Don't Shut Your Yap

Sexist Paranoia

2012-08-15T00:56:00.001-07:00

I was not a popular kid in Jr. High and High School, so I was used to ignoring particular kinds of attention. However, as I grew into a tall, thin, and dare I say attractive young woman (despite my humongous glasses) I continued to receive attention when out in public. Some women might have been offended, others might have felt proud, but I always assumed that it was mockery and not meant as any kind of flattery (sexist or otherwise).

He's content; she's defensive. Oi!

Perhaps these experiences have shaped too much of my perspective as an adult. I often find myself defensive, even just in my mind, when I pass by men of any age, race, or size. I put up a wall and often unfairly demonize those men without any basis other than my own paranoia. Case in point. Several months ago, my husband and I were on our way to a party at a friend's house. Everyone was to bring their favorite Chinese food, so I was waiting in the car as my husband ran in to pick up our order at our neighborhood Chinese restaurant. I was messing with my phone (as is generally the case) when a car pulled into the parking space on my side of the vehicle. I noticed it, but didn't really note it. The driver exited the car, walked up to the curb and then stopped and stared into our car for a moment. This is when I really started to take notice. Immediately, I started to get defensive and began intentionally ignoring the individual who I now gathered enough evidence to conclude was a man. He then began to walk towards me and stood next to my window! I could not believe it. In my mind, I was generating terse responses and making harsh assumptions about this guy and his intentions. As I saw he wasn't moving on, I finally turned towards him and realized... he was our friend! He was on his way to the same party and needed to pick up his own Chinese food. I laughed, rolled down the window, and we chatted before he ran inside to pick up his own order. I felt like such a jerk.

Months later, I was again in the car with my husband. He needed to pick up gas and so stopped at his normal filling station. It's a large station with three rows of pumps, each with four pumps per side. At the moment, it was completely empty. My husband unhesitatingly went to the row closest to the store and the first pump in the row, which happened to be right next to a lone female attendant. I was immediately on edge and questioned his choice. He just looked at me inquisitively and said, "I always use pump #1." Ah, the logic of it. I, on the other hand, was imagining this lone female attendant working near one of 12 pairs of pumps and this man just happened to choose the one right next to her. I said that, if I was her, I would be completely on guard right now. I would have never chosen that pump because I wouldn't want that woman to feel uncomfortable; but he stood by his logic.

Maybe you'd like to weigh in on the issue, but I couldn't help from opening my yap on this issue. I'm sure I'm not alone in this perspective, but perhaps it isn't the right one to have. Am I paranoid? Perhaps. Is he oblivious? Perhaps. Will it make for good brain food? I guess we'll see.

Verbosity

2011-08-15T22:22:00.000-07:00

Before I started teaching, I spoke to a friend who had just taken on her first classes and she told me that she was amazed how much she could talk when she had to. I have thought of this many times in my own classes and it really is amazing! But I generally pride myself on being both thorough and concise, both in my career and in my personal life. I’m not one to babble on and on, and I’m generally pretty good at reading my audience. But lately, something has changed.

In the past few weeks, I have found myself at a loss for the exact words I wanted, especially when ordering food. I’m not sure why, but it has been painfully obvious. It started when I walked into our local Q-doba and spent a good minute trying to explain that I wanted a “naked bowl” with black beans and steak, something that should have taken about 5 seconds. I blamed this on the newness of the business (at least locally) and their recent addition of a true label for the product I desired. But then it happened again. At Togos, I got confused in the moment of the order and asked for the wrong thing. And lest you think the streak was over, it happened again. This time, we were out at a local steakhouse for my mother-in-law’s birthday. It’s a great place that serves up monstrous baked potatoes with your choice of any or all of their toppings: butter, sour cream, chives and bacon. I wanted to say, “no butter, but extra sour cream and bacon.” But again I ended up mixing words, confusing the poor waitress and becoming the brunt of jokes for the rest of the meal (and afterwards, from my loving husband). And when I finally thought I had it all figured out, it happened yet again. This time, my husband and I were at The Habit with a friend. This botched order was so bad I don’t even remember what I said. Luckily, all of our servers have been excellent… and patient… and I’ve ended up with exactly what I wanted in the first place.

