What I Set Out To Do...

I'm in a pickle. Not the delicious kind either. Assuming you think pickles are delicious. Shit, I know I do. 

I am facing yet another career change.
When I left Race Street I was so unsure of what the future held. I am a long term job type of girl and in the last few years I have had about 3 different jobs. 

My current job I will have been at for a year in April. I feel it in my bones that the gig is up. I just ordered my transcripts from State and just that alone makes me feel like I am headed in the right direction. 

Finally.
In my mid-30's.
I see the light.

It's time to take action. Honestly, I just need to come to fucking terms with my life and the poor decisions I have made. Taking ownership is the hardest thing. 

I have made a myriad of excuses as to why I have continued to slack on myself. Don't believe me? A part of me hella wants to list them. Why? Maybe to shed myself of them, to own them once and for all and be fucking done, just done with them. And then another part of me is like hell no that might bite me in the ass later... accountability is key. But I am barely starting this journey with it... 

Truthfully a lot of it has been my fault. I have let other's shortcomings become mine. I've been complacent when I should have been enraged. 

I need to be an example for my children. They are entering the "old enough to remember phase" and I need to up my game, straight up.

It's hard as fuck being a mom and going back to school and following your dreams and all that shit when you have, for the last 13 years, aggressively set aside your own personal wants for others around you. 

How do I find myself again? How do I find what the fuck it is I really want to do with my life?

I thought my 30's were going to be fun. And in a way, I guess you can say this is fun. A different kind of fun. I have a chance to reinvent myself and be a better ass motherfucking me. When it can still count for something cause let's face it, trying to find yourself and your journey in your 40's, 50's & 60's, although extremely courageous and commendable, can also be laughable and sad. 

So here's to gobbling pickles and showing them who's boss. I'm sliding into home, players.

Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream...

Last night I tried again and failed again.
I thought long and hard about going to sleep before midnight.
Everyone else in my family can, quite easily too it seems but I still struggle.
I enjoy my struggle though I can't lie.
Those wee hours of the night that I lay awake are my peaceful moments. 
My "me" time.
I think, these are the hours that I get clarity. 
I can watch whatever I want without protest, I can play my stupid games without anyone protesting or looking at me all judgy with their judgy ass eyes.
I can really do whatever I want. 
As long as it's quiet and it doesn't wake anyone else up.

But then I think, I do all that shit all day anyway.
I watch whatever I want.
I play my stupid ass games whenever I want.
I think whatever I want.

I have fooled myself into thinking quite the opposite of what those hours mean to me exactly.

So what kept me up last night? Besides my husbands rape-y hands? 

Breaking Bad.

I started it a year or so ago on Netflix and then stopped because Skylar, Walt's wife, just rubbed me the wrong way. There's a lot of cheese thrown into the dialogue that doesn't seem organic and as trivial as that may sound, it is enough to get me off a bandwagon really quick. But yesterday, as I was browsing thru "My List" I seen it still there and realized that I only had a season left to finish. 

I hate being a quitter.

I am on Season 4 Episode 8 - Cornered. I think it's titled. It was really good so I had to pause it at 2 AM and put on Dolphins instead. Otherwise that binge could have lasted well into the wee morning. Further than it already had.

So when I switched to Dolphins - I found myself still very much engaged with the programming. How they swim, how they lunge out of the water and dive or twist back in. Or maybe I was just waiting to see a dolphin penis. 

Never happened. Crashed before I could confirm.

They Tell Me I Need 7-9 But I Only Get 3-5...

[side note: I started writing this thinking "I am going to be lazy and not punctuate and hope it looks cool since I have seen it done plenty of times" and in my attempt I realized that I am not that kind of asshole. I am of a different type of asshole. A lazy asshole in general but never too damn lazy to punctuate. Does that mean I am getting old or maybe I am already old and just have managed to fool myself for the last 5 years that I am still 25 when in fact I am reaching my mid _{M.Y.O.B}_ and just need to realize it. Punctuation and proper grammar are a sign of self respect & integrity and since I lack so much of that in my real life I might as well have it online. Where I don't know anyone.]

