ADIOS WITH AN IRISH CAR BOMB

Last night was my first real shift at the Local Alehouse. I had a few days of training, and was feeling pretty comfortable with the way of things. It was going to be a big night; I had been told that St. Patricks day was a big deal for the Alehouse. All of the staff seemed pretty excited. A couple of days prior, one of my coworkers asked me if I had picked out my St. Patricks day shirt yet. I told them I had never celebrated the Irish "holiday", and therefore didn't know I needed some special shirt. They were actually surprised, but I didn't see why. Come now, do I look like someone who celebrates St. Patricks' Day?

The shift went well. The Alehouse was standing room only all night. Irish music blasted through the speakers while people dressed in kilts (isn't that Scottish attire?) chugged Guinness and other assorted green beers. At the peak of the night, a local band performed while people "danced" what I'm assuming was an Irish jig, but it really just looked like alot of drunken Flash dancing.

The only annoying thing about the night were the Irish Car Bombs. It's a shot of equal parts Irish whiskey and Bailey's, dropped into a half pint of Guinness, then chugged. Ugh. To me Guinness tastes like old, wet, mushed up tree bark; I am stupefied as to it's seeming popularity. These shots were on special for the night, and people were ordering them literally ten at a time. They are one of the more time consuming beverages to prepare; pulling the Guiness alone takes like half an hour. I kept wondering if these people really liked these Car Bombs, or if they were drinking them because they were called "Irish". I asked one guy who was on his ten-thousandth ICB of the night why the drink was so popular. He said it tasted just like chocolate cake. Yeah, I wasn't buying it. Chocolate cake is far too delicious to be in the same category as Guinness.

Halfway through the night, Sandra, the owner, approached me to see how I was handling things, and to tell me she thought I was doing a great job. In the few days I'd been there, Sandra as well as the other employees repeatedly told me how well I worked and how glad they were to have me. Sandra was pressing me to work full time for them, telling me I could have any schedule I wanted and that she really wanted me to make a full commitment to the Alehouse. I had been hesitant about making a full leap over and just quitting the Restarante y Cantina altogether, although I had been not exactly happy there for awhile. I thanked Sandra for her offer and asked for a few more days to think about it.

As the night wore on, however, the decision made itself. I was surrounded by people who appreciated me, staff and customers alike. I was working for a woman who gave us ownership of our positions and didn't breathe down our necks all of the time. I was making the money I deserved to make for as hard as I was working - plus some. I was apart of a cohesive team of people who enjoyed coming to work every day and supported each other. As I sat drinking my own green beer at the end of the shift, I asked myself 'What more did I need'? Nothing, I decided. I knew what I had to do.

It was only a little after one in the morning, so I headed to the Restarante y Cantina to talk to El Pechugon. He wrote the schedules every Sunday, so I thought it would be best to put in my two weeks' notice as soon as possible. I still felt a little nervous; what if I was making a mistake? Despite the drama, the Restarante had been home to me for a long time, and the main owner, Senora Octavia had held my hand through some very rough spots in my life. There was much that I would miss about the place.

I walked into the office and told El Pechugon that we needed to talk. Senora Octavia was sitting in the corner. I informed them of my decision to terminate my employment at the end of two weeks' time, but added that they could use me as much as was needed in the interim. All they did was stare at me. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of uncomfortable silence, El Pechugon informed me that he needed me to stay late on my next shift and that was all. All? What did that mean, all, I asked. He told me it meant after the next day, my services would no longer be needed, that he already had people lining up to work there.

I was literally speechless. I could feel my eyes burning and I knew they would well up with tears at any moment. That was all? I nearly ran to my car, ignoring all the patrons standing outside, calling me. That was all? Senora Octavia had just sat there, never even spoke, nothing; after all the time I'd worked there. After everything I'd done, as hard as I'd worked, after all the shit I'd put up with...that was ALL?

I drove straight across the street to the Pub. I plowed through the St Patricks Day stragglers and up to the bar. I told the bartender what I wanted, and she paused before walking off, taking in the fact that I'd obviously just been crying. I didn't care. She came back in a few minutes and sat my drink down. I dropped the shot glass into the pint and chugged the whole thing.

That guy was right. It did taste just like chocolate cake.

