Something That Makes Me Happy...And Something That Doesn't

The thing that makes me happy:

They come every year around April and in different colors. I seek them among the branches as I would  a delectable treasure. They are good at hiding under the leaves, but I find them. Sunshine yellow. Lime green. Sunset orange. And a vivid scarlet.

The best ones to eat are the red ones. I love it when the plump, accordion ridges are ready to burst after they have ripened on the bushes that line the fence.

I silently revel that they are almost the same shade as my nail polish.

As I wash them, my mother tells me childhood recollections of these fruits. In her hometown, there were a series of trees that towered several meters above her. After a rainfall, the emerald blades of grass would be dotted by splashes of warm colors as she and her siblings would scurry to collect them for their home.

I bite into each sumptuous cherry. The best ones, the ones to have reached their peak, have a flavor that is a subdued mixture between Ranier cherries and mangoes. I think back to my Mother's youth and wonder if her child self felt elation from eating something that was undeniably pure.

Having missed out on this little pleasure, that of eating Surinam cherries and sharing the moment with my family for almost three years, I had substituted my tropical cherries with a different variety when I lived in a temperate zone. While the flowers were more aesthetically pleasing, the taste simply wasn't the same. I often take the little things for granted.

As for the thing that doesn't make me happy:

No comment.

Barb the French Bean

The Time I Was Outsmarted by Cockroaches

At the risk of  giving you all the impression that my home is a dirty, roach-infested wasteland, I present a horror story so foul that will make you want to go to sleep with the lights on... so those little insects have the keen sense of not emerging from their daytime hiding spots when everyone is asleep in the dark. As everyone knows, cockroaches are the Keebler Elves of the insect world.

If you are mortified of roaches, please find your softest and most cuddly teddy bear before you start to read. Or skip reading this post altogether.

Still here? Okay. Let's continue.

It doesn't matter how intelligent I am, nor that I have a college degree that proves I am a cultured, literate young woman: experiences with the animal kingdom inevitably show that I can't control my very instinctive and human reactions.

One late evening (technically, it was very early morning), I made my way to use the sole bathroom that is in my apartment. Since I do not live alone, I have the habit of locking the door to prevent any mishaps of someone walking in on me. The locking mechanism of said bathroom's door shuts with the push of a button. This is easier for my grandmother so she doesn't have to struggle to twist something minuscule with her shaky fingers.

Anyway, over the years, I have developed a fairly mindless procedure for entering the bathroom. I open the door, I turn on the light switch and, still having the door open, I lock it.

But that late evening, something was different. When I looked up at the ceiling and glanced around the walls, I realized that I was not alone.

I saw not one.

Not two.

But THREE cockroaches crawling on the bathroom walls, all at least 2 inches /5 cm long.

Now, I am not one to become squeamish at seeing roaches because I don't have a particular phobia against them, and growing up in Florida only helped me to get accustomed to seeing all sorts of animals invade my home: ants, roaches, Anole lizards, even the odd snake or two. Hanny, my blogging partner-in-crime, can certainly confirm that when it comes to killing those dastardly insects, I will be the one to step forward and destroy them with steel resolve.

I'll admit that I cringed momentarily when I was confronted by three of them at once in the bathroom, yet was determined to not be conquered by these ghastly intruders and let them get the better of me.

Still, their sheer size alone should have been an indication, nay, a warning, that they had weathered enough difficulties in their tough, roachy lives to have survived to grow that large.

It didn't matter that I was at least 32 times taller than they were and outweighed them by maybe 500 times their body weight; when those menacing creatures spread their wings and kamikazed off their horizontal perches straight at my face, all bets were off.

Oh, the joys of living in Florida. We get heat, humidity, hurricanes, thunderstorms, the occasional tornado and congregating flying roaches that participate in monthly meetings of "scare-the-crap-outta-humans."

Fearing that those little, brown, turd-shaped bastards were going to kill me, I shut the door in instinctive fright and created a barricade that separated me from the trio of evil flying roaches.

A locked barricade.

