What’s Playing At The Roxy?

When most folks learn that I once lived above a McDonald’s the reaction is almost always one of these: “Really?  How could you stand the smell?” and “How awful, did you hate it?”  The truth is, I didn’t hate it.  I didn’t love it.  It’s sort of one of those feelings of pure indifference.  Oh sure, there were drawbacks: a constant humming noise from their ventilation system, the annoying night crew that played their radios full blast until the wee hours of the morning, not to mention my rodent problem.  But I guess it is my lot in life to always look on the bright side: I could always enjoy anything off of their dollar menu, I had an endless supply of condiments (our household never ran out), and you can’t beat overindulging in the free refills when you live just upstairs.  So now that I’ve moved above a bar, the inevitable reaction is like déjà vu all over again. Yet, once again I find the regular alcoholics very entertaining.  There’s nothing like a good old fashioned bar fight on a Saturday night which almost always begins with a drunken misunderstanding about something or other and ends with proclamations about kinship, love, and mysterious wisdom.  Cracks me up everytime I witness these sometimes hour-long dramatizations involving longtime friends and family or mere acquaintances.  As I’ve stated before in an earlier post the music selections can be witty and ironic.  I wake up to their latest favorite: Coldplay and wonder at what the song, “Yellow” truly means for drunks.  I’m not quite sure, but I have an inkling that it has something to do with needing to use the restroom. But lo, then the jukebox lit up in front of the alcoholics and beckoned them.  And when they played The Rolling Stones, then it was good.  Or, something. Herbie, I didn’t think you’d be fully loaded: Bar fights often take on three categories: the bitter half at home, the feud between two friends, and the complete waste of time.  Let’s look at this closely, using the 4-star system, shall we?    *    I should’ve stayed home.   **    I should’ve stayed at my mother’s.  At least she’s cool. ***   I should’ve gone to sleep under a rock. **** I’ll drive… The Bitter Half At Home - Is the argument between husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend.  Generally, the one who’s been waiting up for the other arrives at the bar looking to tear an arm off with hilarious results.  Hilarious for us of course, not them.  Most arguments begin with, “I thought you said you were going right home” to “Do you know what time it is?”  The response, assuming that the drunk is still able to make a coherent sentence is often, “But babe, I was celebrating ______’s birthday” or some other random occasion.  That, or the elusive, “Don’t be mad, I just stopped here to have a few beers.”  Sometimes, the arguments get physically violent using long-range weapons like beer mugs and shot glasses.  Good times.  I give it **** The Feud Between Two Friends - This is always entertaining because whether the two parties are lifelong alcoholic friends or just-met acquaintances, the result is non-stop funny.  Usually because both are fighting, slurred speech and all and everything’s fair game for ridicule:  Mothers, finances, other friends, family.  The greatest mud-slinging this side of the Mississippi.  In these fights, all dirty laudry is hung out to dry including infidelities, sibling rivalries and old wounds.  From time to time, direct challenges to prove masculine man-strength is also brought to the fore.  This involves skin-on-skin death matches that can result in bloody noses.  Sometimes, depending on the history or the involvement of outside parties reminding the drunks how much they love each other amounts to nothing but big talk and no action.   For that reason, I’ll give it just ** The Complete Waste of Time - I had to mention this because sometimes the funny can occur without physicality at all.  Like the group of alcoholics who frequently sit outside of our building hollering, “Hey, it’s The Party Bus!” to Bayonne’s gaudily pink-trimmed schoolbus charted for parties on the go.  That, or shouting out to the passersby, “C’mon in and have a drink!” I mean, sure they’re alcoholics.  But some seem to be happy about it.  Those lovable alchies…Like the one guy who shows up every morning at the butt-crack of dawn for his daily fix before heading off to work as (you guessed it!) a machine operator!  Yessir, I’m sure part of the fun is making a game outta seeing whether or not he’ll survive another week with all of his fingers or not.  The only way to win the game is to make it to the hospital before he passes out.  There’s also nothing like the nails-on-chalkboard whines of a few overindulged alley cats wailing to jukebox favorites at three in the morning.  Now that’s entertainment! ***

I’m Sorry, But Are You Just As Totally Confused As I Am?

Pluto may not be a planet. So I learned that the stupid mnemonic device in grammar school : My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pickles no longer is valid.

Mercury Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune…but no Pluto?! Has the world gone topsy-turvy?

