A Battle Of Elephantile Proportions

It all started after church one day when we went to visit my grandmother before we headed off to do our regular Sunday routine. It was a quick and pleasant visit and while I was busy chatting it up with my grandma, my foolish brother in law started sneakily snapping pictures of all the baby photo's of me, my sister and my cousin that were up on the walls.

When I noticed what he was doing he admitted that he was going to place them on the Facebook. Although he had said it, I really didn't think he would be silly enough to do it since he knew that I knew that his mother has literally shit loads of pictures of him when he was a baby. Some cute, some adorably cute and some not so adorably cute.

As he was snapping, I was already plotting in my brain where I could find his baby pictures in case he was so bold as to actually post what he had pictured. A few days had gone by and nothing was posted so I thought it was over. And then BAM! I see this;



Yeah, not so bad right? That's what I thought too until I seen the caption, "AWWWWWW the lil big foreheads..." I was cut deep. Not to mention the photo he took of my little cousin also went up with the caption: "Let the baby pic wars begin!" (pictured below)



Clearly he desired a battle and me being the competitive young chap myself, I accepted his challenge and on the same night of his first post I began rummaging my computer files remembering that my husband had a few shots lying around. My husband made it perfectly clear that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with this war and I gave him my solemn word that he would remain clear of my attacks, that I would not involve him in any way including asking him for pictures. As I rummaged, I stumbled across a most delightful picture captured almost impeccably of a young man standing tall and proud...



It was my first retaliation picture and it felt good to attack. I suppose I might have come off a bit strong and a part of me knew that it would either provoke an epic battle or an epiphany on his part causing him to withdraw from a battle he secretly knew he wouldn't win. And that's what it was. I think he kind of knew where this was heading. Besides, who starts a baby picture battle with no intent to embarrass?

Either way, I thought I had won. I thought it was over. I scanned and scanned my brain repeatedly searching for any baby pictures I might have left at my in-laws house knowing that I hadn't, knowing that the only pictures I had there were all mainly post-mother pictures and those weren't part of the war. It was only baby or little kid pictures of us so I felt like I was covered.

Nevertheless, on the offset chance that he would "stumble" across some un-flattering pictures of myself I went over to his humble abode and searched his mother's archives for an album exclusively filled with all pictures "Ish". I had my husband's camera and snapped away at his own baby pictures just in case he wanted to continue battle.

A few days had passed and there was nothing else posted so I assumed victory. Boy was I wrong. I came to work on Wednesday, logged onto the Facebook and found this little number with a tag of me on it...



A darling little picture I never knew existed. I was shaking with embarrassment. There I was assuming victory and there he was positioning himself as the ultimate victor. As I sat there blinded by confusion and that literally cheesy smile, I vowed vengeance. On my lunch hour, I called my grandmother and told her I had to stop by my house first to take care of some business before I went to her house for lunch. I sped home, jumped on my computer and started searching for another picture of my opponent. Although I had a large array of embarrassing shots, I did not want to go straight for the jugular right away. I wanted to pace myself and not use up all my good ones first. So I opted for this one...



A fancy little number I am certain shot sometime around New Year's Eve. Not too bad, not too good right? I knew I still had some good ammunition, and I was certain there was no POSSIBLE way he could have gotten another picture of me. I was wrong. No sooner than I posted this, he posted this....



I started to wonder who would betray me in such a way. Who was the traitor, the deceiver, the mole that was giving away my precious secret shames including this one a picture taken circa 1986 that gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, " A face only a mother could love..." I was completely mortified. I don't even remember taking this picture, at least I remember seeing it though. The moment this picture was posted was the moment this war had taken a turn for worst. I was being defeated, attacked from all ends and my dignity posed as soldiers were being killed off left and right but still wanting to hold on to my "FINISH-HIM" pictures, I posted this one....



A sexy little thing he was and still is. And although I had given my absolute word I would not attack any innocent bystanders in this war, my foe had gone too far going straight for the kill with his last post and despite the fact that I still felt like I had lost this round with this picture I posted and being told so by a fellow comrade, I promptly posted this picture to redeem myself...



It was a photo I wanted to save till the end but was forced to put it up sooner. At this point I felt for sure it was over. How many more pictures could he possibly have of me, and if he had more who was giving me up? Secretly worried that since he already had those two previous pictures of me, the chances of him having more could be either really good or really bad. Had he used up all his "jugulars"? I knew I hadn't and made it clear that it was his move next.

Shortly thereafter, my husband advises me that there were new developments stirring on the Facebook. I log on and see this little portrait taken in the 8th grade...