But don’t think this story is over. As we sat down to eat our meals at The Habit, my husband brought up my verbal stumblings. Now, I can be a little excitable and that’s when the Italian in me comes out - I use my hands and really get into my story. That’s what good storytellers do, right? So I began to share an overview of my food-related follies to our friend. We were all laughing, my husband was adding to my story and our friend was asking questions. It was at this moment that I realized the patio where we were seated was a little quieter than before, so I looked around. There was a table of guys sitting to my left and they had all turned around with their eyes fixed on our table. We made eye contact, I chuckled a little and we all went back to our respective conversations. I’ll never know if it was my storytelling, our laughter or my lively hand gestures, but we had clearly attracted more attention that I had intended. Hopefully, they were simply enjoying a laugh with me, albeit at my expense, but that’s the risk you take when you open your yap about your inability to close it.

Smokin'

2011-06-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

Last night, I decided to BBQ for dinner. While I prepped the corn, Brian went out to set up the grill, which included adding a fresh batch of wood chips to our little smoker box. I thought nothing of this, as we’ve smoked things before. So, I throw on the meat and veggies, set my timer and throw the Frisbee for the dogs until it’s time for the meal’s first rotation. But when I open up the cover, I am flooded by a wave of smoke. My eyes are burning and I’m blinking frantically to restore myself and get back to the task at hand. This repeats until the food is ready.

After dinner, I get a bee in my bonnet to go pick up something at Toys-R-Us, so we head out. But now I realize that I reek. It smells like I was doused in liquid smoke and I share this news with Brian. I exclaim, “Man! I stink!” To which he responds, “No, you smell like smoke. It’s delicious.” I retort, “I don’t want to smell like smoke. I’m going to make people hungry! And if I can smell myself, the smell must be really bad.” This type of dialogue continues intermittently throughout our shopping trip. Sometimes, it’s simply my own musings about how bad I smell, but often Brian chimes in to reassure me that it’s not that bad. But I know he’s wrong.

We then go to check out. After I exchange a few pleasantries with the cashier, she immediately turns to her coworker and asks, “What’s that smell?” Then she looks at me with imploring eyes. I ask, “Does it smell like smoke?” And she says, “Yeah, it kind of does.” With a sheepish grin, I open my yap and say, “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry.” I briefly explain the whole smoke-gets-in-my-eyes grilling experience and, although she’s polite about it, I can see that guilt-ridden expression one gets when they ask a woman when she’s due only to discover she’s not pregnant. It’s like my life has turned into a sitcom. Awkward.

When we finally walk out the door, I start chuckling. I can’t help it. I turn to Brian and say, “I told you I smelled bad! That poor woman!” He maintained his stance that I smelled delicious, but I couldn’t take it any more. I tried to simply strip off the smoke-infested clothes, but it wasn’t enough. A shower was in order, but even after the scrubbing, I continued to catch faint whiffs of smoke throughout the evening. Now, two showers later, I think I have finally cleansed myself of the stench. I’m all for being smokin’, but next time I think I’ll leave the literal smoke behind.

History

2011-06-27T12:53:00.000-07:00

I recently posted about my student’s lack of motivation and shortened attention span, but I have my own confession to make. I, too, was a horrible student in high school. Gasp! I know. Take it in. There were a great many subjects I couldn’t have cared less about, but my least favorites had to do with history and politics. Now, I know I’m not alone on this one, but, nonetheless, I am still embarrassed to admit it. I, like so many other ill educated people, have responses to political issues or historical events, but I can’t contextualize them and articulate with sound logical reasoning why I have these particular views. This is something that, I strongly believe, is at the root of much of our poor decision-making here in the good ‘ol US of A. We feel entitled to our opinion, yet we have nothing with which to legitimately back it up. Many of us simply do not understand the bigger picture. So, up until now, I have eked by. I kept my opinions to myself, which is very easy in classes where students believe they must adhere to the teacher’s tenets and ideals. I simply abstained from sharing and played the devil’s advocate on everything. But that doesn’t work in my “real” life, nor does it work with colleagues. So I have made a decision.

