Well, brachydactyly is a medical condition that I was born with and will unfortunately live with for the rest of my life. Don’t worry guys, brachydactyly is (thankfully) not a condition which is detrimental to my health. It has, however, affected many other facets of my life. Because of brachydactyly, I write differently, text message differently, rarely go bowling, can’t get my nails done, can’t wear certain jewelry, and I’m probably one of the few people in the world that will always turn down a good game of thumb war.

So in case you haven’t figured it out, brachydactyly (more specifically, Brachydactyly Type D or BDD) is a fancy word that describes my short, fat thumbs. According to Wikipedia, the common term for brachydactyly is clubbed thumb. I find the word “clubbed” to be pretty repulsive, so I think I’ll stick with the more creative terms that I’ve heard over the years…. lollipop thumbs, toe thumbs, E.T. thumbs, smashed thumbs, stubby thumbs, midget thumbs, etc. Whatever you want to call ‘em, let’s just say they’re pretty freakin’ ugly.

I guess I’m not alone in my lollipop-thumb-journey through life. My sister Rachel was also blessed with the condition but neither of us knows how we came to be so digitally unique. Supposedly, the birth defect is tied to genetics, though our mom, dad, and other sister all have normal thumbs so… you do the math.

When people see my unique thumbs for the first time they either:  stare, point and laugh, or make a real disgusted face. These reactions are probably why I spent most of my childhood trying to figure out if my thumbs could be fixed with some kind of plastic surgery. Okay, I admit I’m still trying to find a plastic surgeon that specializes in hands—because let’s be honest, although the thumbs are a great conversation starter, I’ll never enjoy having features comparable to those of a fictional alien. Or so I thought.

I always knew there had to be other extraterrestrials out there, but it wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that I finally started looking for them. I typed “short, fat thumbs” into my Google search bar and I was blown away by the results—the first being a blog entitled, “World of Clubbed Thumbs.” Entrigued, I started reading.

In short, I had discovered a thriving society of stubby thumbers—an entire world of people out there that have short, fat thumbs just like me! People who can’t fit their thumbs into the holes in the neon pink bowling balls at Westside Lanes, people who have never worn a thumb ring, people who get weird looks from the nail techs at the salon the afternoon before prom. I’m not alone. There were posts on the history of the condition, personal stories, a poll surveying popular names for BDD, and even a few photos. I had discovered my salvation.

And then I saw it, finally the reassurance I had been looking for—a post about famous people with clubbed thumb. Famous people like Malin Akerman, Tory Mussett, Ashley Lynn Cafagna, Kristen van Der Noot…. Okay, soooooo a bunch of people I’ve never heard of before—I guess not so reassuring. But then, there she was:  FHM’s Sexiest Woman in the World 2008, #2 on Maxim’s Hot 100 List in 2009, a woman who has surely been the cause of many a wet dream (and some wet not-so-dreams), Megan Fox—with clubbed thumbs! (click link for the big reveal).

I pooped my pants. These thumbs are officially fuggin sexy.

Many food companies have taken advantage of this by taking popular processed foods, adding a little fiber, and marketing it as health food. I love it! I can now eat chocolate fudge pop-tarts, blueberry muffins, peanut butter chewy bars, and fluffy pancakes for breakfast. And I don’t even have to feel guilty, because consuming these products is helping me avoid heart disease and diabetes!! Delicious and healthy—what more can a girl ask for?

But wait, there’s something I don’t like about all this delicious fiber—something they don’t tell you on the box. You see, these foods carry with them an invisible bringer of evil that sneaks up on you when you least expect it and ruins your day. This little side effect is embarrassing to admit but I’m just going to lay it out strong. Fiber causes GAS.

It starts with a stomach growl. Then it’s a little tingle in my lower abs. Then the pressure—the dreaded anal pressure. It just sits there, pushing to get out. “Go back in!” I silently scream. Clenching, it goes away. But not for long. It comes and goes for the next 8 hours. I squirm, I readjust, I get up and move around. But there’s no denying that I have to fart. My stomach hurts, my concentration is lost. What am I supposed to do?

Then I think, why can’t I just fart? It would make me feel better. It would solve my problems. But in the same breath I realize that if I fart, I will be at risk of being ridiculed by my peers and co-workers, the same ridicule I will probably get for writing a post about this very topic. Let’s face it people, farting in public is socially unacceptable. The stigma that goes with it is too much to bare. So much that we sit around giving ourselves tummy aches trying to avoid it—pacing as much as we can until the clock hits 5 o’clock so we can escape to our homes to fart up a frenzy.

Well, I’m here to propose an end to this. Just as norms are socially constructed, they can be socially deconstructed. It’s in our hands to stop the nonsense—to stop the bloating and the belly aches. Farting might be a little rude, but we all do it, and if we want to keep America healthy then we have to change our way of thinking. I don’t like the notion that people are going to avoid these health foods because of their own fear of farts. That’s nonsense. There’s no way that I’m going to give up my new favorite healthy fiber snacks just so my actions can be deemed socially acceptable.

