Words of the Wise

It’s funny how you never truly appreciate “words of wisdom” until you are actually able to apply them. Then it’s like, all of a sudden, you realize why those words have been spoken.

One saying that I used to mull over in my head is “Nobody knows what’s in the soup but the spoon that stirs it.” I never understood it. But I had to admit that it made me curious.

And even after I acquired a general understanding, it didn’t mean much until I was able to apply it to my own life. Then it seemed to take on a whole new meaning. Different aspects of the saying seemed to evolve, and now it is definitely one of my favorite quotes… especially these days.

My very wise aunt introduced me to that quote, as well as to another one that is not so sophisticated, but it says a lot all on its own. If and when someone is upset, whether it’s at you or not, my aunt says, “Well, they have two jobs: to get mad, and to get glad!” That always sounded so silly to me. I always wondered How can someone just get glad after being mad? That makes no sense.

I know I haven’t blogged much since last year. But it really hasn’t been because I haven’t had much to say. It’s because I have internalized a lot. I let certain circumstances rule my judgments and my decisions. I let certain people bring me down. I have let their judgments and their perceptions inhibit my actions. And in doing so, I have denied myself happiness.
Now, more recently, I have pieced together several observations. All of a sudden, these pieces of an enormous puzzle have come together, and a sense of relief has developed. Those quotes, the ones my aunt has always told me, the ones I never understood, now make a whole LOT of sense.

One element that I think she was trying to teach me was resilience. We have to be resilient, especially when others attack us with words, with their judgments, with their self-righteous accusations… we have to be resilient. Not because strength is admirable. Not because it’s the mature thing to do. But because those attacks are not about us. Those attacks are about THEM. They have no idea what is going on in your life or your situation (the soup). Only you (the spoon) knows. Thus, they have no right to judge, and their words really do not matter. (Plus, the last time I checked only God has the right to judge, and as far as I’m concerned there is only ONE God.)

So, in saying “they have two jobs: to get mad and to get glad,” it is not to imply that changing moods is so easy. The true meaning is that you really should not take time to be bothered with whether other people are mad or glad. What they think and feel is what THEY think and feel. That is beyond your control, and you should not let it affect you. Let them get mad… and let them get glad… (and my little addition: Let them get over it. ;-)

Life goes on, and it’s time to be happy.

True Love (originally titled "Doin' it MY way")

Every year at this time, thoughts of love permeate our world. But usually it is the kind of love that is characterized by physical passion, emotional commitment, heartfelt romance, tender kisses, long embraces, fragrant flowers, heart-shaped chocolates… all that good stuff. And it is true that love can involve all of this. But not all loves are the same.

Some relationships are difficult. They involve a love that is hindered by obstacles, dishonesty, denial, infidelity, lack of commitment… yet even so, these relationships can still withstand the test of time. When a decision is made to overcome these barriers and commit to making things happen, this type of love can be just as great as any other.

I’ve known love like this. For years, I have been in denial about the one I love. I was scared and sometimes even ashamed to admit to loving the one I did. Other times, I endured doubt or criticism from others as well as myself. After a while, the doubt made me stray. I tried to find other loves that might work better or that might please other people. It’s taken years for me to realize that the only one I need to please is myself.

I’ve decided that being dishonest with myself and with others has not proven wise or beneficial. And believe it or not, betraying the one I love has proven more hurtful to me than anyone else. Having to go through life wishing and hoping that things could have worked out the first time or that I wouldn’t have been seduced by others that promised me money or other material things has really eaten away at my spirit. For years it has made me truly sad.

This year, I am happy to say that a former love and I have a chance to be reunited. It has always been a rocky relationship. Over the years, I have had trouble committing, and quite honestly, I have to admit that I have strayed many times along the way. Yet my love has always been there, waiting for me to come back, never asking questions when I would occasionally find time to devote to our relationship in some way or another.

No one knows the real reason I did what I did. It would be too long of a story to go into. What’s important, though, is that I’ve finally realized the error of my ways. I’ve finally come to a point where I’m willing to do what it takes to make things work. I’m willing to make the time and the effort to cultivate this love and make it what it was truly meant to be in the first place.
I’ve realized that it’s not too late. We should never tell ourselves that it’s too late or that there is no hope. Because there is. There always will be.

Who is this love, you may ask? Well, actually, it’s not a “who,” but a “what”. As a matter of fact, most of you already know a part of it. It is my love of writing, or in this case, the STUDY of writing, and literature, and all that that implies. ;-)

That’s right. I’ve decided to go back to school to study what I want to this time. The first time around I was influenced and pushed into a direction that I never really truly wanted to go. I ended up with a Master’s degree in School Administration. Bleh!

But this time, I’m doin’ it MY way.

I have decided to apply to the M.A. program in English at UTSA. If all goes well, hopefully, I can get admitted for the summer. If not, then maybe the fall. And if things continue to go well after that, then hopefully, in the fall of 2011, I will be starting the doctoral program in Latino literature.

My love and I have been separated for way too long. But, alas, finally there is hope that we can be together once again. Only this time, it will be for keeps.

Wish me luck, y’all!

O-blog-atory... part 2

Oh my goodness, where has the time gone?
I know that I made a vow to blog regularly again, but I guess I completely forgot to set a deadline by which to get this done every week. Darn!

In my defense though, I can honestly say that I had no time to blog the last week and a half (two weeks) anyway because my last day off was actually the last day I blogged. So there. Today was the first day I had off in the last two weeks (I think). The days seem to run together so much sometimes that I can’t remember sometimes… If I recall correctly, the only day I had off last week was only a partial day. So, it didn’t really count as a day off.

So, the last two weeks have been pretty uneventful. I’ve just been working every night, sleeping every day. And somewhere in there, I have found time to eat… go grocery shopping, do laundry, get my car inspected, and start a new skin care regimen.
It seems that in my older years, I have started to develop fine lines and wrinkles. So, I decided to start using Oil of Olay about two weeks ago. I now realize that Oil of Olay makes me break out. Ugh. BUT I will say that I have begun to see it’s immediate effects on the fine lines. So, now I am torn. Which is the worse of two evils? And if any of you feel compelled to recommend ProActive, let me just tell you that that makes me break out in the most HORRIBLE way. Oh my gosh!

But I digress… let us not dwell on my skin woes… life is too short…

The reason I have been working every day for the past two weeks is so that I could have an entire week off. I had to balance out my work hours.

On my first day off, I decided to do nothing that would require me to leave the house. That is reserved for tomorrow. So, today I turned down three dinner invitations and a potential blind date so that I could sit at home all day in my pajamas and watch TV. It really was a much-needed day off. It is the end of the evening, and I am finally starting to feel rested.
Earlier in the evening, I decided to cook dinner, and for the first time in what seems like forever, the Mexican rice I made actually came out good. Not crunchy at all this time.

And since I had no time to make pumpkin bread over the holidays (the way I wanted to), I finally made some today. Only this time, I decided to cut out more sugar than I usually do. It seems that this sugar phobia of mine is getting a bit out of hand. Instead of 3 cups of sugar, I only added one and a half cups. It didn’t really come out bad… but I started thinking that that butter-cream frosting recipe from that cake decorating class might come in handy in times like these. Thank goodness for whipped cream! I just put some heaping dollops of that on my serving of bread, and voila! Instant yummy-ness!

