Mom Discovers Blog

It wasn’t really a challenge in any way. Don’t imagine her searching through files or using some fancy device to crack my not so sophisticated password. I pretty much handed her my laptop with the blog open.

            Don’t think me weak. She is a conversational wizard and I’m almost entirely sure she is a Jedi. If the army ever needed an interrogator who could make the enemy blurt out the information needed just by the art psychological manipulation, they should pay a visit to my house. Anyways, besides the fact that she is intimidating, it was mainly a strange feeling of guilt that made me tell her I had written a blog about her. Her eyes opened dramatically.

            I had no choice you see. I had to free myself from the heavy feeling that I had somehow betrayed her confidence by comparing her to Stalin and Bin Laden. The confession did little to subside that feeling. In fact, it made it mutate into a deformed version of dread.

            “Let me read it.”

            “Umm…” I desperately sought for clever excuses that would distract her eagerness. It didn’t work. “I don’t think you wanna do that.”

            “Bring it now.”

            “No.”

            “Now.”

            This went on for a bit but not to the point where it was irrelevant. With every now, she wore me down, like a spell she had casted on me that gradually became more forceful. Told you she was a Jedi.

            As I came back down the stairs while cradling my laptop, I kept saying: Please have a sense of humor, please have a sense of humor.... As I could, as well, create a wondrous spell that could turn people into easygoing, hippie-ish potheads. I hear potheads find comedy in everything.

            “Don’t be mad,” I commanded pathetically as she began to read.

            I sat behind her trying to follow the sentence she was reading at the moment, desperately praying she wouldn’t be offended, or even worse, that she’d be disappointed that I’d be using my skill to publicly trash her. A few minutes later, her shoulders moved up and down continuously as she let out a laughing snort.

            “You…bitch!” she said while laughing hysterically. I assumed she got to the Bin Laden part.

            The rest of the reading went on similarly, with snorts and insults and strange questions that were always replied by more questions.

Mom: What the hell?

            Me: Where you up to?

            Mom:  Who the hell is Stan Lee?!

            Me: Are you seriously asking me that?

            Mom: Why are you only talking about me?!

            Me: What do you mean?

            Mom: Why aren’t you talking about your brothers?

            Me: Oh.

            Mom: Why don’t I have any writing talent?

            Me: Huh?

            Mom: Shouldn’t the world know the truth about you as well?

            Mom, let’s not get carried away. But she is right. Somehow I was going to complain about the entire dysfunctional dynamic my family has become accostumed to and I ended up singling Mom out. So unfair. Yet if I had gone on about the complex, impossible to explain, always surprising behavior my brothers engage in, it would have been about thirty pages.

            That afternoon, Mom sent me a text. I was perplexed because as far as I knew, Mom was downstairs watching TV while I was in my room innocently browsing the web. Even so, I read the text message.

            Mom: Go rent a movie.

            Her powers also work via cell phone.

            I found it strange she wouldn’t go up to my room to ask me. Was she mad?

            Me: Are you giving me the silent treatment?

            Mom: E

            E? What the hell is E? Maybe she meant to write YES but her fingers slipped or her brain froze temporarily.

            Me: What?

            Mom: I’m slowly getting annoyed before I roar and attack you.

            Passive aggressive treatment, eh? I had to get her back.

            Me: Noooooo Bin Laden!

            Mom: Bitch…

            In short, Mom isn’t mad although she brings it up in front of people probably to make me look like a horrible daughter. She also said that she knows how to access my blog now so I better not write anything else about her and if I do, I must let you all know the truth about my brothers as well.

            That will be a treat to write.

            PS: I was invited to a family party next weekend, so my genius plan to decrease the frequency I have to look like I’m antisocial failed.

           

           

           

Freedom Tastes like Chocolate

For the past few weeks I’ve felt like an undercover social worker observing the seldom normal dynamics of an odd family. My family.

            Now, before I go on to reveal the most embarrassing secrets of my relatives, which its revelations will surely exclude me permanently from every future family event (hold on… this might be genius then), I need to start off by saying that I have one of the coolest mothers in the entire universe. I’m sure that’s what everyone says about their mothers (no, wait… that’s what parents say about their own kids), but mine really is. She’s done marathons, triathlons, cycles about forty miles every day and still manages to do every other mother related task the day hands her. In short, she is a freaking super hero.

