Confession. By Khayleb.

This is archived footage of my favorite guy. All I need to do is watch him, and my energy is renewed. Nevermind the Yu-gi-oh reference; I don't get it either.

Here to stay

I’ve been told several times in my life that I am a likable person—not like I’m someone everyone is dying to befriend, but more like a ‘you’re all right’ type of thing. When I worked at DFS, where people would sometimes steal each other’s sales for the sake of sales commission, I never fell victim to that nor was I the attacker. I was told by one coworker there: “Everyone likes you, Raquel. Nobody hates you here.” Good to know, I thought, and stowed the comment away. Among the other jobs I’ve had thus far, I’ve been told the similar sentiment. I had no enemies, and I played well with others.

The reason I am writing about this is because I wonder if I share too much via this blog. I know I only have a handful of readers who so appreciatively check my blog daily (thank you; you know who you are), but I can’t help but to wonder if information I share about my life gets to someone who—yes, Folks, someone who HATES me. Granted, it will be my fault because I’m the one logging into blogger and hitting the publish button. I just can't shake the feeling that Hater knows where I live, where I'll be moving to, and is getting to know the wonderful that is me each time I post.

Do I worry that Hater will use info gathered from this blog to hurt me (in what way, I do not know)? Sure. By the way, Hater, if you're reading this--my family knows who you are, and you will be the first suspect if I ever die for unknown reasons.

So I’ve decided on this: I’m going to continue what I’m doing with this blog because I love it, and Hater of all people will not make me stop. If Hater gets info on me, then so be it. Iseeyouandyouboreme.

Like me or not, I’m here to stay. Bee-yotch.

Decisions, decisions

I promised myself that I would catch up on my reading all day today, but the wash is begging my name. The ironing has suddenly started to speak to me too. I brought home several books on Japan and some leisurely fictional reading from the library in hopes of uninterrupted repose on my recliner on this drab Sunday.

What to do, what to do?

I know; let me check how much clean underwear I have. That will determine the rest of my day.

Let's get physical

Today I was felt up. By my German doctor. Gasp!

Seriously, I'm trying to complete all the prerequisites for the move to Japan, and getting a physical was one of them. The doc gave an all-systems-go-ahead; I checked out all normal, so he wrote.

I'm actually relieved that I was forced to get this done because it was time to check up on the flesh and the insides that I take for granted. He listened to my heartbeat and breathing, did a urinalysis, took my blood pressure, checked my eyes, ears, nose, and throat, tested my joints, and even did a boob-check.

Getting [a] physical ain't so bad after all. I'm content with normal.

Thank you

Special thanks to Alice & Ryan and Jamie & Shine for inviting me into their homes to celebrate Thanksgiving. If it weren't for you, I'd've had just a plain turkey sandwich by my lonesome. Maybe a cornish hen.

Thank you!

LOST afterthoughts

I'm watching season two of LOST right now, and after each episode, I feel like packing my purse with survival items. You know, things like: an indestructible bottle of water, tiny scissors to cut my split ends, 30 extra pairs of prescription eyeglasses, extra panties, deodorant, smaller clothes because I'll probably lose weight with all the hiking bound to happen, soy sauce for the fish I'm going to catch and eat, a billion matches, 5,000 toothbrushes and about 1,000 tubes of toothpaste, Lindt chocolate and pumpkin pies for my sweet cravings, an inflatable bed, a bad-ass multi-function blade/knife/razor all rolled into one, books, Carla's iPod, pillows, and most of all, Paul Walker. So that we can make babies while living in paradise.

I guess a cell phone with universal coverage and a laptop with Internet access wouldn't hurt either.

What would you put in your tiny purse?

Perfection = Niece Emma Lolita

Photo provided by Emma's mom, Rox

Nihongo to Rakueru-san [Japanese and Raquel]

Rakueru [ra-ku-eh-ru] was my name in my high school Japanese I class during senior year. Sensei Imamura was a tough teacher, especially with her damn pop quizzes. I remember my competition was an underclassman who just rubbed me the wrong way. Looking back, I'm glad the little bitch turd was there in order to push me to learn Nihongo much better and faster. Little did I know I would need Japanese after graduation.