Social change starts small, but it starts somewhere. So I encourage anyone reading this post to please stand up against the social belief that it’s okay to put yourself through pain in order to avoid ridicule for the aftermath of your healthy breakfast. Learn to let it rip and experience the salvation. Ahh, the sweet, sweet salvation.

I am usually entertained when I see the disgusting men you bring around but last night that entertainment came to a screeching halt. I heard you having rather violent sex in the room above me (I’m pretty sure you were with the Mexican guy that drives the old Dodge minivan). At first I thought it was one of your children jumping on the bed. But then I thought to myself, “who jumps on the bed at 2 a.m.? And why are their jumps getting progressively louder and faster?” Then it hit me. Your kids were NOT jumping on the bed. They were asleep and you were having dirty sex with one of your boyfriends!

I’m pretty sure you have somewhere in the range of four to six children. I’ve never been completely sure which ones are yours because they all look completely different. One is fat with brown hair, another skinny with red hair. The oldest and youngest look alike. You told us once that one of your middle kids is mentally retarded. That’s why he stomps all the time. This disproved our ongoing bowling ball theory.

Anyway, I just want to point out how much your sexual intercourse disrupted my night. My plan was to go to bed early but instead all I heard was the pounding and squeaking of your trash tainted bed. My first piece of advice, get a new bed. Yours squeaks uncontrollably. Are you sure the thing isn’t stuffed with corncobs? And speaking of squeaking, get some rhythm. I’m embarrassed for you and your partner—no sense of tempo at all. Save your tips and consider buying a metronome.

Lets wrap this up. You gross me out. OK I get it, I live in “community apartments”—translation: cheap and infested with low-income families that feed their children McDonalds 6 days a week, give them Mountain Dew instead of milk, make them carry cases of beer in from the liquor store, and let them call the Asian neighbors “pussies.” I also understand that perhaps you have yet to pick up on the circle of life. I’m here to help you out. Here’s your social studies lesson for the day: Sex makes babies. Sex with multiple partners makes lots of babies—babies that all look different. Here’s your science lesson for the day: Babies + alcohol = babies with disabilities. Your math lesson: Babies cost money. You want to know what doesn’t cost very much money? Condoms. And finally, your English lesson: “No Thank You” is the proper way to let someone know that you do not wish to have sex with them. Anything else simply results in more babies.

Forever in ear plugs,

The Girl downstairs

Being Mexican could possibly be one of the best things that ever happened to me (thanks, dad). Some people think being a minority means being stereotyped, name called, discriminated against, mistreated in the workplace, blah, blah, blah. But aside from the occasional “dirty Mexican” comment or the time I was told by a co-worker that she didn’t like Mexicans (I don’t think she realized my last name was Hernandez), being Mexican has had very few negative effects. Oh wait, there was also that time that in third grade when Brian McMahon told me that the reason my skin was brown was because, “Your mom forgot to wipe when she pooped you out.” Yeah, I think that’s the way he put it.

Anyway, for me, the positive things that have come from being Mexican completely outweigh the negative. Being Mexican means fiestas, delicioso food, high alcohol tolerance, and most importantly: a chance for some amazing college scholarships!

I get access to family recipes, get to drink tequila and pretend like it doesn’t burn going down, and I get to say things like, “pass me the frijoles” “pour me a glass of leche” and “im going to ride my bicicleta” (that’s pretty much the extent of my Spanish).

Okay, so I don’t speak Spanish, I didn’t have a Quinceañera, and my parents don’t have pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary hanging from the walls at home, but hey, I’m really good at pretending to be a good Mexican. I watch movies like Selena and Mi Familia, drink Dos Equis, listen to Grupo Montez de Durango with my dad, and even dance the cumbia in the living room. See, I told you being a Mexican is fun. So this is where I encourage all of you to seek out the nearest Mexican and procreate. Your children will thank you later.

At the hospital, 9/15/2000

This week I had a reality check. My little sister turned 9 and I realized that I’m not only getting old, I also have close to nothing to show for it. When she was born I remember thinking, “I’m so old. This could be MY kid.” I thought I was so mature and I assumed that I knew everything there was to know about the world. I figured that by the time I was in my 20′s I would be engaged, living large with my successful fiancé, planning my family, and stepping on all the little people on my way to the top (to the top of what, however, I wasn’t sure).

Now, I’m 21 and technically regarded as an adult (though I still use the term loosely) and I’m embarrassed that I ever believed those things—even more embarrassed that I probably won’t achieve any of those things for a long time (or at least until my 30′s, tehehehe). I still live with roommates, work for near minimum wage, struggle to take care of myself financially and can’t imagine having the time or money to enjoy the finer things in life. It’s pathetic. Then I see all these young people around me getting married and popping out babies like they don’t have the rest of their lives to bulk-grocery shop and purchase piles of burp rags. I just don’t see how people my age can afford to host big wedding receptions and buy diapers—I can hardly afford the toilet paper to wipe my own ass. Am I doing something wrong?

Although my internship is over, my boss from the Sheldon has encouraged me to continue practicing my writing in whatever ways possible. This blog is my attempt to do just that. Who knows what I’ll come up with.