She was aerodynamically curvacious in the way that even as she approached 80 she still called herself sexy.
She was
The coral lipstick she often left on my face.
White Diamonds perfume and a loud, elongated "DAAHHHHLINN!"
She once stole my dad's pot stash when he was a teenager and replaced it with oregano.
She once attempted to sell watches out of a mink coat at the beach he was hanging out at.
She was his mother by DNA but not in the way he needed her to be.
I'm talking with my dad over coffee shortly after my own mother, his ex wife, passed away. He's tossing out his grievances like pieces of paper into a fire. I'm listening, watching the color flush to his face, his hand waving up in the air like mine does when we really get into the story.
He says, "I'm sorry I couldn't give you the mother you deserved; the mother you needed."
I take a deep breath, half focusing the steam snaking it's way out of the cup into the open air of our house that three generations of our family were raised in.
I say, "You know dad, looking back, I did alright without it."
He catches the blacks of my eyes with his and says, "Yeah I did alright without a real mother too."
"Maybe we didn't need them like that after all?"
"That's nonsense!" He exclaims, his voice cracking a bit. "Don't you know how much easier our lives would have been if they were more focused on being parents, and less focused on themselves?"
"Yeah," I say back, taking a long thoughtful deep breath, "But they wouldn't have been nearly has colorful, would they?"
He grabs his tea, the cup shrinking between his hands, takes a sip, looks at me out of the corner of one eye, and with a half smile on his face he says in the same way his mother, Lena would have, "
"You're damn right about that, Kid."
Thursday, March 6, 2014
55. Yolanda
Yolanda sat in a gray plastic patio chair in her garage, swirling the ice in her tea. The air was thicker than normal for a late April day. She looked at me seated next to her and made note of it, then continued to look outside at the sun setting over the elderly housing community where she lived with her daughter, my mother. I was twenty two at the time.
Truth be told, I never really liked the woman. She came a few times a year to visit when I was really small and she was always really cold to my brother and I. She was my first glimpse at a person who probably really hated her life, all eighty something years of it. I don't recall her speaking positively about anything except when she was positive that one of her children was acting ridiculous.
All that in mind, she gave me one of the most important pieces of unsolicited advice that I will likely ever receive.
She looked back at me.
"So you love that boy you're with? Jerry's his name right?"
"Yeah, his name is Jerry and I love him very much Gramma."
"You going to marry him?"
"I'm not sure. We've only been together two years. I'd imagine so. I think that's where it's going."
"So that's it, huh?"
"Yeah, that would be it. We'd get a place on the coast and let life happen that way."
"But what do you want to do OUTSIDE of Jerry?" She asked. "Your mother said you like to write and draw. Do you do either of those things?"
"Not really. Too busy."
"Too busy being Mrs. Jerry whatever his last name is right?"
I wasn't a fan of the inquisition I was getting by a woman I barely talked to, never mind liked.
"Listen, Jessie. Let me tell you something. I loved your grandfather, and I love your mother and aunts and uncle very much. I was very blessed to be given the life I was given. Some people aren't so lucky. But with my generation, that's what you did. You got married, and you had kids and to some degree those kids were expected to get married and have kids too. You're generation though, you're not expected to do a damn thing you don't want to. Women have gone to the moon. Women have held office. Those things weren't possible when I was your age. Hell, when I was your age I had two babies and was pregnant with a third!"
She looked at me in the eyes.
"If that boy makes you happy and you want to devote your life to him, I say you do it! Jump right in and give it your everything. But if there's even a little voice inside your head telling you that maybe, MAYBE this isn't the road you want to be on, than you need to follow that voice until it lands you where you're supposed to be, you hear me? Trust that voice, because that's YOU talking OK?"
A few months later I started hearing it. At first it was a whisper from a room away. Gradually it became a person I was having a conversation with in my dreams. After a while, I would hear it so loudly and feel it so physically that it would wake me up, screaming at me from inside my chest.