Of course, all this food was just a healthy reminder that I really should be working out regularly. I intended to start last week, but that didn’t happen. You know, I’ve read that if you want to start working out that you should get a workout buddy. A workout buddy is supposed to hold you accountable and make sure you set goals and reach them. My workout buddy seems to have disappeared on me though. But that’s a different story.

I also decided to try and update my myspace profile again… talk about a pain…

The last productive thing I finally did this evening was try to clean out my e-mail inbox. Am I the only one who has trouble getting this done? I had over 300 unread e-mails. I think I am just going to create a new e-mail address…
And that’s my blog for this evening… gotta get ready for tomorrow… I have plans to leave the house and run around town the next few days…(you can read about all that next week—if I don’t get the urge to share sooner…)

Not to mention I also have some other writing to get done… the kind that doesn’t get posted here… this was just to keep y’all updated, and to hold myself accountable…

Talk to y’all later…

Thanks for reading…

A little later, Cupcake! (originally written on January 21, 2009)

So the new year started, and I got it in my head that I should do some of those things that I’ve always wanted to do, but never got around to doing.


So, in addition to checking out online writing courses (it seems that’s all my schedule will allow for), I also remembered my perpetual fascination with cake decorating, and I called Michael’s to see if they had any classes I might enroll in.


Fortunately, there was a class that was due to start the following week (which was two weeks ago), and it was “on sale” for half off! Because I had to rush to work, I handed my mom $20 and asked if she might be able to go by and register me before all the spaces were taken up. Then I eagerly awaited the following week.


Of course, I was a bit late to the first class. I can’t remember why… but I was. But by that time, I had spread the news to my cousin who ended up enrolling in the class with me. So, she was kind enough to fill me in on what was going on when I got there.


I walked into a small room in the back of Michael’s where everyone was sitting at a table listening to the instructor go through the supply book and letting everyone know what they might or might not need to purchase to complete the course. After pointing out each item, she would give a brief description of what it was for and why we may choose to purchase it or not. Some of the stuff I understood. A lot of the stuff left me confused. This lady obviously had the strange notion that people in this class knew what the heck we were doing…


I sat there wondering why we weren’t just frosting cakes.


Then she pointed out that she had a cake that she would be demonstrating with a little later.


I remembered that I hadn’t eaten, and the cake started to look really good.


Then I wondered why it had to have frosting. As far as I’m concerned, cake tastes really good all by itself. I never have been a big fan of actually EATING frosting. I just have this intense desire to learn how to decorate with it.


The class continued.


She told some funny stories about how past students had misinterpreted her instructions and goofed things up. She even mentioned that one lady kept bringing pancakes to class instead of actual cakes… because she misunderstood when the instructor told them to bring a “pan” cake to each class. I figured that maybe that meant there was hope for me yet, even though I was confused about the type of shortening we were supposed to use.


Part of the “lesson” that first evening was watching the instructor actually mix up several batches of icing at different consistencies. It required some type of shortening, which she kept stressing was NOT lard. Yet to me, it looked a lot like it was, and if you sent me to the store to buy some, that’s probably what I’d end up coming back with.


By this time, I was bored. Plus, I was starving.


I thought we were supposed to decorate cakes. Yet here she was telling us that we had to bake them first! Ugh. And she expected us to make our own icing and bring it to class the following week. We had to make the three different consistencies and label them and have them ready. And while I actually have a label maker that I got for my last birthday, I really didn’t know that I wanted to go to all that trouble, especially since it wasn’t even a kind of icing that I liked. It was the gross kind that has tons of sugar in it and gives me neurotic thoughts about developing diabetes. And when I asked if we could reduce the amount of sugar in the recipe, she told me no! I really did not like that.

Needless to say, I intended to go back… I really did, but I just don’t think I’m ready for all that just yet. I really just wanted to decorate cakes for friends’ parties. I just wanted to make cute cupcakes that I found in this awesome cupcake book.








It’s a really cool book I found at Wal-Mart. It has really creative ideas. I just wanted to have some fun.
I’m just really not in the mood to figure out HOW to make frosting at this time. And I’m not in the mood to bake that many cakes. I can only focus on one thing at a time. Maybe in a few months, now that I know what the course really entails, I will be more prepared… mentally and financially…

Right now, I think I am just going to check out some more of those online writing courses…

O-blog-atory (originally written on January 19, 2009

Way back in the beginning of my blog, I decided I was going to post an entry once a week. It was supposed to be my writing practice. And things went well for a while…

But then something happened. Actually, lots of things happened. And there has been pretty much no more “regular” blog writing for quite some time.

I won’t go into explanations as to why… then again, maybe I will… just not right now… not tonight…

There HAS been writing though. Just not the kind I feel like sharing… But the thing is if I don’t share, then I don’t continue writing. It becomes more sporadic… and the “voices” don’t talk as much (or at all) when I don’t take time to listen to them…

So, thanks to those who have encouraged me to continue and who have even offered ideas…

This is just to let y’all know that, in the spirit of the new year and new beginnings, I feel obligated to resume the efforts I once began…

Thanks in advance for all your support… =)

Gonna Fly Now!!!

The running journal continues. Unfortunately, for the month of August, the running hasn’t. But it is now nearing the end. August is almost over. And I am now ready to start training again… yes, I admit I have not been training…

But let me digress…

For those of you who are native to San Antonio, let me make reference to the Texas Folklife Festival. It is an event that takes place every summer. For many years, it took place during the first week of August. And it was excruciatingly HOT, yet people would flock to it despite the heat… because there was the promise of delicious food and refreshing beverages… of the malt liquor kind. They had that incentive.

Then one day… one year… someone who reigned high finally had enough of the heat. They reached a remarkable revelation and announced that August is too freakin’ HOT! Yet, as festive San Antonians, we could not forego the festival altogether. No. That would not be right. So, we reached a sensible compromise. Simply move the festival to the month of June—the beginning of the summer. It is not as hot then.

Well, after suffering through training in the heat of the day for the first two months of summer, and after doing my best to carry it on into August, I finally decided to follow the example of the most high Folklife gods.

In my last running blog, I mentioned that I hated running. I would now like to retract that statement. I realize now that it is not the running that I hate. It is the HEAT! Much like the people at the Folklife festival, I could no longer take the heat. So, I simply decided to get out of the proverbial kitchen. Take a break. At least until the sun loses its Augustian fangs and no longer feels the need to attack me whenever I go outside. (Before you ask why I don’t just run in the evenings, it’s because I work nights and can only train in the middle of the day.)

It is now the end of August, and after not exercising for a month, I have grown restless and the lack of activity has spurred several nights of sleeplessness, ruined my appetite, and stifled my creativity. Hence, my cue that it’s now time to get back into the swing of things.

So, I’m kicking August out with a bang, and making room for the Great Pumpkin to sprout her wings and fly into September!! =P

This morning I wrote three pages of a short story and walked almost four miles! And the sun did not eat me alive! Yay!!! Fall is on its way!!!

