A Hispanic girl's guide to surviving an apocalypse...

So I bet you’re wondering how exactly I got to this point in my life where a drug store shade of red lipstick saved me form becoming what I call now “Come pendejos”. Translation “Dumbass eaters”. Because only idiots get eaten by Zombies. I know what you’re thinking. I must be a dumbass to almost get eaten by a zombie. But in my defense at the point where I almost made into a Bistek empanizado hold the rice and beans please, I was in my Commander’s office getting my ass hole ripped a new one. Before you judge my Spanish too harshly for all of you who are about to say “Where the hell is she from?” I am from the beautiful island of Puerto Rico. Which translates to “English my was first language and my Spanish is broken.” So let’s get into the story shall we?

Six am rolls around loud and early in Beloxi Mississippi with the sound of reveille and the dawn of a new morning in the dorms or as all the other branches like to call it, the holiday in because let’s face it, The Air Force is a little spoiled.

As I am briskly getting out of bed to get into what I call “Why can’t we just wear our ABU’s on Monday’s like normal fucking people do” Suit, (and when I say briskly I mean I am throwing a full on trantrum because I am certainly not a morning person especially after having way too many margarita’s the night before) I forget that I slept in a full face of make-up and head out the door to go to work. Let me tell you why this was the goof that ultimately saved my life.

See some where in the abyss of Air Force regulations created by men whom clearly had zero fashion sense because I mean, have you seen our dress blues? Definitely not figure flattering at all, they decided that women whom wear make up that didn’t look like what their grandmother’s would wear on their death bed was not to be allowed. This idea is especially hard for me. Why? Because any well raise. Puerto Rican girl knows one thing and one thing only: If you don’t do anything else in life, you at least go out looking like you’re on a telenovela series because you don’t know who you will ever meet. This is the standard the stereotypes were created from that defining all Hispanic women. Embrace it people. I know I did.

So when I showed up for work in my dress blue’s wearing winged eye liner, red lip stick, basically war paint worthy of the name Isabella Rodriguez and the true migraine I would be on my supervisor later, I was sent to the pendejo—I mean Commander’s office.

I Know what you must be thinking: Why on earth would they send her to the Commander’s office? Why not just go make her wash it off? It’s not like it’s a big deal especially at six in the morning when no one who was important saw her. Well, normally this would be the case but because nearly my entire squadron was put on quarantine because of flu like symptoms after eating chow hall food the night prior, my commander was in the office early and walked in at the same time I was about to take a right, go through the cypher locks into my doom. Remember these cypher locks. They are important for later.

It became apparent to me that my commander and I have two things in common: we don’t eat anything from the chow hall and our pettiness level knows no bounds. And just FYI for any hoping to join a future civilization where a new government appoints a new military, just know, pettiness doesn’t die and you can’t handle the heat, well stay out of mom’s kitchen before she throws that chancleta at your head. Or in this case, a whole tube of lipstick.

“Out of all the people who could have gotten sick, why didn’t you Airmen Rodriguez? And why are you coming into my building completely out of regs with the cholla calling card on?” Liement Colonel Sturgis asked sitting down behind his desk. I the defiant anti-hero I am sit down and kick my feet up on his desk and say, “Because I fucking wanted to, esse. Go ahead and write me up y handa pa carajo homes.” Boy can I hear my mother saying “Que exagera” in my head. This is what I think LT thinks of when he sees me. Despite the many different Hispanic cultures, nationalities, dialects, and geographical locations, to people like LT we all come from the same place: insert Mexican mariachi music here. Not to saying there is anything wrong with Mexicans because I tell you I can smash a plate of tacos with the best of them, it’s just how this world works and sometimes it can be pretty annoying when you're not, you know, actually Mexican. I’m sure the same concept goes with any variation of Hispanic misnomers.

What really happened was I stood at attention and said “I fell asleep in my makeup and was running late. I was gonna wash it off when I got into the office. And besides’ I don’t like chow hall food. I see you don’t either since you’re here and not doing what you do best, kissing toilets."

Even when I am being polite in answering, my last words which usually get a bit of a chuckle, rubbing him the wrong way. And when I mean the wrong way, I mean the way your thighs rub after a three-mile run with no compression shorts on under your pt shorts. Hastag thickthighproblems.

