Girl Anachronicles

I haven’t taken any pictures, I haven’t even found my makeup among all those boxes. Our living room possesses a unique topography comprised of boxes of different shapes and sizes. Our soon-to-be “guest room” requires a navigational chart, and the bed that’s supposed to be in that room is actually giving the “computer room” a “derelicte” feel (propped up against the wall).

I’ve taken to waking up to the sound of my cell phone’s alarm clock (since my proper alarm clock is buried somewhere in a box), and these past few days have been the least vain in my girlie existence: no barrettes, no pins, no headbands (my hair accessories box is … in a box).

Most of our clothes are in a dirty pile in the laundry, waiting for the first free moment I might get to wash them. As it has been, moving is quite an uncomfortable affair.

But I’m happy, comfy, more contented than I’ve been in a long, long while. Relieved. We’ve been exhausted to the point of tears, but we’ve been able to smile through the pain and bear it, ‘cuz it’s for us. Yesterday I paid the most I’ve ever paid for groceries and start-up items (like spatulas, coasters, glasses and ice cream scoops, etc). I remember a time when putting down my signature for a quantity such would have driven me mad in despair. Yesterday I realized that commitment does not include despair. There is a second glance, maybe even a joke or two about how we’re gonna have to sell our asses after paying for this first grocery list. But the familiar anxiety over “how my bank account is gonna look after this” was finally gone.

Because it’s for us …

I’m finally home.

Pictures later (because the camera is also in a box).

BTW: I’ve got to thank a few people that helped, or meant to help (the intention was clearly there) in the whole process:

- Eze’s parents, without whose infinite help this wouldn’t have been possible for a long while.
- My mom, who pleasantly surprised me by getting deeply involved in the moving process (I guess it has more to do with the fact that this time around, it is MY home).
- My brother and sister, and Eze’s brother: these three were the greatest last Saturday, sweating it out to the max, to the point of sickness too. My hat’s off to you guys.
- Abdelouakil Sebanna (a good friend to the family), for the laughs, the lift of spirits, the organizational skills and a vehicle to transport the huge items.
- My Dad and Martha (his wife), because even if they were not physically here, they have been praying for this for a long while. I’m sure their prayers helped in the odd way prayers usually do.
- Pepe & Jerry (hahahahahaha!!! Ben & Jerry’s no more!… sorry, sorry ….) Thanks to these two guys for immediately breaking our “Welcome Home” cherry, and bringing awesome company and acid-reflux-inducing pizza (which was yummy, btw, and I mean it in a non-sarcastic way)
- José “Banano”, because I know he meant to help, that’s just the way he is: sweet and caring, but trying for people not to notice.

As I was exiting the gas station’s mini-market (one of the few breakfast havens I have adopted in the past few weeks), I crossed a young girl (probably college-aged) attired so: head covered in mini-braids held back in a loose, low ponytail, huge, shiny sunshades, light-colored shorts, non-fashion (that means “practical”) tennis shoes with thick socks, and a baggy, green T-shirt with a cheap logo across the front that read “Entretenimiento de Verano” (Summer Entertainment) or some crap like that. It took me 2 seconds to realize this girl must work at a summer camp. What drove the idea home was the blow whistle slung around her neck. And then I remembered, I truly remembered my summer of 1997.

I was 19, in college, studying commerce, most likely still debating myself between a career in accounting and a career in information systems. I didn’t have a steady job, never quite needed it since I always fully qualified for a federal scholarship, but summer was always the weak link in that way of life: no scholarship meant no funding, no fun, no plans, no nothing. Summer was “the time to get a job” by excellence. The previous summer (1996) I had had my brief stint in a “healthy junk food” joint, lasted two months, had a miserable time (specially at the later hours of the afternoon, when kids my age would come into the establishment all sun-kissed, trailing salt and sand with their worn flip-flops – that was the year I met the bottled tan firsthand… never again!).