Yesterday, I began my quest for historical enlightenment. (Politics will come later. I need one goal at a time, people!) It is quite an undertaking, I must say, because I don’t have any kind of foundation of knowledge – no ground zero with which to start. So, I have begun watching a documentary by my husband’s favorite documentation, Simon Schama, called The American Future: A History, and I am fervently trying to retain everything within it. I have also placed a reoccurring note on my Errands list to read something currently or historically relevant every day. Yesterday, I read two (yes, two) articles in The Economist before starting my day. It felt good to know I’ve gotten off on the right foot (my second time around) but I know I didn’t get the full extent of the content. But I guess it’s a start. It’s ironic, really. I spend most of my working hours trying to give students their ground zero in the composition world. To help them to understand why we need to know the bigger picture in order to write and yet, over the years, I’ve opted out of this same message in one very substantial area of my own life. Now, it’s my time to change. I will take my own advice, learn the conversation and gain more confidence in the meantime so that the next time I open my yap, what comes out will not only represent my opinion, but the socio-historical context within which it lies and my ignorance will be… history.

Obsession

2011-06-23T17:10:00.000-07:00

I’m going to warn you right up front. This story has no moral. Normally, I have some deeper purpose for sharing my stories, but not today. In fact, it doesn’t even involve a verbal faux pas. I just found it funny.

If you have ever met our dogs, you’ll know they’re the cutest (and orneriest) dogs you’ve ever met. In fact, one might call them a pair of royal pains in the ass. (Literally and figuratively. They are the dog of the queen, you know.) Our female has serious attitude, but our male has a serious obsession: play. I have never met a dog with more energy than Bones. To help you understand the scope of his obsession, this short-legged Corgi walked six miles with me on moderately hilly terrain in 80+ degree weather, ate a few pieces of ice (his other obsession) and dropped a ball at my husband’s feet. It’s a problem, I tell you. Well, Corgis were bred to be herding dogs, so my mom bought them each a stuffed sheep (affectionately dubbed “sheepins”) for Christmas and they have been obsessed with them ever since.

Now, if you’ve ever seen a sheep – I mean a real Highlands of Scotland-style sheep – they’re pretty dirty. They are in no way the cute, snowy creatures of fluff we make them out to be. Well, ours quickly came to mirror their real-life counterparts. It was disgusting. Truly disgusting. But, like children, our dogs clearly have their favorites and instead of replacing them, we have endured… until today. It was time. Bath time, that is!

So, after much scrubbing, whining (from Bones, not me), squeezing, mending (they are the holiest sheep I’ve ever seen) and rinsing, both “sheepins” have been upgraded and are currently bouncing around in the drier. And the dogs? Well, Maya doesn’t seem to care, but Bones has stationed himself at the door to our garage (where the washer and drier live) until his dearly beloved sheep emerge, new once more, from their appropriately titled “fluff” cycle.

Then, let the obsession resume!

Show Me

2011-05-20T00:21:00.000-07:00

I am generally a very patient person, but this month I have been working three jobs: two part time and one full time. I have to admit it has tried my patience. Not only has my workload grown exponentially, I’ve been reading reflective essays about what my students have learned this semester. These letters are often encouraging, but this semester, more than most, my students wrote repeatedly of how they came to this class expecting to learn nothing and, thank God, they were mistaken. The teacher (yeah, that’d be me) actually knew what she was talking about and things like revisions, workshops and active reading actually helped. Gasp.

Now, this is a compliment. For whatever reason – blame the inadequacies of our educational system or student’s lack of focus in the classroom – most of my students have woeful tales of past English classes and I am happy to change that perspective. But this constant barrage of blatant surprise does wear on a person.

It was in this mindset that I entered my afternoon class today. These are students at my new full time job and I’m enjoying the campus, but this specific class is sleepy and generally unresponsive to anything class related. So after 1 1/2 hours of tedious stop-and-go conversion, I sent them on a break to get refreshed. It worked, but then the questions were all about when class would be over. Now, on Tuesday, these students had asked me (yes, I swear they asked) to go over grammar before their essay was due, so that was the plan. I admit, it’s not exciting, but they requested it. But now, they hated it. They avoided eye contact, wouldn’t answer questions and kept asking if we were done. Then, something in me snapped. I couldn’t keep my yap shut any longer. I broke into a rant. “Why are you even in school if all you want to do is leave? Why pay all this money to bitch and stare at the clock?” On and on I went. After the shock wore off, this surprisingly opened up an interesting line of discussion. They talked about the frustration of working full time making only minimum wage and how school was so much better. I challenged them to show it. Show me. Show everyone.

