When I was a little girl, I never really thought about kids. I had a few baby dolls, but I never felt the urgency and longing to be a mother like some of my estrogen-laden peers. Honestly, dolls weren’t really my bag; I was too busy being afraid of their lifeless marble eyes to braid their hair. You can just forget it if you think I was going to wrap them up in my favorite blanket and cradle them to my chest. It wasn’t until I saw a real baby that I became fond of them. Well, "fond" might be overgenerous; I was fascinated with them.
I was twelve when my cousin Lisa was born. My family was gathered at my aunt’s house and everyone was passing the baby around more than a half-smoked joint. Tias and tios took turns holding Lisa and brushing off their baby voices. (As an aside, I never understood why people speak to babies in incoherent high-pitched voices. Everyone does it, myself included. What a strange first impression of the world to get. The first word I said may have been “ducky”, but the first words I thought were probably more along the lines of, “I didn’t have to deal with this in the womb.”)
After everyone was satisfied with their turn, my mom asked me if I wanted to hold Lisa. I was petrified. Me? I wasn’t sure if I could handle being responsible for another human life for five minutes, but I agreed because I was so excited that someone trusted me with this responsibility.
I sat on the couch as my mom set up pillows on either side of me before putting one on my lap. Secure in my pillow fort, Baby Lisa was placed on my lap. She squirmed a little before yawning and looking at me. I wrapped my arms on either side of her and stared at her. It was a stare-down; me against baby, baby against me. I should have remembered the way she smelled like powder and formula. I should have commited her big, brown eyes that were complimented by a full head of hair into my memory. I should have spent more time understanding that this tiny human, who wasn’t even a part of the earth a few days ago, was spending part of the first week of her life on my lap. Instead, all I remember was wondering when the hell someone would take this baby off of me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t immediately love Baby Lisa, it was that I was terrified that I would do something to harm her. I was worried she would stand up, salute me and dive out of the pillow fort and onto the beigh carpeting that lined the floors. I was even more scared that I would shift slightly and somehow accidentally roll over her, making an accidental couch-baby burrito. I spent that five minutes with my arms around Lisa and not moving, not even breathing deeply, lest a rabid dog sneak up and snatch her away from me when I wasn't looking.
Ten years later and I still have essentially the same fear: I don’t want to hurt my kids. I’m not concerned about physically harming them (I still have many a pillows to construct a fort), but emotionally harming them. My worst fear when it comes to having children is that I will spend my entire life raising them and they, in turn, will spend their entire life in therapy complaining about me.
“She told me she doesn’t know if God is real,” I can hear my non-existent sixteen-year-old saying. “So I stopped believing in God and started believing in Joe. Our first kid is due next month.”
I like to think my parents did a pretty good job of raising me. I’m in my early twenties and have no major felonies, DUIs, children with uncertain baby daddies, drug abuse history and only a few instances of teenage rebellion and bitchery. I’m a relatively adjusted and compassionate person, regardless of whatever you’ve heard ’round the internets. While I can sing the praises of my parents all day, I can’t say that I understand how they did it. I don’t understand what makes me different from my friends, my cousins or the guests on “The Maury Pauvich Show”. How did my parents manage to raise my brothers and I into three well-adjusted, pretty normal non-felons?
I don’t know. I don’t even think they know. From what I can gather, parenting is a club nobody is prepared for. Sure, you can read the books and talk to the Parenting Club elders, but each circumstance is unique. Nobody has the exact same childhood, although many people have similar experiences. There is common sense that every parent learns first hand, like don’t leave permanent markers and toddlers alone. It only takes one Sharpie mustache on your baby's upper lip before you make a mental note to add that to the “Things To Remember About Parenting” list.
For the most part, however, it seems like parents are just winging it. They make up some rules and their children, out of love or fear for their parents, go with it. When I was younger, my parents’ word was the law. Everything they said was, had to be, true because why would my parents lie to me? When I was a teenager, I realized that my parents can, have and will always lie to me because they want nothing more than to ruin my life. Now, as a young adult, I realize that my parents are just playing a game that didn’t come with a rule book. They have nothing but my best interests at heart, even if I still occasionally think the only joy they get out of parenting is having someone to pass the unwanted chores to. The fact of the matter is, my parents were no more ready for parenthood than any parent. New parents can prepare for a child forever. They can read all the books, go to all the classes and talk to all the other parents, but they will be just as unprepared when that baby comes as if they just woke up one day and thought, “I think I’ll have a baby today.”
As I start to reach the age where my peers are having children or wanting children, I can’t help but have babies on the mind. I wonder if I’d make a good mother. I wonder if I’ll ever find someone I want to have children with. But, most of all, I wonder if I’ll ever feel prepared for motherhood.
M and Garland are currently expecting their first baby, and while I am excited and already filled with love for my unborn nephew, I can’t help but revert back to the same twelve-year-old girl who was terrified to hold Baby Lisa. I start to get the same nervous feeling, but then I stop to think about M and Garland. M, while he may have secretly always wanted to be a father, never publicly expressed a desire to have children. Garland, on the other hand, has stated on numerous occasions that she wants a family. She is the type of woman who sets her mind to something and accomplishes it; no fuss or theatrics, just impenetrable emotional armor and determination. When she said shortly after their wedding that she wanted to have kids, it was only a matter of time before one came along.
