making me feel like Heidi Klum for a day).  With this comment and series of incidences on my mind, I realized there was no safe zone. I had to be just as careful with the ankle biter club as with Big and Tall. Everyone had a sniper rifle ready and loaded. Yikes!

With my new heightened awareness that anything was fair game, I became extra cautious with my actions, comments and casual flirtations with male friends of all shapes, sizes, and colors. You never know. The only thing that now provided balance was the fact that my gay male friends would always just be my friends; unfortunately, they were staked out coast to coast in LA and NYC, a little to far for instant comforting. 

And so, about two weeks after noreen's profound and prolific statement, I came face to face - er well, chest to face- with a man-boy we will call: The Freid. The Fried attended a happy hour as a friend of a mutual friend of my friend, J. By the time he graced us with his presence at the happy hour, J and i were already 1 Kirin/ 1 sake deep and the Fried, who had the swagger of Jay Z and confidence of Kanye, LIfted his Stunna shades and told us he had spent the day boozing poolside at the condo his 'rents kept in North Scottsdale. The Fried revealed, also, that he owned some nebulous sort of start up, was still in undergrad and really liked having relationships. I accrued all of this information from The Fried about twenty minutes into meeting him. He had a natural knack for oversharing and boastful nature. A total Boneparte replica. 

As the Fried launched into his passionate defense for why he loves jumping into relationships after meeting someone one time, I countered the Fried by saying that there is a lot to be said about independence. 

"why would you want to put all your eggs in one basket?" I shrugged. And for some reason, the Fried was hooked. He told me I was a really cool girl and somehow this hypothetical 3rd person he was describing while he talked about his dating tactics grew into 2nd person: you. Luckily, I was pretty buzzed and it seemed no one else at the table had heard him. Our happy hour crew paid the tab and headed to another bar because the Fried had a friend who would hook us up. While walking, the Fried made sure to walk in sync with me, moving his little legs as fast as possible. Amidst conversation, the Fried asked for my number: "Wanna go out sometime?" Everyone else turned and looked. Not wanting to embarass the Fried, as he was definitely a nice person, I gave him my number and uttered, "sure." J winked at me. It was happening. 

Once at the other bar, the Fried texted me under the table. Aggressive. The conversation had shifted to a discussion of a pending Incubus concert that J and ohters were considering attending. The Fried said he loved Incubus and wanted to join her group. Then he turned to me, "You want to go to Incubus?" I don't like Incubus; i mean, no offense, but I was raised on Ziggy Stardust, tempered with Chicago and a sprinkling of Zappa. Incubus is just kind of boring to me. I replied, " I don't like Incubus." The Fried smirked, "I didn't ask if you liked Incubus, I asked you if you wanted to go." I declined again, saying I had other plans. 

At this point, it wasn't even that the Fried was short that really bothered me, it was more so attitude. Even htough his pants were obviously shorter than mine, he clearly wore them pulled up way too high. I have zero tolerance that crap. J and N could see i was uncomfortable. We left shortly after as a group and ditched the Fried and co., to which he responded with an angry text, commenting on how rude we had been. 

A few weeks later in Vegas, I was at a pool party at a club called Tao. There, we befriended and joined the elite cabana of about  12 hairy little nuggety jews from Mexico. Not only were they quite hairy but they were incredibly horny. Horny little Gorillas. I still remained diplomatic and drank their vodka while shaking them off, one little anklebiter at a time. and Snow White thought 7 was a lot. 

Upon returning to Scottsdale I was bound to run into the Fried again as I always insist upon attending Jewish networking events with J. Really, i usually have myself to blame for these, er, run ins that I have. While at a pool bar at the Montelucia, J had just finished introducing me to her friends when she nudged me and said, "uh, guess who just walked in- your favorite." 

It was the Fried. All pompous and puffed out like the little cockerel that he truly is. We caught him glancing in our direction. Just then, one of J's friends swung around and introduced us to another group that had entered. While shaking hands with new acquaintances, the Fried came prancing over. Lil J's friend who had been the mover and shaker before looked at her and said, "Oh do you know, ___________   _____________?" The Fried promptly shook her hand, smiled, asked her how she had been. J was clearly laughing. J's friend assumed that, being a gentile and all, I did not know him. 

"And ____________, have you met MAG?"  the Fried looked at me like he had never seen me before, shook my hand, "Nice to meet you!" Now I bet you are hoping that I called him out? Of course I did:

"Um we have definitely met before." I said. J was no longer trying not to laugh. The Fried looked really uncomfortable and I could see his eyes darting around. Conversation desisted. 

It was then i realized, while polishing off the remains of my vodka soda, that my aversion to The Fried would have been the same had he been 6'4". He was twerp no matter his height. This was the same situation with Tao Beach. Those hairy beasts would have been just as annoying had they been giants, granted it might have been a bit more difficult to swat them off. I was simply zeroing in on their height while, in all reality, I have met far greater number of offensive tall men than short men. For instance, there is this vile security guard at the W hotel whom I offended on one occasion by querying about the hotel's bankruptcy. In retaliation, three months later at that, he threatened me with a regular old Fe Fi Fo rigamarol. There are, however, just so many gross large men like this  that i have lost track. So, in that, maybe my point is this: there is no need to rule out all of the nuggets because one might be solid gold. 

A week later J ran into the Fried again. He was still awkward. 

The Top 100 Things that Amuse Me Mildly: #97: Vibrating Mascara

One day my mom called and we chattered on about stupid things until we got down and dirty with something really serious: make up. Now, I am not the type of girl to cake it or transform myself into Pretty Woman on a daily basis. I also have very little desire for this blog to turn the dark path of fashion and beauty commentary (no offense, but we don't need another one like that). I do, however, have a new fascination with vibrating mascara. 

The fact that my mom introduced me to vibrating mascara is not that alarming. She is savvy and chic and in better shape than me most likely. Furthermore, the last package she mailed me, apart from my birthday gift, included: a Victoria's Secret thong, birth control pills and a package of marshmallow peeps. Granted, of course, she had put no thought into the implication of such a garden variety of things. 

Now, my love for vibrating mascara is two folds. First of all, it is absolutely wonderful. I no longer need to comb through my lashes or deal with clumping. Furthermore, the vibrating gives me a little jumpstart to my day. It's ever so invigorating. On the other hand, the name is just hysterical. Who thought of this? I have a feeling it was some really horny woman who had clumpy mascara. Just a thought.