BUSTED!!!!!!!

On Friday, I had gone to the bank late which threw off my timing.  I leaped onto a different platform and noticed that every train thereafter was crowded.  Since I was not eager to ride home like a sardine, I decided to let two packed trains pass me by.  This was a mistake.

I had my head buried in my latest book of poetry (i.e. Nuyorican Poet’s) and rode past the first stop.  Here is where I must mention that I had once thought myself quite clever.  So clever in fact, that I’ve been riding the train using a pass that is really designated for the disabled.  Why, you may ask?  Because I thought I was getting one over on DA MAN, that’s why.  Turns out that Da Man had me pegged already and decided to catch me just as I’d slipped into my head for a bit, shutting close the delicious book I’d been reading. 

You know how they say that women have a sixth sense?  Well, they do and I did.  As soon as I saw the officer hop onto the train, bowing just a little to avoid hitting the doorframe, I knew that I was hit.  Don’t ask me what it was: maybe it was his handlebar mustache, or the way that he grinned when he got on.  I dunno.  All I know is that something told me that this was gonna be a bad experience…and it was…but I digress.  Anyhow, he gets on the train and proceeds to ask for tickets.  Well I, as I aforementioned, felt that I was quite clever, so I flashed the stamped ticket that is similar in every way to the standard ticket but with one notable difference: it reads, ‘DISABLED’ on it.  Everything else is the same: the same color, the same shape, the same size. 

So I flash this clever little card which would be my undoing because this was quickly followed up by, “Miss, where’s you’re diability card?” 

Feigning retardation, I said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re disability card.  Where is it?”

“Oh!”  I answered, startledly and proceeded to put my foot in my mouth.  “I don’t have it on me,” I whispered.

“What?  I didn’t–” then he shook his stupid dunce-cap uniform capped head at me.

“I don’t have it…on me.”  Then, I gave my standard puppy-dog look that usually goes over well.  See?  I am clever!

“Step off at the next stop, please.”

That was it.  So I got off at the stop and the jerk continued writing out the ticket and I couldn’t find my ID and could’ve given a false address and all but…I didn’t.  I took it like a man.

There goes $74 bucks.  Oh well.  It still won’t change my habits though.  ‘Cause that’s the type of girl I am: a rebel without a cause.  So go ahead Port Authority copper!  You’ll never catch me again!  You know why?  Because I’m on ta you, see?  Next time I see unusually crowded trains on a Friday, I’ll buy the full priced ticket.  You caught me once, but you’ll never catch me again, Copper!!! HAHA YOU FOOL!!!

Full price is for suckers…!

How does one top The Chinese??

14 Bazillion Dollars spent.  15,000 performers (none repeating). A bird’s nest stadium.  LCD floor and fiber-optic technology that allows the Olympic rings to literally come off the ground.  Human calligraphy pens.  Artists suspended in mid-air and around a giant globe: walking sideways.  Drummers playing and Tai-Chi experts running with equi-distant precision (2,008 of each to symbolize the Olympic year).  A circular LCD screen that circumvents the length of the stadium.  Giant oars that serve as a panoramic panel-display of ships when held together. Lit-up costumes, stage, and of course fireworks.

Aside from singing monkeys, I don’t know how you can top that. 

They say that next year Great Britain’s hosting.  Great. Perhaps there’ll be a bunch of Benny Hill half-naked chicks in knickers running around with bad teeth whilst reciting a Monty-Python skit.  Sounds like a gas.

Harmless Eavesdropping

On a regular day I can overhear some of the most awkward conversations but nothing comes close to the drunken ramblings and arguments of true weirdos.  To the untrained ear, this may sound like like a crock.  However, my expertise in this area–since I live above a bar–is extensive and is irrefutable.  Allow me to offer this gem of an example…

While walking home on a beautifully sunny summer evening, I overheard this charming gentleman talking on his cell phone, as it were, to a chum.  The gentleman, clad in stonewashed jean shorts and a guinea t-shirt, the signature wear of his trashy kind, proceeds to invite the neighborhood into a boisterous exchange.

