Growing up, my best friend, Patsy, and I thought it was the most hysterical thing to dial random numbers and make fake phone calls. Of course, these were the days before caller ID, when everyone picked up their phone, not knowing who'd be on the other end.
We'd call neighbors, family members, or even made-up phone numbers and ask, "Is your refrigerator running? Well, you better go catch it!" We'd roll on the floor, hugging our stomachs, drying the tears streaming down our cheeks.
One day, I decided that I could make calls even if Patsy weren't around. I dialed a made-up number, and a woman answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi. I'm Vero." For some reason, I couldn't carry out the joke without my partner-in-crime.
"Who? What can I help you with, mija?"
"Oh, nothing. I just came home from school. I go to Vista Hills. I'm in third grade."
"Where's your mom, honey?"
"She's at work. Do you have any kids?"
The woman on the other end kindly carried on a conversation with me, unsure about what exactly was happening. After a few minutes, I told her I had to go, and we hung up.
To me, there was nothing strange about what happened. I called someone, we chatted, and that was that. So the next day, and every day for a week after that, I called the same number after school and had a lovely little chat with the woman on the other end of the line.
The following week, as I got home from school, I went into the bedroom to make my call. This time, my mom, dad and telephone friend were in the room waiting for me.
"Why have you been calling this woman every day for a week?" asked my mom furiously. "What's wrong with you?" She pulled me in closer. "What have you been telling her?"
I was immediately embarrassed and ashamed. I stared at my feet.
"What's going on, mija? Are you OK? Do you need someone to talk to?" asked the friendly telephone lady.
"No."
My dad, as it were, stood quietly and didn't say a word. I couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable with asking me personal questions or if he was embarrassed by what I'd done. Whatever it was, it was awful.
I think the questions went on for several minutes, and finally, the friendly telephone lady excused herself and my mom walked her out. Days later, my mother approached me again, wanting to know why I'd made those calls. I desperately wished there was something deep and meaningful that I could give as an explanation for my behavior, but the truth was, I just wanted to make a crank call. For the next few weeks, I'd be mad at Patsy for not being there to make the call with me.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Short Teeth
News Flash: I'm self-conscious about my appearance. Overall, I feel pretty good about myself, but like most people, there are certain things about myself that really bug me. In high school, I didn't have very nice skin. No surprises there, since this is pretty common, I know. But the embarrassment of having poor skin doesn't go away once your skin clears up. As a grown woman, I want a flat belly. Equally shocking, I know, since it is likely that 99% of women would like a flatter belly. And thought these are areas I'll probably always be self-conscious about, I've gotten comfortable with my discomfort in these two areas. And I've grown to [mostly] like the way I look.
A few weeks ago, however, I added another annoyance to the list: short teeth.
I've had dental work my entire life. In my teens, I had too many teeth in my somewhat small mouth, so I had 4 removed and wore braces to straighten the rest out. In my early twenties, my wisdom teeth were severely impacted, so they were all removed. Last year, I had a root canal on one of my two front teeth, after learning that the nerve inside my tooth had died and begun darkening it. I brush and floss religiously. So after obtaining a near perfect smile, I decided that I wanted whiter teeth.
For my birthday this past year, I got little trays made by my dentist and started whitening. He even made me a special tray for the darker front tooth, which could be whitened all on its own. The improvement in my smile was addictive. I now wanted my teeth so white, they'd glow in the dark. Or something like that.
Last month, I went in for my yearly checkup. My dentist was pleased with the success of my whitening. We discussed a reasonable whitening schedule, to make sure I didn't overdo it. After some chit chat, my dentist stepped back and said, "Smile for me." I smiled proudly and waited for more praise.
Instead, he said, "You know what bugs me now?"
I stopped smiling.
"The gum line. You know, we could do a little gum contouring to lengthen your teeth a bit."
Jesus. I had no idea I'd been walking around with short teeth this whole time! Actually, I think I did figure it out recently, but dismissed the critique of my smile and chalked it up to neurosis. I remember looking at a picture of myself and thinking, "Why do my teeth look so small?" And then I giggled to myself and thought, "That's ridiculous. My teeth are perfectly big enough!"
