This is your life from a suit

You graduate from college, looking forward to becoming a fully capable and successful professional. You’re hired into Big Corp as an entry-level minion, but your wages are “competitive” – besides, it’s not like you have any debts. All your money goes towards drinking, partying, hanging out with friends. Life is good.

Then, you realize you’ll need an appropriate car. If you had a car in college, it now looks like a banana shoe. It’s a bit too broken down / rusty / old / ugly. In any case, it doesn’t represent you as a young professional. If you didn’t have a car in college, hey! NOW it’s the time to get one! WTF were you waiting for. You buy a car. Economy class, but nice. Life is good.

Now that you’ve learned the ropes at work, you start working hard – and partying harder. You party with the few college friends who stayed in touch with you, you party with your colleagues, you party with friends of friends, hell you party alone! And then you meet someone, start dating. Suddenly, having this salary is great, but you start wishing for more. You wanna take her/him places, go eat at swanky restaurants, live the life! For the moment being, however, you’re thankful you have someone to cuddle with. Life is good.

You’re becoming a go-getter at work. You get a raise, you save some money, and before you know it, you just got married! That nice raise got you a new mortgage and a few more bills to pay. At least you’ve got your own place. You come home a bit too swamped to do anything other than cuddle in front of the TV with your S.O., but that’s okay. You’re an adult now. Parties are a thing of the past. You’ve got decent wine and cases of premium beer in the fridge. You need nothing out of home. Life is good.

Suddenly, you become one of the honchos at work. Not the big ones, but definitely a stable fixture in the office. You now have a nice salary, but the hours are killing ya! You start getting home later and later each night. Seeing your spouse awake is a luxury. Spending time with them is a thing of the weekends (unless you have to go to the office to catch up with “the proposal you have to hand in first hand on Monday”). Maybe by some sort of miracle you become a parent. You have a little mini-me to raise now. You look forward to trips to the park, ice cream cones, laughter, maybe setting up a swing set in the backyard. Life is good.

…and then you realize your spouse is miserably unhappy ‘cuz you’re barely ever there. Your kid grows up into a nasty brat before you even have time to pay attention. Your spouse files for divorce, takes away half of what you earned, and now you have to suffer your nasty kid once every two weeks. You have to rent a dingy little apartment to be able to afford living alone … worst case scenario: you have to move back with mom. You’re back to square one. Fuck your life.

… and then you meet a cute little coworker who shakes her ass just the right way. Skip all the romantic nonsense, go straight to living together, rinse, repeat… or maybe skip all the commitment nonsense, live like a teenager forever. In any case, your life fucking SUCKS.

That’s why I don’t wear a suit to work.

(this was something I thought up yesterday as I talked to a good friend about the correlation of time vs money. We realized that you either have the money to get all the nice things you’ve always wanted, or you have the time to enjoy the things you have. You can’t have both.)

It’s not the end of the decade, but… #10yearsago

I think it was precisely ten years ago that I gave up the tradition of making resolutions for the new year. I think I must’ve figured it was a stupid waste of energy. Habits are diamond-hard to break: an overnight party and champagne binge will not change that, neither will a change in the calendar year.

So, New Year’s Eve turned for me into a contemplation of milestones. Like watching a movie recap, I look back on all things achieved and changed during the course of the past year. Serves no purpose but to think.

Most people are convinced that this year marks the end of the decade (poor misguided souls!): a mistaken perception, since decades change over when year number 1 starts – not year zero. So it comes to pass that people start reminiscing, not only about the past year, but also about the past ten years. Most social networks online get filled with small fragments of memories: travels, piercings, graduations, jobs… and then I thought about it too. What was I doing 10 years ago? And it hit me like a stone.

Ten years ago, May 1999 to be precise, I graduated from college with a BA in commercial administration, ready and committed to work for an IT company. I immediately was sent on my first work trip, and immediately proceeded to “fall in love” with the first Costa Rican boy that batted his pretty lashes at me. Going to bed with him was just a matter of a few nights, some alcohol and a smattering of gallant words.

Ten years ago, September 2009, I aborted his baby. I learned a few things: 1 – this career was not the career I wanted, 2 – I had no intention of being a single mother, 3 – not all men who treat you kindly and say pretty words will actually be good men. I also realized that during my college years, I had become what my career required me to become, not who I actually was. I quit my job the day after my abortion. Business suits and pump shoes were put away.

Ten years ago, October 1999, I got my first retail job. I learned that I loved retail. I learned that retail doesn’t earn enough to keep.

