Karma catches a Bully

For the privacy of those who have no control of what I write, I will refrain from using actual names on the following post. What is about to transpire is a story, nay, an epiphany. Yes, an epiphany. You see, there was a time, a familiar time to most I am sure, that I had a bully. Not the kind that wedges your chonis up into your virgin butt cheeks, or sticks gum in to your hair. But rather this bully came in the shape of a friend. We will call this friend, Bacteria...it is only appropriate.

I will now the list the shitty/bully-esque acts by Bacteria:

• Made out with my high school crush while telling him that I had just recovered from gender reassignment...and that I was gay...(Don't they negate themselves?)
• Told another boy I was interested that I was on my way to becoming a nun
• Consistently stole my homework...I know what youre thinking, Vanessa, you probably let her. And yes, I gladly shared my homework..I knew no one when I got to high school! If homework sharing meant bench sitting with a partner, then bring it the fuck on. 
• Spread a rumor that I was pregnant, this was still at a time when I had no idea that my vagina was a self lubricating goddess or that a penis actually looked so cute...the circumcised ones...

Now, I have to say, the above is just the highlight, and its only freshman year that I am referencing. Lets just say Bacteria was more a frenemy. Here is the thing, I had friends like this in elementary. And I would get swept up in the childish bullshit, there would be a little girl hissy fit and then things were great. I thought this was what happened in high school too. But I had no idea the impact or hurt that I was going to feel. And to top it off...this bitch was never sorry!!!!!!! Its not like she stole barbie's favorite sweater and then returned, and we spent the rest of the afternoon playing fashion model show. Oh no, this was much more serious. 

Bacteria was on a one way path, and along with a few other victims, were pieces of pavement that made her road smooth.
There were a few nights that I cried. I would wake, begging my mom to let me stay home. Since my mom's very karmic Catholic answer was "ignora las, Dios se las pagara" or "ignore them, God will pay them back" I would often fake a stomach ache or force myself to sound like I was an old black man so that my would think I had a cold. This would of course backfire because my mom's remedy for illness is a tall glass of lemon juice and a spoonful of garlic. The resulting belches and farts made me less popular.
I didn't  do a diary, I didn't  wonder why me, but I did start to question if this was it...do the Bacteria's of life continue to flourish while the cells become infected?
Bacteria did great in high school. She was gorgeous, long hair, great dates to the dances. And that was my lesson, the pretty ones always prevail, there is karmic retribution. I was going to be OK because I was awesome all on my own. Yeah, I was pretty popular reading my personal copy of "The Bell Jar" in the corner of the media center. The point is, I made it the fuck out without killing myself or Bacteria...

I was strolling the aisles of Target when something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Here is where I am about to get petty on this enormous universal scale.

What I caught out of the corner of my eye...was a barrel sized human being...BACTERIA. The girl had exploded in more ways than one. She had an additional chin, super sized. Her boobs and stomach were at an alarming parallel that extended far beyond any moderately obese person. And the cherry on top, a snot nosed child that looked like he would stink of something a cadaver wouldn't want to get near.  I had heard through the whispers and gossip that she had gotten knocked up and a little fat. But I never expected Jabba's cousin.

Again, I realize how petty and immature this is all sounding. But I am OK with this fact. I didn't have to do anything to her, I didn't have to tell her off, or have a boxing match. In fact, I didn't' even like what I saw. Because way before I had seen what gravity did to her stomach, I had already forgotten about Bacteria. She had no longer affected me. But there was and is a small part of me that felt like, "huh, mom was right".

I don't know what her life is like, I don't know if she is happy, if she is on her way to an amazing career, a loving a family, and the best boyfriend a girl could could ever have. And I don't care. Because I have it all, I have the best life.

And high school is OVER.

First for everything

I must warn the gentle reader, this will be a mushy, lovesick post. Continue on at your (very warned) risk.

Relationships are consistently created. Romantically, professionally, socially. It's a fluid action. Within this relationship, a plethora of experiences arise. Some people make an impact, rather imprint, on the being that you will become. Its these experiences, theses moments, those "firsts" that create this relationship.

Romantically, you will hear the phrase "this was our first (insert cliche here)". It will be said after the first kiss, the first night, and most likely, the first fight. There are a million first that will be created.

I have yet to determine if it is luck that allows for this to happen, for the lucky ones to find a "first" in the simple every day actions. But I do know that I have found a first with someone that I want to continue to find firsts with over and over.

Pasts and histories will not matter. Because this person and you are a canvas, something on which many a first will be painted.

The first kiss in your new house.

The first time you watched a hockey game on that particular couch.

The first time you say goodbye before leaving to work.

And to finish, among the firsts that I have shared, I will also say: I love the person that he is, but I truly love the person I have become because of him.

Anonymity

As I have bitched before, I am putting on the big girl Chonis and putting my writing out in the open. I can still be depressed and cut into my diary in a corner, but I like the feed back that I get from some of you from time to time.

