Ashes and Wine

21.

The age we all wait anxiously for, in the meantime sneaking Boone's Farm Strawberry Daiquiri when you think your parents aren't looking (Arbor Mist, for y'all fancy people).

I had my first wine cooler when I was 12. We were BBQing for the All-Star Game, and my parents have always been of the mind that if alcohol is a verboten item in the household, that will make it all the more enticing once we're out of the house. Before this, all they let me have were a few sips here and there, but this time I got a whole bottle all to myself. 

Bartles and Jaymes, yo. Like Zima, only with more diabetes. 

I felt so grown up, despite the fact that B&J's are essentially Hawaiian Punch with a thimble of booze. WHATEVER. I was classy and shit.

When I got to college, I had to rely on 21 year-old friends to buy alcohol for me. Mind you, these instances were few and far between. As a full-time college student with a part-time job, I didn't have a whole lot of money to spare for drinking binges. The money my parents were kind enough to send me for food was actually spent on food. Imagine that!

But, the day finally came when it was finally legal for me to buy my own hangover-I mean, alcohol. Here's what no one tells you, though: If you've had alcohol before 21, 21 doesn't mean shit. Sure, you can walk into Ralph's and buy your Steel Reserve your damn self (or your Colt 45. Whatever your poison), but other than that, there's not much else to it. Especially when you turn 21 in good ol' Turlock, where the night life consists of 2 bars. Wellington Station, the cool bar, and Staley's, the dive bar. Guess where I went! 

(Hint: I am not cool.)

I went to Staley's not long after I turned 21 with some friends from a theater group I was in, Teatro Los Hijos del Campo (technically my dad was only a campesino for like, 2 weeks. But I didn't tell them that. Unless they read this blog. In which case, 2 weeks totally counts, guys). There, they got me moderately buzzed, but it being an entirely foreign sensation for me, I remember thinking, "WOAH. So this is what DRUNK feels like. RAD." One of the other members took me home, and he told me later that he thought I was upset because once we got in the car I went from giggly and happy to completely, dead silent. At that point my self-conscious buzz had kicked in, and I was acting all, "if I'm quiet, I can totally pass off as sober. Nevermind that I giggled at the napkin holders for five minutes". Once I got into my apartment, I was all DEFCON-1 so that I wouldn't wake Anne up, and Josh, who was visiting for the weekend. He woke up though. He told me in the morning that he could totally tell I was drunk because I was trying REALLY hard to look like I wasn't drunk. Mission failed.

There have been many, many booze-fueled funtimes since then. Like my friend Jose once told me on my 21st birthday: "It all goes downhill from here". And I am inclined to agree. Not that the birthdays that come after suck, it's just that there is no novelty anymore, at least not until I turn 55 and I get a 10% discount at Ross on Tuesdays. These days I think nothing of ordering a glass of wine at a bar, or buying a six pack of crappy beer at Food 4 Less for beer can chicken. 

That novelty, I'd wager, is lost on pretty much all of the legal imbibers. We forget the awesomeness that comes with being here from the age of 21 and beyond. We take it for granted.

Today would have been Raul's 21st birthday. Today, he would have finally gone out to buy beer, would have gone out with friends (and one of his thirty-seven girlfriends) to a bar to dance, drink and just have a blast. He would have bought his first gun, that he would have been saving for over the last year so he could buy himself the best one. Bear in mind, though, that this kid had his share of alcohol well before he ever turned 18. Be that as it may, he would have felt as grown-up as the rest of us did when we signaled the bartender for the first time and asked for a drink.

Raul is not here to engage in such tomfoolery, but today is not for mourning a death. Today is for rejoicing in a life. 

Today, join me in a toast. Raise your wineglass. Your beer. Your can of Old Milwaukee, or shit, even your bottle of Smirnoff Ice if you want. To a sweet kid with a great sense of humor, integrity and an unshakeable faith. He was a great guy, and would have made a great cop.

 Salud.

To Insanity, and Beyond.

I was a Space Ranger as a kid.

Try not to be surprised.

When I was around four, I used to stick a belt in the back of my pants, then crawl around on all fours and head-butt people until I had their attention. Then I'd announce I was a tiger and they needed to pet me. Sometimes I was also a cow.

I also had an imaginary friend named Chito. To this day I can't tell you what he looked like, only that he had black hair. All I could ever picture was the back of his head.

I guess I just don't have that much imagination.