So every morning I wake up and I'm like damn I am so tired. I really need to go to bed earlier. Like for real this time. 

And every night there I am, 10:30 - 11 pm, debating whether I should keep my word or not and before I know it, it's 1:30 am and I am still trying to convince myself that one more stupid ass TV show won't kill me and I will make it up and take a nap during the day.

I convince myself that I really only need 5 hours of sleep anyway, unless there is beer or liquor involved prior to hitting the hay then a bitch needs like 10 or 12 hours and I will get them one way or another at someone else's expense. 

But last night it wasn't a stupid TV show that kept me up. It was a movie. A movie I have always wanted to watch and attempted to watch it a few weekends ago before I realized that there were too many adults partaking in too many adult beverages to even appreciate this film and all it's beauty. And not only do I hate telling people to shut the fuck I also don't know how to say it nicely so I just switched the movie to something we can all talk thru and not give a fuck.

So last night as I contemplated drifting off to the sweet sounds of my partner trying to summon the dead, I decided once and for all I was going to watch The Danish Girl. A reckless decision in retrospect, but fuck a retrospect.

It was beautiful from start to finish. The cinematography [I say that word like I know what it means exactly. I have an idea, sure, but right here right now as I type this out I am not 100% on its meaning so I am going to look it up aka google that shit so I can finally say/write it and really know what the fuck I am talking about - no longer will I educated-guess this shit, I am taking a stand - there I found the definition of it and I was right about what I thought it meant... now back to your scheduled programming] was enchanting and mesmerizing. Watching the transition of the character not only externally but internally as well. He did such a good job... so did his wife. I believed it, I felt it, I cried with her. She was gaining a best friend but losing her husband and not once did her loyalty falter. 

I went thru so many emotions watching it... I love when people just love each other. Regardless of their innate nature or what we've been taught or instructed on what's historically been acceptable or unacceptable. 

Just love, people. Just love. 

and go to bed early, and know the definition of words before you use them.... like for real, for real. 

  

Random Rants...

My struggles continue. 
I am teetering on the cusp of obese and overweight according to that stupid ass BMI chart.
I go to sleep motivated to work out the next day.
I wake up the next day motivated to go back to sleep.
I am still happily married to my best friend who sometimes doubles as my worst enemy.
I love the Niners and he loves the Raiders and I feel like just based on that alone we should not be together.
I finally learned how to put on contacts. 
It feels great.
Now I have to figure out another way to hide the bags under my eyes. I have been thinking about investing in some under eye cream but Lord knows I am a cheap skate.
Where the hell does that term even come from - cheap skate?
I break down every once in a while when I think about my father's passing. 

The Day The Music Died...

9.1.15

So here is some hilarity - depending on how you look at things - my view tends to be from an asshole angle so I think it's pretty funny. This specific post started about 3 years ago. I start off by saying I told myself I wouldn't take so long to write it but here it is, 3 years later. This past Saturday was his birthday - this coming Sunday marks the anniversary of his passing. And I have still not posted it.

My problem is that I want everything to be perfect. Every word and syllable to be perfect to me other wise no honor or justice is done to the subject....

And now I feel like an ass. I remember why I stopped typing at the w because I just started crying and couldn't bare it anymore. This was a time of drunken stupors and nicotine addictions. A time when I didn't want to feel.

So instead of nitpicking and prolonging, shit I am not even going to proofread it. I am just going to post it.

In its rawest form...

I told myself I would not take so long on this blog. That I would not procrastinate it into oblivion, yet a year later here I am. There are no excuses for the absence I have taken. Although my excuses are excellent and justified I will not indulge them here.

I have lost someone very dear to me. Always was although his absence would have you think otherwise. It has been just over two months and it still feels like yesterday the last time I seen him. 