It took five years from that day, but that voice and I are finally in sync. It exists in me, as me now, not a separate entity like it used to.
Truth be told, I never really liked the woman. She came a few times a year to visit when I was really small and she was always really cold to my brother and I. She was my first glimpse at a person who probably really hated her life, all eighty something years of it. I don't recall her speaking positively about anything except when she was positive that one of her children was acting ridiculous.
All that in mind, she gave me one of the most important pieces of unsolicited advice that I will likely ever receive.
She looked back at me.
"So you love that boy you're with? Jerry's his name right?"
"Yeah, his name is Jerry and I love him very much Gramma."
"You going to marry him?"
"I'm not sure. We've only been together two years. I'd imagine so. I think that's where it's going."
"So that's it, huh?"
"Yeah, that would be it. We'd get a place on the coast and let life happen that way."
"But what do you want to do OUTSIDE of Jerry?" She asked. "Your mother said you like to write and draw. Do you do either of those things?"
"Not really. Too busy."
"Too busy being Mrs. Jerry whatever his last name is right?"
I wasn't a fan of the inquisition I was getting by a woman I barely talked to, never mind liked.
"Listen, Jessie. Let me tell you something. I loved your grandfather, and I love your mother and aunts and uncle very much. I was very blessed to be given the life I was given. Some people aren't so lucky. But with my generation, that's what you did. You got married, and you had kids and to some degree those kids were expected to get married and have kids too. You're generation though, you're not expected to do a damn thing you don't want to. Women have gone to the moon. Women have held office. Those things weren't possible when I was your age. Hell, when I was your age I had two babies and was pregnant with a third!"
She looked at me in the eyes.
"If that boy makes you happy and you want to devote your life to him, I say you do it! Jump right in and give it your everything. But if there's even a little voice inside your head telling you that maybe, MAYBE this isn't the road you want to be on, than you need to follow that voice until it lands you where you're supposed to be, you hear me? Trust that voice, because that's YOU talking OK?"
A few months later I started hearing it. At first it was a whisper from a room away. Gradually it became a person I was having a conversation with in my dreams. After a while, I would hear it so loudly and feel it so physically that it would wake me up, screaming at me from inside my chest.
It took five years from that day, but that voice and I are finally in sync. It exists in me, as me now, not a separate entity like it used to.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
54. FoMu Girl
Around this time last year, Annie and I went to FoMu in Allston- half to see our friend *Andrew's artwork, and half to get some vegan ice cream. For those of you that don't know, I'm lactose intolerant. I recognize there are far worse things to be, and I'm certainly used to it by now. That being said, I am hard pressed to find a good ice cream substitute in the rare event I'm craving the treat. Andrew suggested this hole-in-the-wall place, and we were happy to check it out. It was early March and we are the only customers in there.
First off- flavors galore. Seriously if you're ever in Boston, you need to check this place out. I get instantly giddy and ask to try a few flavors and the girl behind the counter happily complies. She's young, probably still in college-with rainbow streaks in her blond hair, a nose ring and hipster glasses. She first gives me Cake Batter. Heavenly.
"This is amazing! The closest thing to ice cream I've tasted and I can't eat dairy." I tell her.
She smiles.
"People like you are my favorite!" She exclaims. "Most people that come in are on some type of fad diet. I love serving people with dietary restrictions because you know how deeply they appreciate it."
I end up ordering a small cake batter that ends up being so rich I can barely finish the whole thing.
I'm not going to harass people about their diets. Everyone is entitled to consume whatever they seem appropriate. Also, I recognize it's petty to complain about being lactose intolerant when there are people with deathly peanut allergies in the world. On the same vein, while in customer service you are taught to treat people equally there is a distinct difference between speaking with people who have a health condition vs someone who adjusts their food consumption because it's the cool thing to do- entitlement. Some people's narrow way of existence is a luxury whereas with other people it's life. It's a matter of "You have to understand me," (entitled people) vs. "Please understand me." (restricted people)
I wonder why that is?
