Live to tell

that today america elected it's first black president.

we've come a long way...

Murder to Lawn Signs

So I've been wanting to get a paintball gun and red paint balls and go around taking down McCain a.k.a. Jabba the hut and debutante Palin lawn signs. Of all places, not North Carolina, not some red state but here.. in Los Angeles, CA I have to cringe every time I walk home. To see the signs on my block, in my neighborhood, my city, my state is disgusting. These folks must be deaf, dumb and blind to want the country to be run by Jabba and the teen queen. Are you serious? You're my neighbor, the Chicano who fought to have the ability to attend school, to have Chicano studies, to be able to buy a home and live the so called American dream.. now you want to put your pesky little lawn sign to irritate the crap out of me. How dare you? No, I won't lend you any sugar anymore and yes I will let my dog take a giant crap on your lawn (hopefully my dog can aim his piss to hit the sign.. training will start today).

GUIDE TO POPPING CHERRIES and not falling in love

Today I heard a story of a 35 yr old virgin woman who just got her cherry popped by a 28 yr old boy. Like predicted she is in love now.

In love with... the chemical reactions in her brain not this man. Where is the GUIDE TO POPPING CHERRIES and not falling in love? Why do women associate love with the first sexual encounter. Why aren't we given a book on how to get it over with and move on? The little stain of blood, the anticipation, the fear and goosebumps right before the first time are all small players in making you "THINK" you're in love. You're not..especially if you're a 35 year old woman whose vagina has been hungry for so long. Call me a bit jaded but seriously sex is important but it's not love (most of the time). Women associate most sexual acts with attachment where men can just have no attachment and perceive it as just getting their needs taken care of. I'm not trying to start a "slut" aka "liberated women" (according to some men) revolution, I'm just saying that women need to draw the line between getting their needs taken care of and actually thinking they're in love.

You need to have sex BUT you got to want to fall in love.

I would write more but this liberated woman has to start on my first chapter of GUIDE TO POPPING CHERRIES (and not falling in love).

Nubiti: The “Golden Lady” of Egypt

Slowly, and ungracefully she walked down the sidewalk. Her large hips swayed from left to right making her saddlebags unavoidable in her tight, black polyester pants as she took lumbering steps in her golden flats that shimmered in the early morning sunlight. A glimmer of yellow flickered from the flecks of metallic yarn embedded in her oh-so-tight black sweater with the 1980s geometric weave on the front. Only her enormous gilded purse could distract one as the sun does when it breaks through the landscape each morning in its majestic glory, but such was not the case with the hideous handbag. Her nest of raven hair barely moved with each clumsy, golden step but it fell in a not-so-well thought-out ‘do only a (dis)honorable gypsy could flaunt with the indescribable flair Nubiti did. A pretty face may have saved her, but alas, that too was not the case. Very olive-toned she appeared and framed by a mane the color of midnight and thick eyebrows that effectively mimicked the plumpest of caterpillars only enhanced this “Golden Lady’s” antithesis to fashion. But her crowning achievement was not her aquiline nose that protruded in curvatures only Picasso would find appealing, no! Nubiti’s pride rested in her carefully kohled eyes. Eyes encapsulated by the thickest of lines only an entire bottle of liquid eyeliner could provide. Eyes that evoked the dead and mummified queens of Egypt with the same effect one feels after seeing a gilded sarcophagus opened to reveal the dried remains of long-forgotten royals. Royalty she was not, but sadly a thwarted misrepresentation of what once was and could never be again. Alone this golden diva continued down the sidewalk, oblivious of the spectacle she provided to the horrified onlookers who could only imagine what her intentions were and her plans could be.

too experienced for someone to rock n roll

Exes, lovers and haters. How do they evolve from lover to hater after sometime. At one point they were your best friend, lover, fan and family friend. Moments would pass where you wouldn't dare imagine your life without them. Now years, months, weeks later.. you can exhale and say THANK GOD! From being essential to non-existent is a strange transition. You grow apart, you evolve from your former self and become a new aware you. A person with the tools to tackle psychos ex-boyfriends and filter out future ones.