But I'd been wrong. I have short teeth, and my dentist wants to lengthen them. Guess what I'm examining on a daily basis now? My tiny, tiny teeth.
My dentist and I politely discussed my [very costly] options and I left his office, knowing I wouldn't be doing any freakin' gum contouring. I mean, I know I'm vain, but I'm not that vain...right?
A few weeks ago, however, I added another annoyance to the list: short teeth.
I've had dental work my entire life. In my teens, I had too many teeth in my somewhat small mouth, so I had 4 removed and wore braces to straighten the rest out. In my early twenties, my wisdom teeth were severely impacted, so they were all removed. Last year, I had a root canal on one of my two front teeth, after learning that the nerve inside my tooth had died and begun darkening it. I brush and floss religiously. So after obtaining a near perfect smile, I decided that I wanted whiter teeth.
For my birthday this past year, I got little trays made by my dentist and started whitening. He even made me a special tray for the darker front tooth, which could be whitened all on its own. The improvement in my smile was addictive. I now wanted my teeth so white, they'd glow in the dark. Or something like that.
Last month, I went in for my yearly checkup. My dentist was pleased with the success of my whitening. We discussed a reasonable whitening schedule, to make sure I didn't overdo it. After some chit chat, my dentist stepped back and said, "Smile for me." I smiled proudly and waited for more praise.
Instead, he said, "You know what bugs me now?"
I stopped smiling.
"The gum line. You know, we could do a little gum contouring to lengthen your teeth a bit."
Jesus. I had no idea I'd been walking around with short teeth this whole time! Actually, I think I did figure it out recently, but dismissed the critique of my smile and chalked it up to neurosis. I remember looking at a picture of myself and thinking, "Why do my teeth look so small?" And then I giggled to myself and thought, "That's ridiculous. My teeth are perfectly big enough!"
But I'd been wrong. I have short teeth, and my dentist wants to lengthen them. Guess what I'm examining on a daily basis now? My tiny, tiny teeth.
My dentist and I politely discussed my [very costly] options and I left his office, knowing I wouldn't be doing any freakin' gum contouring. I mean, I know I'm vain, but I'm not that vain...right?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Chunks of Time
There are pieces I remember, and pieces I don't. I'm not sure if my 3-year stint with pot evaporated enough brain cells to erase some memories from my mind, or if I just chose not to hang on to those particular memories.
Here's what I do remember: Memorial Day, circa 1986. Driving to Mountain Shadow Lakes - a man-made lake in Horizon City, Texas. Giant dragonflies that I desperately swatted at. Hot-air balloons. Tension in the air. One minute, my dad was with us all. The next, he was gone. We solemnly made our way home from the man-made lake several hours later and I knew I was supposed to be sad, I just didn't know why.
Within hours of arriving at our house, drama ensued. My mom's sister arrived, my mom cried, my sister listened to their conversation. My mom and aunt sped away and were gone for hours. When they got home, they brought a locksmith with them.
"I saw you," my mom said in Spanish into the phone. "I saw you."
My dad no longer lived at home.
--
We drove to the church, actually it was a monastery, and asked for one of the nuns. We sat with her and my mom lowered her head and sobbed loudly as I sat in her lap. When she wept, she made soft, low sounds with her voice. They sounded painful and uncomfortable. It always made me want to tell her to stop.
When the crying subsided, my mom said gently, "Tell her. Tell her how you feel." I wanted to make my mom proud, and say something dramatic and heartbreaking, but I felt nothing. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be feeling, and honestly, I just wanted to get out of there and get back to playing or watching TV. Anything but this.
"I'm sad," I said.
"Well you're going to have to tell your dad. Tell him what he's doing to you. Tell him how angry you are for ripping this family apart, for not loving us enough to stay. You have to tell him."
I wasn't angry. I didn't feel like my dad didn't love me. I was mad at my mom for making me sit there and have this ridiculous conversation with a stranger.
On the ride home, she said, "Tell me what you're going to tell him." So I lied.
