I know what you're thinking- "Jaded, Violent Pacifist is a blatant contradiction!" But let me explain.
Deep inside of me is an anger so fierce I'm almost certain that, if left unchecked, I could murder someone with my bare hands and go on about my day as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. I know that this anger resides here, so I enlist the help of The Voices to suppress it. It's actually the only thing all of us agree on: The Anger must never be unleashed!
I do things like exercise (boxing is AWESOME for quelling The Anger, as are the martial arts) or dive into a funny show or movie or read a good Stephen King novel in order to stay on the right side of the law and it always works. Want me to not kill you? Hand me a copy of "'Salem's Lot" and we'll be cool.
This revelation stems from a quick conversation I had with a co-worker in which I admitted that I don't argue. Ever. If someone raises their voice to me I always STFU and walk away. My standard answer as to why I don't argue used to be "Because it's pointless." The truth is, yelling awakens The Anger, and The Anger will fashion a weapon out of whatever is nearby and slit your throat. Plain and simple.
If I've ever hung up on you or given you the silent treatment or simply removed you from my life, you should be thanking me. I did it because had I not, The Anger would have taken your life. Your entire life. And then sat down to a plate of Pop Tarts to watch old episodes of "Calliou" on Netflix.
See, I don't like violence. Really I don't. Gory scenes in movies repulse me, I loathe watching a boxing match (I enjoy the class for the sake of exercise, but the sport is quite unsavory to me) and those 'girl fight' videos running wild in these internets make me so sad. I hate that we need a military and that said military is all over the place having to shoot at people. I hate that my family in DR has to employ any number of security measures, including sitting on the porch with a shotgun, in order to prevent home invasions. I hate that this country is OK with condemning someone to die - DIE - at the hands of the state and using my tax dollars to do it. I loathe every minute of all that shit!
So I suppose I became a pacifist in response to The Anger. It's everything I never want to be yet there it is, inside of me. Waiting for you to push the wrong motherfucking button.
*smooches...preferring cotton candy to corpses*
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and I don't even LIKE cotton candy, but whatever it takes to avoid that orange jumpsuit, right?
Showing posts with label What It's Like.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label What It's Like.... Show all posts
Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
What It's Like To Suffer From Dysmenorrhea
It's not an uncommon diagnosis. In fact, dare I say, it's a catch-all term for the myriad of symptoms associated with menstruating- from severe cramping to back-aches, nausea and in some, depression.
Yours truly is lucky enough to have all of these symptoms every month, along with breast tenderness, weird food cravings, bloating, excessive thirst, fatigue, migraines and just for kick, sometimes even acne likes to join the party. Let me give you an exclusive sneak peek into the life of someone who has dysmenorrhea.
It all begins two weeks before my period is due: I start to feel a bit bloated and my cravings for salty foods shifts into overdrive. I want to eat things like chicken fingers, fries, potato chips and lunch meat, the latter craving being super annoying given that I don't even LIKE or EAT lunch meat. Just the thought of all those nitrites in my body...BLECH!
My mood starts to shift, too. I begin to say and do mean things just because. I can't really control it, it just escapes me before I have a chance to catch it and bury it away. People's feelings usually end up getting hurt. Phones are hurled across the room. Babies are punished. Tantrums are thrown. I become increasingly annoyed with everyone and everything, and the slightest bump in the road will reduce me to angry tears in 2.5 nanoseconds. Then my face starts to break out, which just makes things awesomer!
In the week leading up to Doomsday, the bloat is super obvious and the skin breakouts have me super depressed and not wanting to leave my house. Then comes the headaches- random and out of nowhere- that threaten to shut my whole life down. THEN, as if I haven't suffered enough, I get really, truly, absolutely depressed. I mean 100% struggling to find the strength to keep going. I don't want to do anything, talk to anyone or even breathe.
Finally, on day one of that cursed day of menstruation, the pain. No, excuse me, it should be written as such: THEEEEEE PAAAAIIIIINNNNNNNNN. It is not unlike a thousand dirty bombs going off inside my uterus in one-minute intervals. I'm actually reduced to doing my Lamaze breathing while curled up in the fetal position to get through it all. By day two it has calmed down some (I will not discuss the heavy bleeding...not even I have the stomach to really go into all that), but on day three my period is all, "YOU THINK YOU BIG TIME?! WELL YOU'RE GONNA DIE, BIG TIME!!!" and it's not lying because I do pray for death. I stare at my kitchen knives and think, "I watched all 15 seasons of ER. Surely I can remove my own uterus without a problem..."
Day four and five brings some relief and my sanity returns, even in the face of lingering nausea. I no longer want to stab things, but my back gets incredibly achy so I become annoyed with life because I can't find a comfortable position in which to sit or sleep. And then ::cue choir of angels:: day seven arrives and I'm one day away from a whole week and a half of sweet, sweet freedom from my hormones' control over my life. Birds chirp, everything seems possible, flowers smell great!
People have said to me, "Once you have kids the symptoms will stop," or "Once you get in shape/fit, you'll see that the cramps are a thing of the past." To that I say LIAR!!!!!!!!! I've had TWO kids and still, the cramps rule my world. I've been working out since March and you know what? YUP. CRAMPS. RULE. MY. WORLD.
The only way to deal with this is to accept it as a fact of life and make accommodations to keep from annihilating small villages and/or jumping off the clock tower in downtown Brooklyn. So far I've found that sleep, Netflix and homemade ginger beer from Cheryl's Global Soul help. A lot.
*smooches...in the homestretch, anticipating August's Doomsday*
----------
hide ya kids, hide ya fried chicken...
Yours truly is lucky enough to have all of these symptoms every month, along with breast tenderness, weird food cravings, bloating, excessive thirst, fatigue, migraines and just for kick, sometimes even acne likes to join the party. Let me give you an exclusive sneak peek into the life of someone who has dysmenorrhea.
