MARIMACHO
A marimacho in heels, she keeps her library
of homeboys, gents and comrades.
Not one book will she buy – money is for clothes and shoes,
for her homeboys’ dances where they bai-lan la sal-sa,
for theatre and concerts the gents attend,
for coffee and wit with her Indie-holic comrades.
Just keep reading the freaking books and putting them back on the shelf, Marimacho. Those books aren’t yours anyway. They’re not for sale.
MORENA
Ay…..Morena!
A fatherless adolescent bailando in her quincenera
decked in passion pink and littered with rhinestones
your pubescent bosom shoved into place, your hair just so, in a bouquet of stiff, jet-black ringlets.
Tus ingenuos ojos infantiles piden al mundo una repuesta;
you look for your papi y no esta.
Where is your Padre, chula?
Quien te ensenara que El te ama, so much?
Who will dance with you this time
y decirte que le das orgullo?
Estrenando tu vestido real,
you are coming of age otra vez, otra vez.
Cuantos quinceneras serian?
Demasiados.
Why do you hope he will show at your fiesta
si otros han llegado
pero not one of them is Him?
El te espera.
Vete del baile!
Time to turn 16.
CLOSELY DISTANT
Distance begets proximity to you. But I’m left
dry-mouthed and longing for a sip of truth.
I’ve lost the code.
Have you changed the lock?
Am I attempting to trespass?
What seems like detached desperation
could be Deception hiding the invisible lasso ‘round my waist.
Have I strayed in heart or in mind?
My efforts fall fickle I’m afraid.
I feigned listen when you longed only for my ears.
Do I punish my earlobe as Van Gogh did?
Have I only played the bride for a season?
Has time and occupation freckled my leaves brown with worry
and I can no longer wear the green of summer’s hue?
Close yet unseen, you wait to answer. When will I ask?
FRIENDLY FEATHERS
You manifest yourself into my periphery, no magician hat, no gilded cage holding you,
your scaly talons scratching the wrinkled slate roofing on which you settle.
As if summoned, I turn.
For a moment I think of your ruffian friends that graffiti statues,
but soon I see you carry an olive branch in your hands.
Your soft coal eyes dive into my soul.
Clad in a white gown, silent as a Ghost,
You allay my worries.
“Peace, my child, for I am with you.”
Kneeling,
despaired.
Ivory cotton
between
Clenched ivory hands.
Creased lips stinging from
S
a l
ine.
Close my eyes tighter
and I’d swallow them down.
NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN! PERDONAAAAMMMMMMEEEEE!
Stop.
Peace.
Li
gh
t
through yonder
wi
nd
o
w.
NOLA ON MY MIND
Nola, dahlin,
you
ain’t
neva
changed.
You still creepin’
‘round town, listenin’ to Louis,
Bourbon in one hand,
beads in the other.
Yo’ raggedy dress still got them tears –
it be like a patchwork art you ain’ gon’ toss.
You be sewin’ on new ones where others has torn in the wash.
it haa
aa
nn
nng
on yo’ bony corps
while you’s cryin’ on Claiborne’s shoulder,
sobbin’ in yo’ pain.
Woman, ain’t you neva gonna learn? Them years readin’ cards,
whistlin’ Dixie --
they ain’t gonna get you nowheres.
Can’t you see He’s callin’ you?
Giiirrrrrlllll,
he luh you som’en’ crazy.
Baby, you his princess.
So trow ‘way ‘dem raggedy ol’ thangs.
Time to put on your new white dress, dahlin’.
G’on, git.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round.
A friend of mine recommended after several conversations regarding the Spokane Transit bus system that I start a blog on said topic. While I'm still debating on whether or not to make that commitment, here's a start.
DUDE, WHERE'S MY PHONE?
I got on the 5:35 bus leaving from Cheney to go to the STA Plaza this evening and sat down on a side-facing seat in the front. About halfway through the ride through Cheney, a middle-aged (maybe 35 plus) man with worn out jeans, a tuque, a navy winter jacket and fewer front teeth than a 7-year-old gets on and stands although there are open seats. He asks if he could use someone's phone and offers a dollar for the favor.
Having the crappiest phone on the bus and little to lose except all forms of telecommunication, I figured I should offer mine up to this questionably trustworthy stranger. I joked that he didn't need to give me the dollar, as long as he didn't take off with the phone. After I made that comment I kicked myself inside for blatantly displaying my mistrust. He explained to me that he was trying to get a hold of a roommate that was in Spokane who had both his house key and his phone (he had loaned it to her because he had unlimited service).
For the next 15 minutes, "Joe," I'll call him, grappled with my phone, calling and sending text after text on a phone programmed in Spanish. I walked him through it and answered the texts his roommate gave him. She couldn't comprehend at one point when he told her who was calling that "This is Joe" means "You are talking to Joe," not "I'm calling Joe and you are him." I think a couple of times she tried hanging up on him. He was a little frustrated with her, but he patiently worked out a meeting in Spokane so he could get his key.
I left the bus feeling as if I may have been a little too cynical about his situation and a little closed off. I should definitely have cut him a little more slack with my comment. It appeared from the conversation he had with me about his roommate that this would not be his last night of chasing the AWOL roommate. I felt for him in a way. Maybe she'll move out. Either way, why refuse someone already in a tight spot?
THE SPRAGUE GAG
The most random encounters I've had on the STA bus have been on Route 90, the bus that travels Sprague from downtown to Greenacres. The general odor on this bus is something akin to the mothball- and body-odor infused stink of a college student's used mattress (don't ask me how I know what that smell is like). Sometimes I spray myself after climbing off with whatever body spray or cologne I chucked in my purse that morning.
On the morning bus rides you get the talkers. Sometimes they're cute old ladies or women talking about their cousin's baptism or their recipe for beer bread. Sometimes it's Shawna talking to her current unemployed squeeze about some boyfriend who won't come to court to pay his overdue child support, or the chatty teen mother with multi-colored hair who's blissfully ignorant of the fact that her boyfriend is probably texting another girl while sitting on the bus with her their child. Sometimes it's a doe-eyed woman like Candice who just moved up here from California and still rocks full-length leggings, puffy coats and high ponytails in scrunchies. Either way, unless The Shins can drown out Jeff who is talking to his Friday night wingman about buying the complete set of Star Wars DVDS online, you are pretty much guaranteed 20 minutes of oversharing through forced eavesdropping.
The night time routine is somewhat different than the morning bus. It is typically dark out when I ride the Sprague Drag home, since the Cheney bus gets me to Spokane after 6:00 on nights when I have later classes. There are also less talkers, but the few talkers are usually memorable. They usually talk about how there ain't no justice and **********, they'd really like a beer right about now. Sometimes this beer isn't the first they've had that night. Nor is it the last. Call me crazy, but I still feel for these guys. I can't really say why -- that whole compassion without judgment deal that I believe in kind of puts a damper on calling them white trash.
For the moment, there are a million potential blurbs I could post here about noteworthy characters I've met on these buses. But I'll leave that for other nights when I haven't shirked responsibility and stayed up too late. So stay tuned -- I think.
DUDE, WHERE'S MY PHONE?
I got on the 5:35 bus leaving from Cheney to go to the STA Plaza this evening and sat down on a side-facing seat in the front. About halfway through the ride through Cheney, a middle-aged (maybe 35 plus) man with worn out jeans, a tuque, a navy winter jacket and fewer front teeth than a 7-year-old gets on and stands although there are open seats. He asks if he could use someone's phone and offers a dollar for the favor.
Having the crappiest phone on the bus and little to lose except all forms of telecommunication, I figured I should offer mine up to this questionably trustworthy stranger. I joked that he didn't need to give me the dollar, as long as he didn't take off with the phone. After I made that comment I kicked myself inside for blatantly displaying my mistrust. He explained to me that he was trying to get a hold of a roommate that was in Spokane who had both his house key and his phone (he had loaned it to her because he had unlimited service).
For the next 15 minutes, "Joe," I'll call him, grappled with my phone, calling and sending text after text on a phone programmed in Spanish. I walked him through it and answered the texts his roommate gave him. She couldn't comprehend at one point when he told her who was calling that "This is Joe" means "You are talking to Joe," not "I'm calling Joe and you are him." I think a couple of times she tried hanging up on him. He was a little frustrated with her, but he patiently worked out a meeting in Spokane so he could get his key.
I left the bus feeling as if I may have been a little too cynical about his situation and a little closed off. I should definitely have cut him a little more slack with my comment. It appeared from the conversation he had with me about his roommate that this would not be his last night of chasing the AWOL roommate. I felt for him in a way. Maybe she'll move out. Either way, why refuse someone already in a tight spot?
