Welp. I survived NaBloPoMo and instead of bothering you with a long drawn out post, I shall simply share a picture of Little Deutlich.

Like the Pussycat Dolls.

I mean, I understand the concept but I’m not really sure there’s a need for an entire group. Does anyone actually know all five members? Or am I pretty correct in assuming that the Pussycat Dolls = Nicole Sherzinger?

Other than her, all I know is that there’s a blond, a brunette, a redhead and some other chick. There are five after all – the magic number. But if you asked me to spot one in a crowd, I’d walk right past them.

They should just rename themselves to Nicole’s Group. Or give her a solo contract.

Wait. I think they did and I’m pretty sure the album went no where.

I guess there is a reason for the other four?

In a few weeks my brother will be here from the west coast, just in time for my birthday which is exactly one month away! I’m pretty sure he inherited the funny bone in our family because his ability to make deadpan jokes is just beyond me. The following conversations are excerpts from last year’s holidays.

A friend of Cedric’s, whose nickname is Jello, was at the house when the following took place. There had been a mass consumption of Spanish Coffee (read: lots of liquor including Bacardi 151) and mom was a wee bit tipsy. I should note, she doesn’t curse or use derogatory language – ever. Oh, and try to imagine the German accent. It helps.

Me: Where’d you get those tats?
Jello: In Palm Dale, north of LA
Cedric: EFF palm dale
Mom: FUCKING PALM DALE?!?
Cedric: stunned and giving mom a look of disbelief
Cedric (to Jello): My mom’s drunk
Mom: No, I’m not!
Cedric: Wait, so you talk like this all the time?
Mom: uhm…no?
Cedric: So you’re saying you don’t use this loud inner monologue all the time?
Mom (ignoring my brother all together): Jello! You want a liquored coffee??

When in doubt, simply ignore …and drink more.

~*~*~*~*~

My brother works around helicopters, so he tends to carry a pair of bright orange earplugs with him. Shortly after the aforementioned conversation, he pulled a fresh pair out of his pocket and placed them on the table.

Mom: Are those lighted?
Me: [confused] What?!?
Mom: Are those lighted? They look lighted!
Cee: [deadpan] Drink another.

Those suckers were bright orange but definitely not “lighted.” I mean, why would earplugs be lit? On the kitchen table?

~*~*~*~*~*~

The brother and his circle of friends didn’t really care for Jack’s girlfriend at the time. This is mainly Jack’s fault for talking a bunch of trash about her. Being the curiously nosy woman that my mom can be, she was adamant about meeting this chick. Jack is like family, after all.

Mom: Jack needs to get his ass over here and bring that 20-SOMETHING YEAR OLD WHORE!
[Proceeds to call Jack to get him to come over. She's forced to leave a message. On Christmas Day.]

~*~*~*~

At some point during the day.

Cedric: When I had chili before I went out the other day, I think it blocked all the alcohol from going through that little funnel in my stomach [insert funnel hand motion] ’cause when the food was finally digested I was drunk as shit in no time
Mom: That’s stupid!

~*~*~*~

I can not wait for the brother to be back.

It goes without saying that in some areas there are distinct ethnicities that work at fast food places like McDonald’s.

Since I’m a Virginian, I’ll stick with what I know. In southeastern Virginia, it’s almost always caucasian people. In northern Virginia, it’s almost always Latinos. In DC, it kinda runs the gambit.

One of the Mickey Ds I came across had a mixture of blacks and Latinos schlepping away in an environment most of us would rather not have to work in. The lady who took my order quite obviously spoke English as a second language.

As I placed my order, I could tell immediately that I was talking too fast and needed to slow down. I’m all right with this, I am German after all. I know what it’s like to not have English as your first language. To me, the woman actually spoke really damn well – all things considered.

The next customer to step to the register was a whole other story. She neither payed attention to the situation nor cared that her haste was making it difficult for the employee to discern her order.

And it pissed me the fuck off.

You could see that the language barrier was bugging the customer. It was also very clear that she had quite a lot more money than the employee. You could tell just by looking at her clothes. 

Her annoyance kept peeking through in the most obnoxious way and I almost told her off. I had to seriously take a breath to avoid a situation that probably wouldn’t have changed her irrational behavior anyway. If anything, I would’ve just ticked her off and made her to feel like she was right.

There is a certain level of disgust that I feel in a situation like this. I think people with privileged lives should really stop sticking their nose in the air at those who they think are lesser people. Money can disappear in a second and you sure as shit can’t take it to the grave. 

I guess the point is that I don’t think people should mistreat others because they have an accent.

Especially not in America.

Ever since I walked away from an entire group of folks I called friends, I have a very tiny circle of people I still talk to. Locally, this circle consists of about 4 people (DMB, Metaltits, Michelle and Mike). Maxie and Kristina live further away but very obviously fall into this category as well. They’re the kind of friends I’m always comfortable around no matter what kind of day I’ve had.

There are a few others I’d hang with depending on the situation but this, too, is a small group.

The reason I had to walk away from about 30 others is due to the amount of drugs involved and the repercussions of them. PSA: Drugs are bad.

This means that I occasionally have to go out alone. I’m talking movies as well as restaurants. I personally don’t care. If I’m with myself, I don’t have to fake smalltalk, I don’t have to pretend to be interested in a topic I’m not and I’m definitely less likely to be annoyed at varying intervals.

Yet somehow, it can feel weird. I often wonder if others are staring at me and making up some kind of awful opinion. Then I remember I don’t really give a flying shit about what some stranger thinks. Then I remember I still feel the slightest bit of uncomfortable.

Why the hell is this? I couldn’t get a hold of anyone to go see Role Models and I needed to get out of the house. Afterward I just couldn’t resist a nicely cooked patty of cow flesh squished between tasty bread buns from Johnny Rockets.

What the heck is so wrong with that?