LATERAL MOVE

As you know, I've been trying entangle myself from the web that as known as the Restarante y Cantina. My plan was to move on up to a "real job" where the dress code was business casual and I could finally wear all of the cute high heeled shoes that are collecting dust in my closet. Alas, that was not to be. Last week, I saw an ad for a job at a restaurant I've been dying to work at, and I applied, never dreaming they would actually hire me. Well, they did, and now I work there. The Local Alehouse is located not far from my current job, but the difference in the clientele is like night and day. The drinks are great, the staff rocks, the food is delicious, and there is never a slow night. I've worked a couple of training shifts and am already in love with the place.

As much as I've bitched about the Restarante y Cantina, I'm not quite ready to leave it. Even though I'm ready to be free of the creepy hell that is El Pechugon (can a person "be" hell?), I'll be working a couple days a week for awhile. I'm a little afraid to just jump ship, in case this new dream job of mine turns out to be a nightmare on elm street. Somehow I just can't seem to shake the restaurant biz. Perhaps deep down I actually enjoy working in the industry.

Hmmm. I'll have to ponder that.
Wish me luck!

I

I hate that I let others dictate my emotions.

I'm disgusted with myself for letting small pieces of information send me into an emotional tailspin.

I'm frustrated that I'm not yet where I want to be at this stage in my life.

I'm worried that I will never figure out what to do with myself, or that I'll never learn my true purpose.

I'm afraid that I will never change, no matter how hard I work. That I will always be quick to anger, and easy to fall into a depression.

I'm scared that I will never fulfill my dreams; that I'll never see every wonderous corner of the world or look true love in the eyes.

I guess most of all, I'm tired of being frustrated, worried, afraid and scared. Every night before I struggle to fall asleep, I beg God to make this go away. To let me wake up in the morning and know exactly what to do, and to finally not be fearful anymore.

I've been practicing that nightly ritual for the last twelve years. Maybe tonight, my prayer will finally be answered.

LIFE

There are many people who just exist. They don't see each day as an opportunity, each moment as a another chance. They move through life below the surface, not noticing the beauty of the world around them. I have been one of those people. I worked hard, had a few friends, lived a "normal" life. But I was so empty inside. The only thing I ever felt was anger and a deep, deep sadness. When I began to acknowledge that void within, that unbearable loneliness, I decided to jump into life. The life I chose, however, only served to deepen that hole in my soul. I traveled a reckless road for a long time, telling myself that everything I was involved in was ok, because it made me feel better.

The last couple of years I have spent analyzing that gaping void. After I finally came to grips with why it was there, I knew I had to do something about it. But somehow that seemed like an overwhelming task. So after taking one step forward, I took two steps back, regressing into the life that provided an easy emotional fix. Doing something about my life seemed like hard work that I just wasn't up for.

A few months ago there came an event that forced my crazy roller coaster to a screeching halt. Since then, I try to remain aware of the world around me, to try and put myself in it. But unfortunately, the journey to fulfillment can be awfully lonely. The things I once did, the people I once surrounded myself are no longer apart of my life. The process of "finding oneself" isn't one that includes others.

I know in time I'll find new friends. I hope one day the sadness won't creep up on me unexpectedly anymore. It's getting better though, little by little. I find new things to love about life all the time, smiles are more frequent, and the vise that gripped my heart for twenty years has loosened. But I still haven't found my place in the scheme of things, and it's so confusing sometimes. At times I'm afraid I'll never find it.

A LOVE LETTER

Dear Over-Processed Middle-Aged Scarily Tanned Lady,

Stop coming to my restaurant. I can not stand you. The world has mistakenly told you that you and your kind are highly desirable, that looking like a scarecrow with that dried out blond hair and leathery skin is the height of beauty and sophistication. But when you step through the doors of the Restarante y Cantina, you're in a different world.My world. All of your airs and effected mannerisms mean nada. Just to let you know, I've been about a half of a step away from doing something unbelieveably disgusting to your food for some time now. But I thought I should give your middle-aged-shoved-into-teenage-girl's-clothes ass a chance to redeem youself. So below are a list of changes that you will make, effective immediately:

• You will look me in the eye everytime I speak to you or, you speak to me.
• When you do look at me, you will not act as if it pains you to do so.
• You will personally tell me your order, and not relay it through your husband even though I am standing right-the-fuck in front of you.
• You will speak to me pleasantly, not as if it the act of speaking to me is causing you physical discomfort.
• You will never again order diet coke with lemon. Ever.
• You will not ask me to break down the calorie content of anything on the menu. You will not bust out your Weight Watchers guidebook and ask me how many points the Enchiladas Mole would be worth.
• You and your four identically horrifying friends will not come during lunchtime, order one entree split four ways, drink water with lemon and stay for two hours.
• When I approach your table at any time, you and said harpies/friends will cease talking for a few moments while I do my job. You will not allow me to stand there while you continue to talk to each other and then look up in collective annoyance as if I'm bothering you when all I'm trying to do is take your damn order.
• You will tell your sad, sad clone of a teenage daughter to stop text messaging/get off her cell phone long enough for me to take her order. I know you're grooming her to be Bitch II, but you can continue those lessons elsewhere.