It all begins two weeks before my period is due: I start to feel a bit bloated and my cravings for salty foods shifts into overdrive. I want to eat things like chicken fingers, fries, potato chips and lunch meat, the latter craving being super annoying given that I don't even LIKE or EAT lunch meat. Just the thought of all those nitrites in my body...BLECH!
My mood starts to shift, too. I begin to say and do mean things just because. I can't really control it, it just escapes me before I have a chance to catch it and bury it away. People's feelings usually end up getting hurt. Phones are hurled across the room. Babies are punished. Tantrums are thrown. I become increasingly annoyed with everyone and everything, and the slightest bump in the road will reduce me to angry tears in 2.5 nanoseconds. Then my face starts to break out, which just makes things awesomer!
In the week leading up to Doomsday, the bloat is super obvious and the skin breakouts have me super depressed and not wanting to leave my house. Then comes the headaches- random and out of nowhere- that threaten to shut my whole life down. THEN, as if I haven't suffered enough, I get really, truly, absolutely depressed. I mean 100% struggling to find the strength to keep going. I don't want to do anything, talk to anyone or even breathe.
Finally, on day one of that cursed day of menstruation, the pain. No, excuse me, it should be written as such: THEEEEEE PAAAAIIIIINNNNNNNNN. It is not unlike a thousand dirty bombs going off inside my uterus in one-minute intervals. I'm actually reduced to doing my Lamaze breathing while curled up in the fetal position to get through it all. By day two it has calmed down some (I will not discuss the heavy bleeding...not even I have the stomach to really go into all that), but on day three my period is all, "YOU THINK YOU BIG TIME?! WELL YOU'RE GONNA DIE, BIG TIME!!!" and it's not lying because I do pray for death. I stare at my kitchen knives and think, "I watched all 15 seasons of ER. Surely I can remove my own uterus without a problem..."
Day four and five brings some relief and my sanity returns, even in the face of lingering nausea. I no longer want to stab things, but my back gets incredibly achy so I become annoyed with life because I can't find a comfortable position in which to sit or sleep. And then ::cue choir of angels:: day seven arrives and I'm one day away from a whole week and a half of sweet, sweet freedom from my hormones' control over my life. Birds chirp, everything seems possible, flowers smell great!
People have said to me, "Once you have kids the symptoms will stop," or "Once you get in shape/fit, you'll see that the cramps are a thing of the past." To that I say LIAR!!!!!!!!! I've had TWO kids and still, the cramps rule my world. I've been working out since March and you know what? YUP. CRAMPS. RULE. MY. WORLD.
The only way to deal with this is to accept it as a fact of life and make accommodations to keep from annihilating small villages and/or jumping off the clock tower in downtown Brooklyn. So far I've found that sleep, Netflix and homemade ginger beer from Cheryl's Global Soul help. A lot.
*smooches...in the homestretch, anticipating August's Doomsday*
----------
hide ya kids, hide ya fried chicken...
Friday, December 10, 2010
What It's Like To Live With Vertigo
One day back in 2001, I had the strangest feeling, as if the room were spinning out of control. It made me incredibly nauseous and equally frightened because of course my hypochondriac-ass was thinking BRAIN TUMOR.
After a few bouts of “spinny-room” I went to see my doctor. YES, back then I had a physician whom I saw regularly. A wonderful German woman, who pulled no punches, wrote no prescriptions unless I needed it desperately and had me in and out of that office in a reasonable amount of time. I miss her. And during that very weird exam where she made me lay down and then moved my head up and down and around super quickly to see if it made me sick, she determined it was vertigo and sent me to see an otolaryngologist (ENT) for a second opinion.
The ENT examined my ears and throat (I was also complaining of some weird white spots in the back of my throat that I thought to be throat cancer; it was just calcium deposits built up in the pockets of my tonsils) and also concluded it was vertigo (benign positional vertigo to be exact), and gave me some medicine for motion sickness (that, by the way, doesn't work because it makes you drowsy and useless).
That first year I was diagnosed it was seriously a problem for me. At first I cracked jokes and all (there's a film about my disease!) but picture it: Riverdale, 2001…
It’s a weekday and you begin to come out of your sleep coma and you feel like someone is moving your bed around. It almost feels like your whole world has been placed on top of a Sit ‘n Spin that you can't control. Once the room stops moving, you take a deep breath and attempt to get up, but even the slightest movement of any part of your body, especially turning yourself slightly to the side, activates the Sit 'n Spin happening in your head.
You get queasy. You don't want to throw up but you know it's near, and all you can think is, "I'm going to puke on myself because I will never be able to make it to the toilet with the room spinning like this!" It goes on nonstop anywhere from 5-30 minutes to hours, and all you can do is lie there and take it like a bitch.
Because that's exactly what I've become- my inner ear's bitch.
I was told there was no cure for this because, well, what is there a cure for these days? Like Chris Rock said- there's no money in a cure; the money's in the comeback! But HA! I fooled them! I REFUSE to take the drug and taught my body to just relax, sit still and sleep it away. And when that stops working, I will try one of these new-agey exercises I found online.
Take THAT pharmaceutical companies!!
*smooches...admitting to a tiny flaw*
----------
and not to be crass, but this damn vertigo also keeps me from roller coaster rides and certain jungalistic activities that I used to enjoy... ol' cock-blockin' vertigo... *sigh*
After a few bouts of “spinny-room” I went to see my doctor. YES, back then I had a physician whom I saw regularly. A wonderful German woman, who pulled no punches, wrote no prescriptions unless I needed it desperately and had me in and out of that office in a reasonable amount of time. I miss her. And during that very weird exam where she made me lay down and then moved my head up and down and around super quickly to see if it made me sick, she determined it was vertigo and sent me to see an otolaryngologist (ENT) for a second opinion.
