by Perez, Nina
Kali talks a lot. It's okay. She gets it from me. I know this. That girl will talk your ear off if you let her. So, she's talking up a storm about God knows what with the stinky of box of Cheez-Its between our faces. I yawn.
"Wanna take a nap with me?"
"Will you close up the box for me?" Gladly. I reach over, close up the box, and toss the offending crackers towards the foot of the bed.
"Let's take a nap."
"How 'bout we just chat instead?"
"Ummm, how 'bout we just lie here with our eyes closed and love each other?" I counter.
"We can chat and love each other."
I don't have the heart to tell her that her breath is making Mommy want to hurl all over her, the bed, and our chat because I try not to have the ill effects of pregnancy stop me from doing things with her.
"OK, for a little while. What do you want to chat about?"
Silence.
"Darn. Now I don't have anything to say. Let me think of something."
Silence.
Then she starts talking to me about some family in the Sims 2 that has eight kids and how they just had another one. Finally she asks to play the Xbox 360 which is in my room.
"I'm watching TV. How about at 2 o'clock?"
"But you just said you're going to nap. How can you nap and watch TV at the same time?"
"I'm listening to it. I'm listening to the news now and at 1 o'clock I want to hear the beginning of All My Children. If I fall asleep before 2, you can play it."
"So, you're saying I can play it without asking?"
"Yeah, don't wake me up. Just go ahead and play. I'm TiVo'ing the soaps anyway."
A minute or so passes and I keep my body towards Kali, but turn my head facing the ceiling. Suddenly, her little face appears inches from mine. "I can't tell. Are your eyes open or closed?" Cheez-It breath all in my grill.
"Girl, if you stop talking I might just fall asleep and you can play that much sooner."
And you know what? She didn't say a word for twenty full minutes. She sat and watched the rest of the news. I slept for about that same length of time. Right as AMC came on, I woke up.
"Was I snoring?"
"A little." Pause. "You were drooling a little too." A few minutes pass. "Want to see me blow a bubble?"
"Sure. Want to rub my belly?"
"Sure, ‘cause there's a baby in there!'
Now, we're just hanging out in my bed, watching All My Children, blowing bubbles and rubbing my belly.
Parent-Teacher Conference
February 15, 2008
So, Donny and I have a method of dealing with parent required school events. We take turns. It all starts with beginning of the year registration and alternates from there. This year, I did registration and the following curriculum night so I just assumed that Donny would do the next two things; parent/teacher conferences. He went to the first conference a few months ago and before telling me how our child was doing in school he just says, "She's cute." Huh?
He was talking about Kali's teacher, which threw me for two reasons. One, he hardly ever comments on another woman's looks. In fact, it's only through constant nagging and little hints that I know he finds Beyonce, Tyra, and Sarah Michelle Gellar hot. I think we should now add Alicia Keys and the girl who plays Lois Lane on Smallville to the list. And now we can add our daughter's third grade teacher.
Secondly, I was surprised because I don't find her to be all that cute. Well, okay maybe cute is accurate. She's really petite, white, with a short brunette haircut. She's from Texas originally and has this really thick drawl, but she has these huge bug eyes. Anyway, when it was decided that Donny would be going to last night's conference the conversation with like this:
"You know you're going to the conference on Thursday, right?"
Eye roll.
"Oh, come on Donny! I'm achy and having your baby and I have a cold sore. Also, don't roll your eyes like you don't want to go smile up in her damn face again. 'She's cute!' You thought I forgot? So don't even act like your ass don't wanna go see her. Just remember who's having your baby and will cut your dick right the fuck off."
So, that's pretty much how that went. Last night Donny came home with a new revelation. Kali's stalker has been revealed. Remember the other day she found a note in her desk that read,
Dear Kali,
I hope your grades are doing well.
Did I say that? I meant to say you have the prettiest smile in the whole world.
Or maybe it was "the most beautiful smile." I forget. Either way, I thought I was going to have to go choke a bitch. Donny thought he'd have to go kill the janitor. Turns out, the author was none other than... Rachel.
Yes, that's a girl. It's not some French boy's name. So now I'm wondering, "Just how early do people know they're gay?" What?! Come on! Don't look at me like that. I'm sure I'm not the only one with gay friends who say they knew they were gay as soon as they passed the vaginal walls. I couldn't stop thinking about the woman on Oprah a few weeks ago who said she would write love notes to her girl friends when she was a kid and she knew then.
I've only met Rachel once. Last year, when Kali was in the 2nd grade, she had some girls from class come to her birthday party. Rachel's identical twin, Amanda, was in her class and came to the party with her Mom and Rachel. I remember Rachel being really quiet and shy. Now, this year she's in Kali's 3rd grade class and they are apparently best buds. In fact, that was the teacher's only complaint about Kali: She and Rachel pass notes in class. Of course, I had a little talk with Kali last night letting her know she better cut that shit out. (Remember the good old days when parents could actually threaten to spank their child in front of the whole class... and often did?)
Well, who should call last night but timid-voice Rachel.
"Hello?"