Yeah, I’m doing great!  How you doin’ guy? he says whilst hoisting his phone against his ear so that his arm formed a perfect triangle.

Aw, nothin’. Note the friendly-brutish vernacular.

It’s cool, man.  Me?!  Can’t complain.  Then after a pause, Never better.  I’m down to 4 bags (of heroine) a day, man.  It’s cool.  Y’know.  I’m fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

I shudder.  You get the idea.  Truly inspirational these repartees over illegal substances.

But that wasn’t the only fly-on-the-wall experience I managed to enjoy this past weekend.  On Sunday, there was the full-out blowout that happens at least twice a year.  I know, I know.  Why didn’t it happen sooner?  I was beginning to get worried there for a moment.  But this scene didn’t disappoint.  Here are your players:

• Drunken whore
• Wack-job neighbor who just got out of jail
• Mother of Wack-job

The policeman were bit players, so I’m not mentioning them at all except to say that they had orchestral seats to this fiasco.

Scene Opens with sudden shouts and banging on what seemed to be a front door.  Enter Wack-job who proceeds to slam his fist against it while being antogonized by the Drunken Whore inside.

DW - What the f*** did I tell you?!  Keep bangin’ on that door and I’m callin’ the cops!

Wacko - I told you to get the f*** out!! You make me sick you f***** c***!!

DW - What the f*** did you call me?!

Wacko - You heard me, you b****!  Who you doin’ now??  You ain’t nothin’ but a f***** whore b**** slut!!!

DW - F*** you!!

Wacko (pacing back and forth in front of the building) - Just leave!  You hear me??  Get your s*** and get the f*** out!!!

DW - You can’t tell me what to do!  Don’t make me call the cops, Wacko.  I swear to god that if you come near me, I will press charges!!

Wacko - Go ahn then, you whore!!  See if I give a s***.

Wacko’s Mom (coming out of nowhere) - Hey!  Hey!  Wacko, what’d I tell ya?  Stay the hell outta this!

Wacko (protesting) - But, ma!…c’mon!

Wacko’s Mom (chastising) - Stop it, now.  I mean it!!

Wacko shuts up long enough to see the cops show up: no sirens, just flashing lights.

DW (gets out of the house ranting like a lunatic) while Wacko just sits there.

Cops - What seems to be the problem, ma’am.

DW - I’m pressing charges on this motherf***** if he comes near me again.  Now, I just wanna get my stuff and–I’ve had it with him…

Cops - Calm down, ma’am…just explain to us what the problem is.

DW - This motherf***** is crazy!!! He keeps threatening me and–

Wacko - Now, you just shut the hell up!

DW - You see?!  He won’t leave me to get my clothes.

Wacko - ‘Cause she’s goin’ to f*** that a**h***…

The cops look on in amazement as Wacko approaches as if he’s gonna hit the whore.  They stop him just in time (darnit!).

Cops - Sir, you can’t do that. 

DW - I want him arrested.  That’s what I want.  I wanna press charges!!

Wacko (approaching the cops with his hands in imaginary handcuffs) - Take me in then!

DW - You see?!  You see this officer?  He’s crazy!  I want him arrested!

Wacko (screaming) - GO AHEAD AND ARREST ME!!! I WANNA GO TO JAIL!!!  ANYTHING TO GET AWAY FROM YOU, YOU CRAZY B****!!!!!

The madness lasted for about a solid hour.  Then, just as I thought the fun was over, they started again about two hours after everyone had left. Much of the same and the cops arrived to see the magic again. 

With so much endless entertainment, I can’t help but love living here.  Who could?  Seriously.

A Man & His Rod

What’s the first thing to do if you’ve just left the hospital for the ump-teenth time in 5 years?  Yeah, that’s right.  You go fishing.  At least, that’s what my wubba and I decided to do.  It was so peaceful that I almost forgot the week’s agony for a minute.  The weather couldn’t have been nicer, either.So we packed up his gear and went to the docks by our home.  I wasn’t really into it.  I just wanted to see him enjoy the day, feel the fresh breeze on his face.  It really is amazing how much we’ve been through since we’ve been together, but everyday my love gets stronger and stronger.  I’m just grateful that I can share these experiences with him. 