Here's what I do remember: Memorial Day, circa 1986. Driving to Mountain Shadow Lakes - a man-made lake in Horizon City, Texas. Giant dragonflies that I desperately swatted at. Hot-air balloons. Tension in the air. One minute, my dad was with us all. The next, he was gone. We solemnly made our way home from the man-made lake several hours later and I knew I was supposed to be sad, I just didn't know why.
Within hours of arriving at our house, drama ensued. My mom's sister arrived, my mom cried, my sister listened to their conversation. My mom and aunt sped away and were gone for hours. When they got home, they brought a locksmith with them.
"I saw you," my mom said in Spanish into the phone. "I saw you."
My dad no longer lived at home.
--
We drove to the church, actually it was a monastery, and asked for one of the nuns. We sat with her and my mom lowered her head and sobbed loudly as I sat in her lap. When she wept, she made soft, low sounds with her voice. They sounded painful and uncomfortable. It always made me want to tell her to stop.
When the crying subsided, my mom said gently, "Tell her. Tell her how you feel." I wanted to make my mom proud, and say something dramatic and heartbreaking, but I felt nothing. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be feeling, and honestly, I just wanted to get out of there and get back to playing or watching TV. Anything but this.
"I'm sad," I said.
"Well you're going to have to tell your dad. Tell him what he's doing to you. Tell him how angry you are for ripping this family apart, for not loving us enough to stay. You have to tell him."
I wasn't angry. I didn't feel like my dad didn't love me. I was mad at my mom for making me sit there and have this ridiculous conversation with a stranger.
On the ride home, she said, "Tell me what you're going to tell him." So I lied.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Cousins
I've always been really envious of people who have great relationships with their cousins. In fact, I'm so removed from my extended family (both on my mom's and dad's side of the family) that I don't even really feel like I know any of my cousins all that well. The closest I can come to having a cousin-like relationship is with my oldest friend Patsy. We met in first grade, lived seven houses apart from each other growing up, and were best friends forever. Our moms still know each other, since they still live seven houses apart, while Patsy and I live 3 states apart.
Here's the run-down on some of my actual cousins:
Araceli, Linda, Carlos.
My mom's sister's kids. I used to really love Carlos. He's about 13 years older than me, and by the time I was old enough to get to know him, he moved to Puerto Rico. Araceli and Linda stayed behind with their mom, my Tia Maria, but they never took me seriously. I was too young to relate to them, and far too awkward to be interesting. Every question they asked me was just another way to make fun of me.
"Do you like any boys at school, Vero?"
"No."
"Why not, are you scared they'll hit your big glasses when you kiss?"
Even once I grew out of my awkwardness, they still found a way to make me feel boring. My sister, on the other hand, was worth befriending. She didn't care what they thought, which made them chase after her, and she was pretty to boot and had a boyfriend who worshiped her. That's all they ever wanted: a man who would treat them as though they were worthy of love. Ironically, every time a man showed interest in them, they treated him like shit.
Brenda, Sergio.
I always considered these cousins to be part of my dad's side of the family, but they were actually on both sides. See, they were the offspring of a marriage between my dad's sister and my mom's brother. It's funny, because Mexicans use both their parents' last names. Mine was Veronica Acosta Rojo (my dad's last name is Acosta, my mom's maiden name was Rojo). So these particular cousins' names were Brenda Rojo Acosta and Sergio Rojo Acosta. It is definitely an interesting connection that I have with them, since we shared the same grandparents. We all looked very much alike.
But when my parents split up 20 years ago, all interaction with my dad's side of the family ended for me and my siblings. That included Brenda and Sergio. We've probably seen them 4 or 5 times since my parents' separation, and two of those times included grandparent funerals. They are the ones I most feel like I've missed out on a great relationship with. They, unlike most of my extended family, seemed sincere and trustworthy.
Izkra, Christian, Alan.
Offspring of my dad's sisters, Velia and Estella. In the last few years, I've be-friended Izkra again, and have found her to be a beautiful young lady. She made a huge effort to see us in Sacramento when she visited family in Stockton a few years ago. She emails, MySpaces, and is uniquely interested in me and my siblings.
The truth is, I have a ton of other cousins on my mom's side, but I have no idea who they are. I vaguely remember names of children who were sprung from my mom's very distant siblings.