My relationship with him was a very special, personal, private, estranged, deranged, intimate, endearing, loving, close & sometimes an honest one. I blamed myself when he left the first time & the second time but not the third time.

He made attempts to remain in contact & I forced it all the way. At times I felt like I wasn't there enough for him like I should have been even though it should have been the other way around. His calls were burdensome at times because all he would rant about were my sisters and how much I needed to stay in contact with them and call them all the time and protect them and be there for them and remember that all we had was each other. 

A complicated man he was. Deep yet shallow. Loving yet hurtful. His words would make you feel like nothing else mattered and that everything could be healed and wiped away with a hug and a kiss. & for the most part it's all it took to make me forget the abandonment he caused in my life. 

I miss him dearly and I can't believe he is gone. Just like that. Wiped from my life. And although I don't blame myself for this fourth time that he has left, my heart weighs in heavier than words can ever explain. I don't even know how to complete this post because I feel like I should w.....

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die

 https://youtu.be/hwYpq3BXA5c   
[some notes about my Dad]

Restitutions & Resolutions!

I always make New Year's Resolutions. Every year they tend to be the same and I almost always know as soon as I make them I will more than likely find an excuse later on in the year to NOT keep them. Some of my past resolutions have been the same as many others. Stop smoking, drink less, lose weight, work out, be responsible, be a better mother etc...

This is the first year where I find myself not really having a resolution or wanting to even make any. Reflected on this past year and realized that I just want to live. Enjoy life. Appreciate every single smile from my daughters' faces. Soak up the love my husband gives me. To live in the moment and to stop stressing about the next minute, day, bill, weekend...

Losing weight is somewhere on that list, but not above getting healthy and eating right.

I always feel like people make resolutions based on unrealistic goals. Habits must change, routines must be broken, mind frames destroyed. How can you lose weight when you ritually suggest going out to eat every other night simply because it's easier than cooking and cleaning for yourself? How can you say you will stop smoking when you know that every time you drink you want a cigg-butt and tend to move mountains just to get one?

Before you work out your legs, muscles, arms and abs try working out your brain. That's the strongest thing in your whole anatomy. Your best friend and your worst enemy. Get that thing in shape and the rest will follow. You can stop doing whatever makes you hate yourself any time, not just when a year is over. Since when does a new year wipe a slate entirely clean...? Excuses people make to make themselves feel better about previous transgressions...

My new year's resolution for sure is to stop worrying about what other stupid people are doing.

Things Have Changed

Starting a new job was not something I had planned on. I was pretty complacent at Race Street. I settled for what was handed to me and I settled comfortably for a little over ten years. I always knew that wasn't going to be my final resting place although at times it felt like it.

There were days where I sat at that desk and envisioned myself 20 years down the road sitting at that same desk, next to a much younger owner, with different visions for the company while I sat there in self-loathing and disgust that I had let my all my dreams and aspirations slip down the tiny drain of life. I didn't want to wake up in twenty years so blinded by routine and comfort and never trying to venture out and define myself in a career I was more satisfied in. Don't get me wrong, there were plenty of upsides to the job of which I won't get into now, but over all it was a high stress job that I had grown weary of.

Then there were days where I absolutely loved my job. Although they were few, I still had them. They were my family. I hated them and I loved them, kinda like everything else in my life. But the time had come where everyday that I drove my to my job, usually at the same place everytime on the freeway I would say out loud how much I hated my job.

I felt like I was too young to already hate my job. To already be at a dead end position and stay there snuggly for the next 40 years or so. I refused to be that person. I prayed to God to help me. To put a job in my path that would be more fulfilling, more rewarding, and less stressful and He did.

I work somewhere else now. After ten years of wasting away at a company and I say wasting away because being the only Spanish speaker in a company where 50% of customers are Spanish speakers, a company where they knew they could count on me every holiday season to go back and work at their retail market for no extra bonus, and I couldn't even get offered 50 cents more to stay... I valued them more than they valued me... I cried my last day there. It was really hard for me to leave. I love them and I miss them sometimes.