Cougar Pride

There are few things in life that I love more than blogging and chatting on Facebook.  Recently, I joined Facebook, I managed to get in touch with some old classmates.  After chatting awhile with them, I realized that they seem to be on a mission for the same thing as I: a reunion!  It seemed fitting that we should all come together now (in earnest) to try and reminisce about a singular, unique experience that shaped our lives forever. 

We were all blessed to be part of a small group of students (about 60 or so of us) to graduate from an elite inner-city school.  We didn’t know it at the time, but we’d be the last class to share the torture of a very strict dress-code, an old school name, and an old school location.  At the time, we were unable to process what we had managed to accomplish in a brief 4 years.  It was hard and challenging, but it truly prepared us for the great big world out there.  If I seem overly nostalgic, it’s because it was that kind of place.  Not too many people can say that they pretty much knew every classmate by first and last name.  Not everyone can say that they had worked harder during those 4 years than in college.  Not everyone could have experienced a true understanding of a school that broke all records and set precedent for academic achievement in the unlikeliest town.

We were the last of the best:  

After we graduated, everything changed.   After us, through nepotism, dress code adjustments, and a larger quota for acceptance (possible due to the change of location of the school) the bar that we had raised, lowered significantly.  I don’t care what others say: the proof is in the pudding.  We had to work for what we were given.  Only a small number of students from area grade schools were accepted.  Many were rejected and placed on endless waiting lists.  We had classes in freezing basements and a defunct Eukranian church.  We had to share a local college gymnasium to hold our “Phys Ed” courses and team practices.  Our “library” was made up of books housed in steel-cabinets reminscent of a prison. It wasn’t as easy then as it is now. 

We Weren’t All That Different After All:

On my way to rekindling old friendships, I stumbled upon a classmate that had always seemed so cool and intellectual as to set me reeling.  I almost envied her: the brain of the class she seemed so adult and together that I knew she was out of my league.  While I struggled to navigate the labyrith of Mr. Royster’s Advanced History course, she was aloof and way beyond me in her overwhelming knowledge of historical events.  When I joined FB, I began to chat with her.  She was very kind and not as self-absorbed as I recall.  The chatting was refreshing and she finally admitted that competition set us all in this mode in high-school that I’d almost forgotten.  We were all so focused on our goals then.  I just wanted to pass, others were more ambitious eager to make lists of over-achieving student listings to set them apart on the road to collegiate success.  I don’t think we even really breathed back then.  Every class was an opportunity to outshine your classmates and the goal was to be noticed and praised.  At least, that was my goal.  After chatting a bit, my classmate made a startling discovery.  “Wow!”  she wrote, “I guess we weren’t all that different after all.”  Nope.  We were all eager, anxious to hit the next target, our next goal.  Sometimes, we didn’t see the forest for the trees.  But it made us better people.  We all made something of ourselves.  “I was going to save the world…”  We did.  We all did.

Raise The Banner of the Cougar High:

I still remember the words to the alma mater that was force-fed to us in a crowded music class.  “Sing it with pride!  Y’all gotta learn it…” Mrs. McIver would holler out at us.  I kept wondering why she made such a big deal out of learning those horrible lyrics:

Sing the song of honor and praise

For Academic High whose banner we raised

We will ever loyal be, thy fame will spread over land and sea

From this school shines forth a light

It’s lamp of knowledge does burn bright

Though it emits tiny rays, they will influence future days

Sing the song of our alma mater loud

Sing it fervently, and sing it proud

Raise the banner of the Cougar High

Raise it up to the vast blue sky!

Now, seventeen years later, I understand.

You Know What I Mean, Jellybean?

I hate it when people call new life experiences, “journeys”.  It just sounds icky and although I am quite aware that “life is a journey and not a destination”, it doesn’t bother my ears any less. The undercurrent of such yuck-factor bantor is the song, “Don’t Stop Believin’”.  And c’mon people!  Journeys?!  Really?!

