by Perez, Nina
We finally make it back home. "What's wrong with you?” Oh, he was so sorry he asked that.
I don’t feel like walking/running in this hot ass heat.
You ruined my day.
The house is a mess and I don’t feel like cleaning, but I have to or else I’ll wake up to a messy house on my birthday.
These Nikes feel too tight. I think my feet got fatter too. Can feet get fat? Mine did.
Tomorrow’s my birthday and I don’t have shit to do.
“Well, that’s why I wanted to take care of the car stuff today so you can keep the Saturn and do something.”
Do what? Call my girlfriends and go out? What girlfriends?! Go where?!
The stupid financial aid office won’t answer the phone, and I want to know if my grant money is on my ID card so I can buy my books before Monday.
And finally, I had fruit and Crystal Lite for breakfast. I’m about to eat my own titties I’m so hungry.
Donny scurries back to work, wondering why he didn’t marry that cute little blonde he was dating before me.
Off I go. Oh wait, I need a key. Donny has one set of keys with the Saturn, and the other set is with the Toyota at the auto place. I search the junk drawer for a spare key. When we closed on our house they gave us like, fifteen copies of the house key. Of course, I can’t find one now that I finally need it. After much searching and cussing, I find one. Now, I’m ready to go.
By this time, it’s high fucking noon. I start walking. I have my iPod in my left hand, and a bottled water and house key in my right hand. I turn around because I think I hear something behind me. Wack! I knock one earphone out of my ear and the iPod hits the ground. Fuck me!
I need one of those stupid armband thingies to hold the iPod. Maybe I should go to Wal-Mart first and get one before I do this? Hmmm, I don’t have a car. I could walk to Wal-Mart. Inner self kicks in.
IS: “Bitch, you ain’t walkin’ to no Wal-Mart.”
She’s right. I re-adjust and continue walking. I suppose I should pump my arms and blow out breaths like those power walkers do, but they look stupid. These are my neighbors. I have to live with these people. They will not see me looking like a retarded mall walker. I do realize, though, that I need to do more than just stroll. It seems kinda pointless unless I put some pep in my step. Some motion in my ocean. You know, move my ass. I opt for the only other “walk” I know.
Pretty soon I look like I’m auditioning for America’s Next Top Model: The Geriatric Edition. I don’t care. It’s better than looking like a power walker.
As I listen to my music and strut my stuff, I realize that this would be a good time to reflect. I try to reflect, but I’m not sure what I should be reflecting on. I decide clearing my mind might be better. I clear my thoughts, but that, and the sun, just makes me sleepy.
I decide to play a little game where I envision the music videos to the songs that play on my iPod. I’m halfway through Guns n’ Roses’ You Could Be Mine and contemplating watching Terminator 2 later, when I realize I have a wedgie.
IS: “You should have worn panties.”
Bitch.
So, now I’m strutting like a supermodel, sweating like a pig, and picking a wedgie as I walk by a house with a black couple unloading groceries from their car in their driveway. Their mouths are moving, but I can’t make out their greeting over Pearl Jam’s Glorified G. I just give a half wave with my water bottle/key hand, and pick my pants out of my ass with my iPod hand. They look a bit disgusted, but I don’t care. They should have their black asses at work anyway. It’s the middle of the fucking day.
I’m four long blocks away from my cul-de-sac when my left calf starts to burn. Holy. Mother. Of. God. But I can’t stop now. Four blocks ain’t shit. In my heyday, I’d walk from 23rd St. to 42nd in Manhattan without breaking a sweat. I sadly realize this isn’t my heyday, and I’m pretty sure my eyeballs are sweating. I drink some water and soldier on.
I walk another two blocks before turning back. This is why I love the gym. It’s air conditioned, and if I get tired of the treadmill I can always hop on the bike or elliptical. Your only options walking the subdivsion are: you can either continue, turn around and walk back, or sit on the curb and cry like a bitch. I was seriously contemplating option three.
The walk back to the house was only slightly less torturous because I was able to tell myself I was headed home where there was central air waiting. Three blocks from my house, my hips start to hurt.
IS: “Stop switching them so hard. Nobody’s looking. You don’t have to be cute all the time, you know.”
Eat me.
The last block was the worst. It was uphill and my calves felt like little pins were being poked into them. I couldn’t get the key in the front door fast enough. As soon as my eyes adjusted from leaving the sun, I was hit with a headache. I don’t care what our budget looks like. I’m rejoining Gold’s Gym. This walking out in the elements is for the birds.
I need a shower. And a cheeseburger.
He Works Hard for the Money
August 25, 2006
You know what I've noticed? No matter how forward thinking and modern your man is, if he's the bread winner he will take on certain caveman type characteristics. Donny is a sweetie pie, but lately I've noticed a change in him. And I don't just mean his constant threats of backhanding me. Everyone knows that he works while I go to school full time. I’ve found that no matter what the situation, Donny's answer for everything has now become, "Because I work." Or some variation of that. For instance…
"Why are you so tired?"
"Because I work."