The ENT examined my ears and throat (I was also complaining of some weird white spots in the back of my throat that I thought to be throat cancer; it was just calcium deposits built up in the pockets of my tonsils) and also concluded it was vertigo (benign positional vertigo to be exact), and gave me some medicine for motion sickness (that, by the way, doesn't work because it makes you drowsy and useless).
That first year I was diagnosed it was seriously a problem for me. At first I cracked jokes and all (there's a film about my disease!) but picture it: Riverdale, 2001…
It’s a weekday and you begin to come out of your sleep coma and you feel like someone is moving your bed around. It almost feels like your whole world has been placed on top of a Sit ‘n Spin that you can't control. Once the room stops moving, you take a deep breath and attempt to get up, but even the slightest movement of any part of your body, especially turning yourself slightly to the side, activates the Sit 'n Spin happening in your head.
You get queasy. You don't want to throw up but you know it's near, and all you can think is, "I'm going to puke on myself because I will never be able to make it to the toilet with the room spinning like this!" It goes on nonstop anywhere from 5-30 minutes to hours, and all you can do is lie there and take it like a bitch.
Because that's exactly what I've become- my inner ear's bitch.
I was told there was no cure for this because, well, what is there a cure for these days? Like Chris Rock said- there's no money in a cure; the money's in the comeback! But HA! I fooled them! I REFUSE to take the drug and taught my body to just relax, sit still and sleep it away. And when that stops working, I will try one of these new-agey exercises I found online.
Take THAT pharmaceutical companies!!
*smooches...admitting to a tiny flaw*
----------
and not to be crass, but this damn vertigo also keeps me from roller coaster rides and certain jungalistic activities that I used to enjoy... ol' cock-blockin' vertigo... *sigh*
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
What It's Like To Be A Writer (Like Me)
Sometimes, it's a simple sentence that will resonate in my head, that will fascinate me so much that from it will arise a paragraph. And from that paragraph, a scene. And I'll sit back with that scene, playing it on a loop over & over again in my head, until somewhere along the fifth or sixth take The Voices will get it right.
Sometimes, it's a dream so vivid that I cannot deny its existence. The dream begs to be written down with its bizarre circumstances and troubling cast of characters. Whether it's the Mob chasing me or Grandma overfeeding me (right before I became pregnant with N, mind you) my dreams explode onto the page almost completely out of my control, hands cramping and stained with ink.
Sometimes it's a memory that won't go away. A wrong that I cannot right unless I deliver it to FictionLand. A memory that gets so twisted up in my head that I cannot recall if it's true or made up. Within the story I am relieved of my guilt, I can be the White Knight and all is right (whether or not it needed to be righted in the first place).
And sometimes A story is born from the what ifs that linger in my mind. What if I'd done that line of coke with those Klan Alpine brothers? What if I'd lost my virginity at 13? What if I'd never moved upstate and attended St. John's as an undergrad instead? Who would I be? What would I be doing? All of this serve as fodder for my creative meanderings.
That is the point when pen meets paper. And so ferociously so that I cannot ever have enough pens nor enough paper by my side.
My journey from concept to completed tale changes daily. It's like taking a different train every day to get to Times Square. Sometimes I may even use a writing prompt (because even MASTERS OF FINE ARTS could use a little push in the right direction) and sometimes I'll read and read or watch hours upon hours of movies & scripted television programming until I find my inspiration. Sometimes, being around other writers will do the trick.
But in the end, all roads lead to genius, as evidenced here. It is why you keep coming back, Monday thru Friday, to see what else I could possibly have to say. It is why I haven't stormed out of my meager job even though I loathe it. And it is why I cannot give up this dream: you WILL see my books on the shelves and you WILL be lining up to get your copy autographed.
"So it is written, so shall it be done."
*smooches...wondering why I let you in my brain so much*
----------
maybe it's because it sucks being the only sane one in here... these damn Voices are NUTS!
Sometimes, it's a dream so vivid that I cannot deny its existence. The dream begs to be written down with its bizarre circumstances and troubling cast of characters. Whether it's the Mob chasing me or Grandma overfeeding me (right before I became pregnant with N, mind you) my dreams explode onto the page almost completely out of my control, hands cramping and stained with ink.
Sometimes it's a memory that won't go away. A wrong that I cannot right unless I deliver it to FictionLand. A memory that gets so twisted up in my head that I cannot recall if it's true or made up. Within the story I am relieved of my guilt, I can be the White Knight and all is right (whether or not it needed to be righted in the first place).
And sometimes A story is born from the what ifs that linger in my mind. What if I'd done that line of coke with those Klan Alpine brothers? What if I'd lost my virginity at 13? What if I'd never moved upstate and attended St. John's as an undergrad instead? Who would I be? What would I be doing? All of this serve as fodder for my creative meanderings.
That is the point when pen meets paper. And so ferociously so that I cannot ever have enough pens nor enough paper by my side.
My journey from concept to completed tale changes daily. It's like taking a different train every day to get to Times Square. Sometimes I may even use a writing prompt (because even MASTERS OF FINE ARTS could use a little push in the right direction) and sometimes I'll read and read or watch hours upon hours of movies & scripted television programming until I find my inspiration. Sometimes, being around other writers will do the trick.
But in the end, all roads lead to genius, as evidenced here. It is why you keep coming back, Monday thru Friday, to see what else I could possibly have to say. It is why I haven't stormed out of my meager job even though I loathe it. And it is why I cannot give up this dream: you WILL see my books on the shelves and you WILL be lining up to get your copy autographed.
"So it is written, so shall it be done."
*smooches...wondering why I let you in my brain so much*
----------
maybe it's because it sucks being the only sane one in here... these damn Voices are NUTS!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
What It's Like To Not Be Able To Breathe
Those of you who enjoy the privilege of being able to freely inhale oxygen through your nose all year around can kiss my flat, jiggly non-bootylicious ass. For real.
I cannot recall a time when I've been able to breathe completely through my nose. And one would think with a nose THIS SIZE I'd be able to get my share of air and then some, right? Wrong.