Anyway, I used to take an old phone, sit in the closet, and talk to him. For hours. About what, I can't remember. Politics? Scandinavian horror films? Possibly which one of the New Kids on the Block I liked best?

I liked the gay one.

After a while, I got tired of the whole Chito thing. The problem is, no one picked up on the fact that I stopped talking about him. All the grown-ups kept asking me about Chito, and I couldn't figure out how to tell everyone that I didn't give a shit about it anymore. It's kind of like when you break up with someone, but your 87-year old aunt has the memory span of a goldfish, and every time she sees you keeps asking where the nice young boy with the harelip is.

(I've never dated a guy with a harelip. I don't even know what that is...I just wanted to use 'harelip' in a blog post.)

Obviously, the adults were having a good har-dee-har-har at my expense because of Chito. Fed up, I put the final nail in the coffin.

Literally.

Grown Up: Paloma, how is Chito?

Me: Oh. I don't know. He's gone. I don't talk to him anymore.

Grown Up: Where did he go?

Me: He's dead.

Grown Up: *disbelieving silence* Oh..well..what a...a shame. How did Chito die?

Me: He went to the war and exploded. He died. So he's dead.

Oddly enough, people didn't just stop talking to me about Chito...people just stopped talking to me. How rude.

Update: My friend Vanessa brought up an interesting point: I never notified Chito's imaginary next-of-kin of his passing. Even though I was the one who sent him off to war. Which makes me the worst friend EVER.

Warning: This might get preachy.

Who am I?

Someone very recently posed this question to me. I found myself unable to answer.

I can easily fire off a few defining characteristics.

-Family-oriented.
-God-fearing.
-Feisty.
-Educated.
-Female.
-Kitchen/Baking junkie.
-A daughter.
-A sister.
-A friend.

But who am I? No freaking clue.

Back when I was working, I was introduced as "a cop". But is that really all I want to be known as? If that were the case, I would have just folded myself up in my locker at the end of the day until it was time to go 10-8 again. I had a life outside of my job, outside of my uniform. Or so I thought.

After I lost my job, I felt like I had no purpose. Like I was just...there. I convinced myself that my life was on hold and that it once I was rehired everything would simply start over. "Ok, life sucks right now, but I'm going to get a new job and then everything will be right again".

In some ways, that is true. I never understood until now how vitally important a job is to the mental and emotional well-being of the psyche. The idea of going to bed because you to have something to go do in the morning. Getting off of work and getting to grumble and grouse about work even though, secretly, you love it.

Every time I tried for a new PD and failed, I was crushed. I saw each job possibility as that chance to press the restart button and if I couldn't, it was devastating. It got to the point where I stopped telling people about my next test dates, my next interview with such-and-such PD, because then I'd have to subsequently inform them that I had yet again let it slip through my fingers. I felt like I was letting everyone down. It's quite narcissistic when I think about it. Like everyone is going to base their hopes and dreams on whether or not I get a new job. It has taken me a while to realize that it wasn't their disappointment in me that I was seeing, but disappointment for me.

The only voice I was hearing say, "you are a failure" was my own.

I've always walked with a very quick gait. I've never been an 'ambler'. Even people much taller than me sometimes complain that I walk too fast and need to slow down. Part of the reason for this is simply that I'm shorter than everyone else, so I need to walk twice as fast to keep up. But another reason for this is that I have a goal to get to...I'm in a hurry and please move aside because come hell or high water I'm going to get to where I'm going, dammit. These last few years I've felt like I've been forced to slow down and go at a much slower pace. I can't say I've done so willingly. More like an imaginary hand is pushing me back by the forehead, and I'm mulishly plowing forward against it, only looking forward, and not stopping to look at what's around me right at that very moment. Push push push.

Today, I found a new store at the mall that sells nothing but 50's style clothing. Somewhat rockabilly, but a bit more authentic. Less skulls and tattoos, more full skirts, crinolines, even snoods. They had this incredible black velvet, curve-hugging dress with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was the last one in stock. What the hell, I thought. I'll try it on.

The sales associates handed me a pair of leopard-print pumps for the full effect, and even my dad (who usually doesn't have much to say on the topic of women's clothing) insisted that I buy the dress. Then I looked at the price tag. $129.00. How could I, someone on unemployment, justifiably make such an extravagant purchase? Unthinkable.

Push push push.

