You're A-Peeling!

"It's not that monkey card I found in the car, is it?"

NOPE, but that would have been pretty cool. Maybe for the next Balemtimes. This year, I revisited another Simpsons classic:

-Let's Never split!

snapshots of 2010

A lot of eating, loving, livin' and saying goodbye.

nowhere woman

Last week 'yahoo' profiled this broad who reconstructs ugly fat ladies clothes and chronicles her journey in a blog titled, "new dress a day". The idea of refashioning 365 dresses using 365 dollars in 365 days is essentially inspired from the "Julie&Julia project". Encouraged by the free-time afforded to her through her recent lay-off she has taken ugly dresses and fashioned for herself, a closet full of new clothes, quasi fame and notoriety and a sense of renewed purpose through creative self expression.

It has been 2 months to the day since I got shit canned and I have nothing to show for myself. Blinded by anger and feelings of resentment it has been hard for me to avoid falling into a funk. I sleep till noon, write only occasionally and I have yet to find a job OR even reduced the clutter that envelops my life. I lay awake at night thinking about some magical get rich quick scheme, mulling over job options, pressing my eyes tightly hoping the winning lotto numbers will flash across my lids, as I tell myself that tomorrow is a new day for me to figure things out. Except tomorrow becomes today and today quickly turns into yesterday and I am no steps closer to finding my place in the universe.

My goal is far less ambitious than that of the bargain seamstress. I don't want to become the next blogging sensation, or have a movie made of my life. But I would like to capitalize on my new found freedom as she has. For four years I slaved away at a job I hated and like some damaged animal I have spent the last 2 months lamenting its death. But now it's time for me to fuck the shit out of this precious free time I have been blessed with. By reading Celine, making those cupcakes from scratch, bedazzling my sunglasses, or maybe even finishing that gray corduroy skirt I started 10 years ago. Fuck it, maybe I will take the train somewhere, anywhere. Why the fuck not, I'm free!

Lawrence Cohen

When he was young, Chunk liked to run laps outside after it rained. Our half acre lot was barren then except for a small patch of grass, tall weeds and 10 lemon trees. One time, Chunk found a fresh crop of mushrooms growing on the lawn and ate them. He freaked out, got sick and passed out. Forever after that Chunk would stop to smell mushrooms and make a face of disdain.

He was the strangest and most untimely gift. Untimely because I had just gotten my acceptance letters from the colleges I applied to and would be leaving home in 3 short months when my stepfather came home with a tiny beautiful puppy and said to me, "I brought you a congratulations gift". He was like a stuffed animal with exaggerated features: dark soft fur, big small feet, doe eyes and floppy ears to boot. It was strange because our family had tried once before to be pet owners and that situation ended terribly. For years we asked about the origins of Chunk and for years my stepfather skirted the subject.

***It was a rainy dark morning in March and the old man was at a fast food drive through after his truck driving shift ended when he saw little baby Chunk tied to a homeless person's cart unattended in the rain.***

Chunk was such a wonderful and warm being. He was the glue that kept our insane family together. He was the only thing we all loved no matter how much we hated each other. He loved beer, bacon, blueberry pancakes, long walks at sunset and short swims on hot summer days and when you wrestled with him, he would always let you win. As a puppy, he had countless admirers offering to buy him, and when he got older his massive ominous presence struck unwarranted fear in many. Since I went off to college my brother was the one who trained and bonded deeply with Chunky. Whenever evil stirred inside the home, he would just go out back to the garage and hang out with the Chunkster. Chunk never judged you; except early on when my brother got him stoned, Chunk had a bad trip and would have to only see a bag of weed to give you the most telling disapproving glare before walking away dramatically.

My parents, like a lot of Mexicans I know (I did not say ALL Mexicans so before you go bat shit I'm not talking about you) have a detached relationship with animals. They keep their dogs outside, don't bathe them with special flea soap, feed them table scraps, never take them on walks, nor take them to the vet let alone get them vaccinated. My family was not that extreme, but Chunky was not allowed inside the house for a long time. A rule my brother and I frequently violated. In his old age, mom's heart softened and she let Chunk move in. He slept in the laundry room and was allowed limited living room and solarium privileges. For the past 4 years we all enjoyed the warmth of his presence in the home. But recently, Chunk started losing control of his bladder and was relieving himself inside the house. This resulted in his banishment to the backyard, which I argued was a bad idea. In a matter of weeks Chunk's condition worsened to the point where he was completely incontinent. Baby Bro bought him some diapers and he was allowed to move back inside the house. Last night my brother called to tell me that Chunk was not doing well. He took him to the vet to fix him up but his kidneys were failing and he did not have much time left. As he left for his graveyard shift he hugged the Chunk of love and told him, "I will see you tomorrow morning buddy". My mother called me at 6am today to tell me that Chunky left us last night in his sleep. Tomorrow morning never came.

