Snap into a Slim Jim! Or not.

While my sister and I rarely got along when we were younger, we have always been able to bond over our similar sense of humor. We laugh at things that most people would not find funny. At all.

Take today for example, I'm coming home from the airport, and I see a scummy, pink building with the sign "Seatac Crest Motel." Before I could even get my joke out, I started giggling. My co-worker looked at me, wondering what was entertaining me so. I burst, "They should just change the 'e' in Crest to a 'u' and call it what it really is: Seatac Crust!" I started cracking up to the point where I was almost guffawing, until I realized my co-worker thought this was the stupidest thing that has ever come out of my mouth.

I couldn't exactly say, "Well, my sister would have been rolling!" So I awkwardly tried to stop laughing (and couldn't) and would explode again every few seconds. This continued for about five minutes. When I finally stopped, I just put my head down in shame.

Anyway, one shared moment of hilarity occurred when my sister and I were about 5 and 8 years old respectively. We thought the recently invented Slim Jim commercials were hysterical. Who wouldn't chuckle at a man with a pepperoni stick on his head that shouted EAT ME! in everyone's face?

Then, it hit us like a bolt of lightening, "What if WE decided to go around yelling 'EAT ME!!'? We'll be just as funny!"

The perfect opportunity arose itself when my poor mother announced she was taking us grocery shopping later that day. We bounced off the walls in anticipation of our newly-developed social experiment. People were going to think we were the funniest kids in town!

We almost lost our privilege to go with Mom to the store because we were so hyper during the day. Reluctantly, my mom still let us go. We finally arrived at the store after many, "are we there yets" and "are we there yet nows." When I was old enough to understand distance, I discovered the grocery store was only 2.5 miles from my parents house. That must have been painful for my mom. She was already regretting taking us with her.

My sister and I trailed my mom as she pushed the shopping cart down the spice aisle. Ready. Aim. "EAT ME!!!!!!"

We startled nearby shoppers who looked at us quizzically, and then quickly shot glances at my mother that I did not understand at that age. Maybe they just didn't hear it right. In unison again we cried, "EAT ME!!!"

My mom turned around and told us to be quiet. Why wasn't anyone laughing?

Even though our experiment was clearly failing, we just decided to continue entertaining ourselves, "EAT ME! EAT ME!"

We tried different tones, pitches and volumes as we trotted behind our mother. It began to be clear that we were irritating her, which only fueled the fire. It was now a game of "let's see how mad we can make Mom."

Finally, my mom whipped around. "You know, you guys are saying something really dirty!" she hissed. "I'm going to ask you one more time to stop yelling in this grocery store."

"Yes, Mom..." we said looking down, as if we were ashamed, although we both knew that would not be the last outburst before we left.

When it became clear that our next stop was the cash register, my sister and I looked at each other in agreement and shouted our proudest, loudest and final "EAT ME!!!!!!!!!!!" It reverberated against the walls of Safeway. But not as loud as my mother's response, which caused the entire store to go silent: "IT MEANS LICK MY TWAT!!! SHUT YOUR MOUTHS!!!!!!"

What? You mean- the Slim Jim guy was really saying...WHAT?! Why would he say that?! On top of my joke turning into a pile of ashes on the floor of Safeway, I suddenly noticed...Oh god. Yup. I wasn't dreaming. The entire store was looking at us. Why didn't she save us from this humiliation?

What surprised us, was that my mom seemed suddenly embarrassed "I'm sorry." She said red-faced to shoppers who had just gotten the guts to walk again, but could not resist giving my mom the "bad parent" dagger eyes. What was going on? We were in trouble but she was apologizing? This was kind of cool actually. But why were people looking at her?

I didn't get it. Until much later. And we finally apologized to my mom for embarrassing her. Luckily, we can all laugh about it now, but my mom still gets kind of mad when we bring it up. Sorry mom :)

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but Slim Jim's will publicly humiliate your mother.

Allow me to introduce you to my big toe...