A picture that I had always been secretly ashamed of, embarrassed of, mortified of, humiliated by. Why? The other pictures I was a child, really had no control over what I wore or how I dressed, this picture was something I kind of had control over. Either way, he cropped out my pretty awesome chola nails and I think that's what pissed me off even more. The part I always liked most of this whole entire photograph was cropped out! I privately screamed, "OH HELL NO!!" and finally posted one of my, "FINISH-HIM" pictures...



He was always a pleading fellow. His response...



Not that bad and not that good either. However I was still very much scarred and bitter from the previous assaults so I posted one more jugular in retaliation to his previous advancements...



By far my favorite of the entire war. It wasn't my most strongest ammunition, those will be saved in case we ever have to go toe to toe. He retaliated with an ever more embarrassing photo of my daughter and I asleep on the couch with my stomach showing in it's semi-full glory and my double chin chiseled for the world to see. He broke the rules with that snapshot so I promptly deleted it and warned him of the RULES he instated from the beginning. That was definitely a road neither he nor I were ready to travel down. Post-children pictures around our parts are NOT lacking in abundance nor verguenza.

It was definitely fun while it lasted. The excitement was unmatched, the entertainment was unyielding and my bravery in leaving all the tags to my profile commendable. A battle sure to go down in history and I have documented it for those of you who give a rat's ass.

In The Moment.

Crusty hands. I bought lotion the other night so why the hell are my hands so dry? I put it on right after I got out of the shower, had some red wine, a Mad Housewife Cabernet and it was good I think. I say I think because I am not sure if I genuinely like it our I just think I like it because it's so damn cool. I wanted to make sure everything was done before I corked the bottle because I know once I have a glass of red wine nothing else matters. Not folding clothes, not washing dishes, or making dinner, not scrubbing that nasty bathtub, or sweeping or mending the garden. The label on the back says something to that effect. Live in the moment and when I have my glass that's exactly what it becomes, me and that moment, me and that glass of wine and frankly that scares me.

I'm not the type of person to live in the moment. I have to literally scream at myself sometimes to just STOP, slow down and relax a few seconds. Nothing is going to die if I don't do what needs to be done right away or I am not going to get anything done faster by stressing myself out over it. However, no matter the amount of coaxing, I am constantly thinking and/or (I hate using that term and/or it's annoying but it applies so whatever) stressing about my next move. Not that I go and act on that move, or put it into action right away I just like to think about it and how great it's going to end up or play out.

A few months ago when my car battery was shot and killed I asked a friendly neighbor to give me a jump. Already running late and in a super hurry my perception was blurred by the chaos and I moronically placed the cables on the wrong sides and blew out my radio so now when I am driving alone which is 98% of the time, I spend those short distances mindlessly thinking of how I'm going to rearrange the living room. Or what other ways I can cleverly arrange the books in my bookcase or if moving the refrigerator to it's original spot was a good idea. Other things like switching my room around and placing the bed in a prime location where the sun might cast it's glorious rays in a more superfluous manner over my Mexican Flag blanket.

I like to do most of my heaviest thinking at night right before I slip into an abyss dream lands unknown. Tedious and annoying thoughts like what bills are due this week and if I forgot to set up automatic payment for Comcast or if I have enough gas to get me to work or if I even have enough gas money to buy gas. It's mainly all about money and the lack there of.

On occasion I like to think about what I am going to wear the next day but only if there is something special going on otherwise I seriously can care less. What clothes need to be washed for the weekend and if I remembered where I put my favorite weekend shirt which leads to thinking if anyone has discovered my weekend shirt and can't muster the heart to tell me it's time to buy a new one.

My favorite one is thinking about what I can write the next day because I clearly want to write something absolutely interesting and undoubtedly cool but I end up spending so much time thinking about it and how awesome its going to be that actually getting to the writing part ends up being too exhausting and draining.

I am beginning to wonder if it's just women that have this problem because for the last nine years I have been studying the man I married and he is pretty awesome at living in the moment. Rarely letting another single human being distract him from the task at hand be it synchronizing his ipod, or getting to the next level on angry birds, or watching tv, or watching youtube, or painting, or developing something on the computer. Every now and then, I sit and glare at him with envious and sometimes furious eyes wishing I possessed a small fraction of that trait. Wishing I could sit and just write with not one interruption from a nagging, hungry, needy child trying to show me her newest most amazing drawing or trying to lure me to the bathroom for 'girl-talk' while she poops a dook. You gotta love those girls.