Below is a glimpse of what I have to look forward to in October…

Question of the Day

There is a certain question that gets asked every now and then, and as I get older, I notice that I tend to get asked more and more. It’s one of those questions that I’ve never been able to understand the true ‘meaning’ of--probably a question that is supposed to be meant as a compliment, but if you really think about it, it’s kind of insulting… and if you think about it even more, it says a lot about our society and our way of thinking.

By now, you’re probably wondering what that question is. So, I’ll tell you. But not before I place it into context. As y’all know, I’ve entertained the idea of being a part of the dating scene for some time. If you’ve ever seen a kid with a new toy, then you can get an idea of how I am with the whole idea of dating. It intrigues me for all of one second before I am distracted by something else more interesting… something more “shiny” if you will… like a new book… or a really interesting infomercial. Lol.

Yup. There are times when I would much rather sit and read a book, or watch a movie… or maybe even cut my darn toe nails… rather than go through the hassle of going on a date. (Please don’t confuse “going on a date” with actually being interested in meeting someone worth meeting. There is a BIG difference.)

But I digress…

Out of a strange sense of obligation to myself, I continue to “put myself out there.” I agree to meet new people, get set up, join online dating sites… the whole nine yards. I make the effort to send and return “winks” as well as e-mails, participate in idle chit-chat, do the whole flirting thing, and then proceed to give out my number—which I am quickly learning is not a very smart thing to do. Nope. (Another topic for another blog.)

And so the whole “dance” progresses. Conversation ensues. And then… that’s when I get asked that question. That same question that older people tend to ask me as well… That question that leaves me stumped and not knowing whether I am actually expected to respond or just smile and do my best imitation of a bobble-head. That question is:

“Why are you still single?”

Now, at its first utterance, this question make take the guise of a hidden compliment, as in “You’re such a wonderful catch. I can’t believe nobody has snatched you up… blah, blah, blah…”

But if you listen closely, you can almost hear the stigma associated with being single. It’s as if being single is like having the cooties. Only “grody” people are single. Nobody decent could possibly have that “wrong” with them. Didn’t ya know?

So I believe that, in asking that question, people are subtly affirming that they are unable to see any major flaws or get a whiff of any malodorous deterrents that might be contributing to the whole “condition” of being single. So, they boldly ask what has been asked before.

But these days, I am beyond interpreting it as a compliment. I am beyond smiling and bobbing my head. I would like to get down to the nitty-gritty. Because I am a person who is constantly searching for answers myself, I would like to give the people the real response they’re wanting.

In my response, I would first like to acknowledge that I really do appreciate the whole, “I think you’re special enough to have a boyfriend, and I really want you to be happy” innuendo. But I think we have all been around enough to know that having a boyfriend does not guarantee happiness. Nope. Being in a relationship does NOT mean that your life is perfect.

Yup. I said it. Because I CAN say it. Not only because I’ve been there, but because I grew up there. I got to see how “special” all the women in my family were and have been. I have had the privilege of seeing how a woman can be the most beautiful thing a man sets eyes on one night, only to be the most disgusting thing in existence the next day.

Don’t get me wrong. None of this is meant to badmouth men or announce that I am bitter. Because I’m not. I actually let go of the bitterness a couple of years ago. I do not believe that men are scum. Nor do I hate any of them.

The whole reason for my mentioning any of this is to point out that being single is not always a mark of defectiveness, no more than being married is a prerequisite for happiness. One does not always go hand in hand with the other.

The truth is… I am still single… because… I am still single. Because God wants it that way, I say. Just like He wanted the sky to be blue and the earth to be round. It’s one of those things that just is. Being single is not a negative or a positive. It is just a neutral state of existence.

And even if it does have some scientific or philosophical explanation, just like with the theories on creation, there never will be a response that everyone agrees on or wants to accept.

It is the way it is.

So, now that I’ve cleared that up, feel free to ask me another question…

A Disease I Might Be Happy to Have

Last year I came across an article in Psychology Today that talked about a disease called hypergraphia. It is defined as a compulsive urge to write. It was a very interesting article, and after reading it, I couldn’t help but wish that I could be so lucky as to have it! Ha ha! (But remember, they always say that you should be careful what you wish for…)

At the end of the article, a few famous authors were listed who are hypergrapics. One of them is Stephen King. Another is Danielle Steele.

Yesterday I was at the bookstore, and I couldn’t help but notice some of the books that Stephen King has written. Has anybody ever looked at his novels all together? Not just one at a time. But all of them together. How and where does this man find the time to eat and sleep? And of course, I remembered that he is supposedly hypergraphic.

I might’ve mentioned before that there are times when I just HAVE to wake up in the middle of the night and write. It’s happened since I was a little kid. But throughout my life, I have repressed the urge lots of times. Only now, I just give in to it. But as of yet, it has not resulted in me writing an entire novel or better yet, TONS of novels—like Stephen King. But wouldn’t you know that hypergraphia is also known as “The Midnight Disease”?

Just now I was looking for more information on hypergraphia and happened to come across a recorded session from NPR. I thought y’all might be interested in hearing it. The disease affects the creative mind in writers and artists. I would summarize what I heard, but I figure it would be better if you heard it for yourself. It’s a short recording—just a couple of minutes long. (Just click on the link above if you’d like to listen to it.)

I can’t help but wonder how many of us are affected by this and don’t even know it. I think it’s safe to say that I might have a little bit of it… maybe just not a severe case… and hopefully not one of the ones that it mentions towards the end—the ones who have the compulsive urge to write, but no talent and/or nothing meaningful to say… LOL… but I guess ya never know…

Important News Bulletin (originally written on January 13 2008)

Attention, blog readers.


We interrupt your current activities to bring you a very important news bulletin from Random Radio.

Today's Random Radio commentary is on unrealistic circumstances in movies.

Of course, we all know that movies are not real life, and things are supposed to be… different. But usually, things are different in an exaggerated way—like when a car jumps between two cliffs, or when one guy is able to fight off a gang of ten with his martial arts expertise… that sort of thing.

Well, today I was watching the movie THE PRINCE & ME with Julia Stiles, where this American girl just happens to fall in love with the prince of Denmark, only she is unaware of who he is.

I know, I know… total fantasy… just like it should be… 'cause it's a movie. Right. I get that.

But the "unreal" part that just boggles my mind is when she discovers that he's the prince of Denmark. Rather than feel pleasantly surprised, her twisted intellectual mindset somehow causes her to become very angry. Yes. She is angry because he did not tell her that he was a prince. Damn him!!! He lied and told her he was just a regular guy.



Uh, yeah. I know I'd be pissed.

i heart...

It’s 2:45 a.m. I didn’t even make it to 3:00 this time. What the heck is wrong with me? Geez!

When I was little I used to imagine that I’d work a night job when I grew up. Because, yes, I used to wake up in the middle of the night even then. Little did my mom know that, as soon as she fell asleep, I was up and around the house…

One summer, while in a summer program at Trinity University, we went on a field trip where we got to tour a college radio station. I was able to see what it was like “behind the scenes”. Soon after that I began to notice TV shows and movies about people who worked in radio, especially on a night shift. And I was actually able to imagine myself doing that. I used to think it might be ideal for me since I was awake at night anyway. At least, then, I’d have somebody to talk to and something to do.

