The Heartbreak Of A World Series Loss

Still devoted after
all these years & losses

Every year you tell yourself, "If they suck after July 25 then hang it up for the year and wait until April," but then July 25 comes and they're still kicking ass and taking names.

So you get a little hopeful. Then they clinch a spot after sweeping a hated rival and you think, WHOA, are we... will we...? Then you face and defeat a traitorous West Coast team (DEM BUMS!) and think, HOLY SHIT WE WON and it feels great.

And it keeps going on an amazing high you can't even believe exists. You haven't felt this in 15 goddamn years. It's going to be the most amazing climax of your life, you just know it. Your team sweeps the next opponent and you lose your shit. YOU'RE GOING TO THE BIG SHOW! THE TIDE IS TURNING!

You think, we must have gotten here, to this point, for a reason. WE'RE GONNA WIN! And then game after game, it all comes tumbling down when you realize the reason you made it was just so that the other team could win, and it hurts.

The hope, the devotion; you bleed blue and orange your entire life and to see it roll by Murphy's glove, soar over Familia head, slip away from Wright, it hurts. It's a physical pain that settles into the pit of your stomach. You know how hard it was to get here, how long it took to get here, and to leave without that trophy physically hurts. There's nothing left to do but accept defeat and let the tears come.

I wanted this for our Captain. I wanted to rub it in the faces of those who abandoned us (JOSE REYES). I wanted our rookies to have an Amazin' first year. I wanted to quit being the butt of NY Sports jokes. I wanted to wear my jersey to the parade. It was so close I could taste it. I saved a vacation day for it. And then... and then...

How to heal? I wish I knew. Up until the World Series, the Mets played really well. Our pitchers had killer arms and our outfielders kept going the extra (vertical) mile to block scores. Our bats could have done a better job, it's something to work on, but it was decent. So I can take some solace in the talent that exists and the power that can be developed (Conforto can be great if nurtured).

In the meantime, my jersey is in the laundry. I'll wash it and store it away with my out-of-season gear. I'll tuck my team drinking tumblers in the back of the cabinet. My cap will go back to being a decorative fixture on my bookshelf.

And then come April I'll dust it all off and get back on this ride and see where it takes me. Next week, when my tears have dried, I'll purchase my opening day tickets.

LET'S GO METS.

*smooches...trying hard not to break down at work*
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this seriously feels like a death in the family

Hello, Weekend.

I've been waiting for you FOREVER. The stress of life is trying to kill me. Come, let me nestle in your bosom...



*smooches...hoping Monday takes its time as well*
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hope y'all have a good one, too!

Food Is My Drug: A Healthy Jaded Update

It's only a matter of time before I overdose. And by overdose I mean get diagnosed with something like diabetes or high blood pressure or death. Then I'll really have something to be all upset and mopey about.

Last time I got on a scale, maybe a month ago, I was 200lbs. TWO HUNDRED. Folks, this is not a drill. This is not a joke. Jaded is 200lbs of jiggly fat. And it's all settled in her stomach (boooo!) and tits (oh for fuck's sake!) and ass (finally!).

Booty-licious BUT that stomach, tho!

I cannot stop eating. It's like a vicious cycle: I eat these bad foods with additives that make me crave more bad foods with more additives and when I stop all I can think of is I NEED MORE BAD FOODS WITH ADDITIVES. I'm thinking about it right now. Right now. I'm imagining crispy fried chicken. Or homemade tortilla chips and guac. A trough of guac. And fries. I want all of it. I NEED all of it.

"When's the baby due, Raquel?"

And I know it's the food that has me too sluggish to go work out, keeping me from focusing on my work, writing or relationships. My finances are struggling. I'm finding it hard to "give a fuck." That's what additives do. They're the drug that makes you not care about anything. And I want to care because look at me. LOOK AT ME! I'M HIDEOUS!! I'M A FUCKING WHALE!!!

I look like a block of cheese. Gov't cheese.

I have a plan in place. In my head. Someone come over here and drag me to the gym to execute it, and while you're add it, delete my Seamless account?

This is an official cry for help. Thanks!

*smooches...wondering how long before heart attack*
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it runs in my family. I swore I wouldn't be next. but now, who knows?