Even as I sit here now finishing this up I am already thinking about what I am going to post next and how I must hurry and save the pictures before they are deleted and although it may take me a few days to get it up here, you can be rest assured it is going to be epic.

Bochinchosas, Chismosas, Y Interesadas...

It's where I am at right now. I drove straight here, took the carpool lane, I passed go, I didn't collect my hundred dollars, and I certainly didn't ask for directions.

I usually take the same route every time but every once in a while I will switch it up and take 11th street instead of Santa Clara. Why? I have no clue. I use to have an IPOD that I would listen to on my way here to sort of ease the pain I know I am going to face, but my wonderful brain has put it in a top secret location so top secret that it refuses to reveal its whereabouts to me. Rather than listening to my favorite tunes while singing loudly and proudly, I scan my brain for any potential mistakes I might have made the night before premeditating solutions before my arrival. Or instead I practice all foreign accents. Lately I have been favoring the leprechauns and practicing my Irish brogue. Sometimes I feel fancy and in honor of the upcoming royal-pain-in-the-ass wedding I practice my English accent. And when I'm feeling mighty ethnic I practice what I like to call my "yo-I'm-from-the-Bronx-&-I'm-Boricua-&-proud" accent. And although I think I am fairly good at every accent I attempt, when I am asked to show off my skills I cower in embarrassment and perform terribly under pressure so don't bother asking for a free sample.

As I arrive every morning, I survey the parking lot to see if my manager is already in, next I scan for the closest parking spot to the door. I park the car, gather my mess which includes a bag filled with bills I swear I am going to pay online, letters I swear I am going to send out in the morning mail, and of course a book I know I am not going to read. I head inside for what is sure to be the most delightfullest most pleasantest day of all days.

However, this morning as I walked in I was greeted with an odd vibe. There was a substance in the air that had a stinky odor to it, something I'm not normally accustomed to but nonetheless, it was in the air. Betrayal, regret, awkwardness, nervousness, and as I was asked to go into the back room aka closet of shame, I then realized why. When I came out of the closet, (not literally), they were huddled uttering words that must have been filled with a juice so juicy they couldn't wait to spew. How cute! Although at the moment I hadn't realized that I was the topic of their brief pow wow, it was awfully considerate of them to detain themselves as soon as I approached the dead end of my work station.

However trivial this may seem, it's moments like these that I know add spice to their lives. It's moments like these that make their life more relevant, more suspenseful, more exciting. So instead of being angry and bitter and resentful and vengeful, I will just gladly with a smile say "Your welcome!" I gave you something to look forward to on your otherwise monotonous mornings and although it was at my expense, I have to say it was pretty exciting for me too while it lasted.

Blank Canvas

I spend my days on the internet at work. Usually on 3 to 4 main sites, none of them porn, and on occasion I search for photo's to steal and post on this blog with out giving the original photographer any credit whatsoever including my husband's photo's, ( I promised myself I wouldn't do that anymore).

Anyway, I notice that there are a lot of tattooed moms out there and I started to wonder why am I not in that category. I'm cool. I'm pretty pale and permanent colors I think would look cool on my translucent skin. I have cool friends. I have two kids so I can clearly tolerate pain. I'm of age and I listen to cool music. I've lost special people. I have been through horrific situations and survived with all four limbs. I've lost weight, gained weight, pushed weight. I'm proud of my heritage and where I come from. I have family members struggling with cancer. All the factors are there, so why no urban markings of my indefinite coolness?

When I was about 11 my aunt's husband at the time was a "garage-cholo-tattoo-artist" and he was giving a tattoo to one of my mother's friends. I remember it like it was yesterday. My uncle was slightly uncomfortable because he was tattooing a pink Bugs Bunny type rabbit in the pelvic area of a grown gay man. He was a good sport about it taking his smoke breaks while we giggled about him catching 'the gay'. And on the last final break before he was going to finish, everyone had left the garage and it was just me and him. I jokingly grabbed the home-made tattoo gun and acted like I was going to give myself a tattoo. He looked at me and said, "I didn't see nothing..." so like the retarded, misguided, unattended child that I was, I gave myself a little dot on my lower leg. Not even a cool dot, not a smiley face, not a star, thankfully no gang symbols or names, no MOM in a heart, no cross, just a dot.