I’d like to say that everything changed, but this is reality. We did, however, have an interesting discussion about the grammatical structure of a few sentences and that was enough for me. And I know that, when I see them again next Tuesday, they will be sleepy and sluggish, but I think we may have broken ground on something helpful and maybe, just maybe, we can revisit it and keep them focused on the means to their end. And maybe the next time I open my yap with them, it will be praise and excitement, not a searing rant about the value of their education. Maybe, just maybe.

Purpose

2011-04-25T21:21:00.000-07:00

Recently, my husband and I have been talking about motivation. I have struggled with depression in the past and my husband, although never officially diagnosed, believes he probably has as well. If you have never suffered from depression, you can’t fully understand it. You may try, but you will never truly know why a depressed loved one simply can’t get out of bed. Why the motivation just isn’t there. You think, “snap yourself out of it. Just get up!” If only it were that simple. But the funny thing about depression is that it has a permanent affect on your life. I don’t mean that you constantly struggle with it (although some poor souls do). What I mean is that your life – your motivation – is constantly in question. You constantly ask yourself why you aren’t motivated to do something. Is it just a lazy day or is it more? The line gets fuzzier and fuzzier until you start blaming everything on depression, “It can’t be me. I must be slipping back into that darkness”, you tell yourself. But now I’m questioning that mindset.

Just last weekend, we hosted my dad and step-mom as they visited California. One morning over breakfast, my step-mom began speaking of her mother. How her health has gone downhill lately. How she believes her mom has lost her purpose. She told me, “once you lose your purpose, there’s not much to stick around for.” This really hit me. What is my purpose? So often, I find myself stuck in a routine and even more often, I find myself wishing for time to pass faster so that I can obtain some goal that’s just out of reach. Some of this is because, up through April, I’ve been on a paycheck-to-paycheck mentality. (I have a new full time job coming up. Yup, something else to want that’s just up ahead.) But I truly believe there’s more to it than that. I allow myself to get overwhelmed with the day-to-day and I don’t spend time doing what makes me happy – really happy. Not that I’m-home-from-work-and-want-to-veg-don’t-bother-me kind of happy. The stuff that makes me feel like a better person – like I’m living the way I hoped adult me would live when I was a kid. So that is my goal. I can’t tell you exactly how this will manifest itself, but my plan is to do at least one thing every day that makes me happy. And you know what? Blogging – simply writing down my thoughts – is one of those things. This means there hopefully won’t be any more weeks or months of emptiness on my site. I also hope to be able to share more about my experiment with you as I pursue it, so please check back and feel free to ask questions. One of the many benefits to yapping about life is that some people need to hear what you have to say. I would be honored if any word that I write (past, present or future) helps any person with just one thing. Perhaps this will be it.

Until next time, here is me checking off my first happy thing! And you know what? It feels pretty good.

Eloquent Evolution

2011-01-11T00:06:00.000-08:00

Just finished walking 60 miles in 2008!

This blog is dedicated to the women (and men) who have been diagnosed with breast cancer, a cause that is close to my own heart.

It’s pretty common knowledge that women talk more than men. Whether this is somehow ingrained in our DNA or if it’s socially constructed, I don’t know, but there is enough research to prove that it is truth. I suppose that’s part of how my blog came to be. But I think there’s a deeper reason than we admit for this desire to talk.

I recently watched a documentary called Dogs Decoded: Nova. You may be wondering right now what dogs have to do with women. I’ll tell you. According to this incredible documentary, dogs have developed the amazing ability to read human’s facial expressions over their years of domestication. This is something that has not been found in any other animal – not even the chimp. This has allowed for dogs to truly become man’s (or women’s) best friend. In order to survive and belong in this new social order, dogs adapted. I think women have, too.