Yes, I had slammed the door shut. With the lock set in place. To the only bathroom in the entire apartment. I refer to this scenario as a classic "oh, shit" moment.

The second I realized that I had locked myself out, it was as if my life of having access to a bathroom  flashed before my eyes and horrid thoughts of impending doom filled my head. "How am I going to shower? Or brush my teeth? My shampoo is in there!  Where am I supposed to pee? MY PAUL MITCHELL HAIR MOUSSE IS TRAPPED IN THERE! NOOOOOO!!! I MUST SAVE IT FROM THE ROACHES!!!"

On the bright side, no matter how much heaving and pushing I did against the door, I can confirm that the lock works perfectly at keeping it shut. This will prove to be extremely useful when I take cover in the bathroom from the robbers, rapists and serial killers who are sure to invade my home one of these nights.

However, I couldn't let the bathroom stay shut forever. There had to be some way to wrench it open. As I took a deep breath to control the panic that had seeped into my nervous system, I leaned down and observed the door knob. I noticed that it had a very small hole. One that needed to be pierced by a small wire of some sort. I gasped. This was going to be my chance to practice all of the cool stuff that I had seen on T.V.!

First, I tried to open the door by poking the hole with a bobby pin. That didn't work.Then I MacGyverred a trombone-shaped paper clip into a spear and fidgeted with the hole for a few minutes.

But it was no use. I was going to need the key. Thus my promising career as a world-class jewelry heist thief was dashed because a lock and three roaches foiled me. The only question remaining for me was: where was the key? I had a vague knowledge that the key did exist. Somewhere. In my apartment.

The only person with that knowledge was Mom and I didn't want to wake her up at 2 a.m. Feeling like a rather useless child instead of a fully-functioning adult, I wrang my hands and nervously danced on the spot. What was I going to do? What was going to happen?

When I thought that I would sink into my deepest despair, a totally anonymous, costumed avenger appeared next to me with a key. Oddly enough, she had my mother's build and short hair-style. She didn't say much, only revealing that she called herself Super Mom. She inserted her magical golden key into the door knob and saved the day.

Seeing that a little ol' sissy coward like me had been traumatized by the disgusting roaches, Super Mom bucked up and charged into the bathroom with a broom. Soon, my dreaded enemies were defeated in three fell swoops.

It's moments like these that make me wish that I were half of the woman Super Mom is. I may be twenty-five years old, but I honestly don't know what I would do without her courage, guidance and foresight. Super Mom is my hero.

I also add that this experience of locking myself out of the bathroom has made me question whether or not I am fit to survive in the world alone (the fact that I still live at home further proves this point). I mean, having a job and paying the bills is the easy part, but should that fateful day when I become independent come, who will be there to exterminate kamikaze roaches for me? My flip-flop? Raid bug spray? The Exterminator, the Terminator's much-less-well-known cousin?

Barb the French Bean

Why I Don't Sing Out Loud When I Wear My Headphones

This is considered normal:

But this isn't:

Much like talking to yourself in public, singing when you wear headphones breaks social conventions and makes you look like a crazy person. It's okay to sing along when you catch a song playing on the radio, but the activity becomes verboten once you pop on the headphones or earbuds. Your horrible voice is expected to remain private.

But the reason why I don't sing out loud when I wear my headphones? I don't need to advertise my presence to others when I'm jamming to Rod Stewart on the cardio machines. (And this is coming from someone who likes to break into dance routines in the middle of stores.)

Barb the French Bean

My Trip to the DMV

The time had come for me to renew my driver's licence, to which I bade it a resounding good riddance.

My first driver's licence featured an old picture that was of my 18-year-old self, circa 2005, when I was a university Freshman who used to weigh 257 pounds. When I became health-conscious and shed the fat, it came to pass that no one ever believed that the girl in my I.D. was me. While this is undeniably flattering, this sometimes proved to be frustrating because I still look young enough to be underage, and whenever I got asked to show some I.D., either to buy lotto tickets or to go into a bar, cops and security guards grilled me on proving that I was indeed the same person and that had not borrowed the card from my hideous Jabba the Hutt sister. So I happily welcomed the prospect of getting rid of my "before" picture with open arms.

