Wee Bit Wednesdays- No Shit I'm Superstitious

{one} have you ever seen a ghost?

I don’t think so. I saw visions of people when I was little but I wouldn’t call them ghosts. (That sounds really sketchy, but I promise you, it’s not).

{two} when was the last time you dressed up for Halloween?

Two years ago. My house had a Day of the Dead themed party and I was La Malinche/Melinali… and I’m sure no one knows who that is.

{three} what’s your favorite candy?

Ha! I had to answer this question yesterday. If we’re going generic, Twix. If we’re going fancy, I love Baci, especially since it comes with quotes.

{four} did you have a favorite costume growing up?

Dressing up in a baller costume, regardless of the time of year is always awesome. One year I dressed up as an elf and delivered presents to all of my friends during Christmastime.

{five} did you carve pumpkins this year?

No, but I made oatmeal cookies while I watched my friend carve the Cheshire Cat into her pumpkin.

{six} what’s your favorite scary movie?

I’m more of a “scary” show sort of person. I like the X-files. The movie that mortified me most though was “Fire in the Sky.” A true story on alien terrified me when I was little, especially since the area between Santa Fe and my ranch was known for UFO sightings.   

{seven} haunted houses or corn mazes?

Either one.

{eight} are you superstitious?

Hell yes. I can’t stress it enough. I’m superstitious to the extreme.

{nine} have you ever owned a black cat?

Uh. Yes, there was Poopsie and I’m sure there were other black kittens that my family had before they died of pneumonia.

{ten} what are you plans for this coming Halloween?

This Saturday, I’ve got a cupcake and horror movie night planned with some friends. I’m keeping it low-key. 

Laugh me Simplicity

“God and I have become like two giant fat people living on a tiny boat.

We keep bumping into each other and laughing.”

-       Hafiz

What simple things make you laugh?

Good Confident Driver... Not!

Photo source

You are a good confident driver. You rule this road. Look at you… you even look cool.

Last summer my sister began learning how to drive. Being the one with the most flexibility and free time, I had the pleasure of being in the passenger’s seat, gripping the door, eyes, wide, teeth clenched, often reverting to saying words on repeat simply to get my message across. Stop            Stop            Stop   Stop  Stop. Go right go right go right. Slowdownslowdownslowdown! 

Every time she got behind the wheel she would fervently say her mantra, 

You are a good confident driver. You rule this road. Look at you… you even look cool

sometimes going on with variations of it for five minutes or more. Not only was it entertaining to hear, but it was pretty darn true. She was confident. She was safe. She was aware. She looked cool. I’m sure I had a much more stress-free time being a driving coach than my poor mama did with me.

Let me be honest here,

Me + car = 70% disaster + 30% success

Putting me in a car to drive is not the best idea. I’m tensed up the whole time freaked out that something’s going to happen because more often than not, it does. It’s a ravenous cycle. Thinking about it, I partially credit that to never wanting to get behind the wheel in the first place. One of my cousins was killed by a drunk driver, I had a scarring nightmare one night where my grandmother and I crashed off a bridge and died, and right before I learned how to drive, the mother of my brother’s friend was walking one evening and was hit by a car. She died. Needless to say cars petrified me… I had no desire to unintentionally kill or be killed. I should also mention at this time that

1)    I got to learn how to drive a stick shift which increased the amount of stall outs and running into things like poles and other cars and…

2)    The New Mexican driving system sucks. I never took a road tes,t yet they sent me a certificate saying I passed it with a 100%. That was probably a poor poor mistake on their part.

I mean, my first year of driving, I was called out of class a couple of times because one time I left the car running and another time I forgot to put the emergency brake on and it rolled across the parking lot and hit another girl’s snazzy car. Then of course there was college where I had an annual holiday-time record of losing a side mirror on my dad’s property. One time I backed out into the pole in my dad’s shed and the other time I slid on some ice into a tree. Fortunately but unfortunately, my brother broke that streak the third winter when his band’s speakers shattered the back window.

I’ve gotten a speeding ticket for trying to get from Ithaca, NY to Chicopee, MA in 4 hours instead of 6 hours. I’ve slid violently into a guardrail driving through a snowstorm on shitty tires. I’ve gotten a flat tire driving in a borrowed car to Starbucks. Those are all stories unto themselves, but the point is, I should never have a car. Unlike my sister, I‘m a shitty, unconfident, cursed by my own fault driver.  

What was your experience like learning how to drive?