Upon graduating high school, I got a part-time job at Duty Free Shoppers Guam where 90% of the customers were Japanese tourists. Part of the training to work on the sales floor was to complete a somewhat intense Japanese course mostly focusing on sales pitches, numbers, greetings, and the basics of the Japanese language. Thanks to my high school preparation, the training was a breeze. I clearly remember never studying or stressing over the training materials. I even passed the semi-fluency test--in sales pitch, mind you. To this day, I can tell you--in Japanese--how to pick up your order of chocolate at the Guam airport.

While working at DFS, I also attended college. To fulfill the language requirement, of course I enrolled in Japanese. My professor was arduous too, and he loved me. Loved me because he didn't have to worry about this student struggling with his course. I loved his class because it was one less class I didn't have to put so much effort into. So because he loved me and I loved his class, it was painless to get into the Japanese writing--Hiragana and Katakana. I recall him smiling as I read with 100% accuracy a Japanese passage during the oral test. (Don't think dirty now, Gin! Or Carla!)

All this was over 13 years ago. I haven't had to use the language since then. Now with Japan in the horizon, I'm racking my brain to vomit up the repressed training I've had to better prepare myself for living there. Sure I'll be around Americans, but I plan to get out and into the wonderful culture and restaurants. Counting and some key words have surfaced, I've dived into my Rosetta Stone language course, and I'm getting ready to hoard all the Japanese language materials at the library for my selfish use.

Watashi no namae wa Rakueru desu. Watashi wa wakarimasu totemo sukoshi Nihongo desu. [My name is Raquel. I understand very little Japanese.] At least that's what I think it means. :)

I'll spare you the chocolate order spiel.

Cooking is a monster

I seriously have to get into the groove of cooking. Since The Parents left, I've been eating takeout with the occasional fruit that Dad has left behind in the fridge. Lately I've been longing for the motivation and sheer talent for cooking that my sister Zina has. She can whip up anything, and it is guaranteed to be tasty. She's also the type of person that can take a tiny bite out of something and tell you exactly what ingredients are in the recipe.

Me? Give me a printed menu, and there you have it. And if I really like you, I honor you by putting you on speed-dial and memorizing the numbers assigned to my favorite dishes.

Be still, Self. Imagine the takeout sushi coming soon!

---

Random pieces of information today:

I cried about 5 ounces of tears while watching the DVD, Click. Who knew Adam Sandler had that kind of talent?

It sucks to lose one glove, especially when the set is new. Shall I start the trend of unmatched gloves?

As I look around the house, the only item I feel bad about the movers moving is the 900 lb piano. Too bad, so sad; I'm taking it with me.

My bottle of water just made it's own sound. Freakish.

Crash-crush

Just when I start to develop a crush, something needs to interfere. Something as in--I'm moving to Japan soon.

Shall I approach him nonetheless and see what might happen?

What do you think I should do?

Auf wiedersehen and konnichi wa

At 6:17 tonight, I took a long, deep breath as I left-clicked the SEND button on my work email.

Hey, Japan!

It's not Gozilla; it's Raquel!

Finally, I fooled someone into promoting me! ;)

Special thanks to my future Captain for giving me this chance.

Project READ: Possible side effects by Augusten Burroughs

It's long overdue for a book review. FYI, I'm not sure if I'm going to do any more book reviews because I tend to think of it as homework, and I'm done with school. I intend for this blog to be enjoyable mostly for me because I'm a selfish bastard.

Last week I finished Burroughs' latest book. It was good. Read it while you're in the waiting room at your doctor's office. Not only will you snort at the many funny parts and kill time waiting, but perhaps intrigue the other patients with the cover's funky graphic and title.

That's it. I can't write anymore tonight because my stack of new DVDs from the library is calling my name so sweetly. Later!

Laugh at me, will you?

Hey, everybody. Want a good laugh? Click here and look at My Comments by high school friend, Joy on 11/12/06.

