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You’re not getting any younger

13 Nov

Years ago my mom would take the time out, at least once a week, to remind me that perhaps I should lower my standards so that I could find a man.

  • Mom: You’re not going to be young forever, you know?
  • Me: Yeah.  I know.
  • Mom: Maybe it’s time to consider that you date someone that you wouldn’t have dated before?
  • Me: Nope.  I’m good.
  • Mom: But I don’t want you to end up alone!
  • Me: So you’d rather I end up with someone who doesn’t make me happy so that I’m not alone?
  • Mom: Then you could have a child.
  • Me: That’s why you want me to find a man?  So I can have a baby?
  • Mom: You’re not getting any younger.

Call me crazy, but I think standards are kind of important to have.  I’m not talking being in that Bridget Fonda space in “Singles” (how about that for a throwback?).  She wanted a crazy long list of nonsense, and then was willing to settle for someone who would say “bless you” when she sneezed.  I deserve better than that.  We all deserve more than that.  Shouldn’t we have someone who is gainfully employed, loving, caring, ambitious, smart, kind, warm, etc?  I want someone who brings out the best in me.  Who challenges me.  Who makes me want to be a better person.  Not some douche bag who has a pulse, never makes the bed, and leaves crumbs in his wake.  Fuck that for a joke.  I still believe I can find him.  He’s out there.

I was pleased to see her let go of that line of questioning.

Until it turned into something worse:

  • Mom: You know, if you’re going to have a child, now’s the time to do it.
  • Me: Um.  What?
  • Mom: You’re not getting any younger.
  • Me: I’m well aware of that.
  • Mom: You should just have a baby.
  • Me: Nah, I’m good.
  • Mom: But I don’t want you to end up alone!

We played that game for a few years.  She went as fair as to hand me pamphlets on fertility treatments and freezing my eggs.  At 43, that ship has pretty much sailed.  Not sure whether or not my uterus could handle growing and cultivating another human being for 9 months.  That whole part of my body has been a dry wasteland for as long as I remember.  More than likely if anything could survive up in there it’s some kind of prehistoric creature that should never see the light of day.

  • You can imagine my “delight” when 3 weeks before my 44th birthday we started a new conversation:
  • Mom: You know, you could always adopt.
  • Me: Mom!  Come on!
  • Mom: You’d make an excellent mother.
  • Me: Seriously?
  • Mom: You’re not getting any younger.
  • Me: For the love.
  • Mom: Or you could be a foster mom?

Guessing this year I can expect pamphlets on fostering or adoption.  Yay!

I love our little chats.

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Baltimore? More like Bat-imore…

9 Aug

Picture it…it’s 3:00 AM and you’re dead asleep in your bed when you hear some scratching sounds at your window.  You turn in your bed, open your eyes, and see two black things on the window screen.  “Birds?  At this hour?” you think to yourself.  You sit up in bed, turn on the light, and that’s when those two black things take flight – straight at you.  You scream like a baby, run down the stairs, and hide in the corner of your house while you try to figure out who the hell you’re going to call in the middle of the night to get the bats out of your house.

That’s what happened to my mom the other night.  Poor Mamacita has been sharing her lovely country home with a colony of brown bats.  Not a handful of them.  A colony.  That’s a whole COLONY of bats.  Yeah, so that’s not really awesome – and in related news I won’t be heading down to Baltimore anytime soon.  Since that first night when the two bats decided to dive bomb her in the middle of the night, they’ve removed four bats from her house.

Four different companies have come out to do assessments and give estimates.

  • The first dudes jacked up the job in a major way and then over charged her.  Mainly because they’re giant assholes.  On the bright side, she can totally sue them for everything they’re worth because they killed TWO bats in front of her – which is a felony.
  • The second company was kind enough to tell her that the first company did a shitty job, and then gave her a ridiculous amount as an estimate.
  • Company number three sent out a dude who may have sniffed too much glue as a child.  His response was, “I don’t see any bats.  So maybe they’re gone.  Maybe let’s wait to see if you see anymore, and if you do, then we know you have some bats.”  Really?
  • The final company seems to be the most reasonable.  They put all their little bat traps up today and expect the COLONY of bats to be gone within the next few days.