So I started to think about screen names, pen names and such. You know, those magical veils that allow each and every one of to say and think what we want, and just how important its become to the "anonymous" writer. I put this in parenthesis because I am not so anonymous anymore. Perhaps its my ego that propels me, perhaps its the expression on my boyfriend's face after reading, or maybe its just that I one day hope to be known for all of the awesome shit I posted over the years (more like months...Whichever).

So then my ADD mind started wandering, and with the help of a friend, started thinking of alter ego personas, and the magic I could create with them. I will now list these personas...some of them have already been created...some of them will be coming soon:

Pikachu Hitler Girl - This character will get down and dirty with the racist jokes without turning to look who might be standing behind her. She'll make the oven and jew jokes ten times louder than RaritaVanesita ever could. I know what you are thinking, "this doesn't sound any different than real Vanessa". So if you are saying that to yourself, consider yourself mother fucking special, because I have allowed you in to my circle and deemed you non-lame and therefore worthy of being present in my natural state. If you have no idea what I am talking about and are now completely horrified...then ha...you are lame. People are going to hate her, and I can't wait.

Rarita Vanesita - you've already caught a glimpse of this one. She is here, typing this right now. She is going to use foul language and try to make you laugh. She might even get personal, but she will most likely keep you at arms length because this persona is for the masses and not the cool elite...maybe.

The Obnoxious Wallflower - this one, oh man, this one is the emo persona. It/she is brooding, crying over abso-fucking-lutely everything. She has mommy issues, daddy issues. She hates the world and the world hates her. This one will stay tucked away, to be used for exceptionally whiny days.

There you have them. Now show me yours.

Domestic Animal War

It's the oldest question...what kind of person are you? Are you a good person, or a bad one? Are you a dog person, or a cat one?

Dogs...definitely dogs. Why? Because Sammy, that's why.
Sammy, you son of a bitch. I was only three years old when you ran off...What...The...Fuck. I wasn't a Darla to you, I stayed out of your way and then paid attention to you when you felt like being nice. And how the fuck do you repay me? You run the fuck off...NOW I HAVE ABANDONMENT ISSUES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also, cats are the devil's pawns. Their poop smells unnatural, AND, they shit in a box...a box people! I realize that humans shit in a box too, but if it were up to me I'd be shitting on a certain person's lawn all the time. But that's illegal.
They scratch shit up, and its never enough. You buy them scratch post thing and they prefer your couch. You buy them fancy food, and they vomit on your clothes.

Fuck Cats...

Dogs serve a purpose. They are good prep for deciding on whether to procreate. They are so damn needy, that you kind of start to practice on your parenting skills. Plus, they just want to love you. Thats all, maybe bring in a dead squirrel, maybe shit on your carpet...just like a baby. They want to cuddle with you on the couch, interrupt your sex.

Yes...I love dogs.

Barbed wire on a toothbrush

This was going to be a rant on why I was angry with the douche bag that hit my sister and her boyfriend. I was going to spew out as many fuck bombs as possible, while wishing the perpetrator a future so doomed, that he'll wish for a future that is filled with anal rape with a barbed wire degraded toothbrush that breaks off inside. But I stopped myself because (1) negativity begets negativity, (2) my sister is going to be fucking fine, and (3) there is more productivity that can be brought from this than anger. So fuck you dude.

My transformation as we enter the new year, the promises I made for my better future are in full swing, except for today when I massacred the steak nacho fries at lunch. But every day I try to pull a George RR Martin and write three sentences, erasing two. That much closer to my epic novel! And every day I remind myself that I should not be eating like a cow as I shove a greasy burger down my throat and look up recipes for gouda-bacon mac and cheese. Change is a process, not an overnight success. But I am always open and welcome to those that wish to motivate...maybe...kind of...Fuck you.

And this isn't a giant post or an epic read, just some shit ideas I wanted to share with you. So thanks.

Self Editing

I promise to try and not make this a post about a new year resolution, in fact, lets just cut the bullshit and say this is not. End point.
Rather, this is the post, the new post of the new year. This is where I hang the metaphorical clothes in the front yard, air out the vulnerability, and display my personal shit like some Facebook status after a bottle of wine and rom-com. And then when I am done, I hope that you, the reader of this bitchy manifesto, will provide insight, feedback, criticism, or just some semblance of guidance.

The Big One
I've been living in this "glory days" fantasy where I reminisce about the time that my stomach was flat and my tits were huge. Well lets be fair, the tits are still huge but god damn the stomach, that fucking stomach is not by any means flat. And I consistently bitch about it as I stuff an oil riddled slice of pizza, washing it down with the tequila and extra salt. And then I have the fucking nerve to wonder why I don't look like Penelope Cruz. And mind you, I'm saying this as I plunge bacon popcorn down my throat.
The truth is that the "glory days" was this small window of the ages 18-19 when a bikini didn't get lost in the jelly that I now call my body. Two years max, and yet I look on them like it was over a decade of good memories. I've spent the better part of my twenties on fad diets, gall bladder restrictions, and just wishing I could look awesome. So I guess this is where I tell you something profound like, "I find myself happy with my weight" or "I am beautiful on the inside". The latter is true, but lets get this straight, I don't want to turn 29, 30 hating the mirror. And I don't want to constantly complain. So there we go...