First off- flavors galore. Seriously if you're ever in Boston, you need to check this place out. I get instantly giddy and ask to try a few flavors and the girl behind the counter happily complies. She's young, probably still in college-with rainbow streaks in her blond hair, a nose ring and hipster glasses. She first gives me Cake Batter. Heavenly.
"This is amazing! The closest thing to ice cream I've tasted and I can't eat dairy." I tell her.
She smiles.
"People like you are my favorite!" She exclaims. "Most people that come in are on some type of fad diet. I love serving people with dietary restrictions because you know how deeply they appreciate it."
I end up ordering a small cake batter that ends up being so rich I can barely finish the whole thing.
I'm not going to harass people about their diets. Everyone is entitled to consume whatever they seem appropriate. Also, I recognize it's petty to complain about being lactose intolerant when there are people with deathly peanut allergies in the world. On the same vein, while in customer service you are taught to treat people equally there is a distinct difference between speaking with people who have a health condition vs someone who adjusts their food consumption because it's the cool thing to do- entitlement. Some people's narrow way of existence is a luxury whereas with other people it's life. It's a matter of "You have to understand me," (entitled people) vs. "Please understand me." (restricted people)
I wonder why that is?
Monday, March 3, 2014
53. Lisa
A couple years ago, I was living at my dad's and working at a private jet brokerage. I'll be honest, while I'm good at the whole customer service thing, hearing complaints day in and day out can be a little draining. On the day in question, I had come home an hour later than I was supposed to because of a few more broken planes than normal and diversions due to weather and presidential movement. When I put my key in the door I noticed the light was on in the living room. I walk in to see my sister on the couch with a big bag of tortilla chips watching "The Shining."
"Hey.." she said, with barely enough energy to be audible.
"Hey kid. How are ya?"
"Shitty. Mike is being a fucking asshole again."
(Mike is a now ex boyfriend. Thankfully not the father of my niece.)
"Ugh that sucks." I replied. "I'm sorry."
"How are you?" She asked.
"Work tired. People are the worst."
I sat down next to her and grabbed a chip.
"Yeah." She said still looking at the T.V. "People are awful."
With that we sat in silence and watched the rest of the movie. She had been in and out of trouble the past few years and we had just started talking again. While we weren't close prior to this, my step sister and I were definitely not friends. In the next few months starting that night, the passenger side of my old CRV would act as sort of a therapy chair for her. We would take long drives in the morning to get coffee and I would let her talk. Often times we would find ourselves laughing at absolutely nothing. One thing that's sustained my sister though all her crazy is her sense of humor and I'm grateful for that. I hope Gia ends up inheriting that.
The movie nights would happen regular too. From Mulan to Mean Girls, and even some ridiculous reality T.V, Lisa and I would decompress by watching something mindless on the screen. Since we both moved out, every now and then I'll get a text paying homage to those days.
"Watching The Shining. Thought of you!"
"Hey.." she said, with barely enough energy to be audible.
"Hey kid. How are ya?"
"Shitty. Mike is being a fucking asshole again."
(Mike is a now ex boyfriend. Thankfully not the father of my niece.)
"Ugh that sucks." I replied. "I'm sorry."
"How are you?" She asked.
"Work tired. People are the worst."
I sat down next to her and grabbed a chip.
"Yeah." She said still looking at the T.V. "People are awful."
With that we sat in silence and watched the rest of the movie. She had been in and out of trouble the past few years and we had just started talking again. While we weren't close prior to this, my step sister and I were definitely not friends. In the next few months starting that night, the passenger side of my old CRV would act as sort of a therapy chair for her. We would take long drives in the morning to get coffee and I would let her talk. Often times we would find ourselves laughing at absolutely nothing. One thing that's sustained my sister though all her crazy is her sense of humor and I'm grateful for that. I hope Gia ends up inheriting that.