There is more, but I will leave you with this short list for now. I doubt you'll ever take any of this to heart, although it is in your best interest to do so. I'm expecting to see a change in your behavior next time you visit my restaurant. If not, I will #$%^@#$ in your low calorie side of salad dressing and I will %@^*$# in your glass of chablis, only after I lick all of your silverware. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Love Always,

Mujer Morena

WHY

You know that saying "just let sleeping dogs lie"? I hate that saying. Not only because I don't know of any reason to wake up a sleeping dog, but because it's...just stupid.

I've always been an answer-seeker. Inquisitive to the point of annoying, I will always try to find out the answer. To anything. This has worked well for me in school, work, and in just being an overall smartypants, but it's also done me a bit of damage. There are certain past events, certain things that have happened that have been very hard for me to move past. Yes, they were painful and traumatic, but it's not for those reasons I remain stuck. No, it's because I don't understand why they happened.

For several years, I refused to attend any family function, including holidays. I couldn't physically be in a room with people who had hurt me so deeply without regard or admittance and pretend like nothing ever happened. Eventually those people who had hurt me so long ago decided to try and make amends. They gave me a general apology for their behavior, and that was that, problem solved, make way for the rainbows and unicorns.

But that wasn't enough for me. I needed more than a blanket "I'm sorry". What about the "why"? Why did you do this to me? That answer never came, and it took me a very long time to accept that it never would.

I was talking to someone at work this evening. This person told me that everything one feels is purely a state of mind. Stress, fatigue, anger, depression - all in the mind, all easily controlled. But what about the things that happen that are beyond our control, I asked. The effects of those things, more importantly, the reasons why they happened; if we can't understand them or if we don't see a reason or they were unjust, what do we do? This person told me what I've heard time and time again: look to the future. Surround yourself with positive things and work toward your dreams, and the "why's" won't matter.

Huh.

Well, I believe there is some truth to that, but it's easier for some. I freak out if I don't finish a crossword puzzle, so it's hard for me to foresee the day when I'm content with no answer. Every day brings me a little closer, but the tunnel, at times, seems unbearably long.

EL PECHUGON, DOS

Somethings are better left alone. They may be crappy, but they've been crappy for a long time and people have grown accustomed to the crappiness. Like the Restarante y Cantina. It's been a local mainstay for many years. It's been a cozy, family place with the best Mexican food in a ten mile radius; it's been a dirty,ramshackle hole in the wall where all the winos in a five mile radius can drown their sorrows for next to nothing. Those two things have kept this place going for the better part of a decade, and now all that's a changin, gracias a El Pechugon.

He seemed cool at first. A bit of a spaz, but cool. He's been making upgrades, bringing in new furniture, tearing up the nasty-ass carpet, etc. People seem to like him. He's chilled out a bit on the hardcore craziness he wanted us to do initially, like shaking people's hands as they leave (Ms. Morena doesn't do handshakes) or singing and wearing sombreros on a customer's birthday. We didn't get out of the new uniform, though. We now have to wear Hawaiian shirts. I don't know...I mean, Ive never actually been to the Yucatan peninsula, but I assume Hawaiian attire isn't all the rage there. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

We've lost a few of our Cantina regulars, and some of the new decor smacks of a Red Robin a la Carnaval, but overall it hasn't been too bad. I was starting to think maybe the Restarante y Cantina would be worth staying at a while longer until...El Pechugon started hitting on me. (Any woman of any age who's ever worked in any restaurant for longer than 3.5 minutes knows about this all too well). At first it was all sort of vague; I thought maybe he was just trying to get to know me, like he was with everyone else. None of his comments or questions were too obvious, although they bordered on questionable. Then I found out he was married with children, and I pushed the creepy flags back down. There could be no way this man was hitting on me - I had just met his family! (After 27 years and endless weird men stories, you'd think I'd stop being so damn naive.)