            However, like every super hero Stan Lee has invented has a weakness, Mom has her own custom made kryptonite as well. But instead of making her weak, it makes her angry and instead of being kryptonite, it’s an undefined collection of things you’ll never see coming until it’s too late.

            As a result, Mom gets mad but not in the Hulk explosive kind of way that at least your brain registers and sends your body an alarming feeling to run away or search for cover. It’s more in the soft spoken eloquent kind of way Bin Laden expressed for years before suddenly deciding to attack a nation. Fortunately, I haven’t been attacked just yet. However, the distilled desperation of knowing it can be avoided but not knowing how has impaired my judgment and made it impossible to come up with a way to disable the bomb.

            There’s no way to figure out what triggers her into turning into the next most terrorizing person in contemporary history. But like the great fictional undercover social worker that I am, I studied the situation carefully, making sure no details would escape my trained eyes. I pondered for hours, compared my daily notes and came to the accurate conclusion that the rage that seems to be coursing through my family can be summarized by what we know as cabin fever.

            After years of the house being quite at peace and only being noisy for a maximum of three days (the weekends when we’d all come home), it’s finally crowded again since me and my older brother moved back home after finishing college. And the cabin fever symptoms commenced.

            Nobody seems to be able to tolerate each other. Apart from the place being crowded and having nothing to do, we seem to get a kick out of messing with each other until it must sound to the neighbors like someone is about to commit homicide inside our house. My coping mechanism with this dynamic, apart from trying to be the peacemaker nobody likes, is to retreat to my room and sleep long deserved hours.          

            Mom, who I guess gets it from years of exercise and being the complete definition of a multitasked person, is a person that doesn’t like to stay still for too long and therefore is not very fond with my fantastic coping method. She approached the whole situation as if I was hiding drugs under my bed.

            “What is this?!”would be my mother’s reaction to me sleeping until eleven in the morning which to her, equals the effect of doing drugs.

            “I’m… sleeping?” I’d answer in confusion.

            “Let me tell something to you… (Whenever I hear these words, I immediately feel like I’m five years old again) I will not tolerate this behavior while you wait for a whole semester to pass by and then you start Graduate School.”

            Suddenly I felt like I had trashed the entire house by throwing multiple frat parties and hadn’t bothered to apologize. “What behavior?”

            “You guys lying around the house and leaving an eternal ass print on the couch from watching too much television!” She really did say that. It was quite epic.

            At this point, I try to reason her anger into a calmer state, which I still don’t understand why I haven’t learned it can’t be done. “But Mom… it’s only been two weeks.” I suddenly felt like I was trying to explain to her that two weeks of heavy sleeping wasn’t enough to injure me in the long run, like a smoker or a recreational junkie would say.

            “I…don’t…care!!! This is exactly how it starts! First you sleep in a few days a week, then you’re gonna quit your job. Then you’re gonna tell me you are not going to grad school and then you will do nothing but stay here sleeping all the time! So make sure you make yourself busy. Get more hours at work; find another job, a project, anything! But you are not lying around here for the next six months!”

            So according to Mom, sleeping was the gateway drug to cutting my life short. Not drinking excessively or mixing with the wrong crowds. Sleeping. I didn’t understand why the intervention treatment was required but suddenly I felt like I had been doing something very horrible that was affecting the entire family. I would’ve used a counter argument and play her The Beatles song I’m only sleeping repeatedly until she’d realize I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But it seemed argument time was over and the decision had already been made for me. 

I think any logical person would’ve understood why I felt I’d deserve the right to lie down like a walrus and stare at the ceiling for hours if that’s what I wanted. Or if all I wanted to do was bask in the glory of a heavenly slumber that went on a little longer than the appropriate time and then go mad at the neighbor for mowing his lawn at ten in the morning, I damn well had earned the right! After all, it had only been a few weeks since I’d finish with honors my four year Bachelor’s degree and had tasted true freedom, without any preservatives or low fat ingredient… And I was indulging fully.