So, in 1997 I was ready for a breath of fresher air, and I let myself be led by a friend to apply for a job at a summer camp. I had never had any experience doing anything remotely similar to this, with the exception of babysitting my sister, and even that always brought skin-creeping memories. But I didn’t think it through: I handed over a filled application and got a call a few weeks later. We had to go through a screening process, which meant that we had to prove that we would be good camp counselors and leaders, that we would be able to keep control of a 20+ group of [rich, stuck up] kids. Incredibly enough, I (who have never considered myself to be a natural leader of any sort) got picked for the job, as well as my friend and many others. It was to be 4 camp leaders to a group. I got chosen as part of the leader team for a group of 30 5-year-old girls. Thirty Daddy jewels. Thirty princesses whose parents would keep an eagle eye on us at all moments possible.

It was an amazing experience, though as harrowing as it would seem. I realized that I had it in me to care for other people’s children. The girls grew onto me, we got close like family. A whole month of spending more than 8 hours a day with a child will automatically turn you into a secondary parent. Tending to their every needs, having to take it easy when at least 15 of them decide to scream at the same time for something they want, curing boo-boo’s, identifying lice …. even identifying what they cannot say, as it happened once with another group’s 2-year-old boy: he was crying and the girl in charge was to the end of her rope, she didn’t get it. The little boy could not express that the heat outside was smoldering to him. I held some icy water to his face and he immediately calmed down and went into a deep sleep. I gained a fan for the rest of the day!

That summer was one of the most active I ever had: I got a natural suntan by just playing in the sun with the children almost daily. I was starting to date a total idiot who was however highly social, so the outings were frequent, and sometimes even fun. I was fully immersed in social activities and pop culture. I became one of the clan. I think this was the summer that had me assimilated into the commerce student culture. I had begun the month’s worth of work with the idea that the $700 I got as payment would be used to get my first tattoo. By month’s end, I had dropped the idea. It would be 4 years later that I would get my first tattoo. By then, the sun-kissed, carefree, sociable Diana would be gone in favor of someone much closer to her own roots.

Summer is a time in which no one is quite content: unless you have copious amounts of money, you either stay at home and be bored to tears by the repetitive, mind-numbing TV programming, or you get a job that will keep you from having all the fun you intended to have with the money you earned. That’s the way it is for most college kids, unless they signed on for summer classes, in which case the misery is doubled because you have no time to earn money nor do you have time to chill out, and it will be something you will have to do also as soon as summer is over, so it annuls summer altogether.

I envied the ones that went abroad, though. But that took money, regardless of whether it was for studying or pleasure.

As a working adult, however, summer takes other undertones. Summer ceases to exist as “the free time you get between semesters”. It becomes “a time which I may get free as well as I may not”, and what you get is one or two weeks in which you try to cram as much enjoyment as you can, leaving you so exhausted that you need a vacation from your vacations. It’s even more absurd.

That summer in 1997 was the last one in which I held a college-type job. After that, summers became a blur. I never got as sun-kissed again, nor as sociable. Truth be told, I don’t miss it, however much I hold that memory in my heart. But it helped me recognize when people are having the same miserable fun at summer camp.

Eze has been working nights and weekends during these past few weeks. It’s his second jobs, @ Border’s. He took it up so we could have extra income, specially since he still has a few credit debts to clear. I’ve tried to be understanding and supportive of him and this new situation, but unlike last time he held a second job, this time is a little rougher on me.

Why? Well…

[rant mode] For one, last time he held a job the hours weren’t as long. It wasn’t retail, so the latest he was out was at 10 o’clock at night. In the new job, that’s the earliest he arrives home the days he has to work.

However, he was miserable back then. Most of the time he was assigned to work the booth at a famous, money-wrapped church building (the one with the dinosaur posted outside. Yes, that one). Now he works around some of the things he loves (books, movies, music? his LIFE!), and it’s just like an extension of his Saturday hobby. He’s happy there.

But I miss him…

Back when he worked at the dinosaur church there was also a buffer around the situation. At least during half of that time I received a long-ish visit from my dad and his wife. They kept me company, I didn’t feel so lonely. I could go home and just chill with dad, it was fun! My mind was elsewhere (i.e. Dad’s problems, which were bigger than mine), and my responsibilities were not that many.

Today my life is led to a different pace. Things at home are far from being the same they were back then. I don’t leave the room anymore except to get some water. I quit the kitchen a few weeks ago. Communal areas have been abandoned for a while. “Estrangement” is this home’s middle name. Dust has been gathering at the corners for a while, it’s just waiting for us to leave.