If you’re unfamiliar with gender roles in European societies (actually, many societies, but there are a few who are matriarchal) women have only recently been considered equals with men. (That is actually still quite arguable, but I digress.) In Victorian society, women were not even allowed outside of their homes without a chaperone. They were property. They, in essence, were nothing but the means to create children – ideally, sons. Gossip channels were very important then through the courts and I’m sure they were even more important if you go further back into history. But because women have generally played a submissive role to men, they needed a system in order to cope and make themselves present. Hence, women talk a lot.

This was brought to the forefront of my attention not long ago when I accompanied my mom for a test at a breast center. I was able to join her in a small waiting room where other women in unflattering gowns that make them feel self-conscious sat awaiting a test that may tell them they have breast cancer. In my family, the women talk even more when they are nervous. More specifically, they joke. This is precisely what my mom and I were doing until she was taken for her mammogram. While she was away, I sat typing responses to student essays on my laptop, trying to look occupied. One woman looked nervous and I smiled at her, but she remained deep in thought and moved carefully, I could see, to avoid her pain. But several other women joined and they were less than silent. One specifically felt the need to talk about her experience, and my mom’s experience, and anyone else’s experience we could share. At first, I’ll admit, I was a little annoyed. I had papers to read and really did want to be productive, but I saw how much this meant to this woman. She, unlike my mom, was alone and she had a history of breast cancer in her family. It was as if talking made the situation more bearable for her – made it more tangible, so she could hold it and control it herself. And so we chatted – something so many people would shrug off as idle and insignificant, but I realized at that moment that it was probably the most meaningful thing I was going to do that day, possibly even that week. So I closed my laptop and kept chatting with this woman and then the next, until I was alone in the little room.

It was then that I began writing this blog. I couldn’t go back to my work. I realized there was something here and, although I would probably never see these women again, I needed to continue their conversation in some way to acknowledge its importance. That, in some small way, my writing was helping us to adapt our own communication and survival. So here it is, my contribution to the evolution of eloquent gab, and yet another reason to never shut your yap.

Gingerbread House Competition: Vote 2010

2010-12-26T20:14:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays and welcome to our second annual gingerbread house decorating competition! I'll post more interesting tales about our holiday festivities later, but now is the time to vote. Please watch the video and click on the link below to vote on your favorite house. All votes must be cast by 11:59 pm on Tuesday Dec. 28, 2010.

Please vote by clicking vote now.

This is our last day of the contest. Please vote, whether you know us or not. Vote, vote, vote!!

Thanks for voting! I hope that you had a fabulous holiday filled with friends, family and food!

Sheri

Metamorphasis

2010-12-17T23:30:00.000-08:00

The random person who stumbles across my blog might think that I am a voracious and gregarious person – someone who loves to be the center of attention and will always speak her mind. But this is not the case. In fact, I hate speaking in front of people and I often choose the passive-aggressive route in lieu of direct confrontation. This is even more ironic when you learn that I am a college-level English instructor. But my passive-aggressive tendencies are starting to fade.

In my first few years of teaching, I was petrified of calling out a student. I don’t mean calling on a student, but addressing the problem behavior that inevitably arises in classrooms (especially those filled with college students who haven’t learned that they’re no longer in high school and led by a female in her mid-twenties). For example, in my third year of teaching, I had a student who received a grade that she felt was lower than she deserved. She must have been even more passive-aggressive than me because, instead of talking to me about the grade, she became increasingly hostile and adversarial in and outside of my class. She would make snide comments in our incredibly small class (we only had 10 students) and then began to outright defy me at every turn. She even went so far as to have her boyfriend patrol the building we were in. When I finally decided I could take no more, our confrontation was even more hostile. So hostile, in fact, that two of my students (who, by the way, loved me) refused to close the classroom door and stood guard to make sure I would be okay. You would think this would teach me a lesson, and it did… but not the right one.

What I learned was to fear giving low grades – to fear sharing with students in a more direct way that they were not passing my class. Instead of learning to nip problem behavior in the bud, I learned to keep it to myself. Now, in my defense, students in college are expected to take more responsibility for their work and in knowing where they stand; however, my students (as I’ve mentioned) don’t quite realize they’ve entered the brand new world of adulthood and they expect me to hold their hand much more than I’m willing to do.