Mom hated it.

            If she were Stalin, she would’ve killed me by now for being an unsupportive comrade and would have made sure I hadn’t been found until ten years later (I apologize for all the violent references. No idea where they’re coming from).

            Ordinarily, I would crumble under pressure and my legs would quiver involuntarily at her mighty roar. My need to please everyone would kick in with a high dosage and get in the way of my doing-nothing-until-I feel-like-it plans. But for now, freedom tastes pretty damn sweet. Like chocolate.

            On that note, I love you Mom. In case you ever read it.

           

Schizophrenic Scales

            It’s been a crazy few days with an emotional pendulum that swings from excitement, happiness to self-doubt, pity and complete depression. I think this is one of the early signs of bipolar disorder. Let’s hope I’m wrong on this one and it’s only the what-the-hell-do-I-do-after-graduation phase.

            A few days ago, I was having a healthy lunch at work, roasted chicken breast and brown steamed rice, hoping desperately my attempt to diet was having an effect. And I think it is- my pants are a little lose and my cheeks look leaner but it’s impossible to confirm the alleged progress because I am beyond terrified of confronting the scales. Besides the normal anxiety every normal person feels when waiting for it to blink the harsh reality of their weight, I’m mainly scared because of the fact that my scales seem to detest me.

            Maybe we’ve just had her for too long- yes her, because it’s a total bitch- and she just got sick and tired of fat people standing on her every day expecting for her to create a miracle that her primary functions prohibit her from doing. After all, she did take the Do Not Lie about Weight Numbers oath when she was made. What can she do? Then, when people don’t see the results they want, they throw a tantrum and blame her for their love handles. To hell with it! she says. And then, I suffer for it. I think she senses my vulnerable state between hopefulness and finally giving up and diving head first into a basket of muffins and decides to fuck with me.

            I go visit her in the mornings, before anything’s in my stomach. Less pounds. After the bathroom. Practically slim by now. I eat salad the night before and try to attain some feeling of fullness with a big glass of water. I ignore the grumble of my stomach.

            Anyways… both feet on the scales. Numbers blinking. I say a little prayer and then I look down.

            142.5

            Dear Jesus! That’s way higher than it should be.

            Try again.

            138

            Hmm…. Better. (It was supposed to be somewhere around 136)

            Again.

            145

            WHAAAAAAT?!

             By this time, she is euphoric by watching me have a mini meltdown that will drive me to eat pasta with a whole loaf of garlic bread and then eventually have another meltdown and so on. Now, for her fabulous finale, she decides to do what no other weight scale has done before. She makes the world record jump of ten pounds. Twice.

            133

            A part of me wanted to celebrate and start dancing as if I were an extra in West Side Story. A member of the Shark’s gang, of course. Nobody danced like them. But if I know the scales, and I think I do, I knew this was her way of enhancing my possible bipolar disorder.

            So I gave it another try.

            143

            I need to emphasize this. From one hundred and thirty-three pounds… to one hundred and forty-three pounds!! 

         

I give up. It seems she threw her honorable oath out the bathroom window and will stop at nothing to win the argument that exigently points out she will do whatever the f_ck she wants, including to belittle my wish to go back to 130 pounds and fit into my favorite pair of jeans. She won that argument.

If I looked like that, I wouldnt be writing about scales.

            I think it’s safe -for my emotional balance (if we recall, it’s not so balanced at the moment) and to keep my stubbornness in achieving this resolution, not to mention so the scales doesn’t end up being violently shattered into pieces- that the scale and I take some time apart from each other. Clearly, she has issues.

A Moot Point

-         I’m staring at a yellow pad with the words A Moot Point in a slightly larger and bolder font after tracing over them for the last few minutes. Procrastination, you say? Lies, I tell you!-

I have been waiting for this day – mostly this time of my life- since forever, to be able to say I graduated college and I am an educated woman. See, when I pictured this day while I was in high school, back when the secrets to controlling curly hair hadn’t been really whispered to my ear like God’s divine gift to me or when braces were the coolest thing ever –for those who had seldom been kissed (me!) and hadn’t realized the difficulties they could create- I saw life after college as a commemoration of being a full-fledged adult.