Sometimes, when talking to my dad, I hear him talk about my cousins - and it absolutely breaks my heart. Not just because I don't know them and probably never really will, but because he knows them far better than he knows me.
Here's the run-down on some of my actual cousins:
Araceli, Linda, Carlos.
My mom's sister's kids. I used to really love Carlos. He's about 13 years older than me, and by the time I was old enough to get to know him, he moved to Puerto Rico. Araceli and Linda stayed behind with their mom, my Tia Maria, but they never took me seriously. I was too young to relate to them, and far too awkward to be interesting. Every question they asked me was just another way to make fun of me.
"Do you like any boys at school, Vero?"
"No."
"Why not, are you scared they'll hit your big glasses when you kiss?"
Even once I grew out of my awkwardness, they still found a way to make me feel boring. My sister, on the other hand, was worth befriending. She didn't care what they thought, which made them chase after her, and she was pretty to boot and had a boyfriend who worshiped her. That's all they ever wanted: a man who would treat them as though they were worthy of love. Ironically, every time a man showed interest in them, they treated him like shit.
Brenda, Sergio.
I always considered these cousins to be part of my dad's side of the family, but they were actually on both sides. See, they were the offspring of a marriage between my dad's sister and my mom's brother. It's funny, because Mexicans use both their parents' last names. Mine was Veronica Acosta Rojo (my dad's last name is Acosta, my mom's maiden name was Rojo). So these particular cousins' names were Brenda Rojo Acosta and Sergio Rojo Acosta. It is definitely an interesting connection that I have with them, since we shared the same grandparents. We all looked very much alike.
But when my parents split up 20 years ago, all interaction with my dad's side of the family ended for me and my siblings. That included Brenda and Sergio. We've probably seen them 4 or 5 times since my parents' separation, and two of those times included grandparent funerals. They are the ones I most feel like I've missed out on a great relationship with. They, unlike most of my extended family, seemed sincere and trustworthy.
Izkra, Christian, Alan.
Offspring of my dad's sisters, Velia and Estella. In the last few years, I've be-friended Izkra again, and have found her to be a beautiful young lady. She made a huge effort to see us in Sacramento when she visited family in Stockton a few years ago. She emails, MySpaces, and is uniquely interested in me and my siblings.
The truth is, I have a ton of other cousins on my mom's side, but I have no idea who they are. I vaguely remember names of children who were sprung from my mom's very distant siblings.
Sometimes, when talking to my dad, I hear him talk about my cousins - and it absolutely breaks my heart. Not just because I don't know them and probably never really will, but because he knows them far better than he knows me.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
A different way to Boo
I can't believe it's almost time for Halloween. It's one of my favorite times of the year, and not just because it's a great excuse for indulging in way too many sweets. (Note: other favorite times of the year include Thanksgiving, Super Bowl Sunday, Christmas-time, and my birthday. No one gives me any shit about stuffing my face.)
When I was younger, I was always into being scared. I couldn't find a haunted house scary enough, a zombie gory enough, or a movie disturbing enough to satisfy my appetite for horror. (I'm realizing now that I've always had an insatiable appetite; be it for food or some kind of feeling.)
Luckily, one year I found a haunted house that would change my life forever, and my brother's as well.
It was like 1993 and I was a junior in high school. It rarely snows in El Paso, but this year it snowed like crazy the night that I decided to head down to the haunted house everyone was talking about. My brother loved hanging out with me and my friends, and this night was no exception. We brought him along, and headed over to a warehouse off of Gateway East. My brother was about 11 or 12.
A couple of things you should know before I start: we're Mexican, we were raised Catholic, and we believed pretty much everything our parents told us, until like, yesterday.
We waited in line (in the snow) with my friends for about 3 hours that night and were finally let in to the haunted house at about midnight. They were letting people in in groups of about 10, and the only thing we knew about the thing was that it was being put on by a non-denominational Christian church.
Yeah, I said church. How scary could it actually be?