How awful is it that now that this has been determined–years after a bunch of us were taught the contrary–all textbooks are now outdated!  What mnemonic device will they use now?

My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nothing?

My Version Ends Methods, Just Strip Understandings Now.

Mnemonic Verses Eliminate Man’s Jingle, Surely Usurping Nature.

Many Variations Expected, Meatheads Juggle Strange Unbelievable News.

Miscellaneous Victories Enjoyed, Many Jousts Sicken Untold Numbers.

My Vibrant Earth Mother Justly Serves United Nations.

And so on and so forth. So now I’m confused.  Oh sure, they gave their reasons for their decision, but what I can’t understand is why it took science so long to debate this?  So now the dang thing has been demoted to one of the seven “dwarf planets”.  Sounds so lame.  Poor, Pluto.  Poor, poor, Pluto.  But hey, at least he’s not Grumpy. 

Mental Health Days and No Phone Calls, Please!

Once again I am at that weird mental place where there are circuses and carnivals and parades and everyone’s enjoying the festivities…but me.  Oh sure, there’s some cotton-candy memory and a vividly terrifying roller coaster somewhere in the recesses of my imagination, but I would much rather say, “Stop the world…I wanna get off!”

What the hell am I writing about?  Well, there has been a lot of waiting on my part for the big, pretty elephant.  You know, the same one stuck in some tight room that everyone alludes to knowing about but never mention?  Right, that one.  To me, the elephant represents the reward for all of my hard work at my current job.  I keep jumping up and down, tugging on my parent’s sleeves screaming, “When will I get to see the elephants?  When are the elephants coming?!  Do you see them?  Do you see them?” And still nothing. The anticipation is such that I have imagined a strange scenario akin to getting a spotlight rained on me with a Big Top Ring Announcer saying my name and calling me down from the stands.  Yes, my mind is playing tricks on me that are that brutal.  I’m in a weird mood lately, I told you!

*ahem*

So there I am standing in the middle of this wonderful carnival / circus performance and then…nothing.  Absolutely no resolution.  Only a crowd of onlookers and that “I-feel-sorry-for-you” look on their faces.  That’s it.  Big Top let down.  I can even see the way I’m dressed: a sundress, those little black patent-leather Mary Jane shoes, rolled down frilly ankle socks.  But, that’s all that there is.  Now, I’ve gotta either a) bide my time until the elephant tamer gives me the bad news that overnight all of the elephants have died and aren’t coming or b) leave the circus and spend the rest of the evening miserable on the spinning-cup ride until I puke.  At least, that’s how I feel. 

I worked up a nice bit of anxiety over the course of the week picturing the office and all of those clowns judging me and asking to be more, do more and basically act the fool while feeling badly.  So I took a mental-health day off.  I felt underappreciated and needed to compose myself once again. Sing my own praises in front of my monitor.  Watch some bad early morning tv like, Judge Judy and Jerry Springer.  I love to hate those shows.  I have to admit that the experience freshened me back up and I was pretty much back to normal on Friday. 

The trouble is…

Okay, so why does it seem as though women just love to knock down other female counterparts in the workplace?  Why, if they’re your boss are they extremely bitchy and nitpicky?  If they’re your co-worker, they look for every oppotunity to stab you in the back all while smiling in a way that makes you aware of how fake they’re being? 

Work is Like Jail: Time Served Is Time Served:

The longer that a woman is in Corporate America and manages to make it up that death-defying ladder of success, the less she wants to answer phones.  It’s that simple.  It’s not that she feels that it is beneath her, but let’s face it: she didn’t go to college to pickup a phone and transfer calls.  Theoretically, her position has progressed since she’s done her time in the jail that is work.  Those dues, no matter what company I worked for prior, have been paid in full.  If convicts get time off for good behavior, so should a woman from answering phones! So why oh why does Little Miss “I-just-want-to-innocently-transfer-calls-to-you” always show up and ruin an already terror-ridden week?  Why is so much trust and effort placed on a lowly temp as myself?  Odd are, I’m winning in the trust department, but losing in the getting balls department. So, my face contorts in my typical trained seal face (or, in keeping with my theme: the trained horses) and I give Little Miss a non-answer…I think I said, “Um”, dragging out the ‘m’ sound so it appeared like I was thinking.  Which, I probably was.  Because as I’ve said before, it often takes me a heck of a long time to formulate a single thought.  Ugh! Anyway, Little Miss kinda looks at me dumbfounded, like a dingo took her baby.  Or, something.  If it weren’t for my Boss, The Lion Tamer, who happened to show up in the nick of time to tell Little Miss that I couldn’t take calls, I don’t know what I would’ve done.  I probably, like all those stupidly retarded incidents of the past, would have balked like a fool.  A damned fool.  Who’s the clown now? I hear you saying.  So stop that!  I can’t help it!  I’m just not that good with quick thinking sometimes. Okay, all the time.  But I think you get the point.