During one of our conversations about my nephew, Garland confessed that she was scared. She was excited at the prospect of having a child, but her excitement was mixed in with a healthy shot of fear. My unborn nephew, a defenseless six-month-old fetus, had cracked Garland’s armor. I listened in awe as she explained all the reasons she was nervous about having a child. I had no advice to offer because, well, I don’t know anything about children or raising them. But it suddenly dawned on me that regardless of whether someone is ready to be a parent or not, that’s not going to stop people from having kids. People have been recreating for thousands of years and, unless there is a serious uterus shortage in the near future, will continue to do the same thing for thousands of years to come. Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I won’t make a good parent. I'm just going to have to have faith that my parents set up a good enough example that I won’t completely screw up my child.
I have no doubt in my mind that M and Garland will be excellent parents. And, while I may always be nervous and unready to have children of my own, it won’t stop me from being the best tia I can be to my nephew.
In three months when my nephew arrives, I’ll set up my pillow fort once again. Though this time it won’t be completely out of fear, but rather a reminder that I want nothing but comfort and safety for my children, whenever it is I decide to have them.
Showing posts with label M. Show all posts
Showing posts with label M. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Lazy, baby.
You guys, let me tell you a story about my weekend.
I was selfish. I did EXACTLY what I wanted and it was delightful. I've always been a team player. Need someone to take one for the team? Sign me up. It's not always pleasant or what I want to do, but I get satisfaction from seeing my friends and family happy, even if I'm not. Sick, right?
I'm not sure how it happened, but this weekend I turned it off. I had things to do, things I should have done and things I already committed to, but I didn't want to do any of them. I've been under pressure from all aspects of my life recently; school, work, losing weight, making new friends, maintaining older friendships, saving money, tuition, Vegas, parties. The summer is jam packed and although I'm looking forward to all of it, it doesn't change the fact that I've been a busy bee. This might be normal for most people, but here's a little secret about your buddy KV: I'm lazy.
There, I said it.
My ideal day consists of nothing more than eating take out, going for a walk, napping and lounging around watching movies. That's all I want out of life sometimes. I do realize, though, that's really impractical and mostly impossible.
Not this weekend, though. This weekend I had the privilege, nay, the luxury to say "fuck all that lame bullshit I don't want to do" and instead do everything I wanted to do.
Pedicures with Mama D? Hell yeah. Shopping with Red? You know it, girlfriend. Walks with M and The Boy replaced worrying and planning for the future. Chats with Garland and Thurber eased my worries about work, school and scrounging up money for a college I can't afford. Spending Sunday with my dad, watching "Rocky Balboa" and reading Cormac McCarthy relaxed and made me happier than I've been in a long time. It was as close to a perfect weekend as any other I can remember.
Today, as the last remnants of the weekend fade into the past, I feel a little nostalgic but refreshed. There same problems that I was able to tune out for two days were waiting to greet me this morning. They still suck and I'm still no closer to a solution, but I understand that my problems aren't the only things that matter in life. They are important, no doubt, but not unsolvable.
What has proven to be unsolvable is the laziness that courses through me. This weekend, however, I didn't mind it so much.
I was selfish. I did EXACTLY what I wanted and it was delightful. I've always been a team player. Need someone to take one for the team? Sign me up. It's not always pleasant or what I want to do, but I get satisfaction from seeing my friends and family happy, even if I'm not. Sick, right?
I'm not sure how it happened, but this weekend I turned it off. I had things to do, things I should have done and things I already committed to, but I didn't want to do any of them. I've been under pressure from all aspects of my life recently; school, work, losing weight, making new friends, maintaining older friendships, saving money, tuition, Vegas, parties. The summer is jam packed and although I'm looking forward to all of it, it doesn't change the fact that I've been a busy bee. This might be normal for most people, but here's a little secret about your buddy KV: I'm lazy.
There, I said it.
My ideal day consists of nothing more than eating take out, going for a walk, napping and lounging around watching movies. That's all I want out of life sometimes. I do realize, though, that's really impractical and mostly impossible.
Not this weekend, though. This weekend I had the privilege, nay, the luxury to say "fuck all that lame bullshit I don't want to do" and instead do everything I wanted to do.
Pedicures with Mama D? Hell yeah. Shopping with Red? You know it, girlfriend. Walks with M and The Boy replaced worrying and planning for the future. Chats with Garland and Thurber eased my worries about work, school and scrounging up money for a college I can't afford. Spending Sunday with my dad, watching "Rocky Balboa" and reading Cormac McCarthy relaxed and made me happier than I've been in a long time. It was as close to a perfect weekend as any other I can remember.
Today, as the last remnants of the weekend fade into the past, I feel a little nostalgic but refreshed. There same problems that I was able to tune out for two days were waiting to greet me this morning. They still suck and I'm still no closer to a solution, but I understand that my problems aren't the only things that matter in life. They are important, no doubt, but not unsolvable.
What has proven to be unsolvable is the laziness that courses through me. This weekend, however, I didn't mind it so much.
Monday, June 1, 2009
What's the haps, broseph?
Fun fact: I heard someone say just that a few minutes ago. A grown-man, I might add. Wooooof.
I know I haven't been around these parts in a while, but it's because I've been learning one very important universal truth: having a life is exhausting.
Case in point, I spent Saturday night out at a "club" filled with "people my own age" and had a jolly good time. Whoops, that last one doesn't fit with the hip kid vernacular. I had a bomb ass, hip to the mother effing Twitter Facebook time of the Apple Bottom Jeans. That's all the cool terms I could think of.
As a result of spending the evening doing what every 21-year-old in the world does every weekend, I spent all of Sunday out of commission. I did nothing but eat Chinese food, sleep and watch old episodes of "The Office".
The past few days have been busy. My summer school classes are slowly sucking the soul (and a few hundred bucks for books) out of me, work is insane in the membrane and I have been a social butterfly with friends, family and an awesome, potentially meaningful boy situation.