Who can I blame for this insidious misnomer?  Oprah.  I blame Oprah for her -isms which have escaped the self-help novels that must be littered about her Chicago office shelves and scattered through the expanse of Harpo studio.  Now, every tree-hugger and soccer mom recites the minutae of endless tasks and daily routine as stepping stones through their individual “journeys”.  It’s just euphemisms for the boring activities that make up a life: somewhere between carting kids off to Little League practice and washing dishes.  No one is saying that these things aren’t noble or necessary.  I’m just saying that the simple chores that are an inevitable fact of life, do not have to be explained or built up in any way.  Just like every person doesn’t have to climb a mountain or visit the Pyramids to feel as though they’ve lived a life or satisfied some kind of human requirement.  While it’d be real cool to be able to do those things, you can’t knock yourself if you never accomplish them.  It’s better to be satisfied with the little things and stop trying to label them.  Mediocrity makes us human.

Only The Strong Survive

Or, maybe it’s just only the stubborn.  Either way, Carlos is both.  After spending a week in the hospital, arguing over his doctor’s orders and challenging him to a duel, Carlos won.  This time, he was more reserved than he has ever been.  He was calm and collective when he asked me to dial his insurance to check on coverage of an antibiotic.  We ended up speaking to a very nice representative who didn’t know the answer right away, but was kind enough to return our phone call promptly.  It was great.  So it turns out that Carlos’ griping was correct, after all.  He was right to do some mild complaining because the doctor didn’t really want to risk releasing him, which made no sense. 

Now over the course of that week, I’d managed to take away a lot of things.  Life lessons can be found around every corner of one’s existence.  Was that a bit overstated?  Well, I believe that.  I do!  Nobody likes hospitals: that antiseptic smell, the muffled voices, and eerie atmosphere.  Still, since Carlos visits them often, I’ve come to find a basic understanding of principles that are part of the human condition.  First off, not everyone is meant to be in health care.  It is extremely hard to find a balance of professionalism, compassion, and the ability to treat every patient as though they were your first patient ever.  Not every nurse, doctor, or nurse’s aide have these qualities.  In fact, it is very rare to deal with the infirm and dying which is why many become jaded and disconnected, aloof.  Some don’t even see the person, just the dollar signs they’ll be getting.  The patient is a commodity, a paycheck, a bank-roll.  I’m aware that many doctors see the business, but not the personal aspects of their positions.  But I’m often surprised when someone who swears an oath, can’t at least listen to their patient.

Cue the reality. 

On my last visit there to break Carlos out of there, an amazing thing happened.  When I walked onto the floor, a horde of physicians, specialists and nurses & aides were swarming into a dialysis room.  The person that was suffering a “Code Blue”, warranting all of this attention was a wealthy man.  Apparently, his coverage could account for the overwhelming outpouring of backup and support.   I’m not trying to be cynical here…just factual.  For to the contrary, on the other quiet side of the floor was an elderly woman seated in an overstuffed wingchair, barely able to keep her head up.  This appeared to be her daily position since I rarely saw her inside of her room.  Instead she chose to remain seated outside of her room in the hallway and in plain sight.  She was such a fixture, it seemed, that no one took any notice of her.  Yet, Carlos and I would walk the circumference of the ward, passing her by and would give her a dose of conversation.  A simple, “hello” would suffice for she was too ill to lift up her head.  Yet on the final day, as I passed her, I said “hello” and she commented on Carlos’ progress. 

“He going home?” she asked. 

I answered, “Yes.”  She nodded. 

“He doesn’t have anyone?” 

“No,” I answered. 

Emphatically, she raised her head and said, “Well he has you and that’s all that matters.” 

We exchanged more niceties and advice.  She was old, but she had her wits about her enough to inform me of her predicament: the reason why she was still there in the hospital. 

“I can’t remember to take my medication.”

“Oh.”

“My children feel its best to keep me here since they can’t care for me.”