Voy A Reir, Voy A Gozar

So listen. This writing life gets more frustrating by the minute. I keep thinking I'm doing something amazing, and then the support is not there.

I just re-read that line and it sounds like a refrain I've sang before. I have sung this song before! I must be crazy thinking, "This time will be different. This time I will get them to come out and support. THIS TIME FOR REAL."

And then nothing.

I don't even know what I'm doing wrong. Except maybe expecting too much from the same group of people that have already proven to not give a rat's ass for what I do. I need a new song.



That said, I truly appreciate those who do make an effort to support me. I see you! I barely remember what I had for dinner last night but I will always remember who was there for me and who wasn't.

And this isn't me putting a gypsy curse on anyone, this is just me speaking my truth.

*smooches...dancing my troubles away*
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I wish it was last year and I was at Wolf Trap with Mari waiting for Marc Anthony to take the stage. that concert was everything!

Because Bad Credit Isn't Embarrassing Enough

Tonight I met the most beautiful man.

Wait- let me back up a bit and go on a tangent.

Recently, I decided I was done dating. I don't really like myself right now and I REALLY don't like other people, and the thought of a first date makes me want to burrow INTO my sofa instead of just laying on it. And TMI but it has to be said, I don't enjoy sex. It's messy and my fibroids make the act rather painful. The thought of having to fake it YET AGAIN with someone new is too much for me right now. I don't want to. So I decided to just be done with dating because I know how you men are; no sex is a dealbreaker, right? Right.

On another tangent, having to deal with Ks tuition bills and my own suffocating debt has forced me to really face the music about my finances and crawl out of this broke-ass sinkhole once and for all. I have a great job that pays me super-well. There's no reason why I should be emptying out piggy banks at the local CoinStar machine just to buy groceries. At work, I heard about a free service offered by the City to meet with a financial counselor one-on-one and I jumped at the chance. FREE is my favorite word these days, and frankly, all I can afford until I snag up three more jobs like the third cousin twice removed of the Hedleys.



This is where both tangents meet up and give birth to the first sentence of this post.

Tonight I met the most beautiful man. He was tall, brown skin, bearded, fit, smart, well-groomed, funny, charming, and possessed the sexiest pair of lips I've seen in a very long time. He plays football, y'all. FOOTBALL. He owns his own home and other properties. He's so "good on paper" I'd sign off on a myomectomy so fast, just so that I could give him a million babies.

People, he was EVERYTHING in my imagination, at least.

Tonight I met the most beautiful man. But, because my life is a motherfucking sitcom, that man just happens to be the person who is now privy to my atrocious credit score, terrible spending habits, and irresponsibly out-of-control debt.

Touché, Jesus. I see what you did there.

*smooches...losing miserably at life*
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I've never really been good at chess but I do believe this is a checkmate situation, no?

All The Feels

"Feelings are just visitors, let them come and go." -Mooji

I don't know who this Mooji dude is (actually I used the enemy AKA Google and so I DO know who he is), but I don't like people all up in my space. I can count on one hand the people that have been to my place (outside of family, of course. You can't keep those fools out!). I don't care for visitors; probably one of the main reasons I keep such a tiny, uninviting place. And I definitely don't want FEELINGS all up in my business, too.

My real problem, though, is that only the bad feelings seem to come more often and rarely, if ever, go.

Now, I'm going to write something here because this is my blog where I share my truths, and ask that you please, PLEASE, take several chill pills. Don't send me referrals to doctors or be glib or anything. I know this is my problem and it is I, Raquel Penzo, who will solve it. Please just accept that this is something I need to write for ME. This is where I vent. I need to release it.

More and more I find that I don't have the courage to leave my apartment. That's the best word that I could think of to describe what I'm lacking, or what I feel I'm lacking. And I find that the sofa has become this safe haven where nothing can hurt me, when in fact it's the thing that's hurting me the most. That I'm eating, not for nourishment or even pleasure, but because I don't know what else to do. That I lose myself in TV and movies because the real world has become too much. That the only thing that keeps me from shutting down is that I'm responsible for two other lives besides my own that require me to hold down a job and run a household.

