My Fiancee is too Mexican

My finacee is Mexican. Her Mexican father had intercourse with her Mexican mother and they had a pretty little mexican baby. This isnt really a problem as I too am Mexican. Sadly, my parents did not have sex as I was brought into this world in some other way. I just had to be. Some may think by Stork. I like to believe I was brought into this world in a beam of light with seraphim and celebration a plenty. I guess thats just the realist in me.

Now this girl, she is much more Mexican than I am. You see if being ethnic were a candy she would be a halloween fun bag mix and I would be an after dinner mint, which really isnt a candy at all.

The most glaring depiction of how Mexican she is would be the amount of cousins she has. Every couple of months a new story brings to the forefront the fact that she has a cousin I previously did not know about. I have known her for eleven years and was only recently told about a cousin Frank that used to live in Northern Califonia. There can be only one of two logical conclusions to this phenomenon. She is a brilliant liar that chooses to lie about really boring shit like how many cousins she has or she is Mexican.

I guess this wouldnt be a problem if she identified them with a name every once in a while. Instead she chooses to use the descriptor "cousin" with no follow up name. So if she says oh my cousin said this or my cousin said that, I have to mentally calculate the odds that she is talking about one of 57 people. And thats one side of the family.

She also knows Spanish. This really doesnt equate her to being really ethnic. Rather, it shows how uncultured I myself am. My parents are both fluent in Spanish. The amount of spanish I speak however, is relegated to asking for the bathroom and stating that I am hungry. All in all I could probably live in Mexico without missing a beat.

Worst Night of His Life

This is not the title to my worst night ever. To the contrary it was at worst an uncomfortable situation for me. This was the worst night for him, the both of hims. I was about to take away an only daughter and lone sister for good. And I had the balls to be excited about it. I would be asking for my girlfriend's hand in marriage.

There I sat in the living room I had sat in a number of times before. About to ask a question I had dreaded from the moment I first met my girlfriend's father. You see, to my girlfriend her father is a teddy bear. A soft protector that could be coddled into submission with a simple embrace from his princess.

To me, he was a mythical ruthless killer about to explode in a rage of random violence. At least that was how I saw things moments prior to me asking for his daughter's hand in marriage. So I beat around the bush. I beat the crap out of that bush. I was genius. I went from the weather to Los Angeles infrastructure to proper ways to mulch and liven one's garden. But soon there was a pause.

"Ok. Let me go get Mrs. Girlfriend's mom." The trained assassin said before exiting the room. I sat. I rehearsed. I looked at the door once, maybe twice.

I went for the band-aid approach. I stuttered out what must have sounded like "your daughter good...me like...please want."

The father was stunned. What he was hoping for in a nice night of pleasant banter turned into the equivalent of me asking for both his kidneys and a lung.

While the father looked at me with a glare of a man trying to remember where he last placed his shiv, I heard from her mother cries of joy. I in turn was, relieved. Mom was happy! Yay! Father was warming. But then I remembered...brother.

Brother is the nicest guy in the world. But in my head, as I waited for him to get home from work, he was a hardened pugilist that was trained in the fine arts of dumping bodies and leaving no trace. But again my fears went unfulfilled.

I left that night feeling welcomed. I couldn't be more excited to be a part of such a loving and caring family.

Oh yeah, now I have to ask the girlfriend.

Oops

I fell in love about 11 years ago. It was the beginning of my freshman year of college so I may have been drunk. It could also have very well been love. I met a girl that put up with my drunken debacles, food binges, confusing meanderings, and so on. I gained a good 60 pounds since I first laid eyes on her. Whose fault that is is still up for debate, but the fact that she is as gorgeous as the day I met her is not open for conjecture.

So what happened? Well responsible waiting turned into static emotions which turned into a brief break-up a couple of years back. I call this the dark years while she cleverly refers to this as a welcomed sigh of relief. As fate would have it I found myself on bended knee at a Southern California beach near midnight on December 19th, 2009.

I did not trip or stumble but fell. I fell 11 years ago and it took me over a decade to take a knee. So it begins. My short journey to matrimony. I hope to keep you up-to-date with what I am sure will be a carefree campaign to bliss.