So, because it's rare for me to be both upbeat and eloquent at the same time, here is a list of things I am currently grateful for. Here we go.
1.) Saturday nights. Listen, all the best stories happen on Saturday nights. Lampshades get put on heads, alcohol is consumed, laughably bad decisions are made and dancing is had. Saturday night is the night of the week every other weekday is jealous of. Do you think that anyone is hooking up with a guy who looks like Geraldo Rivera on a Wednesday or eating tacos from a hut on the side of the road on a Monday? Pashaw.
Saturday night marked an important evening. My pals Deezy and Papa J officially ended their time as roommates and my friend Thurber is in town for a few days before moving to Portland. Having a trifecta of friends in town, I decided it was only necessary to take them out and get them all drunk. So, Saturday night, our group headed to one of my favorite bars for a night of drinking and debauchery. It was a blast. I have some pics that I'll put up later, but let's just say the night ended with a few new acquired phone numbers, drunken rambling, smokey hair and tacos at 3 in the morning. Verdict: success.
2.) Baby Miles. M and Garland are six months along and I get more and more excited every time I see them. M and Garland are like pioneers; my own personal Magellan into the cloudy waters of adulthood. They've handled everything beautifully so far and it makes me happy to know that, in three months, they'll have a son to add to their family. And I'll have a nephew who I already want to buy everything for. Because the baby is a boy, poor M has had to endure this question over and over:
KV: If I bought you and the baby matching hats/glasses/shoes/bowler shirts, would you wear them at the same time?
The answer every time: a shrug and a "sure". That's all I'm asking for.
3.) Laughter. Alright, before you roll your eyes and vomit on me because I just listed "laughter" as something I'm grateful for (what is this, Chicken Soup for the Cheesy Ass Soul?!), hear me out. I have laughed harder and more frequently in the past week than I have in a while. I've been hanging out with a new boy and he has me in stitches non-stop. Red is fine tuning his own sassy brand of humor with hilarious results. Even Simon, that smelly tan dog of ours, has been cracking me up. I laugh a lot as it is, but this past week has been out of control. If I keep it up, I'm pretty sure I can get abs of steel just through the magic of laughter. Suck it, P90X.
I know I haven't been around these parts in a while, but it's because I've been learning one very important universal truth: having a life is exhausting.
Case in point, I spent Saturday night out at a "club" filled with "people my own age" and had a jolly good time. Whoops, that last one doesn't fit with the hip kid vernacular. I had a bomb ass, hip to the mother effing Twitter Facebook time of the Apple Bottom Jeans. That's all the cool terms I could think of.
As a result of spending the evening doing what every 21-year-old in the world does every weekend, I spent all of Sunday out of commission. I did nothing but eat Chinese food, sleep and watch old episodes of "The Office".
The past few days have been busy. My summer school classes are slowly sucking the soul (and a few hundred bucks for books) out of me, work is insane in the membrane and I have been a social butterfly with friends, family and an awesome, potentially meaningful boy situation.
So, because it's rare for me to be both upbeat and eloquent at the same time, here is a list of things I am currently grateful for. Here we go.
1.) Saturday nights. Listen, all the best stories happen on Saturday nights. Lampshades get put on heads, alcohol is consumed, laughably bad decisions are made and dancing is had. Saturday night is the night of the week every other weekday is jealous of. Do you think that anyone is hooking up with a guy who looks like Geraldo Rivera on a Wednesday or eating tacos from a hut on the side of the road on a Monday? Pashaw.
Saturday night marked an important evening. My pals Deezy and Papa J officially ended their time as roommates and my friend Thurber is in town for a few days before moving to Portland. Having a trifecta of friends in town, I decided it was only necessary to take them out and get them all drunk. So, Saturday night, our group headed to one of my favorite bars for a night of drinking and debauchery. It was a blast. I have some pics that I'll put up later, but let's just say the night ended with a few new acquired phone numbers, drunken rambling, smokey hair and tacos at 3 in the morning. Verdict: success.
2.) Baby Miles. M and Garland are six months along and I get more and more excited every time I see them. M and Garland are like pioneers; my own personal Magellan into the cloudy waters of adulthood. They've handled everything beautifully so far and it makes me happy to know that, in three months, they'll have a son to add to their family. And I'll have a nephew who I already want to buy everything for. Because the baby is a boy, poor M has had to endure this question over and over:
KV: If I bought you and the baby matching hats/glasses/shoes/bowler shirts, would you wear them at the same time?
The answer every time: a shrug and a "sure". That's all I'm asking for.
3.) Laughter. Alright, before you roll your eyes and vomit on me because I just listed "laughter" as something I'm grateful for (what is this, Chicken Soup for the Cheesy Ass Soul?!), hear me out. I have laughed harder and more frequently in the past week than I have in a while. I've been hanging out with a new boy and he has me in stitches non-stop. Red is fine tuning his own sassy brand of humor with hilarious results. Even Simon, that smelly tan dog of ours, has been cracking me up. I laugh a lot as it is, but this past week has been out of control. If I keep it up, I'm pretty sure I can get abs of steel just through the magic of laughter. Suck it, P90X.
Monday, May 11, 2009
I'm still not making any coffee, though.
A couple weeks ago, I had a conversation with M about our jobs.
"I just want to do something that I like. I don't even have to love it, but I'd like to wake up and go to a job where I'm doing something that I care about," I said.
Without missing a beat, M said, "I want to make money. I want to make enough money to be able to do whatever the hell I want."