So now it’s back to the waiting which is the hardest part.  At least Tom Petty says so.  So do The Heartbreakers.  And oh, I don’t want to get caught in the middle of the three rings without at least, a bag of popcorn, do I?!

Just Dropping In:

Imagine my surprise when I opened my front door yesterday evening to find, Fifi standing there.  Like a boomerang, Fifi (at least we call her that) is back up north from Florida and decided to drop by.  I was completely unprepared since a) I thought she hated me and b) I haven’t spoken to her in a little over five years.  Not since I broke up with my then fiance (her uncle on her mother’s side) and met Carlos (her uncle on her biological father’s side).  I know. Puerto Rican family trees are a bit convoluted.  The more amorous nature of latin male to latin female,together with reckless sexual abandon, make our ever-nclusive nationality a hodgepodge of history.  I joke about this all the time: spin a globe and you can trace our descendants…At least we can safely say that Puerto-Ricans don’t discriminate.

If You’ve Seen the Movie, “Coffee & Cigarettes”, You’ll Know What I Mean:

Anyone who’s seen the movie knows that it is comprised of short vignettes featuring various celebrities enjoying exactly what the title suggests.  Trust me, I’m getting to a point.  The segment, “Cousins” follows a storyline where the actors playing themselves, Alfred Molina invites Steve Coogan out for tea (no, I’m not that good at remembering names I had to look it up here).  During the course of conversation, Alfred reveals the true reason why he invited Steve out: he has discovered a link in their family tree that makes them distant cousins.  What is being said here is irrelevant.  It is the overall sentiment of the piece when Alfred states matter-of-factly that he intended to present all of his research to Steve in the hopes that Steve “would love” him.  It is a simple message and the basis of all human interaction.  We all want to be loved.

Finally!  A Point!

Apparently, our miscommunication was mutual.  I stayed away because I thought that Fifi was angry that I was dating yet another member of her brethren.  I thought that there was bad blood left behind by her sister as well, when we had broken our friendship.  She stayed away because she thought that I didn’t want to know about her post my breakup.  She also felt weird about the developing relationship with Carlos.  Whew!  It was messy, y’all.  But I think in the interest of being loved, we both had to go through what we did.

However…

I am still skeptical as to why she would appear now.  Why now?  I mean, I am not completely doing somersaults with joy (if you know what I’m saying).  Since you are just officially reading about my life and are living vicariously through my description of it, then I guess all you can do is sit tight and wait for the ball to drop.  Right?  Right.

Magical Potions For All That Ails You

We’ve come a long way from the homeopathic remedies our Hispanic grandmas used to fix from weeds and herbs and spices.  Thanks to a government that’s eager to push pills, and medical breakthroughs, we’ve pretty much invented a “pill for everything”.  Is it any better, though?  I mean, sure we have marvelous ways of alleviating common sicknesses and bothersome icky feelings like colds, headaches and menstrual cramps.  But it seems that our nation is almost too quick to prescribe pills for every symptom which don’t always treat the root of the problem.  And even though the FDA wants you to believe that this is ultimately better for you, odds are that it isn’t.  What makes their drugs any better than the drugs sold on the street?  Aren’t modern doctors nothing more than drug dealers with degrees? 

I myself am a traditional kind of gal.  I’ve turned away from the pop-a-pill-and-feel-better mode.  Years ago, while suffering a work-induced nervous breakdown, I opted out of anti-depressants and chose an  over-the-counter herbal “remedy” called St. John’s Wort.  The effect was not only astounding, but affordable.  I knew that it wasn’t a catch-all, however, and I wondered about the long-term effects.  Not enough is known about these things and I often fear that in the end it’ll prove to be as harmful as snuff.  So, I am always careful to suggest that if you do opt for a root or an herb or an unconventional type of therapy, please research its effects on your body closely.  Then, monitor it.  Odds are that if the change is hastily dramatic, it may not be so great for you in the long run.  So BE CAUTIOUS. 

