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It seems appropriate that my return to “the diaries” be my farewell. I have left Spain after living there for five years and this is what I have to say about it… España es un país cuyos padres aun viven el recuerdo de una dictadura. Es un país que habla más de cinco idiomas y casi todo el mundo sabe saludarte en cada uno de ellos. Un país donde casi nadie puede pagar la hipoteca pero aun encuentran una moneda suelta para tomar una caña con un amigo. Las calles son estrechas y largas y los conductores van a 100 Km. por hora; tu carnicero te conoce por el apodo que te ha puesto y tu peluquero te invita a una birra. Un país católico donde veras mas gente en el rastro un domingo que en la iglesia; donde el matrimonio gay esta aprobado por ley nacional aunque su gobierno no se base fundamentalmente en la separación del estado y la iglesia. Un país que luchó por la democracia y contra la guerra tras la bárbara ataque a su pueblo el 11 de Marzo. Con raíces árabes, celtas, alemanas, mediterráneas, caderas anchas, narices prominentes, ojos profundos, pestañas espesas, gordura tierna, delgadez alegre, belleza. Cuya música es un llanto por el pasado dentro del caos del presente. España te besa al saludarte y te despida a la misma manera. Sin embargo, España nunca me ha dado la bienvenida a casa cuando entrara en sus tierras pero América siempre. Spain is a country whose parents still live in the memory of a dictatorship. It’s a country that speaks more than five languages and all of its people can greet you in each one. A country where almost no one can pay their mortgage, and yet they always find some spare change to have a beer with a friend. The streets are narrow and the drivers go 100 Km. per hour: your butcher refers to you by the nickname he’s given you and your hairdresser invites you to a beer. A catholic country where you’ll find more people in the rastro on Sunday than in church: where gay marriage has been approved by federal law even though its government is not fundamentally based on the separation of church and state. A country that fought for democracy and against the war after the hideous attack on its people on March 11th. With Arabian, Celtic, Germanic and Mediterranean roots, wide hips, prominent noses, deep eyes, thick lashes, tender fatness, joyful thinness, beauty. Whose music is a plaintive cry to the past within the chaos of the present. Spain kisses you upon greeting you and bids you farewell the same way. However, Spain has never welcomed me home upon arrival to its land, but America does every time. Sounds better in Spanish, no?

A Fool

I´m not going to waste time listing my excuses for not writing recently; guess I´ve not had a fire lit under me for a while. However, I just can´t help myself from commenting on my most recent blog comment. Ummm... anonymous is it? Not that I want to dictate what anyone should think or feel about my writing, and I´m actually quite flattered that you got worked up enough to make a comment, but something tells me you may not have actually read the blog entry. If that´s the case, please do me the favor and then berate me. I used to be one of those people that got all hot and bothered about things before investigating them, then my wise, and somewhat cranky, uncle took me down a peg. Things just ain´t always what they seem, and sometimes when you look at them real close they turn out to be something else, like in those wacky eye pictures. And by the by, NAY not be a retard? Looks like I made a fool out of us both.

Dancing with Retards

This was a weekend of firsts; Zas’s first weekend away from home, he was fine, my first weekend without Zas since adopting him, I was fine, my first time scratching a pig’s belly, it was wrinkly, and my first extended encounter with, for lack of a more politically incorrect term, retards. Everyone has things that make them uncomfortable: death, intimacy, silk underwear, for me it’s farm animals and retards. You can imagine my upper class dismay when I arrived to the Talamanca FARM School to find a pack of wild retards galloping around the patio. Now, before you call me a bigoted prig, consider this…you’re right. But, when confronted with an actual person, I tend to put my prejudices aside. When I was a kid, the Special Olympics were held at my father’s school. We went to the school that day because he had a non-retarded lacrosse practice. Granted, many and varied ‘disabled’ people participate in these events, but the retarded and Down’s syndrome folks were the only ones that stood out to me. I was horrified by them, not because they seemed incapable of wiping their noses, there are plenty of non-retards that have that issue, but because somewhere in my busy and ignorant mind, I came to believe that they had a disease and that I was going to catch it, and then I would be ugly and stupid and nobody would love me anymore. Somehow this does not seem to be a reflection on retards does it? In Spain, the common name for retard refers to them as being less valid, and even the word “disabled” suggests that they’ve lost some important, life saving capacity along the way, while retarded simply refers to them as being slowed down. Maybe it’s a weak justification, but I don’t think there’s a whole lot wrong with slowing things down. Unfortunately, we live in a world where not being quick on the uptake leaves you out of the race. When I was little I couldn’t see the black board, so they put a pirate patch on my left eye to speed up the right eye’s development. Must not have worked because I got held back in kindergarten, yes, you heard it here folks. I’m not exactly sure why but maybe it had something to do with my fear of going to the bathroom, or my insurmountable shyness, or maybe because I didn’t like to wear underwear, or because I couldn’t spell and wasn’t much of a drawer, or because I didn’t know my right from my left and my parents were engaged in a wicked divorce. Regardless, it seemed to me I had caught the retard disease, Actually, I didn’t quite stay back. I went to something called pre-first, something about you’re not quite ready for heaven but you certainly shouldn’t go to hell... In pre-first, I had two boyfriends, I touched a boa-constrictor, a girl named Kimberly died of Leukemia, I played The Big Bad Wolf, I was named student of the month, my father moved into a house that was previously inhabited by junkies and had a fountain, I ran away from home, I had my first sleepover, my brother got diabetes, I got run over by a bicycle, I got a Barbie trailer and I kissed a boy (on the hand). It’s possible that this did not all happen in my pre-first year, but let’s just agree that it did for poetic license’s sake. All of that happened in that extra year there. It occurs to me that all retarded people need is some extra years; problem is that’s exactly what they don’t have. Retarded people have a much shorter life expectancy than non-retards. Maybe that’s why they take the years they have extra slow, but what the hell do I know. I finished my weekend by joining the retard dance party. I danced to a slow song with a boy; we swayed back and forth, twirled and spun. He didn’t dip me at the end, but that’s okay, it was a very nice slow dance.