“Well, life is like this.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“God Bless,” I told her as the commotion on the other side of the hall ceased.  Seemed like the wealthy man had pulled through, even though the doctors weren’t sure how much damage he had suffered yet.  Of course, the physicians spoke in that complicated language that they speak, but I understood when the stretcher that had arrived was empty and quickly dispatched to another floor.

I am still amazed at the candor of Carlos’ endless questioning.  I marvel at his level of understanding which surpasses my own.  He’d challenged his physician and won.  We’d get through this mini-crisis as we always have: with each other. 

My cousin wrote to me commending me for loving someone so unconditionally.  I don’t deserve that praise.  For, who was looking out for the old woman as she perhaps lay dying in the hallway of a hospital?  If the wealthy man could buy the best doctors, he still can’t cheat death forever.  Money surely can’t buy that.  It’s every man / woman for themselves out there…and only the strong survive…but only for awhile.

One Day At A Time

Everyone has a vice.  Some of them are extremely detrimental and some are benign.  They make us human and vulnerable.  My vice is a the product of my lactose intolerance, tradition, and I dare say, our family heritage.  It is an addiction to caffeine in the form of a cup o’ Joe, café, Java, brew, etc. 

Hi, I’m MeMa, and I am a caffeine addict

When I was born, no doubt my mother wondered what the heck to do with me.  I didn’t take to whole milk like other kids, and was fussy and gassy to boot.  In those days, the family pediatricians really didn’t know too much about lactose intolerance and my mom was told to just sneak things into my milk to change the taste in the hopes that I would take to it.  The method was suspect, I know, but when young mothers sought solutions then–especially low-income moms–they were often met with “doctor knows best” syndrome.  So there my mom was, adding all of these various ingredients to the milk to make it taste better.  That’s when my mom had the idea to add just a hint of coffee.  Voilá! An introduction to caffeine was born. 

Coffee Is In My Blood

This ingredient was not an unusual thing.  Puerto Ricans everywhere start their kids off on coffee-drinking rather early.  Because of our country’s rich soil and perfect climate, Puerto Rico has a history of farming their own coffee.  Café Real company (arguably the best coffee in the world once endorsed by the Vatican) boasts pure, home-grown coffee that isn’t mixed with any foreign coffee ingredients or competitor’s grains.  Unfortunately, promotion of healthy living, caffeine’s negative press, and the reduction of farmland has affected the business and the demand for coffee.  Coffee has served me well over the years.  When I was a little girl, it was not uncommon to sit at my grandmother’s kitchen counter and have a sip.  It wasn’t just the coffee: it was the story behind it.  The mystique rendered a family tradition: a sharing session where we’d sit down and talk about everything.  Coupled with a piece of Pan de Mateca con mantequilla (trans. Manteca bread and butter), there was no topic that was off-limits.  I swear that a full-bodied roast has some kind of magical quality to it…an elixir for storytelling.  In college, it kept me up when I pulled “all-nighters” to write papers.  At work, the daily pantry-visit is a social event where I can chat with co-workers as they fix themselves up a cup.  It serves a dual purpose because it’s also a means to refresh, a solution to the slow pace post-lunch. 

Old Habits Die Hard

To me, nothing can substitute for coffee. On my way to work, I pass at least four stores that tempt me to drink it.  It’s as if the coffee is calling me to buy it.  I think of all the good conversations that have been sparked as a result of sitting and drinking it.  Then, there’s the pure addictive quality.  Without a morning coffee, I don’t feel the same.  There are the headaches, the annoying irritability, that feeling that I’m missing something.  Then, what will I order in its place?  When the waitress at my favorite diner asks, “What’ll you have (to drink)?”  What will I say?  Tea?  Soda?  I just don’t like those choices.  The reality is that I know that sometimes coffee doesn’t agree with me.  I know that it makes me jumpy in the afternoons and I know that I feel off-kilter without it.  That’s the bad news.  The good news is that I can change but it will definitely take more than just will.  Maybe I can find a happy medium.  I can try to drink it in moderation.  That can’t be too bad, right?  I don’t have to drastically make changes; I can ween off of it.  Right??  All I know is that when I smell that wafting smell coming from the local coffee-shop or the pantry at the office, I can’t resist. 