Pero, I was wrong. So wrong.

JUST A JOB

I had recently decided to leave the Restarante Y Cantina, and move on to "bigger and better things." I scaled my work schedule way down, eliminating myself from the bar entirely and only serving in the dining room two to three shifts a week. I thought that the lack of work and income would motivate me to find a "real job." But it hasn't.

I've been on a few job interviews. One for a job I really wanted(but I got lost on the way and was subsequently 45 minutes late to the interview- yikes!), a couple for jobs that seemed tolerable, and one for a job that would, if I were to be hired, make my brain decompose from lack of use. I spent the duration of that particular interview trying to think of a articulate, professional way to tell the interviewers that I had made a horrible mistake in applying for that job and the thought of working there made me want to die.

I have churned out scores of resumes and cover letters to almost any ad that fits the criteria of a "real job":

• Office-like setting where I sit at a desk, answering phones while creating important spreadsheets on the computer using Excel
• Professional attire or business casual; nothing remotely resembling a uniform
• INSURANCE COVERAGE!!!
• Regular hours
• Something that I wouldn't be ashamed to admit to as a profession.

I've been thinking about a quote from Maya Angelou: "Don't make money your goal. Instead, pursue the things you love doing, and do them so well that people can't take their eyes off you."

For the past few months, I've taken that to mean that I should keep my focus on jobs that I would enjoy. But honestly? I don't know of one. I have a few ideas, but those positions require me to have a college degree, which I am still in the everlasting process of obtaining. I've been reevaluating the reasons I why I had chosen to find another job, and realized that they haven't been legitimate. Even though I know better, I still haven't completely shaken the idea that I should be " in a different place" at my age, that compared to any other 27 year old, I am stunted. My family's disappointment in what they consider to be my lack of progress doesn't help much either. I thought that if I got a different job, I'd become a different person, perhaps a more respectable individual. But I've had similar jobs in the past, and I hated all of them, so I always ended up waiting tables again.

I've been rethinking Maya Angelou's quote. Maybe pursuing what I love doing has nothing to do with the job I have,but with the life I have. I don't want to be one of those people who's identity is created solely by what they do for a living. One of the great things about restaurant work is the flexibilty of schedule, not to mention the money. Both of those things enable me to enjoy the activities that I love most as well as continue my education.

I'm not sure if I'll stay at the Restarante. El Pechugon's only just getting started. Perhaps I'll head to another restaurant. But I'm no longer in a frenzy to "find a good job." I'll continue to look, and in time it will come together. After all, it's just a job, not my life.

YOU

Every time I think I finally understand our relationship, you do something to send me back to square one. I know you don't do it intentionally. It doesn't take much: a phone call, a memory, seeing a mutual friend, and I'm confused all over again.

You were my first love. When we met we were both nineteen, scattered and immature. Our attraction was instantaneous, our relationship brief and tumultuous with an explosive conclusion. Somehow we managed to maintain a friendship that has lasted almost a decade. Over that time my love for you has never died; if anything it seems to have grown stronger. It confuses me sometimes, because I can't understand how I can love you so deeply, but still have relationships with other men. I finally decided that maybe my love for you is just the love of one friend for another, that we don't need to be a couple for me to love you.

Sometimes we go long periods without talking, often for months. We haven't actually seen each other in over a year, even though we live just 30 minutes from one another. But when I hear your voice ,my world goes off it's axis. And it's as if you have this radar, like you know when to appear. Whenever I start dating or have a boyfriend, suddenly you resurface. Even when I think I'm secure with the relationship I'm in, the sight of you, the sound of your voice makes me question myself and my feelings.

There are moments when I think you feel the same. Comments you make, insinuations. Why can't you just say it, say that you want me? Why do you keep me wondering? I don't want to believe that you know the depth of my feelings for you and that you're just toying with my emotions to stroke your own ego.

Why am I doing this? Why does this hurt so much? I wish I could just make a decision and stay with it: friends or more than friends. I wish my love for you would just settle down, and not permeate my life. Perhaps I can't shake this because I haven't really met anyone that I could truly have a serious relationship with. Or maybe I just have too many relationship issues and the idea of being with you is easier than actually having to work at a relationship with someone else. Or maybe I'm just a sadomasochist; this roller coaster has kept me in painful disorientation, but I keep coming back.

The bottom line is that if you really wanted me, if you loved me like I love you, you would have shown me long ago. You've had relationships, a few long term. But you've never once tried to be with me.