Today, as I was sitting in on a meeting that had little to do with me, I couldn't help but remember the conversation M and I had weeks earlier. I felt bad. The woman leading the meeting flew in from out of town. She was looking to talk to someone about records and, for reasons unbeknownst to yours truly, I was the best representative. I listened, nodded, made the appropriate comments at the appropriate time and generally did my best to look like I belonged there.
The woman studied my face as I spoke. She watched me so intently, I started to think she could see right through me. I focused on her eyes and silently dared her to read between the lines.
"I don't know what I'm talking about," was the underlying statement.
"I don't care about any of this," was a close second.
"I'm just biding my time here until I get transferred to the department I really want to work for," came in third.
Then, as I was in the middle of rattling off something not even I understood, it hit me: I need to grow up.
I have this thing in life where I just expect everything to work out on the first try. I expect to love the first job I have. I expected to get into my first choice college and have it all figured out by the time I walked in the door. I expected to graduate in 4 years and have a job lined up doing something that both pays well and is emotionally fulfilling.
Um, no.
None of that happened. And, much as I regret some things, I'm kind of glad it worked out this way. I'm starting to realize that only on the rarest of rare occasions will life go according to plan. It doesn't make it less painful or frustrating, but at least life is kind enough to be consistently cruel. For now, I'm struggling to figure out what kind of job I want and if it's possible, or even relevant, to have it be something that satisfies me emotionally.
"Just do something that makes you money. It doesn't have to be something you love, just something you can stand. Once you have the money, do the thing you love," M said it to me and it just clicked. It made sense and I was a little amazed that I hadn't thought of it before.
M's voice filled my head as I spoke to the woman who was leading the meeting.
"Sure, I can look into that for you," I said.
Her eyes bore into me and I thought, "I can do that, but not because I care. There are fewer things in the world I care less about. I can look into that for you because it will eventually lead me to the road I want to be on. I can sacrifice some of my interest and happiness because I know that someday, it will be repaid to me in full. I can look into that for you because I am putting faith in myself that I will follow through and become the person I want to be. Most of all, I can look into that because I have the knowledge, talent and ability to."
The meeting let out and I walked back to my desk. The ever-present urge to drop everything and walk out the door was still there, strong as ever. This time, though, instead of trying to repress it, I welcomed it. I allowed the feeling to make itself at home, hoping that it would never leave me. Praying that it will remind me that while I may not know what I want to do, I sure as hell know what I don't want to do.
I took a deep breath, sat down and got back to work.
"I just want to do something that I like. I don't even have to love it, but I'd like to wake up and go to a job where I'm doing something that I care about," I said.
Without missing a beat, M said, "I want to make money. I want to make enough money to be able to do whatever the hell I want."
Today, as I was sitting in on a meeting that had little to do with me, I couldn't help but remember the conversation M and I had weeks earlier. I felt bad. The woman leading the meeting flew in from out of town. She was looking to talk to someone about records and, for reasons unbeknownst to yours truly, I was the best representative. I listened, nodded, made the appropriate comments at the appropriate time and generally did my best to look like I belonged there.
The woman studied my face as I spoke. She watched me so intently, I started to think she could see right through me. I focused on her eyes and silently dared her to read between the lines.
"I don't know what I'm talking about," was the underlying statement.
"I don't care about any of this," was a close second.
"I'm just biding my time here until I get transferred to the department I really want to work for," came in third.
Then, as I was in the middle of rattling off something not even I understood, it hit me: I need to grow up.
I have this thing in life where I just expect everything to work out on the first try. I expect to love the first job I have. I expected to get into my first choice college and have it all figured out by the time I walked in the door. I expected to graduate in 4 years and have a job lined up doing something that both pays well and is emotionally fulfilling.
Um, no.
None of that happened. And, much as I regret some things, I'm kind of glad it worked out this way. I'm starting to realize that only on the rarest of rare occasions will life go according to plan. It doesn't make it less painful or frustrating, but at least life is kind enough to be consistently cruel. For now, I'm struggling to figure out what kind of job I want and if it's possible, or even relevant, to have it be something that satisfies me emotionally.
"Just do something that makes you money. It doesn't have to be something you love, just something you can stand. Once you have the money, do the thing you love," M said it to me and it just clicked. It made sense and I was a little amazed that I hadn't thought of it before.
M's voice filled my head as I spoke to the woman who was leading the meeting.
"Sure, I can look into that for you," I said.
Her eyes bore into me and I thought, "I can do that, but not because I care. There are fewer things in the world I care less about. I can look into that for you because it will eventually lead me to the road I want to be on. I can sacrifice some of my interest and happiness because I know that someday, it will be repaid to me in full. I can look into that for you because I am putting faith in myself that I will follow through and become the person I want to be. Most of all, I can look into that because I have the knowledge, talent and ability to."
The meeting let out and I walked back to my desk. The ever-present urge to drop everything and walk out the door was still there, strong as ever. This time, though, instead of trying to repress it, I welcomed it. I allowed the feeling to make itself at home, hoping that it would never leave me. Praying that it will remind me that while I may not know what I want to do, I sure as hell know what I don't want to do.
I took a deep breath, sat down and got back to work.
Friday, April 24, 2009
I've got good news and I've got bad news.
The bad news: my brain is splattered across a windshield somewhere and isn't very anxious to get back into my head. Or, to put it less dramatically, my thought box is broke, y'all. KV no en casa, if you catch my drift. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you had x-ray vision you would be able to see that the spot where my brain used to be is now occupied by a single, perfectly ripe banana.
A banana brain, if you will.