I'm always stuffed up. Always. And when spring rolls around it worsens by 100%. And when it's a full-fledged cold/fever it worsens by 1000%.
Someone once suggested I get my sinuses drained, but when I looked up the procedure 1- it looked like some sort of medieval torture routine and 2- it's not a permanent solution. Meaning in as little as 2 years I'd have to go back and have it done all over again. NEGATIVE!
Didn't Chris Rock tell us this? The medical community don't want a cure... there's no money in a cure. The money is in the come back.
So fuck all them hoes... there will be no sinus drainage for me.
In the meantime, let me take you through what I go through with my damn nasal passages ALL THE FREAKIN TIME...
1- I begin to notice that my usually semi-stuffed nose is completely closed off on one side. I apply Vick's at night and hope for the best.
2- Then both nostrils decide to completely shut down for about 87% of the time I'm awake. HOWEVER, there is the added bonus that said shut down nostrils will still drip like a leaky faucet. I apply more Vick's and take steam baths. My vitamin C & hot beverage consumption increases.
3- I start sneezing. This usually starts at about April and ends in June... lucky me. Sometimes I'll sneeze so much that my chest will begin to hurt, as will my head. I load up on packs of tissues.
4- The headache gets worse, especially right behind my eyes and it makes it hard for me to see w/out squinting. At this point my body starts to shut down because it wants me to go to sleep so it can fight the sickness. Enter drowsy, medicine head feeling- w/out the damn medicine!
(my body is good/bad that way... GOOD because it can fight off anything on it's own effectively w/out drugs, but BAD because I need to be asleep for this to happen. Not cool when you have kids & a job & responsibilities n shit)
5- Vertigo decides to join the damn party! The real downside of any ear-nose-throat(ENT) problems I encounter is that it's made worse by the fact that I have vertigo. So any tiny allergy fit or head cold is magnified by the fact that the room will start spinning once I try to move.
6- Appetite goes buh-bye. I can't smell which means I can't taste PLUS I have a belly full of post-nasal drip and the vertigo makes me nauseous... yeah, food is not a priority for me during this time. Which is saying a lot because y'all have seen my belly. You know I love to eat.
7- On rare occasions I will also lose my voice. This doesn't usually happen until the winter months but it does happen every year like clockwork. That's when I get the trifecta of sickness: sore throat, stuffed nose and vertigo... an ENT doc's dream come true!
8- I inevitably have to take a day to just sleep it all off. Sometimes it works like gangbusters and other days, like today, it makes me re-think my NO DRUGS policy... like maybe if I downed a whole bottle of Benedryl or NyQuil or something I could be me again.
9- While on said day off I'll either A- get stupid, work-related phone calls that drive me up the wall or B- have wayyyy to much quiet time with The Voices, in which they proceed to tell me about every thing I've done to fuck up my life. Nice, right?
10- Finally, after many applications of Vick's, countless steam baths and packs of tissues, and forcing myself to take some pain meds for my headache, I reluctantly rejoin the world. Still stuffy and drowsy and dizzy, only this time wreaking of eucalyptus and high on Aleve.
Yay, Life!
But PS- Don't sit next to me on the train if you know what's good for you...
*smooches...but from a distance, in case I'm contagious*
----------
and now I'm going back to bed FOR REAL, because I think Lady Estrogen and her minions forgot a few points to mention in their "1,001 Reason Why Raquel Ain't Shit" speech.
I cannot recall a time when I've been able to breathe completely through my nose. And one would think with a nose THIS SIZE I'd be able to get my share of air and then some, right? Wrong.
I'm always stuffed up. Always. And when spring rolls around it worsens by 100%. And when it's a full-fledged cold/fever it worsens by 1000%.
Someone once suggested I get my sinuses drained, but when I looked up the procedure 1- it looked like some sort of medieval torture routine and 2- it's not a permanent solution. Meaning in as little as 2 years I'd have to go back and have it done all over again. NEGATIVE!
Didn't Chris Rock tell us this? The medical community don't want a cure... there's no money in a cure. The money is in the come back.
So fuck all them hoes... there will be no sinus drainage for me.
In the meantime, let me take you through what I go through with my damn nasal passages ALL THE FREAKIN TIME...
1- I begin to notice that my usually semi-stuffed nose is completely closed off on one side. I apply Vick's at night and hope for the best.
2- Then both nostrils decide to completely shut down for about 87% of the time I'm awake. HOWEVER, there is the added bonus that said shut down nostrils will still drip like a leaky faucet. I apply more Vick's and take steam baths. My vitamin C & hot beverage consumption increases.
3- I start sneezing. This usually starts at about April and ends in June... lucky me. Sometimes I'll sneeze so much that my chest will begin to hurt, as will my head. I load up on packs of tissues.
4- The headache gets worse, especially right behind my eyes and it makes it hard for me to see w/out squinting. At this point my body starts to shut down because it wants me to go to sleep so it can fight the sickness. Enter drowsy, medicine head feeling- w/out the damn medicine!
(my body is good/bad that way... GOOD because it can fight off anything on it's own effectively w/out drugs, but BAD because I need to be asleep for this to happen. Not cool when you have kids & a job & responsibilities n shit)
5- Vertigo decides to join the damn party! The real downside of any ear-nose-throat(ENT) problems I encounter is that it's made worse by the fact that I have vertigo. So any tiny allergy fit or head cold is magnified by the fact that the room will start spinning once I try to move.
6- Appetite goes buh-bye. I can't smell which means I can't taste PLUS I have a belly full of post-nasal drip and the vertigo makes me nauseous... yeah, food is not a priority for me during this time. Which is saying a lot because y'all have seen my belly. You know I love to eat.
7- On rare occasions I will also lose my voice. This doesn't usually happen until the winter months but it does happen every year like clockwork. That's when I get the trifecta of sickness: sore throat, stuffed nose and vertigo... an ENT doc's dream come true!
