Archive for the 'La Madre' Category

This is why I have an aversion to hats

July 2, 2008 | Filed under: Fotografias, La Madre

“Fashion can be bought. Style one must possess.” ~Edna Woolman Chase

That I was dressed by a woman who now walks to the other side of the floor at work just to see and critique what I am wearing is hilarious. Like you put me in this shit and now you’re going to second guess my choice in footwear? God, I hope this was outfit was a joke. And why yes, I do look pissed. Possibly because I am wearing a flowery dress (sans pockets of course) and a black derby hat. You’d be pissed too!

La Madre

May 13, 2008 | Filed under: Familia, La Madre, You've Got Guests

“Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.” ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

My mother has written a lovely post for you all. You’ll notice the way she writes an entire sentence using proper grammar and without throwing in a casual ‘F’ word for emphasis. She even deals with problems without drinking. And yet I’m 110% sure that we’re related. I get my meager writing ability from my her and my ability to sip wine and swear at the same time from my father. If the latter ever wrote a blog post you’d be like “OOOOOOOH I get it”. Crazy genetics. Enjoy:

It’s the story of my life:  opportunity knocks and I’m too busy to answer the door.  Not this time.  I consider it a gift to be asked to guest post on No Pasa Nada, and I’ve only been on the blog once.  But I’ve heard good things about it, and I am fascinated by the conecept of blogging.  First, why haven’t I been on Heather’s blog?  Because our mother-daughter connection is such that we need our private spaces-even when those spaces are quite public to others.  Second, why the fascination with blogging? I’ve longed to write for a woman’s magazine since Rosie Acevedo’s big sister, Isabel, shows us Glamour magazine when we were in 6ht grade.  Until then, the only magazines I was aware of were My Weekly Reader and Scholastic. My mother occasionally brought home Family Circle from the A&P. If it interested her, it was of little interest to me.  But, Glamour and its do’s and don’ts and makeup tips and fashion photos and ad spreads had Isabel’s approval and my undivided attention.  Blogging has that same effect today. I’m fixated on the possibility of wiring for women without editors or query letters getting in the way.

Enough about that. I’m one of those people who is in constant conversation with myself–perpetually writing and rewriting any given conversation.  Rehearsing for whatever’s next.  I’m convinved that people who talk to themselves are just giving voice to the internal conversation–oblivious to anyone and anything but the dialog playing in their head.  Lately, I’ve been replyaing a conversation about dying.  My middle sister is living with terminal cancer.  On a recent Sunday afternoon, she called to just check in. In the middle of talk about weather and plans for the coming week, she casually dropped that she had recently named me her health care proxy and she was told she should share with me what medical procedures she would and wouldn’t want toward the end of her life.  On a sunny afternoon, in front of a picture window, I listend to her as she, with the same matter-of-factness that my son give me his weekly grocery list, told me how she wanted to die.  And just as casually as the conversation had begun, it was over and we were on to talking about who was coming in for my son’s upcoming graduation.  I put down the phone and immediately began replaying that conversation.  Shouldn’t a conversation of such siginificance have come with warning?  Shouldn’t there have been tears? Shouldn’t we have been in the same room? Shouldn’t I have said something more profound than “I’m listening,” “I hear you,” “I understand.”? Or, is this really how such conversations are meant to happen? Casually, naturally, mater-of-factly. Life does go on.

This is why blogging fascinates me. I sat down to write about stolen kisses. What’s come out is totally unexpected. Thank you, Heather. This is the greatest gift. Love you the moon and the stars.

Guess who wants Typepad for Mother’s Day

May 8, 2008 | Filed under: Blogology, La Madre

And my friend Susan from Oklahoma is no longer my friend Susan from Oklahoma. She’s now that woman who dared to remotely think about reading the blog my mother will never ever start so long as I live. So help me God. Amen.

Clingy

April 4, 2008 | Filed under: La Madre, Mmhmm That's Right

“Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.” ~James Joyce

Several years ago I babysat for the world’s most difficult toddler. She was fine during the 10 months prior but once she turned one she was desperate for her mother and her mother was desperate for 40 minutes without a toddler wrapped around her neck and so she would go out and leave me with a child who screamed bloody murder for a solid five minutes. The girl is almost six now and hates when her mother comes home and I have to leave. I remind her of that really great year when she was clingy and wanted nothing more than to duct tape her body to her mother’s forehead and once gave herself a bloody nose because of all the screaming she looked at me and said “Well, I NEVER!” while appalled by such behavior. So I had her yell at me in my right ear and she was all shocked when I claimed I couldn’t hear anything because she had burst that ear drum many years ago with all the fucking screaming.

