Mami, Deconstructed

Best. Day. Ever.

2011-04-19T00:41:00.000-07:00

Nearly two years ago I took my son to the beach for the first time in a long time. Well, it felt that way, anyway. Maybe that’s because it was the first time in a long time since I’d allowed myself to truly enjoy the beach.

And I did.

I even did cartwheels.

I was almost 40, and this was huge for me because even as I did the first one, I thought to myself: “You’re too old to be doing cartwheels.”

My inner child responded: “Screw that! No I’m not!” And I did another. And another. And my son cheered and joined me, and declared it the Best. Day. Ever.

Later that year I started going to a new hairdresser. I didn’t venture far: this guy sits one station over from the woman who cut my hair previously. She told me on numerous occasions that I was too old to have long hair. Over and over again I allowed her to cut my hair short and in a style very much like hers.

Because I believed her. I was old, shouldn’t have long hair and didn’t do cartwheels on the beach with my son.

But the new hairdresser – Michael - told me otherwise. “Honey, you have beautiful hair. Let it grow.” And I did. No, it’s not fabulous long but it’s a lot longer, and I no longer feel compelled to keep it pulled back in a tidy ponytail.

And I still do cartwheels.

I do other things, too.

A few weeks ago, I took my son to San Francisco – where he was born, and where I dream of living once again. My son and I rode a tandem bike from Fisherman’s Wharf, down through the Marina, over the Golden Gate Bridge and into Sausalito. And while I had to walk the bike a couple of times (Hey, I’m nearly 42 now and hadn’t touched a bike in more than a decade!) we made the ride in one piece and had a great time doing it.

Later that day we still had the energy to walk up California St. from the Financial District up to Mason St., then down through Chinatown to North Beach. I had trouble making that climb without huffing and puffing when I lived in San Francisco ten years ago, but had no problems doing it this time, chasing my son up the hill laughing all the way.

At the end of every day, the kid said: “Best. Day. Ever.”

At some point that weekend I started to realize how much has changed for me over the last two years. Through a lot of pain, sadness and general life difficulties, I was able to find strength in what is most important to me: my son. The hair? Maybe it is to me what it was to Samson (I’m seriously just kidding). But It is emblematic of the youth that crazy hairdresser told me was lost forever.

This last weekend, my son and I went to the beach again. This time it wasn’t cartwheels that made me feel young. It was another bike ride, some sandcastle-building and a serious game of tackle football in the sand.

At the end of the day, the kid said again: “Best. Day. Ever.”

It was.

And the next one will be better still.

Going Places and Moving Mountains

2011-03-03T00:18:00.000-08:00

Today I asked my friends on Twitter and Facebook to name their favorite Dr. Seuss book. It was the good Doctor’s birthday, after all, and I feel like – at the very least - we owe the man a nod. I love his books and the reaction their mere mention elicits in people as they did today. (I suspect copious amounts of green eggs and ham were consumed today.) But one of Dr. Seuss’ books stands out for me:

“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”

On March 2^nd of last year I asked my friends on Twitter to guess what my favorite Dr. Seuss book is. Most missed the mark. I’m not sure why, because in my view it’s quite obvious.

For one, it’s uplifting and empowering.

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

I’m ambitious. I work hard. The book speaks to that, so I thought it would be obvious it’s my favorite.

The book is also realistic, and this realism is emblematic of the last two years of my life:

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
that Bang-ups
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You'll be left in a Lurch.

You'll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump,
you're not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

Maybe it’s not easily done. But it’s done, against all odds and despite the loud howls of the Hakken-Kraks. And now, of course, when I step I do it:

“with care and great tact and remember that life’s a Great Balancing Act.”

Balance: Yes, that. I’m on my way to finding that. Not quite there… but who is?

But I’ll tell you this. More often than not these days, I feel this:

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

The mountains I’m moving these days are very different from those I was focused on a few years ago. And while I’m still learning what it takes to move these new mountains ahead of me, with every day my confidence builds that I can do it. I will do it. For the kid. For me.

You're off the Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!

I’m on my way. And I’m smiling as I go.

Note: The excerpts above from ‘Oh, the Places You’ll Go!’ are the property of Dr. Seuss and Random House Children’s Books. If you don’t own the book, you really should buy it. It sits on my bedside table so the kid and I can read it as often as we’d like. And we do.

Living the PR Dream

2011-02-27T01:18:00.000-08:00

I’ve been working in the PR industry for nearly 20 years. And in each one of those years, I’ve heard more colleagues I can count say: “Wow, I wish I could use the skills I have to do good.” I confess that for years I used to mentally pat my interns on their heads and think “OK, then. It’ll be OK, then.”

Why?

Well, most people expect to make a lot of money when they do PR. (Which can happen unless they do entertainment publicity which is a whole other subject I just don’t want to address.) And “doing good” doesn’t always equate to “making a lot of money.” But I’m one of the fortunate people who, very recently, have been able to make it work. And for an organization I learned to love while making the big bucks at a global PR agency.

I recently wrote this Charity Spotlight for the local CBS website - where I contribute - about the Boys & Girls Clubs – where I now work. Getting here has been quite the journey and I don’t mean it’s been work. I mean that I believe it happened because it was meant to – right now – for me, and for them. I’ve been told that the Boys & Girls Clubs are like Hotel California – you can “swipe out” And I believe that’s true. I can’t imagine I time I’d want to leave. I mean - this picture was taken in my office. I get visits from kids like these every day.

You can read what I wrote here. But if you ever want to learn more, don’t hesitate to ask me – I’ll even give you a tour of our facilities. I guarantee you’ll leave smiling and thinking of a zillion ways to help. And that is the PR Dream.

With Each Move an Opportunity

2011-02-10T01:06:00.000-08:00

I moved recently, and I’m in the process of selling my house. (OK it’s a condo – whatever. But anything that costs that much should be referred to as “house” – period.) I had a hard time with this move – just ask my sister @KLCanefan who came out from Florida to help me, and my friends @lildevilmama, @crackpotpress, Mel and JL who volunteered to help on various days. (I have crazy friends – what can I say.)

I was disorganized and not fully packed by the time my friends and the really kind movers I hired arrived. And I’m grateful that everyone involved dealt with the entire situation with good humor. Well, except when my sister started throwing things in the bathroom, but we’re not here to talk about that. (Note: I don’t blame her.)

One night a week before “the big move,” as I was up packing I did a very obnoxious thing. I texted my sister the following: “I know why I’m so upset. I’ve never lived anywhere longer than I’ve lived here.” (It was obnoxious because it was 1 a.m. my time and she lives in Florida. I’ll let you do the math. )

I moved into that house when the kid was still a baby, so there are all kinds of memories of his littleness contained there. And over the six years that followed, my family and I endured a number of life-changing evolutions. (Oxymoron? *shrug*) Regardless, it was my home for six very important years.

Just six? I know… I’m such a drama queen. (Where's my tiara?)

But think about it. I’m 41 and the longest I’ve lived anywhere is six years? Yes – this is a fact. When I was growing up, my family moved every four to six years. People ask me where I’m from and this is my rehearsed reply speech:

“My father is from El Salvador, my mother from Texas. They married and my older sister was born in Philadelphia. They then moved to Chicago where I was born. When I was 3, my parents loaded all of our belongings into two trucks and we drove to El Salvador (read about that here). My younger brother and sister were born there but the civil war was too much for my mom (*facepalm* to my dad) so we moved to Puerto Rico when I was 7, then to Costa Rica when I was 12. We moved to Miami when I was 17, where I graduated from High School and the University of Miami (read about that here). As an adult, I went on to NY, L.A., back to Miami, To SF and then back to L.A.”

To most people, all of that moving sounds absolutely brutal. And it was: I was fortunate to have a pretty close family, and my siblings are my best friends (read about that here). I hear people stress out about moving their kids across town – or across the country – to follow life or career opportunities. I always say: “You know what? Every move is an opportunity. To improve your life, learn something new or start over if you want to.” And for me, this was a fact. Each move was an opportunity for my father’s career.

For me each move was an opportunity to learn new cultures and dialects, to make new friends, and to reinvent myself whenever I needed or wanted to. I think all the moving around is what has made me so adaptable in my professional world, too.

So, while this move down the street has been painful for me, I choose to see it as an opportunity. For what - we’ll see. But it’s an opportunity for the kid and for me nonetheless..