This prompted my commander to bring out my very modest discipline record and proceeds to rip me a new one. I of course, tune him out, run through the play list of songs inside my head which includes Mariachi music because you know why not? And he pulls out a piece of paper for me to sign with these amazing words of encouragement "Are you able to read and sign that, or do I need someone to translate it into Chicano for you?" He’s so cleaver, isn’t he? “No Mijo, No soy pendejo como tu, Eh.” I say rolling my eyes. And this is where it happens.

Everyone who stupidly sign their life away to protect a country for people who don't care enough for the minorities of the world, you know that the only way to officiate a write up, is for your supervisor, your commander, and yourself to sign the paper work. So when he calls down to our little humble shoe box closet for my supervisor because he and your coworker were running night shift prior and get no answers, well it sends the LT into a frenzy.

"I don't know who's worse: You a Maria wanna-be, or your damn supervisor." To this he stormed out of his own office, down some stairs and I follow giving him wise words of learning in the process. "You know there are other names you can use to insult me. Like Lupe, Sofia, Margarita if you really wanna rub the fact that you think I Mexican home." I said coming to the cypher lock doors. Remember when I said these were important? Here is the reason why.

You see our job was directly linked the Commander’s wing. This means while every other squadron had their own commander, we were under the wing commander and arrogantly enough, we were known as the eyes and ears of the commander. What this meant was we worked with a lot top secret material for little pay and did all the work when shit went down while this ass hole sits up there at this desk taking all the credit. Once again: Before joining any future Military after we as human beings learn to rebuild civilization in mutual respect and equality just remember: Those are pipe dreams ass hole. There will always be some ass hat who is going to make us his bitches. This is where invention of cypher locks where God’s gift to a little four-foot elven lawless heathen like myself comes in handy because in the few seconds it took me to realize something was severely wrong, my commander was ripped open a whole new one. In the face.

You see because we worked with top secret material, which is more glamorous than it sounds, to get to our office you have to go through three cypher locks that have codes. Due to my binding contract with the military, I am not allowed to disclose the codes but just know, each one is different, and only the people who work behind the locks are allowed to know the codes. This does not include Lt Col soon to be Stroganoff because he only comes down when shit really hits the fan. And boy did it hit the fan.

"Open the door, LUPE!" LT said with extra emphasis on the Lupe. This of course irritates me because he should be a little nicer to Lupe-- I mean me since he doesn't know the codes to the cypher lock. Alas, despite the typical high and mighty authority figure needing the lowly minority to fix all his problems, respect is just too big a request for his bigoted head to comprehend. "Wow new vocabulary. You can learn something. Now if only we can get you to learn the difference between Mexico and Puerto Rico, we may be able to promote you to Colonel Eat a dick, instead of just a little ol Lt Col. FYI Colonel eat a dick, the difference between Mexico and Puerto Rico is a little over twenty-three hundred miles and different conquistadores." I say with an eye roll as we make it past the second sypher lock. I know what you're thinking. Shut up Izzy you're making it worse.

But understand. I didn’t survive the first signs of a zombie apocalypse by being dumb. Because in the room between the first and second cypher locks because one door can’t open when the other one is, there is a camera and a microphone that records all conversations. So if this walking IG investigation wants to write me up for what I just said, I am pretty sure I'll win by pulling the racist card commander card. I know. Let me live the pipe dream ok?

In LT’s raging stupor fueled by my words of encouragement to lay down the law on some lowly staff sergeant, he didn’t notice that the door leading into our office was wide open and what was holding the door wide open was a… bloody boot. I of course being the vigilant airmen I am… Also miss the bloody boot. Why? Well because I wasn’t paying attention and needed to use the bathroom ok? So, shut up.

As he walks into the room to find my supervisor and coworker KO’ I turn into the bathroom to go and wash my war paint off in the mirror. That’s when I notice copious amounts of blood on the floor, the sink, and the mirror. You would think I’d be screaming for help like the typical Hispanic woman does when she sees something out of place and quite possibly would have to clean up because that’s another stereo type, and I did, I went to look for something to defend myself with. Why? Because unlike my Caucasian counterpart in this part of the story, I don’t go head first into the danger. Once again. That is another stereo type.

Unfortunately, the only thing I could arm myself with what a broken pipe we used to check our emergency lights with. And by pipe, I mean broom pipe the kind that your mom uses to beat you with when she has to go to your school to talk to the gringos.

