My boyfriend tells me I’m action-packed, I certainly can’t argue with that.
BOING!
Category: Wtf
Oy, I really wish I could get back to updating this site on a regular basis again but life has been pretty shitty for me. It’s the kind of shit where you’d actually go to your blog at least once a week to try to conjure something up but all you can write about is how shitty your day went, and you don’t want to pile your site with shit lest it put readers into a shitful mood.
Nah, I’m not about that, but I do miss writing here a lot. I just wish I wasn’t such a baby.
But enough of that, so one of the things that’s been stressful for me is not being able to find/get a job. I’m running low on money to pay for the bills and boy does it suck.
Luckily, my sister’s mother-in-law informed me about a job opening at a medical home where she works at. When I found out they needed a Vietnamese receptionist, I declined the offer because my Vietnamese is generally pretty bad. Heck, the main reason why I quit my last job was because the communication barrier between the Vietnamese-speaking patients and I. It’s a huge thing that I cannot tolerate.
The mom-in-law said it didn’t matter as long as I knew the basics of the language. All I’m going to do really is to look cute, greet the customers and answer “basic” questions. Nothing to it. Teehee.
So after a couple of minutes of her pushing me to go for the job, I’m thinking, okay it shouldn’t hurt to go in for an interview, I mean after all, I can understand and speak simple Vietnamese, I know how to say “hi” to people, and hands fucking down I can look cute.
I drive up there and four-five minutes later upon arrival, I’m in the boss’s office to get interviewed. I find out that his name is Ryan. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan…I kept repeating to myself, since I’m terribly…terribly bad with remembering people’s name.
(Kind of off-topic: I use mnemonic device for remembering people’s names now and it’s been fantastic! Like, for Ryan, he has Seacrest hair. Yup. Message received)
Five minutes later, in comes his assistant, Clark.
(Mnemonic device for Clark: Picturing him to throw his hispter-lickin’ black thick-rimmed glasses out the window and rip open his dress shirt in a dramatic slow-mo baywatchy manner, revealing the insignia of Superman. Gawd, this mnemonic device thing is fucking amazing!)
So we’re all talking and so far, it’s going fantastic. There was never any kind of awkward silence, I’m making them laugh, we all share some common things, I mean this ball is pretty much rolling.
Well…that is, until, Clark brings up, “We know that you’re applying for a receptionist job, but we’re hoping that you’d also be our official translator for doctors and patients…you are comfortable with that, right?”
“Yep,” I nodded. I know! Really dumb answer, but I was completely thrown off. I thought this was basic gawddamnit.
Ryan cuts in, “That’s great. Hey…why don’t we bring in one of our Vietnamese worker to test her out.”
“Sure!” I nodded some more. Dumb, dumb, dumb…
A Vietnamese employee was brought into the office to put me on the spot by having a casual conversation with me in Vietnamese as the two men watched. He spoke really fast, and really Vietnamese that I wasn’t able to catch on most of the thing he blurted out. He asked me when I moved to the states and I was trying to tell him that I wasn’t born in Vietnam, I was born here.
He turns to the two men and informs them, “She say she was born in Vietnam and move here when she was five.” Five minutes prior to that, I clearly stated to them that I was born in Massachusetts and moved to California later. Gah!
After my failed conversation with him, the man lied for some odd reason and told them that I was an excellent Vietnamese speaker. Ughh (I later found out that that man was a good friend of the mom-in-law. Ha).
After all of that, Ryan tells me that I got the job. Yeah…yay. I’m screwed. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle with the whole translating for doctors and patients deal…
Doctor, “Tiff, can you please tell this patient that he has respiratory arthritis in your native language?”
Tiff, speaking in Vietnamese, “You’re screwed, dude.”
The next day, on the way to my boyfriend’s place, I got rear-ended. I was stuck in traffic, everyone was going 5-7 mph, except for the totally obliv driver behind me.
It wasn’t a severe car-accident (thank gawd) but let me tell you, the terrifying part about this was knowing it was going to happen, before it happened. Three seconds to be exact. And not being able to do anything about it.
This is basically my thought process when I looked at my rear-view mirror:
There is a big black SUV charging at me. *Whiplash* Fuck.
About a week ago, my friend, Jules, used me as a model for her mom’s jewelry store. I never had such proper treatment before. And I never had that much makeup being put on to one single face…my face.
Jules, a MAC makeup artist, did a great job regardless. It was crazy! I never knew that my own dork face was capable of such impeccable hotness, all thanks to Jules and her fine makeup artistry. Here are some photos of the shoot, some of them are “actual” shoots and others were from our regular cameras mostly for fun:
Boy do I love makeup. Isn’t it great how putting a little can accentuate features? And putting lots of it on can really altar a woman’s face in drastic measures, capable of deceiving men? And speaking of men, I wonder if they–who are attracted to women that always wear caked-on powder, caked-on lipgloss, caked-on eyeshadow, and whatever other form of cosmetic they’d put on to their heart’s content–are aware of what might be underneath the cake-laden face.