Pedicures are normally a relaxing hobby for women. Yes, an Asian woman schlepping dead skin off your feet is supposed to be relaxing. Unfortunately, this popular past time has been a source of much anxiety and dread for me. No, my feet are not that bad. It's not like they need to pull out a chain saw or anything.

It all goes back to an experience I had in Bellingham...Ahem...back up. It all goes back to when I was born.

It was October of 1984. My mom was birthing me and I came out screaming and kicking. It was then that the doctor noticed that I had a "kick" unlike any baby. He took one glance at my foot as I fluttered my feet to and fro, and his eye was almost taken out by my giant, mighty, right toe. Extra bones had formed when I was in the womb, making it wider than most toes, with a larger than life nail, fating me for low self-esteem. Offended that he almost lost an eye, and to an infant no less, he shouted, "We must fix her at once!" I remember this clearly.

Since babies can't have anesthesia he thought it best that he operate immediately to punish me. He cut open my toe, and I took it like a champ. He took out the extra bones, and STILL left me with the biggest right toe anyone has ever seen in the history of big right toes. I was a great soccer player because of it. I got more surface area on the ball, so I could kick it pretty far.

Anyway, I grew up being really self-conscious of my feet. I wore socks with sandals, not because I grew up in Washington, but because I didn't want anyone to randomly walk up to me and say, "My, what a big toe you have." My mom had already convinced me I was going to clown college. I used to have nightmares about clowns and carnies dancing around me to circus music. In my adult years, when I confronted my mom about this cruelty she replied, "I was just trying to give you a sense of humor about it!" Ha. Ha. Ha.

Pool parties were awkward. I always stayed in the water until I was a prune. I wore aqua socks once I got out of the pool - as if I wasn't awkward enough. And in my homecoming picture, I wasn't wearing shoes, so I was busy sitting on my red-headed, pimply-faced date's lap with my left foot on top of my right foot so that my toe could not be documented in the high school year book. I couldn't go any lower on the social totem pole as it was. I didn't need any deformities to bury me underground completely.

Eventually, I came to the realization that there was not anything I could do to fix my toe. I could sulk and hide and worry about it for the rest of my life- or I could celebrate and have a coming out party- which is exactly what I did.

I was loud, proud and flashing my big toe around town. With a little encouragement from my mom, I went to get my first pedicure at the age of 20. I was surprised at how nice the lady was to me and she didn't even treat me different because of my toe. My mom must have slipped her a 20 and begged her to touch my feet when I wasn't looking.

I began going regularly to this salon to get pedicures without incident.

But when I moved to Bellingham, it all changed.

My roommates and I needed to relax after a particularly stressful finals week. In addition to drinking ourselves into a stupor, I suggested we go get pedicures beforehand. We found a place that accepted the coupons offered in the university's quarterly student coupon book. Mistake number one: Discount pedicures are like discount plastic surgeries. You get what you pay for.

Excited and oblivious, we practically skipped to Le Nail. Mistake Number Two: Do not go to a place that means one nail in French and employs not one French person. Maybe my subconscious told me they'd do a really great job on my big toe. That was one arduous nail to paint, right? One nail? Le Nail?

My roommates and I relaxed as we placed our feet in the bubbling blue water, pretending we were somewhere tropical, rather than in a dingy nail salon. Then the Vietnamese man - yes, a male pedicurist- pointed to my foot as a signal that he was ready to begin his life's work.

My toe emerged from the water in slow motion, like the Loch Ness Monster revealing it's identity to mankind for the first time. The man's eyes widened and he immediately began speaking rapidly in Vietnamese. Whatever he was saying sounded like an emergency, but I couldn't really tell because all conversations in Vietnamese sound like it's an emergency to me. So initially, I thought nothing of it and continued pretending I was in Fiji.

That's when the only two employees emerged from the back room and rushed over to my seat. They all stood over my toe and gawked. Was this really happening? The man began pointing and talking rapidly with the other two female employees. I couldn't believe this- my worst fears coming to fruition. No matter what they were saying, it translated into "FREAK!!" in my head. My years of wearing socks with sandals began to come back to me.