Crack the Whip

I have always been a disciplined person: a disciplined diet, a disciplined body, a reliable employee, no illicit addictions, no risqué sexual behaviour. Not only that, I’ve also always been good at disciplining others (in keeping with the afore mentioned non-risque behaviour of course), some might even call me strict. All of that has recently been turned on its head with the acquisition and continuing maturation of Zas, the wonder dog. I suddenly find myself doing things that I once firmly wagged my finger and tsk tsked at weak parents for doing with their children, like carrying him when he’s tired or it’s raining or because he made a cute little sneeze. It pains me to admit that I have pretended to eat dog food, yes dog food, to entice my little beast. And that’s not all! I find I’ve become lax in my personal habits as well; I haven’t stretched a hamstring in months, my bicycle hangs from its hook, specially installed not to encumber Zas’s romping space, collecting dust. I eat whatever is in my reach that can be taken with one hand while stroking the dog with the other, and I lie about on the couch watching House re-runs in Spanish, because its fun to snuggle. Anyone who knows me, knows that this is not me. And yet…and yet something about it is quite liberating. Make no mistake, I’ve come to the end of this very frayed rope, but I’ve rather enjoyed swinging on it. Spoiling a dog is not the same as spoiling a child, it’s more like spoiling yourself. Being disciplined suggests a lack of indulgence, and a kind of battle against all the fuzzy, yummy, visceral, feel good stuff. When you have a puppy curled up in your bed, flashing that aching glance that says “You know you want to.”, how can you stop yourself from curling right around him and kissing his soft little neck? People of discipline don’t generally let themselves get away with simple smushy, gushy love, and you know what? It feels really good. On a side note, I’ve stopped pretending to eat the dog’s food, and he hasn’t eaten all day. Let him suffer, it’s time to crack the whip. Is House on tonight?

Homecoming

They say it’s dangerous to write about what you don’t know. That’s probably true, they are usually right, and although I’m not objective or learned enough to make a proper commentary, I just can’t let this one slide. I heard on the news this morning that a young, black, African man was sent back to his country of origin after illegally entering Spain. The man came to join his family, already living here. The man had a criminal record for sexual assault and theft. The man was beaten to the brink of death by the police and shoved on an airplane. The young man died on the plane accompanied by his countrymen, also being returned like defective goods. His government will have to deal with his delinquent corpse now. That not convincing enough? The partner of a woman I know, the father of her newborn daughter, was detained, beaten, stripped of his possessions and sent to jail for seventy-two hours without the luxury of a phone call. This man does have his working papers and no criminal record. Does one of these men deserve to be brutally violated more than the other? No, and I’ll tell you why; both of these men were stripped of their human rights for the same reason: they were black immigrants. All I could think about my friend’s partner was “too bad he hadn’t benefited from committing some crime. If they’re going to beat him anyway…” And so it begins. Welcome home young man; it seems like someone should say it.