Recently my psycho ex found me on Facebook. His pathetic message said he just signed up and decided to look me up first, for some strange reason. Not only did I IGNORE his disgusting plea to be added to my social network, I also BANNED the mother fucker. Who does he think he is? After all these years of trying to dodge his psychotic attempts to get me back into his life. He must be jaded (he is btw) to think I would so gently press ADD to my friend list. He's got something else coming, I got my tools ready, they're called BAN and IGNORE and the old classic DELETE. I'd be dammed to allow these haters to permeate my social network.

TIP OF THE DAY: DO NOT GOOGLE EX's (they really don't give a damn about you)

Ghetto Princess

In a land not so far away, ghetto princess was at the ball having a nice tall pint of Guinness. Unassuming Prince Wilmington approaches her. Tall, drunk and not so handsome leans over and mumbles sweet nothings to her. The waltz continues to play and he attempts to impress her with his threats of eliminating anyone at the ball. "Pick anyone and they shall disappear", he says. The princess looks around the ball. Ghetto princess pauses and stares at him. Prince
Wilmington then drops down on to his knee and pulls out his gat. The Prince announces to everyone at the ball that he shall prove his loyalty by 'putting a cap' in any one's ass.

He rises to his feet and asks the princess for her hand. He tells her, "now let's share a 40 oz". Ghetto princess slightly amused, chuckles and raises her pint of Guinness and asks security to escort the crazy SOB out of the ball.

Cheers!

Bowling

I went bowling during lunch at work. Just wanted to share.

Me vs Liger

I've been having conversations with my hair lately. It has a mind of it's own and lately it's not cooperating. I've tried to blow dry it to tame the lion's mane but it's such a grueling task. I need another shower by the time I'm done fixing my afro.

Right now it's striped like a tiger and since it's a lion's mane, we'll it's a liger. It doesn't want to stay in place, it's wicked and exotic. It starts and ends on it's own will. It runs wild and I apologize now if you ever have to see it in the morning. I've been contemplating making the liger into a red fox but the liger seems to win (as of lately). I can't even twist my bangs because the liger likes breaks in the bangs. So instead of a tight twist, I have a broken one. One with a wave curl like some 80's mistake. If I decided to leave the bangs down, it covers most of my face (well up to my nose) and then I resemble cousin "it". I actually need to see where I'm headed so that's out of the question. Typically I feed the liger all the product it wants and sometimes even more since it's dehydrated most of the time. It's costing me more to keep the liger alive!!!

Today it's running wild with about 100 bobby pins wrestling the liger down. I have to come to terms that it's going to be a confrontation every morning. Right now I have two plans to eliminate the liger and bring in the red fox. Shhh! Keep it a secret and I'll have to keep you posted on this stealth operation. Stay tuned...

Me vs Liger

Score
Me -1 ( thanks bobby pins).
Liger- 0

Time Flies

So, I took a time-management class on Monday. I always seem to have trouble keeping an agenda or using a calendar effectively for personal endeavors. I'm much better at keeping track of things at work, but that's because everything is project-based so there are crunch times (when I want to kill some of the people I work with) and there are slow days (when I dream up stories like this one). Anyway, at the class they pretty much explained theory, and told me stuff I kind of already knew (keep a checklist, use a blackberry), blah, blah, blah. "Give me real methods I can relate to and use," I kept thinking.

I did learn that my strengths are being adaptive (guess I'm kind of like a shape-shifting social mutant), being social (I guess I'm not as shy as I thought) and I use chocolates as bait (wow, I'm pathetic), and I network well (DUH, I bribe people with chocolates!). I also found out that I'm good at establishing boundaries (I guess those signs I post on my door that read, "Keep The HELL OUT," between the lines do work) and simply SCHMOOZING! But despite having these mini-revelations and learning to play with blocks again (and telling others what to do with them) I did realize something . . . I still can't manage my personal time!