Quisqueya

This Caribbean beat cascades into my body, 


entraps it,


forcing figure-eight hip motion as I move slowly, 


deliberately,


through sun soaked, water weighted air

unbreathable to my New Mexican lungs 


eager for mountainous desert, luke-warm waves. 


Gua-guas, obese with human beings 


fly like hummingbirds past the concrete street I stand on 


the squeaking honk of the vehicle melding 


with street vendor friendly exchanges 


as people grasp the steaming, oil-drenched empanadas in napkins, 


the fleshy aguacates, guanabanas, cajuil 


in yellow synthetic bags 


and machete-hacked coconuts in their empty hands 


to drive away thirst 


or allow for sweet milk to flow down the drinking tube into an awaiting belly. 


Reaching yet another corner colmado I sit on a red plastic chair, 


sip a ½ liter Presidente

allowing the emerald glass to touch my lips 


just as I have allowed this near jungle island to seep into my soul 


unexpectedly.

Wee Bit Wednesday I

I’ve always enjoyed answering peculiar questions about myself (and trust me, I enjoy asking them just as much) so I thought I would partake in “Wee Bit Wednesdays” along with some other folks in the Blogsphere. The leading lady in this weekly shenanigans is Leigh Ashley, you can visit her blog or join up in the fun by going here. Anyhow, here's my “Wee Bit Wednesday” post.

{one} have you ever milked a cow or a goat?

Yes. I grew up on a ranch, so sometimes we’d have to milk the cows if the calves weren’t nursing properly.

{two} what sound does your alarm make when it goes off in the morning?

I try to wake up naturally, but for a long time it was a jazz version of “Every Breath You Take”

{three} chocolate milk or hot chocolate?

Mexican hot chocolate hands down.

{four} what is one of the quirkiest things about you?

I can speak backwards.

{five} are you more like your mom or your dad?

Hmm. Hmmmm. I’m like both of them. I have my mother’s contemplative introversion, my father’s persistence & intense emotions, and I inherited the creativity that they both posess.

{six} do you sleep with the tv on?

No. I don’t have a tv.

{seven} if you were a crayon, what color would you be?

Cerulean blue.

{eight} ross, joey, or chandler?

I’d be awesome having Joey and Chandler in my life, they’d make great pals.

{nine} do you play any musical instruments?

I have played the recorder, clarinet, piano and doumbek. I can still play the latter two.

  

I miss my doumbek! photo source

{ten} what’s the worst thing you’ve ever cooked/baked?

I used to think scrambled eggs were made with water mixed in with the eggs… until I made them like that. They were atrocious.

Speak me an Andrea Gibson Poem

Tonight, Andrea Gibson is performing in NYC... and I’m not there. This woman is the most phenomenal poet I have ever come across in my entire 23-year existence. Her words conjure up tears, laughter, heart smiles, epiphanies, and subconscious emotions. 

Andrea Gibson’s Poetry: Emotion:: Rock climbing: Muscles.

That is my analogy. By listening to her poetry you will discover emotions you never thought you had, just like if you go rock climbing, you will discover muscles you never knew existed.

I mean, how can you not feel something when you hear the lines:

“…A doctor once told me I feel too much

 I said so does God

that’s why you can see the Grand Canyon from the moon…”

from “Jellyfish” … or

“...I am generations of daughters sisters mothers

our bodies battlefields

war grounds

beneath the weapons of your brother’s hands

do you know they’ve found land mines

in broken women’s souls

black holes in the parts of their hearts

that once sang symphonies of creation

bright as the light on infinity’s halo...”

from “Blue Blanket”… or

“...sing me lullabies at dawn

when I’ve been up all night painting the wind

to remind myself that things are moving...”

from “Stay”… or

“…the leaves have all fallen

 and fell like they were falling in love with the ground…”

from “Photograph”

So, really, listen to this woman’s poems. If she’s in your area, see her. If you love her as much as I do, please, LET’S TALK because I can speak about the awesomeness that is Andrea for days. I can speak to the moon and back non stop about her knack for intertwining words to create images that represent life, to rip my soul apart and fill it with tears right before allowing my Bridge of Sighs sunrise, to inspire me to continue writing my poetry, and to love and continue to love.

What artist speaks to you?

I Will Not Celebrate Genocide

Source

Christopher Columbus discovered America.

Really? REALLY?!?!?!

We’re still teaching about the heroic feats of this man and dedicating a whole day to his honor? We’re still continuing to celebrate the killings of Taino men, women, and children? We’re still, as a nation, taking a stance that glorifies genocide? What is the problem with this picture?!