Or...
"I don't feel good."
"What's wrong?"
"I've been working."
Or...
"What do you want for dinner?"
"Work."
The other day he came in and kissed me hello.
"Ew, you stink."
"’Cause I been working!"
I'd finally had enough. "Alright, I get it. Damn! You work and I don't! Must you remind me every three hours?! I know you work!"
My favorite part of all of this is how he thinks this means that I'm automatically going to be a housewife. Um, no. Don't get me wrong. I clean and cook. But I don't do it like it's my job.
Donny leaves the room to get something to drink...
"Can you bring me something to drink too?"
"Sure."
"And maybe a slice of pizza. But only put it in the microwave for like forty-five seconds. And don't forget a napkin."
"You're bossy."
"Are you new?"
Outsourced
September 14, 2006
In this day and age, we are all familiar with how much of a pain in the ass it is to cancel an account. Some of us had to learn the hard way the correct way to do this. In the beginning, when asked, “May I ask why you wish to cancel your account/subscription?” I would try to be nice and general.
“Oh, I just don’t need it anymore.” Or, “I never really use it.”
What I realize now is that the customer service person has a book of rebuttals propped up in front of him just waiting for me. His finger travels down the page of rebuttals until he gets to “I never really use it.” It slides to the right…. “Well, ma’am, perhaps you were not aware of all the fine features our product offers. Did you know that besides providing you with hours of entertainment, it can also mow your lawn, clip your toenails, braid your hair, and help you save on car insurance?”
“Really? One little magazine can do all that?”
“That’s right. Perhaps you would like to get the next month free, and try out these new features.”
My stupid ass says, “Okay.”
Over the years, I’ve learned to be ready for them. “Ma’am, may I ask why you’re canceling your account?”
“Because I want to, that’s why! As a free, black woman, it is my right to cancel. I woke up this morning and decided to cancel and that’s just what I’ma do. Ca
ncel. What you questioning me for? Can’t a black woman cancel some shit if she wants to? Bet if I was white you wouldn’t be questioning me like this. What? You think I don’t know myself? A black woman can’t know what she wants? Fuck you. Cancel. That. Shit. Now!”
“Your confirmation number is….”
See? Leave no room for argument.
Perfect example: I finally called to cancel my Napster subscription yesterday. Now that I have an iPod with iTunes, I don’t need it.
“Ma’am, may I ask why you want to cancel your Napster subscription?”
My exact words: “Cause it sucks! It was a big old rip off. I pay $10 a month and 99 cents per song. When I bought my MP3 player and tried to download the songs to it, I kept getting licensing errors and was told I need to buy the songs again. Screw that. Then when I tried to get some sort of help, it took me two days to find the customer service number. Who are you? The CIA? Why the difficulty? Just cancel it. I got an iPod now and it’s so much nicer. Yup, I missed Prison Break last week and got the episode for $2 on my iTunes. Napster sucks.”
Done and done. He hurried up and got my ass off the phone.
Just now I called Real Player to cancel my Super Pass. I get it every summer for the Big Brother live feeds and cancel as soon as the show is done. Every fucking summer they ask me why I want to cancel and I tell them. They still try to get me to stick around. When I called today I was prepared for a fight, but got so much more.
Some Indian lady answered the phone. There was a ton of noise in the background. It was really loud and I almost hung up thinking I had the wrong number.
“Can I have your email address please to look up your account?”
Now my last name is hyphenated. Perez-married last name. I always have to spell them both. My email address is the letter “n” followed by my married name. Let’s just say it’s Cuashka.
“N as in Nancy- C as in Cat – U as in Unicorn – A as in Apple – S as in Sam…”
You get the picture. She’s typing for a moment. I think I hear a goat in the background.
“Let me confirm that email address for you. That’s M as in Mary, F as in Frank, A as in Apple.”
I cut her off. “No, no, no, there’s no F anywhere in there. Where’d you get an F?”
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”
“It’s N as in Nancy, C as in Cat, A as in…”
I do it all over again.
“Thank you. Please hold while I pull up your account.”
I hear her typing and breathing. In the background the goat sounds restless. “Ok, Ma’am can I have your credit card number on the account?”
“Can I just give you the last four digits?”
“No, I need the whole number.”
“I don’t want to give you the whole number.”
“Well, I need to prove you are who you say you are.”
“Well, I don’t know who you are and I’m not giving out the number. Now what?”
“One moment.”
The goat brays. Or whinnies. Or whatever the fuck it is goats do.
“Ok, can you give me your first and last name?”
“Nina. N as in Nancy, I as in Igloo, N as in Nancy, A as in Apple.”
“Ok.”
Then I say my last name and proceed to spell it.
“P as in Paul…” When I’m done she repeats it back to me… “Did you say E as in Paul?”
Silence.
I blink.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said. That silent e in Paul.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Projectile Tampons
November 2, 2006
Donny and I were watching this show on VH1 where they did a countdown of the top one hundred songs of the 80’s. That song by David Bowie and Queen, you know, the one Vanilla Ice sampled, made the list. My young husband says, "I didn't know they did this song."