My new job is quiet. I haven't been a new person at a job in over ten years. Finding my corner here, where I fit in, who I can talk to and trust, coming in a few minutes late & feeling ok about it, who's coffee cup am I stealing today, does my incessant typing annoy people here, buidling my bathroom confidence all over again, storing my lunch, who's parking spot am I taking, do they think I stink, do they think that I became comfortable too fast, do they think I am weird, or worth it?

I am excited, relieved, less stressed, and happy to be here. Happy to be in a different situation than I had been the last 10 years feeling like I can grow WITH a company and ready to do it. Here's to another 10 years of booty ploppin...

Opinions Are Like Assholes & Mine Is Pretty Shitty

I like to read. A lot. I like to read a lot of different types of things. Books, magazines, articles, the Bible, billboard ads, bus advertisements, catalogs, diaries, blogs, facebook updates, real n*gga quotes, my own scribbles, gay poems, my daughter's stories, nursery rhymes, song lyrics... I can go on forever really but that would be pretty dumb.

One particular magazine I like to read is filled with inspiring articles, exceptional pictures, enticing endorsements and sometimes just from touching it's silky cover and turning it's bold pages I can feel the awesomeness seep into my dry skin hence making me that much more cooler. The interviews are with very interesting people and formatted in such a way that you can't help but read till the bitter end. The paper it is printed on feels good on the finger tips and reminds your hands to be very careful despite its durable texture. The writers are unmatched in their craft and they tend to provoke a sense of "what-the-f*ck-am-I-doing-in-my-life-that's-this-cool?" The answer always ends up being NOTHING.

One section towards the back is a list of songs on an ipod owned by someone from the magazine or a friend of a friend or a band or another artist or I am not sure which other person because the print is so small it takes too much effort to read but I quite enjoy this part because I like to see how many songs are on my own Ipod (usually 1 -2 songs) and how many of them I can sing.

Another section in the back is from one of the writer's and if I have to pick a favorite section it's this one. The name escapes my memory but about 98% of the time after I am done reading this section I always feel inclined to pick up a pen and make sweet sweaty stinky love to a blank page.

While reading it last night I realized my only grievance with this publication besides the print being too small for my impaired eyes is that every other page has a topless girl on it. I'm no feminist, or womanist, or prude (well maybe a prude but hey that's life) it's just that the magazine itself is excellent and to picture a topless girl every other page just makes it seem pseudo porn-ish and for me devalues the content. Clearly it is geared more towards men and lesbians and bi-sexuals and metro sexuals and whatever sexuals I missed but are they not confident that their content is captivating enough to keep the reader intrigued? Or perhaps their lack of confidence lies in the male attention span? I honestly think they do it simply because they can and the girls are hot so why not? You own a magazine and have complete control over its essence and if your penis has complete control over you then a "random-hot-girl" that is pleasant to the eye (the one on your penis) is what you deem enticing, then do it!

Now don't get me wrong I am a lover of all things boobies, big boobies, small boobies, small teats, huge teats, droopy ones, perky ones, slouchy ones, sad ones, happy ones, transparent ones, dark ones, lactating ones, and for extra funny fun, floppy ones. Although the latter rarely make the pages, I understand a slip of the nip every so often is intriguing but when it gets to the point where I start to question the hotness of my own boobs I get scared. Maybe that's all it is is jealousy. I'll be the first to admit it and depending on my mood the first to deny it.

When I first started reading it, I thought it was super cool, daring, fresh and fearless, but after 8 or so magazine-skimmings and noticing the boobage flicks increasing in amount and size I found myself feeling stupidly insecure. Sure I can switch the page, ignore it, pretend it's not there, focus on the articles and all the core ingredients that keep me captivated in its content to begin with, but who am I kidding? What human being flips thru a magazine, spots a boob or something that closely resembles a boob and really just pretends it isn't there?