Of course, I also imagined myself being a doctor, an architect, a “business woman” (kind of reminds of Romy and Michelle), etc. I figured the doctor thing would be ideal because, for some reason, it always seems like night time in the hospital. Doesn’t it? Plus, I used to be in the hospital all the time. It was my second home. And I liked that when I woke up at night there, I could see lights on and other people were awake, too. All up and down the halls! It was very comforting.

But anyway, tonight we will focus on the career in radio broadcasting—if that’s even what you call it. Of course, there isn’t really a radio, and none of this is audible, but if it were, this is what you would hear:

Good evening, folks! Welcome to Random Radio, where I get to report on anything and everything I want and never have to worry about dead time or FCC regulations… or even getting fired. (I hear that happens a lot in the radio world. How horrible!)

In tonight’s news I would like to comment on Hillary Clinton. Now, I am not a political person by any means. So, I am not going to sit here and debate on where funding should go, or what the current issues are, or whatever else political reporters discuss. Even though I might have an opinion on these things, I would like to just look at the bigger picture--like who do I “like”? Who do I imagine in the position? Simple as that. (Hey! It’s MY show, darnit!)

I know that many people out there say that you’re not supposed to tell other people who you vote for. But I couldn’t care less. I’m going to tell you. My vote goes to Hillary. Yes, I heart Hillary.

Why? You ask. Why do I heart Hillary? Because she is a strong woman. Simple as that. I know, I know… many people out there lost respect for her after Clinton cheated on her with Monica. But, honestly, my question is this: Why does the woman get judged when her husband did wrong? If anything, that whole situation only served to improve my opinion of her… because most women would have crumbled. I know I would have. I’m not ashamed to say it. That’s just me. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s reality. I am just an emotional person. But not Hillary. Nope. She stood in the face of adversity. She never once shed a tear. At least not publicly. She never badmouthed her husband. Never acted vindictive. Nope. She held her head high because I’m sure she knows that she has nothing to be ashamed of. She knows her worth! And I admire that about her. Yup. I do.

I don’t believe it has anything to do with her letting Clinton walk all over her or treat her like crap. I choose to see it in the sense that she stuck to her marital vows. She believes in resolving issues in her marriage. She believes in forgiveness. She’s there for the long haul. Why criticize HER for something she didn’t even do?

I admire the fact that she is emotionally strong. So strong that she has gained the reputation of an ice queen. Right? Yup. Uh-huh.

Yesterday the “big news” was that she got “emotional” during one of her campaign stops. Have any of you seen the video? If people think this is emotional, then I’d hate to hear what they think of MY reactions to things! Ha! She’s sooo freakin’ strong that she didn’t even shed a tear! Her voice just cracked! And THAT’S getting emotional?!!! What I wouldn’t give to have that much strength and composure!





Luckily, this emotional episode might mean something good in terms of her campaign. It makes her seem more “human” to a lot of people. But I already knew she was real. If it had been a MAN who got “emotional” the way she did, people would think he was sensitive and compassionate. Blah blah Blah…

But I won’t go there. I’m taking the high road. Following Hillary’s example. Because, yes, I heart Hillary.

That’s all for tonight. Thank you for listening. Feel free to join me again for Random Radio.

breakfast at lisa's (originally written on January 8, 2008)

It's 4:15 a.m. and I've been awake for the last hour. Just made myself breakfast. I don't know what it is, but I have always been a night owl. There is something about the wee hours of the morning that appeal to me. I don't know if it's the peace or the quiet, or what, but it is a lot easier for me to be awake at hours like this than in the daylight morning hours. I find that my mind tends to be more active at this time than at any other.

I once did some research on it and discovered stuff about circadian rhythms…



But I digress.


So, between bites of my egg sandwich and sips of my orange juice, I am watching Breakfast at Tiffany's. You know, I've never seen this movie in it's entirety… but I've seen enough to know what it's about. To me, it's the movie where Audrey Hepburn acts stupid and annoying. That's right. I said it.



All right, all right… simmer down just a bit, people…


I love Audrey Hepburn, but I must be the only person in this world who finds her character annoying in this film. Yet, I watch it whenever I catch it on TV. Why? Because I hate it so much that I like it… and because I want to know what exactly it is about this movie that appeals to so many people across so many generations. Could somebody please tell me? Lord knows, I'd be willing to watch the dang film again just to see if what you say is true. Is it because of the book? Should I read the book maybe?


I've never read anything by Truman Capote, but I have considered it. I almost bought In Cold Blood once, but for some reason, just holding the book in the bookstore gave me this weird, uncomfortable vibe. Almost spine-chilling. It was like touching something haunted. So, I had to put it back. Yes, that's weird. I know.


You know, now that I think of it, maybe the reason people enjoy watching this movie so much is BECAUSE of the character Audrey Hepburn plays, and not despite it. I say this because I also get a teensy bit annoyed with Barbra Streissand's character in The Way We Were, yet I do love that movie. Still, again, I have to say… Barbra Streissand's character only gets frustrating because she's too complicated, not because she's flaky and aloof (like Audrey Hepburn's character). So, maybe that's it.


I will tell you one thing, though. One thing I love about older films is that everything is so neat and tidy. Like… nobody had clutter back then. Where is all their clutter? It's kind of a minimalist period with not too many knick-knacks, and everybody always looked so neat and pressed and presentable. No wrinkles on their clothes. No hairs out of place. No chipped nail polish or scuffs on their shoes. And ladies always had these cute little handbags that they never had to rummage through. Any time they reached in, they pulled out exactly what they were looking for: a simple little compact, a lipstick, or a tissue.


My great-grandmother used to do that. The contents of her purse were simple: an angel face compact, some Rolaids, and some tissues… maybe a little comb, and a little notepad.


Hmmm… maybe that's why I don't like Audrey Hepburn's character in this movie… because to me, life at that time was supposed to be so simple, and things could have been so easy for her, yet she ruined it all by acting stupid and making things so difficult. Why couldn't she just fall in love?!!! Aaaghh! Stupid girl! Just like K-k-k-Katy in The Way We Were! (except she was stupid for a different reason)


Okay, okay… so the later (or earlier) it gets, and the more I examine Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn's character), the more I begin to appreciate the film…even though she irks the heck out of me…


Besides, I just saw the happy ending… and I love the song Moon River… =)

New Year's Resolve

Several times I attempted writing a blog before the coming of the new year, and several times I went into an emotional frenzy as a result. I didn't want to let go. I wasn't ready to let go. Not of everything. But of one thing, in particular.

For some time, I've been mourning over this particular event. A certain unanswered prayer. One that saddens me to no end. But I know that it is something that I must let go.

After several crying episodes, I resigned my attempts to write a graceful good-bye and wrote to Mine in Manhatitlan instead.

"There is so much I want to say right now, so much that is going through my head, but I am stumped… I don't know how to explain any of it…" I wrote. "The thing that has me sad right now is that love hurts..." I commented pathetically. I rambled about miscellaneous thoughts, mentioning an unrequited love, a couple of other worries, as well as my attempts to deal with all of my grief. "I don't know what the heck is wrong with me," I ended.

As always, Mine in Manhatitlan heard my cries over many states and responded faithfully.

"… this isn't the end of things really. Nothing ever is. Things change. Life keeps going," he offered sympathetically.