But this semester, I’ve noticed a clear change in myself. I have not only begun giving more regular “status reports” to my students (and many of these were not what the students expected), but I have also lost much of the pity and fear I had previously harbored when giving such negative information. In fact, I currently sit in my classroom awaiting a student for his final conference. This student is doing well, but the previous one was not. I had to sit with him only two feet from me, look in his eyes and tell him he did not pass my class. Not only that, but I had to tell him that the growth he thought he made in the class and the effort he professed to exert was not near enough for college. In the past, I would have averted my eyes, apologized for the low score on his portfolio, or kowtowed to requests to turn in last minute work for that barely passing grade. But not this semester. Today, I looked him right in the eye and told him he could not pass my class. And you know what? The world didn’t end. He didn’t cry or even try to hit me. And as he walked out my door I realized that, without even trying, I have morphed into this confidently assertive teacher I never thought I’d be. Go figure.

Forbidden Fruit

2010-11-29T20:25:00.000-08:00

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. First, I was sick. Then, the holidays and semester’s end took over and I became buried in essays. Hopefully this will make up for the loss.

I am pleased to say that this awkward moment came only in part by my own doing.

My sister came to stay with us a few weeks ago. One night, the three of us along with a friend were lounging around our living room trying to find something good to watch on Netflix Instant. We ran across this movie that I had seen listed a million times, but had never had the courage to watch: Teeth. I made the mistake of mentioning this fact. The brief synopsis of Teeth simply states that a young girl finds through an encounter of sexual abuse that her vagina has teeth. Now perhaps you understand my fascination and repulsion. Everyone was shocked. We giggled a little and my husband lingered a little longer than normal on the movie’s image. My sister, however, was jokingly insistent about watching it and my husband, ever ready to indulge a whim, decided to hit play.

Needless to say, the movie was horrible. It was one of those so-cheesy-you-can’t-believe-someone-actually-produced-it kinds of things. The girl is an unofficial spokeswoman for a faith-based high school abstinence campaign… and so is the boy. And yet, we continued to watch. Cheesy scene after cheesy scene, our eyes remained glued to the screen. Our friend even pulled up some pillows and created a little nest on the floor, surrounded by our two Corgis. We joked about turning it off, but something prevented it. We were all hoping for some sort of payoff. You can’t make a movie about a vagina with teeth without some sort of good payoff, right?

And so we watched on. In fact, it wasn’t until almost an hour of sappy, melodramatic teen wooing with Christian boundaries and bizarre stepfamily issues had passed until we got it. Major pay off! (I’ll warn you here. There is major spoilage coming up.) In a moment of passion in a secluded cavern under a waterfall (yup, I said cheesy) romance turns ugly when the heroine rejects her suitor. He turns rapist and knocks her unconscious. The romantic that he is, the boy figures he’ll enjoy her even when she’s out cold. But he’s in for a surprise.

At this point, we’re all making predictions. Will they actually do it? What will they show? Is this what we’ve been waiting for? Should we just turn it off? The anticipation is tangible.

Then, it happens. Just as little Casanova nestles in for some not-so-love-making, the girl wakes up… and so does her vagina… and they’re both pissed! Next thing you know, everyone is screaming and there’s a prosthetic penis lying beside him on the cavern floor and he is looking quite eunuch-esque. At this point, the guys in the room are looking a little piqued and my sister and I are rolling on the floor. After a few minutes of hysteria, gasps and snide comments, my husband turned off the TV.

I can’t tell you how the story ends, but I do know that Eve Ensler is not going to be including this jewel in her next revision of The Vagina Monologues. And be careful who you share this story with because your yap might land you right in the middle of a Teeth screening of your own.