Puerto Ricans are notorious for incorporating nature and its elements in everything.  So why not in their healing?  The island’s rich plant-life, ancient history, and  the ritual-filled religion santeria, result in a host of natural (and spiritual) remedies. Folk medicine and other concoctions often have magical sounding names and seemingly miraculous results.  Carried by word-of-mouth, these strange potions and such have managed to exist for centuries.  The elders of my family were notorious for always knowing the right thing to use.  Here are some of my faves:

1. The Aguas - It is no secret that Puerto Rico, being the isla del encanto have an affinity for all things related to water (duh!).  There’s agua de azahar (for nerves), agua florida (for spiritual cleansing), and agua rosada (for perfuming & cleansing), just to name a few.
2. Alcohol - My grandma loved the multi-use of household alcohol.  We used it not just because of its smell, but because it cured headaches (poured onto a handerkerchief and tied around the forehead) and italleviated itchy mosquito bites.  Sometimes, we used it to bring down a fever, but it didn’t always work so well for that.  But it did smell good. Yummy! 
3. Vino, Carne, y Hierro - This is great because it helps with anemia and is supposed to take care of iron deficiencies.  It also helps with irregular menstrual cycles.  Don’t even ask me how I heard about that.  Ancient Puerto-Rican secret.
4. Hierba Buena - Used as a home remedy for digestive systems everywhere, this is the stuff that grandma loves to give her grandkids.  They use this stuff for everything such as pain in your feet, nausea, cough, colitis and other intestinal problems. 
5. Aceite de corojo - This is a bit on the magical side.  Originating from the santeria practice (and a bit of voodoo background), this inherited oil is specifically used in orisha rituals to ward off mischievous and evil spirits which cause various afflictions.  Puerto Rican & Cuban Americans, steeped in their familial roots still opt sometimes for the more fantasical world of the unexplained, to ward off illness.
6. Rum - If there is one thing the Puerto Ricans are proud of, it’s their rum.  We are still the greatest export of rum in the world.  Anyone who’s been to the island can visit the Bacardi rum factory which still boasts a strong and thriving business.  That being said, rum has been incorporated into our healing.  It’s a surefire way to rid oneself of a nagging phlegmy cough and can knock you out much like the American Nyquil.

Those are the ones I could think of at the moment.  Feel free to pursue whatever your heart desires, as long as it doesn’t worsen your conditions.  But if you feel worse, the doctor’s office is still probably your best bet.

Here’s to your health!

What Policemen Don’t Want Little Girls To Know:

 

Daughters,

There’s crime.  It exists in every form, every day, at any time.  It gnaws at the weak and makes zombies real.  It brings good people to lie, to cheat, and to steal.  That’s why it is always inside of me.  I have eyes that have witnessed the dregs of society.  I have learned to cope with anxiety.  I’m the guy who goes down to the basements, inside abandoned buildings, ’round dark, scary corners, walking on rooftops.  To serve and to protect all the others at the risk of losing myself to a street that can’t love me or crowds who reject me.  Nothing can protect me; not even this bullet-proof vest that I sport across my chest.  So what am I saying?  I’m saying that I’m the perpetual optimist.  I keep walking a beat believing that the world is worth saving.  That’s why I made you strong and I raised you away from harm.  You’re my commentary, my diary, a living, breathing part of me that I will leave behind.  And it was always worth it.

My Dad,
originally uploaded by Mema13.

I Hate It When This Happens…

I wake up from an unusually odd dream only to find that my waking life is a nightmare.  Does this happen to you?  Well, this morning, my day began with a frantic phone call from Carlos telling me that he was stranded on the back highway because he inadvertently ran out of gas.  While he’s speaking, of course, I can hear a police officer in the background being-as-nasty-as-he-wants-to-be.  Because he can.  So, the plan is to hurry up, get dressed and make a quick stop at the bank.  It’s 7:30am when he calls.  The Bank, I thought, opened in an hour.  I was wrong.  It opened in an hour and half.  That’s right: 9am. 

The Horror, The Horror:

The car is located on a highway.  The tow-truck arrives and he’s ready to tow the car, the cop is annoyed, and I’m just waking up to beat the clock. Once the transaction is made (an hour and a half later) there are no guarantees I can get the cash to him in time.  MUST BE A SATURDAY. 