Cinnamon Memories

2010-10-06T23:37:00.000-07:00

I smell it every day as I walk through the door, and it reminds me of him: The Kid.

In early September, my son and I went to Miami to visit my sister. I love doing that – our kids get along so well. They’re like long-lost siblings. Even a trip to the grocery store makes us smile. And the cinnamon thing? It started at the grocery store.

I was shocked to see this but Publix in Florida had a full-on fall display in the front of its stores in early September. That display included a Cinnamon broom (pictured here). It smells…like cinnamon. The kid gravitated to it right away…and again each time it was visible to him (even 6 grocery store aisles away). He sniffed it like an addict and kept telling me it was the best smell ever.

A week later, we were back in L.A. and into the normal routine. I stopped at the grocery store on my way to pick him up from school and spotted a cinnamon broom…in the front of the store. Yes, I bought it. And his first comment when he got in the car that day was: “Mama…I smell cinnamon!” I smiled.

We had a laugh as he discovered the cinnamon broom. Then we talked about the various cinnamon things he likes: toast, Red Hot candies, and cinnamon buns. And the broom, which now sits in our dining room and makes me smile, thinking of him every day.

There’s something funny about smell and taste that brings you back.

Years ago I visited El Salvador – for the first time as an adult – after not having been there since I was seven years old. My childhood memories of El Salvador – until that point – were in black and white. Largely, I think, because of the civil war that was heating up at the time we lived there – the stress levels in my family and beyond were nearly unbearable. When I landed in El Salvador during my last visit, I was struck by how blue the sky was…and how green the foliage was. I didn’t remember it that way.

Days later my father took me to my aunt’s beach house, which my family visited regularly when I was a child. He reached up to a tree in the front yard and picked a piece of fruit – whose name I don’t recall – and handed it to me to taste. I took one bite, and memories came roaring back. This was where I spent nearly every Sunday of my four years living in El Salvador. Where I learned to swim . Where my American grandmother - then in her 60s – enjoyed the sun, the surf, the food and more. (Yes, I'm the one striking a pose next to the dynamic grandma who is far right. My older sister is next to me. And my beautiful mother is far left.)

Memories brought on by the smell and taste of a fruit whose name I don’t remember.

Just like the memories I’m now creating with my son, which will forever be brought on by the smell and taste of cinnamon.

Update: @cheleguanaco sent me this... I think this is the fruit in question! http://www.elsalvador.com/periodista/nota_base.asp?ida=3647

Lebron: PR Genius or PR Disaster? Who Cares? I choose Team BGCA, and you should too

2010-07-15T14:02:00.000-07:00

(Yes, I'm using every bit of space I can for this. This is more appropriate for my professional blog www.jennifervides.com but I choose to post it here, too. Support the kids who need it most in our communities. Please.)

Over the last week I’ve observed the furor over Lebron James’ announcement on national television that he planned to leave the Cleveland Cavaliers and play for the Miami Heat. NBA fans, sports writers and the country at large watched and scrutinized “The Decision” – the one-plus hour TV and radio show on ESPN that Lebron used as a platform to announce his team selection. The overwhelming sentiment: Lebron (and his ego) worked his status in the NBA for all it’s worth for the sake of publicity.

To this day the criticism and scrutiny continue, with bitter name-calling and predictions of bad fortune coming from the same fans and media outlets who would have been singing a very different tune had Lebron chosen their team. Add to that the rush from the public relations community to provide commentary on whether or not Lebron has ruined his reputation – and the reputation of the Miami Heat - in the process.

I’m horrified. Because very few media outlets or PR professionals have considered this fact:

Lebron arranged for all of the proceeds from advertising sold during ‘The Decision” to be donated to the Boys and Girls Clubs of America - to the tune of up to $2.5 million. Further, these funds will benefit clubs in Cleveland, New York and Chicago- as well as Miami. Kudos, too to the show’s sponsor – The University of Phoenix - which made a generous donation of advertising time and scholarships to the BGCA.

Here’s one of the few stories I found on this subject: http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/2010/0709/Put-off-by-the-LeBron-James-spectacle-Here-s-a-redeeming-virtue

I’m not joking when I say “the few.” Seriously? Where’s the outrage?

I’m not saying Lebron’s intentions with the show were pure as the driven snow. Honestly, I have no idea, am past caring, and plenty of my colleagues have already weighed in with their thoughtful opinions on the PR implications of his decisions. But I will say this: love him or hate him, Lebron James did a good thing for the kids who depend on the Boys & Girls Clubs of America to keep them safe when they have nowhere to go, and to give them inspiration where they have none. Love him or hate him, Lebron James raised nearly $2.5 million which will go a long way towards helping the Boys & Girls Clubs of America to help kids – even in the cities where he chose not to play.

Go on and say it: attaching a charity to a brand or a personality is a great way to get publicity. Yep – it’s in the PR playbook on page 11, but as every PR person out there knows it’s difficult to get media attention for charitable programs. In this case, the media outlets largely chose to ignore the charitable element and focus on the drama because it sells. This is particularly appalling because Lebron raised up to $2.5 million in ONE DAY. $2.5 million during one one-hour event.

Today I made a donation to the BGCA in the amount of $100.00, and I did it in support of Lebron and the statement he is making about the important role BGCA plays in our communities.

I now challenge supporters of Lebron and the Miami Heat to do the same – to potentially collectively match the funds that Lebron raised. To take the attention away from the drama and point it towards the good that came from that night, and support the millions of children and families BGCA has tirelessly served for more than 100 years. Their mission: To enable all young people, especially those who need us most, to reach their full potential as productive, caring, responsible citizens. Please read more here: http://www.bgca.org/whoweare/mission.asp

On to the people who don’t like Lebron. How about you show him up? Can you collectively raise more money for the BGCA than he did? Use the power of your voices of dissent for good? Surely you can raise $2.5 million, too?

And to my colleagues in PR: you know how to get this done. Pick a side if you choose to and point your supporters to the BGCA to make a donation, too. In your hearts you want to use your tremendous skills and loud voices for good.

It took me 15 seconds to make the TAX DEDUCTIBLE donation here: https://secure2.convio.net/bgca/site/Donation2?df_id=1180&1180.donation=form1

Now, before you all call foul: I’m a casual Miami Heat fan. I love Dwyane Wade (and Shaq too), and I’m glad the city of Miami has the potential to have a powerhouse NBA team. Also, several years ago I provided PRO BONO PR counsel to the BGCA through an agency where I worked. I fell in love with the organization then and believe strongly in their mission today. HOWEVER, I have written this post and issued this challenge on my own accord and without the authorization of the BGCA, Lebron James or the Miami Heat.

I’ve done this because I think it’s the right thing to do. And you know it is, too.

Lebron fans and Lebron naysayers…can we unite as Team BGCA? Can we raise another $2.5 million? Another $5 million?

I think it’s possible. Let’s do it.

And because I want to know what you think, if you’ve made a donation, please drop me a comment.

I thank all of you in advance for your support.

Wordless Wednesday - Because I Have No Words

2010-05-19T07:14:00.001-07:00

Some Things I Learned From My Mother

2010-05-12T01:12:00.000-07:00

The kid and I had blueberry pie for dinner the other night – on Mothers Day. Before you all get up in arms, I’ll say that we ate plenty of good stuff throughout the day. At the end of the night, all we wanted was pie. Which I made from scratch, using fresh blueberries, and with my own two hands. Yes, I even made the crust.

This is something I learned from my mother. And to celebrate Mothers Day (late, I know), I’ll now pay tribute to the woman who gave me so much, and whom I’ve thanked not nearly enough.

Here are just a few things I’ve learned from my mother.

How to bake. From scratch, and with fresh ingredients. I bake bread, pies, cakes…pretty much whatever… with little fear. I won’t lie: I’ve messed up my share of baked goods. But most of what I bake comes out pretty well. Even the onion pie I talked about in my previous post.

How to cook. Elaborate stuff, easy stuff. Pretty much whatever. I grill and bake better than I cook but I can hold my own in the kitchen, and I can come up with a good meal with pretty much whatever I have in the fridge or the pantry.

At least 1/3 of your plate should contain vegetables. Her preference was always salad. To this day I love making up a huge salad packed with good stuff. And now the kid loves it too. I consider this a win.

