Archive for Trivial

Pink bling! and random tidbits

  • I have the best most comfiest most beautiful yummy bed ever.  I didn’t want to leave it all by itself today. *le sigh*
  • I got some serious pink bling from a five year old!  yeah yeah!  He found a pink jewel at school and thought of me (awwwwwwww!) and brought it home for me.  Awwwww!  I am now associated with pink and sparkly in a little boy’s mind, how speshul is that? LOL!
  • CSI Miami: caught two filmings in one week.  One we had to drive around and lo and behold!!  David Carusso was just outside my window.  (Well okay not literally outside it, I AM on the 9th floor after all)
  • I witnessed a baloney and american cheese on white bread sandwich being consumed yesterday and felt like taking field notes. Or at least providing background commentary.  But I didn’t.

The end. 

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And so…

I adore this place.  I can’t say it enough. 

I went to the first camp for my job and it is soooo breathtakingly beautiful.  I rode up with my coworker and  friend and we got in the carpool lane and ended up going the wrong way which provided a gloriously beautiful detour.  Rolling hills, voluptous hills, delicious curvy hills that made me just want to taste earth, to bask in the sun, to feel their contours on my naked body.  Sensual landscapes that make every breath beauty. 

The campsite itself is gorgeous and the sky was so clear and beautiful. 

And the camp was simultaneously exhausting and energizing.  There’s something about watching so many young people venture down the path of erradicating racist oppression, including internalized oppression, and not just watching but facilitating: making facil, making easy, making possible, providing… everything about it just a blessing.  I met some amazing people.  I am constantly struck by sheer awe at how things are working out for me.  I am in love with my life. 

I am singing with the South Coast Chorale and hope to be doin’ a lil somethin’ for the Cabaret show we’ll have on the Queen Mary.  Auditions went well so I hope to hear soon if I have a solo but regardless our ensemble is going to sound amazing.  April 18th, save the date! 

and!  I have a roommate! Honestly sometimes things work in really weird ways.  I answered a craigslist ad that asked where all the queers were in lb.  So I of course was representin’.  Turns out she is way cool, we have sooooo much in common (d/g anyone?) and her roommate happens to be moving out.  Score!  She has a very cool kid and the room is totally cute.  And!  We have a houseboy on board who will be painting said room.  To those of you who enjoyed my previous purple paradise, I must sadly report I will not be going with vibrant and bold this time.  Color suggestions currently being considered.  I will post pics at some point in the near future.  I can walk to work, to buses downtown and trains.  And the rent is super reasonable.  So!  I shall be moving some time in mid March or April.  Yay! 

My birthday is coming up and my plans have changed (I’m happy with that) so I am not sure what I’m going to be doing but I’m sure of one thing: This is going to be an amazing year in my life.  I am loving my thirties.  I am enjoying my new life sooooo much.  I am enjoying my new friends, my new home! 

Ooooh and I submitted an abstract for a panel with a new friend (randomness in action again).  That will be fun if it gets accepted.  Aaaaand I’m submitting some stuff to be published, fiction.  Updates will be provided as soon as info is available.  I’m thrilled with the way everything is turning out so far. 

Converted to Pink

In my purse right now are the following:

A pink Razor phone

A new pink agenda

A pink pencil

My pink journal

And… let us not forget pink lipgloss.

I used to hate pink with a passion.  I attribute my conversion to pink to a number of bois/boys in my life, most of whom love/wear pink themselves.  I don’t know if it’s an embracing of my babygrrl side, if it’s part irony and part flair, or if it’s simply the inevitable influence of social conditioning but I’m wearing a pink sweater while I type this and my skin isn’t crawling out of it.  I also have a pink backpack (a gift from a boi) which I use on a regular basis, yes, in public.  And really it’s quite remarkable.  I realized the conversion had been complete when shopping with someone for planners for the next year.  I had seen a pretty pink one but then told myself, naw, I can’t get a pink planner!  Sure enough I slept on it and talked to her the next day to share the news: I must have the pink planner.  Yay! 

I hate assumptions about femininity.  Perhaps that might be part of what draws me to bloodred rather than pink a lot of the time.  Pink implies soft and fragile.  Yes, sometimes I am both.  Maybe my conversion has something to do with owning that as well as the hardass side of me.  Maybe I’m finally at a point in my life where it’s safe to be soft.  It’s safe enough to have pink. 

Whatever it is, it sure is pretty.

Waiting room

I was at the endocrinologist today for a follow-up visit and as I sat there waiting for (literally) 3.5 hours I was pondering waiting rooms.

For my non PRican readers, the Puerto Rican doctor’s waiting room is an experience that would be foreign and probably terrifying to many of you. We don’t sit quietly with our Oprah’s book club books and keep our dirty diseases to ourselves. Nope.

When you go into a medical appointment here, for starters you should plan to wait. The system here is that patients are seen in the order in which they arrive. There are no appointments which is good financially for doctors who don’t have to deal with lost revenue from reserving a time slot for a person who doesn’t show up. If you are the patient and you have a life, it blows.