Yep, the class didn't help. I still find that there aren't enough hours in the day. I still believe we work too damn much in this country (people in Europe get between 31 and 20 days of vacation per year, while we get a measly 10 days to scratch our asses away from the job). And I firmly believe that overwork is what's really wrong with our society and the other negative elements from obesity and general health issues, to domestic violence, to crime, to the gas and housing crisis! If we worked less we'd be able to spend more time at home and actually take care of our families, our health, clean the house, etc. If the consequence of working less meant earning less, then that would mean we'd drive less so we'd save gas. If we drove less we'd be home more to take care of things, including ourselves. But no, we're a bunch of greedy SOBs. We want the latest and the greatest no matter what. Now I'm mad. Where's that chocolate!

Redneck Punk

He was maybe in his early twenties, thin and about 5'10" tall. He dressed in skinny jeans, rolled up just above his worn Docs (14-hole, I believe). He wore a worn T-shirt and a faded denim jacket without sleeves and messy frays along the borders. He sewed and stuck dozens of patches down the back in a rebel's mosaic proclaiming his loyalty to the anarchist artists who yell loudly in his ears. He (unwittingly yet) proudly wore his hair in a dirty, reddish-orange Mohawk that protruded at least 12 in. from his scalp in a blatant, but silent scream of his defiance to the world. "Lots of glue, cheap hairspray, over processing, and days of unwashed grime must keep that 'Hawk looking that good," I thought as I (impatiently) waited in my car for the traffic light to change and allow me passage to my mundane job. The long chain from his wallet gently swayed against his left thigh as he crossed the street in front of me and I realized time was standing still while I admired this young, Redneck Punk in Raleigh, NC who wore the standard rebel anarchist's uniform. Then it hit me . . . PUNKS IN RALEIGH, WTF?

Having grown up in Los Angeles and having lived there for 28 years desensitized me from any outlandish modes of self-expression and the numerous members of the sub-cultures who parade daily down the streets of that urban jungle. My sense of normality ecclectically included Punks, Metal-Heads, Cholos, Gangsters, Chachas, Hood Rats, Kogals, etc. But I never realized how much I took that motley familiarity for granted until I moved to North Carolina over three years ago. Though there is a fair share of football-loving-beer-guzzling-pork BBQ-eating rednecks in their over-compensating 4WD trucks rumbling down the winding roads of the Bible Belt, Raleigh is a great place to work, live and raise a family. The median houshold income is $47,744/yr, the median home price is $186,500, and of the total 356,321 residents 41% have college degrees (http://www.usnews.com/listings/retirement/north_carolina/Raleigh). But nowhere in that demographic did Punks fit in when I mainly see things in standard "black and white" with little to no extremism of any kind. And then this young Punk strolls in front of my car at 8:25 AM to completely throw my ordinary world off kilter!

I walked into my office a little after 8:30 and still could not believe what I had seen. I was thrilled and mesmerized by the site of that social insurgent. Not only did he help me remember my youth (I often formed part of the audience at LA punk rock shows, thus attributing to my hearing loss now), but it also helped me to realize there is much hidden in Raleigh's underground (and I'm getting EFFING OLD, but I'm not discussing that right now). I feverishly began researching what I could find about Raleigh's Punk culture and I found this article title (http://www.indyweek.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A160993):

The end of three punk houses in Raleigh

"Wow!," I said to myself. I read it and my jaw dropped. "This is AWESOME!," I thought. So deeply underground, so excitingly disobedient, so completely PUNK! Though the article itself points out the oppression of the young punk scene in conservative Raleigh, but the fact that punk shows occurred in various basements throughout Raleigh completely thrills me. In LA, the punk scene has almost become mundane. Being punk in Hollywood isn't based on youthful rebellion, but has become a mainstream fashion statement, thus pretty much vomitting on the original concept and questioning what really is punk? But Raleigh's Redneck Punks have embraced the original concept of carefree defiance and artistic expression against society's norms. They've opened their doors to the world (literally) but have suffered the heavy iron-fist of public policy and order. Despite the setbacks, they struggle, they create, they invite, they rebel and they continue to persevere. How do I know this? My Redneck Punk-boy "told" me so.