Last one about food: Breakfast for dinner is awesome. Sometimes chocolate cake or pie is fabulous for breakfast. The idea: as long as it’s good food and you balance it all out throughout the day, who cares when you eat what? Ergo fresh blueberry pie for dinner.

How to write. (Sort of.) Mom read incessantly. I still remember being annoyed at her insistence to read Jane Austen to us as pre-teens. Today? I’d read it over and over. The reading instilled a love for language and made me the writer I am today. And I later discovered that she is a really good writer (witness her posts last year about The Green Chicken).

Don’t judge a book by its cover. Mom was a great judge of character. I’ve written about this before: she insisted on getting to know all of my friends – our house was always the “gathering house.” And she wasn’t shy about tellin’ me who I couldn’t hang out with – cuz she knew them all.

To curse. I had a date tell me once that I curse with really good inflection. And I once made Samuel L. Jackson laugh at how well I deliver “MF.” My mom says she didn’t curse till she met my father. I’m not buying it given how well she does it now. No matter. She taught me well.

Patience. I must note that this post is all about the things I learned from my mother. I never said I applied all of these learnings to my life. I’m decidedly impatient. But I’m also decidedly aware of when my impatience is a really bad thing.

Children are precious. Not sure I need to say any more here. I’ll say it again: children are precious. Not just mine, but yours, and hers, and his too. And we need to love them and care for them and teach them to be the wonderful people they can be.

Pets are family too. We grew up with dogs, cats, horses, birds (remember the green chicken?), guinea pigs… you name it. And we loved and cared for every one and cried rivers at the passing of each. Beyond the whole being nice to animals thing, this affection for animals taught me empathy. I’ve passed the love of animals on to my son, who is one of the most empathic kids I know.

Be yourself - always. I haven’t always lived this one…neither has she, really. But the bottom line is this: it’s important to surround yourself with people who want to be there for who you truly are – not for some façade. I know – tough to do in L.A. (sorry, Hollywood) but something I’ve pledged to do more of.

I could go on for hours but I won’t. I started writing this post *last* Mothers Day. But I’ll say this. My mother raised four children in six countries, which required her to learn two languages in addition to English AFTER she turned 23. She was supporting and loving wife, mother, mentor, coach and friend extraordinaire. She’s answered questions about life, love, career and sex with full honesty and zero panic. And she’s checked in, gently nudged and bitch-slapped me – and everything in between – with equal parts love, annoyance and consistency.

My biggest hope? That someday I’ll be as good of a mom as she is.

With Transitions Come New Traditions

2010-05-07T23:40:00.000-07:00

The other day, the kid asked me to make him onion pie. Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows that my son – AKA “the kid” – loves (and hoards) things like bacon, grilled teriyaki chicken wings and pot-stickers. He actually has mature taste in food for his young age. But onion pie?

Yeah, onion pie. The request made my heart fill with joy because it’s a Vides tradition.

Let me explain.

My dad had 9 brothers and sisters and each of them had a zillion kids - our family tree on that side of the family looks more like a Central American rainforest. Growing up in El Salvador, every Sunday evening the entire family ended up at my grandparents’ home for a big dinner. In typical Latino fashion, there was a nice spread that included one particularly delectable dish: onion pie.

I know it sounds odd. But imagine onions sautéed in real butter till they’re sweet; add heavy cream and other goodies and bake in a fresh crust (made from scratch, of course). It was my grandmother’s recipe and she wouldn’t share it with anyone. So if you wanted onion pie? You had to go to Mama Hilda’s house. That is – until our nanny observed her making said pie and memorized the recipe…and dutifully passed it along to my mother. And it’s thanks to the nanny’s indiscretion that the onion pie tradition continues in our family to this day, even after Mama Hilda’s passing.

Fast forward to 1999 and I’m an adult living in San Francisco. My friends Drew and Laura every year hosted a Thanksgiving feast for all of their friends – a week before Thanksgiving. It was a fantastic event – and we were asked to bring a special dish. I, of course, brought onion pie. Small problem: onion pie is kind of odd for a bunch of San Franciscans. While most were afraid of it, a few really liked it so I continued my tradition – and added something new to theirs - by bringing onion pie to their Thanksgiving gathering each year.

Then I got married.

Over the years and throughout my marriage, new traditions were added. I’d never had green bean casserole until my former mother-in-law served it but I gladly added it to holiday meals, just as she added the onion pie to her holiday meals each year. And my deviled eggs are apparently pretty good so those became a staple at Easter and 4^th of July. I accepted and loved these new traditions, just as his family accepted some of mine.

Then, last year, life changed again: Divorce.

Over the holidays (I know that was sooo last year but bear with me, people) I was faced with the truth that I needed to create new traditions for my son and for me. I had an opportunity to bring some of the Vides traditions– some specific to our family – and others simply Hispanic in nature – front and center. I made it happen.

In the form of Nochebuena.

Throughout his life, my son has always viewed Christmas as something that is celebrated on Christmas day. You wake up and open the gifts Santa left, then eat a huge meal whose menu varied depending on where the holiday was celebrated. But only in the years we celebrated with the Vides family did my son experience Nochebuena (Christmas Eve), too. In my family Nochebuena is una parranda with the Salvadoran pupusas, tamales, frijoles con crema and more. Plus a lot of music and dancing. But since my son is so young, Nochebuena isn’t something he remembered.

This last Christmas was the first one my son and I celebrated together – without his dad. In fact, he was actually set to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with his dad, so I needed to celebrate with him early. So in the weeks before Christmas, I painted a picture for my son of what was to come… of the special Christmas he and I would have together. And while our “Nochebuena” actually occurred on December 22^nd and our Christmas on the 23^rd, I cooked up a storm and did everything I could to ensure that those days actually felt like the real Christmas and that the new tradition – ours – was created. That tradition, naturally, featured onion pie alongside pupusas, rice, chicken and tamales, as well as a gift exchange with some friends.

He went to bed smiling and with a heart, mind and tummy full of my family’s traditions.

I must have done something right, because the next morning – Dec. 23^rd – he woke up with a smile.

“Merry Christmas, Mama.”

That day we celebrated Christmas Day with pancakes and bacon, the traditional Christmas tree and – another new tradition – a play at the Pantages Theater. (Which, by the way, was his first – and he loved it.)

It was a Christmas chock full of new traditions.

As I look ahead to Mother’s Day later this week, I think back to the last one - also my first alone with my son. We went to Disneyland and he ordered room service for me because he said little boys should take care of their mamas on Mother’s Day. This year he’s pledged to plan something special for us to do together. And to cook me breakfast (well, help me anyway). I can’t help but believe that this Mother’s Day we’ll create more new traditions for him and me – which I hope will last our lifetime.

Maybe onion pie will be on the Mother’s Day menu, too. I’m down with that, or whatever else we dream up together.

Traditions have to start somewhere right?

The Problem of Green Chickens and how they're Showing up Our Children

2010-04-19T14:06:00.000-07:00

I recently spent a few days with at my parents’ home, where I was warmly greeted by my mom – a full-fledged white girl raised in Texas – and my dad – who was born and raised in El Salvador. Their Amazon Yellow-Nape parrot – AKA “The Green Chicken” – was not as enthusiastic about my arrival (yes, I teased him when I was a child. Don’t judge). He’s been in my family since we acquired him in El Salvador in 1973 – yes that makes him around 37 (older than my brother, I should point out).

The Green Chicken literally grew up with us. He traveled with us from El Salvador to Puerto Rico, to Costa Rica and to Miami. He continued on to Brazil, then Canada, back to Miami and finally to Houson as my parents continued moving around. As a result, he is tri-lingual: he speaks English, Spanish and Portuguese. And with every word he uttered during my visit to my parents, it was like he was taunting me with his language skills. Why?

My kid only speaks English.

THIS is a sore point for me. My older sister and I speak Spanish and English fluently and French badly. My younger brother and sister add Portuguese to the list since they also lived in Brazil. (I need to say my younger sister also speaks German and French or she’ll get mad at me.)

I suppose I could cut myself a break and say that – hey – my sibs and I learned Spanish because we grew up in Latin America so we didn’t have a choice. And I could say that my kid only has occasion to use his Spanish when he’s speaking to me. Yeah I could say that but it would be a total cop-out. I mean: I live in L.A.