Who knew that getting rid of bats in your home would be so complicated?  First of all, they’re protected – you can’t kill them.  And even if you could, why would you want to?  Their poor rotting bodies would be in your walls and they’d stink up your whole house.  Second, they can crawl into a space as long as there’s a hole the size of a pen.  Do you know how many holes you have in your house that are that size?  A lot.  Good luck finding them all.

My poor mother has taken refuge at my sister’s house until the bat situation is taken care of.  A house full of bats, or a house with Damien and Lucy(fer).  Wow, that’s like Sophie’s choice right there.

Some People Need a Mute Button

29 Jul

My mother has a landscaper who does not know how to shut her mouth.  I know what you’re thinking,

Catherinette, why does your mother have a landscaper if she’s Mexican?  Don’t Mexicans naturally gravitate towards yard work, cleaning bathrooms, and making tacos?

You racist bastard.  I’ll have you know there are two different kinds of Mexicans: then kinds who do all that shit, and then the kinds who pay their own people to do that shit.  My family falls into the second category.  What’s more, we often hire people outside of our own race to do those menial chores for us.  It says to the world,

Yeah, I’m Mexican, but I can afford to hire white people when white people can only afford to hire Mexicans.  So take that.

But anyway, so this woman who works for my mom HATES her life so much that she’d rather be moving plants, digging holes, and pulling weeds than go home to her husband.  There are nights where she’s at my mom’s past 1:00 in the morning – and no, they’re not having a lesbian affair.  Pulling weeds is like this woman’s Vicodin, it numbs the pain of her marriage and mundane life.  God only knows why.  Vicodin is much better.  Though it’s bad for you and you shouldn’t do it and drugs are bad.  RIP Cory Monteith.

Over the weekend I went home to take Lucy(fer) and Damien to a concert.  I’m the coolest aunt ever in the world, and they’re also a solid cover because it would be creepy if I went to see these guys by myself.  If loving a teeny bopper Nickelodeon boy band is wrong, then I can never in this world be right.  It’s a problem – I’m trying to seek help.  It’s too embarrassing to admit how much money I spent on tickets so the kids (and I) could meet the band, have our pictures taken, grope two of the singers (who are all over the age of consent AND can buy alcohol in all 50 states), and sing along to every song at the concert.  10 hours later, I finally dropped off two sleepy kids and headed to my mom’s so I could wash the disgusting sweat off my dirty Mexican body.  The second I pulled into the driveway and saw the gardener’s car I had one thought, “Fuck.”

I kid you not that it too me 45 minutes to get from my car to the house.  Why?  Because she wanted to show me every single plant she had moved, tell me about how she had Lyme’s disease, and how her husband was recovering from open heart surgery.  See how I was able to sum that up in 1 sentence?  It took her 45 minutes.  And it’s not like I was throwing questions at her, all I said was, “mmm hmm,” “oh,” and, “ok.”

Meanwhile, I know my mom saw me pull in to the driveway.  Think she’d come out and save me?  Or maybe call my phone so I could pretend to have a very important phone call that I had to take?  No.  No, she did not do any of those things.  Instead she hid in the house because she was afraid she’d get sucked into the conversation and not be able to find her way out.  When I asked her later why she didn’t come out she said, “Figured it was better for one of us to get sucked in than both of us.  Plus the book I was reading was really good.”

Bitch.

It was past midnight when I finally made it in the door.

At 3:30 I got up to pee and peeked out the bathroom window.  She was still out there digging a hole for some plant I can’t pronounce.

Also, but mostly unrelated, I totally wrote this post under the influence of Vicodin.  I had the worst cramps in the world.  For like four hours I was in terrible pain and kept thinking, “Man, this is so weird.  I feel l have cramps, but I don’t have my period.”  Yeah, I had my period.  SURPRISE!  Fuck you, Aunt Flow.  You are not the coolest aunt ever in the world like I am.

I’m going to take a nap.

Did you kiss your mother with that mouth??