"You thought Vanilla Ice came up with that?!" So then I ask, "Don't you remember that interview with Vanilla Ice where he's defending himself?" And I tell Donny how Vanilla Ice said, "Their beat goes like this... dun dun dun dun dun dun dun. And my beat goes like this… dun dun dun dun dundun dun tsk dun dun dun dun. See, that little tsk is the difference"
And Donny is looking at me like I'm on crack, like I'm making it up. And at that exact moment what comes on but the actual interview? And I had it right! Down to the very last "dun." Donny starts laughing, I start laughing, and I'm laughing so hard I say, "Stop! I think my tampon is going to come out!"
That only makes Donny laugh harder. He says, "I saw a tampon commercial yesterday where tampon have grips. And I thought, do tampons really need grips? Do they come out?"
And we continued to laugh like children while I clenched my vagina.
The Morphine Statue
December 28, 2006
Kali is The Big Dipper, and my best friend's daughter, who is three years old, is The Little Dipper. So named are they because they have the uncanny ability to find themselves within earshot every time we are on the phone having inappropriate conversations. Next thing I know, I’m answering questions like this:
“Mommy, what’s Chlamydia?"
“A seasoning, honey. Go play."
My best friend, Sophie, has a female stalker - a poor soul who can't take a hint and continues to call her and invite her places even though Sophie repeatedly declines, and most times, won't even answer the phone. We talk about this girl at least every two weeks, and were totally unaware that the Little Dipper had been paying attention to these conversations until one day she informed Sophie that "Mommy doesn't like Miss Cathy." So, now we're just waiting for the day when Sophie and Little Dipper run into Miss Cathy at the Shop N' Save and she repeats it. ‘Cause that's how kids roll.
My favorite Little Dipper moment was a few months ago as Sophie and I were on the phone one weekday around 4pm.
Sophie: "Oooh, I can't watch Oprah today.”
Nina: "Why? What's it about?”
Sophie: "It's about a D-A-D that killed his five-year-old twins.”
There's a shocked gasp from Little Dipper in the background.
Nina: "I think you spelled the wrong word, jackass.”
My biggest fear is that one day Kali will repeat something in school that will cause them to call child services. For instance, Christmas Eve day was the first day I met my new nephew and as I was "eating his little ass up" (kissing him all over) I said, "Ooh, just wait till tomorrow when the rest of the family sees you." Then I looked at my sister and said, "We're going to be passing him around like a joint."
"What's a joint?" See? Big Dipper, dippin' in grown folks' conversation.
Yesterday, Sophie had her second child, a beautiful baby boy. She was hopped up on morphine most of the day and our conversation last night was hysterical. She sounded like a crack head. Her speech was slurred, she kept repeating herself. I kept waiting for her to ask to borrow money.
Tonight, we're on the phone talking about it as Kali is drawing at the coffee table.
Nina: "So, you still getting morphine?”
Sophie: "Nah, I've been downgraded to Percocet.”
Kali interrupts to show me her drawing and how she can't wait to show it to her teacher.
Nina: "That's nice, honey.”
Kali: "Thanks! I call it, The Morphine Statue.”
Big Dipper strikes again.
Picking Up Tips
January 3, 2007
Last night I made Donny go out and rent Snakes on a Plane and The Covenant. Morbid curiosity made it so that he didn't mind the first one, but...
"What the hell is The Covenant?"
"Remember? That movie that Chrissa wanted to see and was crying about because she couldn't find it in any theatre, and then it turned out it wasn't out for a few weeks so I mocked her privately in IM instead of blogging about it?"
"Oh, yeah. You don't want to see that!"
"How you gonna tell me what I want to see? I said I want to, didn't I?"
> "Fine. Who's in it, Nina?"
"White boys and vampires. Two of my favorite things. Now go get it."
We watched SOAP last night. Not bad. I actually liked it. If you don't go into it expecting Oscar material, you won’t be disappointed.
After the movie, we watched Dateline. Chris Hansen, who we love in this house due to his To Catch a Predator series, was doing a story on a man accused of killing his wife in Michigan. Donny was particularly interested as he's from Michigan and I was interested because I didn’t want his ass picking up tips.
The story was the usual: The couple started out great, married out of college, two kids, nice home, then the husband becomes addicted to everything from porn, to pills, to gambling. The wife wants a divorce and then looky here; she turns up face down in the river with a bloody head. And the husband is left with this dumb ass, "I don't know nuffin' 'bout nuffin'" look on his face.
I turned to Donny in bed and said, "What is it with you white men? I mean, really? Why you always gotta kill your wives?"
He just smiled, flashing deep dimples. I stuck my finger in one dimple and told him, "Don't go smiling at me! I'm not playing. Don't even think about killing me cause your ass gonna get caught! See (pointing to the screen), they always get caught!"
"At least I'll get to meet Chris Hansen."
I slept with one eye open the whole night.
A Whale’s Tail
January 4, 2007