As we walked inside, my stomach dropped. I felt like I was actually on a roller coaster, and had just reached the top of the scary drop. There was a moment where I thought about turning around, which is weird, because nothing could actually scare me when I was 17. But something felt totally wrong in the place. Maybe it was the uniformed person leading us in--I mean, why wasn't he in a costume or something? Maybe it was the fact that I realized I was actually bringing my little brother into this creepy warehouse on midnight on Halloween. I mean, haunted house or not, that's kind of scary.
Our guide lead us to an area that was segmented off, and it looked like there was a little set and some actors standing still under a barely-there glowing light. Once the group was settled, the lights brightened just enough to see the actors' faces. There was a couple on the couch, and they looked about 16 years old. They started making out, slowly at first, and then they got a little heavier.
"Wait, I don't think we should," said the girl. "My mom said it's a sin to have sex before you're married."
"If you love me, you'll do this," said her boyfriend.
They kissed some more, and before you knew it they were having sex. At least, it was implied that they were. I was totally confused. This did not feel like a haunted house. What was happening?
Our uniformed guide led the group around the corner to another scene. The girl we just saw having premarital sex was laying on a table in a doctor's office, alone. She was crying as she said, "He said he loved me..."
A tall, lanky doctor walked in to the room. He was wearing a surgical mask and didn't speak. He performed an abortion as the girl yelled and cried.
We continued through the "haunted house" and were presented with a potpourri of "sins" for the next half hour: drinking, drug use, suicide, gang-joining, and finally, Satan worshipping. This was the grand finale. We were brought right into hell, flames and all, and were witnesses to the Devil himself.
I don't remember talking, or even screaming. I just held my brother's little hand and walked through the warehouse, too afraid of what would happen if I tried to break away from the group. My friends were like statues, neither looking away or at each other.
When the torture was finally over, we were seated in a small, well-lit room and handed brochures that gave us detailed information about the church who had put on the fun. They asked us to lower our heads and pray, and as my brother and I lowered our heads, I whispered to him,"Don't pray, Ruben. Don't listen to them." Forever obedient and trusting of his older sisters, he obeyed.
I felt so proud of myself for catching them before they could brainwash us completely. I felt like I had saved my brother.
To this day, he hasn't forgotten. We laugh hysterically when we think about how crazy that was, and how much I truly believed I had stopped something horrible from happening. Like somehow, praying would have sealed the deal, and we would be destined for hell. Only Catholic prayers were real prayers, after all.
It wasn't until years later that I realized the impact my actions and words had on my brother. I didn't walk away from that experience thinking that churches were fucked up or brainwashing institutions, or that I was wrong about what a "real" prayer was, or even that I shouldn't have premarital sex. (Ahem.)
I walked away realizing that I couldn't ever take back all those things I said or did in front of my brother. They would always be something that affected the way he thought or behaved, and that I had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I mean, I still probably don't! But I had helped shape him, and that was both wonderful and horrifying.
When I was younger, I was always into being scared. I couldn't find a haunted house scary enough, a zombie gory enough, or a movie disturbing enough to satisfy my appetite for horror. (I'm realizing now that I've always had an insatiable appetite; be it for food or some kind of feeling.)
Luckily, one year I found a haunted house that would change my life forever, and my brother's as well.
It was like 1993 and I was a junior in high school. It rarely snows in El Paso, but this year it snowed like crazy the night that I decided to head down to the haunted house everyone was talking about. My brother loved hanging out with me and my friends, and this night was no exception. We brought him along, and headed over to a warehouse off of Gateway East. My brother was about 11 or 12.
A couple of things you should know before I start: we're Mexican, we were raised Catholic, and we believed pretty much everything our parents told us, until like, yesterday.
We waited in line (in the snow) with my friends for about 3 hours that night and were finally let in to the haunted house at about midnight. They were letting people in in groups of about 10, and the only thing we knew about the thing was that it was being put on by a non-denominational Christian church.
Yeah, I said church. How scary could it actually be?
As we walked inside, my stomach dropped. I felt like I was actually on a roller coaster, and had just reached the top of the scary drop. There was a moment where I thought about turning around, which is weird, because nothing could actually scare me when I was 17. But something felt totally wrong in the place. Maybe it was the uniformed person leading us in--I mean, why wasn't he in a costume or something? Maybe it was the fact that I realized I was actually bringing my little brother into this creepy warehouse on midnight on Halloween. I mean, haunted house or not, that's kind of scary.