8- I inevitably have to take a day to just sleep it all off. Sometimes it works like gangbusters and other days, like today, it makes me re-think my NO DRUGS policy... like maybe if I downed a whole bottle of Benedryl or NyQuil or something I could be me again.
9- While on said day off I'll either A- get stupid, work-related phone calls that drive me up the wall or B- have wayyyy to much quiet time with The Voices, in which they proceed to tell me about every thing I've done to fuck up my life. Nice, right?
10- Finally, after many applications of Vick's, countless steam baths and packs of tissues, and forcing myself to take some pain meds for my headache, I reluctantly rejoin the world. Still stuffy and drowsy and dizzy, only this time wreaking of eucalyptus and high on Aleve.
Yay, Life!
But PS- Don't sit next to me on the train if you know what's good for you...
*smooches...but from a distance, in case I'm contagious*
----------
and now I'm going back to bed FOR REAL, because I think Lady Estrogen and her minions forgot a few points to mention in their "1,001 Reason Why Raquel Ain't Shit" speech.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
What It's Like To Live In NYC
I've known people who've said, "NYC is nice but I could never live there."
To those people I say, "There is no better place to live."
And before you non-NYers come at me with your "Albuquerque is the BIZNIZ" or "Nothing beats Salt Lake City in the summertime," and you disillusioned NYers start up with the "It's so different now" and "I can't afford it here anymore," please remember that it will all fall on deaf ears.
Because New York City is the shit- I know it, you know it, I know you know it and you know that I know you know it. So stop frontin' and hatin' and sit back and enjoy my New York.
Living here, especially as someone who was born and raised here, is like always being on the VIP list to the newest, hottest club.
The food and drink is flowing, the DJ is always playing my favorite song, and all the dudes are 6'2", chocolaty, buff Adonises who want nothing more than to dance with me all night.
New York is my oasis in the midst of chaos
the sirens are my lullaby, and
the ever-changing landscape a silent film outside my window
New York allows me to be international without leaving the five boroughs: You want authentic Italian food? That's what Little Italy is for. Longing for Russian conversation? Visit the pockets of Russian neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Can't find the herbs and roots you need to make the remedios your mami used to make? Yes you can- right in Corona, Queens!
Sometimes the best part of living here is going away for little bit and then coming back, seeing New York through the eyes of a tourist as if for the first time, taking the train one extra stop and walking back, discovering a quaint little block you didn't even know existed.
Of course, there is a flip side... sometimes living here feels like one is the tenant of a slumlord who litters, plays his music too loud, cares little for the human condition and would stab his mother in the throat for $1.00. And that part certainly sucks big donkey dick.
And it's sometimes a very lonely place. One can really get lost in the crowd here- good sometimes but bad most days. The only way to shine sometimes is to act a straight fool.
But these "cons" just add to the charm and appeal of the city- the good, the bad and the hot ghetto mess.
Walking through the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens.
West 4th Street on a hot and muggy garbage day in August
The Lord & Taylor windows and Christmastime.
The homeless guy taking a shit in your subway car.
Your favorite pizza place in Bay Ridge.
The police tape wrapped around the building next door.
It's all a part of this great city that I adore so much.
I love that I know (or can easily find out) how to get anywhere from anywhere without a car- just my two feet and a loaded MetroCard is all I ever need.
But the absolute best part? Even at 4AM the subway is full of the proverbial "melting pot" of people- the college kids back from a bender, the older couple who just left a dinner party, the busboys and barbacks getting off the late shift, and me- we're all tired, we're all trying to get home, and we're all happy to have a seat on the subway in the greatest city in the world.
*smooches...hoping I never ever really leave for good*
----------
I know I have a love/hate relationship with this place, and sometimes I want to run screaming from here and live out my days on some remote island in the South Pacific, but who am I kidding? This is my home, for better or worse!
now tell me- what do you love about NY???
To those people I say, "There is no better place to live."
And before you non-NYers come at me with your "Albuquerque is the BIZNIZ" or "Nothing beats Salt Lake City in the summertime," and you disillusioned NYers start up with the "It's so different now" and "I can't afford it here anymore," please remember that it will all fall on deaf ears.
Because New York City is the shit- I know it, you know it, I know you know it and you know that I know you know it. So stop frontin' and hatin' and sit back and enjoy my New York.
Living here, especially as someone who was born and raised here, is like always being on the VIP list to the newest, hottest club.
The food and drink is flowing, the DJ is always playing my favorite song, and all the dudes are 6'2", chocolaty, buff Adonises who want nothing more than to dance with me all night.
New York is my oasis in the midst of chaos
the sirens are my lullaby, and
the ever-changing landscape a silent film outside my window
New York allows me to be international without leaving the five boroughs: You want authentic Italian food? That's what Little Italy is for. Longing for Russian conversation? Visit the pockets of Russian neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Can't find the herbs and roots you need to make the remedios your mami used to make? Yes you can- right in Corona, Queens!
Sometimes the best part of living here is going away for little bit and then coming back, seeing New York through the eyes of a tourist as if for the first time, taking the train one extra stop and walking back, discovering a quaint little block you didn't even know existed.
Of course, there is a flip side... sometimes living here feels like one is the tenant of a slumlord who litters, plays his music too loud, cares little for the human condition and would stab his mother in the throat for $1.00. And that part certainly sucks big donkey dick.
And it's sometimes a very lonely place. One can really get lost in the crowd here- good sometimes but bad most days. The only way to shine sometimes is to act a straight fool.
But these "cons" just add to the charm and appeal of the city- the good, the bad and the hot ghetto mess.
Walking through the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens.
West 4th Street on a hot and muggy garbage day in August
The Lord & Taylor windows and Christmastime.
The homeless guy taking a shit in your subway car.
Your favorite pizza place in Bay Ridge.
The police tape wrapped around the building next door.
It's all a part of this great city that I adore so much.