laid back september wknd

My weekend was pretty slow. I did end up dancing a bit with some friends and having some drinks. One whom wears glasses and every single time I looked at him I couldn't help notice that his right lens was fogged up. It was hot on the dance floor but how come both lenses didn't fog up? How come it was just one? Anyway, I kept it to myself but I couldn't stop staring at it. I wanted to go up to him, grab his glasses, clean em and put them back. I just felt it was bit intrusive on my part. The rest of the time I spent making vinyl stickers which is very tedious. I had to bring out the glasses, tweezers and scissors. Not fun at all but I did watch FRIDA while I worked away. I hadn't seen the movie in a couple years and it was inspiring me to work faster. That woman is amazing and all that pain she endured just makes the small stuff not exist.

A friend stopped by to help me with the stickers but we quickly found ourselves at the neighborhood sushi bar having spicy tuna hand rolls. I specifically go there because I suspected the sushi chef might have been Mexican. The first time I went (didn't sit at the bar) I ordered a spicy tuna hand roll and low and behold I got a burrito! I was thrilled. This hand roll was so huge that I took a pix (will look for it to post soon). I split the spicy tuna burrito with two others, that's how huge it was. This time around I sat at the bar and the sushi chefs weren't Mexican. The hand rolls were nice tacos though. They're still bigger than usual and well I'll keep coming back simply for that.

I ran into an old friend too. I thought I'd be happier at the encounter but I wasn't. I was a bit unmotivated to see their sad face. I better steer clear. Don't take my sunshine away!

Yesterday was my nephews birthday party. It was the same thing we've done the past 4 years. The only difference this year was that the giant Wall-E jumper bouncer thing deflated (five times to be exact) while kids were inside jumping. It caused quite a commotion and well the kids deserve to panic. The thing was HUGE! I was successful at 4 rescue efforts. I pulled the crying kids like rag dolls. I'm just glad I wasn't in there. I'm claustrophobic.. eeeeeshhhh! Other than deflating robot jumpers, the party went well the rest of the Sunday afternoon.

p.s.
i forgot my best friends birthday. :(
i also forgot my phone at home on her birthday, the day of the birthday party where I forgot to bring the pasta salad.

TGIF

It was a long week. I'm tired. I beg the clock to tick faster so I can go home already! I'm hungry, too and I have a grueling workout ahead of me but I know it'll make me feel better. Once I'm done with that and have dinner the weekend finally begins! How I long for the weekend.

on acid

I have a new found respect for teachers in kindergarten. I wasn't able to write yesterday due to the sugar induced coma I brought upon myself. I volunteered to host my nephew's 5th birthday party at his school. His mom would only be able to drop off the goodies and I was supposed to stand in as a parent (which I'm not). I arrive to find 24 little midgets all running around. Some start to cry outta the blue and others just roll around on the ground. After we do a group birthday song we feed the little midgets pizza. Man, can they eat. I thought I was going to be able to sit down with my nephew on the miniature desks and tables and enjoy a slice BUT no sirree! I was a slave to these human pizza machines. The slices were purposely cut smaller for the children but they kept coming back up for seconds, thirds, fourths and fifths! Then I pass out these water type juice bags where you have to pierce a hole on the top. I don't know if you know but most kindergartners can't do this. So now there's a bunch of rowdy greasy mouth midgets stabbing their drinks with straws. I talk to them and they all start talking at the same time. It's like they're drunk! They don't listen but do cartwheels to catch your attention. The cupcakes were a total disaster! They put frosting all over their faces and smashed cupcakes on their heads. Deep inside, I knew they weren't supposed to be doing that and I couldn't help to think that I'm a failure as a stand in parent.