Farewell my clumsy King, you brought nothing but joy to our lives.February 1995-November 2009

I lerve you. I lo-ove you. I luff you.

Happy Birfdee Mr. M

death becomes

When i saw the car coming at us as we made that left hand turn, i knew it would hit us. My mind fluttered images of the oncoming car crushing the driver-side door mangling Mr. M legs, glass shattering and destroying his face. Then impact. That sound was everything. I closed my eyes to brace myself for whatever came next. Then a loud pop and smoke and terrible tasting powder filled the car. I yelled his name, he did not respond, i looked at him with panic and fear. He was okay. No glass, no mangled legs. Little Perlita took the brunt of the crash on the side front end of the car. I had no idea she was such a solid little car. We walked away from it with bruises and scraps and a lot of soreness. I am worried about what will happen now. What the other guy, a junkie Okie with seemingly expired insurance will do, what the insurance company will say. But mostly i cant stay away from Mr. M. He calls me to ask me to come over so we can just be together. and the need for closeness is mutual. It is as if this event made us both feel that we could be gone at any moment and we are desperately holding on for now. (at least i am)
As i drove johnny B home i began to think about how detached we are from the reality of death. I know people that buy and save items for a house they will eventually move into that they have never even seen. People who collect baby clothes for a child they don't even have. Notebooks filled with pictures of dresses for a wedding that is not even a reality yet. But we don't plan to die. Death is really the only sure thing we all have in common, yet we put off planning for it till we are old or infirmed. My drivers licence says i am an organ donor, so why cant the DMV keep a record of what i want to happen to my body after my death as well? Instructions for handling, nothing complicated, just the basics, like bury or cremate.
This all sound so morbid, but i would feel liberated and unencumbered by the knowledge that those arrangements have already been made, letting me focus on living my life everyday fully aware of its temporal nature. enjoying and living and being and loving, celebrating life, fully.

Part 1 of: te quiero mucho mame

Over a decade ago i left a little love note on the fridge for my mother in which i spelled "Mom" in Spanish wrong. I wrote, "no estes tan triste mame, yo te quiero mucho" with a forward stash accent above the last 'e'. (Don't be so sad mome, i love you very much) The misspelled "mom" made her smile and laugh and she instantly forgot all about what was making her so sad. (so i like to think) That note with its yellowed upturned edges, was on the fridge for a very long time. I know she still has it squirreled away somewhere, she is sentimental like that.

As time goes by i; like i assume all people who have mothers do, have gone through a range of emotional stages. When i was younger; a small child, i adored her. She was my world. I was madly in love with her. She was young and beautiful and when she walked, it was as if in slow motion. All the other children at school wanted my pretty mother to be theirs. But as my formative years drew on i began to feel the disappointment. She was less a fantastic unicorn in a slow moving meadow and much more a young, single, hardworking, immigrant parent: struggling. I respected her strength and admired her fortitude, but i longed to please her and like most children, longed for her approval, affection and attention. As young adulthood set in, i grew to resent her. I was filled with anger for all the things she did not understand, or things that she did, or did not do, or did wrong. Then after a couple of years away at college i forgot and/or accepted all the glorified and implicit hardship imposed on me, or so i thought.

A couple of years went by, i was now in my early 20's and the choices that my mother made, which i deemed selfish caused me to renounce her. Years of silence between us passed and she sent many letters. I wrote many, but sent none. I was stubborn. I felt hurt and betrayed, abandoned and angry. But she continued to send letters and little gifts. After 3 years elapsed i began to feel guilt. I was no longer angry and it seemed selfish to hurt my mother. We made a date at the Huntington Library. I dressed up because my mother is proper and elegant in that way and i knew it would make her proud to see me "presentable." She cried, and then i cried, and we talked. She looked beautiful, like always. But she was different, softened by time, not as curt. It was as if my absence had warmed her. Her hair was more peppered and magnificent and she had gradually lost the hearing in her left ear. I instantly felt terrible, for my thoughts automatically went to the Cosmic Power: that which guides, arranges and makes everything right in the Universe, and i felt shame for thinking that maybe she had lost her hearing because she never listened...