The truth is: my sibs and I had a choice. Well, my parents did. They chose to put us in bilingual schools. And I don’t mean the schools where the U.S. Embassy kids go when they are in Latin America, where Spanish is taught one period a day in much the same way it’s taught in U.S. public schools.

No my parents sent us to schools where the population was mostly not American. We HAD to speak Spanish. At home, we were encouraged to learn Spanish (more than encouraged, really). And with every move we learned a new kind of Spanish, since in every Latin American country the Spanish is different.

I swore I’d be the same way; that no matter what, my son would learn Spanish. I mean: think of the advantages right?

Turns out? It’s not that easy. I married an American of Polish & Irish descent who wholeheartedly supported and encouraged my desire to teach our son Spanish. But the kid refuses – mostly because it was (by necessity) an English-speaking household. He’ll learn words I push on him. But fundamentally heisn’t interested in learning.

So here I sit, sick with the realization that The Green Chicken could be stealing my kid’s jobs of the future. (I kid, I kid.) But in all seriousness I’m re-motivated to make sure my kid speaks Spanish. Because I’m not letting that Green Chicken show up my kid!

It’ll take commitment and determination on my part. And I’ll need to find ways to persuade the kid and make him interest. So I ask of you: what techniques do you use to get your kid to want to learn another language?

Smiling Through the Tears

2010-04-05T07:15:00.000-07:00

Last night my son (aka “the kid”) learned about “happy crying.” Completely out of the blue.

We were driving home after a good Easter filled with great food, friends and some bowling. Can’t quite remember why, but he asked me what we could do to make sure we’d live a long time. We started out talking about healthy eating habits and exercise – all stuff he gets regularly from his dad and me but we were able to discuss it in more detail because he was really interested.

But then I started talking to him about having a healthy mind. How using your brain – by reading and writing, doing math, science…could help him to keep his brain strong as he aged. He eagerly accepted this notion. So I took the opportunity to talk about Alzheimer’s.

See, there’s been a lot of Alzheimer’s in our family – on his dad’s side and on mine. I told him how I named him after my maternal grandfather and that – while my grandfather forgot my mother, my aunt, his wife and many others – he never really forgot the kid. Until the day my grandfather died, he had a framed picture of the kid in his nursing home room. “That little boy, he lives in California,” grandpa would say. “And he was named after me.” They say he’d beam proudly as he told the story.

I told the kid about that. How we all loved grandpa. How he had only gotten to meat grandpa once – when he was very ill. But that grandpa was happy when he died because he knew this beautiful little boy had been named after him. Grandpa was happy in the knowledge that he was loved that much.

“Mama, I just cried a little just now,” the kid said.

“Why, baby?” I asked.

“Because that story just made me happy,” he said. “It made me happy and sad that I made your grandpa happy.”

“Do people sometimes cry when they are happy?” he asked.

“Yes, baby, people cry when they are happy all of the time,” I answered through the tears.

And I smiled.

UNC 33, Miami 24

2009-11-14T16:27:00.000-08:00

He’s the example. The mentor. The wise guide. The winner. The guy who tells the team “never say die.” Butch Davis is coach and friend. And today he proved he can win a big game.

These are words I would have written years ago when he coached the University of Miami Hurricanes back when I went to school there.

He still chomps gum like he did then.

He still leads and wins like he did then.

And today that win cost me this post. On MY blog.

And all sorts of other things for the #umiami Hurricanes.

Miami lost today to UNC because they lacked the heart necessary to win. Yes, definitely there was athletic ability. But UNC showed the heart, determination, and never-say-die attitude that my team shows most of the time, but not always.

This post was supposed to be some sappy BS post about why UNC is great. Instead, it’s an honest post about the influence of Butch Davis on UNC. A team that’s had its fits and starts but that has played with so much heart, and that is building with the goal of becoming a powerhouse.

That’s how a team should function.

This team never says “die.”

Butch Davis never says “die.”

He didn’t say “die” when he coached at Miami, either.

And while he instilled that belief in Randy Shannon years ago, Randy needs to repeat over and over…”never say die” if he wants the Miami Hurricanes to dominate in college football again.
Don’t get me wrong. I support – adore – Randy Shannon. He’s a the best thing that’s happened to Miami in years (he’s had good mentors). And I think good things are coming for the ‘Canes if the fans and the school will be patient enough to give him the time to make it happen. But the student must learn from the teacher. Randy must learn from Butch that the heart is as important as the athletic ability. And Butch and the UNC team showed heart tonight. Big-time heart.

And with that, Kevin Vandever wins the bet we made in September http://kevinvandever.com/2009/09/19/not-in-our-house/. At least I’ve always loved Butch – made this much easier to write!

Trashed House, Healthy Home?

2009-10-28T00:47:00.000-07:00

My house is trashed. Constantly. Legos, cars, and other random toys are regularly strewn about the house. The remains of dinner for like ten people in the kitchen. Floors with food droppings from happy children who left an hour ago.

My house is the play-date house.

Short play-dates where the kids just play for an hour. More often, long play-dates where the parents socialize and grill or make pizzas and the kids play for hours. Play-dates where we go swimming, watch football or movies, play Wii, whatever. Play-dates the mamas look forward to.
At the end of each, my house is trashed. And the moms and dads help me clean up as much as they can, then leave with gratitude in their eyes when I usher them out so they can get their kids to bed on time.

I wouldn’t trade that role for anything in the world.

Yeah, it means I need to clean the floors more, pick up more toys, stack and unstuck the dishwasher, clean the kitchen counters, and cook more. But because of it I know my kid’s friends. Well. What they like to eat and play with. What triggers a hug or a tantrum. How to love them, discipline them, amuse them.

I know their moms and their dads. Well. What they do. What they go through in their everyday lives. How to make them feel welcome, laugh, leave full in stomach and heart.

And I lovingly and gratefully clean up the mess. (Not that the other parents don’t help – they always do but you know…there’s always debris.)

Often, people tell me I’m out of my mind. When they do, I smile a secret smile. And I think of my mother.

Growing up, I was one of those kids who could go either way. I ended up being a pretty good kid. I got decent (not great) grades, mostly stayed out of trouble, and loved my family immensely. And for this I give credit to my mother (I’ll get to you later, dad). And to the fact that our home was always “get together” central for my friends and me.

Who am I kidding? My house was Grand Central. Kids were there all of the time. We lived Costa Rica and back then (yes, I’m old) some had cable and others didn’t. We had cable, a VCR, and a zillion movies. And charming personalities, of course. Oh, and then there was my mother’s food. The woman baked and cooked and baked and cooked. And did I mention she’d bake and cook? Pizza sandwiches, cookies, cheesecake, pupusas, rice & beans, huevos rancheros. My mom was baker, short-order cook.

Importantly, she was also a friend.

My mom got to know each and every one of my friends. And she was smart about it – casual, friendly. She even taught the cutest 17-year-old boy on the block how to bake bread. (To this day he’s “el panadero.”) And along the way, she extricated every bit of information possible out of him and others. She listened, read body language, eavesdropped – everything. Eventually, the kids started proactively telling my mother who to watch out for – who the bad influencers were. And it was based upon that information – plus her own personal observations – that she decided who I could spend time with outside of the house.

It was amazing. The most innocent-looking girl with the parents who were missionaries? I was rarely allowed to go anywhere alone with her, because she was “out of control boy-crazy.” (She really was.) Then there was any boy who looked at yours truly in any way that my “older brothers” (el panadero and his buds) deemed inappropriate. Nope. No time alone with Jennifer.

Yeah, there were moments when my mom’s decisions infuriated me. But in retrospect – she was dead on. She made good decisions based on personal knowledge. And in retrospect I salute her for holding strong on those decisions.

Like my house, her house was trashed. Constantly. But as a result, her HOME never was.

So I’d like to keep my house trashed, thankyouverymuch. Just keep your paws off my home.

What Women Want

2009-10-16T19:04:00.001-07:00

Listen up, gentlemen. I have the answer to the question. The answer has been staring us all in the face all this time. Ladies, what do you think?

On Going from Cheerleader to Geek in One Year

2009-10-08T23:01:00.000-07:00

I was a cheerleader.

It started in elementary school in Puerto Rico. The two brothers across the street- we’ll call them Steve and Don – played for the local pee-wee football team. Don was the quarterback. Don played Defense. Not sure what position. But then again I had the crush on Don and he was the QB so who cared what position Don played???