There was this one kid, a 5 1/2 year old who kept saying he can do Kung-Fu. I thought it was so adorable. He kept showing me Kung-Fu stands and then he started to attack me. The little kung-fu master was stabbing my knee and my lower thigh. WTF!! I tried to get away from him but he kept finding me. So what was the best thing to do?? Hiiiiiii-Yaaaa!! back at you. I started chopping away at him. I guess it wasn't the best idea now that I look back. A sixty eight inch tall (xxx amount of lbs. we're not that close for me to reveal my weight.. yet) woman coming down on this two and half foot child. The teacher had to come over and restrain me. He said that I'm not supposed to give them attention because it unleashes their inner beast. Well I unleashed it all right and through out the entire time I found this midget attacking me from all angles. Other kids kept coming up to me asking if that was a "tattoo" on me. I didn't know whether to lie, which I considered since I thought I'd be corrupting them in some odd sort of way so I just stood there in the wood chip playground stumped by this Asian 5 year old. I felt like the five year old. She finally comforted my silence with "my mom and dad have tattoo, are you my mom & dad"? That's when I knew it was time to go.

All in all it was quite an experience. It was like a bad acid trip with too much sugar, midgets and Kung-Fu. I crashed by the end of the day. It was such a sad sight. I just floated to the couch until my dog poked me in the eye with his muzzle. I think I'll become a parent way, way, way later, when I'm ready to be numb to acid trips.

Butter

Today I got a lesson (of sorts) in the art of churning butter. I work with a woman who loves to tell stories and she caught me in her well-woven-web today while I innocently tried to heat up my lunch. I'm always wary to go to the main office where the microwave is because I know she'll trap me and I won't get away for at least a half hour. So, she just started talking about butter and how her grandmother would churn it from the milk she got from her own cows.

She explained that one needs to be careful and watch what cows eat because the milk will end up tasting like whatever they ingest. "One time," she said, "The good dairy cow got into a field of onions and the milk tasted LIKE ONIONS." She giggled and said it made a great onion-flavored cheese. Another time a cow got into some turnips and though the milk didn't really taste of turnip, it caused severe bloating in the children (herself included). She chuckled gleefully as she recalled being under a tree with her cousins tooting away and giggling at the chorus, "Ah, so many farts that night!"

On, and on she reminisced about her childhood and her family back in that old southern farm 40+ years ago. She talked about how the churn had to always be clean and sanitary and how an aunt used that to her advantage so as to never have to churn again (she didn't clean her churn and ruined a large batch once). It made me yearn for a simpler time without the hustle and bustle of modern life. It made me cherish what I do have and remember that I hardly work for the food I eat and don't even know how to churn butter, and if I had a churner I probably wouldn't know what to do with it (if I even dared to try). It also made me realize how silly and trivial a lot of my worries are about lack of time and the inability to do the things I want when I can pop an entire meal in the microwave and eat a few minutes later (how long those few minutes seem at times) and actually still have time to do so much, but I'm still never satisfied.

Modernity, technology, and our love affair with efficiency and the future have really made us impatient and ungrateful beings. Can I honestly look back and reminisce about a time when a stick of butter was so important during a period in my life? Not at all! I take butter for granted and even eliminate it from my diet because it contains too much fat and sodium. But yet, my co-worker has dozens of fond memories associated with that very thing that can make my butt huge . . . BUTTER! This has taught me that we should just take a minute to really remember who we were and who we still are deep inside. Look around you, take a deep breath and smell the odors of life, and taste the memories. Maybe next time you butter a piece of burnt toast you too will learn how to churn something of your own.

Saving Babies

I knew I had to buy my good friend a birthday gift last night. So I went shopping and finally found this cool twisty silver ring. I walked through the parking lot towards my car and across from it I saw a woman prancing around her Astro van. It was strange but I decided to just get in my car and reverse out of my space, especially since there were two cars waiting for my parking spot. I pull out and see the woman is frantic at this point. I start to drive away but hit the brakes. I reverse back to the woman and get off and ask her if everything is ok. My conscious beat me and wouldn't let me walk away from this situation. She doesn't seem to understand me so I speak to her in Spanish. Finally she just unleashes and starts crying. She tells me that her baby is locked inside her van and so are her keys. She accidentally closed the door and the automatic locks went off and locked her out. I get close to the van and I can hear the baby crying. I panic.