THE SPRAGUE GAG
The most random encounters I've had on the STA bus have been on Route 90, the bus that travels Sprague from downtown to Greenacres. The general odor on this bus is something akin to the mothball- and body-odor infused stink of a college student's used mattress (don't ask me how I know what that smell is like). Sometimes I spray myself after climbing off with whatever body spray or cologne I chucked in my purse that morning.
On the morning bus rides you get the talkers. Sometimes they're cute old ladies or women talking about their cousin's baptism or their recipe for beer bread. Sometimes it's Shawna talking to her current unemployed squeeze about some boyfriend who won't come to court to pay his overdue child support, or the chatty teen mother with multi-colored hair who's blissfully ignorant of the fact that her boyfriend is probably texting another girl while sitting on the bus with her their child. Sometimes it's a doe-eyed woman like Candice who just moved up here from California and still rocks full-length leggings, puffy coats and high ponytails in scrunchies. Either way, unless The Shins can drown out Jeff who is talking to his Friday night wingman about buying the complete set of Star Wars DVDS online, you are pretty much guaranteed 20 minutes of oversharing through forced eavesdropping.
The night time routine is somewhat different than the morning bus. It is typically dark out when I ride the Sprague Drag home, since the Cheney bus gets me to Spokane after 6:00 on nights when I have later classes. There are also less talkers, but the few talkers are usually memorable. They usually talk about how there ain't no justice and **********, they'd really like a beer right about now. Sometimes this beer isn't the first they've had that night. Nor is it the last. Call me crazy, but I still feel for these guys. I can't really say why -- that whole compassion without judgment deal that I believe in kind of puts a damper on calling them white trash.
For the moment, there are a million potential blurbs I could post here about noteworthy characters I've met on these buses. But I'll leave that for other nights when I haven't shirked responsibility and stayed up too late. So stay tuned -- I think.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Starstruck
So what's it like when you meet someone famous, talented and good looking? Lots of us joke that we'd love to meet our Hollywood heroes, our "untouchables," our inspirational gurus, but we know it would never happen. Me, I'd love to meet Alejandro Sanz and have him sing to me. Or have Shakira give me belly dancing moves. Or get a sermon by one of the apostles.
Or get a dance lesson from Benji Schwimmer. Champion of So You Think You Can Dance and the 2005 Swing Open. He's my age, cute as a button, and the boy can dance, to answer the question.
This dream I actually did fulfill.
Yes, really. One hour. West Coast Swing. Technique, critique, and styling. And I danced with him. Didn't want to stop.
I admit I scoff at people that go ga-ga over stars, worship them, and imagine them being their boyfriends because I think it's a waste of time. But imagine having a well-known, talented individual who specializes in your hobby of choice (dancing, singing, guitar, yodeling, whatever) spend time with you giving you tips on just that.
I had no trouble looking into those sprite-like, playful blue eyes. My dance skills are a dime a dozen in their worth, but his down-to-earth attitude made it so much fun and I could tell he didn't care. To top it off, the boy spoke a little Spanish with me. And he related learning the way to move in swing (which is very different from the undulation and arm flare of latin dancing) in a way I could understand it: subjunctive and reflexive verbs in Spanish. You just have to do it before it makes sense, and the more you practice slinking and moving like "Coca Cola" versus orange juice (that's an inside thing), or the more you move with hesitation and a "cool cat" coy approach, the more you get it.
Any of you get that? If you didn't, that's okay. My head is swimming with the details I need to write down and with the mental picture I am keeping in my head. I never really had a huge crush on the guy (I gave up celebrity worship in junior high) but I felt like for that hour I had met this man that fit every category of perfect for me, and we were there for our own private dance. It takes a pretty humble and sweet guy to let an everyday non-celebrity feel that special and have a moment like that.
I've never imagined being able to meet someone famous and have such a pal-around connection, or being able to dance with someone like I know him, like he's just a swing teacher my age that lives in town. Here's kudos to his ability to keep humble and let his faith really guide the way he interacts with people. And not only that, but he even told me he was going to use a term I helped him cook up for his instructional videos in the future (if that's true, listen for the key phrase "body noise" or "noise", or something of that nature).
This dude is definitely a keeper. And I can fondly and whistfully say, in a non-obsessive, non-stalker way, that it's too bad he's not mine to keep. But I know that in the future, my man will definitely have some of those endearing (and funny) qualities.
If Benji were ever to read this, I would hope he would know that I wish him the best in whatever he does. With God on his side, a passion in his heart, and a humble, sweet persona, this boy will definitely go far and ignite a passion in dancing for others...or a passion in whatever he does. Thanks for the dance, Benji. Suga push!
Or get a dance lesson from Benji Schwimmer. Champion of So You Think You Can Dance and the 2005 Swing Open. He's my age, cute as a button, and the boy can dance, to answer the question.
This dream I actually did fulfill.
Yes, really. One hour. West Coast Swing. Technique, critique, and styling. And I danced with him. Didn't want to stop.
I admit I scoff at people that go ga-ga over stars, worship them, and imagine them being their boyfriends because I think it's a waste of time. But imagine having a well-known, talented individual who specializes in your hobby of choice (dancing, singing, guitar, yodeling, whatever) spend time with you giving you tips on just that.
I had no trouble looking into those sprite-like, playful blue eyes. My dance skills are a dime a dozen in their worth, but his down-to-earth attitude made it so much fun and I could tell he didn't care. To top it off, the boy spoke a little Spanish with me. And he related learning the way to move in swing (which is very different from the undulation and arm flare of latin dancing) in a way I could understand it: subjunctive and reflexive verbs in Spanish. You just have to do it before it makes sense, and the more you practice slinking and moving like "Coca Cola" versus orange juice (that's an inside thing), or the more you move with hesitation and a "cool cat" coy approach, the more you get it.
Any of you get that? If you didn't, that's okay. My head is swimming with the details I need to write down and with the mental picture I am keeping in my head. I never really had a huge crush on the guy (I gave up celebrity worship in junior high) but I felt like for that hour I had met this man that fit every category of perfect for me, and we were there for our own private dance. It takes a pretty humble and sweet guy to let an everyday non-celebrity feel that special and have a moment like that.
I've never imagined being able to meet someone famous and have such a pal-around connection, or being able to dance with someone like I know him, like he's just a swing teacher my age that lives in town. Here's kudos to his ability to keep humble and let his faith really guide the way he interacts with people. And not only that, but he even told me he was going to use a term I helped him cook up for his instructional videos in the future (if that's true, listen for the key phrase "body noise" or "noise", or something of that nature).
This dude is definitely a keeper. And I can fondly and whistfully say, in a non-obsessive, non-stalker way, that it's too bad he's not mine to keep. But I know that in the future, my man will definitely have some of those endearing (and funny) qualities.
If Benji were ever to read this, I would hope he would know that I wish him the best in whatever he does. With God on his side, a passion in his heart, and a humble, sweet persona, this boy will definitely go far and ignite a passion in dancing for others...or a passion in whatever he does. Thanks for the dance, Benji. Suga push!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.....
Hey, I'm back after 16 hours of traveling (12 of them in airports), lost luggage, and a bad case of food poisoning which I have narrowed down to beans and huevos a la mexicana (mexican eggs) at a bus stop on the way from Guanajuato to Guadalajara. Milk of magnesia overdose from stomach er...problems couldn't have helped either.
So while my body is slowly recovering from a full day of violent bodily expressions (I say recovering because this goodbye gift from manana land might be the gift that will last a few days, unlike chocolates) I have decided to write/list some things I like, hate or just plain observed about Mexico (or Guadalajara specifically).
Things you are not likely to find in Mexico:
Low self-esteem (especially if you are a white lady with red or blond hair)
Pedestrian right-of-way (my Chicago roots serve me well)
Shoe sizes above a women's 8 (I swear the world discriminates against my feet)
Subtle expression
Very tall women (native born, anyway)
Large groups of Protestants
Boring people
Non-spicy dishes (I like that part...bring on the chile!)
Old men that go after women their age (I seem to be a victim of age gap flirtation)
Guilt brought on by feeling sorry for minorities and color bias (hard to believe, but I was in the reverse situation for once)
Things I loved about Mexico:
Spanish, Spanish, Spanish.
Cuss words (there's a slight loophole in the guilt pattern since they mean nothing to you...okay, lemme adjust my horns).
Chile! It goes great on mango and pineapple.
Siestas.
Dancing (especially in Guanajuato at Cuba Mia)
My sex appeal brought on by the sheer fact that I am whiter than snow.