Anyhow, my sister Helen and I became cheerleaders. We learned all the old stand-bys: U-G-L-Y you ain’t got no alibi. You’r e UGLY.

Ok fine, we learned Defense and Offense and understood the “first down” and “touchdown” signals and the significance of the moving of chains. As I grew up, the whole cheerleader thing came with me. And when we moved to Costa Rica, another friend and I started the cheerleading squad at our school there.

I’ve mentioned before that I was always kind of awkward. Lanky, scraggly hair, out of touch with fashion (thanks mom). So being a cheerleader – in a uniform – kind of helped me to fit in. By the time I was a Junior in High School, I was doing ok. We had a vibrant cheerleading squad packed with “popular” girls. And I was among them.

Then one day my dad comes home and says: “Hey, kids we’re moving to Miami!”

Screech!

Nooooooooo!!!

That noise? It came from the high school principal. He called Dad and offered to let me live with his family till I graduated from High School. C’mon – I was a cheerleader plus (notsomuchastar) on the basketball and volleyball teams.

Dad said no.

We moved.

To Miami.

Where everyone was fashionable (my clothes weren’t – fashion trends were 2 years behind in Central America).

Where kids smoked, drank and did drugs. (I was sheltered.)

Where there was no way in Hell I’d make the Cheerleading squad.

Where I got picked on.

Where suddenly: I was a geek.

A cute, tall, green-eyed Spaniard took a liking to me, despite my geek-dom. He became my boyfriend. A girl in our class didn’t like that so much. I guess he was one of those “fringe” people: too edgy to be cool but still liked by the popular girls. I was a geek. Not good enough for him. Anyway, she hated it and me.

Apparently she threatened bodily harm. I found out because a tough Latina girl in my dance class told me. Picture this:

Tough Latina girl (in a leotard): “I hear you got trouble, geek.”

Me (in a leotard): “Me? I’m fine. I have no problems with you. Anyone. “ (Smiling, terrified.)

Tough Latina girl: “No, not with me. With her. (Pointing at scowling white girl, in a leotard, in the corner.)

Me: Smiling at the scowling white girl “I have no problems.”

Tough Latina girl: “She wants to kick your ass. And because you’re one of us (Latina) my girls and I? We’ll protect you. (Points at tougher-looking Latina girls standing nearby. Not looking so tough in leotards.)

The scowling white girl growled. I accepted the protection.

That night, I cried.

GEEK? I’m a fucking cheerleader! I’m not a geek!!

But with every passing day, I realized that I was. I am.

Maybe not a geek. But definitely awkward.

Let the Trash-Talk Begin

2009-09-19T13:57:00.001-07:00

So you all know I'm a hardcore college football fan. And if you didn't know before, you know now. Specifically, I love the University of Miami Hurricanes. Da U. The boys who invented swagger (or as I call it - #swagga). Well, we've not been so great for a few years. But we have this awesome new coach, Randy Shannon, who's turned the program around and methinks we're back. The last coach who really had success at Miami was Butch Davis, who's now coaching the UNC Tar Heels. (Fine - Larry Coker won a championship at Miami but like Dennis Erickson he did so with the recruits of the fab coach before him. In Larry's case, Butch and in Dennis's, the one and only Jimmy Johnson.) I digress.

Enter @kevinvandever. He's a UNC fan. He writes here: http://kevinvandever.com/

So we've made a bet. That #umiami will beat #unc this year - on November 14. And we're playing for "pinks" so to speak. If #umiami wins (and they will because they got #swagga) he will write a post on his blog PRAISING the Hurricanes. And vice versa if #unc wins. Which will never happen.

(Update: here's @kevinandever's response to this post: http://kevinvandever.com/2009/09/19/not-in-our-house/ )

Let the trash-talking begin. And just maybe a game-watch party is in order? (Updated: one is in the works. Look here and on Twitter for deets. Com out and enjoy the #collegefootballtweetup. And bring your #umiami #swagga.)

I Love

2009-09-05T21:35:00.000-07:00

That he says he'll be my baby even when he's a big man. That he still looks like a baby when he sleeps. He smells like a baby - after a bath; he's stinky after a day at the park and I love that too.

That he still says “bummer” instead of remember. And “guess what?” before each story. Before each 'chapter' in the story, that is. And that he's trying to learn Spanish - or at least fakes it to make me happy. And he still calls me “mama. "

That he'll eat just about anything - or at least try everything once. He asks for 'shushi', broccoli and grilled steak as often as he asks for hot dogs or mac n cheese.

That he's color-blind - literally and figuratively. He sees the good in people. And he knows that sometimes good people do bad things and vice versa. (You know - like Darth Vader.)

That he feels like he can tell me things straight up: “I just want some alone time." Or “Mama, you just need to try new things.” And “Mama, you need to exercise your legs a bit more.”

That he's the food police: “Mama, that's not healfy.” Yet he likes a good In n Out run. And that when I tell him I went to the gym he says “Good job, mama."

That he loves it when I tickle him. No - sometimes asks me to tickle him. And he calls 'uncle' by promising me some of my favorite things - like eggs, bacon and coffee.

That he loves his pets: his dog, hamster and two cats. And he knows in his heart that they love him back.

That he knows I love college football. He's excited to fly the 'Hurricane warning flag' and gets excited when someone on the road honks and flashes the 'Respect the U’ sign. And he wants to go to a game live because he knows it's better than TV and he wants to love college football, too.

That he loves to color, build Legos. Play with his Star Wars people. Play cars.That he loves to sing, and to dance. And does both well.

That he adores his dad, and adores me. And he shows it openly. Always.

That on his last day at preschool he tried to leave some toys there. Because then he'd have to come back. Yet he's so excited to start Kindergarten at 'the big school' next week.

And I love so much more.

I love my boy.

Everything's Nebulous

2009-09-04T01:08:00.000-07:00

"It’s nebulous outside,” he said as he peered through the windows. He spun his 6’5” frame around and smiled gleefully. “By the way, I’ve read the dictionary.” (I’m sitting on the couch, staring, mouth wide open.) “And if you don’t understand what I mean sometimes, please don’t be ashamed to ask. I have an extensive vocabulary.”

This memory flashes in my memory as I excitedly anticipate the start of college football season. And it’s only funny if you’re a word geek like me.

I dated this man (boy?) years after he’d kicked the winning field goal (or was it an extra point?) at a huge college football bowl game that shall remain nameless to protect the innocent. I was in the stands. I didn’t know him at the time. But years later, he was HOT.

I met him in the elevator of my office building. I was riding down with a group of friends. “Fish” was the only other guy in the elevator. “Football guy” complimented him on the selection of women he called colleagues. “Fish” said: “They’re a pain in the ass - pick one.” ‘Football guy’ picked me.

It had been – oh – a year since my last date. Looking back, I was cute. But I was pretty much unavailable for a number of reasons. And I was teased mercilessly by my two bosses for the fact that I hadn’t had a date in a while (ok, a year). So my colleagues were shocked that this tall, green-eyed hunk had picked the non-descript brunette out of an elevator-full of hotties.

We went on a few dates. We had football in common – that was good. We also had words in common. Sort of: he misused words he’d memorized from the dictionary; words I used properly at work on a daily basis. But he was perpetually unemployed yet lived in an exclusive high-rise on Brickell in Miami.

His friends thought I was the best thing ever for him. My friends just thought he was hot.

So…I took him to the office holiday party. Secretly? I wished I’d brought duct tape. Y’know…to impede his uncontrollable misuse of big words. But he sat at our table of minions and charmed us all. Then he started mingling and dancing with everyone. He was charming.

I went to the bathroom and bumped into the wives of my two bosses. “Wow, Jennifer. That guy: he’s a catch. So hot – the hottest guy at the party,” they said. Never mind that their husbands – my bosses – were at the party.

The next day? I “broke up” with him. And I told my bosses that their wives thought he was hot – to make the teasing stop.

Him? I kinda felt bad. He stalked my colleagues for a few weeks. He even sang romantic rock ballads into my voicemail. Sweet.

Me? I stayed single for a few years. I moved to San Francisco, lived a pretty happy lifetime.

Now? We’re back to “nebulous.” Including the prospect of the Miami Hurricanes’ 2009 football season.

Friendship, Interrupted

2009-08-30T20:35:00.000-07:00

Remember my Facebook friend? This is her story. I'm the dirty blonde. She's the one who makes me cry. Sobbing. Grab your tissues and read on.