If you see me crouching in a corner, rocking back and forth with that crazed look in my eye…be nice. I guess I have to take it one cup at a time.

 

The Real Point of Vacations

Since I am currently on vacation for a week, I began mulling over this topic obsessively because I really didn’t have any plans for the period that I was out.  The biggest problem is that I felt guilty if I didn’t return with some sort of evidence of a tan or some photographs as proof that I had a great time.  The truth is, I am having a great time…only not in the traditional sense of the word.  My favorite way to celebrate my short vacation these days doesn’t involve cramming as much sight-seeing or laundry lists of things I need to do.  My idea of vacation now involves foreign concepts like: rest, relaxation, doing absolutely nothing.    The reason I say that these are foreign concepts is that Americans have a tendency to be doers (even when they should be enjoying the fruits of their labor).  We consistently need to fight the urge to do throughout the vacationing period.  How could we possibly be satisfied just doing nothing?  How could staying at home be considered a vacation?  Shouldn’t we be racing somewhere with an agenda or at the very least, an itinerary? 

  

Doing nothing.  Sitting or sleeping or enjoying a good book.  The first couple of days, I looked for things to do to fill the hours.  I gave into the temptation to log onto my computer to email, blog, reconnect with former classmates.  Then, I stopped.  I realized that this was my time and that out of all of the things I chose to do, I was still plugged into the workaday world.  I was not engaging in the fine art of sitting still, but I was actively sabotaging the entire idea of vacation.

It Wasn’t Always Like This:

When I was a little girl, my father would take all of us on vacations that consisted of easy living.  We’d be encouraged to go exploring at the lakes, barbecuing in the backyard, and swimming in the pool.  I remember that I often felt annoyed at my Dad’s lack of interest in anything that involved work at all.  The menial tasks of fetching soda and handing out the condiments suddenly became mine and my sister’s.  I didn’t get it then.  How could anybody have fun just watching non-stop Mets baseball on television?  How could it be fun to just lay out in a backyard?  Fun was relative.  It didn’t matter if we physically went somewhere, it was going to be a good time because we had each other.  It was a simpler time where the term vacation often meant sitting in someone’s backyard with a really great spinach dip and chips.

How have we as a culture been led astray?  When did it become unfashionable to tune out or to take long strolls or to just chill out? 

When the week is over, I plan on returning refreshed and ready to be productive.  I may not have a tan, but at least I won’t have cancer.  And that’s a good thing.

Provoking Thought All Around The World

This is a really pertinent question that I’d like to pose to my audience (yes, all two of them).  I suppose I could just about stand all of the cutesy nicknames that love has a tendency to produce.  But once the honeymoon stage of a relationship is done, just stick to the typical terms-of-endearment like, “sweetie” and “honey”, please.  Anything outside of that could actually induce vomiting. I can’t explain my lack of interest in the mating habits of humans.  There’s just some things that should be limited such as: nipple pinching, tit honking and ass-grabbing.  I mean really.

Just to elaborate, my sister and I are actually quite gigglicious (it’s a word) when it comes to the multi-cultural pickup lines.  But our most recent favorite is: “I marry you girl.”  This gem came up when some Arabic guy tried to get my sister’s number in a club.

And while we’re on the subject of clubs…

What’s with that Usher song, “I Want to Make Love in This Club?”  I mean, seriously?  Do you really want to? With all of them germs up in there?  Ewww…! Yuck…! Gross…!  You’re not that cute Usher. And, aren’t you married?!  Whatever happened to simple, 80s lyrics like: “Cherry Pie” and “The Humpty-Hump”, hm?  I mean really!

Just because you were my Lucky Star, doesn’t mean I’ll Be Loving You Forever, ok?  I’m not Hungry Like A Wolf here.  So Relax (Don’t Do It).  But Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.  Because Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.