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13 Apr

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Catch of the Day

6 Feb

Kids, I’ve semi recovered from my average date last week.  Have made an important decision.  A decision I’m sure you’ve been wondering about since you read my post.  As much as I want to throw in the towel and surround myself with all the cats, let all my grays grow in, and invest in a closet full of sweatpants, I’m not going to do it.  I’m going to keep going.  I’m going to go on at least 25 dates this year.  If it works out and I find a hunky beau, great.  If not, then I’ll just tell you about it and then cry myself to sleep after eating some dairy free ice cream.  Then at the end of the year I’ll pat myself on the back, look in the mirror, and say, “good on you!”

Why go on?

I’m glad you asked.  I’ll tell you why.  Because of my niece, Lucy(fer) – I’m doing it for her.  How does going on soul crushing dates help her?  Well, it may not directly.  What will help her is seeing a woman who has committed to doing something, trying as hard as she can, and not giving up.  Deleting all my online dating profiles is easy.  Stepping up to try to show a little girl that big girls are fearless isn’t so much.  So I’m leaning into the fear of the unknown, the possibility of getting hurt, the fear of rejection to show her that even though it doesn’t work out the way you hoped it would, that it’s worth it to take the risk.

I’m a god damned inspiration. I’m going to persist, y’all.  Just like Elizabeth Warren wants us all to.

Here’s what I can tell you about weeding out dates, though.  If you go on a trip with your boys and message me to tell me how you enjoyed your dinner of fresh caught Maui Maui, then I’m out.  Maui is an island.  It is not a fish.

Yeah. No.

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.

What Would McNulty Do?

31 May

I’ll admit, I’m often late to the game.  In the case of “The Wire” – the greatest television show of all time – I was about 7 years late.  Had I watched it while it was actually filming/airing then perhaps I’d be writing this post while Stringer-Bell (Idris Elba) was laying naked beside me.  Because obviously I would have been stalking him all over the city and somehow blackmailed him into dating me.  Which totally would have been possible because I was far younger then than I am now.

My friends who have never visited Baltimore and who have watched the show imagine that everything that happened on the show is pretty much reality.  And it would be a lie if I told you I didn’t feed into their vision of what the city actually looks like.  When I was living in Australia last year, I had a number of friends asked me what life was like in the ghetto and if I lived anywhere near Marlo’s hangout or the Pit.

Yesterday, Martin O’Malley, who was the inspiration for Carcetti announced a bid for the White House.  I wonder what David Simon would have done with that nugget if the show was still airing.  I wonder how he would have depicted the Baltimore riots that broke out a weeks ago.  And I wonder if he would have taken my phone call when I called to tell him about the heroin addict that lives next door to my mom.

She moved in a few months ago, and has been nothing but trouble for since then.  When my mom mentioned to her that she should clean up after her dog, she yelled a string of obscenities to her – not caring that my niece was standing next to my mother.  When a friend of hers parked in a spot that wasn’t hers, my other neighbor told him he couldn’t park there.  The guy got out of the car, flipped her the finger, and left his car there for hours.  The yards are littered with beer cans, the lawn hasn’t been mowed in forever, and the garbage just accumulates outside the house.

About a week ago a dude in a white Mercedes pulled up and approached my mom and one of the nice neighbors.  According to my mom he was high as a kite.  He proceeded to apologize for the behavior of the young man who had illegally parked, and then told them how the guy had been a drug runner for him, and that he was the distributor.  He then spilled the beans about how the neighbor was a heroine addict and that he had been selling to her for years.

Insert open mouths and blank stares here.

Of course my mom and the cool neighbors have complained to the home owners association and she’s being evicted.  She was supposed to vacate the property last week.  She’s not moving.  I’m waiting for McNulty to show up and drag her out.  Sometimes I wonder if the white Mercedes is going to be parked there when I visit my mom and I’m so tempted to ask one zillion million questions.

My first question, of course, would be, “who do you think the bigger bad ass was: Marlo or Omar?”  Inquiring minds want to know.

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.”