So, plan on waiting 3 or 4 hours, at the least.

While you wait, you should not intend to sit quietly to yourself. First there’s the people who come in selling raffle/lottery tickets or other crap.

Then there’s the waiting room conversation. The “what you got?” Conversation.

As a child I spent a lot of time in waiting rooms and was mortified by these. Now I feel more of a morbid fascination with the conversations around me.

People were comparing blood sugar levels and then having this great conversation about the stuff you should and shouldn’t eat where no one agreed and I thought a fight was about to break out. These are all strangers who happened to meet in a waiting room but suddenly everyone is sharing their medical and life histories with each other.

Today I got to listen to women who were talking about lighting candles for their deceased husbands today –day of the dead– in order to avoid being haunted by them. I listened to a woman who is adamant in her refusal to remove skins from chicken. A man who was discovered by his wife out in the garden eating a papaya from the tree when he’s not supposed to have fruit. A woman whose daughter miscarried. Another woman who is covered in bruises from her insulin shots. A man who is terrified of needles. A discussion on the value of several television commercials. A discussion on microwave cooking methods and recipes. All kinds of talk about various medications. Media hype and the year 2000. The sales tax.

I was there where Juana public hangs out. It was amazing.
I felt like I should be taking notes and passing around consent forms.

My bloodwork was excellent so I get to go another 5-6 months without hanging in the waiting room.

Don’t Eat the Flan!

My students are watching Real Women Have Curves…

did you eat the flan today?

 While I’m currently on plan and working on losing weight, few things could be more awesome than the scene in the factory where they all have a mutual fat admiration party!  Hooray for hips (where flan lives).

My friend the vampire

Back in the mid-nineties I worked at a telemarketing agency while I was going to NYU. I worked late at nights and I remember the account I was calling on was a Chevy Chase credit card. No, really. Needless to say I didn’t get any of the awards for sales although if they had instituted an award for the most people laughing at you before hanging up I may have had a shot.

Telemarketing seems to draw some of the most interesting characters I’ve known. I worked with a number of prostitutes. No, really. They turned tricks or ‘danced’ but they also kept telemarketing as their respectable job, don’t ask me why… I never quite understood.

I worked with the usual cast of frustrated and broke actors who were still looking for the perfect waiter job. Their jolly thespian voices could be heard booming over the headset as they addressed their audience of one with unbridled enthusiasm. Rejection junkies.

There was a smattering of students, mostly in useless areas of knowledge, you know the philosophy major, the art student, the English major… I think the angst held major appeal.

There were a fair number of transgendered people. That was one job where they didn’t have to deal with discrimination or with the mindfuck of reverting to their genetic gender in order to be employable. They were fun– they taught me the tricks to keep from going insane from boredom and we’d pass notes and dirty drawings while on the phone. Some of my tranny friends from this job went on to open their own telemarketing business where I worked for a while. But that’s a whole other story!

By far my favorite character, the one person who made me trudge to work was Lestat. If you are unfamiliar with Anne Rice then the reference was lost on you. Yes, this person’s name was Lestat. This person was a vampire. I am refering to this person in gender neutral terms because I was unable to unequivocally ascertain this person’s sex (trust me I tried). Lestat had nicely sharpened incisors before it was cool. Lestat had porcelain skin and black hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Lestat wore a cape to work. And lots of velvet. And jewlery. And makeup. And Lestat never ate. Lestat self-identified as a vampire.

I think the entire section I sat with had the hots for Lestat. Lestat would sometimes grace my friends and I with his/her presence over break or for the collective smoke break outside, which even those who didn’t smoke joined for the sheer proximity of such a being. Lestat’s smooth indiference only made her/him more attractive to all of us. Lestat’s subtle androgyny only added to the attraction and the curiosity. We had betting pools going on the gender issue.

Then one day Lestat stopped showing up. No one knew what happened to Lestat. Lestat had not crossed the work boundary to hang out, other than a few group outings to goth clubs. We lost our vampire!!! And we never found him/her again. We never settled the bets although debate and speculation continued.

Shortly after that I stopped working there. Call me crazy but it just wasn’t fun to work there without a vampire seated a row over.

Chairs gettin’ down!

I’m posting this because

A. it is hysterical
B. I might get more hits this way (wait that might not be good…)
C. Perhaps this might encourage one of you slags who run into me in the hallways or the bar or messenger and say “hey! Cool blog!” to take a minute and post a comment! LOL

I saw this on another wordpress blog but didn’t get a chance to get the blogger’s name 😦 sorry dude but it was hysterical!!!

In the meanwhile, make sure the kids are asleep, settle into your comfiest chair *snicker*, point and click

http://www.furnitureporn.com/

Howling at the moon

I’m absolutely lusting for sleep! If I had time to sleep I’d have wet dreams about it.
I’d dream about Diamanda Galas singing Satisfaction with the Stones.
I’d dream grades which would materialize onto student papers and insightful commentary which would guide them on their path of critical enlightenment.