"Hi, can I speak to Kali?"
"Is this Rachel?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. A told us today that you guys have been passing notes in class. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"You two need to stop with the note passing, okay? When you're supposed to be paying attention in class that's what I want you to do. You guys can talk at lunch and recess. No more note passing."
"OK."
"OK. I'll go get Kali. Hold on."
Good Lord. When did I become an adult? I was the queen of note passing. Until I wasn't and got caught passing a note to another girl plotting for us to beat up another girl... complete with cuss words. The teacher sent the note home and I got the biggest ass whopping. My stepfather was like, "Well, at least you spelled everything correctly," before he beat my ass.
Open Letter to White People
March 6, 2008
Don't be offended, white people. This comes from a place of love.
Today I was reminded of a long forgotten stereotype I had about white people growing up. A lot of black people did. Black people want to live more than white people do. Where would we get such an idea, you ask? Uh, how about bungee jumping, parasailing, hang gliding, swimming in shark-infested waters and getting your leg bitten off only to go on Good Morning America talking 'bout, "Diane, I can't wait to get back out there!", and the inability to keep your fucking mouths shut while in a perfectly good hiding spot when there's a serial killer/mass murderer/psychopath after your asses!?
After years of watching horror movies I feel as if I'm more than qualified to advise white people to stand up. Stand up, I say! Stand up, rise up, band together, and tell Hollywood screenwriters you're not going to take it anymore! They ain't got shit else to do right now (writer’s strike), so why not listen to your long overdue and valid complaints? Tell them that you will no longer tolerate being portrayed as sniveling, stupid simpletons. (Side note: you promiscuous ladies may want to get in on this as it seems having a healthy, but not choosey, sexual appetite means that you are destined to be filleted.)
Now, I realize that this depiction of white folks is a little unbalanced since black peoples' history in horro
r films can be summed up as such:
1. For many years our asses weren't cast in any.
2. And when we finally were, we always died first.
If you've noticed, we are now represented more in horror films and when we are, we rarely, if ever, die first. Hell, it's not uncommon to see black people make it through the whole damn film and even through most of the sequel! And when we do die, we go out like P.I.M.Ps.
If you heed my advice and challenge these Hollywood writers to do right by you, here are some suggestions as to what you should address:
1. Why you all have to be so damn loud? I hate when the white girl being chased by the killer finds a good hiding spot and she gives herself away by whimpering and breathing all heavy.
2. If they don't answer you, they're dead. Every time a white person enters a spooky house, room, basement, etc. looking for someone, they gotta call out for the person six and seven times getting louder and louder. If Billy don't answer you the first time, Billy dead. Leave!
3. Shoot first, ask questions later. How many times have you seen a white woman have the killer at gunpoint only to stand there shaking and looking all confused? And how about when she tells the killer, "Don't move," yet proceeds to let him approach her dumb ass until he backs her up into a wall and takes the gun from her? I hate that shit. Girl, shoot his ass! Sometimes they try to explain it away by making the woman doubt whether or not the bad guy is actually bad. You don't want to shoot poor John and it turns out he was on your side. Solution? Shoot his ass in the kneecap! You can get away and if it turns out he was a good guy, bygones.
4. Stop leaving perfectly good hiding spots! Has anyone seen 30 Days of Night? Why the hell would you be in a more than adequate hiding spot for like 20 days, and then leave to go hide in the grocery store with a shit load of windows and entrances?
And while we're on the subject, why is there always one white person in the hiding spot that just has to get out? He/she always messes it up for everyone. They're either claustrophobic or just plain too stupid to not freak out and ruin it. Kill his ass. And kill him early.
My favorite fucker-up-of-a-perfectly-good-hiding spot is the white girl that will run screaming from cover because she saw a rat or mouse, and right into the arms of the psycho zombie-vampire-rapist. Dumbass.
5. Whenever we watch horror movies together, without fail I will make Donny laugh by saying, "A time and a place, people. A time and a place." Why do I say this? Because white people always find the time to screw when faced with death. Now I can understand if you're in a room locked with a bomb and you feel like death is imminent, but while on the run and you find an abandoned house to hunker down in for the night, do you really want to catch an axe in your ass 'cause you just had to get your groove on? Does the threat of death and dismemberment really turn you on that much?
6. Is it too much trouble to ask that you make sure the killer is actually dead? Why do white women stab the killer in the shoulder then proceed to drop the knife, turn her back on the prone killer, and sob so loudly she can't hear that the fucker has just stood up and is about to, deservedly, stick a knife in her skull? Good rule of thumb? If you manage to incapacitate the killer, commence to cutting his head clean. the. fuck. off. And then his dick. 'Cause that's how you roll.
7. Ever heard of safety in numbers? Apparently white folks haven't. It can be like 12 of them stuck in a house with a killer and instead of everyone just sitting in one room and waiting for his crazy ass to come to them so he can catch a 12-man beatdown Brooklyn-style, they decide it makes more sense to split up into groups of twos, and sometimes solo, to look for clues, find an exit, etc. Inevitably, one of these groups will consist of a guy and girl who will find a room in which to fuck (see number 5.)