3 Feb

It’s amazing to watch parents begin to clean up their language when little Johnny stares at this Brussel sprouts and says, “Fuck this” as he pushes his plate away.  The look on the parents’ mouth is absolutely priceless.  You know what’s hilarious?  Watching little kids drop the f-bomb.  Cracks me up every time.

This weekend Lucy(fer), Damien, and Mamacita came up for a visit.  On Saturday morning – at the ass crack of dawn – the kids were playing relatively quietly when Lucy(fer) suddenly whispers, “puta.”  For those of you who don’t speak espanol, the word basically translates to “whore”.  We Mexicans use it in the same way Americans may say “fuck” when they stub their toe, drop something, or get pulled over by the cops.

The second the word left her 6 year old mouth, my mother’s jaw hit the floor.

  • Mamacita: What did you just say?
  • Lucy(fer): Puta.
  • Mamacita: Where did you learn that word??
  • Lucy(fer): You say it all the time.
  • Mamacita: I most certainly do not.
  • Lucy(fer): Sure you do!
  • Mamacita: Well, it’s not a nice word for little girls to use.
  • Lucy(fer): Okay.  I won’t say it.

Lucy(fer) went back to playing her lame ass game of puppies at the vet while my mother and I laughed and laughed.  No shit that 15 minutes later Lucy(fer) drops one of her dolls and she suddenly explains, “aw fuck.”

The Devil Lives on Earth

8 Jan

It’s been awhile since I mentioned what a fucking asshole my uncle is.  He’s like Pol Pot without all the killing – and without the amazing pant suit.  There is no one who can enrage me quite like him.  He’s so awful, in fact, that my niece and nephew can’t stand him.  When Lucy(fer) was still 4 and he had been visiting, she made my sister call my mom so my mom could tell him to leave her alone because she hated him.

Yes he cheated on all of his wives.  And yes he was an ass to his children.  And yes he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.  And the most amazing writer ever.  And the smartest man on earth.  And the center of the universe.  And yes he told a dying woman that he never loved her and their marriage had meant nothing to him.  And he told one of his grandchildren that he hated him.  Oh, and there was also the time that he told my sister, who was a grad student at the time, that graduate school didn’t matter unless it was at Harvard.  And did I mention how the only reason his son went to business school at Harvard because my sister wrote all his admissions essays?  Yeah, it happened.

Low and behold this miserable man is now aging and his kids want to wash their hands of him.  He has Parkinsons and refuses to take his medication so ends up having seizures, which make him lose his balance, which make him fall, which make him end up with a concussion, which make him end up in the hospital.  His daughters, who are bitches in their own right, want to put him in a nursing home because they don’t want to bother with him.  One of them lives a block away from him and sees him less than once a week.  The other one is too busy with her eating disorder, failed relationships, and pretending to run a business than to do anything other than call once a week.  There’s a maid who ends up babysitting and playing nurse – mainly because he fired the most recent nurse because she told him to take his medicine.  Oh, and he also fired the chauffeur suggested he not walk the dog anymore because he wasn’t strong enough.

Mind you, he doesn’t pay for any of this.  One of my cousins and my mom sends him money because his last wife left him high and dry.  And does he save this money to plan for the future?  No he does not.  He spends it on inviting friends out to dinner and buying new suits.  What does a 77 year old man need with new suits when he’s staying home to watch TV?  It’s a mystery…

His behavior is getting worse, and he’s starting to lose his balance more and more.  His daughters have suggested a nursing home (frankly, I think they should drop him off in the dessert with a canteen of water and see what happens).  They set him up in a home and they can go back to their busy lives of manicures, flamenco dancing, and plastic surgery.

Meanwhile, my poor mom is a mess.  She feels totally helpless and obligated and has decided maybe the best option is to have him move in with her.  She trades in her feelings of guilt for a very high price.  Her life as she knows it is over.  He’d take over her house and all of her free time.  Because no one else will take care of him.  She gives up everything to save him from a him.  Who are we kidding here?  My mom is in her late 60’s.  How many more years does she have left?  I’m not saying she’s at death’s door, but I hate thinking about him hanging on and ruining her golden years.  She deserves so much more than that – and he doesn’t deserve her at all.  He deserves exactly what he’s getting.