Little Pumpkin

2010-10-28T20:57:00.000-07:00

This last weekend, I attended a friend’s wedding. It was outdoors on a beautiful fall day and they took advantage of the season by using a harvest/Nightmare Before Christmas theme. Needless to say, there were pumpkins everywhere. We chose a random table and, when a friend and groomsman joined us later, we began talking about this perfect little pumpkin that was our table’s décor. He told me that this particular little pumpkin was the bride’s favorite. In fact, she liked it so much that he was surprised it actually made its intended role as a harvest centerpiece. We then decided the best plan of action would be to steal it in order to present it to the bride upon her return. Then, the groomsman left.

I took up the mantle and snuck the pumpkin into my purse; but once I got home, this little gourd began to take on a life of her own. She began acting strangely… and this is the story I sent to the groomsmen.

Once upon a time, there was a pumpkin…

When she arrived to her foster home, she met a handsome fellow gourd, Spotty.

One night, I found Princess looking more lovely than usual.

Lo and behold, a few days later...

I think there's been some pumpkin bumpin' goin' on. Spotty was looking a little frisky on Sunday.

Today, Princess heard of the upcoming holiday and thought she would get into the Halloween spirit.

I applauded her efforts, but told her about her true purpose: to bring a smile to a newlywed couple.

I think she may have gotten the wrong impression.

The newlyweds are still on their honeymoon, but the bride will, in fact, receive her little “Princess” upon her return. And they’ll live happily ever after.

The Birds & the Bees

2010-10-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

I am one of the lucky people who has known her best friend since she was five years old. I won’t tell you how many years exactly we’ve been friends, but it’s been a while. Let’s leave it at that. And nine years ago, that friend had a baby, Callan. I was not (and still am not) a big fan of children, but I’ve made an exception for this one and have donned the title of “Auntie.” But this post is not about long friendships or overcoming fears… it’s about double entendres.

Like many people who are around children, my friend Christy and I speak in several different languages – some literally different, like Spanish, and others simply more complex versions of our own – to try to evade the increasingly intelligent little ears of her son. This has become increasingly difficult (as he’s a smart little bugger) over the years, but still we persist. And, like so many people who have been friends as long as we have, sometimes we find stupid and sometimes dirty things quite humorous. Hence, the problem.

Callan recently started taekwando lessons with a man called Master Johnson. The mature adults that we are, we could barely refrain from snickering when he introduced himself. Callan, of course, didn’t know any better. Our little inside joke lasted for several weeks and we were, of course, very polite and understanding around the Master himself. (It’s certainly not his fault and he’s a very nice man – not deserving of any kind of teasing.) But one day, one thing lead to another and Christy began speaking in Spanish to me about a friend’s sexual exploits. We giggled (again, we’re soooo very mature) and Callan became increasingly agitated by our code.

We eventually distracted him, but somehow the subject turned to Hooters and how kids at Callan’s school were allowed to wear Hooters T-shirts. Then, I opened my yap and said, “Yeah, it’s just like those Big Johnson shirts guys used to wear when we were in school.” Oops. Our sweet little nine year old didn’t understand that double entendres and, of course, wanted an explanation. Now, mind you, his mother had skirted around her early discussion of sexual exploits with the classic “It’s not appropriate for you,” but here she piped up and said, “You had to open your mouth. Explain it, Auntie!” Now, I have to note that Callan has already experienced “the talk” and he and Christy are quite open about these things, but Auntie has not been a part of these conversations. And Auntie has no children to whom “the talk” must be given. So, Auntie was a little awkward… and a little embarrassed… but I think I did all right. No tears shed and only a modicum of blushing and giggles. Now, we just have to hope that Callan never makes the connection between Auntie’s “Big Johnson” speech and poor Master Johnson at taekwando.

Meet Gabriel

2010-10-06T19:37:00.000-07:00

Once in a while, you meet a person who really inspires you. Someone who has done amazing things and has lived what one might call a life less ordinary. This week, I met one of these people. His name is Gabriel.