I cringe when I think of what I've missed by just pushing against that hand on my forehead, while neglecting everything else. The relationships I let fall by the wayside. How many other opportunities did I ignore? Why didn't I take this extra time to improve on the guitar? Go to Oregon? Read more books? Take a random road trip by myself? Always, always, the excuse was: I can't afford to do it right now. When I have a job. When I have the money. For some of those chances I didn't see or take, it may be too late.

Push push push.

The question I'm asking myself now is, why was I always seeing that hand as an obstacle? Why did I see it as the block to what I felt was my destiny?

Why didn't I realize sooner that it was actually the hand of God?

Believers have this idea that God has a hand in everything. That God is gently guiding us through life's journey. A very calming, comforting imagery, no? Not so much with me. Like any parent, He has had to take a bit of a firmer approach with one of His more...uh...obstinate kids. In my case, God has been trying to get me to stop and see what's around me right now, rather than allow me to just charge unabashedly through life without stopping to check a few things out. He practically had to hit me with a frying pan to get me to apply to grad school. All those times I tried and didn't get the job, I didn't fail.

He was simply telling me, "Not yet. I have some other things for you to see first".

The journey continues to answer the initial "who am I?" question.

Oh, and I bought the dress. And it looks damn good.

Creating the Crazy

My fellow Harry Potter Nerds will enjoy this.

As many of you know, my Halloween costume last year was EPIC. I told no one of my plans, so when I showed up at my friend Cindy's Halloween party dressed as an Oompa Loompa, let's just say the costume was a hit.

Seeing as how I find myself still unemployed, I had plenty of time for this year's costume.

This year's costume was Bellatrix Lestrange.

This was no small feat. I went to costume shops in search of the right Bellatrix costume, but none amounted to what I had in mind. So I had to make it myself.

The inspiration.

The end result.

How did I do, my peeps?

Historia De Un Amor TRUNCADO.

When I was in high school, my first real crush was this guy I knew from church. He was tall, thin, and quiet, with large brown eyes and a warm smile. Best of all, he was an amazing guitar player. To this day I have not known someone who could play as well as he did...all he needed was to hear any song a few times before he could play it himself...he played guitar for the Saturday choir, of which his younger sister (a friend of mine) was also a member, so I saw my in. My plan in getting to know him better didn’t work out that well though, seeing as how he NEVER TALKED. I tried, I joked, I even tried to flirt (yes, try to imagine me ‘flirting’ at the age of 15. It wasn’t pretty. STOP LAUGHING!). This was your basic, run of the mill, HARDCORE crush. I daydreamed about, like, ohemgee, we would like date and be in luuuurve and...I don’t know...ride unicorns and file our taxes jointly and stuff. I thought I was all stealthy too, like, NO ONE knew about it and I was so smart and sneaky. I might as well have tattooed it on my forehead.

Or worn a sandwich board.

While he didn’t take the bait, he was unfailingly polite and never exploited my feelings or made fun of me (to my face anyway). Which is saying a lot. Like most high school crushes, it was pretty epically cringeworthy. Once, for Valentine’s Day, I sent him a Crush Gram through my AVID class. How it worked was you sent someone a bottle of Crush soda, then they could pay like 50 cents or something to find out who the sender was. I was a wimp and left it blank. So not only was I a tease, I cheated him out of his money.

Now that’s true love.

The next time I saw him I resolved to find some shit out with some mad sleuthing skills.

Me: Sooo, did anyone get a Valentine’s Day gram? Those are so lame. (nervous laughter)

Dude: Someone sent me one of those soda ones.

Me: reaaaalllly? (feigned shock) did you find out who sent it?

Dude: I went to look. They didn’t leave their name.

Me: oh, what a shame. (Recon mission TOTALLY nailed. I’m a ninja.)

The romance never came to pass, and my stalker-esque devotion remained unrequited. I moved away to school and life went on. On my visits home and when I finally moved back after graduation, we would periodically see each other, more frequently when my mom babysat for him for a few months. At one point we actually exchanged phone numbers, more out of necessity than anything else. This, along with the couple of times he pocket-dialed me or called (on purpose) would have been enough to send my 15-year old self into a fit of hysterics. By that time, however, he had taken up the spot in my mind as a casual acquaintance that I could actually have a normal conversation with, without blushing, smiling like a vapid moron or collapsing into nervous giggles.

What’s the point of my wistful recollection, you ask? There is a point. I was getting to it. Come in, sit down. Would you like a cookie?