Did I know this? A long time ago, I did. But for a while, I seemed to have forgotten. I seem to forget a lot sometimes. Things that are right in front of me go unnoticed, and sometimes I tend to lose sight of my goals, reasons for making certain decisions, reasons to be thankful…

His correspondence continued with more words of solace, and even an expression of regret at not being able to offer a single brother as a potential mate. In essence, demonstrating how he appreciates my worth more so than I do myself. The beautiful thing is that other people—friends and family alike--have expressed similar sentiments lately, reminding me that not only am I not a cast-off, but that I am truly blessed to have such wonderful people in my life. And also reminding me that I am loved… whether I realize it or not.

I've concluded that all this time I've dreaded not having a potential object for my affection worse than I've dreaded losing one that will never reciprocate how I feel, and it's taken me this long to realize that I must let go of the old in order to grab onto something new. As simple as that may seem, it has not been simple to do. But this year I resolve to do it anyway.

The Gift

They say that it's not the gift, but the thought that counts. However, at a very young age, I think I began to question whether this saying was actually true.

My aunt used to visit us regularly, and on a couple of occasions I remember her saying, "The next time I come to visit, I'm going to bring you a surprise." To say this to a child is probably the most affirming thing you can do. The anticipation of receiving something that is worthy of "surprising" someone with is unbelievable. Not having suffered many disappointments in life yet, my expectation of a gift for the mere sake of "just because" was one of the greatest joys I ever had.

The first gift I remember looking forward to was my weeble-wobble treehouse. I knew that's what it was going to be because on a previous occasion, she had told me she was going to get it for me. So, I was able to put two and two together and deduce what surprise awaited me.

I was in the first grade, around five years old, when she came walking up the sidewalk with my new treehouse in tow. I was ever-so-grateful because it was something I desperately wanted. (My weebles needed a place to live.) It came complete with an orange rocking chair, a little yellow picnic table, and an elevator that could be scrolled up and down by cranking a little orange handle. (Weebles couldn't climb, so the elevator was exactly what they needed.)
I was elated. It was not my birthday. It was not even Christmas. I had received a gift just because. Life couldn't get much better than this.

Then one day, my aunt showed up carrying a large white box with a ribbon on it. She had not told me to expect anything. I had not asked for anything. This time it was a total surprise. I had no idea the gift was even for me until she handed it to me.

"For me?" I asked. "But why?" I was not just surprised; I was confused. It was one thing to ask for something—to receive a gift that was something you had made known you wanted. But what could someone possibly give you when you had not requested anything?

"Because I love you," she said smiling.

I was speechless.

My mother held the box, while I lifted the top, revealing clean, white tissue paper, folded neatly over the mysterious gift. I carefully peeled away the tissue paper, and underneath there lied something that, upon first look, was a bit confusing, for lack of a better word. It was white with big green stripes. It couldn't be! Oh, no, please don't let it be, I thought.

"Isn't it pretty?" my aunt asked.

Again, I was speechless, afraid to say anything. My aunt was beaming.
My mother then pulled it from the box, confirming my worst fear. It WAS what I thought it was.

"Oh! How nice!" my mother said.

"Isn't it? Don't you like it, Lisa?" my aunt asked excitedly.

"Thank you," was all I could say. But in my mind I was already plotting what I was going to do with it, where I was going to hide it, and trying to calm my fears by believing that my mother would not possibly be cruel enough to make me wear it.

"You can wear it to school tomorrow," my mom said.

That put an end to my belief.

The next morning my mother pulled it out of the ropedo so that I could get ready for school. I sat on the bed, feeling guilty that I was not thankful for this so-called gift. I thought a gift was supposed to be something you wanted, something pretty, or something that made you happy. Not this gift. This gift filled me with disappointment and confusion. This gift made me feel like she hated me. I loved my aunt with all my heart, and never did I think that she would do something this cruel to me. Had I done something wrong?

It hung on the knob of the ropedo waiting for me. A white polyester pantsuit with thick, vertical, green stripes--a miniature zoot-suit, if you will--complete with a green coily keyring that attached to one of the belt loops, and could be pulled and stretched, for reasons I could not quite figure out. But I figured I could, at least, be entertained while wearing this monstrosity.

I reluctantly got dressed, repressing the urge to whine like I normally did when my mother made me wear something I didn't want to. My undying loyalty to my aunt and obligatory gratitude for the weeble-wobble treehouse forbade it. To whine or complain would be an unspeakable act of ingratitude. She was my favorite aunt, for crying out loud! How could I complain about something she claimed to have given me out of love?

I dreaded living out my day wearing that suit, so much that I began to plot my every move strategically. Let's see… sitting at my desk? Not too many worries--students were busy with schoolwork, and so was I. Lunch? Most of my body was hidden by the table. Recess? Ahhh, recess. That was what I needed to worry about. Where would I go during recess? If I ran around, more kids would see me. BUT maybe if I "accidentally" fell and tore my suit, I wouldn't be able to wear it again!

The thought of pain wiped that idea out of my head pretty quickly.

Recess came, and I had to think fast. My friends were approaching.

"You got new clothes?" they observed.

It was too late. They had noticed. I was mortified. I didn't know what to do.

So, I tried to distract my friends from the hideousness of what I was wearing by drawing their attention to the green coily keychain on my zoot-suit. I showed them how it could be stretched and pulled, and even detached from the suit altogether so that I could wear it on any belt-loop I wanted. It worked. They were intrigued. What can I say? We were five years old.

The day came and went, and surprisingly I escaped without any wisecracks or merciless teasing. Either that, or I was teased so much and so badly that I completely blocked it from my memory.

That was the only time I remember wearing that suit. I don't even know what ever became of it or why I never had to wear it again. I'm surprised my mother didn't save it along with the other weird commemorative garments she still keeps from my childhood.

I kind of want to believe that my mother knew. She understood what was going through my head. Or better yet, she read me like an open book--the same way she does to this day. She can sense the slightest note of disappointment in my voice, the inaudible beat of heartbreak in my walk. She knew then just like she knows now. She knew it was a God-awful, hideous suit. But she also knew that my aunt had the best of intentions, and that it's not always the gift; it's the thought that counts. And she knew that was something I needed to learn.

The One

As I sit here, trying to contain my laughter, I am beginning to think that I might chronicle my adventures in online dating… I think I could write a book on just the correspondence alone.

I finally added a couple of pictures to my “free” profile on match.com… because according to them, it increases the chances of someone looking at your profile. Of course, I can’t send messages to anyone, nor can I see any of the messages that they have sent me, but I CAN send and receive “winks”. This, in itself, can be entertaining all on its own.

Why go out and try to compete with hundreds of women at a club, when I can lounge around in my pajamas in the comfort of my own home, and send winks to cute guys while binging on my favorite snack food and watching reruns of Desperate Housewives or Sex and the City? I tell you, I don’t think life gets much better than this… (just kidding)

Anyhoo, it’s good to know that, even though I am still single, there are apparently plenty of guys out there who at least feel I am special enough to send me a wink. (note the sarcasm)

Not only that, each time one of these eligible bachelors sends some attention my way in the form of an e-mail, Match.com does not neglect to try to entice me with the automated nudge that says: SOMEONE JUST E-MAILED YOU. HE JUST MIGHT BE THE ONE!!!