So I guess you can say that all those things I swear I am not, I secretly am. It shames me indeed to admit that the part of me that use to admire a nice bosom is now replaced with a feeling of envy amidst a side of adoration. Perhaps it's time to start doing some push-ups to achieve the greatness pictured below and in turn raise my own level of security in order to entirely enjoy what has now become one of my favorite periodicals.

here's to great looking "guns" around the world

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

I Like Girls Who Wear Abercrombie & Fitch...

Is your eight year old daughter a late bloomer? Does she come home sad from school because all the other girls in her class have a full rack and she is the only flat chested third grader in her class? Are her grades dropping from lack of self esteem? Is she depressed cause summertime is coming and she can't find the perfect bikini? Well your in luck!! Abercrombie & Fitch has upped their game and started mass producing padded bikini tops for your child at a small fee of $24.50!


A small price to pay for the long lasting encouragement your daughter will have in becoming a pregnant teen. Drop those books elementary school children. Who needs a lawyer, a doctor, a nurse, a CEO, a teacher, a professor, the president, world leaders, when we can have future sluts in training!

Whatever parent buys this for their child should be awarded and not shot. Who wouldn't want their daughter to put out the image of being an older woman, more developed than she really is or needs to be? Who wouldn't want their daughter building sand castles to the sweet sounds of waves and wolf whistles? And while you're at it, why not stop and by your baby some birth control pills and a gift certificate for a Brazilian wax cause that's where she's headed after she realizes all the attention she will be getting.

Are the executives at Abercrombie that desperate for sales that they have slumped to marketing adult women products to elementary school children? The economy can't be that bad.

Thinking of this reminds me of my own little padded bikini top story. I developed really early and I can't remember who bought me this bikini but either way the top was super padded and since I had my own little lemon bumps it made my chest way bigger than it really was and I remember feeling a tad ridiculous but more than that I felt grown up. Maybe any attention was good attention for me at the time. There was a pool at the high school nearby that we could go swim at, which we did every summer. It was the first time I would rock that bikini. I don't remember getting that much attention, I do remember feeling very self-conscious about how I looked. An elementary child worried about what she looked like in a navy blue padded bikini top. Soon I just forgot about trying to look older and just began to enjoy myself. I got out the pool to jump in and as I ran to my destination spot I slipped and I fell right on my face. It was then that it occurred to me that I had been wearing a very grown up swim suit. I was humiliated. No one appeared to notice but the bottom line is I felt even worse that I was trying to look grown up when I was still playing like a child. Grown up women don't run around a pool because they know the dangers a slip and fall can do to their image. Grown up women don't buy heavily padded bikini tops because they know how silly they will look and are usually content with what God has graciously graced them with.

You buy a child a padded bikini top she is going to think she is older and ultimately will try her hardest act older forgetting about being a child until she falls flat on her face.

How Lovely Is The Life I Lead.

It's hilarious that I have to work all day and then go home and work all night. I love sitting here at my desk and contemplating my next move, my next call, my next dodge, my next word and then stressing my brain out to oblivion with all the chaos that comes my way. I never anticipated a sit-down job to be so fantastic. It really is all I could ever want. Sitting here practicing posture techniques, typing with out looking, or what different ways I can organize my desk. I have mastered the technique of guessing who is coming by the sound of their pitter-patter on the linoleum floor. Nine times out of ten I always guess right. I can tell by the length of their steps and the heaviness of their feet or the squeek their shoes make or don't make or the way they come down the stairs or how the upstairs door slams when they close it. It's actually a talent I have honed over the years of working here and I am considering including that talent on my resume. I listen to complaining literally ALL DAY from a wide array of people. Co-workers, sales partners, customers, buyers, dock employees, my computer fan from being over worked... all underpaid.