I love that I know (or can easily find out) how to get anywhere from anywhere without a car- just my two feet and a loaded MetroCard is all I ever need.
But the absolute best part? Even at 4AM the subway is full of the proverbial "melting pot" of people- the college kids back from a bender, the older couple who just left a dinner party, the busboys and barbacks getting off the late shift, and me- we're all tired, we're all trying to get home, and we're all happy to have a seat on the subway in the greatest city in the world.
*smooches...hoping I never ever really leave for good*
----------
I know I have a love/hate relationship with this place, and sometimes I want to run screaming from here and live out my days on some remote island in the South Pacific, but who am I kidding? This is my home, for better or worse!
now tell me- what do you love about NY???
Thursday, July 24, 2008
What It's Like To Be A First Generation Dominican-American
It's like, going to sleep with your boat tied up nice and neat at the marina, but waking up in the open sea. And one day being okay with it but the next day being scared shitless that you won't be able to find your way back to shore.
In my head, it's like that.
I have the best, and the worst, of both worlds. It's a constant struggle trying to straddle two cultures, trying to honor and be true to both.
I went through phases where it was DR IS THE BEST one day to I COULD NEVER LEAVE NY EVER the next. It's still this way.
When someone asks me my favorite song it's hard because I'm like, "In English or Spanish?" Who can choose between Fernandito and Prince? Not me, that's for sure.
Growing up knowing that your people went through hell and went without and made so many sacrifices just so that you could be born HERE... that shit weighs heavy on your shoulders. That makes you think HERE is better that THERE, but then they also tell you not to put too much stock in HERE, to settle THERE with one of THEM, and, hey, guess what? Don't worry about funeral arrangements... you see this slot here in the family tomb? That one is yours. Gee. Thanks.
There's pressure... you're the GREAT WHITE HOPE because you've managed to figure out how to be HERE and play the game like a native; you're like a spy. Except that every little mistake is scrutinized and thrown back at you.
"My mother didn't come here and take in people's wash so you can play around and flunk out of college."
I know she didn't. That's not why I flunked. Please just let me breathe. If I could just be allowed to breathe I'd be fine.
If my professors would stop stressing my occasional use of Spanish in my stories, if my elders would let go of the fact that YES, I date Black men and my friends are Black because HELLO, MCFLY, you raised me in a Black neighborhood, if I didn't have to choose between Team DR and Team USA in the World Baseball Classic... then maybe I could breathe.
If I didn't get the side eye for my gringa ways from Dominicans, and another side eye from Americans for my chancletas and rolos... too Latina for the Americans, too American for the Latinos... then maybe I could breathe.
Yes, the U.S. fed me, but DR made me. Why do I have to choose? How can I possibly choose between what gave me life and what nurtured it? And are they really that different after all?
The babies don't speak Spanish. I know. I'm sorry. You think I don't know? Calling me to complain about it...wasting my daytime minutes on a TransAtlantic call to ask why? Are you for real?
And they are darker than YOU'd both like. I know this, too. But I'm still not going to relax their hair so both of YOU, stop asking. Really. Stop.
I want to be a good daughter, I do. I want to make YOU proud. I really do.
But how? Tell me how to please YOU and THEM and still have a moment left for ME... to BREATHE...
*smooches...opening a vein for which there is no real band-aid*
-----------
and just so you know... from now on I will NOT be italicizing the Spanish I write. to hell with those who don't know what it means. I know what it means...
In my head, it's like that.
I have the best, and the worst, of both worlds. It's a constant struggle trying to straddle two cultures, trying to honor and be true to both.
I went through phases where it was DR IS THE BEST one day to I COULD NEVER LEAVE NY EVER the next. It's still this way.
When someone asks me my favorite song it's hard because I'm like, "In English or Spanish?" Who can choose between Fernandito and Prince? Not me, that's for sure.
Growing up knowing that your people went through hell and went without and made so many sacrifices just so that you could be born HERE... that shit weighs heavy on your shoulders. That makes you think HERE is better that THERE, but then they also tell you not to put too much stock in HERE, to settle THERE with one of THEM, and, hey, guess what? Don't worry about funeral arrangements... you see this slot here in the family tomb? That one is yours. Gee. Thanks.
There's pressure... you're the GREAT WHITE HOPE because you've managed to figure out how to be HERE and play the game like a native; you're like a spy. Except that every little mistake is scrutinized and thrown back at you.
"My mother didn't come here and take in people's wash so you can play around and flunk out of college."
I know she didn't. That's not why I flunked. Please just let me breathe. If I could just be allowed to breathe I'd be fine.
If my professors would stop stressing my occasional use of Spanish in my stories, if my elders would let go of the fact that YES, I date Black men and my friends are Black because HELLO, MCFLY, you raised me in a Black neighborhood, if I didn't have to choose between Team DR and Team USA in the World Baseball Classic... then maybe I could breathe.
If I didn't get the side eye for my gringa ways from Dominicans, and another side eye from Americans for my chancletas and rolos... too Latina for the Americans, too American for the Latinos... then maybe I could breathe.
Yes, the U.S. fed me, but DR made me. Why do I have to choose? How can I possibly choose between what gave me life and what nurtured it? And are they really that different after all?
The babies don't speak Spanish. I know. I'm sorry. You think I don't know? Calling me to complain about it...wasting my daytime minutes on a TransAtlantic call to ask why? Are you for real?
And they are darker than YOU'd both like. I know this, too. But I'm still not going to relax their hair so both of YOU, stop asking. Really. Stop.
I want to be a good daughter, I do. I want to make YOU proud. I really do.
But how? Tell me how to please YOU and THEM and still have a moment left for ME... to BREATHE...
*smooches...opening a vein for which there is no real band-aid*
-----------
and just so you know... from now on I will NOT be italicizing the Spanish I write. to hell with those who don't know what it means. I know what it means...