A guy approaches us and asks if we need him to call AAA. I tell him yes and try to pry her windows open. The woman continues to go around her van, crying and yelling to her baby that she'll be there. She breaks off her antennae and hands it over to me. Still no luck. Finally the security guard drives up. We ask him to help but once he realized there was a baby inside he said it was against policy for him to get involved and that he had to call the police. The baby continues to cry and so does the woman. AAA says they won't be able to arrive till 30 minutes later. I finally put my thinking cap on decide to ask if it's okay to break the window since it seemed like the best option. The last thing I wanted is for this non English speaking woman to get arrested for child endangerment and/or neglect. I hand over a metal tool (from my tool kit in my car) to the guy who called AAA. I tell him, "break the window"! He's dubmfounded especially since the security guard yelled at us and told us not to get involved. He said it's against policy and that's when I had to remind him we're not employees of the parking structure and that we are private citizens and can do as we please. The crying woman begs for us to break the window. The confused guy looks at me for direction and I tell him to break the window. After a couple of blows to the window it finally shatters in a layer. The woman climbs in and saves her baby.

The security guard backs down and says that the police are on their way. I hug the woman and tell her to go home.

Just to think of how many people passed this poor woman up and never stopped to ask if she needed some help. This is the type of world we are living in. It's a very sad reality. It doesn't hurt to ask and maybe you could be saving a baby, someday.

Blueberries

The small wild blueberry bush is at the farthest end of the garden. At this point in the season I only expected to find a few of the sweet, blue spheres but was pleasantly surprised to find the little plant, with now reddish leaves, proudly flanked with numerous berries. At closer examination I noticed that not all of the berries were good, as some appeared full of little holes as though a bird or ants got into them. Of course, this was only the case of the largest berries, but the smaller ones seemed intact. I picked one and popped it into my mouth. The burst of the blue fluid awoke my taste buds with its mild sweetness. YUM! I proceeded to pick the good little blue spheres and placed them in my little box.

The sound of children playing peaked my attention and I looked across to the adjoining garden (the neighbor's) and three little boys playing (African American boys). They too were picking wild berries from their garden and playing, enjoying the lovely afternoon. Over the laughter and joyous cries I heard music. It sounded like something from the 1940s, like the close harmonies of the Andrews Sisters (perhaps it was the Andrews Sisters). The song referred to little boys and blueberry-picking . . . how fitting!

Then the alarm woke me up at 6 AM!

Rotting Dreams and Stories

So my friend across the nation and I decided to give birth to a brainchild. A brain child that will motivate us and push us to share and document our wild dreams and amazing stories. I'm hoping it will fine tune our writing and creativity since it's been years that we talked about this mindmeld. It's a perfect union, a hungry screenwriter and a Latina British literature expert ready to conquer the blogger world with wordplay and fields of endless dreams.

For those of you that are curious, just ask. Brown Apple Fields is simply that. Rotting fruit, rotting dreams, screenplays and books just waiting to be properly cultivated and distilled into stories that can be shared with you. After all, what is it worth if it's not passed on.

Rusty . . . where is that oil?

Long ago I thought of myself as a writer but then I don't know what happened. I get tons and tons of ideas, but can't seem to organize them or even muster the courage to put that pen to paper (not to mention use my fingers on the keyboard for anything other than work or the occasional computer game). Thanks to the prodding of my good (dare I say greatest?) friend and my husband, here's a newfound attempt at getting the tempest of ideas in my head through the sieve to perhaps finally write something worthwhile (or at least let those ideas flow and put them out there).

This blog will be the place where we'll both deposit our ideas, visions, dreams, ideals, etc. We'll collaborate by throwing around our writings and something great will come of it.

Let the games (and wordplay) begin!