Then I get to go home. I have about 45 minutes of alone time that use to be spent cooking and tiding up a bit before members of my congregational family arrive. But now I have realized that those 45 minutes are truly the only real moments alone I have at home so I spend them instead on Sorority Life like a real woman should. Of course in between the moments it takes for my computer to download I am in the kitchen prepping for the spectacular dinner I am imagining in my head. After I am done whooping virtual ass, buying all the hottest virtual clothes virtual money can buy, and of course virtually pampering my virtual boyfriend that is if one of my virtual sorority slutty sisters hasn't stolen him, I drag my feet to my lovely kitchen and begin the task of dinner. YAY!

Thankfully, I am the type of mother that does NOT care what my kids will or will not eat. I never indulge in their pickyness because once you let them get away with it they will do it time and time again. I never got to choose what I ate and they are granted the same privileges. While I am on this subject I absolutely can't stand mothers that proclaim what their child will and won't eat and they bring their own snacks to the party because of it. Unless your kid has tried it they don't know if they like it or not! So quit with the dumb shit! There are starving children all over the damn world! Shit there are starving children here in San Jose that don't get a choice in what they can eat or won't eat. My kids eat what I cook, if they don't like they don't eat and until they can buy their own groceries that's how it is. I always tell them when they don't like what I cook that they are NOT at a restaurant and if they were I would be the manager, the president, the boss with the sauce and I would kick them out with out a refund just for complaining.

After we eat dinner together as a family, they have the opportunity to watch a movie, read a book, play a game, clean their room, draw or color, take a bath, and leave me be. While they are occupied with their tasks at hand the hubby gracefully plops himself in front of the computer to work while I tend the kitchen and the dishes and the draperies and the laundry and the sweeping and then I do them again! All the mean while I am in a whirlpool of self-loathing cursing every sock, toy, dish, chair, jacket that is out of place ruining what should be ME TIME!

Then following the round-up of all things scattered, I calmly ask Mordecai and Rigby to brush their teeth and hop into bed. I use to let them watch movies but that shit just keeps them up later so lately I have been playing this CD called Sleep Sounds we got at a hotel once. They hate it, I love it cause they are asleep in about 20 minutes when it would normally take them hours to crash. I don't know why I ever thought watching a movie to go to sleep is a good idea for kids that aren't even trying to go to sleep in the first place. I put the CD on and I close the doors to the hallway and the kitchen giving them peace and tranquility while I ever so gracefully plop myself in front of the TV hoping to catch something good on Netflix.

Concurrently, the wonderful, amorous man I call Baby Daddy is still in oblivion working on his pictures and I mentally debate with my mental self about interrupting his work and letting him know that I am going to watch a movie if he would like to partake in such activities. One hundred percent of the time I am successful at pulling him away from his rigorous assignments. I then patiently wait and watch as he shows me what he has accomplished so far while waiting for a professional critique. I inwardly beam with pride, joy, accomplishment, happiness when I see the marvelous work he does but I can't show too much pride or excitement or overdo my compliments otherwise he will think me fake. Like any artist he appreciates constructive valid criticism not the "I-think-every-single-little-thing-you-do-is-absolutely-fantastic-even-if-you-hate-it" type of banter I guess I can sometimes give. Whatever. It's how I feel. It's the reason why I don't get upset when he sits there hours at a time while I am sweating to the tunes of a dirty house because I know that whatever he is working on is going to be brilliant and I don't want to be the one to hold him back or make him feel like he can't be great because his nagging ass wife. If he wasn't so adept, I wouldn't be as supportive but then again would I even realize he wasn't skilled cause I am his wife and love him to pieces and everything he does?

We snuggle up in bed, sometimes with an ice cold one, sometimes with a snack, sometimes just each other. And these are the moments I can't wait for. The moments when it's back to us. The moment's when I get to lay down next to the man that's played the lead role in all of my dreams including my nightmares. Ignoring my never ending back pain and just basking in the infinite love I feel for him and my children at this very moment when I finally get to do what I want and not what I HAVE to do. I say a little prayer to God asking him to please pretty please slow down the axis of the earth around the sun and let me have extra moments of this tranquility.