That every morning when the sun shines in my face, my first thought resembles this meme:

But eventually I get up. I do things. I paint on a smile and I let words escape my mouth. I crack jokes at work. I put on makeup and comb my hair. I answer phone calls and participate in silly Twitter conversations. I write irreverent blog posts and then, when it's just me and my thoughts and my sofa and my Netflix, I'm free to feel things without judgements. Even if those feelings stay too long and tell me I'm stupid and fat and ugly and useless and lazy. I just need to feel them. In private. Without witnesses.

And then, in my own time, in my own way, I can let them go. Like Mooji suggests.

*smooches...trying to live through it*
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"trying" being the operative word

My Bad, Did I Forget To Say Bye?

First, for old time's sake, some welcome back music:



OK so listen, I took another impromptu break. Whatever. Don't get all fake-upset. You clearly did just fine filling your days without me popping up in your inbox every day.

So what's new with me? Let's see...I'm still single (yeah, baby!!), K's off at college (one down, one to go), I've gained more weight and give no fucks about it, and I've finally decided to put myself on a real budget (which I really had no choice about; paying for college is a BITCH!).

N and I are settling into our non-K existence just fine so far, and I've been keeping busy trying to make my literary life bigger and better and more well-known throughout NYC. And of course, I've been ruining my eyesight and killing braincells watching TV and movies until the wee hours of the night. Writing? Yeah, not so much. But soon. SOON.

Meanwhile, it's Latino Heritage Month; be sure and hug a Mexican today or something.

So, what y'all been doing?

*smooches...only posting to keep my online fame active*
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unfortunately I need you fools to make shit happen. UGH. I hate needing people...

I'm Just Going To Stop Wishing

"...the devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for..." -Tucker Max, Assholes Finish First

*smooches...still wishing a motherfucker WOULD, though*
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I could never give that up

Staying In The 90s

I think it was comedian Jerry Seinfeld who joked about older people and their way of dressing, stating that it appears his parents selected a decade and just decided that's where they'd stay. I laughed so hard at that joke and today realized: it's true. Why? Because I'm living it. I've decided that most of what has happened after the 1990s--whether it be music or fashion--is all well and good but for the most part, it's not for me.

Given a choice, I'll always prefer baggier cuts of pants (oh how I miss my Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls!) and flannel shirts and Doc Martens. I mean, you already know I STILL own and frequently wear Docs. And today's music... I could take it or leave it.

Or maybe it's that the 90s represent the funnest, most carefree times of my life, before kids, debt, physical ailments and these extra 30lbs (she wrote while eating cheddar-flavored Sun Chips).

I still long for my dark, matte lipstick, chokers, bangs, baby doll dresses...basically Brenda Walsh's entire wardrobe from the first two seasons of Beverly Hills, 90210.

Can I get all of these in a size 12? Thanks!

Can we go back there??

*smooches...reminiscing about better days*
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look at that, my calendar says this post is right on time! now let me go buy some feminine napkins...

And Now The Real Work Begins: A Healthy Jaded Post

So remember around Christmas when I hurt my back and found out it was because an angry, toothy alien was residing in my spine and was manipulating my body like a puppet master? And I had to go to physical therapy and not work out on my own?

Right, so I decided to use all of that as an excuse to gain back a whole bunch of weight and eat a bunch of bad-for-me foods while not giving an iota of a fuck. I went from being in the low 170s to almost back in the 190s. It's truly a sad state of affairs.

Obviously there are other factors at play here that are hardly any of your business, but the fact remains that I'm a whale. A WHALE. A MOTHERFUCKING WHALE. And it's all my fault (although seamless.com, Domino's pizza and Netflix had something to do with it, too).

So I had to go back to basics, the things that worked for me the first time around. Enter my former personal trainer, Bryan Ortiz aka the Brooklyn Bad Ass, and his special brand of torture-disguised-as-fitness.

While I cried for Jesus, Bryan pointed & laughed & took pictures.

There's a long goddamned road ahead of me. I'm going to be stank, bitter, irritable and just downright nasty for at least six weeks as I retrain my brain and my body to embrace a healthy lifestyle again. And then I'm going to whine and cry and mope and overturn your desks and coffee tables in frustration. But eventually, I'll get back to normal. Whatever that is. Maybe.