Puerto Vallarta: salt water, sand, sun, snorkeling and, oh yeah....parasailing.
Good food...some not for weenies.
Tequila...even though I only had it once. Viva Cuervo!
My house lady...biggest sweetheart in the world, along with the whole fam damily.
Frijoles! My favorite comfort food.
Rain...we hardly ever get sweet thunderstorms at night at home.
Tropical plants, especially the orange, lime, and mango trees that grew on our street.
Laughing at men who whistle at you...especially in groups.
Jewelry...hee hee, guess my traveling fetish.
And the only things that I could have done without:
Indecent exposure by a man on a street in Guanajuato
Stomach problems leaving Mexico, possible parasites.
Lost luggage from Phoenix (which I hope gets here).
That's all for now. When/if my luggage gets here, I'll be processing photos on a cd, hopefully signing up for a facebook account, and putting photos online. Hopefully they look good. Dunno, since I shot them old style.
Feels good to be home. But only because I missed you all!
So while my body is slowly recovering from a full day of violent bodily expressions (I say recovering because this goodbye gift from manana land might be the gift that will last a few days, unlike chocolates) I have decided to write/list some things I like, hate or just plain observed about Mexico (or Guadalajara specifically).
Things you are not likely to find in Mexico:
Low self-esteem (especially if you are a white lady with red or blond hair)
Pedestrian right-of-way (my Chicago roots serve me well)
Shoe sizes above a women's 8 (I swear the world discriminates against my feet)
Subtle expression
Very tall women (native born, anyway)
Large groups of Protestants
Boring people
Non-spicy dishes (I like that part...bring on the chile!)
Old men that go after women their age (I seem to be a victim of age gap flirtation)
Guilt brought on by feeling sorry for minorities and color bias (hard to believe, but I was in the reverse situation for once)
Things I loved about Mexico:
Spanish, Spanish, Spanish.
Cuss words (there's a slight loophole in the guilt pattern since they mean nothing to you...okay, lemme adjust my horns).
Chile! It goes great on mango and pineapple.
Siestas.
Dancing (especially in Guanajuato at Cuba Mia)
My sex appeal brought on by the sheer fact that I am whiter than snow.
Puerto Vallarta: salt water, sand, sun, snorkeling and, oh yeah....parasailing.
Good food...some not for weenies.
Tequila...even though I only had it once. Viva Cuervo!
My house lady...biggest sweetheart in the world, along with the whole fam damily.
Frijoles! My favorite comfort food.
Rain...we hardly ever get sweet thunderstorms at night at home.
Tropical plants, especially the orange, lime, and mango trees that grew on our street.
Laughing at men who whistle at you...especially in groups.
Jewelry...hee hee, guess my traveling fetish.
And the only things that I could have done without:
Indecent exposure by a man on a street in Guanajuato
Stomach problems leaving Mexico, possible parasites.
Lost luggage from Phoenix (which I hope gets here).
That's all for now. When/if my luggage gets here, I'll be processing photos on a cd, hopefully signing up for a facebook account, and putting photos online. Hopefully they look good. Dunno, since I shot them old style.
Feels good to be home. But only because I missed you all!
I'm flying....Jack!
No, I didn't just watch the Titanic. But I WAS on the ocean this weekend. Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico. Gorgeous, and I have pictures to prove it.
So what's with, "I'm flying, Jack!"? Well, my name is Jill. But I also really was flying over the ocean. Parasailing.
Yep, just me, my two piece, a life jacket, and some old straps around my butt and legs. And a frickin' huge parachute behind me. The people on the beach looked like ants.
My feet were dangling straight over the bright blue Pacific Ocean, probably a good 500 feet or more in the air. I don't know, I'm not that great with height estimates.
Scared? You bet. Excited? Yep. Let's just say I was shouting like a sorority girl and praying like a pastor at the same time.
Because if the you-know-what hit the fan and something went wrong, well, it's a long fall. I think either faith or fearlessness or both is a prerequisite for doing that, especially on some random tourist beach in mañana land (my affectionate nickname for my current residence) where Jose or Chuy is whistling instructions at you from the beach and catching you when you come back in.
Hot dang, that was fun. Yeah, the boat ride and snorkeling were awesome too. And I got a little sun...I was cautious because Puerto Vallarta will get you burned before you know it. I know a girl who looked like she changed races after we were done.
I'll tell you, there ain't nothing like hanging on a thread with the wind in your face.
Especially when it only cost you a grand total of 35 US dollars.
¡Viva Mexico!
So what's with, "I'm flying, Jack!"? Well, my name is Jill. But I also really was flying over the ocean. Parasailing.
Yep, just me, my two piece, a life jacket, and some old straps around my butt and legs. And a frickin' huge parachute behind me. The people on the beach looked like ants.
My feet were dangling straight over the bright blue Pacific Ocean, probably a good 500 feet or more in the air. I don't know, I'm not that great with height estimates.
Scared? You bet. Excited? Yep. Let's just say I was shouting like a sorority girl and praying like a pastor at the same time.
Because if the you-know-what hit the fan and something went wrong, well, it's a long fall. I think either faith or fearlessness or both is a prerequisite for doing that, especially on some random tourist beach in mañana land (my affectionate nickname for my current residence) where Jose or Chuy is whistling instructions at you from the beach and catching you when you come back in.
Hot dang, that was fun. Yeah, the boat ride and snorkeling were awesome too. And I got a little sun...I was cautious because Puerto Vallarta will get you burned before you know it. I know a girl who looked like she changed races after we were done.
I'll tell you, there ain't nothing like hanging on a thread with the wind in your face.
Especially when it only cost you a grand total of 35 US dollars.
¡Viva Mexico!
A *cough* poem of sorts.
Here´s a poem. Like it? Cool. Needs work? Let me know. Or pass it up. It´s totally up to you.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, daydreamer eternal
Combing that neverending, split-ended mane
Conjuring up murky images of her awaited Prince Charming
With soft, tussled hair, penetrating eyes
And an empowering smile
That makes her weak in the knees.
She awaits an adventure written in the stars
That the window in her tower of insecurity and reclusion
Lets her peer out of every night
And wish upon.
Contemplating salvation,
A moment written like a script,
A lover´s epiphany,
Recited in climactic rhythm
Like a skip in the soundtrack of her mind.
Galloping off on some clichéd white quadroped
And stealing a kiss from destiny
That has labored in search for her
Since her first hair sprouted from that naive head.
Never has the rough wooden comb ceased moving
Though it rips out the follicles one by one
All the while without her noticing
That chance for adventure, like her hair
Is just getting thinner, more tangled.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel
Cut off that ridiculous rat´s nest,
Fashion a rope and climb down.
Your real rescuer is waiting,
All you have to do is reach the end of the rope.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, daydreamer eternal
Combing that neverending, split-ended mane
Conjuring up murky images of her awaited Prince Charming
With soft, tussled hair, penetrating eyes
And an empowering smile
That makes her weak in the knees.
She awaits an adventure written in the stars
That the window in her tower of insecurity and reclusion
Lets her peer out of every night
And wish upon.
Contemplating salvation,
A moment written like a script,
A lover´s epiphany,
Recited in climactic rhythm
Like a skip in the soundtrack of her mind.
Galloping off on some clichéd white quadroped
And stealing a kiss from destiny
That has labored in search for her
Since her first hair sprouted from that naive head.
Never has the rough wooden comb ceased moving
Though it rips out the follicles one by one
All the while without her noticing
That chance for adventure, like her hair
Is just getting thinner, more tangled.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel
Cut off that ridiculous rat´s nest,
Fashion a rope and climb down.
Your real rescuer is waiting,
All you have to do is reach the end of the rope.
Rain, cockroaches, tests....
But don´t worry, this trip is still good. The weather is gorgeous. And I´m going to Puerto Vallarta from the 11th to the 13th. Ah, yes, Puerto Vallarta. Tourist capital of Jalisco it seems. I don´t care. I want the ocean.
Sorry for the aside. Life is good here, aside from having to write two essays (one this weekend, the next during next week since I´ll be gone in Puerto Vallarta the weekend before it is due) and do two tests this week. One I just finished. The other is tomorrow, but if I´m a good girl and study like I should, everything should be peachy.
Some setbacks have surfaced, though. Remember that coveted opal (not real) ring? Se me cayó. I lost it by dropping it in the lockerroom at the cheap gym I go to. Haven´t seen it since but maybe I´ll find a replacement or some sweet soul will turn it up.
Maybe I got what was coming to me for bargaining on it? I hope not, because I like this bargaining business...heck, it´s expected, and when in Rome, right? No Ron Burgundy jokes, please.
