my guilty pleasure

This is addictive as crack.

I'm number 1 right now!!!

"Chamorro Resturant"

The other day, I took a different bus home and one of the stops was right in front of a Chamorro restaurant. Imagine my surprise at an actual Chamorro restaurant in Seattle! It was in a small, shack of a building, but there was a latte stone and the words Chamorro BBQ. My heart jumped! When Mike got home, we went back to the place to investigate.

A Filipina woman greeted us as we walked in. Mike asked if she was from Saipan. She shook her head and said, "No, my husband is." I saw a man in the back, scrambling from one end to the other. I scanned the menu eagerly for Chamorro cuisine like chicken kelaguen. But there was none, save for some BBQ, but the only Chamorro thing about it was the guy at the grill.

The Chamorro guy came out and introduced himself. He asked me some questions in Chamorro and I replied in chopped-pathetic sentences. He asked me my family name (the name or nickname my family is better known as) and I told him, "Pitu." I tried to explain that my uncle was the former mayor, my mother's real name, etc. He said he hadn't been home for years, that he had been in Seattle since '83. So I guess he wouldn't know my uncle. But here's the kicker: he said, "You should really know your family name." I told him, "I did, it's Pitu." He repeated, "Yeah, I know that, but you should really know the name." I thought, didn't I just tell you that? I had flashbacks of all these mean cousins and distant relatives who tried to shame me because of my weak language skills. I didn't say anything because the food came out. Because of my new-found vegetarianism, I had udon and Mike had chicken teriyaki. His red rice tasted burnt and I felt embarrassed that he would be eating it something not done as well.

Then other flaws came to light. The iceberg lettuce in the salad bar was withering under; every surface seemed to have a greasy just-wiped-with-a-wet-rag plastic feel to it. There was no "island" feel to the place, save for two GUAM posters tacked up in one corner. A huge Chinese portrait hung on one side. The items on lit-up menu board .. And they spelled "Restaurant" as "Resturant" and "Restaruant". Of all the things to do, couldn't they have spell-checked? There was another restaurant across the street, couldn't they have used that as a reference? It felt like another teriyaki place that couldn't even do its teriyaki very well.

There was a great Vietnamese place a few blocks away called Pho Cycle. The place was really majestic, they made it a point to tell a story of the Vietnamese cyclicsts who knew the streets, the score, the gossip, etc., so everything in the restaurant told a story. I kept thinking of that place while I was in the faux-Chamorro BBQ. They could have done sooo much better.

So the moral of all this: if you're going to have a Chamorro restaurant, please make it Chamorro. Have a story, explain what Chamorro is, where the islands are, what are some distinctive dishes... And don't shame your customers! Is that too hard to ask???

dream

In my dream last night, I caught Angelina Jolie trying to swipe my pink wallet in order to steal my identity. I played it real cool and acted as if she had merely *found* my wallet to which she replied with disconcerting nonchalance, saying, "Oh yes, here it is."

When I woke up, I thought, why the hell would she want *my* identity? I think it's safe to say that she makes more than you and me combined.

Pencils are erasist.

My famous author professor gave me a 3.4 on my first short-short story. I wasn't hurt by it. My thematic matrix wasn't as tight as it should be.

Seattle is incredibly expensive. People are always suffering from allergies. Everyone has one dog or three million cats. Most people can be divided into two categories: those who drive SUVs and those who want to bludgeon SUV drivers with a tire iron. But I love it. The most awesome bands come through this area. It's easy to be a vegetarian. The literary heart here pulsates and draws me in... I can talk about gender roles and socioeconomic status without being a weirdo. And I can also find someone who worships Napoleon Dynamite as much as I do... Yessss....

If I had all the money in the world, I would be a top-of-the-line stereo system and crank out "Dakota" by Stereophonics. And I would buy you a muffin because you deserve it, friend.

weirdos

In an effort to save money and maintain my car, I've started to take the bus. Most of the problems occur when I get off the bus and trek back to my walk-up apartment. Yesterday as I walked towards home, a guy in a small red civic waved at me as he drove by. Of course, I debated whether or not to swoon right there or flash the guy*, but the conservative voice and rape prevention education told me to keep walking. So I did. When I was halfway to my building, I looked back to see the guy driving slowly in my direction. Noticing me, he sped up but still eyed me as he drove past. I reached the gates to my apartment complex when I saw him *again*, head slumped forward, eyes in a hard squint. He gave up and disappeared. I didn't get a license plate number or any other details....

This makes me think of my mother for some reason. I tended to fall asleep on the living room couch which prompted my mother to believe that I would be raped. Yes, raped because I was on the couch. God forbid this would happen, but I always thought if a rape would occur, wouldn't it be in my bedroom? There's a bed, after all. I had a TV, too! Rape is not funny, but what was funny was my mother's protective methods. It was funny to wake up and find my 5'0" mother dragging me by the feet so I could sleep in my Fort Knox bedroom.

My professor stared at my blouse several times in class. Should I be worried? Should I start wearing saran-wrap tops? My got-it-flaunt-it theology suggests pasties. As Paris says, "That's hot."

*sarcasm noted.

Jack Black's inescapable expression on the cover of School of Rock is haunting me

During one of my random acts of boredom, I stumbled upon an ancient website of an exboyfriend. It was about his "art" or as I like to call, "the shit he produced while he didn't have a job." In any case, he dedicated one piece to me, thanking me for the "effort" I poured into the relationship and apologizing for our breakup. Though this may have seemed sweet on the surface, he mispelled my last name. Really. After all that time. he couldn't even get that right. Maybe that's too mean to say. After all, he never understood that "your" does not equal "you're." Snap!

You could say that it's providential that I didn't marry any of my ex-boyfriends, especially the ones who asked me.

my favorite ad

ADD ADHD Group Forming

There is a new group forming for people with attention defici HEY LETS GO RIDE BIKES!

since they don't read this...

I can talk freely here about certain people because they don't read this blog. Today this person I used to work with called me up to ask me if I could take her, her kid and her drug-dealing boyfriend to the airport. I stopped talking to her about a year ago when she asked me for money so she could go to Arizona. It really surprised me because I didn't know her very well and she had bragged about how much money her man was making. So I kept her number on my cellphone jsut so I could screen her out. I deleted a while back and didn't recognize it when I picked up. She started a pleasantry type of questioning -- "How are you? What classes are you taking," then went in for the kill - "What classes are you taking on Tuesday? Tuesday morning? Could you take us to the airport?" I immediately said no and I felt no remorse. I referred her to a shuttle service. She had no idea and kept asking where she could get a shuttle, how much did it cost, etc.

I had a toxic friend a long long time ago, the type who only told you negative, depressing stories. He wasn't always like that, but it got to the point where there was so much whining/self-pity that I couldn't take it. So let's call him Mr. Negative. I saw Mr. N the other day and I was secretly praying that he wouldn't spot me. He didn't, or if he did it was of me rushing in the opposite direction. I kept imagining all the excuses I would give him as to why I couldn't talk - late to class, late to work, hair appointment, anything. But here I don't have to use my excuses. You depress the hell out of me. I didn't lose your number, I deleted it. When you would tell me about the girls you're "dating" I would roll my eyes. Seriously, just because a girl is nice to you doesn't mean she's your girlfriend. Also, work on your romance skills. No one wants to hear about how you need to take a shit; it's not sexy at all.

Neither of them get on the internet or read this so I'm not worried. Wow that felt better.