You might want to steer clear of me until sometime after Halloween. Or Christmas, 2014.

*smooches...dreaming of pizza and cookies and gummy bears*
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OH MY!

10.01.97

behind my lids
images of dancing tree limbs
and tumbling leaves
flow through like silent films of
Autumn

i watch, serenely, smelling
the breeze, feeling the scents
on my cheeks, waiting for the intermission
trying to remember
where the concessions were being sold

*smooches...just trying to make it through the week*
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I figured you wouldn't rightly care if I posted a fall message in the middle of a heatwave

Love & Loss

"There is a reason I said I'd be happy alone. It wasn't because I thought I would be happy alone. It was because I thought if I loved someone and then it fell apart, I might not make it. It's easier to be alone. 

"Because what if you learn that you need love? And then you don't have it. What if you like it? And lean on it? What if you shape your life around it? And then it falls apart? 

"Can you even survive that kind of pain? Losing love is like organ damage. It's like dying. The only difference is, death ends. This? It could go on forever . . ." -Meredith Grey, "Grey's Anatomy"

*smooches...wondering how the writers crawled into my brain*
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quotables like this is why I immerse myself in TV; at least that's what I say to excuse all my TV watching. HA!

This Is 38.

There is this shift in my brain lately. One that won't let me participate in any bullshit or give a crap about nonsense. It's making me think about responsible grown-up things and formulate a bucket list. It's also making me slightly more depressed.

For a second over the weekend one of The Voices busted out with a "We just need to start drinking again. We never thought this hard when we were drinking heavily. Remember how much fun it was to pass out and wake up hungry, thirsty and not giving a fuck about thoughts? THINKING IS FOR LOSERS!" But then one of the newer, more mature Voices put that Voice in timeout.

I also had a few new health issues to deal with this weekend, one of which is heat edema. OH JOY. This might just be the summer I break down and purchase an air conditioner. I cannot and will not walk around this summer sporting CANKLES like some Fatty McFatterton and not even have a baby in nine months to show for it!

My Kim K. swole-ass feet. UGH!

But newer, more depressing and introspective thoughts aside, all of my vain Voices reminded me that We're still cute.

Florida seemed to have agreed with me.

And as the days move on and We become less and less interested in carnal and youthful things, cuteness is still something We own. The Voices and I agree that We've got cuteness on lock. No one can take that from Us. At least not yet.

Thirty-eight just feels weird, though. Like, We're not in that 35 and younger crowd anymore, but We're not 40. It just feels weird. That's basically all I am at liberty to say.

*smooches...walking around in a daze all confused*
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I would blame the heat, but I know better

Pausing

"Did you say it? 'I love you. I don't ever wanna live without you. You changed my life.' Did you say it? Make a plan. Set a goal. Work toward it. But every now and then look around. Drink it in. 'Cause this is it. It might all be gone tomorrow." -Meredith Grey, "Grey's Anatomy"

A few months ago, I found out a family member, barely 40 years old, had open-heart surgery. Say WHAT, now? Yeah, if anything will make one stop and smell the roses is coming face-to-face with mortality and possible loss... Then there's my impending visit to see what changes, if any, have occurred in Uterine Fibroid Town.

Everyone keeps telling me, "stop with the What-Ifs until you get results" but you know what? I have kids. And debt. And many pending projects. I need to have a plan A, B and C at the ready. If my fibroids have gotten significantly bigger, I will most likely have the myomectomy. Just typing that makes me sad, especially when thinking of the money I spent on naturopaths and holistic counselors to avoid that fate. But I need to be prepared for that outcome; that's how my brain works. I need worst-case scenarios planned out to help me sleep at night. I just need to lose my shit before I can make myself feel better.

So for the next few weeks, if I seem a little less accessible or enthused with what's going on in your life, you'll know why.

Now, please excuse me while I go eat my feelings...fuck a bikini summer: I want empty calories NOW!

*smooches...wishing the weather would get better & fix my mood*
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the sun would definitely lessen my stress levels. BLERG.

Look What The Cat Dragged In

Yes. I decided to pick this whole blogging thing up again. It was a very peaceful break and I truly enjoyed my time away, to the point that I toyed with shutting down altogether. But before we get into all that, we dance!