Another was my tiny little roomate that arrived early in the a.m. yesterday, left without a word, and then came back again at the same time this morning. I´m not talking about the roommate that never showed up from the University of New Mexico. Although I have referred to it as¨"ella".
"Ella" as in la cucaracha. It was on my dresser yesterday morning at 5 a.m. when I woke up for a few minutes to use the ladies´. I tried killing it but it escaped, and the house lady looked for it and sprayed the room with Raid.
Healthy.
But sure enough, after cleaning my room of any remnant of food, it came back again this morning. It reappeared from nowhere, since it had been searched for diligently while I was at school.
It was crawling on the trash can, sure enough. I wanted to smash it with a shoe, but it would have made too much noise, so I carried the trash can out into the hall, where it fell off, and I sprayed that little sucker till it fell dead one story down. Victory is mine!
Remind me to air out my room this afternoon.
This is the first time, according to my house lady, that cockroaches have ventured away from the bathroom into someone´s room. I just have that animal magnetism, I guess. Pardon the pun, if it is one.
Ah, rain. Really brings out life, doesn´t it? I´m going to miss the thunderstorms out here. It´s like a midnight nature special.
Hope everyone is doing well! I will see you all in a couple weeks and some change. ¡Que te vaya bien!
Sorry for the aside. Life is good here, aside from having to write two essays (one this weekend, the next during next week since I´ll be gone in Puerto Vallarta the weekend before it is due) and do two tests this week. One I just finished. The other is tomorrow, but if I´m a good girl and study like I should, everything should be peachy.
Some setbacks have surfaced, though. Remember that coveted opal (not real) ring? Se me cayó. I lost it by dropping it in the lockerroom at the cheap gym I go to. Haven´t seen it since but maybe I´ll find a replacement or some sweet soul will turn it up.
Maybe I got what was coming to me for bargaining on it? I hope not, because I like this bargaining business...heck, it´s expected, and when in Rome, right? No Ron Burgundy jokes, please.
Another was my tiny little roomate that arrived early in the a.m. yesterday, left without a word, and then came back again at the same time this morning. I´m not talking about the roommate that never showed up from the University of New Mexico. Although I have referred to it as¨"ella".
"Ella" as in la cucaracha. It was on my dresser yesterday morning at 5 a.m. when I woke up for a few minutes to use the ladies´. I tried killing it but it escaped, and the house lady looked for it and sprayed the room with Raid.
Healthy.
But sure enough, after cleaning my room of any remnant of food, it came back again this morning. It reappeared from nowhere, since it had been searched for diligently while I was at school.
It was crawling on the trash can, sure enough. I wanted to smash it with a shoe, but it would have made too much noise, so I carried the trash can out into the hall, where it fell off, and I sprayed that little sucker till it fell dead one story down. Victory is mine!
Remind me to air out my room this afternoon.
This is the first time, according to my house lady, that cockroaches have ventured away from the bathroom into someone´s room. I just have that animal magnetism, I guess. Pardon the pun, if it is one.
Ah, rain. Really brings out life, doesn´t it? I´m going to miss the thunderstorms out here. It´s like a midnight nature special.
Hope everyone is doing well! I will see you all in a couple weeks and some change. ¡Que te vaya bien!
I´ve always been cheap, but....
Part of being in Mexico is enjoying the cheap prices for things...bus rides, drinks, food...I bought crab sushi the other day for 20 pesos, which is $2 U.S. Everything is a little different here, from the food, to the driving, to the obvious: the language.
What was a real adjustment for me, though, was the fluidity of prices here. Of course, for fees and for grocery stores, prices are concrete.
But when you go to open markets, anything goes. I bought 3 things today: a hammock (priced at 250 pesos or $25, and I bought it for 220 pesos), an opal ring (priced 100 pesos, I think, and I bought it for 75) and a little fun accesory...eye makeup, which couldn´t be bargained for, at 15 pesos. With the exception of the glitter eye makeup (how old am I, 15?), all was bought using skills I didn´t know I had.
I worked hard to get the ring down to 75 pesos...first saying it looked like 80 pesos´ worth, but wanting to go lower, to 70. The guy was twisting my arm...it was already cheap, he said...he wouldn´t go any lower. He said so twice.
I offered 75 for the ring. I wasn´t convinced I had to have it yet.
And then he began to offer to polish it for me, wiping it on the tablecloth, showing me how much "cleaner" it was. But my dad taught me well. I went in for the closing.
"Vale, voy a volver entonces," I said, which translated to, "okay, then, I guess I´ll be back in a bit."
This technique is like bait for a fish, as my dad told me. If they think they are going to lose a sale, they´ll make compromises. They expect you to play hard to get.
And what do you know? It worked like a charm. He made the concession for 75. And I did it all in Spanish...I guess that helped that I wasn´t rambling in English. So much for being an ignorant gringa tourist ;).
I don´t know whether to feel like a con artist or like a smart shopper in a foreign country. Either way, I´m sure when I tell my dad he´ll be tickled.
I can´t wait to do this again! But maybe I´ll wait until I get to Puerto Vallarta (I plan on going, yes).
Hasta entonces, folks!
What was a real adjustment for me, though, was the fluidity of prices here. Of course, for fees and for grocery stores, prices are concrete.
But when you go to open markets, anything goes. I bought 3 things today: a hammock (priced at 250 pesos or $25, and I bought it for 220 pesos), an opal ring (priced 100 pesos, I think, and I bought it for 75) and a little fun accesory...eye makeup, which couldn´t be bargained for, at 15 pesos. With the exception of the glitter eye makeup (how old am I, 15?), all was bought using skills I didn´t know I had.
I worked hard to get the ring down to 75 pesos...first saying it looked like 80 pesos´ worth, but wanting to go lower, to 70. The guy was twisting my arm...it was already cheap, he said...he wouldn´t go any lower. He said so twice.
I offered 75 for the ring. I wasn´t convinced I had to have it yet.
And then he began to offer to polish it for me, wiping it on the tablecloth, showing me how much "cleaner" it was. But my dad taught me well. I went in for the closing.
"Vale, voy a volver entonces," I said, which translated to, "okay, then, I guess I´ll be back in a bit."
This technique is like bait for a fish, as my dad told me. If they think they are going to lose a sale, they´ll make compromises. They expect you to play hard to get.
And what do you know? It worked like a charm. He made the concession for 75. And I did it all in Spanish...I guess that helped that I wasn´t rambling in English. So much for being an ignorant gringa tourist ;).
I don´t know whether to feel like a con artist or like a smart shopper in a foreign country. Either way, I´m sure when I tell my dad he´ll be tickled.
I can´t wait to do this again! But maybe I´ll wait until I get to Puerto Vallarta (I plan on going, yes).
Hasta entonces, folks!
The weather is here, wish you were beautiful.
Gotta love Jimmy Buffett. Anyway, it´s awesome here. My house lady is a classified angel and reminds me of an aged version of a good friend I made in Spain, Elsa. She´s this beautiful little lady who´s a good cook, loves to chat, and has four grown kids but you wouldn´t know it because she doesn´t look a day over 55. I have no clue how old she is (that´s not exactly something you just come out and ask). But she will be an abuela (grandma) by this weekend to a 3 kilo little boy. I get to be an aunt, she says. Woohoo!
We live in a really nice neighborhood of Guadalajara called Jardines del Country, and if I so desire to eat an orange, a mango, a lime, or a grapefruit they are at my disposal. The food that my señora makes is delicious, and mixed with various staples of both American and Mexican diets combined. Tortillas are expected, of course, but the agua de jamaica (a type of juice made from dried hibiscus flowers) is an unexpected bonus.
I have just now figured out the bus route after a few mishaps (what else would you expect from Yours Truly, guys?). You press a little beeper, and if that doesn´t work, you yell, "¡bajan!" so they´ll let you off at your stop. The city buses are often full too when we take them, so it´s a lovely matter of planting your feet just so and holding on for dear life while the bus jerks down the street like a drunken sailor. Speaking of sailor, that is giving me my sea legs back. I actually like it. If you make it a game, it´s hilarious.
I have considerably more homework than I expected, but I´m not afraid of a little challenge, and balancing acts are good for the brain. It is so beautiful here anyway. The weather is perfect: we get these awesome thunderstorms at night and a beautiful sunny sky for the whole day, with dew sitting idly on the tropical plants surrounding us when we catch the bus in the morning.