Ten years ago, December 1999, I had my best Christmas ever. In spite of the horrid abortion I had just had (and the immediate sense of regret, the tears always at the ready in my eyes), my family proved to be everything I needed. This was the year I learned that I had a home again, even if my parents were divorced, even if my heart was breaking. Family was my fallback pillow. Family was my womb.

At the present, I am currently following the academic path I would have chosen in 1995 if my father hadn’t offered his advice filled with common sense. In the meanwhile, I’m working in retail again, after almost 10 years working on my BA career. I tried time and again to make it right, but the heart knows best: this was not the career I wanted. I knew by 1999. Ten years did not change that.

I miss my family to the point of tears. My father and his wife, who housed me in infinite warmth in 1999, now live in Orlando, FL. I will be visiting them in 2 weeks. My brother, who in 1999 was my partner in crime and advisor, now lives in Chicago, IL. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. My stepbrother and stepsisters all live in different places, some have their own children now… The family is fragmented. The love is still there.

… and ultimately, I chose not to have children. Had I had my way shortly after the abortion, I would have had a “guilt baby”. Destiny chose otherwise then. I’ve come to keep making that choice lately. I’m not sorry for my decisions.

My life has been product of those decisions.

So, 2010 will not magically bring new clarity or abundance into my life. It’s just a milestone. Here’s to hoping I get many more of those. May I lead an interesting life.

(yes, I just cursed myself)

Missing the womb

There are things that I associated with having a mother that have nothing to do with my own. I’ve been blessed with an extended family. I was skeptical, if not downright adamant, about accepting them. This process is whole chapter of my story, but the happy conclusion of it – the final acceptance, the warm embrace we all linked in – has endured as a truth since then (in one way or another).

… so it is in moments like these – hardships, uncertainties, exhaustion, loneliness – that I miss the little things my stepmother did for me to make me feel at home. The homemade coffe frappées, the apple-cinnamon smell pervading the house, her voice knitting a web of stories around you, creating a universe out of the ordinary things that happened to her during daily life. It isn’t even about the material comforts, it’s more about what feels like HOME. That was the last Home I knew, before launching into yet another chapter of my life (in which I’ve built a home of my very own). It was the last safe space that didn’t depend on me holding my own. It was the last safe space I could come home to and rest my head and my worries without feeling selfish for letting go.

This does not mean I’m not happy in my adult home. But sometimes you need a mother … sometimes you need a stepmother. Sometimes you need a smile, the smell of incense, and the certainty that it would be ok, regardless of what you did. I miss my Dad, and I definitely miss his wife, even if she wouldn’t guess as much.

I miss Home.

While You Were Away

Last post on this blog: May 12th

I think it was about time I put down my virtual red pen, shoved aside the text books for a moment, and sat down to write something of my own.

Summer drained me. A mere few weeks after my last entry, I plunged myself into the world of “being an art teacher”. This world demands your full load of patience, and then some. I think all teacher worlds demand this, mind you, and teachers that love what they do earned my undying admiration.

I was art teacher for a month in a summer camp. The main objective of the camp was for kids to practice their English in a fun way, they said. The art activities didn’t have to be particularly complex or farfetched, they said. What they didn’t say was:

- Kids expect innovation/newness at every single fucking turn. You can’t have them coloring paper with crayons two days in a row, they’ll go crazy!

Watercolors again!?!?!? MAN!!!!

- Art supplies are freakin’ expensive. And this particular school was very skeptical about giving me free rein of their art supplies (which are used specifically for summer camp, since they don’t have art class in the school year curriculum … those paints and glitter and glue bottles have been sitting there for years!)

- Kids can’t really be kids … they can’t run, they can’t jump, they can’t skip. Otherwise, they might fall, and godforbiftheyfallthey’ll SUE US! Jeezus! This was the attitude at te beginning of the day, at the end of it, and oh lordy lord! LUNCH TIME. Lunch.Time.Was.HELL!!!

Can't run, can't walk, can't scream, can't talk...

- I’d be having lunch with the same group assigned to me the hour before lunch. Which meant two full hours with the same group. Which turned out to be the biggest group (20). Of 7 -9 year old BOYS. Who ate in a flash. And couldn’t go anywhere else after they ate their lunch. Guess what they did in those remaining 45 minutes. … I’ll let your imagination do the rest.

Fit this inside a small classroom. Yeah. That.

… so, by the end of June, I was happy to the point of tears that the whole ordeal was over. I remembered summer camp work quite differently. I guess different camps work different ways. Sometimes bigger IS better.

The one thing that kept me going and going and going through all those days of feeling subhuman was the notion that I was flying off to see Dad on that very last day of camp. Ohhhh, it was worth it! Thank you, Eze!