Though I am not necessarily screaming at the top of my lungs each day I have reverted back to being clingy to my parents, particularly my mother. I can actually appreciate the sentiment of a toddler because sometimes we all need a little loving from our mommies. But at 24, it’s a little awkward to walk up to my mother in the bathroom at work or the kitchen or while she is mid-conversation with my boss and then rest my head in her armpit. Or perhaps nuzzle her chin. Awkward because there are others around and because I find it rather uncomfortable being a good three inches taller. Yesterday I went into her office twice (unheard of) once to shoot the shit because we hadn’t seen each other in a whole 12 hours. The second time she was genuinely happy to see me and gave me a little pat on the cheek. Each time I had to fight the urge to yell out Mommy! Hold me!

I’m thinking the clinginess is a manifestation of the difficulties of the last several months. Nothing that needs detailing right this moment but hard nonetheless and even harder to not analyze and obsess about. I’m also thinking that the clinginess is what led me to spend Wednesday evening with 489 mothers. 489 mothers, people, and there I was praying I didn’t get pregnant by association. What? You didn’t know you could catch that by breathing? It really was lovely and the thing about mothers is that they don’t stop mothering. They can’t help but love everyone and be protective and yell at you for texting while driving. They’re programmed to care. It was wonderful and full of conversation that actually had nothing to do with children but all about love, puppies and how to get sparkles out of rainbows.

I am leaving for Manhattan in a few hours to go spend more time with several more friends. The other day a friend of mine told me that I could use a little “normal” to cling to. Not that I can actually define “normal” but now I understand the reversion of wanting, nay, needing a parent around at all times; I want something I am confident in and something really good to hold onto that makes me feel a little like me again. So I am going to go away and get drunk for three days, stop at Tiffany, walk around Central Park, eat cupcakes, drink mimosas for breakfast, try not to puke and buy something cute from Coach. See? Normal.

The day I turned into my mother

March 30, 2008 | Filed under: Familia, La Madre

“A child is a curly dimpled lunatic.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

On Friday evening I babysat for my seven-year-old cousin. She is the daughter of my 31-year-old cousin who used to babysit for me and even though I am mostly retired from babysitting, I feel moved to do her this favor after she endured a decade of torture courtesy of my punk ass. This includes that one time in the mall, when I loudly called her a bitch; because at nine, I had already mastered the art of pissing off someone in authority. In fact, I am so good at it now that I find myself in shock that I remain gainfully employed.

I arrived to a seven-year-old full of attitude and angst. And then she rolled her eyes at me and shook her neck at me and I had to restrain myself from removing each hair from her head. Instead I remained calm and asked what was the matter. It was the usual bullshit: She was forced to eat oatmeal for breakfast, she was forced to put on pants and then she mentioned a boy named Josh at her school. Something about how he used the word ‘penis’ and teased the girls in her class and sometimes he told really bad jokes. And for Chrissakes! He can’t spell orange! I was good and didn’t tell her that little boys grow up to be big boys. They’re just taller and harrier but just as goddamn stupid that she would be surprised that they’ve managed to remain alive for so long. There are times when I want to ask members of the opposite sex exactly how long their brains have been deprived of oxygen.

I kept my mouth shut, as difficult as that was, and told her that her choices were to either ignore him or be nice. She agreed. Then I told her that attitudes were unbecoming on young women so that if she had a problem with someone or something, then she should use her words instead of crying and throwing herself on the floor or tossing a random stool against the wall. Ho hum. Not 20 minutes later her head fell off of her body because she couldn’t eat my mozzarella sticks and then because I told her to go upstairs and brush her teeth and go to the bathroom and there was probably something else but I was busy trying to get an appointment scheduled for an emergency Tubal Ligation.

At that point in the evening, I told her to go to bed and then there were more tears because she NEEEEEEDED A STOOOOORRRRRYYYYY! And if she didn’t have a STORRRRRRYYYYYY then she couldn’t sleep. Then she tried to kick me and I now have her leg as a souvenir. Kidding! I really threatened to call her grandfather (my uncle). She continued to scream and carry on but went into her bed visibly afraid. Hell, I would be too. Her grandfather is a Republican and the last thing I would want to deal with at 8 PM is a cantankerous Republican. Anyway, she went to bed still crying about the damn story and so I told her that perhaps she would be able to defy biology and get to sleep without the story. And lo she did!

The next morning, I was up at 6 AM and I told her mother about what had occurred the evening before. She told me I handled it all very well as she would have picked her up by her ankles and tossed her into the snow. Or laughed. Whatever. I then left and went to the grocery store, Target and TJMaxx all by 9AM. When I finally got back home I looked like this:

True story.