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...