The good news: Garland and M are having a baby boy! Seh-weet. My soon-to-be-a-real-live-person nephew isn't due until September, but hot damn, I already want to buy the kid everything at Baby Gap, Babies R' Us, Baby Target, baby church rummage sale, baby swap meet, baby black market and pretty much any other location that sells goods that I can add the noun "baby" to. I'm determined to be someones Aunt Tina. Also, how could anyone possibly say no to these:
Is it weird that I just want to put them in my mouth?
A huge congrats and e-high five to Garland and M. But not to you, Brain. You know what you did.
A banana brain, if you will.
The good news: Garland and M are having a baby boy! Seh-weet. My soon-to-be-a-real-live-person nephew isn't due until September, but hot damn, I already want to buy the kid everything at Baby Gap, Babies R' Us, Baby Target, baby church rummage sale, baby swap meet, baby black market and pretty much any other location that sells goods that I can add the noun "baby" to. I'm determined to be someones Aunt Tina. Also, how could anyone possibly say no to these:
Is it weird that I just want to put them in my mouth?
A huge congrats and e-high five to Garland and M. But not to you, Brain. You know what you did.
Friday, March 20, 2009
R-r-r-rewind.
This weekend rocked my face so hard I didn't have time to blog about it. It had everything a weekend should have: snow cones, gut-punching laughter, tennis elbow and money winning. I just hit rewind so we're taking a (rather long) trip back in time.
Friday night I was psyched to have no plans. It was an insanely busy day at the office, a day that followed in the footsteps of the four days previous to it. The week decided that it was going to be a crazy bastard and throw everything my way. No time to file? Here's 50 things that need to be copied, collated and filed by the end of the day. There were so many people at my desk that I was considering opening a small bed and breakfast on the side. I would've called it I Need A Break(fast). Which is probably why I don't have a bed and breakfast. But I digress.
All I wanted to do Friday night was put in my time at the college track, rent a movie, change into pants with an elastic waistband and call it a night. I texted my pal Deezy to see if she wanted to join me at the track. She gave me a call a few minutes later.
"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go on a date with me?" she asked. "We could maybe go walking and then grab some appetizers and then maybe see a movie."
Food? Movies? Lady date? It took me a grand total of five seconds to say "hell motherfucking yeah!" before heading over. When I got to Deezy's place, she said she had a surprise for me. I was instantly excited. Deezy is the type of lady who is the epitome of spontaneous. I've always been intrigued by that, so when Deezy says "surprise" it usually means that she has something that will make me squeal in delight and/or poo myself with excitement. I mean, what? I don't poo my pants.
Awkward.
Deezy, as always, delivered the goods. She took me to a raspado place by her apartment. A raspado, for my non-Mexican, non-Arizona living folks, is a snow cone but made with real fruit. It's like a Mexican Diet Coke; not really healthy for you, but it tricks you into believing it is. And this place was legit*. It was a shabby little building on the side of the road in the ghetto part of town and everyone there spoke Spanish. I even ordered my shit in Spanish because I wanted to fit in. The signs were hand lettered on cardboard and the inside of it smelled like fruit. I got a little something called a mangoyada, which was mangos, lime and chamoy. Holy God, it was delicious. The raspado burst into my mouth and held a fruit fueled rave on my tongue. My taste buds were flipping the fuck out.
KV: I'm so excited I can't even get it in my mouth!
Deezy: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Friday night I was psyched to have no plans. It was an insanely busy day at the office, a day that followed in the footsteps of the four days previous to it. The week decided that it was going to be a crazy bastard and throw everything my way. No time to file? Here's 50 things that need to be copied, collated and filed by the end of the day. There were so many people at my desk that I was considering opening a small bed and breakfast on the side. I would've called it I Need A Break(fast). Which is probably why I don't have a bed and breakfast. But I digress.
All I wanted to do Friday night was put in my time at the college track, rent a movie, change into pants with an elastic waistband and call it a night. I texted my pal Deezy to see if she wanted to join me at the track. She gave me a call a few minutes later.
"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go on a date with me?" she asked. "We could maybe go walking and then grab some appetizers and then maybe see a movie."
Food? Movies? Lady date? It took me a grand total of five seconds to say "hell motherfucking yeah!" before heading over. When I got to Deezy's place, she said she had a surprise for me. I was instantly excited. Deezy is the type of lady who is the epitome of spontaneous. I've always been intrigued by that, so when Deezy says "surprise" it usually means that she has something that will make me squeal in delight and/or poo myself with excitement. I mean, what? I don't poo my pants.
Awkward.
Deezy, as always, delivered the goods. She took me to a raspado place by her apartment. A raspado, for my non-Mexican, non-Arizona living folks, is a snow cone but made with real fruit. It's like a Mexican Diet Coke; not really healthy for you, but it tricks you into believing it is. And this place was legit*. It was a shabby little building on the side of the road in the ghetto part of town and everyone there spoke Spanish. I even ordered my shit in Spanish because I wanted to fit in. The signs were hand lettered on cardboard and the inside of it smelled like fruit. I got a little something called a mangoyada, which was mangos, lime and chamoy. Holy God, it was delicious. The raspado burst into my mouth and held a fruit fueled rave on my tongue. My taste buds were flipping the fuck out.
KV: I'm so excited I can't even get it in my mouth!
Deezy: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
If it were possible to marry, impregnate and spawn more baby raspados, I would've done it. Let's legalize that, America.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday some of my aunts and cousins came down to spend the weekend with us. It's always amazing to me that my cousins aren't the babies I remember them being. Suddenly everyone is 16 and pretty and muscular and knows everything about Ozzy Osbourne and Rhianna. And before you know it they're finding your phone, scrolling through your texts and asking why you say fuck a lot and asking what being drunk is like. Go ask your parents.