She was a dirty blonde with bangs, and she was smiling at me.

A visit to the deep South of the country – especially to any public area, such as a school, will illustrate the divide between the blonde-haired and the chocolate-brown. Splashing into a Caribbean school, one finds a myriad of mulatto, or the obligatory black-haired, olive-skinned, Spanish descent.

I was eleven, and already seasoned at being the new kid. I landed at the 6th grade Episcopal Cathedral in San Juan, PR, and was immediately introduced as an American, and from Nueva York, no less. Mrs. Cuevas thought that was interesting.

So did the dirty blonde. She could hardly contain her excitement, glancing at me, and smiling from under her long bangs. “Gringa,” I decided, but was relieved to see her welcoming face. Used to being alone at the start of a new school, I kept to myself and let myself be examined. You can feel the absorbing eyes.

I don’t remember many details about when we first spoke, but I remember Jennifer (how much more “gringa” of a name can you have?) kept popping up beside me. At lunch, at recess, after school on the outside steps, she always had a fun smile, and a kind word.

I guess it was only natural that we were attracted to each other: my first name was Spanish with a gringa last name, and her first name was gringa, with a Spanish last name. Up until I came into the picture, she’d been the best English-speaking student in class – now, we were buddies who couldn’t stop talking in English.

My new friend introduced me to a lot in life. Empanadas, for one thing – of which I quickly became an addict. Caribbean schools, at least in OUR day, did NOT serve meatloaf with mashed potatoes and salad with token tomato. We had fried things. With CHEESE! Jennifer was appalled I had never had one, and righted that situation immediately. “Dos empanadas de queso,” was lunch – EVERY DAY.

She introduced me to everyone. She was not shy. I was. “Did you meet so and so,” she’d ask. No? Well, she’d quickly remedy that – despite my protestations that I was too embarrassed. I remember she was never embarrassed – she’d yell out a tease at whatever older boy was annoying her without flinching. I would later figure out that coming from her large family, she’d learned to tease others and defend herself. I guess, as an only child, I didn’t really have those skills yet.

I lived with my father for that year I was in Puerto Rico. He was surprised. So was I. For something that, in retrospect, was a rather normal childhood misdemeanor, my single, 60-hour-a-week working mom, had had enough, and decided that I should go live with my dad so that he could have his fill of my mischievous self. My dad was ill equipped.

He was almost 40, and still renting – never owned a home in his life. The apartment was littered with “collectible” Playboy magazines. Green shag carpet. Fifties plastic dinette set. Brown, canvas-cloth sofa. My mother wasn’t speaking to me, but she surely was speaking AT him. My father dutifully bought the multi-vitamin I was to take every day. And on her insistence, I attended the private school that her sister had gone to years earlier when she was young. Oh, and I was to stay in gymnastics – my father managed to find a class for me to attend twice a week which was not too far away…by bus. I went to school in the morning and came home in the afternoon by public bus to the small apartment in the high-rise, overlooking the smooty and congested street below, where I would wait for my father to come home from work. My father required a rum and coke when he walked in the door, and I dutifully became an expert at making them – although, they smelled awful to me, at the time. Thankfully, he was not an alcoholic, but more of a professional bachelor – an eighties workaholic who liked a little buzz at the end of the day, and a babe on his arm on the weekends.

Which explains why, when I came home and announced that my new friend Jennifer wanted me to come stay with her for the weekend, he jumped at the chance. Oh, yes, he called her mom and talked on the phone and “checked them out,” but as my visits to her house increased in frequency, so did his feeling of freedom. Rarely did it occur to me to ask him what he did for the weekend….what was most important was that he listened very attentively to my stories of adventure at Jennifer’s house. I think he may have even been, a little jealous.

Jennifer and I were fast friends, in every way. With most friendships, you remember an argument or two. All I remember was that she was the hydrogen to my oxygen, and I put her as that because she was worth two – double my energy, double my enthusiasm.

We spent Halloween together and I trick-or-treated in her neighborhood. I learned the best tricks to annoy her older sister Helen, who would come flying out of her room screaming for her mom to tell us to leave her alone. I’m not sure why we enjoyed that so much, but we did, and we were very good at it – I can see her in my mind running down the hall chasing after us with her long hair flying everywhere. Maybe she was trying to style her hair. But then, at times, she was very civil, why, even sisterly, as Jennifer and I would sit wide-eyed at the soap operas Helen would tell about her boyfriend. Oh, Jen and I ate that up! We told each other we hated boys, but I know we both dreamed of one day having boyfriends ourselves and busied ourselves learning new dance steps with which to impress them someday.

I was a big-city girl with my dad, but Jennifer’s house was far from the city and in a nice residential area that was still being added to. At a lot down the street was where my most poignant memory of Jennifer occurred. At this magical lot is where she showed me “the magical weed.” (No, not THAT!) I’d never seen it before, and being back to Puerto Rico numerous times as an adult, I’ve never seen it again – and I’ve looked. But for some reason this weed could be found in copious amounts at this lot down the street from her house. This plant, or weed, I guess, looked like a miniature fern, and she encouraged me to touch the fronds.

“Just touch it, you’ll see,” she insisted. Wary of some fun-loving prank she might be pulling, I cautiously touched it. To my surprise, the plant responded by closing together its little fern-like leaves in an effort to protect itself. Addicted to the result, we were soon running all over the lot looking for more of the plants with one of us touching it and both of us squealing with delight.

Ah, the simple joys of childhood friendship.

What with brothers and sisters and all our schoolmates, Jennifer was helping me to bloom into a social person – but I soon learned about “pushing it” from her father. Never push the bounds of conversation farther than what you know, or can intelligently talk about. Her father taught me that, ironically, with my father present.

At a kid’s party at their house where the family room stereo had been cranked to mindless disco for some time (which is what we kids liked to listen to) Jen’s dad grew weary and at some point, the music went off abruptly. I noticed Mr. Vides and my dad at the stereo and joined them. I asked about what was going on and Mr. Vides said, “That’s enough of that for the night, we’re going to have some real music,” and he and my father perused his music collection, commenting on how it was late and time to put on something mellower. Wanting to impress, I looked too, and after glancing at the titles announced, “Oh, I love Beethoven!” Mr. Vides calmly smiled and looked at me, and with genuine curiosity asked, “Really?” “Oh yes!” I continued, “my mother listened to him all the time.” Amused, he asked (or should I say, cornered) me, and inquired which symphony I thought we should listen to. I’m sure the shocked expression on my little face revealed I had no idea what to say next.

But somewhere in my little mind “9th” jumped out at me, so I blurted it out – it truly was the only thing that sounded familiar as Beethoven. Mr. Vides roared with laughter – as did my father, at the prospects of relaxing to a little “9th.” Mr. Vides asked me if I’d like to know why they were laughing, as he pulled the 9th out from his collection. Severely busted, I meekly agreed and he put it on, full blast, truly enjoying the moment. I was soon laughing, too.

Sadly, my time with Jennifer and her family was brief as my actual family needed me. My mother, with whom I had slowly started to build a relationship again, was suddenly and inexplicably hospitalized. After much testing, and a hospitalization in Texas, a long way from her home in New York, the doctors diagnosed a “total collapse” of her immune system. Not much was known in those days about what to do about that, but my mother ended up allergic to just about everything under the sun. What I had not known at eleven, was that when I was six, she had been diagnosed with Lupus.

I visited my mother for Easter, and never returned to Puerto Rico until my late teens. Despite my fun and active life with my father, I really had missed her and came to that realization full well when I actually saw her. As she relayed some of the realities of her illness (though not all) to me, I realized I was very worried about her. To boot, she asked me if I was happy with my father, and if not, would I consider living with her again.

Something about the Playboys and the strip-dancer who lived down the hall and babysat me, and the taking the bus to and from school, and my father with two girlfriends didn’t ring true as a good environment for me – my mom was perfectly horrified at the stories I told. And in our reconciliation she was tender, and loving and promised me we would be a team if I stayed. I bit.

And so ended my fast and intense friendship with Jennifer. We tried. At my father’s insistence (to his credit, he knew friendships like ours were hard to find) I wrote to my friend, and I remember treasuring her occasional letters. She moved to Costa Rica, I knew that, and she wrote to me about her favorite song, which was also one of my favorites at the time. I don’t remember it now, but it was a dancing, upbeat song, which after that point became a melancholy reminder of one of those great friendships, interrupted.