       I would look hot (for some reason, that was always the first priority in this fantasy life dream, me being a total bombshell), I would quickly publish my first novel and be internationally recognized (probably because of the bombshell look), I would meet the funniest and cutest guy who’d be my best friend but could also make my toes curl (demanding much?) and life would carry on perfectly and smoothly interrupted frequently by trips to Europe, interviews with fantastic late night show hosts and of course, walking up the stage at the Oscars after winning one for Best Original Screenplay.

  Oh my goodness! Thank you! I didn't even have a speech prepared.

(Lies, I've been practicing it since I was eight!)   

      But as I graduated high school and my years at college accumulated with surprising speed (no one tells you how fast they go by), the finish line that defined becoming an adult would wickedly move farther and farther away, fulfilling the definition of horizon.

      Horizon: the “apparent” boundary between earth and sky. Both the celestial and sensible horizons change with the observer's position.

      They failed to mention you never manage to reach it. Anyways, it’s a bitch. I’ve come to the conclusion that I have two alternatives for dealing with this consuming situation.

      One: I’ll slowly give up on becoming an adult and settle for the I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-I’m-gonna-do-with-my-life phase.

      Two: Cry hysterically at the uncertainty and dark uneven tunnel that is my life.

I opted for the second one.

      For the next weeks, I cried randomly and equally intense, like Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give when she is dumped by Jack Nicholson. In the shower, immediately after waking up, while taking a mouthful of yogurt. Yup. It was a sad sight.

      I knew it was a tad dramatic and was slightly acting like someone had convinced me that all the new trend “the world is going to end” movies’ epic scenes were going to take place all around me in the next few days without a warning.

      But truly, I felt sad and lost. I felt like I had planned my life up until this point, thinking “Well, I have enough to keep me busy. No need to keep adding to the list for a while.” But I got so busy and caught up on crossing things out of the list that before I knew it, the to-do list was over.

      I felt like Wild E. Coyote after finally catching the Roadrunner. I’d lift my wooden sign up that would read, “Okay… what the fuck do I do now?”

      On top of that there is the life altering, surely detested question by everyone, especially youngsters that is asked by every intimidating adult figure in your life.

      “So… what are you gonna do now?” Like the vultures in Jungle Book. (Yes, I know you remember them. “Oh, I don’t know. What you wanna do?”)

      A derivative of that question is “What are your plans?” The immediate response is emitting a sound so guttural and strange that makes me sound retarded.

      “Uhhhhhhh… plans? I don’t know,” I’d mumble.

      Then comes the strangest facial expression you’ll see. Like they’ve just eaten a banana smothered with ketchup or any other random combination that will horrify you. Then the endless amount of solutions to your existential crisis will pour without restraints out of their mouths.

      Well, you need to get moving.

      Get a Master’s.

      Get a job!

      Get married already! (Yes, someone did say that.)

      Okay… a Master’s. In what?! A job? I’ve had one for a while now that is completely irrelevant to what I studied. MARRIED?! To whom?! Well, that answer is easier but the rush is not welcomed. Still, the questions are incessantly confusing and at the age of twenty-two, contrary to whatever anyone has led you to believe- I do not have it figured out. Hence, the utter failure in the adulthood department.

      What am I going to do with my life? I can’t stop asking myself, hoping regret and longing don’t bubble up and overcrowd the already tightly jammed feelings. And then, like a light bulb on top of my small head, I made the incorrect assumption that starting a blog will give my creativity an adrenaline shot and… something significant will happen to me.

      Then, the reality-seeking and pessimist-thirsty side of me said: Who the hell cares if you haven’t found yourself?! People are way too busy trying to figure it out themselves to read 400 words on you whining about it.

      So I guess this project was sort of pointless and this blog entry and all future ones will be a moot point. Or like Joey Tribbiani would say –and quite ingenious I must say- a “moo” point. Because it’s like a cow’s opinion and it doesn’t matter. If the F.R.I.E.N.D.S reference is lost on you, necessary comedy is missing from your life.

      In the meantime, I’ll keep writing.