I would dream of sleeping and in between astral naps I would dream of polka dot pedicures and fishnet stockings and my missing leather skirt (honestly, how does one lose a skirt? that’s a rhetorical question) and pinstripes and lace.

I would dream of cosmic cartwheels and public stonings in academia. Instead of our monthly department meeting we will be crucifying two members of the literature committee, one from writing and, if we have time a linguist or two. Please remember to bring nails and the activities committee will be distributing hammers on site. Stonings of media and communications people and ESL will be held next meeting, in case of rain we will be in the student center. By the coffee machine. Bring your own stone.

I would dream of hallucinations, and ashes and purple striped dragons that wagged scaly tails at me. And waterproof mascara that leaves luscious stripes on pillowcases.
And pet zebras that eat dandelion puffs. Which don’t grow in PR. So I’d import them. In my dreams of course.

And I’d dream “Stormy Weather” smoky blues at the top of my lungs in my sleep.

And I’d dream of cuddle parties. And pajamas with barbed wire patterns. And washable tattoos.

What would you dream?

Why I don’t write Magical Realism…

I am fully bilingual but there are things you can only tell in Spanish, so my apologies to the non-hispanoparlantes…

Me levanté en la mañana malhumorada por el mero hecho de que es temprano en la mañana y estoy despierta. Me levanto y pienso, ¡puñeta! como es mi costumbre si es antes de las 9 (bueno en verdad las 10). Me preparo para mi día (13 horas en Mayagüez) y empaco mi comida para el almuerzo. Cuando abro la gaveta. . . .

No, todavía no, primero te tengo que contar que vivo en 10 cuerdas en el monte. Tengo que informarte que vivo en un primer piso y que las ventanas de mi sala/cocina no tienen escrines. Sigue leyendo, esta es la parte realista. Al lado de mi terreno acaban de cortar todos los árboles para vender solares y todos los animales están encabronaos por haber perdido sus hogares y por la maldita peste a diesel que nos tienes loc@s a tod@s. Bueno, ahora sí.

Abro la gaveta para buscar un envase pa’ mi chayote relleno bien Martha Stewart, lo saco del frizer y abro mi gaveta y mirándome sin parpadeo real o metafórico me mira una cabrona rata. No un lindo ratoncito con ojos inocentes, una cabrona rata con ojos rojos y malévolos. Aquí te lo digo tranquila, sin rusheo, pero te confieso que grité como puta fingiendo orgasmo. Y como puta que ve guardia venir salí corriendo de la puta cocina con el segundo ¡puñeta! del día. It’s too early for this shit. Abro paréntesis para aclarar algunas de mis mejores amigas han sido putas. Muy bien. P’al carajo el container. Llevo mi comida en una fabulosa bolsa ziploc. Traigo a los gatos, hablo con el perro, pateo la gaveta par de veces con sucesivos ¡puñeta!s.

Con café en mano me monto en el carro y Mag se prepara a guiar mientras yo intento metabolizar la cafeína. De repente se oye un bullicio en la carretera. La vecina está vociferando y el vecino de arriba, borrachón desde los 11 años (ahora tiene sus 50 y pico) quien duerme debajo de un palo de mangó en un catre sale corriendo cuesta arriba con una caja de cartón como escudo y unos alambres como espada gritando, “cierra el portón, cierra el portón.”

Pues bien. Cerramos el portón. Y subimos la cuesta donde está Rafi, el vecino, esperando para advertirnos con expresión intensa y sincera que tengamos cuidado con la vaca que anda suelta y que está (matando niños y violando mujeres??) atravesándose frente a los carros. Que pasemos lento. Que llamó al municipio y no sé que mas. Con visiones de toros rabiosos nos alejamos poco a poco.

Gracias Rafi, nos vemos.

Al subir la próxima lomita vemos al monstruo, precedido por una serie de plastas humeantes de mierda. El monstruo, una vaca blanca con ojos tristes y manchas negras, boba, mansa y cagona. Amenaza con la cola mientras rumina y en el retrovisor vemos al quijote en la alzada con su escudo de cartón.

Miro mi reloj y seguimos. Voy tarde para una clase de lingüística la cual no quiero tomar a una hora a la cual no quiero estar despierta. Según contemplo mi suerte, entre dormida y despierta pero de cualquier manera aborrecía, siento que se detiene el carro. Miro al frente y veo una manada de patos, bueno 4 patos. Caminan su caminar remendando con calma, sin prisa, sin estrés, sin entender que voy tarde. ¡Puñeta! Cuando al fin se mueven y podemos pasar, me miran mal. Pasado mi flashback de La Patografía pienso que un poco de whiskey en mi café no vendría muy mal.

Llego al fin y al cabo a mi clase de lingüística donde me siento a tomar café, mirar a un gringo mover la quijada mientras yo escribo en mi libreta algunos versos imaginarios. Entre dormida y despierta miro al pasillo y veo un escudo de cartón bajar flotando desde el piso de arriba.

Pues sí.