You've been graced by royalty!

I saw this amazing article and it inspired me to tell you something about myself. But first you have to go read the article before you continue reading this one. Go click on it now! Go!!

http://cocoperez.com/2009-10-07-crave-attention-drive-a-cupcake

Wasn't that absolutely amazing?! Now that you've obeyed, you are worthy of knowing something about me: I must tell you, that I am the founding President of a club I created in college: Fatties Fo Life. As a freshman, I didn't only indulge myself in junk food- I proudly turned the Freshman 15 into the Freshman 30.

When the club began, we had an inagural meeting: shrek cupcakes, pepperoni pizza, bean dip, tortilla chips, and alcohol. The club required midnight chocolate milkshake runs, in addition to 1am bean dip runs. No craving was to be denied. I had about two other members, who will remain nameless. You aren't worthy of their identities at this point in our relationship.

This year, I was unfortunately ousted in a coup spearheaded by my boyfriend. He said that since I lost the 30 lbs this year, I no longer qualify for presidency. Whatever. I can still clear a plate at a steakhouse AND order desert.

In the name of Fatties fo Life, I'm trading in my Focus for a cupcake. How can you not just smile when you see a cupcake parked in a lot? It'll be the perfect ending to my routine bad work day. I'll come out of the office all pissed and then see my cupcake and become filled with joy. How can that not brighten your day?

Since I am forced to commute on a major interstate highway to get home, I will probably be pissing more people off than pleasing them, since the cupcake maxes out at 7 mph. Whatever. I'll just ghost ride that whip (since I'll have no other choice) all the way back to Seattle.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but driving a cupcake proves you're a fatty fo life!

Thank you. Come again!

Many of us have dealt with bad customers throughout our careers. And for those of you who have been fortunate enough not to work with the general public, I hope you die a slow and painful death. Not because I hate you, but so that you understand what it's like.

While I could probably dedicate an entire blog to the shenanigans that occurred at my high school job at Hunan Garden Chinese Restaurant, I would rather spend my time blogging about things that actually matter. Like pedicures and Slim Jims.

I remember the first awful customer I ever had to deal with. I was 16 years-old, working as a hostess at the Chinese restaurant. It was Valentine's Day, and the restaurant was severely understaffed to accommodate the influx of people that refused to eat anything besides Peking duck before they went home and humped.

As a hostess, my duties were not only to seat customers and run the register, but also to take to-go orders via the phone, and prepare and pack them in the back kitchen as well. Normally, this job required me to use three brain cells and only three. Piece a cake, piece of pie. However, on this night, that was not the case. I was forced to use a fourth.

Being as I was the only hostess working that day,I was completely frazzled trying to accomplish everything: we had a line of about 70 people outside waiting to get on the seating list and the phone was ringing off the hook. The to-go orders were running about one hour later than they should have, and every seat in the house was filled with people demanding more and more General Tso's Chicken and Mushu Pork.

A rather hefty woman with a pink sweatsuit came in asking for her to-go order. By the way, I'm convinced that all festive holiday clothing is intended to make the poor soul wearing it look dumpy. It's always a sweatsuit or sweater, or t-shirt made in china with a peeling silkscreen logo of a bunny or a bat or a Christmas tree. Why don't they just spend some damn money and create holiday stilettos or a Christmas suit?

Anyway, I digress. This woman, I'll name her Magda because that just seems like it should be her name, was immediately upset when I told her it would be at least another 45 minutes until her order would be ready. The 45 minutes ended up being a full hour. The entire time, she sat huffing and puffing and saying rude comments about the bad service for all to hear:

"This place is such a shit show."
"God, can they just hurry up?"
"This place has the WORST service."
"This place has the WORST FOOD IN THE WHOLE CITY."

In all honesty, I would have been mad too. I couldn't blame her. She was hungry. And she needed to stuff her face with Sweet and Sour Chicken NOW. I can sympathize.

When I finally brought her order out to her, Magda practically snatched it out my hands and said, "God, it's about time." She didn't even leave a tip. Bitch.

I was relieved once she walked out the door. I was getting irritated listening to her rants as I was trying to do my job.

Then suddenly the bell on the door rang again, and there she was, red in the face, ready to eat, and ready to piss me off some more.

"My sweet and sour pork came in a cardboard box!" she yelled.

Uh...what? "Yes it did." I said confused as to what the issue was.

"Well, it usually comes in a Styrofoam container!"

You've gotta be kidding me. "No it doesn't. It's always served in a cardboard box."

"No it's not! It always comes in Styrofoam. I've been here like 20 times, and it has always been given to me in a Styrofoam box!" she was screaming now.

"Well, I work here, and I have never sold it in a Styrofoam container!" I yelled back. Was this really what she came back in here for?! She just didn't get a big enough piece of me.

"It has ALWAYS COME IN STYROFOAM!"

The restaurant fell silent.

"WELL WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?! GO PUT IT IN A FUCKING STYROFOAM BOX?! WILL IT TASTE BETTER?!" yup. I just lost it. And it felt so good!

"You are so RUDE!" she yelled and stormed out.

Good riddance! I couldn't believe she came in there to yell at me about that. Absolutely ridiculous. I just don't understand why people feel that they have the right to treat another person that way, especially when it is over something as ridiculous as Magda's Styrofoam box. I would hate to see them in a serious situation, like a car accident. Well, hopefully they'd be the dead one. I am a true believer in Karma.

Bring! Bring! The phone rang.

"Hunan Garden, how can I help you?" I say.

It's Magda. "Yeah, I want to speak with your MAN-A-GER" she enunciated, hoping each syllable pierced like three daggers into my back.

I knew my manager would not give a damn about this lady's issue. This is the manager that directed me to dump used sauces that were left on the tables back into their original containers. Customers were not exactly a priority.

"Sure, one moment please." I put her on hold for 30 minutes, tying up the line, and not giving a fuck.

Half an hour later, "Oh Angela, by the way, there's a customer on the phone for you."

Magda had waited the entire time, and once she was taken off hold, it was like a raging bull being let out of it's pen. I could hear her through the receiver five feet away from my manager. "YOUR HOSTESS WAS DESPICABLE! SHE WAS SO RUDE TO ME AND I HAD TO WAIT FOR AN HOUR TO GET MY ORDER AND IT ISN'T EVEN WHAT I THOUGHT IT WAS AND-"

"I'm sorry, but we really don't have time for this." Click. Angela hung up on her. She was my hero.

Needless to say, Hunan Garden lost a customer that fateful Valentine's night. If Magda would have only gotten her Styrofoam container, maybe I wouldn't have had to cuss her out in front of the whole restaurant. She forced me to.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but bad customers will make you lose your mind.

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)