8. White girls, stop running up to the attic or down to the basement. For once I'd love to see one of you, I don't know, try the front door. Hell, even jump out a first story window, but stop going to the places with little to no exits! And stop tripping and falling. For the first 45 minutes of the film, you are the most agile bitch ever, but as soon as body parts start flying, you suddenly can't run two feet without tripping over the wind. Learn how to run, bitch!
I can run in heels carrying a baby in my belly, my child in one arm, and my cell phone in the other while texting a blog. Surely you can dash 15 yards through the woods without stumbling twice only to fall on your back, all the better to scream perfectly into the camera while being slashed.
9. Listen to the black people! Even if it's the single, stoned brother, listen to his ass. Even if it's the brother sitting in the theatre. Listen to his ass!
10. Assume all urban legends are real. Stop trying to disprove them. Nothing good can come of it.
11. The killer is ALWAYS white. And always really, really, sick and twisted. If you are the last person standing, be prepared to run through an obstacle course made up of all the people he has killed before getting your ass. White killers think that shit is funny to watch you hurdling over poor Susie's head.
12. Stop taunting crazy people!
Family Portraits
March 25, 2008
I don’t know when my hatred for family portraits began. I just know that the other day it occurred to me that they’re pretty fucking lame. As Donny and I cleaned the kitchen Saturday morning I further expanded on what I found so irksome about them.
For one, people insist of dressing everyone involved exactly alike. Either they’re all decked out in their Sunday best, or worse, they’re wearing identical matching outfits: white button-down shirts with khaki pants, denim outfits, or hideous red sweaters at Christmas time. It always looks ridiculous. You have Mommy, Daddy, the three little kiddies, and sometimes, if they’re really crazy, the family dog all decked out in matching Gap outfits. Why? Who does that?
Some families who do this will only do it once in a while. Their explanation being that it’s rare to get the family together and it’s a good thing to have a nice portrait together. First of all, by the time everyone gets dressed, drives to Sears, waits their turn, chooses from a plethora of hideous backgrounds, poses, and gets ass-raped for a $50+ package, they could have plopped their asses on the couch and set the timer on the digital camera placed on the fireplace mantle, wearing whatever the hell they happened to have on at the time.
I think what really bothers me is the fakeness of it all followed dangerously close by the dressing alike. The photographers make everyone look off to some mark over his shoulder, perhaps because if they looked directly in the camera we’d be able to see that Daddy is really miserable with Mommy, and Mommy is still disappointed that she didn’t marry that guy she dated out of college, and that the oldest boy was conceived just to get Mommy off Daddy’s back, and the youngest well, he was an accident.
I prefer candid shots. I like looking through our family albums and being able to say, "Oh, this was my Dad’s surprise 50th party," or, "Remember going to Grandma’s that weekend?" You get to see your family as they really were. Who rocked that unfortunate high top fade back in the day. Who wore those ridiculously tight pants back in 1998. Specific, obscure, yet wonderful memories can come flooding back by simply examining the backgrounds in each picture. "Wow, remember that old TV? Whatever happened to it?" "See that toy on the floor? Remember when Kali would play with it constantly... until that day she flushed it down the toilet?"
But back to the synchronized fashion. What up with that? How can a family of three or more dress in the same outfit, get in the car, and one member not take a moment to look around the vehicle and be like, "We look a damn fool?" Hell, even the toddler can look around, realize that for the first time his siblings and parents are all dressed like him and think, "Hmm, this is weird." And by weird he means stupid. What is that walk through the mall like? For every one person giving the walking Old Nay ad a look that says, "Aww, how cute," there is at least three of me going, "You’ve got to be fucking kidding me." You should never leave the house knowingly dressed exactly as someone else unless yo
u’re on a sports team, in a wedding party, or it’s Halloween.
Do they think that the matching outfits somehow equal stable family? Are we supposed to look at those matching ensembles and think cohesive family unit? Above all, that they must really love each other in order for Mom (and you know it’s always the mother’s idea) to spend the time shopping to make sure everyone matched just so?
Finally, just what the hell are we supposed to do with these pictures? The only people who truly appreciate these family portraits are grandparents. Everyone else is like, "Why the hell? Where am I supposed to put this?" And you know what happens right? Eventually the grandparents die and you’re gathering up their belongings and come across your own family portrait and realize that not even you want that shit because you already have your own copies plus the extras you couldn’t unload because you let the young kid at The Picture People talk you into a big ass package you didn’t need.
There are only two exceptions: children only photos...
Well, really that’s the only exception.
Now, this is where you tell me how I just don’t get it. And you’re right. I don’t.
I Actually Left the House
April 9, 2008
I know, I know. Pick your jaws up off the floor.
Yesterday I went with Donny and Kali to Wal-Mart for groceries. Donny means well, but when he does the shopping we usually run out of stuff in four days. I put on my maternity khakis but rolled up the legs a bit so they were kinda like capris, put on some flip-flops and a flowy shirt and a little make-up. I felt good!