And then BAM my phone rings and it's my Grandmother giving me her ritual wake up call that I quickly devalue by going back to sleep as soon as I hang up. Sometimes she calls me back at 6:30, most times she doesn't but that's okay because the devil himself disguised as my husband's cell phone alarm will now continuously ring for the next hour every five minutes marking the pinnacle of another fateful day of waiting till I reach those last few hours that make the rest of my wonderful day all worth it. Indeed the life I lead is lovely, can't wait to do it again tomorrow.

Ciao.

(ps. I really do love my life.)

La Ramona

Admittedly, I'm ashamed it took cancer to bring me closer to her, to make me realize her value, to understand that she is the key to the past, the blueprint to my history and the reason I am here. Being appreciative of the wrinkles that cover her body resembling not only signs of old age but also signifying chiseled roads of a life filled with anguish, laughter, tears, loss, widowhood, betrayal, joys, anxiety, stress, depression, hunger, peace, acceptance, enjoyment, happiness, sadness, sickness and above all love.

Courageous and captivating is this woman. She speaks her mind and doesn't care what anyone thinks. She can still cook up a storm too when the chemo doesn't have her 'tumbao del caballo'. She rarely cries, but when she does you can't help but cry with her. She's independent, hard headed, stubborn, passive aggressive, and charming in every way. Her laugh is infectious, her smile heart-warming. You do for her she does for you. You don't do for her you can bet that she will STILL do for you. When she lost all her hair and finally moved back home she spent a lot of time showing everyone she could her bald head. As much as she would say, "I don care, eso crece pa' tra" I knew a part of her did care. Even still she looks mighty thuggish and stylish in her beanies now.

Every time she finishes a treatment, or I am going over for a visit, I always tell her, "Gramma, I'm bringing over some beer we are gonna celebrate!" She usually replies, "Nena, pero tu ta' loca!". For her birthday, I told her I was going to bring some over and instead of replying her normal answer this time she said, "Bring IT!"

Even if we weren't that close when I was little, she is the only grandparent I have, and as a woman I am doing my best to know all I can about her. All her struggles, all her fears, all her ambitions, what she liked as a child, what she ate as a child, what she dreamed of as a child, all her secret recipes for making the best sofrito in the world and the best arroz con gandules in the world. I really don't want to be that person with the "coulda-woulda-shoulda" blues.

Phrases like, "El que tenga tienda, que la tienda, o si no que la venda", "llevatelo, I have more!" "cometelo, yo ya comi" "sinverguenca" "mi caso en na" "ay caramba" are just a few that warm my heart when I picture her saying them. Her English is broken. Broken like her heart the day her husband died, broken like her soul the day she lost her father and when she lost her mother. Broken like her spirit when she realized that she would never again see her children under the same roof alive.

When I found her on the floor when she fell, my world came tumbling down. I felt that I had failed her. What was the point of me spending nights with her if I wasn't able to help her? To see her that way changed my life forever and what I call failing she calls saving. She says I saved her life that day, introduced me to her social worker at SSI as her "savior". But I'm no captain, I did the Lord's work that morning.

Our family is troubled and dysfunctional. If I had to rate our dysfunction from 1-10 I would say it falls right around 8.5. You name it, it's more than likely happened. Everyone has gone their separate ways now. I always ask her, "What did you do that your kids have all gone mad?" She laughs, shrugs her shoulders innocently and says, "I don no". She's grown accustomed to the tension that resides in our family. I know she felt that at least one good thing could come from her being sick, and that was the family unida.

We are especially chosen to have blood connections with certain people for a reason. It is not by chance that my Grandmother is my Grandmother. Had I not spent the night with her that night who knows what could have ended up happening. God knew that I felt it necessary to be by her side to protect her. I have a purpose in this family, I know that like I know that this chair will be patiently waiting for me tomorrow. I know that like I know that my sweet old Grandma is going to call me at 6 am sharp to wake me. I can feel that my task in this family is going to be huge and maybe even burdensome, God just hasn't revealed that task to me yet.