I have to make this stop. The ony person crying and confused is me.

I wish I didn't love you.

"BLACK" OR MIXED OR "MORENA" OR "WH"AT"E"VER"

There was a time where my need to belong was overwhelming. I grew up in a liberal, interracial family, which led to a bit of an identity crisis during my adolescence. I felt that in order to be who I was supposed to be, there were certain things I was supposed to do, specific ways to act. I knew I was a phony, that my behavior wasn't a reflection of who was inside. My mother would constantly tell me that I should never define myself by my ethnicity, but I wasn't sure how that was possible, especially when the rest of the world said otherwise.

A facade is a hard thing to maintain. Eventually I decided to shed the burden of everyone else's notions of what I should represent, how someone of my ethnic background should behave. I knew I could be proud of my ancestry, without conforming to stereotypes - and that didn't make me a "sellout" or someone "trying to be White". It's amazing how that confuses people; they get this bewildered look in their eyes when they find out I refuse to watch B.E.T., that I would sock Beyonce in the face if I ever met her, and that I'd rather never eat again than ever take a single bite of bread pudding.

So whether I rock a mohawk when I salsa dance, enjoy a glass of Valpolicella with my greens and fried chicken, or belt out a Tina Turner song during kareoke night at the local tavern, it doesn't matter. I refuse to be any less authentic, and I think my ancestors would be proud.

Of "me".

Obama for Presidente.

EL PECHUGON

Things have been changing at the Restarante y Cantina. The owner is ready to retire, and she's been looking for a suitable buyer for the better part of a year. She recently found a man who is interested in purchasing the establishment, but he wants to get a good feel for the place before he makes any serious commitments. So for the next six months he will be our manager. His name is Cristian, but my coworkers and I refer to him as "El Pechugon", due to the fact that he struts around as if he is the best thing since mango con chili lollipops.

For the last two weeks, El Pechugon has been making many changes. Some for the better, others for the ridiculous, it seems. He likes to walk up to customers' tables and start enthusiastically asking if the people seated there are having fun. Other times he stands at the front desk while customers are leaving and wildly thanks them for coming, trying to shake their hands or pat them on the back. During a moment when he caught me standing idly near one of the computer terminals, counting the minutes until I could blow that popsicle stand, he suggested that I "engage the customers more". Upon asking what that entailed, I was told that I should talk to the patrons about Mexico; the food, the music, ask if they've ever traveled there, etc. Considering I'm not from Mexico, am not Mexican, and, most importantly, don't care to hear any of their stories about their unoriginal trips to Cancun/Puerto Vallarta/Cabo/Ixtapa, his request didn't go over well. Last time I checked, I worked at a Restarante, not a circus. I am not here to entertain, I'm here to serve you food, y no mas.

So El Pechugon has ruffled more than a few feathers. He's made changes to the menu, raised prices, and has even started asking customers in the Cantina not to raise their voices too much or loudly use foul language, because it is a "family restaurant." Not many customers have complained about El Pechugon, but a few of our regulars have slowly began to take their business elsewhere, and to this our new manager seems oblivious. At this rate, the Restarante y Cantina will not just lose customers, but also it's authenticity and charm. It will slowly become another cookie cutter Mexican restaurant, with bland Americanized food, exorbitant prices and stupid Cinco de Mayo parties. Although I will soon be parting ways with the Restarante, I'm sad to be witness to it's homogenization.

IT WOULD BE EVEN BETTER IF...

Blogging when you're drunk is probably not a good idea. But tequila is muy delicioso.

So are barbeque potato chips and lemon pies.

All I need now is the love of my life. But he's not answering the phone.

Ni modo.

YO TENGO UN SUENO

Tomorrow is a holiday. A respite, for many of you, from the toil of work or school. But as you savor this extra day of rest, take a moment to reflect on what this day means.

Monday, January 15th, we celebrate the life, struggle and legacy of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. One of the greatest men of the century, of our time. His dream to unite all people regardless of color has still yet to come to complete fruition, but it's a dream he lost his life for, and for that reason alone we should honor him in the way befitting such a noble man.

Let us take the time to reflect on how his Dream affected our individual and collective lives. Let us ponder how or lives, again, individually and collectively, would be different if Dr. King had not had a Dream.

All the enthusiasm that you gather up for President's Day; all of the patriotism that you show for Independence Day; all of the nostalgia and pride that surfaces for Veteran's Day, Memorial Day--remember to apply all of that and more in the rememberance of Dr. King.