And then it proceeds to list “why” this person might be the one, based on the similarities in our profiles. For example:

Both of you enjoy cooking.
Both of you enjoy sports.
Both of you enjoy art and museums.
Etc.

(By the way, this was just an example… I’m sure y’all might’ve guessed that the minute you read that one about the cooking…lol )

Now, I can understand receiving this automated message if there is, say, a LONG list of things in common… which in some cases there are, but there is one message that stood out from the rest…
because it listed one thing that made me wonder about whether I have been too picky all these years. Maybe I haven’t been focusing on the right things… maybe finding the ideal traits in a man have nothing to do with character or values. Maybe it’s all much simpler than that.
The reason I say this is because Match.com has informed me that somewhere out there… there is a man who “might be the one” because… are you ready for this?

Because…

WE WERE BOTH BORN IN OCTOBER!!!

Oh my gosh! What the heck have I been thinking all these years? I think it’s time to just throw out my list! Wouldn’t you know that there is a guy who was born in October who wants to talk to me?! I am floored. Speechless. I think my search might be over. Praise the Lord… I have found the one…

Thank you, Match.com!

Blue Steel

As I walked up the sidewalk, my mother’s eyes moved from my feet to the top of my head, as she performed her motherly inspection and greeted me with the obligatory comment about my appearance, “Ay, Lisa, ni te planchaste la ropa!” (translation: You didn’t even iron your clothes!)
“Yes, I did,” I responded calmly.
“Well, was the iron on?” came her sarcastic remark.
Shrugging off the criticism, I asked if she was ready to go. She had asked if I could take her to visit my Tia Licha today.

My mother recently purchased a brand new vehicle, while under familial duress (i.e. her older sister’s insistence). Yet, she refuses to drive on the highway, or anywhere where there is too much traffic… or where there might be construction… and she definitely will not drive in the rain… I’m sure you get the picture.

When we got in the car, she pulled out a slip of paper with the name of a nursing home on it, and said, “Here is where she is.” My mother seems to believe that I have a map of San Antonio programmed into my brain, and I can take her anywhere as long as she tells me the name of the place or the name of the street. I had to tell her that even though the paper did say, “N.E. San Antonio,” I was still at a loss for where we were going. Fortunately, she had a phone number as well. So, I insisted that we stop first at La Paletera since I had been craving a fruit cup, while she called for directions.

We drove into the parking lot, and she reluctantly got off the car after I told her it was too hot for her to sit outside and wait. Once inside, she claimed she did not want anything, and then went over to the freezer and selected a watermelon paleta. Then while I used my best Spanish to clarify my order to the lady behind the counter, my mother made sure to correct what I was saying. Yes, I love my mom.

***

The nursing home was set behind a Family Dollar, a landmark in my mother’s eyes. Walking up to the front doors, I could see elderly people propped in wheel chairs in front of the big glass window. I walked past, diverting my eyes and trying not to let my heart strings get caught on anyone in need of attention. Probably not a good way to cope with all the pain in the world, but neither is going into an emotional frenzy over something I can do nothing about.

We found my Tia Licha, lying in her bed with her bed sheet curled up in a ball in her lap. One of my cousins was there for a visit as well and happily greeted us as we entered the room. My mother immediately took note of the rolled up bed sheet. “She does this at home, too,” she said as she smoothed out the sheet and soothingly told Tia Licha to cover herself.
A helpless look of confusion flooded Tia Licha’s expression, as she searched my mother’s face for a clue of what was going on. My mother pulled the blankets over her, and encouraged her to stay covered, while Tia Licha simultaneously began rolling up the sheets once again, exposing her frail little body.

My mind floated back to the lady I knew as a child, the one who was infamous for being the life of the party. There was never a dull moment in her presence. There was always a story to be told, or a joke to be cracked. At one time, she was a robust, full-figured Latina, proud of her curves and shamelessly boisterous about her sexuality. Hard to believe she was the daughter of my ultra-conservative great-grandmother.

In her entire life Tia Licha never lacked the attention or company of a man, and her coquettish nature enticed everyone around her. The mere mention of her name was enough to bring a smile to your face as you anticipated the laughs you would surely have while spending time with her.

She was one of the main attractions at family barbeques and other events. Escorted by the strong but silent Tio Montes, her gregariousness was never too much for him to tolerate. I believe her confident laughter was probably what captured his heart in the first place.

She was vivacious, full of life and love. A woman so confident that she had no qualms about draping a towel or a garbage bag around her neck, while she sat in the yard and doused her graying hair with blue dye, never neglecting to cordially greet neighbors passing by on the sidewalk. I would usually be standing barefoot beside her, wondering why she always chose the unnatural purplish hue called blue steel. To my naïve, untrained eye, she looked the same no matter what color her hair was, wearing her blue jelly espadrilles and large gold jewelry purchased in one of Mexico’s border towns, her talkativeness painting the afternoon more than the blue dye splashing on the concrete around her.

The day was never boring with her around.

***

Now here I was sitting beside her bed, helping my mom smooth out her blankets, while she continually rolled them up, conspiring to stuff them in her purse and return to a home that is no longer hers. “Ten. Hechatelas a la bolsa y ya vamonos a mi casa en la calle Ruiz.”
(Here. Put these in your purse, and let’s go to my house on Ruiz street already.)

Even after years of having to rely on her daughter’s 24 hour care, her mind plagued by senile dementia, she still manages to remember the street she lived on for so many years when she was married to Tio Montes.

His passing in 1986 left her available for one final companion, and when that one passed away, she still had offers from another at the age of around 80! But by that time, she was finally content to be alone. Her laughter began to fade, and her only desire was to return to the house that Tio Montes had left her so that she could live out her final years. But for some reason, she ended up living with her daughter, and the house on Ruiz street became decayed and dilapidated. Sadly, the beautiful elaborate furniture Tio Montes had lavished upon her during their marriage eroded from rain damage and other elements that infested the deserted home.

Still, despite what her mind is going through now, I know that she vividly recalls happier times spent living in that house. I believe that memories are etched into a person’s heart, and a heart knows what a mind and voice cannot always articulate.

So, in the midst of her confusion, while she sits and rolls up her sheets repeatedly, the memories of her strength and independence pull at my heart strings, and it’s all I can do to keep from obeying what she says. In my mind, I can see myself driving her home, where she can sit on the porch and tell me funny stories, the sunlight on our toes and her laughter illuminating the yard with more color than the Mexican clay pots holding her plants.

"Who ees?"

Every morning I make great efforts to make myself look presentable… from using the right type of shampoo and conditioner, to choosing the right hair styling products, to using the best straightening iron I could find—a Chi. I spend a significant amount of time checking to make sure that I straighten every strand of hair, making sure none is out of place… applying hairspray… adding finishing touches with a curling iron, then again with a straightening iron…
I, then, rush off to work… where I apply my make-up… because, truth be told, I am always running too late to apply it at home. So, I have to finish making myself look presentable at work. And, quite honestly, when I am finished, I do look okay… like I groomed myself… like I should have…
But, then something happens… I’m not sure what, but sometimes it’s gradual… sometimes it’s sudden. Either way, it is something really horrible.