Let me paint a picture for you. Of unrequited love, a story more romantic and tragic than Romeo and Juliet.

My youngest brother is somewhat of a metro. Seriously. He actually spent an hour in the bathroom yesterday complaining that he couldn't get his hair quite right. I guess we all have our battles. Anyway, a few months ago, a girl at school professed her undying love for my little brother, who we'll call Mr. Sexy.

Seriously, who could resist this dreamboat?

Not only is he not allowed to date (Damn skippy, yo), his schoolwork, volunteering at church and baseball leave him almost zero time for anything other than food, sleep and an occasional dump. It is my understanding that he told her as much, and let her down as easily and gently as he knew how. I believe this because we didn’t raise no fool.

This, apparently, did not go over well. Mr. Sexy is now this horrible heartbreaking Casanova who trifles with poor unsuspecting girls’ feelings and leaves broken hearts in his wake.

That trifling casanova!

Because I am nosy and can’t leave well enough alone, I went on trusty Facebook and sure enough, our forlorn and heartbroken heroine has poured her heart out to the Internet world. She ranged from song lyrics, her own poignant ramblings when she fancied herself a poet, to the purposefully misspelled text that these young’ns are so fond of.

Maybe I don't see how '"wonderful" he is because not thirty minutes ago, he admitted to me that he knew all the words to Rick Astley's " Never Gonna Give You Up". Followed by a full demonstration.

He then farted.

The bracelet in question. In case he ever forgets what his name is.

This girl is obviously destined for Mensa.

She is also a poet.

Ride on what?? The boy doesn't have a license. He has a bike. With a flat tire.

It's not his fault he's almost blind in one eye! He wears contact lenses now.

GODDAMMIT! It's FATE!!!!

Finally, after roughly two months of trying to tactfully reject this girl’s advances, she laid it all out there. Via email. On Facebook. Romantic, ain’t it?

That’s right, kids. She was in love because she "can’t talk to other guys".

I can think of a few other countries she’d be right at home in.

At this point however, our young Romeo had had enough, and finally just gave her the cold shoulder. So she gave up and got a new boyfriend a week later.

I guess ‘forever and a day’ in teenager speak is a week and a day.

Hooray for not being dead.

Is there an award for Worst Blogger?

If not, I'm going to invent one. Right now. But I'd probably still not win it. That's how bad I suck at blogging.

Simon Cowell says I suck. My life is now without purpose.

Enough with the self-flagellation. Time to get back on the bloggin-wagon.

Oh my god, I just invented a new phrase. I'm awesome.

ANYWAY, for those of you who actually read this tripe, I had an asscrapload of stuff to do in the last month. Observe.

1.) I MOVED!

My lease ran out, and in order to go month-to-month I would have had to pay an extra $200 a month. Considering the fact that I lived in Da Hood, Sunday mornings I'd get woken up by the old lady who thinks she still lives in Mexico and yells, "tamaleeeees" as loud as humanly possible while slowly ambling up and down the next street, and I'd lost count of the number of times I nearly shit my pants from when the maintenance guy slams the door shut on the storage garage, on top of which my apartment was so conveniently located, terminating my lease and going back to Chateau MomandDad was an easy decision.

So one grey and overcast morning, I rented a UHaul, called a few friends who still like me for reasons unknown, and packed all of my stuff into a storage unit like so many bits of Tetris blocks. I kept only a couple of suitcases of clothes (I have since gone shopping. I swear my mom just needs to be my personal shopper FOREVER. Otherwise I'd be running around in a burlap sack), some shoes (I will not say how many. I luuurves my shoes), my bike and my laptop. It does suck because now I'm far from Orange County (land of Botox and bolt-ons), Boyfriend, and there is not one day that goes by that I don't wish I had [some random item that's in storage] on me.

2.) I got tested.

Thankfully, I don't have herpes.

:P

A few days ago, I headed out to one of the many industrial parks in Anaslime to take the GRE. Once there, I followed the obvious signs to the testing center (they obviously don't think much of the people taking the test), where I was met by a 30-somethingish dude who had obviously rolled a fatty to go with his morning Frappachino. For medicinal purposes, obviously.

Breakfast of champions.

Anyway, I spent about 3 hours slogging through math problems I haven't seen since 9th grade and reading essays about the evolution of the lungfish for reading comprehension. I felt like my brain was the quiet little village with thatch-roofed huts and this stupid test was a boatload of vikings washing onshore to pillage and burn the whole fucking place to the ground.