Like most driver's licences, mine was set to expire on my birthday, which is both an ingenious and annoying day to have something expire. Seriously, imagine if every important document we dealt with functioned the same way. Credit cards, passports, Air miles, Homeowners' protection insurance, even the yearly Costco membership.

Anyway, not being particularly keen on spending my approaching birthday sitting at the Department of Motor Vehicles, aka, the DMV, I sacrificed one morning to this necessary activity and psychologically prepped myself for the onslaught that was to come.

(Clearly, I hadn't thought my ominous excursion through. Can't you almost hear J.S. Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor playing in the background? No? Just me? All right, then.)

When I arrived, I took my place in the line that had at least twenty people in front of me. My temporary adjacent companions were a young mother with her baby, and a man who sported a wifebeater and shorts that were at least three sizes too large to sit at his waistline (as it is dictated of Miami male fashion).  By great coincidence, both of these adults happened to know each other. Sandwiched between them, I eavesdropped listened as they exchanged pleasantries about why they were at the DMV (she had lost her card, he needed to renew but the card had already expired) and fawned over the adorable little girl who was, surprisingly enough, well-behaved.

That is, the baby was well-behaved until her mother went to sit down. As far as baby physics go, the second Mom finds a moment to relax, a high-pitched wailing and screeching fire alarm will be emitted by the chubby-cheeked bundle of joy.

Trying to ignore the child, I approached the DMV clerk. From his deadened eyes and near-automaton style of speech, he made it obvious that the poor souls who are in servitude for this department are members of some underground cult that worship paying state taxes and fees. I presented my passport, social security card and  my car's registration so he could grant me passage to sit down.

He perused each document and asked:

Effectively, I needed more documents. And I thought that here in the United States, I had escaped dealing with French-style paperwork. I should count myself lucky that I was not also required to take a blood sample so they could code my DNA into their database for future reference.

After another drive back home, where I dug out a phone bill bearing my address and wondered if I should also take my birth certificate before I decided against it because it states that I was born in New Jersey (please refrain from making any "Jersey Shore" jokes), I stood in line once more. This time, as the line advanced inch-by-inch, I got to eavesdrop listen to the tribulations of a pair of teens. They still wore their high school uniforms and chatted about how they were going to mooch food over at someone-they-barely-like's house. After another twenty-person shuffle, it was soon my turn again.

I was deemed worthy of passage and was asked to take a number. I hoped the DMV prisoners would be kind and not complain about having to sit for two hours because they realized that EVERYONE ELSE was in the same boat and complaining about the obvious would have been utterly pointless.

Thankfully, a most wonderful thing happened.

A collective groan emanated from the crowd as the  two-hour wait was now further delayed by another ten minutes. During that time, I kept myself entertained by creating scenarios of what would happen should my picture turn out horrible and the clerk refused to let me take a second picture. I had already lived through seven years of having cops doubt that my previous I.D. was a real one; I wasn't going to deal with that again.

Thankfully, my picture came out quite nice and I avoided having the awkward internal conversation that I had conjured in my mind. I then proceeded to pay through the snout for my new issued strip of plastic.

When I got my first licence seven years ago, it cost fewer than twenty dollars. I suspect that when I have to replace the new card another eight years from now (when I'm 33, ack), it will be priced at $100 and that we'll be required to take aviation lessons because we will have obtained electric flying cars in the shape of big-eared elephants.

Maybe when that day comes, DMV will stand for "Ditching Mobility Vehemently." Long live Ditching Mobility Vehemently.

Barb the French Bean

**Update**

In case any of you were wondering as to how my real licence photo came out, just know that I am not entirely comfortable posting up photos of legal documents on the internet.

However, I will post this gratuitous image of how I imagined the photo for my card would have turned out, all at my expense.

(Yep. This is on the internet now. I think that I was hoping to channel some I Love Lucy "eeeewwww" spirit here.)