After I finished cursing him out in my head, I got dressed in a hurry only to stand at the entrance of the local supermarket which happens to have a branch there.  Great.  So I gotta listen to that song about a girl who’s a blank, unwritten page in a book all while trying to look busy.  I feigned interest as I picked up magazines on the rack that told me how I could lose 10 pounds in 10 days.  Then I made it to the bride racks.  Rows and rows of designer dresses (for less), how to throw an elegant wedding, china and place settings.  It was nauseating.  Every bridal mag trying to define “a modern bride”.  Just what the heck is that anyway?  Modern bride?  It even sounds like an oxymoron.  Does it matter if the bride selects the perfect candles?  Will anyone remember anything but the food, really?  Is it really necessary to know how to apply rouge to the apple of your cheeks to give the appearance of a rosy glow?  Face it, if it takes this much preparation to be something that you’re not prior to the wedding, isn’t that false advertising?  Doesn’t that pretty much guarantee that the wedding is already doomed before it started? 

Martha Doesn’t Live Here Anymore:

From what I understand of relationships, the more Martha Stewart a woman becomes, the more like a Stepford wife she’ll be to her mate.  Once your hubby is sufficiently terrified that you have transformed reality into perfectionism, he’ll begin to feel as though he isn’t good enough for you and will never measure up to highfaluting expectations.  Eventually, he’ll seek solace in the loving arms of some tramp named, Ginger.  She’ll exemplify everything you’re not: a gap-toothed grin, a penchant for duties that require her to be on her back, an expertise in the world of spiked heels with a laugh like a hyena and a vocabulary worse than a sailor’s.  Bonus points if she is a former hooker who saw “Pretty Woman” and wanted to be like Julia Roberts’ character.  Extra credit if she lives in a trailer park. 

It Always Works Out in the End:

But stories like this one (especially pages from my life) always end up okay.  If it weren’t for Carlos’ longtime sidekick, Damien, we’d be up the creek.  He pedaled on his bike all the way to the supermarket from the back highway.  Don’t ask me how he got to Carlos so fast…he ended up taking the cash and speeding it back to Carlos just in the nick of time.  Whew!  A true blessing, I tell you, because this could’ve easily gone the other way.

So when your day starts off a little messed up, just remember that you’re not the only one.  Only you can turn things around.  And a little help from the Man Upstairs doesn’t hurt either.

The Wonderful World of Catch Phrases

Don’t ask me why, but I was thinking about the ever-growing list of catch-phrases.  We all know them: they’re in every commercial, every television show, every movie.  It is a way to bond or the means used to make us laugh.  Offhand I thought of some I’d mention here: Long Dead (R.I.P) :

1. “Don’t have a cow, man.”
2. “Where’s the beef?”
3. “Time to make the doughnuts.”
4. “Let’s get ready to rumble!”

The New Kids On The Block:From Rocky I, II, III, IV & V

1.  

   1. “ADRIAN!”

   2. “I must break you.”

   3. This is where the law stops and I start.” (Oops! Wrong Stallone movie.)

From Project Runway

1.  
   1. “Make It Work.”
   2. “You’re out.”
   3. “Where the hell is my chiffon?!”
   4. “Where’s Andre?”

From Being Bobby Brown

1.  
   1. “A Hell to the No!”

From Simple Life

1.  
   1. “That’s hot!”
   2. “You look sexy, bitch!”

From The Apprentice

1.  
   1. “You’re fired.”

 But then I wondered what are the makings of a good catch phrase?  I have a few ideas:

• Brevity - We all have limited attention spans that aren’t even as long as this sentence.  So it’s important to be brief.  Five words or less is as good as it gets.  Keep it simple, pimple.
• Delivery - The best phrases are memorable mostly because they become associated with the person who said the words.  Can you imagine anyone but Heidi Klum saying, ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ or Trump with his signature
  New York accent saying, ‘You’re fired’? Of course not.
• Double-Entendre - Phrases that are play on words or loaded with innuendo and tongue-in-cheek humor often remain in people’s overloaded minds. 

Now it seems that everyone is trying to hit the mark in the catch-phrase industry.  But just because you spout non-sequitors and quotes galore doesn’t make you the King or Queen of catch-phrases.  Some of the best are spontaneous or carefully planned by dutiful marketing executives in the hopes that t-shirt sales and coffee mugs will increase.   Either way, the rest of us will continue to consume what we can and shell out the bucks to keep hope alive in the world of catch-phrases.  I myself have yet to ponder one for myself.  But if I ever find it, would you buy my t-shirt?‘Nuff said.