What's in your wallet?

With the knowledge that my essays were going to be read by dry, stuffed-shirt professor types, I wrote my argumentative essay on...wait for it...Harry Potter.

Is my nerd showing? Sorry...it slips out from time to time. Satisfied that I had stuck it to the man (heehee) for making me PAY to sit through that bullhonkey, I submitted my scores and made my way to my favorite coffee shop to read the inspiration behind my GRE writing.

2.) I has boyfriend now.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the biggest factor behind my falling off the bloggin-wagon (it works on so many levels!). Boyfriend and I met back in November through a mutual friend, initially because I had applied to his company and I needed pointers for the interview. We met at a Starbucks, I asked questions, he answered them. I took notes. We shook hands, wished each other luck, and I left. I don't think either of us even removed our sunglasses. I was more preoccupied with getting to Long Beach afterwards for drinks at Tequila Jack's with Ig, Uli and Rudy.

I have my priorities, after all.

Needless to say, I failed the interview. Dismally. I texted Not-Yet-Boyfriend-Still-Just-Platonic-Acquaintance as soon as I walked out, bemoaning how badly I had done. We met, picked apart the interview, and just decided that I wasn't meant to work there. Texting correspondence continued, and in December he for some reason decided to take me out in public. He asked me to go with him to his company's party, and I said yes, thinking he just needed a dance partner. I obviously didn't think much of myself at this point.

After said outing, Not-Yet-Boyfriend decided to hang out with me. Again. And again. And again. It took a few weeks for me to convince myself that this really was dating and he wasn't just using me as a research subject (he's a Ph.D. student). Now he's just Boyfriend.

Fear not, my ickle beasties. This doth not meaneth that I will wear big girl pants and act like a grown-up. In fact, in the last seven months, Boyfriend has had to come to terms with the following:

• If someone burps, I will laugh. Especially if that someone was me.
• He has to refer to my car as a 'he'. And call him by his name.
• I will frequently forget to fully charge my Ipod, leading to a dead battery in the middle of a work out, leading to a very angry Hobbit.
• I hate talking on the phone.
• I am always willing to make an ass out of myself in public. Especially when sober.
• Instead of slutty Girlfriend-In-Her-Skivvies pictures, he will get this:

*breathes heavily* Luke, this is your girlfriend.

This is why I'll never be an adult.

I would be lying if I said I never want to get married.

I know I can be all fire and brimstone and shit, and I sure as hell love having my own little hovel I can call my own, but on occasion, it can get a little dull.

However, as much as I’d like to make some poor sucker miserable one day, I’m not so sure about the actual wedding part.

Once, when Lucy first got engaged, she, my mom and I were sitting around discussing some wedding shenanigans. Probably talking about, oh I don’t know…place settings? What color underwear Lucy will be wearing? Whatever. In the midst of this, my mom turned to me with a blissful sigh and said, “Just think, one day we can plan your wedding!”

My reply? “uh…can’t I just elope?"

Mom: (with angry mom death stare) "that is NOT funny."

Me: "Well, isn’t that what you did?"

This was apparently the wrong answer.

Lucy’s wedding was the shit. We had tacos, piñatas, a load of booze, no bouquet toss (which I detest); my dress cost $30, and I got the do the Carlton dance. There are a few ideas from her wedding I might borrow, like not having a bouquet toss (again, HATE), tacos, and most definitely piñatas. There are a few other details though, that might earn me a court order barring me from planning my own wedding:

1. The wedding party will walk down the aisle to “The Final Countdown”, while I will walk down the aisle to “Get Down Tonight”
2. A bouncy castle, sumo suits or a ball pit. Possibly all three.
3. If I don’t get tacos, I want an In n Out truck.
4. Having the groomsmen and the bridesmaids do a dance-off, a la West Side Story, complete with snappy fingers. They can decide who will be the Jets and who will be the Sharks.
5. All the groomsmen will wear eye patches.
6. At the reception, have midgets walking around with sombreros that are also chip and salsa receptacles.
7. Have my first dance be "Stayin' Alive", complete with choreography.
8. Be married by a priest that sounds like the one from Princess Bride (if I get hitched at La Purisima, this is entirely possible), and he HAS to say, "Mawage is wat bwings us togevah, today"

Don't hate just because you didn't think of it first.