When I think back to that incident I can't help but burn with anger that I hadn't taken that golden opportunity to tattoo something more fantastic, something more memorable that I could regret right now. While the other part of me that is semi-normal, inwardly laughs and gleams with pride that even at that young age I wasn't THAT stupid to put something quite permanent and ridiculous on my body. Then there is that small fraction of my heart that always seems to get sad when I think about my childhood that coincidentally feels partly bitter and depressed that I didn't like something enough like Barbies, or a song, or a catch phrase, or a school, or a color, or a parent enough to commemorate them with what would have been a scraggly, undoubtedly ugly, faded mess by now.

I don't know why I haven't gotten anything since I turned 18. I was quick to get piercing's and poke holes every where I could. A part of me swears it's because of money. But reality is, I am not sure I would like something long enough to put on my body indefinitely. I am not sure I would be comfortable with a tattooer looking at my imperfect skin for that long or even touching me for that long. I look at my little dot in it's state right now and it's already faded into surrounding skin in the same fashion that a 70 year old war veteran's dancing pin up girl must look now.

Who knows, maybe when I reach my mid-life crisis point where I need to feel young, alive, relevant, non-trivial I will opt for something cute and dainty or gorilla and pimpish. Maybe I will get that cholo tattoo I've always wanted. Maybe I will get my grandmother's name tattooed right on my neck, or by my chest. Maybe I will just let my husband draw all over me in permanent ink and feel cool for a week. A week where I will no longer be a blank canvas but an image of marked beauty with legitimate significance.

Supervising For The Boss

Mother Nature is a scary angry bitch. She puts the PMS in PMS. The only mother she really is is a mother-fucker if you don't heed the news or her warnings. She can ruin your day in an instant and in the same way make it all beautiful again. A certain supernatural power that really only mother's have and women in general. Her tantrums are never ignored and she can switch her mood at any given moment.

She is ruthless and when her wrath unravels everyone feels it. She doesn't care if you just washed your car after weeks of not washing it, she will shower herself all over your newly shined windows. She doesn't care if you just raked all your leaves off your lawn, she will blow a gusty wind so strong it'll knock you right into the pile you just gathered. She doesn't care if you made plans to go to the beach this weekend because of how happy she has been lately by showing us some sunshine, she will rain all over your parade before you can even get it started.

She certainly doesn't care if you just got your hair did, your weave glued, your new kicks on, or that you wore flip flops to work instead of rain boots, or that you sent your kids to school in skirts cause judging by the last couple of days you assumed it was going to be hot.

And most importantly, she can give a flying (insert vulgar cuss word here), if your country just recently had a huge earthquake, a tsunami, a radio active plant in supreme danger, a good portion of your population dead, buildings and homes in shambles, families torn apart rebuilding what was theirs for centuries from the bottom up again. She will send another seizure your way, no mercy from any part including the part of her name that includes the word mother.

And although her fury is unyielding, she works for a Boss who is far more forgiving than she. A Boss who, like most bosses, uses a manager or a supervisor to write people up, suspend them, punish them for showing up late everyday, stealing from the company or taking advantage of the establishment that gave them a job to begin with. To scare them into getting their shit together and get right before the 'Big Boss' shows up for inspection.

Instead of scaring yourself with 'end-of-the-world' prophecies, building underground/above ground refuge while seeking solace in your basements filled with years of food supply, water, canned goods, dirty magazines, walkie-talkies, aluminum foil antennae, and Mayan calendars why not seek solace in the fact that you are still alive? In the fact that Mother Nature may be a crazy bitch, but the Big Boss gave her the okay to let you live another day to get your shit in order, your ducks in a row, your priorities straight, your black heart purified, your dirty mind cleansed all before He shows up.

No one knows when He's coming, not the Mayans, not Dionne Warwick or Miss Cleo, not the History Channel, or Discovery Channel, not even Mother Nature herself. I just hope He takes the long way here because as of now my ducks are scattered all over the bay.

I Am Always Tired Because I Become A Superhero At Night

The term fast asleep is not a term I am familiar with. It takes me forever to fall asleep and it's never a fast forever. I try and tell myself every night that I am going to go to bed at 10pm and I typically do a good job of being IN BED by 10. But then the anti-sleep devil in the most common form known as Netflix appears on our computer and tempts me with it's evil foreign, independent, documentary, comedy, romance titles and I know at that instant I am doomed for bedtime failure.

Last night was no exception. My eyes were heavy around 9:30 pm so I slumped in bed and grabbed my book (America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago, one of my favorite-ist writer's right now and not just cause she is a talented Boricua, but because she is inspirational and relevant to every woman's struggle, believe it and cop it NOW) practiced horrible posture while my husband took photo's.

