Rio does it again.
Fresh for ’09
2
Monthly Archives: August 2009
Dizzying
Sometimes at the big parties, I wouldn’t dance. Instead, I’d stick out my arms, place my feet — in cute patent leather Mary Janes — in position and spin. My colitas and dress would fly up.
The dancers would become a blur. Until I bumped into one.
Then I’d be told to stop.
“Ya párale, te vas a marear!”
But that’s exactly what I wanted. So I wouldn’t listen and get back to spinning. Soon, cousins and siblings would join the fun and we’d become a small group of whirling dervishes.
It was all so much fun… until someone got hurt. Someone always got hurt. The eldest kid or ringleader would try to prevent more drama.
“Don’t cry! You’re going to get us in trouble!”
But it was futile. We hadn’t learned yet how to suppress the tears. A parent would rush over, to scold the crier.
“Te dije… that’s what you get.”
The sniffling crier would be taken away or inside to get cleaned up. The rest of us would come up with a new game to entertain us… until someone got hurt.
Photo taken by Alan at LACMA inside a Richard Serra sculpture
Siguiendo la luna
My parents wanted to name me Veronica. Dad liked the idea of calling me Ronny. They passed on the name after a couple close friends chose the name for their newborns.
Cynthia came to them from a baby book. I don’t know what they liked about it, but just know that it met their primary qualification: it sounded good in English and Spanish (to avoid aCameron/camarón) situation).
They rarely use Cynthia, just as they rarely use Daniel and Laura. I’ve always been Cindy, except when it comes to a place like the doctor’s office or the DMV. Or when I got in trouble.
I didn’t think about this much until I read “My Name,” a vignette in Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street in high school. I wrote a short essay and concluded that Cindy fit me better. It was short, bouncy and casual. Conversely, Cynthia was too long, formal and sounded inherently snobby (only in English, I like how it sounds in Spanish).
I didn’t even consider the meaning of my name. After all, this was well before I fully developed my affinity for the moon and came to really appreciate my prominent lunares.
A few weeks ago, after a great run under the full moon, I came to new conclusion about my name. Mom and dad knew what they were doing.
Cynthia really does fit me (or I fit it?).
August in photos, part 2
Happy Dodgers fans.
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Micro-blogging
I love that my friends and family take pictures when they find the elusive 31. My cousin, Vanny, took this photo at the San Diego Zoo.
Today’s karaoke scorecard: Me Voy (Julieta Venegas), Hopelessly Devoted to You (Olivia Newton John, Grease), Tú, Solo Tu (Selena version), Tragos Amargo (Ramón Ayala), I Will Follow You Into the Dark (Death Cab for Cutie), and First of the Gang to Die (Morrissey). [I picked songs to fit the sad song theme. Also, I'm already making a list of songs I need to sing next time I do karaoke.]
The boyfriend shares a birthday with Tiffany. I share one with Debbie Gibson. We were meant to be…
Cindy is is equal parts Marcha de Zacatecas and Camino de Guanajuato.
Sweet tooth
I love sweets, but I don’t crave them. I don’t sit around and think, “I need a brownie right now!” I only want a brownie at the moment Lori pulls them out of the oven. Otherwise, I’m okay.
Donuts are my exception. And even then, I’m only tempted when in proximity to a shop. I always want to stop, but rarely do (even before starting WW).
So, imagine how I felt when I got to work a few days ago to find a box of donuts and muffins on my desk. Although I’d miss the going away mini-party for a co-worker, I hadn’t missed the goodies.
Yeah. Uh oh.
My supervisor saw me eying the box.
“Please, have one!” she said cheerily.
I nodded, but didn’t grab one of the two remaining glazed donuts (my 2nd favorite behind cinnamon crumb). I sat down, logged in to my computer and began making some calls. I ignored the box until my co-worker came by an hour later.
“I know you’re trying to eat healthy, want me to move this?”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
He moved it to the next desk out of my line of vision.
All was fine until I started to feel hungry at 3:30, a few hours after my lunch. I went back to the box, ready to give in.
All the glazed donuts were gone. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.
August in photos, part 1
August 1: I spent a day with friends celebrating their little ones. First I attended Lil’ HP’s baptism. The little guy didn’t seem too fond of getting water poured on his head. Later that day I went to a baby shower for a high school friend I hadn’t seen in years, but it didn’t feel that way when we were joking around and catching up.
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Up in arms
I’m not much of a pro football fan. I live in LA. We don’t have a team. Yet I can’t escape it. All around me, friends are giddy with the start of preseason play. Today, I heard virtual jaws drop on Twitter, Facebook and blogs as news broke that the Philadelphia Eagles signed Michael Vick.
Most of the reaction I’ve read so far was from people who are glad Vick is getting a second chance. They readily admit that running a dog fighting ring is deplorable and he deserved to spend 23 months in prison. Now that he’s served his time, they say, he should be able to get on with his life. The football fans like blackink and GD at PostBourgie discuss what Vick will add to the Eagles’ offense. (By the way, PB is up for a well-deserved blog award, support them!)
Of course many are upset and openly express their belief that the Eagles made a bad decision. They won’t support the team. Their new favorite team is whoever is playing the Eagles, etc.
Understandable. I like dogs too. I don’t want to see them mistreated, beaten, shocked and forced to fight ’til the death. I covered my eyes during the dog fighting scenes in Amores Perros too.
While I’m not cheering on the Eagles and Vick, I’m not mad.
I’m more confused about those who can be up in arms over Vick, but did little when it came to Luis Ramirez.
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East L.A., fear and a role model
It wasn’t too late when I left Hacienda Heights. Fifteen minutes later I was in East LA and slowing down for road construction on the 60 westbound. I decided to get off a few exits early and take a different route to my friend’s house.
I exited the freeway to find the normally busy intersection at Whittier and Lorena quiet at 11:30. I drove down 6th street as if going to my aunt’s house a few blocks away.
The light at the intersection of Lorena and 6th turned green and I started down the big hill on 6th. When I was a kid, I’d say “weeeee” as my mom or dad drove down the hill on the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s or Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s house.
This time was different. In the front and to my left I noticed two men. One pushed a shopping cart. The other charged toward my car, as if in anger. My heart quickened with fear, I made sure my doors were locked and stepped on the gas while sort of swerving around the man. I barely stopped at the stop sign up ahead.
Five minutes later after arriving at my friend’s house, my heart was still beating quickly.
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Question of the week: Musts
I was just called out by my brother Adrian for admitting that I’ve never eaten at Pink’s.
He claims I have no excuse. I’m from LA. I live just a few miles away from La Brea and Melrose. I have transportation. I don’t have any particular dietary restrictions that would keep me from eating a hot dog. It’s an LA landmark, thus he reasons, I should have eaten there.
I shrugged.
Nunca se me ha antojado. (It’s never called to me). The line doesn’t help much either. I once waited 45 minutes in the cold for a hot dog, but that was in Chicago and for Hot Doug’s. Even Anthony Bourdain ate there.
La pregunta: Anything you haven’t done in your city that is a “must” by mainstream guidebooks or magazines?
I’m bringing back the questions. If you have suggestions for future QOTWs, let me know via email (see contact page above).