After a couple of hours of shooting, I drove home with the makeup on. On my way there, some guy driving next to me stared and whistled at me, and made flattering remarks. Usually, this doesn’t happen. And this whole time, I couldn’t help but to think, “If he only knew…” If he only knew that the glossy lips, the rosey cheeks, the long lashes weren’t hereditary. If he only knew that I really don’t wear makeup unless I go out for a special occasion or that I’m with my boyfriend (sorry Matt!).
If he only knew that he was actually whistling to this:
Lol
WOAH! Haven’t blogged in a while.
(Blame it on summer break. I’ve been taking complete advantage of it.
Blame it on my newly fresh boyfriend. Kind of weird to say “my boyfriend” now since I’m a noob at being a first-time girlfriend.
And blame it on the goose. That is all.)
I don’t have time to update my blog with the usual lengthy entries…but I do have time to post that picture in Vegas I’ve been wanting to post!
To make a long story short, I went to Vegas with a group of girls I didn’t know (except for one) for a bachelorette party. One of the girls, the oldest one of the bunch, didn’t like me at all. She would sometimes say some pretty insulting things to me, but would translate them into more of a funny and joking manner so the rest of the girls wouldn’t think any of it. I wouldn’t find it rude had she did the same to the rest of the girls, but I noticed I was the only one who was getting picked on by her.
I don’t know what the reason is, but shit, who cares, I found an amazing photo that proves she wants me out of the picture (literally) and it’s pretty funny:
So the broad who doesn’t like me is the one who is taking the photo. How do I know this was intentional and malicious?
1. She doesn’t like me.
2. She was sober when this photo was taken.
3. Look how much negative/extra space is at the top. I could have easily been part of the photo if she would just angle it down like a normal human being should.
4. And most importanly, it’s how she took the photo:
If you look closely, at her reflection, you can see how retarded she looks at attempting to “unintentionally” cut me out of the photo.
Notice where the camera is positioned from her head. Notice the angle of her face. Notice how far she is bending her neck back so that she is facing the ceiling instead of the group of girls.
Way to go asshole, this is the dumbest photo I have ever seen. Even a monkey with down syndrome can take a better photo that logically makes more sense.
Last Saturday was my brother’s wedding, and obviously everybody had a blast.
However.
One of my brother-in-laws, Vincent, got really drunk, and after the reception, I walked outside and and found him sitting on the curb, with his head down, waiting for chunks to come out. My sister (his wife, Asia) and my other brother-in-law were there trying to comfort him, they were talking to him, patting and rubbing his back and then out comes the Wedding Singer holding a roll of paper towel.
“I got him, I got him,” The Wedding Singer sat next next to Vincent, patted his mouth with the paper towel roll, and started to rub his back. My other brother-in-law starts to back off. “I take care of him. He need to sit here for a while before he can get into the car.”
More back rubbing and massaging ensues, the Wedding Singer looks up at me as I stare in utter confusion and then frantically asks me, “Water. He need water. Can you get it for me?”
“Yeah,” I answered. I ran back to the restaurant looking for water. The waiters seemed very occupied cleaning up the area so I grabbed the nearest and cleanest looking glass of water from one of the tables. I walked out of the place and found the Wedding Singer in the middle of a conversation with Asia.
“Everyone go! Go! I take care of him!” He takes the cup out of my hands while talking to my sister, “He my friend. I will help.”
“I’m his wife,” Asia giggled, trying to make the situation less awkward, “And I’m not going anywhere without my husband.”
So we all stayed, waiting for Vincent to puke, while the Wedding Singer caresses his back some more and uses the water to help clean his mouth.
During this time, NOBODY thought of anything. We just thought the Wedding Singer was being really, really helpful and really, really weird, until…
*BLERHHHH!!!*
Barf galore, barf on the ground, barf on the curb, and barf on the Wedding Singer’s arm.
“It’s OK. I take care of him. Everybody go,” he motions his hand suggesting us to go away.
He was ok with it. He was much more concerned with us going away so that he could be alone with my brother-in-law then his arms, covered in the thickest, smelliest smellin’ shit puke ever. And that’s where it hit me and my sister. We looked at each other, mouth wide open, and we knew exactly what we were thinking…
This guy is dead horny and he wants my sister’s husband, badly.
After the puke fest and realizing the Wedding Singer’s disturbing motives, my sister and I both helped Vincent up.
“Thanks for helping my husband, we’re going home now.”
“Wait, he should sit here longer. It’s not good to bring him into the car rye now,” The Wedding Singer grabs a hold of Vincent’s shoulder, “You guys go. I do it myself.”
“Dude, you’re not getting ass tonight. Sorry.” I told him. Without saying a word, he released his grip, and that was the last of the Wedding Singer.
Geez, what a creepfuck. If I had taken a photo of him, I would have most certainly posted it here to warn people, like what people do when they find sexual offenders, because I have no doubt in my mind that he does this in every–if not most–weddings. I mean, the guy was already equipped with a roll of paper towel, how strategic can you get?
So I have to warn any Vietnamese people from Orange County who are planning to hire Vietnamese wedding singers/bands. I know that there’s a shitload of them out there in this county, but if you HAPPEN to hire a band and one of them has buzzed hair, wears glasses, and speaks terrible English…keep an eye on him after the reception.
*shudders*