Because although there are those that take his legacy for granted, there are those of us who can not, for we are reminded of his struggle every day of our lives.

SUPERHEROES!

Superheroes are real. Honestly. And they all live here, where I live.

You want to know how I know? Let me tell you. Today, the temperature never rose over 35 degrees. It was a beautiful day, yes: clear, sunny, bright blue sky. But it was still cold.

So I'm meandering through Downtown, windowshopping and secretly laughing at people, when I see something utterly unbelievable. A woman walking towards me with a heavy winter coat, a scarf, a hat, gloves...and SANDALS.

Now this wasn't the first time I'd seen someone who'd obviously forgotten that January comes before July. It happens. But this particular woman was amazing- she kept rubbing her hands together and adjusting her coat collar as if she were trying to warm herself up, but when crossing the street, she stepped right into a pool of melting snow and didn't even flinch.

It's just one person, I told myself. Maybe she woke up late and couldn't find her shoes. Maybe she has prosthetic legs so it doesn't matter what kind of shoes she wears, cause she can't feel anything anyway. Who knows? So I keep going.

A few minutes later, what do I see? A man wearing a sweater, gloves, and SHORTS. And as the afternoon wore on, there was more: a teenage girl wearing FLIP FLOPS and a denim MINISKIRT, a woman wearing a knee length dress with NO PANTYHOSE and SLINGBACK/OPEN TOED SHOES, a man with a T SHIRT and NO JACKET, and a couple both wearing jean SHORTS, long sleeved shirts and NO COATS.

By the end of this unbelievable fashion show, I'm completely bewildered. It's fucking freezing! My hand are frozen through my gloves! Can't these people feel the cold?

And that's when it dawns on me--they must be superheroes! There is no other explanation for what I'd seen. They're immune to the elements, that must be one of their superpowers. What that is used for, I have not yet figured out, but I'm sure there is a purpose.

I was so relieved! I was so glad I'd found the answer. That has to be it, it must.

Otherwise, nothing would make sense ever again.

I ALMOST THREW UP ALL OVER MYSELF

So I was riding the bus. (Yes, I ride the bus sometimes. I'd like to say I do it for purely environmental reasons, which I do, partly, but it's really because I'm a scary driver.)

The bus is crowded, so I have to sit in one of those aisle bench seats, the kind where you're directly facing the person across the aisle from you. I hate those seats. I never know where to rest my eyes.

There is a man sitting across the aisle. As I'm trying to gaze out of the little sliver of window within view behind his head, I notice his hand keeps moving across his face in a strange mannner. And see, this is where I make my mistake. Oh yes, I looked.

The man was pulling long, stringy BOOGERS from his nose. Then he would alternate between PLACING them on his tongue and RUBBING them on is lips, like some sort of lip balm.

I swear I almost threw up on myself.

I start wildly looking around, trying to catch someone's eye, to see if they have witnessed any of this disgusting display. But nope, they were all smarter than I. They didn't look.

And here's the crazy part- I kept looking. It was like a train wreck, or when a customer at the Restarante spills something on their shirt and they don't know it, or when I'm at the bar and the drunken couple in the booth next to me start humping: I can't turn my eyes away. Even though it makes me physically ill. Even though every fiber of my being wants to stop watching. Even though I want to gouge out my eyeballs with my bare hands.

So if any of y'all are ever on the bus, the subway or any form of public transportation, remember: DON'T LOOK.

You'll be glad you didn't.

WOLVES, STAY HOME!

Ok...so I know everyone hates a complainer. But you're just gonna have to get ready to hate me, cause I'm back with another list of complaints. My job at the Restarante y Cantina has been reduced to very part time, which has actually allowed me to enjoy it just a little more. But yesterday..oh, yesterday. Why do the horribly rainy days always seem to bring out the people that were raised by wolves? And considering that we get quite a bit of rain up in these-here parts, the wolves seem to be letting their cubs out on a fairly regular basis.