My cousins are awesome though. It's nice that they're older because I feel like we have more to talk about. I finally have someone to impart life advice to, like when I told my 16 and 14-year-old cousins that "High school should be fun. Don't spend it listening to Radiohead and writing shitty poetry." Take that all the way to the bank, kids.
But the real joy in Saturday was Cosmic Bingo. Yes, bingo. And let me tell you this shit is the greatest discovery I've ever made. Before you judge me and think, "So when did you turn 87 again?", you should know the tagline for Cosmic Bingo is "it's not your grandma's bingo". So suck it.
Bingo is hosted by a drag queen and there are drinks, food and music. Those last three are pretty much all the incentive I need to go anywhere. Usually Garland, M and myself are the only ones down to go, but this weekend we packed up and took my parents, my aunts, Garland's sister and her fiance and Tata. We've been plenty of times but have never won anything but the shaft and a sense of failure. The drinks help ease the bingo losses.
Saturday night was a different story. There I was, playing my bingo cards, following every number the caller called out. I had one number to go, O-74. And let me tell you, that bastard took it's sweet ass time showing up. Oh hey, O-74, glad you could make it to the party. Why am I sweating so much? No reason, just wondering if you were going to bingo rape me again.
But there it was in all it's glory. O-motherfucking-74. BINGO! I screamed it at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, so did someones grandma with a breathing tube. Even though breathing tube, pink pantsuit lady edged in on my bingo winnings, I still collected $100 clams. A single, beautiful Benjamin was heading my way. In your face, Indian Casino. It only took me a year of -coming to bingo to win my money back. Eff. Yes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After Saturday's bingo excitement, Sunday was relatively low key. We headed to a street fair downtown. There were all your usual assortment of downtown Tucsonans: hippies, college kids, drunkards, wannabe revolutionaries and people like me, who just came for the snow cones.
And all I had to do was sell my soul!
After the street fair, Red and I headed to the high school across the street from our house to play some tennis. I should start by saying that I don't play tennis. Red has a friend who is teaching him, and when I found out about this I insisted that he teach me. We went out and bought the cheapest racket we could find. A tennis racket that, apparently, was special made by Thor for The Hulk. This racket will fuck shit up. It also gave me the urge to talk mean shit.
The phrase "Suck Penn balls!" was uttered more than once.
Fortunately, Red and I were the only ones who were on the courts so nobody could see how awful I was or how many tennis balls I had shoved in my pants. I might suck at tennis, but my right arm is going to be ripped. I'll look like Freddy Rodriguez in Lady in the Water.
Discounted tickets to the gun show sold here.
The weekend was great. Most weekends serve as a reminder that there's more to life than the work week and school. This weekend, however, blew my shit up and was like, "Fuck being depressed. Put the sucking on hold and have some fun." Thanks for being such a foul-mouthed joy, Weekend.
*I was wearing a band t-shirt that said Dios Malos on it. In Spanish, it translates to Bad God or something along those lines. There was a Nana in front of me who looked at my shirt, looked at me and then gave me a rather disapproving look. I could hear her thinking, "This bitch better be going to church after this." If a Mexican Nana isn't silently judging you, it's not a legit Mexican place.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Not a boy, not yet a woman.
I've often been accused of being a bit of a tomboy. When I was younger, I chose the Hot Wheels, pogs and dinosaur action figures my brothers played with over Barbies.* Dressing up wasn't really my thing either, that is unless you count overalls with only one strap buttoned. I spent most of my youth wearing camouflage pants, pink Converse high tops and a pink shirt with Sylvester the Cat on it. It was the 90s, don't judge me.
Maybe it's because I grew up with brothers, but I've never really been into girly sort of things. To be honest, I get confused and intimidated by a lot of the make-up, clothing, hair styling and accessories options. How am I supposed to know what summer scarf goes with this outfit? Wait, accessories are supposed to match? How exactly do I work a curling iron? See, it's all very confusing. One wrong move and you'll end up with no eyebrows and half a shaved head. I've seen it happen and it's gross.
It wasn't until my older brother, M, brought Garland around that I took a real interest in what clothes I wore and whether or not my hair was brushed. Garland, also a tomboy at heart, is quite the fashionable lady. She came on to the scene and suddenly I realized that I didn't really look like, well, a girl. Mostly though, I was astonished that someone so chic and put together could be such a tomboy. I started looking at the other ladies in my life. My lady cousins always had impeccable hair, cute outfits, wore high heels and were all very pretty. I suddenly felt very out of place.
With my cousins and Garland's help, I started on an unspoken quest to become more ladylike. I just felt like it was time to start looking a little more, um, not like a butt.
In some ways, I have succeeded. I put forth effort in my appearance (most of the time, depending on how lazy I am in the morning and if I absolutely, positively have to look like someone who got a decent nights sleep). I have started a passionate, albeit quite pricey, love affair with accessories and flats. I now know what a manicure, pedicure and brow wax are, how much they cost and where the best places to go for each are. I know when to use ribbon, the difference between fall and summer colors and am a avid reader of Glamour magazine.
But in most ways, I am still the same tomboy. I would pick zombie movies over romantic-comedies any day. My mom still rolls her eyes and says, "KV, you're such a boy," when I choose to watch a marathon of Deadliest Catch instead of the home and garden channel. I can't walk in high heels to save my life and dresses make me uncomfortable. I once accepted a date from a guy only because he quoted Roadhouse to me. Just today, I chose a book about submarines during WWII instead of chick-lit.