My housemate´s name is Vera and she´s from Holland, so she´s learned English, and we tend to speak that when we´re with friends or it´s just us. I have to get us both out of that habit though, otherwise I´m defeating the purpose of being here. Our neighbor house ladies have students with them too, one with a girl our age and the other with two guys. So far, we all get along pretty well and we often hang together when we go and explore things.
One really cool thing I´d love to mention before I go, for those that will appreciate this, is that yesterday I went to see the actual murals of Jose Clemente Orozco, a ginormously famous painter who painted around the time of the Revolution here. He´s known as the Mexican Michaelangelo, and his murals have optical illusions in them, as an added bonus. Yesterday I experienced that euphoria that one feels when actually viewing something face to face of historial value and of aesthetic genius. I loved it and took several pictures. I love being a student/tourist.
Well, for now I must leave you all...it´s off to the bus again and to dodge glances of virtually every Mexican guy on the street. Being a minority here is something I´ll have to get used to...it doesn´t help that my glowing white skin attracts the eye everywhere I go ;D. I try not to laugh until I pass them...if you can´t laugh at that and you´re so fragile you´re afraid of the panoramic walk-by, then you don´t belong here.
I miss you all and hope to bowl you over with my hopefully improved Spanish when I get back. For now, ¡adios!
We live in a really nice neighborhood of Guadalajara called Jardines del Country, and if I so desire to eat an orange, a mango, a lime, or a grapefruit they are at my disposal. The food that my señora makes is delicious, and mixed with various staples of both American and Mexican diets combined. Tortillas are expected, of course, but the agua de jamaica (a type of juice made from dried hibiscus flowers) is an unexpected bonus.
I have just now figured out the bus route after a few mishaps (what else would you expect from Yours Truly, guys?). You press a little beeper, and if that doesn´t work, you yell, "¡bajan!" so they´ll let you off at your stop. The city buses are often full too when we take them, so it´s a lovely matter of planting your feet just so and holding on for dear life while the bus jerks down the street like a drunken sailor. Speaking of sailor, that is giving me my sea legs back. I actually like it. If you make it a game, it´s hilarious.
I have considerably more homework than I expected, but I´m not afraid of a little challenge, and balancing acts are good for the brain. It is so beautiful here anyway. The weather is perfect: we get these awesome thunderstorms at night and a beautiful sunny sky for the whole day, with dew sitting idly on the tropical plants surrounding us when we catch the bus in the morning.
My housemate´s name is Vera and she´s from Holland, so she´s learned English, and we tend to speak that when we´re with friends or it´s just us. I have to get us both out of that habit though, otherwise I´m defeating the purpose of being here. Our neighbor house ladies have students with them too, one with a girl our age and the other with two guys. So far, we all get along pretty well and we often hang together when we go and explore things.
One really cool thing I´d love to mention before I go, for those that will appreciate this, is that yesterday I went to see the actual murals of Jose Clemente Orozco, a ginormously famous painter who painted around the time of the Revolution here. He´s known as the Mexican Michaelangelo, and his murals have optical illusions in them, as an added bonus. Yesterday I experienced that euphoria that one feels when actually viewing something face to face of historial value and of aesthetic genius. I loved it and took several pictures. I love being a student/tourist.
Well, for now I must leave you all...it´s off to the bus again and to dodge glances of virtually every Mexican guy on the street. Being a minority here is something I´ll have to get used to...it doesn´t help that my glowing white skin attracts the eye everywhere I go ;D. I try not to laugh until I pass them...if you can´t laugh at that and you´re so fragile you´re afraid of the panoramic walk-by, then you don´t belong here.
I miss you all and hope to bowl you over with my hopefully improved Spanish when I get back. For now, ¡adios!
Hippies, Yuppies, Huppies and Huppie-Puppies
My mom and I got to talking recently about eating organic foods, and how they are becoming more and more accesible and important in our diets, etc., etc. Unfortunately, they also cost an arm and a leg compared to the price of food that probably has steroids, GMOs, yadda yadda.
Anyway, the conversation trailed onto something else...by segue of this price thing, my mom and I both agreed that usually the people you see buying these organic foods are the upper-middle class folk that can afford it and that care about their health.
The yuppies. You know, the ladder-climbing americana with a mortgage, two or three kids, (or kids in college), two or three cars, a house with a view, a big screen TV, and yearly trips to some exotic place where, the moment they step off the plane, they are immediately i.d.'d as tourists.
These are the people that send you Christmas postcards with their family in those exotic locations, or in front of some cheesy fake tree in the mall. Their look, their lifestyle, their philosophy screams cheesy middle-class capitalist consumerism. The exact thing that, ironically, when they were my age (the formative early twenties) they tried to avoid.
My mom and I began to point out a special breed of yuppie, the type that feeds (pun partially intended) into this new organic consumer religion and overdoes it, almost to a self-righteous point: huppies, or "hippie yuppies", also referred to formerly as "yippies". I like the term "huppie" better for some reason. Maybe because my mom and I felt like calling ourselves creative today (and gee, there couldn't possibly be another person that thought of that name).
What is a huppy(ie)? It's a product of the de-evolution of a yuppie to his/her former hippie self, but not quite. He/she still maintains the yuppie materialism, but with a new-age, do-gooder, tree-hugging twist. Now, I don't knock the natural movement, or caring for the environment. I'm probably a tree-hugger child too (another classification I'll get to in a second), but these people are their own breed.
Huppies are the folks you see driving their kids to soccer or ballet practice in SUVs (standard yuppie vehicles of choice) and driving down the street to yoga class while their kids play. They have their own wine rack or cellar, shopping discount punchcards to whole food stores like Huckleberry's, shelves of natural remedy or low-fat organic diet recipe books, and a closet full of specialized gear for their many outdoor activities: biking, hiking, swimming, that aforementioned yoga class, skiing, running, camping, spelunking, snowshoeing, you name it. They are known by name at local wineries and bistros, farmer's markets, gyms, and sports outlets.
They listen to an eclectic variety of music in languages they don't understand (and a chosen few attempt to). They are the best at everything, especially the women: my mom pointed out a particular "granola" naturalist huppie in an African drumming class (my mom is actually the opposite of a huppie) who went so gung-ho solo on a drum number that the instructor told her to shut up. My mom and a girl my age nearby snickered.
Call it an age of rediscovery, an age of wanting to do good now that they've reached the "oh, crap, half my life is done" mark. They'd much rather be having a quarter-life crisis than a mid-life crisis...and this au-naturale way is another bandwagon (albeit a smart one) to jump on, besides the plastic-surgery and botox movement. It's that resurgence of philanthropy that they dove into when the 70s were in full swing.
And that same mentality is passed on to their children: "huppie puppies". You and me. Or maybe just me and the small suburb I live in. These children are between 13 and my age, in their own discovery of sorts. The rich or at least comfortable kids who find something to complain about, some cause to rebel. An Abercrombie and Fitch James Dean who buys Che Guevarra shirts and Zapata shirts, not even knowing who the heck those men are or what they stand for (I happen to know because I studied them in the Spanish program). They listen to Bob Marley, Sublime, and anyone old school, "original", or independent, who could "stick it to the man" that happens to pay their folks a decent wad of dinero. Some of these kids actually care about world events, which is nice, but they rarely will have a chance (unless they do a mission trip of some sorts) to see what oppression is really like.
Of course, there are also yuppie-puppies: kids who drive the Ford Taurus Daddy bought them, shop at all the boutique stores, bleach their hair blonde and take up extreme sports just because it's "bad ..@*".
Why am I raving and ranting about these obviously stereotyped individuals? I don't know. Maybe it's the huppie-puppy in me complaining. Or maybe I decided to poke fun at the other demographic percentages of my town besides the ones who say "I've never went to that there store because they ain't got no Coors." I don't know. I can't wait to leave this town and settle somewhere else.
Ah, the quarter-life crisis is in full swing. Thank you, John Mayor.
Anyway, the conversation trailed onto something else...by segue of this price thing, my mom and I both agreed that usually the people you see buying these organic foods are the upper-middle class folk that can afford it and that care about their health.
The yuppies. You know, the ladder-climbing americana with a mortgage, two or three kids, (or kids in college), two or three cars, a house with a view, a big screen TV, and yearly trips to some exotic place where, the moment they step off the plane, they are immediately i.d.'d as tourists.
These are the people that send you Christmas postcards with their family in those exotic locations, or in front of some cheesy fake tree in the mall. Their look, their lifestyle, their philosophy screams cheesy middle-class capitalist consumerism. The exact thing that, ironically, when they were my age (the formative early twenties) they tried to avoid.