On Monday, Gabriel came into our Writing Center for some help revising a memoir he was writing for a Chicano Lit class. I didn’t think much of it and sat down to read his draft. The story felt like a partially completed puzzle – you could tell the picture would be amazingly beautiful, but there were gaps and pieces still missing. I began to ask him questions to help him learn to develop the paragraphs and connect the ideas, but I ended up learning just as much as he did. Instead of having a tutorial session, our interaction turned to a series of vignettes about his life – from losing pride in his Mexican heritage because of his drunken father’s escapades, to the history of French schools in Mexico, to Romance languages and psychology. This sweet, nondescript little man had escaped his dysfunctional family in Mexico by following an educational path all the way to Paris, France. The more we spoke and explored his memoir, the more amazing stories poured from his mouth. I knew I was supposed to focus on his essay, but I couldn’t shut my yap. I had to keep asking questions and every time I did, he would wave his hand and lay it on my arm, look me in the eye, and share a piece of his history with me. We spent only 30 minutes together, but I felt refreshed for the entire day.

Today, I returned to the Writing Center, hoping to find Gabriel waiting for me. I learned from another tutor that he had just left. That tutor had recently worked with Gabriel, too, and we began sharing the pieces of his story and about our interactions together. Then another tutor joined our conversation and we were all amazed by how much Gabriel had inspired us this week. Although he had come into the Writing Center looking for our help, Gabriel gave so much to everyone who worked with him. I learned on Monday that he is an aspiring writer and he hopes to write and publish his memoir. I wish him all the luck in the world and hope that we are among many who get to hear his amazing story.

Reminisce

2010-09-22T23:01:00.000-07:00

I know that there are some cultures who believe you shouldn’t speak of the dead – that it will bring bad spirits upon you. I think it is quite the opposite. This evening, I spent a great long dinner with my mom and our family friend, Wendy, whose mother (my mom’s best friend) passed away 15 years ago from breast cancer. It had been several years since we had been together and, honestly, many more since we had really sat down to talk. It was a great evening. There is such comfort in good friends who have shared common joys and sorrows. I believe that Americans, as a whole, feel compelled to hide their emotions and simply move on after a personal loss. And there’s this idea that if we talk about it, emotions will emerge and all hell will break lose. But that’s a lie, pure and simple. It is fear of vulnerability and it causes us to miss out on some amazing moments.

This evening, the beautiful patio of Veni Vidi Vici’s was a place of much reminiscing, a few teary eyes, and a lot of great heart-felt laughs. I believe it is so important for us to keep our yaps open and to remember all of those who have impacted our lives. Far from dreading evil spirits, I now feel Nancy’s presence (Wendy’s mother) more than I have in years. Stories of old microwaves, wallpaper trees, 1970’s furniture, impractical yet sentimental clothing, and deathbed struggles made her almost real again for just one evening. I knew words were powerful, but I often forget their ability to construct more than sentences. In this case, they constructed memory, emotion, connection, and, in so many ways, a person.

At the risk of sounding maudlin and a little cheesy, I hope that this inspires you to open up a photo album of a loved one you have lost. Sit around drinking good wine with friends and family, share stories and see how tangible your own memories can be.

Irish Coffee

2010-09-06T19:03:00.000-07:00

I come from a very vocal family and I love to engage others when I'm out and about. My husband knows this and thinks that I sometimes cross a line. I disagree. However, this time my inquiries were a little awkward...

This summer, my husband and I visited Portland, OR and discovered a restaurant, Huber's. It is the oldest in Portland and we though, what the heck, let's give it a go! It's a very old world-feeling place with dark wood and old black and white photos - just the sort of thing we love. The waitress comes over and we (well... I) quickly let her know it's our first time and she starts to fill us in on the specialties of the house, one of which is Irish Coffee. It's not what you're thinking. It's a dinner-and-a-show-style pouring of coffee and various liqueurs, along with a setting fire of the rim of the glass, all table-side. The guy who does it has been there for 25-30 years. Sounded awesome, so we ordered it.

When the guy comes to the table, I am already interested in his story and want to hear more. So, I ask, "What keeps you here?" In my mind, the response is a passionate story about a sense of tradition, loving the extravagance and showmanship of this very unique craft, of owning a little piece of history. My husband, on the other hand, sees an embarrassing train wreck just ahead. The guy looks at my bright and inquiring eyes and says, "I can't do much else. This isn't a very marketable skill." Queue images of crashing planes, breaking hearts and plummeting sound effects. Needless to say, the show itself was amazing, my husband was embarrassed, I was disheartened, and the guy got a really big tip.