Mother's Voice vs F**k You Bird

2009-08-27T22:09:00.000-07:00

I think you guys like my mother's writing more than you like mine. And she keeps sending me stuff. So I'll keep posting.

Some background: my parents' house is a zoo. In addition to the Green Chicken there's a cockateel and a McCaw and two cats -one of which is the fattest cat you've ever seen (I'll post pictures once I figure out how to do that. Yeah, I'm a loser.) Anyway, the McCaw - Suzy Q - has a really bad attitude. Oh and she's foul-mouthed, too. But she's no match for my mom. Read on. Oh, and if you have a problem with F-Bombs, skip this post, will ya?

I am sure all of you have come across the Mother’s Voice at one time or another. Either heard it used (on you more than likely), used it yourself (if you are a mother) or wished you had it (if you are a father.) It works! Ask Jennifer. She had it used on her, and now applies the same voice with her son. This voice is usually passed down from Mother to Daughter, and worth more than diamonds.

So, now along with the Green Chicken you’ve heard about, we have adopted this blue and gold chicken (a McCaw) coincidentally named Suzy Q. No, I didn’t name her that. She came that way. A female this time obviously, just as the Green Chicken, our yellow nape parrot is A MAN! Up until the time that Suzy made her preference for my husband known to him, hubby called her “that stupid bird you brought home.” After hubby realized that she really really likes him, dislikes me (and any other woman, I might add) she became “smart.” “Really not so stupid at all.” She will let my husband scratch her head, belly, back, pick her up etc etc etc. Me – nada. “Don’t even think about it if you like the number of fingers presently on your hand” kind of attitude. As I said, smart. She seems to know how to push my hubby’s buttons.

One major thing that Suzy Q has picked up from hubby – the gentle art of speech. ‘Fuck You’ has become her favorite phrase, ‘Fuck You Mother Fucker’ being her second favorite. With attitude. With emphasis. She learned these gentle phrases in the early days of her residing with us, when Hubby would stand near her cage (Suzy on top of it – not in it), extending his hand towards her in a friendly gesture. Suzy would reach towards his fingers with her wide open, VERY LARGE beak. What he did not realize at the time was that she had no intention of biting him. She just wanted to touch his hand. Hubby, thinking she was going to bite would pull back his hand and utter one of the two magic phrases she now uses with such gusto.

One evening, I could hear my husband in the kitchen putting the birds to bed for the night. “A la cama lora”. And silence as the Green Chicken entered his cage and was covered for the night.

“Goodnight Taliban” to the cockatiel who responded with “What you doing Sunshine?”

Then:

Hubby:: ”A la cama Suzy.”
Suzy: “Fuck you!”
Hubby: “Suzy a la cama!”
Suzy again “Fuck you!”
Hubby: “Damn it bird, go to bed.”
Suzy: “Fuck You!”

I wandered over to the kitchen doorway at this point to see what the trouble might be. Hubby had the sheet that is used to cover Suzy’s big cage at night in his hand, and was trying his best to herd her toward the doorway of the cage. Suzy, on the other hand, had no intention of going to bed. She was moving from one side of the cage to the other, up the cage, down the cage – always as far from the door as she could get, and emphasizing her displeasure with a constant barrage of “Fuck you.”

Needless to say, I burst into laughter. Hubby turned his now sour face toward me and said “So, you think you can do better? Go ahead. See if you can do any better than me,” and stepped away from the cage.

I love a challenge. I walked up to the cage, opened the door wide, snapped my fingers, pointed at the bird then at the door, and in my well used and perfected ‘Mother’s Voice’ said, “Suzy, go to bed! Now!” Suzy didn’t even hesitate. Into the cage and up onto her sleeping perch she went – without ONE “Fuck You,” I might add.

Mother’s voice - 1 Fuck You bird – 0.

The Most Important Thing I've Learned on Facebook

2009-08-24T23:08:00.000-07:00

Earlier today an old friend posted on his Facebook page that 17 years ago he was hunkering down in preparation for Hurricane Andrew. Brought back memories – I was there with him. His mom. Him. Me. Their annoying dog. All of us waiting for this horrendous storm and hoping for the best. His mother has sadly since passed, and he and I moved on to marry others, have children, and live our lives - which we share with each other and others on Facebook.

His post, though, was a reminder of my first poignant Facebook moment. About 6 months ago, I got an e-mail notification that “MARY” wanted to connect with me on Facebook. Her last name wasn’t familiar, but that’s not uncommon at my age – people marry and not all of them use their maiden name after that. Honestly, it really wouldn’t have helped in this case. I simply wouldn’t have remembered cold.

She was wise: she included some clues. “We were best friends in 7th grade.”

Whoah.

I looked at her picture. Nope.

I texted my sister. I called my mother. Bells were ringing but still I couldn’t remember.

They remembered. And they told me all about her.

I ran to my closet and found a photo album from the junior high days and found THE photo. My brother, my sister and me at the beach in Puerto Rico with a pretty, gymnast-thin dark-haired girl with soulful eyes. For years, she was nameless. Every time I looked at that photo album I wondered who this girl was. Then I found more pictures of her – always surrounded by my family. Always smiling.

I confessed to her that my memories were fuzzy. Guilty. Guilty!

Unfazed, she confessed to me that there’s no way she could ever forget me. Or my family.
See, MARY’S life? It wasn’t as charmed as mine. She’s grown into a happy and well-adjusted woman. But from my perspective, she’s done it against all odds.

I won’t delve into the minute details of her life because that’s her story to tell. But during her short stay in Puerto Rico she lived with her dad, and without judging I’ll say I’m not sure he knew what to do with a pre-teen. So from the moment we became friends, MARY spent pretty much every weekend at my house. My mother took MARY in like she was her own, and my siblings accepted her constant presence. MARY and I had a joint birthday party. My family and I taught her to cook pancakes and how to dance. We took her with us on family vacations. We loved her and we gave her comfort and a sense of family.

MARY kept telling me stories. And all I could think was: how could I forget her? Guilt. Guilt!

I discovered later that MARY disappeared from my life very suddenly. She went back to the U.S. to spend a week with her mom, who convinced her to stay. We remained friends – we were pen pals – but over time we lost touch. I moved on to Costa Rica and my charmed life. Her life? I think it became a nightmare of sorts. Again – her story.

Nearly 30 years later, MARY thought to search for me on Facebook. I think it’s because - for those months that MARY lived in Puerto Rico - my family was hers, too. They loved her, and she loved them – us. And she never forgot.

I haven’t seen MARY yet – she lives halfway across the country in a town I’ve been to only once. But I will. Because she’s taught me some things about fortitude and the importance of leaning on your family, no matter what form it takes. So now as I go through my life transitions, MARY’s there for me, in her own special way.

She’s part of my family. On Facebook.

Self-Esteem

2009-08-18T23:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes? It's all that matters. That's all I have to say.

When the Green Chicken Tried to (er) Dismember My Brother

2009-08-18T22:40:00.000-07:00

I sent my mom the link to this blog recently. We got into a (email) conversation about how she, life, influenced who I am today. Mom confessed that she's been writing stories about us growing up. Lots of them. Even stories about the "Lora Loca" (AKA - the Green Chicken) who is a 36 year-old yellow-nape Amazon parrot from El Salvador. He speaks English, Spanish and Portuguese, and fooled us into thinking he was a she for 25 or-so-years till he one day decided to show us his member.

Bygones.

Anyway, I think that our many pets really had an impact on who we are as people. They have always been protagonists in our life. So I submit for your amusement the first post from my mom - Suzie - about "The Green Chicken."

I was sitting on my bed one evening, concentrating on some financial calculations for my husband when daughter Jennifer and son John started calling to me from downstairs “Mom, Mom! Come here! Mom!”

Naturally, interruptions always happen at the worst possible moment, and if I left off, I would lose my train of thought along with all of the work that had been done up to that point (considerable, I might add) and have to start all over again at the beginning. I chose to ignore their summons and finish the job. The calls continued from downstairs, louder and more urgent, along with other noises that I managed to filter out. I ignored all.