"Look," said one lady finally. "I have injury too." She put her mangled arm inches in front of my face. What the fuck was this? It looked like it had gone through a wood-chipper. No way in hell was my toe anywhere close to being similar to that woman's butchered limb. How dare she try to relate! I was not the missing star to their freak show. I suddenly heard circus music and had visions of carnies again. I shuddered.

Looking back, I think she was only trying to sympathize. Maybe her birth doctor decided to mess up her arm too. Whatever the reason, I was not paying $15 to be a cheap show at Le Nail. But I was also shocked, I didn't know how to stop it. Eventually they all subsided to their respective pedicure and manicure stations, but would occasionally glance at my toe to see how much paint the man used on my enormous nail.

I left Le Nail that day a scarred and broken woman. It took me months to gain back the confidence I had at my coming out party. But I'm proud to say, I have made a full recovery and can now care less about people seeing my toe. In fact, I graced the massage chair last weekend at World Nail in Issaquah. My toe gets around.

So let this be a lesson to you all: sticks and stones may break your bones, but deformities don't have to scar you ;o)

Please put us out of our misery

This is the best news I've heard all week!

"Megan Fox Admits She Cut Herself"

This is not even worthy of a sticks and stones life lesson. Let's keep our fingers crossed >:o)

Blinded by the scent?

I was at a friend's house, enjoying my preferred high class dinner of frozen pizza and orange juice, when suddenly I got a waft of fragrance that took me back to my childhood. I could not figure out what I was remembering exactly.

"What is that floral scent?" I asked.

My friend brought me over to the table to show me her recently purchased Caress bar soap. I instantly started laughing, knowing exactly what memory it had triggered. My friend, confused as to why I found that so funny, asked, "Why is that so funny?"

As I explained the story, I longingly gazed at the cartoon bubble that rose above my head, replaying one of the best moments in retail history.

The year was 1989. Apparently, this was quite the pivotal year in my life, as two of four stories have already been told from this time period. I was in line with my mom at the local grocery store, Stock Market, when I decided it was time for me to go exploring.

I landed in the soap aisle. For those that know me, I am to this day, a bath product junkie. I love soap, body wash, all of that stuff. I have a whole drawer full of unused bath products that I've stock piled. Apparently, the infatuation started at 5 years old because I felt the need to sniff and evaluate every bar of soap down that aisle. Every. Bar. Of. Soap.

Things were going smoothly until I reached Caress, soap evaluation number 158. I picked it up, brought it to my nose, took a hit, and my eyes instantly started to water. Since no 5 year-old is in tune with their body, or the signs it gives when something is wrong, I continued to sniff it.

"Mmm...this smells good!" I thought.

I kept sniffing away, enjoying my soap high, when suddenly, my eyes began to puff up. I realized something was wrong since I couldn't open them very far. Oh well. Nothing is going to stop me from toking up. Keep sniffing.

The next thing I knew, they were completely swollen shut! Did this bar of soap seriously just make me blind? I started panicking. My breathing became labored and anxiety quickly set in. My mom was going to be so mad. I wasn't supposed to leave my mom's side in the first place, but now I couldn't even see to find my way back to her!

"MOM!!!" I immediately started shrieking. "I can't see!!!!"

I could officially relate to the three blind mice. I just thought it was a fun little song we sang in preschool, but now I was the fourth mouse! I was crying, but tears were just leaking from the two swollen slits that now made up my eyes. As if I didn't already look Asian enough.

This can't be happening. "Mooooom!!!"

My mom is usually really easy to pick out of crowd due to her height, but since I was blind and that was all I had ever relied on when hunting her down, I felt doomed that we would never reunite. I was convincing myself that my picture would be featured on the next missing persons junk mail pamphlet, when suddenly I heard my mom's voice at the end of the aisle.

"What are you...Oh!" she said when she saw my face. I could tell she was trying not to laugh. Mind you, this is also the same mother that told me I was going to clown college because of a deformation on my big toe.

"I was sniffing all the soap and now I'm blind!" I said exasperated.

Noting the dropped soap on the floor, she said, "Honey, you are allergic to Caress, remember? We bought it once and it made you break out in hives."