Mabel the Mad

My dog has found a girlfriend. She’s cute, petite, and to be honest, looks an awful lot like him. She’s real easy; she waits around the doorway of her owner’s shop for Zas to pass by and when he does she leaps on him and they ecstatically bite each other for a good while until I put an end to their hot and heavy romp by offering Zas a treat if he comes to mommy. (Women, beware of your mothers in-law!) Then I tie him up to his leash and whisk him away. Susie, his girlfriend, doesn’t put up much of a fight, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because Zas is not her only gentleman caller. She just wistfully watches him pad away after his food donor. I think Susie has other dogs, not because I am the over-protective-nobody’s-good-enough-for-my-puddin’ type, but rather because what dog wouldn’t want to chomp on her haunches? She’s a simple, no fuss, kind ‘o gal that’s always up for a good time and you can always find her waiting in the shop door. But it’s not Susie I want to talk about. There’s another bitch guarding the shop, her name is Mabel. Mabel is Susie’s mother, a young mother, mind you we are talking about dogs. She isn’t quite as adorable as Susie, only because she has a dark muzzle that makes her look a little butch and not quite as sweet and innocent, but maybe that’s just a matter of taste. When Zas struts by, Mabel is waiting for him in the doorway too, she runs up to him too, he sniffs her butt too, she sniffs back, but then things turn sour; Mabel starts barking. Needless to say, a barking bitch is a pretty standard turn off, so despite always sniffing Mabel first, Zas inevitably passes on to the eager Susie. Mabel follows them for a bit, high on her barking lament, then gives up and retreats to her corner. Zas and Susie continue their PG-13 fornication and now and then Mabel goes on a barking frenzy from her corner. But she doesn’t go near them; she’s big enough and crafty enough to muscle her way in on the fun, but instead she barks. It’s not a whining, crying howl, but rather a gutteral aggressive, warning bark, and indeed if anyone tries to get close to her she snarls. This, of course, annoys everyone to no end and is met with various shouts of “Shut up already!” I can’t say that I like this about Mabel, nor can I say that I’ve never told her to shut up, but I do think I understand her. You see, jealousy comes in all colors. Sometimes your jealous of another in a coveting way, you can be jealous of what another has, and sometimes you’re jealous of another’s ability to get. Even if you don’t want it, wouldn’t it be nice to own the magic that brings it to you? And try as you may to change who you are to get what you don’t necessarily want, you only end up barking in frustration at your own ineptitude, as if to say “I’m still here!”

30

I am turning 30 tomorrow. In order to keep that gnawing feeling called “aging” (because until you start losing your keys on a daily basis that’s all it is, a feeling) at bay, I’ve opted for a pretentious strategy: a whimsical list of quips and musings. Here’s what thirty years of livin’ gets ya. · If you leave, you can go back, but don’t expect to end up in the same spot. · Red and orange can go together if you want · Defend what’s yours and share it unquestioningly with those close to you. · Salt makes food taste better · Your body is a living changing thing · Refrigerator Perry was right, it is alright to cry · Make your home look the way you want it to. · You can color however you want, as long as it’s inside the lines · Wonder Woman and Barbie are not real. · Live alone at least once · If he would be perfect for you “if only”, find someone else · You are where you come from, be proud of it. · Love is not convenient, but you can decide if it’s worth the inconvenience Well, that’s that. Maybe you already knew all those things or maybe you disagree, but that’s about what I have to show for 30 years. Or at least that’s what I’m willing to show you. Have anything to add?

I have a squatter in my house, a ladybug. She has four black spots and one white one. She’s been living in my bathroom for three days now. I can only imagine what wild adventures brought her to my fourth floor walk-up. Maybe I brought her in by accident. Now, I don’t know a whole lot about lady bugs, but this gal does something that strikes me as odd. She seems hell bent on drowning herself in my sink. I find her there, swirling around with the disappearing water, making dangerous rings toward the gaping drain. I valiantly rescue her with my makeshift finger lifeboat and finger helicopter her back to the potted plant, which seems to me to be the proper place for her, only to find her later diving madly toward her death again. Why would she do such a thing? The only reason that has thus far occurred to me is that she is a lady. And a lot of ladies I know, that means me most of all, have a tendency toward self drowning; in work, in relationships, in family. We dive in time and again hoping to get right down the drain to where all the gunk gets stopped up, and clean it out. Perhaps it’s time we stop diving, stop swimming even, just for a little while and enjoy the view from the leaf of a lovely potted plant.