I visited Dad during a Father’s Day weekend: it was a flurry of activity, trying to make all the hours last. I’ll always say I wish I had him nearby, but after seeing him and Martha and Felipe carry on with their lives over there, I realized they’ve pretty much found their groove … even if it’s a poor groove. They’re comfy. And their house smells like wood, and apple-cinnamon, and Christmas, and home I wish it was nearer …

The rest of summer went by way too fast, I think. Most days were spent looking out the window, wondering why my work schedule was so funky that they always put me in during evenings or closing shifts. At least work is still going strong, and I still like it. I think, however, that I could have made better use of my time during summer, I dunno. It was over in a flash.

And now, August-December semester is here (my favorite: it’s plagued with a smattering of holidays, the occasional strike, and unexpected tropical storms and hurricanes). I’m only  taking one class, and thankfully! I thought it would be easier, but gosh, this professor is driving nails down my temper’s blackboard! I have my first test tomorrow, and for the first time in a long while, my nerves are on edge.

During this semester I’ve also gotten timidly involved in the revamping/overhaul/let’s-get-this-shit-running of FrecuenciasAlternas.com … as an editor (hence, the virtual red pen). I’ve kept sewing what I sew, and then some more: I took Grandma’s sewing machine, wiped the dust and cockroach eggs off, and put it to good use. My wardrobe is growing again, thanks to this wonderful machine and the magnanimous generosity of a few friends (Maricarmen, Lynnie, thank you!).

This summer's masterpiece: McCartney & Yellow Submarine

… and now holidays are getting nearer, starting off with my favorite: Halloween … which my colleagues say won’t be my favorite no mo’ because it gets all fucked up in a jiffy at the store. I don’t doubt it: Hot Topic is one of the very few costume outlets in this island. If you can’t find your sexy fireman outfit with us, where can you? No, we don’t have sexy firemen outfits … dude, get a freaking red g-string and a heavy duty hose at Sears, jeezus!

So, catch me ’round the bend. I’m pretty sure I’ll be covered head to toe in repurposings and hemming-ins ^_^

It’s in the Food

... arroz y habichuelas ...

Food is always an issue in my household: Eze likes his rice & beans, pork chops and viandas; I don’t. I’m usually met with incredulous faces (complete with gaping mouths and wide eyes) when I admit that I don’t like rice & beans at all. If you’re boricua, you have to like rice & beans, sancocho, pasteles… in a case like mine, the kindest of remarks is that I’m “fussy with food”. I’ve even been told that I wrongfully believe that I’m not boricua (“te crees europea, es?”). I’ve tried by all means to understand why it is that there’s food that everyone seems to love that I don’t like at all: this is important to me becase most of that food is the food my husband loves, the food that is served at his parents’ house table. The easiest conclusion achieved is that I was brought up on an “American menu” (a.k.a. hamburgers, hot dogs, mac & cheese), but that is only partly right. I think I finally understood why it is much more complex than that…

Comfort food

(n) Defined as food that gives emotional comfort to the one eating it, these tend to be favorite foods of childhood, or linked to a person, place or time with which the food has a positive association.

For most people around me, such things as rice & beans, pork chops, bacalao, etc are associated with positive and happy times around the table with the family: the warm and loving mom that cooked this for you is the one handing you the plate with a smile. There’s no trauma to eating a plateful of rice & beans, right?

Well, in my case, I wasn’t so lucky to be born liking rice & beans, and the earliest memory I have of that dish is my Mom snarling at me to eat it all. Beans taste to me like force-feeding. It’s not comforting at all. I’m pretty sure these incidents were not daily occurrences: my mom also cooked mashed potatoes with hot dogs, cordon bleu, etc… these were the foods I associated with good times: sharing a chicken cordon bleu piece with my father … yeah, eating most of it because I didn’t like my own dish …

Comfort food for me? Sweet dinner rolls with butter, with a side of slices of salchichón. Instant mashed potatoes with chopped salchichas mixed in. Serrano ham with fried cheese balls. Arabian desserts. My grandmother’s turkey and relleno (potatoes, eggs, onions, almonds, raisins). Mom’s ground beef with rice. Colombian or Venezuelan arepas. Braunschweiger. It wasn’t so much what food I had most often, it was the food that I came to associate with happiness

Some things, I’ve learned to love as an adult: peppers, roquefort cheese, onions, cauliflowers, some viandas. Others, like rice & beans or string beans (or lima beans, or any kind of beans,except refried – because they’ve been killed and mashed) I associate immediately with frustration and almost being sick at the table …

So, dear loved ones: stop insisting on the rice & beans. It.Makes.Me.Sick. (and eating it certainly feels like a chore)

Thank you.