Let me also go on to say that the reason I refuse to celebrate Columbus Day is the same reason I will not celebrate the “Fiestas” in my hometown. I will not celebrate the massacre of my indigenous brothers and sisters, nor will I celebrate the genocide of any group of people. I will not take off Columbus Day,  I will not get up and dance when the modern men and women decked out in their conquistador and Indian outfits come up to me during the “fiestas”and try and get me to dance, I will not march with Our Lady of La Conquistadora to thank her for allowing that victory in the 1500s where Native Americans were killed, I will not shout “Que Viva la Fiesta” because I will not ignore the fact that blood was spilled, diseases were spread, and colonization occurred on the backs of my fellow human beings. I will not celebrate genocide.  

Papier-mâché Noses and Why YOU Should Wear Sunscreen

The Real Pinocchio (Source)

I’m in love with Pinocchio. There. I’ve said it. I think he’s an obnoxious little shit, kind of like Clifford from that Martin Short movie of the same name. My siblings and I would watch “Clifford” and go into hysterics whenever he entered the scene, whacking people upside the heads as he walked down the airplane aisles. Sorry, slight tangent there, but they remind me of each other, and they’ve both got ridiculous names.  I would be willing to place a bet that Rumplestiltskin was like those two when he was a boy. 

Now, I’ve gotta say, I’m not a fan of Disney’s Pinocchio. He’s too sweet. He’s annoying in the sense where I can’t help but think “Oh my gosh, you’re so naïve and stupid.” Pinocchio from the Italian story, on the other hand, is a completely different lad. He’s annoying in a “You know exactly what you’re doing you conniving, smarmy, little puppet” sort of way. It’s not only Pinocchio as a character that I love though; it’s the whole freaking book. Back in the last couple years of high school, my siblings and I would read a few pages a couple of nights a week. We each had several characters we would do the voices for and it wove its way into our routine. It became a part of our sibling history and provoked our peculiar sense of humor. I still think it’s utterly hysterical. I mean, did you know that the reason Pinocchio escapes from Monstro’s junk-filled belly is because he’s asthmatic and wheezed the little sucker out? Or that Pinocchio threw a shoe at the character dear old Jiminy is based on (okay, that’s not funny, that’s just cruel). Or another scene is when Pinocchio goes to the Blue Fairy’s house and a lovely snail answers his door-knocking by calling out from the third floor that he’ll be down in a jiffy… which for the snail takes about three hours. My favorite episode though, and the one that most accurately expresses the dark-humor of the tale, is when Pinocchio’s walking along and runs into a snake. He completely wigs out, trips, and ends up with his head and torso literally stuck in a puddle of mud with his wooden legs kicking in the air. The snake, just like my sibs and me, starts cracking up at this ludicrous scene, bursts a blood vessel, and dies. Fortunately, my laughter did not cause such a life-degrading medical dilemma. Rather, every time Pinocchio pops up, my heart chuckles a little. That’s why I’ve decided to be Pinocchio for Halloween, because it amuses me to no end.

I’ve already got the knee-length pants and shiny shoes. Now I just need to get me a blouse, a sweet hat with a feather… and a nose. How can one possibly be Pinocchio without the infamous nose? So, somehow, in the next couple of weeks,  I’ve got it in my mind that I’ll need to mix together some flour and water to make myself a papier-mâché nose to wear in all it’s glory on the 31^st. The question is, once I have it, how the hell do I attach it to my face?

My great grandfather had a fake nose once and I’ve got to question that too. How did he attach his nose to his face? (FYI, he had skin cancer from being out in the sun too long without protection. Ladies and Gentlemen, please remember to wear sunscreen). My mom’s got this great story about a vacation she took with him and the rest of her family where they stayed at some castle in Athol (hehe… pretend you’ve got a lisp), Scotland.  It sounds awesome, right? However, there was only one restroom on the floor they were staying on. One night my great grandfather gets up from the dream world to go to the bathroom but someone’s in there. He waits awhile and eventually a lady walks out. Being the civil, gentlemanly Texan he was, he greeted her:

“Hello Madam.”

Talk about the end of civility. The lady started screaming and running down the hall back towards her room. Turns out he had his nose on crooked, his white hair was styled Albert Einstein-esque from just hopping out of bed, and his coke-bottle glasses were magnifying his eyes. I can imagine that his appearance could be a little startling, especially if you’re half asleep. Thus, I’m going to have to figure out this whole fake nose thing so I can pull it off. I’m thinking this whole Halloween idea only really amuses me though.

What are you going to be for Halloween this year?