My mom and I began to point out a special breed of yuppie, the type that feeds (pun partially intended) into this new organic consumer religion and overdoes it, almost to a self-righteous point: huppies, or "hippie yuppies", also referred to formerly as "yippies". I like the term "huppie" better for some reason. Maybe because my mom and I felt like calling ourselves creative today (and gee, there couldn't possibly be another person that thought of that name).
What is a huppy(ie)? It's a product of the de-evolution of a yuppie to his/her former hippie self, but not quite. He/she still maintains the yuppie materialism, but with a new-age, do-gooder, tree-hugging twist. Now, I don't knock the natural movement, or caring for the environment. I'm probably a tree-hugger child too (another classification I'll get to in a second), but these people are their own breed.
Huppies are the folks you see driving their kids to soccer or ballet practice in SUVs (standard yuppie vehicles of choice) and driving down the street to yoga class while their kids play. They have their own wine rack or cellar, shopping discount punchcards to whole food stores like Huckleberry's, shelves of natural remedy or low-fat organic diet recipe books, and a closet full of specialized gear for their many outdoor activities: biking, hiking, swimming, that aforementioned yoga class, skiing, running, camping, spelunking, snowshoeing, you name it. They are known by name at local wineries and bistros, farmer's markets, gyms, and sports outlets.
They listen to an eclectic variety of music in languages they don't understand (and a chosen few attempt to). They are the best at everything, especially the women: my mom pointed out a particular "granola" naturalist huppie in an African drumming class (my mom is actually the opposite of a huppie) who went so gung-ho solo on a drum number that the instructor told her to shut up. My mom and a girl my age nearby snickered.
Call it an age of rediscovery, an age of wanting to do good now that they've reached the "oh, crap, half my life is done" mark. They'd much rather be having a quarter-life crisis than a mid-life crisis...and this au-naturale way is another bandwagon (albeit a smart one) to jump on, besides the plastic-surgery and botox movement. It's that resurgence of philanthropy that they dove into when the 70s were in full swing.
And that same mentality is passed on to their children: "huppie puppies". You and me. Or maybe just me and the small suburb I live in. These children are between 13 and my age, in their own discovery of sorts. The rich or at least comfortable kids who find something to complain about, some cause to rebel. An Abercrombie and Fitch James Dean who buys Che Guevarra shirts and Zapata shirts, not even knowing who the heck those men are or what they stand for (I happen to know because I studied them in the Spanish program). They listen to Bob Marley, Sublime, and anyone old school, "original", or independent, who could "stick it to the man" that happens to pay their folks a decent wad of dinero. Some of these kids actually care about world events, which is nice, but they rarely will have a chance (unless they do a mission trip of some sorts) to see what oppression is really like.
Of course, there are also yuppie-puppies: kids who drive the Ford Taurus Daddy bought them, shop at all the boutique stores, bleach their hair blonde and take up extreme sports just because it's "bad ..@*".
Why am I raving and ranting about these obviously stereotyped individuals? I don't know. Maybe it's the huppie-puppy in me complaining. Or maybe I decided to poke fun at the other demographic percentages of my town besides the ones who say "I've never went to that there store because they ain't got no Coors." I don't know. I can't wait to leave this town and settle somewhere else.
Ah, the quarter-life crisis is in full swing. Thank you, John Mayor.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Let Freedom Ring.
It's that time of year again, for hot dogs and hamburgers on the backyard grill, for fireworks and scorching temperatures, and for sweet, irresistible, all-American apple pie.
Ironically, a lot of people forget that this time is a time of appreciation. A birthday, really. Our country's. Men fought and died and continue to do so to make it happen: rebels against the British crown, against taxation without representation, against a distant and apathetic, unreasonable monarch.
Their corporal sacrifices gave us this federal holiday, this mingling time with our friends...but more importantly, it gave us a place to live as free citizens. Free to speak, worship, vote...free to have an opinion. We really do have a lot more than we think. Granted, the war in Iraq is a present issue and many question our current administration's competency. Whether it's a failure or a success, we have the right to do that, and vote who we place in that position.
I read an article from a magazine issued in May of 2004 yesterday that talked about growing evangelism movements in India. For the most part, in Delhi, Christian converts are free to do as they please within the city limits in their own compounds. Elsewhere in India, riots and anti-Christian protests and political movements persecute these "traitors" to the Hindu-based society. People -- innocent people -- are killed everyday because of what they believe in. Many of us claim that we would die for our family, our beliefs; some of these individuals actually face that sobering reality everyday.
As I was reading this article, I kept thinking that, despite our complaints of trials that threaten free speech or limitations on religious activity, we really do have it good. To be a citizen of this country is something that many (for financial, personal, social, or religious reasons) covet.
It's something that a college girl like me takes for granted as she combs her hair every morning and eats the breakfast she is privileged to have, while a man or woman her same age falls asleep on a fellow soldier's shoulder in the middle of a windy desert, fights off camel spiders, and eats canned food for an unnumbered amount of days in a row (if they indeed get that food).
I admit that often apathy consumes me. There's too much violence overseas, a war that seems hopeless and at times pointless to me, and growing dissention within our own borders, sometimes over the borders themselves. But at the same time, I am reminded that my ancestors came over here for a reason. And while sometimes I would feel more at home intellectually or physically in another country (Spain, Ireland, France, or even Mexico), I am proud to be an American.
This country was born not by the bestowing of power upon one hot-to-trot ruler, but by the will and democracy of a united cause. Freedom. And it didn't come free, but others paid the price for me. Thanks.
Happy Birthday America!
Ironically, a lot of people forget that this time is a time of appreciation. A birthday, really. Our country's. Men fought and died and continue to do so to make it happen: rebels against the British crown, against taxation without representation, against a distant and apathetic, unreasonable monarch.
Their corporal sacrifices gave us this federal holiday, this mingling time with our friends...but more importantly, it gave us a place to live as free citizens. Free to speak, worship, vote...free to have an opinion. We really do have a lot more than we think. Granted, the war in Iraq is a present issue and many question our current administration's competency. Whether it's a failure or a success, we have the right to do that, and vote who we place in that position.
I read an article from a magazine issued in May of 2004 yesterday that talked about growing evangelism movements in India. For the most part, in Delhi, Christian converts are free to do as they please within the city limits in their own compounds. Elsewhere in India, riots and anti-Christian protests and political movements persecute these "traitors" to the Hindu-based society. People -- innocent people -- are killed everyday because of what they believe in. Many of us claim that we would die for our family, our beliefs; some of these individuals actually face that sobering reality everyday.
As I was reading this article, I kept thinking that, despite our complaints of trials that threaten free speech or limitations on religious activity, we really do have it good. To be a citizen of this country is something that many (for financial, personal, social, or religious reasons) covet.
It's something that a college girl like me takes for granted as she combs her hair every morning and eats the breakfast she is privileged to have, while a man or woman her same age falls asleep on a fellow soldier's shoulder in the middle of a windy desert, fights off camel spiders, and eats canned food for an unnumbered amount of days in a row (if they indeed get that food).
I admit that often apathy consumes me. There's too much violence overseas, a war that seems hopeless and at times pointless to me, and growing dissention within our own borders, sometimes over the borders themselves. But at the same time, I am reminded that my ancestors came over here for a reason. And while sometimes I would feel more at home intellectually or physically in another country (Spain, Ireland, France, or even Mexico), I am proud to be an American.
This country was born not by the bestowing of power upon one hot-to-trot ruler, but by the will and democracy of a united cause. Freedom. And it didn't come free, but others paid the price for me. Thanks.
Happy Birthday America!
Karaoke and an interesting *cough* moment
Last night was a debut of sorts: my karaoke debut. First time in a real bar with karaoke and friends. Scared but quickly comforted by the fact that my close friends were the only ones not drunk, I decided to give it a go. I sang a song I couldn't (or thought I couldn't) mess up: "Yesterday" by the Beatles. Yeah, dumb song for a karaoke crowd, but it was a Sunday night, and no one cared, even though I had to switch octaves a couple of times because the song was so low.
I dueted with a guy friend later on J.Lo's "All I Have" with L.L. Cool J. It helps to kind of know how the melody of the verse goes, at least, I learned. The fact that I know the chorus and had the words weren't helping. Oh well, I had fun in the process of appearing like a buffoon. And singing along to others' karaoke choices. They should make "Bohemian Rhapsody" a karaoke requisite.
Other than my realization that the concept of beginner's luck generally doesn't apply to karaoke, I came to another conclusion last night. I am a magnet for smelly, nasty old men. I need creep repellant.
I'm not talking just older than me....I mean old. Twice my age. 45 plus...this was the demographic that chose to serenade me in Spain, that usually honks at me in cars, that attempts to flirt with me at dance clubs and hold me WAY too close.