Friday, May 30, 2008
What It's Like To Have A Good Relationship With Your Ex
This seemed fitting, seeing as lately all around me there has been some hostility between ex-lovers, husbands, wives, etc. And it all seems so silly to me, especially when there are children involved. Not to be all holier than thou and what not but damn- why can't people learn when to just let shit go?
I guess I just wanted to show that it doesn't have to be a bunch of hateration and game playing (NATE!) and using kids as pawns (Puta Face, I'm looking at you...), that there can be a light at the end of the crazy divorce or break-up tunnel, and I know because I'm so there!
My marriage was BLECH- you know this, I know this, hell HE knows this. And when it ended I think we both saw it coming a mile away but were too passive aggressive to actually make a move. Of course, not to put anyone on blast *wink wink*, but the solicitation of WHORES via Craigslist will put an end to any relationship... in my humble opinion. (Ok, that was mean but whatever... ain't neva said I was perfect...)
But after the initial blow up, which found me in a lawyer's office off Jamaica Avenue and him yelling at me over the phone, "Why is the computer password protected all of a sudden?" we agreed to meet over coffee to decide on the terms of the separation and subsequent divorce, so as to make everything fair, quick and as painless as possible.
Which basically means I got everything I asked for and he signed on the dotted line.
And y'all must be like "What a fucking punk!" but no- he was very smart. Actually, we both were; the divorce was the smartest thing we ever did, and seeing as we both had deep, deep academic backgrounds we approached this with reason. As in, he agreed to all of my terms because he is a reasonable man and saw that my terms were reasonable, too.
(No, I will not disclose them here! Damn! Mind yo bizniz!!!)
For us, the bottom line was the well-being of the kids above all else- above our comfort level, pride and personal problems. Whatever disdain I still felt for him the fact remained that he was not going anywhere, so I could choose to be bitter about it or make some sweet ass lemonade that I could sip on the wrap-around porch of life.
Of course, he and I had a decent foundation; deep down, beneath the hurtful words and infidelity and trust and communication issues, we were friends once. We liked the same things, had similar goals for ourselves, our respective families and the babies. We had the same sense of humor and appreciated a lot of the same wide array of life's gifts. Without that foundation we would have *surely* been a Jerry Springer episode... me with my firey Dominican temper and he with his laid backedness (you like how I just made up that word?) that made me just want to shake the shit out of him! Oh what an episode that would have been. Big Steve would've had to restrain me for real!
So what's it like? Like this: Today, we sit down with our calendars and plan out the visitations with total consideration for each other's schedule. You'd be so proud of me!! Whenever something is up with the girls, good or bad, I notify him. I make sure he's cc'd on any and all school communications. He has a say in punishments even if it's taking place in my house.
Once in a blue moon he'll call to tell me something funny he just read, watched, heard, and I'll do the same. We still know how to share a laugh. Just the other day, when he dropped the babies off, I forced him to taste this nasty-ass Toffuti Ice Cream that's "supposed to" taste like butter pecan, but actually just taste like vanilla-flavored freezer frost. Because that's the kind of people we've always been, and it really doesn't matter that we aren't together anymore- that hasn't changed.
I'm totally comfortable calling or texting him at any hour of the day for help with useless pop culture trivia questions, because he's good at that kind of stuff and my memory is forever damaged thanks to all that acid I dropped in the 60s.
Every year, without fail, we take the babies to see the Rockettes in the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, and it never feels weird, as if this is the way it should've been from jump.
Not to say that, when the babies are gone and out of earshot, I don't clown him with my friends. Shiiiit, I'm only human after all! But ours is a very civilized and friendly arrangement. Even if Mari claims that we "work" ONLY because he's afraid of me...
...who'd be afraid of lil ol' me??
*smooches...hoping that all my efforts will save me from a lofty therapy bill for the girls*
-----------
it is my wish at this time that everyone who finds themselves in what seems like impossible situations with an ex find the peace of mind I have found, that they and/or the other party involved finally get that it takes a lot more effort to stay mad than to just make some damn lemonade already. I could use some company on this here porch!
I guess I just wanted to show that it doesn't have to be a bunch of hateration and game playing (NATE!) and using kids as pawns (Puta Face, I'm looking at you...), that there can be a light at the end of the crazy divorce or break-up tunnel, and I know because I'm so there!
My marriage was BLECH- you know this, I know this, hell HE knows this. And when it ended I think we both saw it coming a mile away but were too passive aggressive to actually make a move. Of course, not to put anyone on blast *wink wink*, but the solicitation of WHORES via Craigslist will put an end to any relationship... in my humble opinion. (Ok, that was mean but whatever... ain't neva said I was perfect...)
But after the initial blow up, which found me in a lawyer's office off Jamaica Avenue and him yelling at me over the phone, "Why is the computer password protected all of a sudden?" we agreed to meet over coffee to decide on the terms of the separation and subsequent divorce, so as to make everything fair, quick and as painless as possible.
Which basically means I got everything I asked for and he signed on the dotted line.
And y'all must be like "What a fucking punk!" but no- he was very smart. Actually, we both were; the divorce was the smartest thing we ever did, and seeing as we both had deep, deep academic backgrounds we approached this with reason. As in, he agreed to all of my terms because he is a reasonable man and saw that my terms were reasonable, too.
(No, I will not disclose them here! Damn! Mind yo bizniz!!!)
For us, the bottom line was the well-being of the kids above all else- above our comfort level, pride and personal problems. Whatever disdain I still felt for him the fact remained that he was not going anywhere, so I could choose to be bitter about it or make some sweet ass lemonade that I could sip on the wrap-around porch of life.
Of course, he and I had a decent foundation; deep down, beneath the hurtful words and infidelity and trust and communication issues, we were friends once. We liked the same things, had similar goals for ourselves, our respective families and the babies. We had the same sense of humor and appreciated a lot of the same wide array of life's gifts. Without that foundation we would have *surely* been a Jerry Springer episode... me with my firey Dominican temper and he with his laid backedness (you like how I just made up that word?) that made me just want to shake the shit out of him! Oh what an episode that would have been. Big Steve would've had to restrain me for real!