Now she tells me. "But I'm blind!!!!" I cried.

Why was she so freakin' calm? Couldn't she see my career path was at stake? The only thing I could become is the next Stevie Wonder impersonator! And I couldn't play the piano (yet)! I would never find work!

"Honey, you're fine. Let's get you home and give you some Benadryl, and I promise you'll be able to see again."

Oh. I would be fine. Thank god. Bye Stevie.

I thought for a moment and said, "Can we buy it anyway?" I was considering putting a bar of the blinding soap on Megan's desk at school. She needed to be blinded.

Unfortunately my mom wasn't seeing this logic and refused my offer. We promptly went home and a few hours later, which is light years in kid time, I could finally open my eyes.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but Caress will take your sight.

Rockabye gangster on the tree top...

My eyes have dark circles underneath them. I look droopy. I'm probably not listening to what you are saying. I have not slept more than 7 hours in the last 48. Last night, when I thought I was finally going to catch up on some Zs, some thug outside my apartment decided to allow me 2 hours.

I was reading in bed, when all of the sudden I heard 8-10 gunshots right below my window! Even though I'm four stories up, I instinctively dove off my bed and hit the floor right after grabbing my phone. I learned something new about myself- I'm programmed for combat- or just a weeny :). After diving to save my life, I called the cops crouching behind my bed.

I was trying not to completely freak out when I spoke to the operator but I couldn't stop my voice from shaking. It was all I could do to concentrate on what she was asking me, and not letting my mind run wild with what may have transpired below my window.

She asked how many gunshots I heard. I think my number started out with 6 but then got higher. It was more than six, but I knew it was no more than 10. She asked if I heard people yelling, or screaming, or if I could hear cars driving off. I didn't recall hearing any of it even though my window was open.

She reassured me that cops were right around the corner. Right when I hung up I started trembling all over and I couldn't stop. I remembered the feeling when I got in my car wreck five years ago. I was so freaked out! I looked outside my window and didn't see anything. Where were these cops she spoke of? More importantly, where were the bad guys?

Usually when I start to freak out about something, My boyfriend's the first person I call. (Lucky guy.) I finally spit out the story and he was really worried. I know he hates me living here. I officially hate me living here too. Now don't get me wrong- I love Seattle, I love my apartment, but I hate the CD. I tried justifying that things can happen to you anywhere when I moved here. Which is true. They are just more likely to happen to you here. This is the third time I've personally heard gunshots here, but none were as close as they were last night. When I feel the need to dive behind something, that's a little too close for comfort.

I hated the high-heeled, chihuahua-walking, breast implants that trotted around Kirkland, but I'd take that over bullets singing me to sleep any day. At least I could go for walks in that neighborhood. I don't feel safe outside of my apartment at all. I was going to invest in some mace until my boyfriend reminded me it doesn't stop bullets. I need to stick it out another 6 months here. Let's hope those assholes keep their trigger fingers to themselves for the duration of my lease.

When I got off the phone with my boyfriend, I looked outside my window and 4 cop cars were surrounding my apartments. I was in the process of convincing myself that I really didn't hear all those gunshots, until I saw them trying to measure the angle at which bullets hit the apartment building. Damn. I drove by today and no windows were shot out, and no one was hurt luckily. Just some asshole trying to scare people who live here.

When I finally decided to try to sleep, I laid in bed awake all night, each noise outside making me more paranoid than the one before. I fell asleep around 4 am. My alarm promptly woke me at 5:45. Thanks asshole.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but the CD will kill you.

Hi. How are you? How's ya mom?

I just sat down at my desk this morning and my coffee mug was en route to my lips when I hear, "Hi! How are you? How's ya mom?" I love when people ask you about your sick mother, right after they ask how you are. First of all, I was doing fine, until you reminded me I have a sick mother. Second of all, did I say I wanted to discuss my mother? All I said was "fine." Somehow "fine" translated into "I'm not even awake yet, but I'd love to discuss how difficult cancer has been on my mom, me, the rest of my family."