The Greedy Wolves:

As does every Mexican restaurant in North America (I imagine), we give out chips and salsa to every table once the customers have been seated. Now, I understand being hungry ( and I'm not talking about in the starving-famine-malnutrtion sense, but more like in the my-ass-no-longer-fits-in-my-jeans sense), and it's always pleasant to have a lil somethin to tide you over while you decide what to order. I even get needing a second serving of chips and salsa, especially if the table consists of a family with children or just of grown men. However...after your food arrives (and our plates are big and laden with food), do you really NEED more chips and salsa? Salsa, yes, but another big-ass bowl of chips? Come on. You're not going to eat them. People just want free stuff, as much as they can get. Even if they won't use what ever is being offered, people (Americans?) feel this insane sense of ENTITLEMENT. (More on that word and my absolute loathing of it during some other bitch-fest, sorry.) Customers always marvel at the fact that everything we serve at the Restarante is fresh, hand-made, and from scratch. What they don't stop to think about is the time and man-power it takes for the tortillas to be made, cut into chip-appropriate triangles, and deep fried. All chips that reamain uneaten must be thrown away, even if they were untouched. It's horribly wasteful.
So hey, Greedy, next time you're out at your neighborhood Mexican restaurant (or anywhere else there is something "free" for you take), and your chip-bowl is empty, remember: a lot of work goes into those chips that you're not going to eat, yes, it's ok not to have a refill, and you can always order dessert later if you still feel the need to stuff your face.

The Oblivious Wolves:

As I mentioned earlier during my rant about The Greedy Wolves, our plates are huge and piled high with delicious, mouth-watering authentic Mexican food. (You'll find no yellow cheese here, gracias.) Over the thousand years I've been waiting tables, I've learned to carry more than two plates to a table: skillfully balancing plates on the arm is effective, albeit a disaster waiting to happen, considering I'm a top-notch klutz. So as I'm heading to your table, and you begin remarking about the approach of your food and how good it looks, that would be a good time, yes, that would be the PERFECT time for you to make room for the plate. Please clear away newspapers, books, bowls of chips and salsa, any errant item that might get in the way of me promptly placing your meal in front of you. Now, is this how the scenario plays itself out? Rarely. Not until I've finally plunked down one of the heavy, hot-ass plates on one of their screaming, wolf-child's coloring menu, much to the dismay of wolf- child, do they then start wildly clearing stuff.
Also, as the plate is coming down towards you, heading for the spot in front of you on the table, DON'T GRAB THE PLATE. It is my job to serve you, which means setting the plate down on the table. Nine times out of ten you'll burn yourself on the hot plate, anyway. Doesn't me using pot holders and saying, "Be careful, your plate is hot" register at all? Of course not, you're a wild animal!

Just Plain Wolves:

When someone greets you( "Hi!, "Hello", Hola!") what do you do? Usually respond in the same manner, no? Seems logical. But alas, it is not. When you come through the front door and I'm standing there smiling, menus in hand, greeting your ass , the proper response is NOT any of the following:

• stating the number of people in your party vocally or by holding up that same number of fingers like some damn pre-schooler


• continuing to talk to each other


• staring at me blankly


• talking on your cellphone


• ignoring me altogether

Just say "hello" in kind. That's all I ask, it's not hard. Just acknowledge my existance as a real-live human being for two seconds, and I guarantee, I will give you the best service possible. Otherwise, believe me, you'll wish you'd opted for Chinese.

Sigh...that's better. Anyone who made it to the end of this ridiculously long rager of an entry, muchas gracias. Next time there will be a lot more unicorns and rainbows, I promise.

NO JUSTIFICATION

Apocalypto, the new Mel Gibson film, debuted on Friday in theaters. I've only heard rave reviews so far: a colorful, dramatic, albeit violent depiction of the last days of the Maya. The previews and trailers defintely drew me in, and I was fascinated by the idea of a movie where an indiginous language is spoken throughout. I would love to see this film, but I just can't justify it.

We all remember Gibson's drunken Jew-bashing episode. I don't care how much alcohol one drinks, racist diatribes can not be, should not be, excused. Gibson claims that it was the "alcohol talking", but I'm sorry, mi amigo, that was you, not the booze. Yes, my love of tequila has occasionally caused me to make errors in judgement, say things I wouldn't ordinarily say, but in the majority of those cases, many of the things I drunkenly uttered where things I had always felt or wanted to say anyway. I'm 87% sure that goes for most people. We become uninhibited while inebriated. And Gibson...well, the alcohol was just the megaphone, his words were his own.

Knowing what I know now of Mel Gibson's feelings towards Jews, I can in no way justify seeing Apocalypto, or anything else. I feel as though, in some small way, I am contributing to the continuation of the racist attitudes that are deeply ingrained in our society. If people flock to the theaters to see his movies, isn't that really just America saying it's ok, what Mel Gibson did just wasn't that big of a deal? After two to three weeks of media coverage, Gibson's outburst was pretty much forgotten. Is this what will happen with Micheal Richards? His spastic spewing of epithets at an African -American man during a stand-up comedy routine was one of the most horrifying things I've watched. Will this episode be forgotten as well?