I'll always be a tomboy. No amount of make-up or wavy, luscious locks doused with the latest hair product will change that (and I'm talking super luscious). And, y'know, I think I'm pretty okay with that.
*To be fair, I did love Baribies at one point. I even had a few and my friend from down the street would come over and we would reenact scenes from Disney's Aladdin. That is, until one day my brother and his friend from down the street discovered fire crackers. And you know what they say about fire crackers: they're a gateway explosive. My Barbies learned this first hand as they were strapped to stick after stick of illegal firecrackers. May they rest in peace (or pieces). Amen.
Maybe it's because I grew up with brothers, but I've never really been into girly sort of things. To be honest, I get confused and intimidated by a lot of the make-up, clothing, hair styling and accessories options. How am I supposed to know what summer scarf goes with this outfit? Wait, accessories are supposed to match? How exactly do I work a curling iron? See, it's all very confusing. One wrong move and you'll end up with no eyebrows and half a shaved head. I've seen it happen and it's gross.
It wasn't until my older brother, M, brought Garland around that I took a real interest in what clothes I wore and whether or not my hair was brushed. Garland, also a tomboy at heart, is quite the fashionable lady. She came on to the scene and suddenly I realized that I didn't really look like, well, a girl. Mostly though, I was astonished that someone so chic and put together could be such a tomboy. I started looking at the other ladies in my life. My lady cousins always had impeccable hair, cute outfits, wore high heels and were all very pretty. I suddenly felt very out of place.
With my cousins and Garland's help, I started on an unspoken quest to become more ladylike. I just felt like it was time to start looking a little more, um, not like a butt.
In some ways, I have succeeded. I put forth effort in my appearance (most of the time, depending on how lazy I am in the morning and if I absolutely, positively have to look like someone who got a decent nights sleep). I have started a passionate, albeit quite pricey, love affair with accessories and flats. I now know what a manicure, pedicure and brow wax are, how much they cost and where the best places to go for each are. I know when to use ribbon, the difference between fall and summer colors and am a avid reader of Glamour magazine.
But in most ways, I am still the same tomboy. I would pick zombie movies over romantic-comedies any day. My mom still rolls her eyes and says, "KV, you're such a boy," when I choose to watch a marathon of Deadliest Catch instead of the home and garden channel. I can't walk in high heels to save my life and dresses make me uncomfortable. I once accepted a date from a guy only because he quoted Roadhouse to me. Just today, I chose a book about submarines during WWII instead of chick-lit.
I'll always be a tomboy. No amount of make-up or wavy, luscious locks doused with the latest hair product will change that (and I'm talking super luscious). And, y'know, I think I'm pretty okay with that.
*To be fair, I did love Baribies at one point. I even had a few and my friend from down the street would come over and we would reenact scenes from Disney's Aladdin. That is, until one day my brother and his friend from down the street discovered fire crackers. And you know what they say about fire crackers: they're a gateway explosive. My Barbies learned this first hand as they were strapped to stick after stick of illegal firecrackers. May they rest in peace (or pieces). Amen.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
I'll show you some Steps of Knowledge
Whew, another Halloween down the pipeline! Verdict: success. As promised, here's what I looked like as a Blue Barracuda.
Blue Barracuda was the best team from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Everyone knows it. So much so, that during our bar hopping we ran into another Blue Barracuda. Who knew so many former LOTHT fans liked to discover their very own Temple of Vodka on a Friday night.
The rest of the group looked great. Don't believe me? Don't be silly. Check 'em out.
M dressed up as Period Pants and Garland was an 80s fitness instructor.
Garland's sister and her fiance.
Deezy rockin' the no pants look from Risky Business.
When I tried on the Risky Business glasses, it looked like I was blind. And have carpal tunnel. So pretty much exactly what I was going for.
The ladies.
I have to be honest, most of the ladies we saw looked scandalous. Deezy was not the only one showin' off the risky business. Just by wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I felt way overdressed. We saw a couple girls wearing only underwear and corsets and one girl who was just in a bra and a small piece of fabric trying to masquerade itself as a skirt. Ladies, I realize Halloween is code for "vaginas dress like sluts". I get it and I've made peace with it. I'll even go so far as to say that some of the slutty fire fighters, slutty policewomen, slutty Dorothys and even that one slutty witch looked alright. But c'mon, wearing your underwear and putting animal ears on is just lazy. You aren't even trying. I mean, at least the slutty (insert job here) had some sort of idea what they wanted to be, even if they got it terribly, inappropriately wrong. Ladies, we're better than that. We're much more creative than that. And if you're not, then at least don't let the drunken Tin Man in the corner touch your yellow brick road. It's just ooky.
Hope you all had a good Halloween! Now onto November.
Blue Barracuda was the best team from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Everyone knows it. So much so, that during our bar hopping we ran into another Blue Barracuda. Who knew so many former LOTHT fans liked to discover their very own Temple of Vodka on a Friday night.
The rest of the group looked great. Don't believe me? Don't be silly. Check 'em out.
M dressed up as Period Pants and Garland was an 80s fitness instructor.
Garland's sister and her fiance.
Deezy rockin' the no pants look from Risky Business.
When I tried on the Risky Business glasses, it looked like I was blind. And have carpal tunnel. So pretty much exactly what I was going for.
The ladies.