Between the hours of 7 a.m. and 7 p.m., an invisible force creeps up on me, and sabotages all of my hard work. I don’t know why; I don’t know how. But the realization comes when I make a trip to the ladies’ room, and I look in the mirror, and the person that I saw at 7 a.m. is no longer there. Instead, there is someone who looks like “homeless girl gone wild,” and she is beyond help. She does not have the carefully straightened ‘do that I worked on. She wears a frazzled, frizzy mess of a mane, and apparently, her skin has an unquenchable thirst that can only be sated by drinking up all of the make-up I applied in the morning.

Whereas, the girl in the morning could benefit from make-up and hair care products, the one in the late afternoon is utterly and completely hopeless. No amount of make-up or hairspray can help her now. She must be cut off from society. I feel sorry for her. She must return home in shame. It is truly a tragedy.

Those of you who have seen her know what I’m talking about. I just wonder whether I should thank you for not criticizing, or be upset that you didn’t bother to tell me that this transformation is taking place.

The thing I can’t help but wonder is this: If that’s what I look like at the end of the day when I DO make efforts to groom myself, can you imagine what I’d look like if I made NO effort at all? It’s a scary thought, people.

But I can’t help but think that I would look better if I just rolled out of bed and went to work as is. I am so tempted to experiment… because if I could knock out all that time I spend getting ready, then that means I would be able to sleep longer…

I think it might be worth trying…

Why I haven't written much lately...

I am supposed to post a blog by Tuesday of every week. It's my personal goal. It started out as Sunday… I was supposed to spend Sundays writing. That idea worked all of a couple of weeks. It's hard now because Sundays are my only days off. So every Sunday, when my dad asks me if I want to go to the movies, I find it hard to say no. You see, I love going to the movies. And so does my dad. I think it's a genetic trait.
So, since I generally agree, our trips are now becoming a tradition. On Sundays, we take a trip to the Bijou. To me, the Bijou and Alamo Drafthouse are two of the most ingenious places ever built. Being able to sit in a movie theatre and eat a real meal, not just popcorn and candy, while watching a movie on the big screen! Talk about sheer bliss!

But for my father, I think it's a different experience altogether. To him, I believe going to the movies, or just going out in general, is something he totally appreciates as the utmost of luxuries. Not to sound cliché, but he grew up dirt poor in Mexico, and never wore shoes until he was sixteen. Because of having to endure so many hardships, he's come to appreciate the niceties in life. And even though he's traveled around the world (when he was in the military), there are still some things that act as a testimony to a certain humbleness within him.

On one of our weekly excursions, we bought tickets for "The Namesake," and immediately found our ideal seats, mid-center. My father did not neglect to mention how comfortable the semi-reclining seats were. The long sigh he let out as he leaned back reinforced his approval. We feasted on hamburgers and gyros with side salads while we lounged in the comfort of plush, velvet seats and watched the movie.

When it was over, my father boyishly suggested, "Wanna make it a double feature?" I didn't need convincing. I happily agreed.

It would be half an hour till our next movie, so we decided to take a walk. We strolled on over to the SuperTarget next door, where my father purchased some Tylenol for a light headache and a bottle of water. While walking back to the theatre, he painstakingly fished two tablets out of the Tylenol bottle and took a swig of his water to wash them down.

"Oooohh! I thought I bought water!" he said curiously examining the bottle.
"It IS water," I said. "Flavored water."
"Oh!" he said delightfully, taking another swig, savoring it as if it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. "Do you think they'll let me take this into the theatre?"
"I could put it in my purse," I offered.

As he clutched the bottle, he seemed hesitant. It was then that I understood that keeping the drink was very important to him. He expressed how much he enjoyed the flavor, and how he didn't want to risk it getting taken away, or being forced to dispose of it. So, I told him if he wanted, we could just put the bottle in the car since we had time. He eagerly agreed, and we walked to my car, where he carefully placed the bottle in the cup holder, almost as if he was afraid that someone might tip it over in his absence.

When we entered the theatre again, we both contemplated having another snack, so we stopped at the concession stand. My father had his eye on some cookies he saw in a case behind the counter. Apparently, they seemed too good to be true because he asked the guy at the register, "Are those cookies real or are they decoration?"
"They're real," replied the guy, trying to control his smirk.
While I made up my mind about what I wanted, my father decisively said, "Okay, then I'll have one of those cookies. But do I get the whole one, or do you cut it in slices?"
Apparently, it was not the cookies themselves, but the size of them that he found unbelievable.
I couldn't help but chuckle at the sincerity of his question.
"Yes, you get the WHOLE cookie," I said.
When we were finally in the theatre, he offered me a piece. I declined. At the end of the movie, I noticed that he had wrapped the remainder of the cookie in the paper envelope that he received it in. He had folded the envelope over in an attempt to preserve what was left.
Then I remembered how he told me once of so many nights in his childhood when he would arrive home, after a long day of working in sweltering heat, picking crops in dusty fields, and he would check the canasta that dangled on a long rope from the ceiling. If he was fortunate, there might be a tortilla sealed within it, out of reach from ants and other bugs that might plague his family's home. But oftentimes, there would not even be that much. So he would lie down on a dirt floor, hoping that his tired, aching body would lull him into a deep sleep where he could no longer feel hunger pangs.

Growing up, I was never allowed to say I was hungry. According to my father, I did not know hunger. As long as there were items in the refrigerator or pantry, no matter what they were, I could not be hungry. Being picky was not an option. To say no to food, in the name of being finicky, meant that my hunger was not real. An actual hungry person would eat anything.

I also remembered being reprimanded if I ever asked for permission to eat something out of the refrigerator whenever I visited him on weekends or during the summer. "Mija, the food is there for a reason. So you can eat it. If you're hungry, you eat. You don't need to ask," he would say sternly.
I realize now that his reproach was his way of denouncing the past. It was his attempt to ensure that his children would never suffer the way he did.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe this is why so many of our elders find it hard to waste food. My grandfather and great aunts and uncles, who grew up during the Great Depression, learned to be frugal out of necessity. They weren't pinching pennies to go on a cruise to the Bahamas. Their big splurge was simply feeding the entire family. And after a lifetime of not knowing when or if there would be another meal, conserving whatever morsels were left became a force of habit, a rule of survival.

Surprisingly, these traits get passed on. However, the reason or logic behind wrapping food up and saving it for later is lost in habitual warnings--"There are children starving in Africa!"

The personal experience fades, and we are separated from the reality of being connected to people who actually HAVE experienced hunger. They have nothing to do with us. They are in another country, where things like that CAN happen to people we don't know, but not to us.
Still, we hold onto the habit. Or, at least, some of us do. I find it hard to eat at a Chinese buffet without wanting to wrap things up in a napkin to put them in my purse rather than throw them away. I have to fight an incredibly impulsive urge to refrain from carrying Ziploc baggies around with me for just such an occasion. To do so would be humorous, and probably embarrassing. But I have to ask myself why? Why is it wrong or amusing to save food? Why do we take pride in extravagance, but hold little regard for conservation?

My Tia Tonia was infamous for taking all the packets of sugar from restaurant tables any time my mother would take her and my great-grandmother out to eat. It's okay, mijita. Acabo ya pagamos por todo, she would say as she stuffed everything into her purse. (It's okay. We've already paid for everything any way.)