Our guide lead us to an area that was segmented off, and it looked like there was a little set and some actors standing still under a barely-there glowing light. Once the group was settled, the lights brightened just enough to see the actors' faces. There was a couple on the couch, and they looked about 16 years old. They started making out, slowly at first, and then they got a little heavier.
"Wait, I don't think we should," said the girl. "My mom said it's a sin to have sex before you're married."
"If you love me, you'll do this," said her boyfriend.
They kissed some more, and before you knew it they were having sex. At least, it was implied that they were. I was totally confused. This did not feel like a haunted house. What was happening?
Our uniformed guide led the group around the corner to another scene. The girl we just saw having premarital sex was laying on a table in a doctor's office, alone. She was crying as she said, "He said he loved me..."
A tall, lanky doctor walked in to the room. He was wearing a surgical mask and didn't speak. He performed an abortion as the girl yelled and cried.
We continued through the "haunted house" and were presented with a potpourri of "sins" for the next half hour: drinking, drug use, suicide, gang-joining, and finally, Satan worshipping. This was the grand finale. We were brought right into hell, flames and all, and were witnesses to the Devil himself.
I don't remember talking, or even screaming. I just held my brother's little hand and walked through the warehouse, too afraid of what would happen if I tried to break away from the group. My friends were like statues, neither looking away or at each other.
When the torture was finally over, we were seated in a small, well-lit room and handed brochures that gave us detailed information about the church who had put on the fun. They asked us to lower our heads and pray, and as my brother and I lowered our heads, I whispered to him,"Don't pray, Ruben. Don't listen to them." Forever obedient and trusting of his older sisters, he obeyed.
I felt so proud of myself for catching them before they could brainwash us completely. I felt like I had saved my brother.
To this day, he hasn't forgotten. We laugh hysterically when we think about how crazy that was, and how much I truly believed I had stopped something horrible from happening. Like somehow, praying would have sealed the deal, and we would be destined for hell. Only Catholic prayers were real prayers, after all.
It wasn't until years later that I realized the impact my actions and words had on my brother. I didn't walk away from that experience thinking that churches were fucked up or brainwashing institutions, or that I was wrong about what a "real" prayer was, or even that I shouldn't have premarital sex. (Ahem.)
I walked away realizing that I couldn't ever take back all those things I said or did in front of my brother. They would always be something that affected the way he thought or behaved, and that I had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I mean, I still probably don't! But I had helped shape him, and that was both wonderful and horrifying.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Friday is for dreaming
Things to be excited about today:
1. It is Friday! That means I have 2.5 days ahead of me full of knitting, sleeping, movies and husband-ing.
2. I have the new Radiohead album. I feel like Homer Simpson with a donut. I think it's going to change my life.
3. Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize today. A brilliant man gets what he deserves.
4. My siblings and I are starting a small family tradition this year with a Day of the Dead party. I'm going to try and make these pins:
I'm ripping the idea off of the Blythe website, which by the way, I totally love.
1. It is Friday! That means I have 2.5 days ahead of me full of knitting, sleeping, movies and husband-ing.
2. I have the new Radiohead album. I feel like Homer Simpson with a donut. I think it's going to change my life.
3. Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize today. A brilliant man gets what he deserves.
4. My siblings and I are starting a small family tradition this year with a Day of the Dead party. I'm going to try and make these pins:
I'm ripping the idea off of the Blythe website, which by the way, I totally love. I'm so excited though, because we can make a beautiful altar and honor my grandparents. I have so much guilt surrounding my relationships with them, it will be nice to think about them and honor them for a night.
Plus, we'll have tamales and hot chocolate. Wut, wut!!
...
On a side note, Optimus Prime sent me a voicemail yesterday via my friend Kelly. Apparently, he fears my brother Ruben may have joined forces with Megatron. Confused? I was, too. This should clear it up, though.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Primer Dia
Welcome to my blog. Today, of course, is my first day as a blogger. Kind of intimidating, but I think it's time for me to confront my fear and embrace my narcissism.
Stay tuned.
Stay tuned.
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