Hm. I think it does my hideous Jabba the Hutt sister proud, don't you? Give it up for self-deprecating bloggers as I Ditch My Vanity.

A Literal Please With A Cherry On Top (a.k.a. I Need Your Help...Again!)

Hey, all!

I'm calling on you to help me out once again with something. Rather, it's not for me, but if you and your friends helped out, it certainly would make a couple of people happy!

Fellow Blogger Heather Rose over at Desperate for Something is betrothed to her beau, Charming, and she is in the middle of tearing her hairs out planning for the wedding. However, as a way to make said fateful day a bit more enticingly bearable, she has submitted a charming photograph to a contest to win $20,000 for a dream wedding. 

As someone who likes to see other people be happy, I beseech all of you with a literal please with a cherry on top to vote for her!

The link to the contest page and her entry is this one: http://www.wpoc.com/cc-common/contests/photo_contest.php?image_id=260853&id=177469 .

(After you scroll down the page, you will be required to do some pain-in-the-rear-jumping-through-hoops tasks of registering and confirming your e-mail address, but that's pretty much customary in this day and age of internet stuff. Oh, and if you happen to be outside of the U.S., know that I don't necessarily condone fibbing, but feel free to use 33175 as the Zip Code so you can pretend to be from Miami, please pass on the word to your Ameri-pals. We don't want any fraudulent votes. :P)

The best part is that you can vote daily!!! (Wink, wink, nudge-nudge, folks.)

And in case literal pleases with a cherry on top aren't your thing...well, then, do it for the Freshly-Baked Cartoon Cookies. Voting for Heather Rose will make the Cookies feel all happy and feel like throwing a party.

Don't let the Cartoon Party Cookies (and, by extension, their baker) down.

And while you're at it, check out Heather's blog. You'll find her encounters with TSA agents to be cringe-worthily hilarious!

**UPDATE**

While Heather Rose's photo was easily the most creative of the contest, it unfortunately didn't make it to the top ten of the voting rank. Which sucks because she should have totally won.

I thank all of you for your help in participating with the contest! I'm grateful for it. :)

Barb the French Bean

Writer's Block at its Finest

If you have ever experienced writer's block, then you know how frustrating it feels. You have the right ideas, but you lack the words. Sometimes you have no idea what to write, you are scraping for words, nothing seems to be coming out right and the next thing you know you have a whole bunch of "blob" (a bunch of words that make gibberish easy to read).

This is something I experienced for a few weeks. It's not that I can't think of what to write, it's more along the lines that I can't seem to express myself in writing, the way I used to.

For the past few weeks, I have sat with a paper and pen searching for my way back into writing and yet I ended up blank. Other than coming up blank, I would end up in a writing war with my paper and pen.

In the darkness boldness alley of yonder your hill...

She held her breath foot teeth...

Leggo my eggo Hamilton! (Me: Who the fuck is Hamilton?!)

In the alley of your hill she held her..." leggo my eggo Hamilton!"

After forcing myself to write, I realized that I was getting nowhere. So I decided to sleep on it. Of course, that didn't help much.

Then I kept hearing it and then it went on and then it dripped and then I saw the water and then...

She missspelled miss spelled misspelled the lectrue lecutre lecture sentence...

I hate you! You damn fucking peace of crap! work you ass, work!! (I am guilty of screaming at my working pen).

Needless to say, I resorted to taking my frustrations out by drawing my usual stick figures...

But that only helped my crazy come out...

Well it could have been worse...

It took at least two weeks to finally start writing again without feeling frustrated, but throughout the two weeks I learned a lot about myself.

#1: Some of my drawings look like drunk drawings (I was actually sober when I drew them!)

#2: My imagination and thoughts are extremely odd (Maybe I can become the next Tim Burton?)

#3: I can never write a children's book.

#4: Writer's block has me thinking of other stuff like furry walls
(watch starting on 3:18 if you don't want to see the whole thing)

I am so glad I don't have writer's block anymore.

-Hanny the coffee bean