The whole family used to tell stories of her penny-pinching ways, never realizing that her frugality was a testament to a difficult past rather than a mere reflection of greed. To this day, the family still shares stories of her "crazy" ways. Everyone always finds the memories amusing. But how I regret never having sat down with her to ask her what she went through in those days. How I regret not ever hearing her side of the story.

All this goes through my head as I spend the day at the movies with my father. I wonder if there will ever be a question that I will regret not having asked him or something that I will never get to say. How many times have I misunderstood his reasons for acting a certain way or for doing certain things? I ponder his ways. I reflect on what he says and watch what he does.

Still my words and my thoughts are "saved" in my head, rather than spoken out loud. I can never bring myself to actually say what I think or how I feel, and my words have become as scarce as the meals in my father's childhood. My thoughts are preserved in much the same way as the remnants of his snack. They are folded into the recesses of my mind so that I may savor them later. And with each moment I spend with him, I add more to my pantry of memories and less to the blank page.

What to Wear and Other Stuff

First things first… My latest news is that I have decided to stretch my writing endeavors to help support others in THEIR endeavors. I figure that if I never make it to fame and fortune, well then at least I can help those who do or who are capable. So, I have started a new MySpace page dedicated to Latin@ writers, published and unpublished, and also for all those who admire them or … ahem… ASPIRE to BE them.
My new page can be found at www.myspace.com/literarylatinos
If you fall into any of the categories I mentioned, please feel free to send a friend request. I'll gladly accept. =)

Well, as I sit here amidst several piles of unfolded laundry, I can't help but wonder… Who out there ENJOYS folding laundry? And why does it seem like there is soooo much to fold, yet so little to wear? If the object were just to cover my body so as not to show nakedness, then I'd be okay. But the thing is… ya gotta try to look good… or at least presentable. And out of all the clothes in this pile, there are only a few items that I feel I look really "good" in.
You see, on a good day, I like to wear things that accentuate my curves… because I am, after all, a curvaceous Latina. And to add to that, I am a Latina who is over the age of 30, which means that on top of trying to accentuate curves, I have this intense desire to "sparkle". Glitter, sequins, bright colors… I'm like a monkey attracted to shiny objects.
Seriously though, I think that Latinos, in general, were peacocks in another life because we are so good at "strutting". I have an aunt who is renowned for it. She prides herself in wearing the boldest and brightest colors, the most colorful shoes, the bulkiest and sparkliest of jewelry, and she looks good in it!
If I were to try to wear one of her outfits, I'd look like a little girl playing dress up. You see, I have not yet mastered the art of flamboyancy. I am thinking that it comes with age. The Latina evolves in stages. Right now, I am just a fledgling… a mere "wannabe". But when I hit 40, watch out! I get to wear gold shoes with everything!
I remember when my aunt was younger, and her taste in clothes and jewelry used to make my cousins and I roll our eyes. Of course, we were younger, too. But I digress…
Even though she did not have OUR approval, she had the approval of the older "tias" in the family, who used to proclaim, "Ay! Que Barbara! Que Hermosa! Mira no mas!" as my aunt would flaunt her beautifully colored festive attire. Anything brightly colored or with bold print had their immediate approval. If it had sequins, you were ranked among the saints. Hmmm… come to think of it, the Virgen de Guadalupe is covered in glitter. No wonder she's revered. I guess that explains a lot.
Needless to say, my best friend and I used to swear up and down that we'd never be caught dead wearing ANYTHING with sequins. We sure are eating our words now. I think these days, if we could, we'd wear sequins in our hair…on our skin… wherever… as long as it sparkles.
Whereas before, when I was a child, my mother and I used to argue incessantly over what I should wear, these days I think we agree way too much. Over the holidays this past year, we went shopping, and we happened to find a very sparkly, extremely glittery, silvery colored ribbed/fitted V-neck sweater with sequins along the neckline, and believe it or not, we both fell in love with it. I could just hear my Tia Licha's voice in my head raving, "Ay! Que barbara!" So, of course, my mother insisted on getting it for me as a Christmas gift. I gladly accepted the gesture. (Imagine the monkey again…)
Unfortunately, the holidays came and went, and I did not get an opportunity to wear the sweater. Then, this past weekend… on Easter Sunday… as I got ready to make family visits… to gather my plates of home cooking from various residents, I remembered the sweater. There it was… all alone in my closet (because remember the rest of my clothes is in piles waiting to be folded)… There it was…calling to me… I actually had to debate over whether Easter was an appropriate holiday to wear such an ornate garment. The urge to sparkle was so overwhelming… Would it be blasphemous to wear glitter on the day of Christ's resurrection? I mean, the Virgen wears it all the time… what's a little glitter on Easter?
But, alas… I put the sweater away… because like I said before, I have not yet evolved into full-fledged sparkly stage. But someday… ah, yes… someday I will…
And someday I will probably wear that sweater with my gold shoes… and my aunt will gasp and proclaim, "Ay! Mira no mas! Que barbara! Que hermosa!" I can hardly wait…

A Day to Celebrate!!!

I did it! I actually did something on this website successfully and with minimal effort! Thank you, Andrea!!! I just wanted to share my excitement before I go on to creating more posts. I believe in giving props when they are due.
I have much to write about, but I am actually very hungry right now and need a snack... writer's belly... it strikes every time...

I will post more later...

Aaaghhh!

Okay... so I never posted a new entry after that last one. It's just that this site is soooo freakin' hard for me to figure out, okay?! I am soooo frustrated right now. I am not a computer savvy person, so stuff like this just confuses the heck out of me.
First I had to try to remember how the heck to log in... that took me about an hour and a half... same thing happened last time. I can't keep up with all the dang passwords I have for every type of account all over the internet! And what the heck is with the "old blogger/new blogger" stuff? Why can't they just have one way to log in for everybody? And then why do they have to hide what your url is? Why can't it just be displayed at the top of your page?
And how the heck do I get to see other people's blogs if I don't know what their addresses are? Why can't I have a friends list like I do on myspace? It's hard enough trying to find my own blog on here, much less trying to figure out where other people's blogs are... I need to take a freakin' continuing ed course just to understand this stuff! Okay... enough of my venting. Yesterday was an interesting day. I wanted to write about THAT... but I can't do that right now... I'll have to do it later...
So, there you have it, people! My second post on blogspot! I bet you just can't wait to read more of my entries, huh?

An Introduction

Okay... so I've had this account for four months already and have finally decided to use it. Until now all of my blogs have been posted on myspace, but I keep them set to private because... well... I don't quite know. It's always been difficult for me to share anything I write with people because... well... I don't quite know...
But I digress... I am taking a big leap here by posting my semi-censored thoughts for all the world to see...
The first few entries will be old blogs that I've had on myspace for a while. Then, I intend to write on a regular basis... which, by the way, is weekly (for me).... which means I am due for another blog TODAY!!! Aaagghhh!!! I need a topic... By the end of this evening I must come up with a topic!
By the way, if you're wondering what type of writer I am, then your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that I like to write... I love to read... and my mind loves to think... so if you put those three things together, you come up with the ramblings of a daydreaming critic...

I hope you enjoy reading my mind...