I have to be honest, most of the ladies we saw looked scandalous. Deezy was not the only one showin' off the risky business. Just by wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I felt way overdressed. We saw a couple girls wearing only underwear and corsets and one girl who was just in a bra and a small piece of fabric trying to masquerade itself as a skirt. Ladies, I realize Halloween is code for "vaginas dress like sluts". I get it and I've made peace with it. I'll even go so far as to say that some of the slutty fire fighters, slutty policewomen, slutty Dorothys and even that one slutty witch looked alright. But c'mon, wearing your underwear and putting animal ears on is just lazy. You aren't even trying. I mean, at least the slutty (insert job here) had some sort of idea what they wanted to be, even if they got it terribly, inappropriately wrong. Ladies, we're better than that. We're much more creative than that. And if you're not, then at least don't let the drunken Tin Man in the corner touch your yellow brick road. It's just ooky.
Hope you all had a good Halloween! Now onto November.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Weekend Shenanigans
I realize it's not the weekend anymore. I was busy and didn't have time (read: was too lazy) to blog. What was I doing? I'm glad you asked (read: get ready for this week's blog post).
Friday
I should start by saying that I don't do girly things. I was raised with brothers and even my girl cousins were alway a little tomboyish. I don't do facials, I don't really get together with my girlfriends and watch "Sex and the City" and I'm not really one to paint nails or do make-up together with my lady pals. Yet on Friday evening, I pretty much did all of those things. Ria (of my Gossip Girl/OTH post fame) invited me over to watch movies and do facials. In the spirit of trying new things, I agreed. Here is what happened:
Looks like a good night, right? Then this happened:
I looked like a ghost. My face was whiter than my shirt and I'm pretty sure I scared myself by looking in the mirror at least once (read: three times).
Ria was having way more fun than me.
Saturday
Someone in my office told me about Oktoberfest. Since I've turned 21, I really want to go to things like this just to prove that I can. It's really weird, but I get a tremendous amount of joy when someone asks me for my ID. It's like, "Suck it, I can totally drink." I'm trying to tone down my looks of satisfaction.
I convinced my brother M, my sister-in-law Garland and my best friend Poppa J to accompany me to Tucson's own Oktoberfest (read: in the middle of a ball park). It was fun! We got some drinks, M and Garland got down with some Greek food, and a good time was had by all.
I don't get people and their need to consume huge pieces of meat. But this guy, this guy was classic and not to mention, very enthused about devouring that baby thigh. Then Garland and I decided we'd really like pickles. You know, those gigantic ones that only taste good when you're walking around in public, suckling them and generally looking really inappropriate. We waited a ridiculous amount of time in a really long line, only to discover that we're really stupid and there were plenty of stands with pickles that did not have a line the size of Germany. We got our pickles, and some of us were less pleased than others.
Also, wtf is happening with my hair? It's like it's eating my face in order to try and get closer to that damn pickle. And apparently pickles turn me into a mutant. Weird.
After the Great Pickle Search of 2008, we capped the night off with a bag of kettle corn the size of my leg (read: Garland's body).
Love at first sight.
This picture was mostly taken to illustrate the classiness of the evening. If posing with kettle corn next to empty kegs of Coors Light doesn't scream sophistication, I don't know what does.
The rest of the weekend was great too. Hamlet in the park, watching movies, being lazy and late night drinking with friends made it a great weekend. Sometimes I forget how awesome my friends are and then weekends like this come and I'm like, "Oh yeah, this is why I continue to know these people." Duh.
Friday
I should start by saying that I don't do girly things. I was raised with brothers and even my girl cousins were alway a little tomboyish. I don't do facials, I don't really get together with my girlfriends and watch "Sex and the City" and I'm not really one to paint nails or do make-up together with my lady pals. Yet on Friday evening, I pretty much did all of those things. Ria (of my Gossip Girl/OTH post fame) invited me over to watch movies and do facials. In the spirit of trying new things, I agreed. Here is what happened:
Looks like a good night, right? Then this happened:
I looked like a ghost. My face was whiter than my shirt and I'm pretty sure I scared myself by looking in the mirror at least once (read: three times).
Ria was having way more fun than me.
Saturday
Someone in my office told me about Oktoberfest. Since I've turned 21, I really want to go to things like this just to prove that I can. It's really weird, but I get a tremendous amount of joy when someone asks me for my ID. It's like, "Suck it, I can totally drink." I'm trying to tone down my looks of satisfaction.
I convinced my brother M, my sister-in-law Garland and my best friend Poppa J to accompany me to Tucson's own Oktoberfest (read: in the middle of a ball park). It was fun! We got some drinks, M and Garland got down with some Greek food, and a good time was had by all.
M and Garland rock the camera phone
Myself and Garland
Oh that guy? That's my pal Poppa J and his amazing hand face. I know, science should study him. That's what I keep saying.
I don't get people and their need to consume huge pieces of meat. But this guy, this guy was classic and not to mention, very enthused about devouring that baby thigh. Then Garland and I decided we'd really like pickles. You know, those gigantic ones that only taste good when you're walking around in public, suckling them and generally looking really inappropriate. We waited a ridiculous amount of time in a really long line, only to discover that we're really stupid and there were plenty of stands with pickles that did not have a line the size of Germany. We got our pickles, and some of us were less pleased than others.
Also, wtf is happening with my hair? It's like it's eating my face in order to try and get closer to that damn pickle. And apparently pickles turn me into a mutant. Weird.
After the Great Pickle Search of 2008, we capped the night off with a bag of kettle corn the size of my leg (read: Garland's body).
Love at first sight.
This picture was mostly taken to illustrate the classiness of the evening. If posing with kettle corn next to empty kegs of Coors Light doesn't scream sophistication, I don't know what does.
The rest of the weekend was great too. Hamlet in the park, watching movies, being lazy and late night drinking with friends made it a great weekend. Sometimes I forget how awesome my friends are and then weekends like this come and I'm like, "Oh yeah, this is why I continue to know these people." Duh.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