Removing my shirt and my dress shoes, and no I am not getting naked this isn’t that kind of story. I removed my shirt because the monkey suit shirt is too tight and limits the range of motion for my swing that took me three years of my little league baseball career to master. See. Puerto Rican stereo types. I was wearing a tank top under my dress blues because I also stereo typically only wear multicolored bras with light colored shirts.

I quietly come around the corner of to peak into the office, fiddling in my pants to find my keys that have my mace on it. And what do you know in that pocket was the same shade of lipstick I was wearing the night before. Can you tell it’s my favorite?

The moment I peak around the corner, readying my pipe for the home run swing that will surely win me an ESPY for best rookie swing of the year, my commander screams and hear the unmistakable sound of two men rolling on the floor. I of course scream too and run in to find more blood, my coworker missing his right ankle, which was the least of his problems because he was also missing half of his face, my supervisor on top of my commander necking him like a horny teenager on prom night, and my commander flighting for his life. This next part goes something like this.

Izzy comes to the home plate folks planting her feet in her lefty stance. She is a small yet fast little thing with a swing that will put Babe Ruth to shame. Here is the wind up from dead coworker number one. Boy is he looking rough today boys, I don’t think he can last much longer. Here is pitch, she swings, and hits the dead coworker right into the computers knocking him to the ground folks. A good swing but too far left field, a foul. She can’t make another mistake like that or she is done for.

Now it’s dead coworker number two, coming off from the last hitter piping hot and mad. She readies her swing, wait for it… AND SHE HITS! A HOME RUN KNOCKING THE GUTS OUT OF THAT ONE! She even broke the bat! What a hit!

Yes, I know. Have a sense of humor not everything is doom and gloom. Trust me. I am the princess of everything doom and gloom and depressing. Just ask my therapist. And even know a good laugh is better than telling this story like a funeral procession.

LT is on the floor screaming for help but I shake my head as he is looking at me. I know what is happening. Why? I’ve seen enough movies to know you don’t try to save the pendejos after they get bit. Yet in the time it took me to turn and high tail it out of the office, my commander is standing, and grunting and charging after me in a last bit of painful rage. Well so much for him learning something.

“Oh shit!” I say so eloquently turning and sprinting out, remembering I took off my shoes. Why is this important? Well I make an involuntary slide as carpet on silk socks slide and I go head first into the room where all the commanders come to congregated, into a computer desk. Thank God for a hard head and adrenaline because I don’t feel pain as I am standing trying to find anything to protect myself. My commander, who for an old dude, can move pretty fast and was coming in hot on top of me. Me with my quick thinking and reflexes do the only thing I know to do: Rip a key board from the USB port, and swing at him as hard as I can, knocking him out of my way.

I get to the cypher locks and punch in the code. Here comes both my Commander and my coworker after me. Well my coworker was after my commander. The three of us crash into the room between the cypher locks in the most human pretzel way possible. My coworker faced the far wall so he would not bite anyone, my commander was bent over like he was playing twister with one hand up on my coworkers head to keep him from turning and biting, his leg preventing the second cypher lock door from closing, and the other hand against the other door preventing me from leaving.

“You are not going anywhere! When I am done with you you’re gonna wish you never joined my Air Force!” Lt was screaming, struggling against my coworker. You know for someone who was bit in the face, he didn’t sound like he had too much of a lisp.

“Close the other door and I swear we will get out of here together!” I yell trying to pull his leg in. We struggled like that for minutes before I realized, there is an emergency exit in the back just in case there is a fire. Yes I know. How is the government going to put in all these security measures, and put in an emergency exist with no protection in the back bypassing almost all of our security measures. Logic doesn’t run very deep in the military.

So I pull out the tube of lipstick, open it, and press it into the commanders eyes, smearing the red creamy substance all in his eye. True to human nature he reaches for his eye with both hands, falls. I take my chance and run out the second door, slamming the heavy steel door on his ankle, forcing him to retract his leg in when I open it just enough to close it all the way. I hear the muffled screams and gushing sounds of blood as I run to the emergency exit, setting off the siren, and slam the door back shut.

I slide to concrete square covered by three concrete walls panting in a full on sweat. As I’m calming down, I burst into a fit of laughter. Why? Moral of the story kids, don’t treat Lupe badly because she can serve you to her Mexican Coworker Alejandro as a taco with extra red chili paste on top. I know. Petty.