So what's it like? Like this: Today, we sit down with our calendars and plan out the visitations with total consideration for each other's schedule. You'd be so proud of me!! Whenever something is up with the girls, good or bad, I notify him. I make sure he's cc'd on any and all school communications. He has a say in punishments even if it's taking place in my house.
Once in a blue moon he'll call to tell me something funny he just read, watched, heard, and I'll do the same. We still know how to share a laugh. Just the other day, when he dropped the babies off, I forced him to taste this nasty-ass Toffuti Ice Cream that's "supposed to" taste like butter pecan, but actually just taste like vanilla-flavored freezer frost. Because that's the kind of people we've always been, and it really doesn't matter that we aren't together anymore- that hasn't changed.
I'm totally comfortable calling or texting him at any hour of the day for help with useless pop culture trivia questions, because he's good at that kind of stuff and my memory is forever damaged thanks to all that acid I dropped in the 60s.
Every year, without fail, we take the babies to see the Rockettes in the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, and it never feels weird, as if this is the way it should've been from jump.
Not to say that, when the babies are gone and out of earshot, I don't clown him with my friends. Shiiiit, I'm only human after all! But ours is a very civilized and friendly arrangement. Even if Mari claims that we "work" ONLY because he's afraid of me...
...who'd be afraid of lil ol' me??
*smooches...hoping that all my efforts will save me from a lofty therapy bill for the girls*
-----------
it is my wish at this time that everyone who finds themselves in what seems like impossible situations with an ex find the peace of mind I have found, that they and/or the other party involved finally get that it takes a lot more effort to stay mad than to just make some damn lemonade already. I could use some company on this here porch!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Five Days And Counting: What It's Like To Not Sleep...
My girl out in LA calls me at 11:30 (my time) sometimes and is already yawning, talking about, "Girl WHY are you still awake?!" To which I respond, "GURL why are YOU so sleepy??"
It's been the running gag for a while now- Raquel, like the City, never sleeps. You can see it in my raccoon eyes.
It's been the running gag for a while now- Raquel, like the City, never sleeps. You can see it in my raccoon eyes.
As a kid, I didn't have a bedtime. Mami said I could stay up til whenever, just to be sure I got to school on time everyday. I suppose that's where my bad habits started.
I've tried many tricks to get myself to sleep, even forced myself into bed at a certain hour but alas, The Voices always have their own agenda. And when they're up there chattin' it up, talking about me n shit, how am I supposed to get to sleep?
My body is tired, no doubt. But The Voices never get tired; they are always awake, always working, thinking out loud, throwing raves, tap-dancing, moving furniture and singing opera. These are the things that keep me up. Until about a month or two into a "no sleep" cycle when I crash for a day or make myself so physically ill and am FORCED to sleep.
Even if I fall asleep, I never stay asleep. A bit ago I tried just putting my ass in bed by 11 with some chamomile tea and it would work... until The Voices decided that, what they needed to do at 3AM, was play a rip-roaring game of Spades. So like clockwork, I was up at three.
Way back when, I used alcohol. Yes, you read correctly, alcohol. It was back in my Riverdale days, we'd just come back from an awesome trip to Montauk (remember, ladies? the time Jessica and Mirna came out, too?) and I had all this leftover liquor... when C would go to sleep and the babies were tucked in I'd drink until everything got blurry, and then go to sleep. Nobody knew, so I suppose, as Usher would say, "...this is my confession..." But I was never cut out for alcoholism; it's just not for me, so it only lasted about a month or two. Got some good sleep, though!
I know a couple things that helped make me tired as hell- like working out in the early AM and, well, um, "activities" before bed- were usually good to get me to sleep but again, I never stayed asleep.
I always get the "Girl, go to bed already!" advice from people, but I just can't. Let me see if I can illustrate it for you. Picture it: Sicily, 1948... nah, just playing! HA! Sorry... I couldn't resist it...
But seriously, imagine- you've had a full day of shit to do at work and at home, and all around the neighborhood you sense it's bedtime, but to you, it would be the perfect time to mop the floor or shred all that junk mail from The League of Women Voters or PETA, or it'd be the perfect time to catch up on last week's TV shows that you didn't get to watch. Or *damn* you need to hurry up and watch the movie you rented from Netflix in order to get your next DVD and get your money's worth.
Or you know what? Your file cabinet is stuffed to the gills with shit you don't even need... it's real quiet now- perfect for going through files without kids all up in your face. And don't forget that pile of clothes that needs to be sewn, or *GODDAMMIT* don't forget to send out your student loan payment!!! And did you remember to pay National Grid? It would really, really suck to have the gas cut off because you can't get on schedule. OOH- that's what you need to do- put your calendar in order! then you won't forget that *SHIT* you still owe that freelance assignment, don't you? You forgot, didn't you? Well pause the movie and get on that!!
Next thing you know it's 3:30 in the morning, you haven't really done anything, except now the floor is wet, you have papers and files strewn about, and you wasted 30 minutes trying to find the cutest and most functional calender template from microsoft.com, and you haven't been to bed yet and it's all TOO MUCH to deal with right then so now you're hella tired! So you take the hottest shower possible and drink some tea and force yourself to sleep, because it will soon be time to get up again.
See there? See how easy it is to not sleep? To me, night time has always meant: "DO SOMETHING"... problem is, daytime means the same thing!
And don't even get me started on how much extra food I'm consuming by being up so late...
*smooches...thinking "I'll sleep when I'm dead" was written by me in some sleep-deprived trance in another life*
------------
now you can sort of get an idea of what brand of "crazy" you're dealing with... in case you didn't already know... but I hear it's the crazies that make the best authors...
I'm gonna be RICH!!!
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