But what I especially love, is when they ask about my mom when they really don't want to know. They want to hear "She's doing great! She's so positive!" so they can say, "You know, they say that staying positive helps people beat cancer!" Don't we all want to hear it? But the reality, is that cancer beats the shit out of people. It's like putting Barney in the octagon with Georges St Pierre. Sometimes, you just don't win. No one wants to hear that.

Enter co-worker John. Funny man of the department, loves the limelight, thinks he's clever, loves acting like he gives a damn about everyone, but has pictures of himself with strippers pouring beer down his throat on his facebook. Class-A douche bag. He's the unlucky victim that fatefully asked me how mom was this morning, just to make himself feel better for asking. It was the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the situation and make it as awkward as possible.

Instead of giving him what he wanted to hear, I said, "You know what's gross? She's having to get her chest cavity drained through her back now."

"Oh!" he was shocked, caught off-guard, his feet now pointing in the direction of his hopeful exit. "I'm sorry to hear that." He was already regretting the question. One foot starts moving like it's going to take a step, but I don't let it. I have him right where I want him.

"Yeah it's too bad, because the fluid is actually protein that her liver is sweating away. It's crazy. You think of fluid and you think, like clear water or something, but this actually looks like straight up amber ale." I saw his face lighten a shade or two. Not done yet. "It used to collect in her abdomen, which used to get drained weekly - dude, they once took 5 liters of fluid out-" at this point, he actually took a step, but I got up and began following him.

"- but now, the fluid is seeping past two layers of muscle and into her chest so she can't breathe. They got 2 liters out of her chest last time! Nasty huh?"

He quickly tried to mask the look of disgust on his face with puppy dog eyes to express sympathy, but he let his nostrils flare too long. "Oh I....uh....that's too bad. Well tell her I'm thinking of her. Even though she doesn't really uh...know who I am." Mission accomplished.

"If I remember," I say with a secret smile on my lips as I turn my heels back towards my desk.

Wasn't it God who said, "Ask and you shall receive?" I was just channeling God. No big deal.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but the cancer patient's daughter will make you sorry.

....but words will never hurt me!

Sticks and stones was the first "life lesson" that was ever taught to me. Sure, I got the lecture that you need to share and be kind to people, but when I think back to what really stuck with me (because sharing and being kind didn't), it was that catchy little phrase- passed down from generation to generation, used to sooth the minds of the hurt and strengthen the souls of the weak.

Unfortunately, the jerk who made it up only happened to be good at rhyming and not actually defending himself. He lied to everyone who believed it. (I'm just assuming it's a "he". No woman would have ever told a legendary lie like that). And unfortunately, I was gullible enough to fall for it.

Rewind- the year is 1989. I'm in kindergarten, wearing a Rainbow Bright t-shirt and bouncing around with my side pony-tail and buck teeth. Enter Megan: a 300-lb, five year-old with a vendetta to rule Ms. Reardon's AM Kindergarten class.

I did everything in my power to please her - I drew her pictures using her favorite crayon (which changed every time I presented a drawing to her), painted her name with every color available at the paint station, and even made her a macaroni necklace. She hated it all. With every effort I took to be her friend, she made that much more of an effort to cut me down. I began being teased mercilessly.

That's when my mom decided to sit me down and have the "Sticks and Stones" talk - which by the way, I will NOT be having with my children- and convinced me that all I would have to say was this rhyme, and the teasing would stop. It would be like a magic spell. And then a unicorn would fly out of her ass and make the world a better place.

The next day, I walked into kindergarten, armed with my new ammo, confidently prepared to face whatever words that happened to fall out of Megan's fat, five year-old head. As expected, the teasing began, and that was my cue to whip out the rhyme of death:

"Sticks and Stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me!"

She rolled her eyes and began laughing. Wait what? Laughing? Where was this unicorn? I repeated louder this time. Maybe she just didn't hear me right.

"STICKS AND STONES WILL BREAK MY BONES BUT WORDS WILL NEVER HURT ME!!"

She laughed even harder. What was with this chick? I couldn't believe it. She was Murky and Lurky incarnated! When she finally calmed down, she managed to say, "What. Did your mommy tell you to say that?"