Trying is the first step towards failure

I really dislike the antiquated notion of "woman's work", stuff like sweeping, ironing, dusting, window washing. But when i was 6 years old i knew nothing about gender politics, just that the center of my universe: MOM did these things and all i wanted more than anything was to be like her, and for her to love me. One day i begged her to let me sweep, she said the broom was too big and that i could not do it, but i tried hard and she seemed pleased. After the novelty of the praise i sought from mom and even that pat on the head she threw in for good measures wore off, i was stuck with a broom in my hands and a daily chore on my plate. I remember learning a valuable lesson soon after that: to never volunteer for anything-EVER. And if asked to do something, to do it as half-ass as possible to avoid ever being asked to do it again.

I have fared well with that lesson learned. I have avoided doing many things, and have found comfort in the freedom my under achieving affords me. For the most part, when it comes to my half ass endeavors i can give two shits what people think of my capabilities but when it's something i care about, something i wish to do well, i become a 6 year old looking for praise. The unfortunate thing about praise is that it is short lived and not to mention incredibly crippling.

Recently i have become angry, overwhelmed, and worried with my inability to write. I don't fancy myself a talented writer in the least, I'm just a gal from some place who truly enjoys the cathartic dance of words across a page. But old habits die hard and the fear of failure lingers like a motherfucker. I understand now that a good review is just as detrimental as a bad one, that the expectations that come with praise stymie creativity. Its easy to quit something you don't like, but impossible to deny doing something you love, even if you suck at it. So here i am 32 years old with a broom in my hands wondering what the fuck I've gotten myself into.

Dear Carrie Bradshaw

(At the risk of sounding like a bad 'sex in the city' monologue...) Someone once told me that when it came to relationships the person who cared least about it, controlled it. For the most part i was resolved to believe that it was true. Until i applied the terms of that idea to my current relationship.

When i first heard that adage it made so much sense to me. My whole relationship history was defined in those terms. Trying to get the guy to notice me, to call me, to like me, to love me, to care and in every single one of those situations he/them/they controlled the "relationship" by mere virtue of not caring. I realize now that those situations although being unions of sorts, were completely void of any real human relation, merely indulgent manifestations of fear and loneliness.

Last night, when I was lying in bed restlessly trying to sleep regretting having eaten all that Starbucks Java Chip Frappuccino ice cream, my thoughts wandered to my current relationship and i asked myself, 'who cares less?' i was completely stumped, i realized that neither one of us was leveraging control to manipulate the feelings of the other person. I thought at first that i was being naive, and that i was in denial not willing to admit who really controlled our relationship. Then i realized that we both controlled this partnership. Yes of course what a keen concept, that this was indeed a partnership; a mutual investment of time, energy and resources with both parties equally committed to the success of the endeavor. Now-now, lets not start throwing rice and registering for gifts just yet. Like in any partnership, both parties have a commitment to its success or lack thereof and must agree to sever said partnership when it has become mutually unbeneficial. I know, i know, I am so cynical and that may sound callous in terms, but that whole romanticized idea that true love should be tragic and devastating, heart wrenching and difficult is best reserved for trashy dime store novellas and passionate foreign films. In real life, lovers are not required to suffer through painful unfruitful relationships and merely accept that one party is destined to not care and the other destined to surrender control. Why should anyone endure a sense of helplessness for the sake of "love"?

I came to the conclusion that perhaps that adage was true for me at least at some point in my past life, and it may be true for people everywhere, all over the universe but it sure as shit doesn't have to be. i say- agree to have a beautiful mutually respectful partnership in which control is surrounded. If it is control ye seek; a shitty one-sided sado-masochistic relationship ye shall find. Besides, who really wants to be in a relationship with a careless, selfish asshole jerk anyways? ni que estuviera tan bueno el guey!

Jesus is Just Alright With Me

Every year for the past 20 or so years i have abstained from eating meat during Lent, but this "sacrifice" has lost its luster. I have found wonderful alternatives to meat. fake meats, tofu, veggies etc. This year i needed a challenge a real sacrifice. i'm not religious, i don't get ash smeared on my forehead. i give "something" up because i want to test myself. Regardless of what you believe in, Jesus seemed like a righteous dude and if he could test himself then maybe there is something to learn from self-sacrifice? Whatever. This year, along with the meat i decided to abstain from alcohol. (GASP) In the past, St. Patrick's Day always got in the way of this little test. This year i'm ready. Over under is 2 weeks in. I took the Over. Come Easter I'll be toasting, "to alcohol the cause of and solution to all of life's problems". -Homer Simpson