The movie nights would happen regular too. From Mulan to Mean Girls, and even some ridiculous reality T.V, Lisa and I would decompress by watching something mindless on the screen. Since we both moved out, every now and then I'll get a text paying homage to those days.
"Watching The Shining. Thought of you!"
Sunday, March 2, 2014
52. We've All Been There
At the show I went to the other night, there was a girl holding up the line in the bathroom because she was puking. Standard. At any event where there's lots of people, and easy access to booze, there's bound to be one of those.
Truth is, no one knew why she was puking. For all we know she could of had the flu or food poisoning. Hell, she could of had a real rough emotional night. Still, when she she left, the girls remaining in the bathroom had commentary. (Standard.)
The girl next to me rolled her eyes.
"Poor thing," I said breaking the ice, "We've all been there."
"I've never been there!" said one of the girls.
Another girl laughed.
"Maybe not," I thought, "But we've all been THERE." That situation where you might be slightly inconveniencing 5 or 6 strangers because you are just not having a great night.
I was the girl crying at a concert because my ex just dumped me and I was trying so hard to make myself feel better. I was the girl at a comedy show that was so overwhelmed at the passing of her mom, that hearing that many people laugh at once made me get up during a guy's set just so I could lean over the toilet just in case. While I haven't been the one white girl wasted in the bathroom, I have definitely been the girl holding that girl's hair.
We've all been there, feeling the judgement like a sunburn on our backs making an uncomfortable situation that much worse.
So while I shrug off what's left of the convo, I think that yeah, I really want to get back to this show, but I can wait a few minutes extra if it means that girl puking has a little more time to collect herself. You're not leaving your dignity in the toilet with whatever you ate earlier and the roll of paper you used to cover it up. You're better than the eyes that follow you out the door.
It's OK darlin. We've all been there.
Truth is, no one knew why she was puking. For all we know she could of had the flu or food poisoning. Hell, she could of had a real rough emotional night. Still, when she she left, the girls remaining in the bathroom had commentary. (Standard.)
The girl next to me rolled her eyes.
"Poor thing," I said breaking the ice, "We've all been there."
"I've never been there!" said one of the girls.
Another girl laughed.
"Maybe not," I thought, "But we've all been THERE." That situation where you might be slightly inconveniencing 5 or 6 strangers because you are just not having a great night.
I was the girl crying at a concert because my ex just dumped me and I was trying so hard to make myself feel better. I was the girl at a comedy show that was so overwhelmed at the passing of her mom, that hearing that many people laugh at once made me get up during a guy's set just so I could lean over the toilet just in case. While I haven't been the one white girl wasted in the bathroom, I have definitely been the girl holding that girl's hair.
We've all been there, feeling the judgement like a sunburn on our backs making an uncomfortable situation that much worse.
So while I shrug off what's left of the convo, I think that yeah, I really want to get back to this show, but I can wait a few minutes extra if it means that girl puking has a little more time to collect herself. You're not leaving your dignity in the toilet with whatever you ate earlier and the roll of paper you used to cover it up. You're better than the eyes that follow you out the door.
It's OK darlin. We've all been there.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
51. Liss
Liss was adopted by a pack of wild Italian Americans. With fair skin and auburn hair, she didn't look like us, but I rarely recognized that. I never asked why we all had olive skin and dark hair and she didn't. She was my cousin, that was it. I was told about what brought her too us briefly but I never questioned it. As my own immediate family would stretch and dissipate, I would figure out that love and maybe a few legal documents are all that really defines it anyway.
Anything that makes you different is open for ridicule. Liss, now 24, recently read an article on the Huffington Post about the meanest things that are said to the adopted daughters of this one woman.
After reading it, she said that it taught the girls how to be victims. Growing up with my aunt at the helm of her family, she was raised to own her flaws and to carry herself with the grace of her own convictions. . She knows that being raised by someone as loving as her parents hardly constitutes as being a victim.
"If anything," she says, "I got lucky."