I was shocked. She was pure evil. The teasing not only continued, it got worse. And she got others to join in on it. It continued into first grade, even though Megan was in a completely different class. This meant, she actually went out of her way to ruin my life.

That was the year I began wearing glasses which only added to the list of ailments she seemed to tease me about. I would have welcomed the standard four-eyes cut down, but I was being told that I was "totally cool.........NOT!" Damn you, 1991.

That's when my mother's Sticks and Stones stint decided to take steroids. Her advice went over the edge- she took me to see my school counselor, Mrs. Cousins. Her name says it all: Inbred. She was totally out of touch with elementary school politics, not to mention the human race. Why should I be listening to any of her advice? Because my mommy told me to.

I went for a few sessions by myself so that she could determine "the problem," however inbreds go about doing that. She somehow convinced me that I needed to face Megan and tell her how she's hurt my feelings. I was being set up for disaster. Who did this mouth-breather think she was?

Much to my dismay, the day came when Mrs. Cousins tricked me- I thought I was having yet another session by myself, but when I walked into the room, Megan was seated in the mini-chair where I usually sat. What the hell was this? Mrs. Cousins motioned for me to sit next to her, which I did warily. Megan looked at me with disgust only a six-year old could muster.

"Well. Don't you have anything you want to say to Megan?" said Mrs. Cousins.

"What?" I was supposed to say something to her??

"How about, I'm afraid of you." she prompted.

Was this woman seriously trying to ruin me at Orca Elementary? Had she no idea that she was forcing me to commit suicide?

After the looming realization that I wasn't leaving the room without completely humiliating myself, I began trying to work up to saying the god-awful sentence.

"I-I'm...." I began.

"Come on! You can say it!"

"I-I'm afrrr...."

"You can do it, yes you can!"

"I'm afraid of you." I spat it out just to get the knuckle-dragger off my back, but then immediately and sheepishly looked up at Megan who was sure to administer her infamous eye-roll and high pitched cackle right on cue.

I saw her eyes begin to roll, and was waiting for it, but then she stopped. It was as if it were the first time she noticed an adult in the room. All she said was "okay." And that was all. Mrs. Cousins, feeling her job was done, released us back into the wild, congratulating us on a job well done. The door was still clicking into place when Megan turned around and said, "You're afraid of me? Good! It's going to stay that way!"

Screw Murky and Lurky. The bitch was channeling Beelzebub himself.

The teasing persisted- the only difference was, I stopped telling my mom about it because her solutions seemed to increase how NOT cool I was.

But the day came when revenge was mine. In third grade, Megan and I were fatefully put in the same class. By this time, she was 500 pounds, most of it gained in her head. I had decided to stop wearing my glasses, which my grandparents bought because my parents had been too poor to afford these at the time, and let my eyesight go bad because I was sick of her taunts and teases.

On this one day in particular, we had been having a discussion about KUBE 93.3, the cool, hip hop music station at the time. I chimed in how I loved Will Smith and DJ Jazzy Jeff. Megan said, "Whatever. You listen to old people music. You so poor, you don't even own a radio."

Music is still to this day, a passion of mine. Nobody fucks with me and my music. That was it. That was the comment that threw me over the edge. I sat there glaring at her, my eight year-old heart beating right out of my chest, my blind eyes boring right through the fat in her head.

"What are you lookin' at?" She torted.

"YOU'RE UGLY FACE!!" I screamed back.

The room fell silent. Until one of the other cool kids began cracking up and joined with me. "Your ugly face! Your ugly face!" I couldn't believe it - a cool kid actually liked what I said to her! She was finally on the receiving end.

It was a choir of angels chanting a hymn, "Your ugly face! Your ugly face!" I nearly stood up in my chair as if conducting them.

Megan showed an emotion I had never seen on her before: devastation. And on mine: VICTORY! That one comment stopped the bullying from then on.

I had finally found the magic spell that worked on bullies: stand up for yourself!

Until the next life lesson...sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will ruin your social life.