Doggie Style

• It’s not what you think. If you are in a couple, you’ve probably gotten a dog because you’re not ready for children. However, if you are single, you’ve probably gotten a dog for company, to care for him, to love him, to treat him like a king, to rescue him from the veritable death clench of the pound, and probably just a little bit, to score another sexy dog owner. I have recently been inducted to the dog flirting society (sorry single, dogless folks it would be a betrayal of the code to reveal the whereabouts of our secret meetings). And I gotta tell ya’, it ain’t that different. I think the protocol goes something like this:
• Scope out your preferred owner
• Observe intently, his doggie/owner relationship. Is he playful? Too lenient? Too domineering? Does doggie come when he calls?
• Do some minor stalking to find out their potty schedule (Not so tough when you have a puppy with Bea Arthur’s bladder control)
• Throw your doggie’s ball (or other tossing accoutrement) at such an angle that his doggie makes a run for it.
• Then you have such a laugh trying to get the ball back to its rightful owner.
• This sparks conversation about how naughty your respective doggies are, but how you love them so!
• Then casually slip in where and when you go for walks.
• Fancy that! You’ve bumped into each other later that afternoon or the next day…. And so it goes. Before you know it you’re taking walks together and eventually you make the leap to co-bathing…your dirty little doggies of course! Sheesh! Now I’m getting carried away; I just had visions of traveling to Africa to adopt tiny, undernourished puppies with my beloved.

The Drunken Damned

The drunken dial which, through the onslaught of technology, has been siphoned down to the drunken text (and god only knows what they’re doing with the Blackidoodles), has long begged the question “Irksome foe or foot loose friend?” I, in some circles, have achieved certain fame for said text. There are a couple of possible reasons that I resort to this unsettling behavior: I have anger management issues, I’m afraid of confrontation…but when you get down to it, heck, I was drunk! I recently sent one of these texts and may have lost someone important to me as a result. I feel very sad about that and wish I could make that person feel differently, I even wish I could make me feel differently, but I’ll tell you one thing, I sure don’t wish I hadn’t sent that text. Sometimes it’s just too darn much to smile, look pretty, be nice, say the right thing and still go unnoticed or unrewarded, and you just need to get ugly. It didn’t make me feel better and nothing got resolved but it needed to get done, so I done did it. Maybe next time I’ll graduate to a drunken conversation! When’s the last time you drunk dialed?

Art of Goodbye

Saying goodbye is a strange art in which some are gifted and others not. I have always been in the others category, saving goodbyes to the last minute, saying a quick see you later and disappearing or not saying anything at all. I am recently discovering that goodbye is like a small uncertain present; you buy them all at once, tie them up with the same ribbon and yet when the receiver opens it you are both surprised to see what comes out. Sometimes its shock and disappointment, sometimes indifference, most of the time its sadness, and if the goodbye is really good there’s excitement. Whatever it is, you have to give each one individually with time or you’ll miss whatever comes out of the box. I am pretty certain of one thing though, whether you’re gifted or not, saying goodbye sure is like a punch in the gut every time.

Breech of Contract

In every relationship there is at least one unspoken contract. The problem with that is, as the name so cleverly suggests, it’s never talked about and certainly never negotiated. So both parties go through the merger content, knowing that they are protected by their respective contracts, and the fool that never thought one up…well, s/he just gets what s/he deserves doesn’t s/he?. These contracts are replete with stipulations and fine print, all of which amount to a big pile of bunk, because when there is a breech of contract to whom do you make your claim? There is no one to blame but the idiot who missed the one loop hole that lets the other party walk away from the deal for good. Maybe in these cases a handshake is best.

Horse to Water

My brother is an unassuming kind of guy but real smart. He has coined such phrases as No matter how good looking a woman is, there’s some guy tired of fucking her. On more than one occasion he has told me, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. Granted, this isn’t his own invention but goddam if he wasn’t right. You can spend as much time and energy as you want showing someone the way, tugging him along by the hand, pushing him to the water’s edge, but a lot of times, after all that effort, the sun of a bitch just isn’t thirsty. So then what? Do you hang around the lake and hope that eventually it’ll kick in that he’s been thirsty all this time? Do you chase him off the lake? I suppose you do the only thing you can, let him wander around and eventually he’ll drink, but it may not be from your lake. What would you do?

Lost Cause

I´ve experienced a fair share of loss in my almost thirty years. Little things like umbrellas and glasses like everyone, but also big things; large quantities of money, items of sentimental value, people of sentimental value...And I´ve always accepted this loss with indifferent tranquility, or more precisely, fastideous stubborness, telling myself that if it´s lost it´s not worth having. I would now like to qualify that statement by saying it is absolute bullshit. Losing things, even small things, but especially big things, is the pits. It´s worse than having something taken from you because you are the bastard that did it. I learned this last night when I spent an hysterical hour and a half looking for my lost puppy, only to find in the end that he had walked home, but as I wasn´t there to greet him, my neighbor took him in. This makes me wonder, if you stay put long enough will eveything that you lost come back to you?