So I have my breakfast, lunch and dinner out of the house. I’ve gotten incredibly fed up with fast food junk. You have no idea how cranky fast food will get you if it’s the only component in your daily nutrition. I’m fucking missing salads. The summer heat is on the rise and it doesn’t help either. I have taken Eze’s advice and I’ve spent more time at Mom’s. It make me feel less lonely, more at home. But it’s not easy feeling at home when you’ve arrived all drenched in sweat in the 100-degree furnace you call a car… and you can’t get a bath. (Well, I could, but I’d feel I was imposing. Water is not coming by cheap these days. Nothing is.)

… And moving day is at hand, and until now, I’ve felt a little on the lonely side dealing with the idea (and with the boxes, and with the dust). Yesterday I got mad at a commercial institution (a convenience-pharmacy with a name starting with ‘W’ and ending with ‘algreens’) because on Sundays they cannot sell (by law) certain items, among which was included the one item I had been needing for the past few days to start dealing with boxes: packaging tape. When you get mad at an inanimate entity, something’s really up with you. It’s the same “something” that causes road rage and distasteful graffiti.

So weekends like this come and go without pain or glory, and then a week like this one starts (week #3? #4? of eating crap 24-7) and I start misfiring at my boss on the job. It’s not his fault, it’s purely mine, because god knows how the system fails here, it does! But that doesn’t give me the right to talk back to a fellow worker.

So I need a vacation. I need to move and I need a vacation … [/end of rant]

… and a salad.

Summer’s here (to my brother’s chagrin, he’s convinced that summer is jinxed for him), and there are plans around, waiting for the right time, the right moment. There’s, for example, a group trip in the plans (for which I will furnish more details later). Closer still is our moving day. The date has been set for June 16th. Thankfully we don’t own all that much shit, and we’re basically moving our room only, so it should be a pretty simple (or at least short) affair. There have also been talks of going to the beach, going kayaking, a few summer-y things to offset our shut-in natural habits (Eze’s and mine). In short, summer promises to be interesting at least.

Moving Day is at Hand (Diana & Eze Edition)

There are a few things I’ve been meaning to do as soon as we move. It’s not so much that I can’t do them at our current living space, most of them I can, but I never felt comfortable doing them. Besides, living out of a darkened room (in which only the distant, indirect rays of sun alighted dimly through the half-closed window shades) is at best a glum way to lead a Sunday afternoon.

Things I mean to do as soon as we set new camp in our own apartment:

1) Retake Yoga – it’s been more than a year since I last did yoga. I’m sorely missing it… literally. I can feel my bones misaligned (one of the main reasons why I love yoga so much: there are some positions in which my back cracks, and that feels SO good!)

2) Give myself a pedicure and a manicure – my limbs need some TLC. They’re dry, cracked and flaky. A nice Sunday afternoon spent soaking hand and feet in soapy water is just what I need.

3) Spend a Saturday morning with a huge coffee mug and a piece of warm bread with margarine in front of my laptop surfing the net, in nothing but my underwear… in the dining room ^_^ windows open to the morning breeze! YAY!

4) Take my sewing machine to be fixed. We’ll have space for it now. Maybe I’ll finally learn some sewing basics through hands-on experience. If you run into me in a misshapen dress, you’ll know it’s under way.

I probably have many more plans in my subconscious to carry out as soon as I finally feel “at home” somewhere. And I’ll probably blog about them too … or not.

It’s a Cruel Summer

It’s been years since I last went to the beach. I don’t mean the occasional, full-dressed visit in which you stand at the water’s edge and just breathe the salty breeze in, and talk about how pretty the water looks; or you just munch on a greasy fritter while contemplating pork’s immortality (“contemplando la inmortalidad del marrano” is one of my favorite pastimes). I’m talking about the all-out, bikini-clad, sunscreen-stinking, sand-in-your-underwear, insecure-in-your-cellulite kind of visit. I haven’t bathed in seawater since I got together with Eze. July 24, 2004 was the last day I went (to Playa Ballena, with Jorge Juan, to be exact). I spent all day thinking about the first kiss Eze gave me (the night before, while nursing a bad case of “drunk Diana”). A smile was permanently pasted on my face for the rest of the day. Maybe I would have dedicated a few more minutes to the water and the sand and the sun, had I known “being with Eze” would mean “you will never step toe on the beach again, missy!”. ^_^ (I’m just kidding! I like teasing him that way)