How come nobody told me that the proximity of the belt and boobs should be at least 8 inches?

Mwa-ha-ha-ha. Thanks, Joy!

Tribute to The Parents

Play it!

Audio isn't too great because I was trying to keep my voice low so The Parents wouldn't hear me recording.

Unhappy days

I've been having a bad couple of days.

For starters, the hot stone massage I lied belly-down for yesterday was worthless. I might as well have gotten some rocks from the front yard, dipped them in vegetable oil, and then rubbed it all over myself. It was truly a waste of my time. The shoulders still ache, I'm 33 Euro short, and I'm irritable. Their version of a hot stone massage was "only slight pressure." Please, Lady, I need some digging into my joints!

Mom and Dad also had massages, but the Full Body Massages--and they raved about it. All I could do was shrug my [aching] shoulders and remember to sign up for the FBM next time.

Oh, I'm not done complaining. Not only did I waste my time and money, I can't get the smell of the massage oil they used out of my nose and off my tongue, not that I tasted any of the oil. It's just one of those things that lingers, you know? Even if I eat empanada or shrimp kelaguen or brush my teeth like crazy, it's there. Last night I caught myself licking my coat and sweater! I swear, I'm being punished with the massage oil from hell.

The other bad part of my past couple of days is that I've been snappy and easily annoyed. And the victims of this attitude are my parents--poor ol' Mom and Dad who have spoiled me rotten since they've visited. Let this serve as a blogosphere apology to them. I'm sorry I've been irritable. Think of it as me already missing you and being jealous of the family you're returning to.

Finally, and I figure this is a big part of it, the days are shorter. I wake up when it is dark, and I come home from work when it is dark. Perhaps I should walk around with a bright beam light strapped around my head.

All this said, I know what I need to do. I need to hit the gym and get those endorphins reactivated.

Sure. Let's see if I mention the word gym into upcoming posts. Wish me luck. Excuse me while I lick my sweater again.

It's all about lists

Things to do:

• my nails
• employee evaluation
• hot stone massage (Tomorrow. Yes!)
• read my 4 library books
• pray that the new library director gets her email soon so that I can start forwarding all her work to her
• file my personal papers
• play Yahtzee with Mom
• call Chelle
• vacuum car
• schedule salon appointment for Mom and me
• write to Ricarda
• write to Carmen
• learn how to paint from Dad
• thank God for healthy hair

Sometimes. When I lay at night. I think about all my blessings. And here they are:

• healthy hair
• my limbs
• ability to type
• my family
• my digital camera
• good coworkers
• ability to travel throughout Europe
• prescription eyeglasses
• my friend's invitation to Thanksgiving
• empanada
• tweezers
• Khayleb Cole & Emma Lolita
• cell phone service
• reading
• pencils
• Capri
• puzzles
• drinking water
• freedom
• paychecks
• ability to not care
• my education
• roller-coasters
• plants that don't easily die
• lipstick
• holidays
• veterans
• The Autobahn
• pictures of Paul Walker shirtless
• breathing
• you reading this

Music to my [young] ears

"Wow, I thought you were in your mid-twenties."

Just what I needed to hear after plucking three white hairs off the top of my head yesterday.

I'm 32.

Empanada ... take one

Brought to you by Barefoot Manengon Empanada International Corp. Samples provided at discretion of the company. Er ... samples provided at the discretion of me.

Thanks for the demo, Mom and Dad!

Girl with a pearl earring

I don't know how else to explain it.

In the past week, I've been hit on three times at the library.

I wonder.

Could it be that I can finally hand over a lot of work to the new library director which is causing me to do extra smiling and give out a I'm-so-relieved-I-don't-have-to-do-extra-work-come-hither vibe?

Perhaps it is the cold weather that's creating extra bounce in my hair and therefore drawing in prospects for its luster?

Or. And I think this is truly the answer ...

Is it because the pearl earrings that my mom has given me has flirt-power over men?

Whatever it is, I am bashful and flattered about the whole thing. And you got it--I'm wearing those damn earrings for a while more.