Hemingway's muse
Fuck that, Hemingway was an over adjective user. I just want to write. I want to put my shit out there regardless of it being liked or appreciated. As long as the love of my life turns to me and says "I love it, well done mi vida" or my aunt proudly posts to her Facebook page, the rest  is just fluff. I enjoy this, I enjoy putting all of this on a blog, in a poem, to the first few pages of what will one day be a published book. I stopped the talking and I started the writing. And I am having a really good time.

Sensitivity
Ah yes, the one thing all who know me will wholeheartedly agree on, Vanessa is fucking sensitive. Could be good, could be bad. Mostly bad. I fucking cry all the time. ALL THE TIME. And believe me, its gotten a little better. This is me at my best. I am emotional and sensitive. And I am definitely working on it, because not everyone knows how to communicate, not everyone knows how they affect others, and not everything is a personal attack. It's just a comment, a look, its not necessarily about me. I had and will continue to knock down the ego.Good God I can be a pain in the ass.

That's where I will leave it for now. Its not a resolution for the new year, because these are lifetime changes I want, not some pseudo promise for the first three weeks of the year. They are goals, promises to my partner, my family, and my future.

Keeping with tradition

It was suggested to me that I revamp an earlier entry on traditions that was posted to another blog.. As I prepared to do so, an incident occurred,  rather a mother fucking motorcycle accident, happened, altering not only my sister's skeletal structure, but the family Christmas plans. 

So I opened the previous entry posing the question of, what is your tradition? We say we have them, and we try to adhere, but what happens that day the tradition stops? What do you do when the memory of a tradition is sullied by a death, an argument with a spouse, the wreckage of a family? Do we pick up from where we left off, or do we create new traditions? And in following with tradition, is the creation of the new one something that we want to pass on to extended family and/or possible products of procreation? 

Since senior year of high school, my family has participated in the distribution of a hot breakfast to the homeless at our local park on Christmas morning. My aunt, the saint of a woman, wanted to gift to those what little she could, as an appreciation to the life that she lived.  Her intent and goodwill was wholehearted as she  distributed over-sugared hot chocolate,  and coma inducing cookies to a group of diabetics. We were not deterred  The following year we were better prepared, flourishing with donations of freshly prepared breakfast, to well assembled care packs. The momentum of this tradition raged on, each year gaining more and more donations from all over the spectrum. Our homeless could choose more than just cookies and socks! We diligently participated in this event, planning and strategizing as the date approached. This “tradition” gained so much respect in our home that it completely replaced gift opening on Christmas morning.

The family participated for almost ten years, each year leaving a beautiful memory that we would share and recruit for the next year. But last year was a little different. As I entered the Safeway to retrieve last minute items, I received a call. "Come home now". *Click* 

Dad had been sick for a while, having only recently been discharged from the hospital. Although he had been cleared to come home in time for Christmas, there was something about him that didn't seem right. He was still marginally unresponsive. I pulled an asshole move and left the coca cola bottle in the tampax rack. I zoom down 11th street, finding myself in a race with an ambulance headed towards my house. 
"Shit, he fucking died while I had a fucking bottle of soda in my hand"  I hold my breath, counting to an indiscriminate number, as if this act would force the ambulance to drive in another direction. It didn't. 
But this is where the tone changes, because my dad didn't  die. He was sick, and we did spend Christmas in the hospital. The whole clan gathered in that hospital, and we all rallied to get my dad up and better.  But we didn't have to bury anyone, and we didn't have to equate Christmas with a death. So yeah, the tradition of handing out food to the homeless was temporarily set back, but we knew that next year we'd be able to make it up.

Well fuck, next year is here. And this year, with tears of joy, I can say again that we are not handing out food to the homeless, nor are we planning a funeral. 

My sister was in an accident that typically kills. She was hit by a car while on a motorcycle. Her pelvis is broken, her arm will need pins. But that girl, my sister, my baby, she is alive. And no, we are not passing out food at the park on Christmas morning. But we are going to all squeeze in to that hospital, annoy the staff with our presence, smother her with our good intentions while annoying and interrupting her rest.We are going to bicker and compete for her attention as we all rally to be with her and let her know that we love her and that we can't wait for her to come home. Because that is our tradition. We do it all, and we do it together. And when the one falls, we all link to get them back up. 

So maybe we broke from tradition, or deviated...yeah, lets say that one. But the fact remains that regardless of what we do, or where we spend the holiday, our tradition is to be together. 

And one day, ten years from now, maybe my child will be learning what it is to be a part of this tradition. Maybe they will be too small, or maybe they wont exist. But both my dad and my sister will be there, and the memories from those moments will cast a light over every memory, and bring a hope to future ones.

So tell me, what are your traditions that you follow, or ones that you’d like to begin?