We have a friend who’s keen into internal tourism. He likes to spend weekends visiting places most Puerto Ricans take for granted. And he’s been inviting us for a long time to join him in his trips. He’s been wanting to go rappelling, something which Eze and I could marginally do given that the ropes don’t break under the stress of our weight. Another thing our friend has suggested is kayaking at the bioluminescent bay in Fajardo. That’s a night trip, that’s what Eze calls a “boring” trip (mainly ‘cuz he can’t swim)… that’s what I call “an offer I can’t refuse”. This is one thing I hope to be doing sometime this summer.

The other thing our friend has been insisting on is a trip to the beach. This vexes me a bit: my body is nowhere near “beach-ready”. And I know I’ll hear my friend’s voice protesting because basically that would be product of one of my complexes. But let’s talk truth here: my thighs are host to a valley of cellulite. Cellulite has invaded and conquered my thighs. And as much as I can hide and conceal this fact in my everyday clothes, that would be a no-can-do in a swimsuit or bikini. Which would leave me with two options:

1) Terrorize women and small children (plus gross out all those whose eyes are not tolerant of alternate realities to those sold by beer commercials)

2) Dress up in the boricua bestial makeshift beach-going attire par excellence: lycra biker shorts and a huge t-shirt. Which would make me incredibly ridiculous and would probably set a few individuals my way to ask for “el caldero de arroz con pollo” (the cauldron with rice and chicken).

I think I’ll opt for #1 if we ever get to go to the beach again. At least people will recoil in horror and get away from me (i.e. leave me alone), instead of the other way around. ^_^

Take-off in July

(More information later on)

June 2nd, 2003
The bad news: My home burned down. I was left pretty much homeless, peniless, with only the clothes on my back and a brand new car to pay for. My four dogs died in that fire, probably burned, most likely asphyxiated by the smoke. I was left desolate, depressed, feeling lonely, and mourning my dogs like a crazy woman.
But the good news was I was alive, I had survived, and my family was there to support me, if not financially, at least emotionally (which is the priceless side of things). I literally rose from the ashes, and come 4 years, I had arrived full circle.

June 2, 2007
The good news: Eze and I have just acquired our first owned home. This has been the definitive step in our relationship, making our commitment concrete as a house. This is one step in life my parents haven´t taken yet, one step toward security, our roots finally taking hold somewhere. Curiously enough, the day chosen to sign the contract is the 4th anniversary of my total loss. I arrived full circle. But full circle is a coin with two sides.
When I arrived home to pick my car up and go to my family to celebrate my brother´s birthday, the bad news were awaiting lying on the pedals of my car. Pucho had stealthily sneaked into my car last night as I arrived home. I didn´t notice. No one missed him. No one found out until I opened that car door at 4PM. The unvented heat in that car at midday must have been unsustainable. He died a heat death, he died an asphyxiated death. Just like my dogs 4 years ago. In the same car that had been the sole survivor property of that fire.

I don´t know how to pay homage to Pucho. I am well aware of the differences inside our household that stemmed from the habits around caring for him. I am well aware that after a while, at least for me, Pucho had become a nuisance more than a pet. But I never wished ill on him, much less death. And as irritated as I allowed myself to become by him at times, I could not speak ill of an animal that was just that: an animal, with needs and perks like any other.

And more than an animal, Pucho was a very affective pet. He had enough love to show around the whole neighborhood, and that is something that cannot be erased or obliterated by simple circumstantial situations. Pucho was not only cute because he was a beautiful kitty. He was cute because he was a devoted kitty. He will be remembered and mourned, much more so by his rightful owners than by me, but it doesn´t mean I don´t feel sorrowful too by his death. My deep condolences to his two equally devoted owners (you know who you are). I share the sting of the broken heart his departure leaves.

Coming full circle can be sweet, but it can be sour as well.