I've been told that my "soapbox ranting" is being wasted on this issue, that I should save it for something "more important". I believe this to be terribly important: we can not, as people of color, and as human beings, accept this behavior from someone because they're a talented celebrity. Yes, both Richards and Gibson, especially, are talented in their field. But, again that is still no justification.

So my question is this: if you learned that your favorite musician was a longtime member of the Ku Klux Klan, would you continue listening to his music?

COMO TE VOY OLVIDAR

Im stuck in the quagmire that's called the Past. Like quicksand, it keeps me in one place, allowing me some wriggle room every so often, just enought for me to think I can actually extract one leg..then another...step out of the muck and move forward. It seems all of my anxious lunging just sucks me down deeper into this mess, the Past.

And the true horror of it all is that it's only in my mind.

My past isn't lurking in the form of a tangible object, or an insurmountable, self-created obstacle. No. There is a ghost named Past that haunts me daily, and worse, nightly, keeping me awake to dissect the Why's, the How's, and the Did Not's.

Is there a fix? How do I repair my broken mind? My broken heart? A lifetime of stab wounds that have been Band-Aided...eventually the bandages come off of the unhealed wounds, and then what?

How do I forget?

...BUT THEN YOU MOVE ON

Thank you!


To my friends and family, to the people who love me.
To the children with joy in their eyes and delight in their smiles.
To the fresh, fall rain: cleansing, renewing, peaceful.
...And to El Guapo in DC for his post yesterday, entitled "Second Time". Thanks for reminding me that God is everywhere, anytime I need Him.

COMO ME DUELE....

Today was my first day off from work in far too long. My eyes slowly opened at 6 am. I stretched, smiled and went back to sleep. After another six hours of not-needed but much-earned rest, I got up, made a huge cup of coffee, and started studying. I was enjoying this quiet time, snuggled up in my favorite chair with my laptop; I almost felt something close to peace.

'Knock, knock'.

I'm expecting no visitors, and anyone who has known me for longer than a half an hour is aware that I am not a fan of "unexpected guests". Not at all.

But because of my new, peaceful mood, I wasn't bothered.

I open my door to find Kelly, my neighbor, holding a paper bag.
"Hey, Mujer, I was heading into the house last night and there was a guy walking back to his car from your door. He saw me and asked me to give this to you, 'cause he didn't want to leave it outside."

I start to get that hot, tingly feeling that usually proceeds a huge emotional spike. My chest tightens and my eyes burn as I reach for the bag. I already know who the "guy" was, just like I already know what's awaiting me within the paper sack.

He couldn't have.

Kelly is looking at me expectantly, but I offer no explanation as I take the bag. I'm not sure if I even thanked her before I shut the door. My only goal was to make sure the scalding hot tears that were threatening my eyes wouldn't start running down my cheeks before I was safely behind the door.

Oh, but he did.

Books. Clothes. CD's. Jewelry. Shampoo. Even a half empty bottle of body wash. All things that belonged to me. All things that had been left at my ex-boyfriend's house.

My chest finally loosened, in one long exhale that led to one giant sob, that led to a raging torrent of tears. My heart physically hurt, in a way that it hadn't in so long.

See, it wasn't that Ex had returned my belongings. It was when he had returned them. We had spoken a couple days earlier, and had decided that Monday night he would come by and we would make an exchange. He had left more things at my house than I had at his. I was secretly looking forward to this, I will admit. I wanted to see him one last time, maybe get some closure and begin to heal. I even various fantasies revolving through my head: he would come over to gather his belongings, see me, look deep into my eyes, realize what a mistake he was making, and want me back. Then I would snub him, or curse him...or just fall in to his arms. Stupid, I know.

But the point is, none of that was ever to be. He decided that he'd rather forfeit his own belongings than have to even look at me. How interesting: during the majority of our relationship, I asked, pleaded, demanded that he show me some sort of feeling, emotion, anything that would let me know just how he felt, if he cared, whether he really wanted me...
(Mujeres, be smarter than I: if you have to do any or all of the above to find out if your man cares about you, it ain't worth it.)

...and so he did. He finally showed me.
I guess actions truly do speak louder than words.