Last night brought me to this conclusion when my duet partner witnessed a bar regular "grooving" near me while my friend next to me was singing, and neither of them gave me a hint on how to shoo him away. Thanks, boys. I thought he was just goofing around. He went behind me for a second and then left. I don't know nor do I want to know what he did, but the DJ said that he was doing his um, "special" dance (content edited).
Drunken Dan (let's just call him that) smelled like a stale gym locker, was twice my age and at least twice my girth. And he had a salt and pepper fumanchu that screamed middle-ager barhopping biker.
Not that I have any qualms against people like that...it's not my place, but it is my place to be irked that old creepy dudes like to hit on me. I have this story and a library of others. I swear it's my height.
Anyway, enough complaining. Good laughs...in hindsight for me, and instantaneously for my friends. Karaoke ain't just about singing, it seems.
I want to go again, but this time I'm arming myself with a vanguard of men...my age. And I'm going to pick some good songs to do that aren't cheesier than a crowd of Packer fans.
Until then..."Carry on, carry on....." ;).
I dueted with a guy friend later on J.Lo's "All I Have" with L.L. Cool J. It helps to kind of know how the melody of the verse goes, at least, I learned. The fact that I know the chorus and had the words weren't helping. Oh well, I had fun in the process of appearing like a buffoon. And singing along to others' karaoke choices. They should make "Bohemian Rhapsody" a karaoke requisite.
Other than my realization that the concept of beginner's luck generally doesn't apply to karaoke, I came to another conclusion last night. I am a magnet for smelly, nasty old men. I need creep repellant.
I'm not talking just older than me....I mean old. Twice my age. 45 plus...this was the demographic that chose to serenade me in Spain, that usually honks at me in cars, that attempts to flirt with me at dance clubs and hold me WAY too close.
Last night brought me to this conclusion when my duet partner witnessed a bar regular "grooving" near me while my friend next to me was singing, and neither of them gave me a hint on how to shoo him away. Thanks, boys. I thought he was just goofing around. He went behind me for a second and then left. I don't know nor do I want to know what he did, but the DJ said that he was doing his um, "special" dance (content edited).
Drunken Dan (let's just call him that) smelled like a stale gym locker, was twice my age and at least twice my girth. And he had a salt and pepper fumanchu that screamed middle-ager barhopping biker.
Not that I have any qualms against people like that...it's not my place, but it is my place to be irked that old creepy dudes like to hit on me. I have this story and a library of others. I swear it's my height.
Anyway, enough complaining. Good laughs...in hindsight for me, and instantaneously for my friends. Karaoke ain't just about singing, it seems.
I want to go again, but this time I'm arming myself with a vanguard of men...my age. And I'm going to pick some good songs to do that aren't cheesier than a crowd of Packer fans.
Until then..."Carry on, carry on....." ;).
Ah, life.
A lot of my friends would say I've been extremely blessed. I have. I take advantage of it a lot, too. Wonder why that is? Could it be that I'm surrounded by an ambitious affluenza-driven society that demands the best of the best of the best? We have to have 100% organic food, the perfectly proportioned figure, the right house, the right face, the right job, the right amount of money, the right boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse, and the right amount of smarts.
My mom and I (again, life has taught her much) brought me to this realization when I brought up worrying that I will be a dependent forever: stop worrying, go out there and fix it, and accept the grace that you've been granted by God who wants to give you all these wonderful gifts and teach you how to live your purpose. She told me of an acronym for GRACE: Gifts Received At Christ's Expense. Whoever thought of that acronym, kudos.
And her point was this: what God gives you is right for you. He loves you for what you are, otherwise He wouldn't have made you that way.
If you think about it, God has trials and tribulations that are part of His plan, but honestly, that plan has way more gifts and blessings (especially in the end) than curses. Even my friends who have had hard childhoods, rough adolescences, etc. who live in Him have a really positive outlook on life. And why shouldn't they? It's been blessed, and what awaits afterward is a million times greater.
And here's a bit of a red herring, but I'll throw it out there anyway. I don't believe fortune cookies are reliable, but today I opened a leftover one at work, and my fortune said this very exact phrase: "Good things come to those who wait. Be patient."
Now, that's a very general phrase, applicable to any situation, and I'm not about to claim that "Confusius says" is equitable to God's word, but isn't it funny how sometimes He uses some odd things to remind us? Yeah, probably a complete coincidence that my fortune cookie said what it said. But it reminded me, nonetheless, of the same theme God has been pressing on me for the past year: patience. And lots of it.
But that doesn't mean I wait idly. Time to get the ball rolling.
Have a good day, everyone! I'm off to check out Northwestern's website.
My mom and I (again, life has taught her much) brought me to this realization when I brought up worrying that I will be a dependent forever: stop worrying, go out there and fix it, and accept the grace that you've been granted by God who wants to give you all these wonderful gifts and teach you how to live your purpose. She told me of an acronym for GRACE: Gifts Received At Christ's Expense. Whoever thought of that acronym, kudos.
And her point was this: what God gives you is right for you. He loves you for what you are, otherwise He wouldn't have made you that way.
If you think about it, God has trials and tribulations that are part of His plan, but honestly, that plan has way more gifts and blessings (especially in the end) than curses. Even my friends who have had hard childhoods, rough adolescences, etc. who live in Him have a really positive outlook on life. And why shouldn't they? It's been blessed, and what awaits afterward is a million times greater.
And here's a bit of a red herring, but I'll throw it out there anyway. I don't believe fortune cookies are reliable, but today I opened a leftover one at work, and my fortune said this very exact phrase: "Good things come to those who wait. Be patient."
Now, that's a very general phrase, applicable to any situation, and I'm not about to claim that "Confusius says" is equitable to God's word, but isn't it funny how sometimes He uses some odd things to remind us? Yeah, probably a complete coincidence that my fortune cookie said what it said. But it reminded me, nonetheless, of the same theme God has been pressing on me for the past year: patience. And lots of it.
But that doesn't mean I wait idly. Time to get the ball rolling.
Have a good day, everyone! I'm off to check out Northwestern's website.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Yay Dad!
Father's Day. Hallmark or some other pioneering card company probably invented it, along with Mother's Day. But they do have a point: appreciation.
As much as we adore or dread spending time with our parental units, these two (albeit manufactured) holidays are important for realizing the two individuals whose union is the cause of our existence.
My mom and dad divorced when I was 12, and I knew that they probably should have married different people from the getgo, but then I think twice...I wouldn't be here.
Which brings me to another point: appreciating my dad for, well, being my dad and not someone else's. I've inherited a lot of great things from him. French last name (okay, maybe that's not so popular in the US of A right now), the ability to read a novel in small print during a car ride down a winding road without getting nauseous, the knack for picking up foreign languages, and my short, fat tongue. I'm only proud of that last one because it adds character.
My dad is not without his faults in our relationship, but he is always behind my efforts and always supportive of my choices. I'll give you an illustration of my point: this middle-ager, who dabbles in French conversation, came and watched my half-hour thesis presentation last week. This presentation was entirely in Spanish. Every word.
My dad agreed on short notice the day before to come out and watch on the sidelines and view a presentation that was the equivalent of watching a foreign movie with no English subtitles. For half an hour. Most people get aggravated and shut the movie off or tune out a speech. I got a view of my dad in the corner of my eye and he was hanging on every word...maybe he was trying to translate it :D.
Isn't that cute?
Today is the day that I go over to his house and give him an enormous hug, the usual obligatory card, yadda yadda. But it's nice to know that I've reached an age where I actually appreciate him, and not just on Father's Day. I've been really lucky with the father from whom God made me.
Ah, a third point! Last but not least, of course. With that previous thought in mind, this Father's Day I have an extra father to thank. And he's everyone's dad, so I'm not just enjoying it selfishly. To Him, Happy Father's Day.
This Daddy's girl has gotta run. Ta ta for now!
As much as we adore or dread spending time with our parental units, these two (albeit manufactured) holidays are important for realizing the two individuals whose union is the cause of our existence.
My mom and dad divorced when I was 12, and I knew that they probably should have married different people from the getgo, but then I think twice...I wouldn't be here.
Which brings me to another point: appreciating my dad for, well, being my dad and not someone else's. I've inherited a lot of great things from him. French last name (okay, maybe that's not so popular in the US of A right now), the ability to read a novel in small print during a car ride down a winding road without getting nauseous, the knack for picking up foreign languages, and my short, fat tongue. I'm only proud of that last one because it adds character.