We did too, kid.
Anything that makes you different is open for ridicule. Liss, now 24, recently read an article on the Huffington Post about the meanest things that are said to the adopted daughters of this one woman.
After reading it, she said that it taught the girls how to be victims. Growing up with my aunt at the helm of her family, she was raised to own her flaws and to carry herself with the grace of her own convictions. . She knows that being raised by someone as loving as her parents hardly constitutes as being a victim.
"If anything," she says, "I got lucky."
We did too, kid.
50. Glass Houses
I don't remember much of when I met him as we both hit the bottle pretty hard that night. I do know that shortly after, I figured out that being friends with him meant having to stomach a fair amount of elitism on his part.
His mistakes were far grander than everyone else's and they always came with a great story. He found a way to prove and disprove god. He walked rigid like he had a gun to his back but carried himself like he knew better. He didn't know better, as much as his success would pen you to believe otherwise.
Even still, we loved him. We loved him because once he dubbed you as one of his own he took care of you. He was a consistent firm shoulder to cry on. He was the quick fix to your broken bike. He was a round of cheep beer at your favorite dive and a bitchy glare you loved seeing him give to other people.
For the sake of his health, we all hoped he would ease up on the drinking. Then he did, completely.
It had been a long time since I heard from him, least since before my trip back to Boston. He was dating a girl that he was stupid for. I'm glad for that. What I'm not glad for is that when his best friend came to visit town recently he wouldn't give him the time of day, sticking up his nose at the idea of engaging in the same kind of debauchery they did maybe three months prior. Never mind that, but the fact that he would barely give him the time of day for a dinner, and then judge everyone's alcohol consumption a good part of the time.
I wasn't there that night, but when Porter came back to my place the look in his eyes was sullen. I'm aware that friendships based around booze are doomed for failure, and while I am psyched he put the bottle down for good, I'm under the high school mentality that you don't just fly high with your pals only to shoot them out of the sky minutes later. Sure we grow up and change, but wouldn't you rather provoke inspiration than bitterness? God knows Porter could use staying clean for a while. Who better than instead of his best friend to help him?
He won't get that luxury, but I hope he gets something better.
I hope the glass house my friend sits pretty inside echos with his own judgement right back at him. I hope he learns that while love may come easy to him, loyalty is not a disposable commodity.
His mistakes were far grander than everyone else's and they always came with a great story. He found a way to prove and disprove god. He walked rigid like he had a gun to his back but carried himself like he knew better. He didn't know better, as much as his success would pen you to believe otherwise.
Even still, we loved him. We loved him because once he dubbed you as one of his own he took care of you. He was a consistent firm shoulder to cry on. He was the quick fix to your broken bike. He was a round of cheep beer at your favorite dive and a bitchy glare you loved seeing him give to other people.
For the sake of his health, we all hoped he would ease up on the drinking. Then he did, completely.
It had been a long time since I heard from him, least since before my trip back to Boston. He was dating a girl that he was stupid for. I'm glad for that. What I'm not glad for is that when his best friend came to visit town recently he wouldn't give him the time of day, sticking up his nose at the idea of engaging in the same kind of debauchery they did maybe three months prior. Never mind that, but the fact that he would barely give him the time of day for a dinner, and then judge everyone's alcohol consumption a good part of the time.
I wasn't there that night, but when Porter came back to my place the look in his eyes was sullen. I'm aware that friendships based around booze are doomed for failure, and while I am psyched he put the bottle down for good, I'm under the high school mentality that you don't just fly high with your pals only to shoot them out of the sky minutes later. Sure we grow up and change, but wouldn't you rather provoke inspiration than bitterness? God knows Porter could use staying clean for a while. Who better than instead of his best friend to help him?
He won't get that luxury, but I hope he gets something better.
I hope the glass house my friend sits pretty inside echos with his own judgement right back at him. I hope he learns that while love may come easy to him, loyalty is not a disposable commodity.
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