My Dad’s Perpetual Pursuit to Set Me Up with Random Blokes

For some reason my dad has a bit of an obsession with setting me up with people. I find this peculiar because back in middle school and early high school my dad was the precise reason I didn’t date. He was that scary father who would likely threaten dudes with their male parts if they even looked at me. That being said, dating, in my mind, was out of the question until I left home. That is until my dad started having these brilliant ideas that I should be dating and took it upon himself to find me a suitable lad.

Hockey Boy

The first time this happened was my senior year in High School.  A junior hockey team, The Roadrunners, had just come to Santa Fe and a large group of the young men worked in my mom’s school. I would like to say that this one was likely a joint effort on my parents’ part. My mom knew Hockey Boy first and we started talking on the phone every now and then, we went to dinner once with a large group of people, and of course I fell in love with hockey (yes, I really do enjoy watching hockey, which for a non-sports-fanatic like me is saying something) and went to watch his games. Then…. It happened, and thank goodness I wasn’t there. My dad and Hockey Boy were in my mom’s class helping out and he turns to Hockey Boy casually saying (though casual for my dad never turns out being casual), “So, you wanna take my daughter to prom?” That was episode one.

Irish-Dancer

Then there was the Irish Dancer. That being said, I should probably mention that back in middle school and high school I used to take Irish dance and was pretty good if I do say so myself. As such, a couple of my dad’s friends were always trying to get me to go to Ireland with them for a music festival that they went to annually (oh trust me, I wanted to). My dad ended up going with them when I was in College and him and his friends met Irish Dancer.

“Camila, there’s this really nice guy that I want you to meet when we go to Ireland. He’s also really good at Irish dancing. You should see him dance.”

So my siblings and I go with my dad to this awesome music festival in Ireland the spring of my Junior year in College. We enter the café where Irish-Dancer works and he introduces us.

“Irish-Dancer, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter Camila, she does Irish dance too. She’s really good. Oh and this is my son Antonio and my other daughter Anna.”

Well shit, way to make things super awkward Dad.

Cowboy C

Haha. See, this is the issue. My dad has pretty good taste and the people he always wants me to date are attractive. Not that that’s a problem. It just means I get even more embarrassed when my dad pulls out comments that equate to “my daughter is available, act now!” in my presence and my pride tells me to avoid the situation.

Here’s the most recent incident. Back in May I went home for my dad’s 50^th Birthday bash, which he celebrated a couple of month’s early, because it was a special date according to the Mayan calendar and some fortune teller or something like that. Trust me, this sort of logic is pervasive in my family. Anyhow, he invited a ton of his cowboy friends to join us in the celebration on the ranch. The two of us are busy straightening up the bunkhouse the morning before the big day when he says to me,

“Camila, one of my friend’s is coming who I want you to meet. He’s a young cowboy and he’s really nice. I think you’ll like him.”

“Dad, are you trying to set me up?”

“…maybe…” my dad says smiling.

A little later, a truck pulls up and it’s Cowboy C, who I’ve had a bit of a crush on for years, but hell no, I ain’t letting on. Of course, I also know that whatever’s going to happen next is going to be awkward… and of course the awkwardness unfolds.

“Cowboy C, I’d like you to meet my daughter Camila. She’s going to inherit the whole ranch someday.” He says grinning like a toddler with a two-scoop ice cream cone with sprinkles and chocolate sauce.

WTF. Excuse me. Are you showing off a dowry? Also, I’m only inheriting 1/3 of the ranch, the rest belongs to Antonio and Anna. Oh goodness.

“Hi Cowboy C, how are you doing?” I ask, my face getting that splotchy pinkish reddish embarrassed color.

“I’m doing great, thank you” he responds.

“Excellent” I say and thankfully, my brother Antonio walks up at that exact moment and I turn to him mortified and say “Antonio, let’s go feed the chickens” then turn back to Dad and Cowboy C and say “It was nice to meet you again, we’re going to go feed the chickens now. We’ll see you later.”

There it is, my dad’s attempts to set me up with random blokes… a perpetual and amusing effort that has yet to succeed.  

...And Then There Was Me: September 19th in Toronto

The problem with not being able to use my phone in another country is that that means I don’t have an alarm clock. Instead, I wake up, determine it’s still dark out, go back to sleep. Then I wake up again, see that it’s light, check the clock out in the hallway and realize I have an hour more before I meet Mike, so I go back to my bunk and take a “rest”… meaning I fall back asleep. I don’t wake up until 9:45 am and immediately run downstairs in my pajamas and find Mike finishing his pancakes in the lounge. Just as a sidenote, I’ve got to say one of the primary reasons I was down with staying at the Canadiana Backpackers Inn, other than Mike being there, was the fact that every morning they hold a pancake breakfast which I want to cash in on.