Anywhores, I decided to stay for a bit and see if maybe I can learn to love this again. The thought of quitting for good was a bit frightening, especially because the idea popped in my head during PMS Week, and we all know that's a horrible time to make major decisions. Today I woke up sans cramps, so, you know, I won't quit just yet.

So what's been happening since we last spoke? Lots! But if I tell you everything here I won't have material to last me the month, and frankly I'm trying to make it to the end of May without dippin' out again.

I will give you this much: I'm still happily employed at a job I love, I'm still writing, both my kids are relatively happy and healthy, and I'm giving my pseudo-romance another chance. AND there are cats in my cubicle; they get me through the day.

There's also a bunch of stuff to read on my other sites, too: BaobabWellness.org and RaquelPenzo.com. You should definitely stop in for a read (and see how I've been shamelessly cheating on The Jaded NYer).

How have YOU been?

*smooches...trying to get comfy in this space again*
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is anyone still even reading?

But We Will Survive In This World Of Competition

I want to apologize for skipping inspirational Friday last week; I hope you were able to get through the weekend and this whole week without it. And now it's back so rejoice and yell it from the mountaintops: Jaded is back with more motivation to help you through the tough times!

So let me tell you about my current tough-time situation: some lowlife loser is using my social security number to work illegally in this country. I know, I know, it's probably some poor unfortunate soul that came to America to make a better life for his families, BLAH BLAH BLAH. How about if it's one of Al-Qaeda's cousins going through my garbage or keying into my apartment, how would you feel then? Listen, I get it- many of the immigrants that are here without papers were probably in a bind and needed to leave wherever right away and just want to live life. BUT when you cross the line and do illegal and rude shit like STEALING someone's identity? Yeah, you are now seriously persona non grata. I don't care about your back story, son. I will hunt you down and shut down your whole world.

This is pretty much the last thing I want to deal with right now or ever. I have stories to write, kids to raise, events to plan and a pesky nine-to-five that interrupts my daily, 24-hour nap to worry about. Identity theft is just...UGH.

However this is the world I live in and this is what's happening to me right now and sitting back and ignoring it will not solve the problem. Jean-Pierre Carlos Mohammed Gupta will not be allowed to continue this charade much longer. This latest obstacle is just more proof that one cannot be idle and let life happen. We must grab the bull by the balls and say "HEY! Stop trampling my rose garden you clumsy, uncouth riffraff!"

I'm just going to take a few deep breaths and then dive into the situation. It's what grown-ups do. It's what you should do with your current obstacles, too. Hopefully Bob will help us remain calm along the way.



*smooches...hoping I don't have to kill somebody*
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I've never snapped a human neck but I'm sure I could enjoy it.

It's No Longer About Weight Loss: A Healthy Jaded Update

I've been to see another holistic counselor. It's not cheap, but I'm choosing to see it as a necessary expense in my quest to find peace in this skin.

I realized the error I made with the others: I was focused too much on losing weight. "I want to drop about 20 more pounds" would always come before "I'd like to do something non-surgical about these fibroids." With this new counselor I did the reverse. I told her in no uncertain terms that I care not about weight loss anymore; I just DON'T want to go under the knife. I want to not have these things pressing on my bladder and colon. I want to feel better!

After a couple of sessions and a plan of action, I feel confident this will work for me. Of course, it's requiring a lot of discipline on my part, and you already know how rebellious I can be. More than anything, though, I'm working on wrapping my head around the lifestyle change I have to make for the long haul. I can no longer avoid it. Forty is creeping up on me and before you know it HERE COMES FIFTY!

Of course, once menopause sets in the fibroids cease to be an issue, but in the meantime I'm in a battle for my health. If, as a side effect of living cleaner, I happen to lose a few pounds here and there, well goody for me.

*smooches...working on being a better me*
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again.

TRUTH.COM

DAUGHTER: There should be a pill you can take to make love go away.

MOTHER: Why would you want to make love go away? It's hard enough to find it in the first place.

*smooches...hoping you find love every day in every thing*
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and all that other bullshit...

(dialogue is taken from the remake of the film The Women starring Meg Ryan)