My dad is not without his faults in our relationship, but he is always behind my efforts and always supportive of my choices. I'll give you an illustration of my point: this middle-ager, who dabbles in French conversation, came and watched my half-hour thesis presentation last week. This presentation was entirely in Spanish. Every word.
My dad agreed on short notice the day before to come out and watch on the sidelines and view a presentation that was the equivalent of watching a foreign movie with no English subtitles. For half an hour. Most people get aggravated and shut the movie off or tune out a speech. I got a view of my dad in the corner of my eye and he was hanging on every word...maybe he was trying to translate it :D.
Isn't that cute?
Today is the day that I go over to his house and give him an enormous hug, the usual obligatory card, yadda yadda. But it's nice to know that I've reached an age where I actually appreciate him, and not just on Father's Day. I've been really lucky with the father from whom God made me.
Ah, a third point! Last but not least, of course. With that previous thought in mind, this Father's Day I have an extra father to thank. And he's everyone's dad, so I'm not just enjoying it selfishly. To Him, Happy Father's Day.
This Daddy's girl has gotta run. Ta ta for now!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Roses
No explanation. Just read it and make up your own mind. I can't control other people's interpretations ;).
ROSES
Wet auburn tresses brush her cheeks
As she grudgingly pulls them out of her face
And steps in from the relentless rain.
She passes a bouquet of flowers in the hall
Perched upon the stained mahogany table
Roses of a sweet, entrancing odor
"To you, my love, for being you
I find you flawless.
Love, your One and only."
She passes this table every night
Whisking by the invisible roses
Whose smell remains stagnant in her nose
And goes to check her messages.
One call.
"Hi, it's Mom. Just wanted to check on you
And by the way, I'm praying for you."
She checks her e-mail.
"Act now and receive two months free of..."
Deleted.
A look in the mirror
Hrm, that wasn't there last week.
My eyes look tired.
The wind howls in the drafty windows
As the rain plays Mozart on the stoned walkway.
The rose petals sigh in grief
Day by day, wilting.
Will she finally see the blood red hue
Before the last petal falls?
ROSES
Wet auburn tresses brush her cheeks
As she grudgingly pulls them out of her face
And steps in from the relentless rain.
She passes a bouquet of flowers in the hall
Perched upon the stained mahogany table
Roses of a sweet, entrancing odor
"To you, my love, for being you
I find you flawless.
Love, your One and only."
She passes this table every night
Whisking by the invisible roses
Whose smell remains stagnant in her nose
And goes to check her messages.
One call.
"Hi, it's Mom. Just wanted to check on you
And by the way, I'm praying for you."
She checks her e-mail.
"Act now and receive two months free of..."
Deleted.
A look in the mirror
Hrm, that wasn't there last week.
My eyes look tired.
The wind howls in the drafty windows
As the rain plays Mozart on the stoned walkway.
The rose petals sigh in grief
Day by day, wilting.
Will she finally see the blood red hue
Before the last petal falls?
Patiently waiting...or trying
A very close friend of mine and I were discussing the everpresent side effect of spring this evening: twitterpation. If that is a word. Blame the owl on Bambi. His head does 360s...how can he be sane?
Sorry for the tangent. The traffic in my head seems to be worse than rush hour traffic on a humid August day on the Chicago freeway. That's pretty crazy, if you can't grasp my concept.
Anyway, my friend and I were bemoaning the idea that we decent girls, the real ones, seemed to get "passed up", or that mutual affection and adoration seems about as possible lately as the likelihood of Alex Trebeck not seeming full of himself. Watch Jeopardy and you'll get my drift.
But could this be a "good things come to those who wait" situation? Sorry for the cliche again. I'm full of them when I contemplate life, unfortunately.
Sometimes, as a girl in a society where women are taught to flaunt themselves and get attention through not-so-edifying ways, it's hard to get a guy's attention. But why try if you have to fight to get that anyway?
As someone recovering from an eating disorder for over 6 years now, it's easy to criticize myself. Not just the physical aspects, but personality as well, and what I mean to others. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so European so I could tan (instead of freckle all over and turn pink), or that I didn't have that Irish impulsiveness in me. Although, on a side note, the Proclaimers think "Irish Girls Are Pretty."
I wish that song would download right onto my profile, it's so cute. Figures that the perfect song won't work.
And it figures that every "perfect" guy I come across seems to take a look for a while and pass up the idea.
But then I am reminded by friends, family, and God that I am unique. Just like everyone else, yes...but my own unique. It's a unique that even my own hypothetical twin couldn't match. And the glitches make me beautiful in whomever's eyes I catch.
Sometimes I wish I could upgrade my bait for those "fish in the sea" to something better than a ground worm. Like a musky lure. Those things are huge, and they work pretty fast, too, from what I remember in my childhood trips to Hayward, Wisconsin.
Arg...there I go rabbit trailing again. The point is, why am I waiting for the perfect guy to come along when someone already perfect has and he reaches out to me everyday? See previous blog for content reference. And what's my hurry? Half my friends are married or engaged (at 22!) but my time will come when it's supposed to, or if it's supposed to. It will for my friend as well, no matter how frustrated she gets.
And when it does, that man will definitely think Irish (and French, German, English, Scottish, Czech, French Canadian mixed in) girls are pretty. It's not fate...or serendipity.
It's just part of a plan that I can't see yet and will be all the more pleasantly surprised when I do.
Sorry for the tangent. The traffic in my head seems to be worse than rush hour traffic on a humid August day on the Chicago freeway. That's pretty crazy, if you can't grasp my concept.
Anyway, my friend and I were bemoaning the idea that we decent girls, the real ones, seemed to get "passed up", or that mutual affection and adoration seems about as possible lately as the likelihood of Alex Trebeck not seeming full of himself. Watch Jeopardy and you'll get my drift.
But could this be a "good things come to those who wait" situation? Sorry for the cliche again. I'm full of them when I contemplate life, unfortunately.
Sometimes, as a girl in a society where women are taught to flaunt themselves and get attention through not-so-edifying ways, it's hard to get a guy's attention. But why try if you have to fight to get that anyway?
As someone recovering from an eating disorder for over 6 years now, it's easy to criticize myself. Not just the physical aspects, but personality as well, and what I mean to others. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so European so I could tan (instead of freckle all over and turn pink), or that I didn't have that Irish impulsiveness in me. Although, on a side note, the Proclaimers think "Irish Girls Are Pretty."
I wish that song would download right onto my profile, it's so cute. Figures that the perfect song won't work.
And it figures that every "perfect" guy I come across seems to take a look for a while and pass up the idea.
But then I am reminded by friends, family, and God that I am unique. Just like everyone else, yes...but my own unique. It's a unique that even my own hypothetical twin couldn't match. And the glitches make me beautiful in whomever's eyes I catch.
Sometimes I wish I could upgrade my bait for those "fish in the sea" to something better than a ground worm. Like a musky lure. Those things are huge, and they work pretty fast, too, from what I remember in my childhood trips to Hayward, Wisconsin.
Arg...there I go rabbit trailing again. The point is, why am I waiting for the perfect guy to come along when someone already perfect has and he reaches out to me everyday? See previous blog for content reference. And what's my hurry? Half my friends are married or engaged (at 22!) but my time will come when it's supposed to, or if it's supposed to. It will for my friend as well, no matter how frustrated she gets.
And when it does, that man will definitely think Irish (and French, German, English, Scottish, Czech, French Canadian mixed in) girls are pretty. It's not fate...or serendipity.
It's just part of a plan that I can't see yet and will be all the more pleasantly surprised when I do.
Forlorn Farewell
Here's another poem that I'd rather not explain. That's up to you to ponder. Isn't that why you're reading?
Forlorn Farewell
A back is turned
A bridge is burned
As your wheat field mane
Now shows me its fullness.
I feel a pain
Not loss or gain
Just the pungent odor
Of a forlorn farewell.
Suspendered gait
Shuffles ‘long as I wait
And watch fancy free strides
Of your Mark Twain character.
A tramp abroad
Your guilt now shod
You leave me here alone,
An adventure soon forgotten.
You’ve made your mark
Igniting a spark
That the cool rains of time
Will hopefully soon snuff out.
Forlorn Farewell
A back is turned
A bridge is burned
As your wheat field mane
Now shows me its fullness.
I feel a pain
Not loss or gain
Just the pungent odor
Of a forlorn farewell.
Suspendered gait
Shuffles ‘long as I wait
And watch fancy free strides
Of your Mark Twain character.
A tramp abroad
Your guilt now shod
You leave me here alone,
An adventure soon forgotten.
You’ve made your mark
Igniting a spark
That the cool rains of time
Will hopefully soon snuff out.
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