“Mike, I’m so sorry I’m late, I woke up an hour ago and accidentally fell back asleep… did you get the tickets for “Barney’s Version” already?”

“No, I was exhausted and just woke up awhile ago. I figure we can just go over there together and get the tickets.”

“All right, I’m going to run upstairs and get ready, eat breakfast, and then we can head over.”

So I do. I run upstairs and quickly throw all my baggage together, get dressed, head down, eat my pancakes sans butter (you know because, they don’t have any?!?!) and I’m thinking it should be no problem getting tickets for the movie since it’s only 10:30 and the movie doesn’t start for another two hours.

Mike and I walk over to the theater where we’re hoping to go see “Barney’s Version”, we might as well get our TIFF fill while we’re here. I mean, other than seeing each other, that’s why we came to Toronto.  Of course, my previous expectations for there not to be a line is compleeeettteeeeellllyyyyy wrong. 30 people are already in line, waiting in the hot sun. Joining them, Mike and I consider if this is really how we want to spend our time… we decide it is, Mike convinces me that rushing (waiting in the line) is part of the TIFF experience. So we make ourselves at home and sit down next to a few other TIFF goers, begin talking to them about the movies they’ve seen, and find out that… the theater only takes cash… which Mike and I don’t have. So, we decide that Mike will run across the street to the ATM and get cash for us. He returns without success, so I run over and I too am refused. We determine that that specific ATM must be out of order so Mike tries to find another one... During that time, I start talking with the woman next to me and after awhile, she offers me an extra movie ticket voucher she has. Excellent. This means that Mike and I only need half the Canadian dollars that we did before. Mike returns, again without moolah, and we realize that since neither of us told our banks we were leaving the country, our accounts have likely been shut down. Well shit… I know I certainly can’t call my bank right now but Mike does, and they tell him that his card should be working again soon. While he’s off making the call, an elder woman walks by and gives three ticket vouchers to the girls sitting next to me. There are only two of them and they’ve sort of seen what’s going on with Mike and I, so they hand over their third ticket. All I’ve got to say is “Thank God for the kindness of strangers.” Now all we need to do is actually get into the movie and the only way that’s going to happen is if 20 people or more who have tickets to the movie don’t show up.

All of us in line are anticipating whether or not we’ll be getting in. 7 people in front of us are let in… then 4 more… then they say 11 people can now enter and that includes us and the pair behind us who gave us a ticket. Score. We all succeed and it feels like an accomplishment, indeed a part of the TIFF experience.

“Barney’s Version” is crowded, but Mike and I find a couple of seats with one right in front of the other that we’re able to take. The movie is amusing enough and the relationship between Barney and Miriam is really sweet, right through the end.  I wouldn’t say the movie was worth waiting in line for 2 hours, but the experience of waiting with others, the conversations we had, the speculation about what to do if we couldn’t get into the movie (we would have gone to Yonge and Dundas and watched a Norwegian film), and the joy of actually getting in.

Sigh. Now it’s time to get Mike to the bus station. We go back to the hostel to grab his backpack, walk over to the bus station and wait. I’m so freakin’ tired but I have no idea when I’ll return to Toronto so I decide to stay out and about and haul ass over to the Distillery District to see if maybe, just maybe, Soma is open. Soma is an incredible chocolate store that has some phenomenal spicy hot chocolate. I walk that way, passing familiar places, and end up in the Distillery District and Soma is open, so I grab some hot chocolate and sit there drinking it before strolling around the area. There is a vendor selling awesome jewelry made out of coins from around the world. They are beautiful. I also glance into one gallery and they have artwork pieces made out or Rubick’s Cubes, which are awesome. It’s a really creative idea if you ask me.

Slowly, I stroll back to my hostel, pick up a sandwich along the way and just walk to the waterfront and sit, watching the lake, the seagulls, the people passing by, the boats, and think. Solo reflection time it be. I’m alone now, I’ve had an amazing weekend with my friends, I’ve re-realized that I’m a nerd and miss being surrounded by brilliant quirky folks. I realize that I love Toronto. I realize that this gives me energy to continue with what I’m doing. I thrive on the interactions I have with the people I love.

 Then it’s time for me to finish getting to the hostel, pick up my own bags and return to the bus station to catch my Megabus back to the States.