You reap what you sow.

I hate him for not taking his meds.  I hate his kids for being such fucks ups and for manipulating my mom into taking responsibility for him.  And I hate this whole situation.

It runs in the family

11 Nov

There are certain things that are genetic.  In my family, we’re part idiot on my dad’s side of the family.  Somewhere in our genes there is also amazing coolness and badassness (I made that word up.  You’re welcome).

My cousin, Suzy Cream Cheese, is one of the coolest badasses I have ever met. Our dads are brothers, and they are both idiots.  My mom and dad divorced when we were pretty young.  For some reason, when that happened, the family just kind of lost touch.  I have vague memories of my cousins from when I was little.  Fast forward 20+ years and two of my three cousins find me on Facebook.  They are awesome.  I feel robbed by our dads that they didn’t try harder to keep us all together.  Why?  Because they were idiots.  It would have been so incredibly AWESOME to grow up together.  Can only imagine the kind of trouble we would have gotten into.

Now when we hang out it’s kind of funny when we tell people we’re cousins.  Why?  Because I’m half Mexican and she’s half Chinese.  A taco and and an eggroll.  People seem so confused when we tell them we’re related.  They kind of stare for a minute and then announce, “Oh yes!  I see the resemblance!”  I believe they see our combined awesomeness.

As shitty as our dads are, she has turned into such an great mom.  She’s got a super cool husband, and three great kids.  And I’m not just saying that because we’re family.  You’ve heard me talk plenty of shit about my own niece and nephew.  You know I tell it like it is.

There’s no one who can parent teenagers like she can.  When I grow up and have a family – assuming my eggs don’t die before that happens – I want to be just like her.  One time, when her daughter wrote with permanent marker on an antique desk they inherited, Suzy Cream Cheese wrote “hi” on her daughter’s forehead with the same pen and posted it on Facebook.

But she really topped herself with this post in which she tagged her daughter:

Moms: don’t like your teen girl traipsing around in subzero weather wearing teeny summer tanks? Box up those summer clothes! Don’t like your teen girl sassing you when you’re asking her reasonable questions? Confiscate the phone and schedule her to miss after-school activities in order to do chores. Don’t like nagging and nagging teen girls to clear out rotting food, dirty laundry, etc from their bedrooms? Visit bedrooms with large trash bags and clear it all out. All.

Teen girls: don’t like listening to moms? All of the above happens. Try to untag this or unfriend mom? Halloween dance at school will take place without you.

Love,
Mama

This makes me want to run out and get pregnant just so I can do the same thing to my own kids.

I Got 99 Problems But Not Having Air Conditioning Ain’t One

26 May

Life in the first world is pretty sweet.  You can order just about anything to be delivered to your door: pizza, wings, groceries, shoes, clothes, even hookers.  We have running water and electricity.  Many of us even have TVs with too many channels to know what to do with.  There are tons or radio stations to choose from.  Aisles and aisles upon shit we don’t need at the grocery store.  We even have access to restaurants who only specialize in grilled cheese.

That’s pretty amazing.

You know what my favorite first world amenity is?  Air conditioning.  Sweet, sweet air conditioning.

Being hot and sweaty makes me angry.  Stepping outside and being hit with 90 degree heat is enough to make me want to break shit.  It’s important to have a respite from such things.  That’s why I love my central air in my house and the air conditioning in my house.  Amazing.  And awesome.

When my sister and I were growing up in Virginia, I remember how fucking hot the summers would get.  She, the dog, and I would fight over who got to lay in front of the fan in the hallway.  We poor sweaty little children were grumpy the bulk of the summer.  It always confused me when my mother would tell us to go play outside.  First of all, we hated being outdoors, second, it was hotter than sin.  For us the best thing to do under such things was lay as still as possible and hope that there would suddenly be a freak windstorm in the house.

It wasn’t until years later we found out the house had air conditioning it, but my mother chose not to turn it on.  You know why she didn’t turn it on?  Because she was born and raised in Mexico, in the third world.  Not cool, mom.  Not cool.  Literally, not cool.