Then 9:30 turns into 10:30 and he looks at me and says, "Wanna watch The Fighter?"
I reply, "Sure, let's do it...." secretly thinking in my brain I'm going to fall asleep the first five minutes anyway I am so tired. He proceeds to insert bootleg and I proceed to read. We lag a few minutes, my books getting good and he realizes that Lali put Spongebob sticker heads on every small head in the Urban Outfitter catalog so he keeps clicking and I keep reading. All the while thinking, go ahead and take your time taking your pictures I am going to sleep anyway once that movie starts.

However, as fate would have it, The Fighter ended up being really good and as scenes progressed and minutes passed I found myself more awake than I was an hour and a half prior filled with excitement to watch the plot unfold. It was indeed a very good movie and every moment it slowed down I would look over to my baby daddy and tell him, "MAN! It needs to hurry up and finish! I wanted to go to SLEEP!!" To which he would reply, "I don't know why you didn't think it was going to be good, it was nominated so many times." I guess I just didn't know what to expect and I certainly didn't think that family was going to be that damn crazy and I really wish the bootleg guy that produced that film hadn't cut the sound off when the real Micky and Dicky were talking at the end. Whatever.

Either way I was so hyped up from the movie that I couldn't get back to sleep. I wanted to watch the actual fights, I wanted to see what his redneck sister's really looked like, I wanted to pretend I hadn't even watched it, I wanted to text my brother in law and let him know how good it was. But all that excitement would have to wait (I haven't done any of these things by the way today).

The Boss put on a French film starring Audrey Tautou (I think he has a secret lesbian crush on her) but he put it too low so my efforts in deciphering what they were saying were all in vain. I lied there peacefully in my beau's arm desperately seeking Mr. Sandman. I grew more annoyed when I couldn't find him and when I realized that Baby Daddy was already knocked out. So now I was awake alone. I always try and count backwards from 100 but that only results in me being a master at counting backwards from 100. Counting sheep? Fahgettaboutit. No patience. I start to get antsy in my brain. I start to get itchy around my arm but I don't want to move and make him uncomfortable. I hear noises outside, I hear noises inside, I hear the girls move around, I get more and more agitated. Finally I can't take it anymore and I just move closer to the edge because the King likes to sleep right smack in the middle. I embark on my journey in self torture and mentally become lost in tomorrow's to-do list.

*Make doctor's appointment for Samie
*Finally sign them up for classes of something this summer
*Pay tickets
*See if we qualify for new phones cause ours are booty and outdated
*Grocery shopping
*Clean
*Write
*Save the world
*Call my Grandma before she calls me

On and on until I feel my youngest terd jump in between her father and I. Dammit, I felt like I had just fallen asleep too and I hadn't even realized it. I guess my to-do list bored the shit out of me and put me to sleep.

April Fool's Day Came Early...

April Fool's was always an exciting holiday for her. It was a day she used for revealing truths to loved ones. A day she used for telling people all the hurtful things she really thought about them and after brushing off all the impenetrable guilt with a simple APRIL FOOL'S!

Things like,
"your breath stinks... "
"no one likes you..."
"your such a liar..."
"your hair is ugly..."
"that dress is so pretty..."
"yes you can borrow 20$..."
"I wish I wouldn't have married you..."
"your a bona fide racist..."
"I still smoke..."
and of course after each one never forgetting to tie that pretty little satin bow at the end of every phrase in the form of an excited and enthusiastic, "APRIL FOOL'S!"

But this year the holiday crept up on her faster than she had ever imagined. Just yesterday it felt like she was celebrating the New Year and now she was already in April. Was she getting old really fast? Faster than she would like to admit? That her favorite holiday no longer awoke the little butterflies that resided so wildly in her now flaccid and lumpy tummy?

And as she sat there wondering what was going on behind her, she realized that fate was playing the ultimate April Fool's joke on her. Except she hadn't understood it yet. The joke was truly on her this time. She thought she was needed, respected, adored. Instead she was mocked, patronized and blatantly lied to. Made a fool of on the one day she was permitted to be made a fool of. Except being foolish isn't so funny. She understood that maybe in a few months she would be able to look over to her girlfriends and think about what happened on this fateful day and burst into a fit of laughter instead of a fit of tears.

But that day wasn't approaching anytime soon. She would bask in her betrayal, her anguish. She would milk her protagonist role until the utters ran dry, her tears ran dry, till her shame ran dry. Her guard would never again be down, from now on she would hold a mirror over her shoulder to watch her back.....





“This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four.” -Mark Twain