My daughter Jennifer, after about 5 minutes, came stumbling into the bedroom, holding her stomach and laughing hysterically. Tears flowed from her eyes. She could barely walk or talk for the laughter. Incoherence seems to be a Vides thing. ”Mom, you’ve got to go downstairs and save John,” she gasped.

At that point, having completely lost my train of thought, I looked up at her with irritation.

“What do you mean, I have to go save your brother? What in the world is going on down there?”

Jennifer explained what was happening below between bursts of uncontrolled laughter. Green Chicken had been sitting calmly on top of his cage as usual when John walked by. The bird surprised my son with a blitz attack. This bird NEVER flies if he can walk, so he took John totally by surprise when he FLEW at him with blood in his eye, and with every intention of inflicting bodily harm. John was fast enough to deflect the attack, enough to where the Green Chicken wound up hanging from John’s belt buckle by his beak. His powerful claws were scrounging for purchase near a certain part of John’s anatomy that he holds understandably sacred. John was in a very uncomfortable position. If he took hold of the bird, Green Chicken would most assuredly release his belt buckle, but John’s hands and fingers would pay the bloody price. If he didn’t take hold of the bird, his nether region was sure to pay the price eventually. Those claws are sharp!

What John chose to do is what set Jennifer off into hysterical laughter. After bellowing ‘Mother!!!!!’ John threw his arms up into the air and began an impromptu dance, twisting his hips in a desperate attempt to dislodge his unwelcome guest. His gyrations grew wilder as the bird’s claws grabbed at him in an attempt to stabilize his perch. John yelled, the bird squawked, and Jennifer laughed. That is about the time that she stumbled upstairs to fetch me to ‘save’ her brother.

By the time Jennifer finished her explanation, and we started down the stairs, the battle was over. Bird -1, John - 0. John was sitting on the stair landing, all six feet four of him tucked up protectively knees to chin. He had managed, finally, to dislodge the attack bird, and had scrambled up the stairs to the first landing as fast as he could go.

“It’s not funny!” he screamed, red-faced. “He coulda bitten my dick off!.”

The Green Chicken, in the meantime was on the floor below doing his ‘Who’s the Man, I’m the Man’ strut back and forth in front of the stairs. Every once in a while, he would stop, look up and give John the evil eye, ruffle his feathers and give out a ‘don’t mess with me’ squawk as well as an occasional ‘ha ha ha.’

Who says Green Chickens don’t have a sense of humor?

So much to say

2009-08-15T13:14:00.000-07:00

No time to write. I really need to figure this out.

My Kid's Driving Me to Plastic Surgery

2009-08-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

So in case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I turned 40 this year. Oh, about 75 days ago. (No, I’m not obsessed.)

Anyhoo…I declared at 38 that I’d be hot by 40 (Jennifer Aniston anyone?) and that I had plenty of time to get it done. Yeah, right. Didn’t happen.

Then the old-job Gods did me a favor and laid me off. What did I do?

Me emborrache like any good Salvadoran girl would do.

The next day? I went to the gym. And the next day. And the next day. And the next.

And then I got another job, so let’s just say I don’t really go to the gym every day anymore.

So the other day I didn’t have time to go to the gym so I was working out using my Wii Fit. (By the way, that Balance Board is a BITCH. She’s mean, she nags and she BUGS.) The kid comes downstairs to watch (because he’s hoping to muscle me out of the way so he can bowl or something). He watches for a while. Then:

KID: Mama. Good job.

ME: Thanks, baby.

Pause.

KID: Mama, your belly’s getting smaller.

ME: (Thinking: I have this belly because of you). Thanks, baby.

KID: Now you need to work on your legs.

ME: (Annoyed). Why? Are they fat?

KID: Yeah. Right here. (Points at thighs).

ME: Really?

KID: Yeah, and your arms too. Right here. (Points at that spot - you all know it).

ME: Really? No they’re not.

KID: Don’t worry Mama. You just have a lot of blood in your arms. And a lot of food in your belly and your legs.

ME: (Thinking: at least he didn’t say wine). Oh.

Um, can someone get me the number to Dr 90210?

On Sibling Revelry (And Why it Matters so Much)

2009-08-08T15:04:00.000-07:00

One of my earliest memories is of being in the cab of a big truck with my mother and our Irish Setter Shane. I was 3. It was dark outside and the dog had just thrown up in his water bowl. My mother – who didn’t curse – was cursing like a sailor, flashing her headlights furiously at the truck ahead of us. My father was driving that truck and my older sister Helen, who was 6, was with him.

I felt sorry for the dog (what if he got thirsty?) and the stench of vomit filled my nostrils. And I was scared because the stressed out lunatic driving the truck had taken over my mother’s body. I can’t say that I blame her for losing it. After all, the trucks were packed with all of our belongings, and we were road-trippin’ it from Chicago to El Salvador.

Yeah, you heard that right. My Salvadoran papi had somehow convinced my Texan mommy that moving the family to El Salvador – in the early 70s – was a really swell idea. Never mind the whole driving there thing.

Keep in mind this is before cell phones and such. So if you had to pull off the road to pee (which I imagine we had to do often because kids and dogs have tiny bladders) you had to get the other truck’s attention before you could do so. Or you’d lose each other, which would be a bad thing for a gringa driving with a kid and a red dog in Central America. I don’t quite remember if or how we got my dad’s attention that night. But I can tell you with certainty that we made it to El Salvador.

The move to El Salvador was the first of many family moves, so this early life transition is only one of many that shaped my relationship with my siblings and ultimately shaped me into the person I am today. Yeah, I’m Latina and families are important to us, blah blah. But my siblings and I are actually really close in our dysfunctional Vides way because we always needed to lean on each other growing up.

Anyway, back to El Salvador. We lived there for about four years, and Helen and I quickly learned Spanish from our nanny (mom got a little help in that department from the telenovelas). The family grew. My brother, John, and sister, Sharon are native Guanacos. We also added parrots, a Tucan, a cat, another dog and a guinea pig to the family. (Except the guinea pig and the Tucan died.)

We also learned to dance a little Salsa and Merengue, met a boatload of cousins, and learned a few things about guerrillas, civil wars, awesome beaches, Pupusas, and exotic fruit like Jocotes (mmmmm). I could write for hours about our days in El Salvador and maybe I will as time goes on.

In time we left El Salvador for Puerto Rico, then Costa Rica, and finally Miami where I graduated from high school (that is a story all on its own). My parents and younger siblings went on to Brazil and then to Canada, then settled in Miami where Helen and I had stayed to complete college.

With every move, we needed to make new friends, learn a different kind of Spanish and generally re-adjust. We sometimes took the opportunity to re-invent ourselves, because moving presents a clean slate of sorts. But we always – ALWAYS – had each other. We were the four Vides kids with funny Spanish in the back of the Chevy station wagon or the Nissan van or the Audi station wagon (a new car in each country) on our way to school, or on some insane family road trip. Fighting the way siblings do yet defending each other to the end.

I don’t’ know what I’d do without them. I’m glad that I have them and am thankful they’re on my side. As I go through the process of understanding who I really am – and re-inventing myself into who I want to be as I enter the “second half” of my life – I’m most grateful that they’ll never let me forget who I’ve always been.

At my core, I’m still that crazy and somewhat awkward Vides kid. I’ve grown up to be a crazy and somewhat awkward woman – still with funny Spanish – who has an amazing family and some interesting life experiences. Both of which influence who I can become.

Why I Wear 4-Inch Heels

2009-08-02T12:33:00.000-07:00

I wear 4-inch heels. Like – almost every day. Unless I’m going to the gym. Or wearing flip-flops (my second-favorite choice in footwear). But I wear them most days at work and definitely for a night out.

I was thinking about this the other day as I packed my bag for BlogHer in Chicago. Because, well, I packed a bunch of heels and the guy at the airport bag-check made fun of the weight of my bag. I was mocked for my choice of footwear late last year when we had a fire drill at work and we had to walk down seven flights of concrete stairs. I confess I was loud going down those stairs. And my feet did hurt some after it was all said and done.

Then she had to go there. The office hottie pointed at my feet and said “well, if you weren’t wearing heels that high…”

Well, I’ve got news for the hottie. Yeah, despite my age (39 at the time) I most definitely was the victor in the highest heels contest (we measured). But the reasons why I choose to wear heels - as the hottie will tragically learn as she ages - are good ones.

Here’s how it all started. A few months after I had my son, I went back to work at a global PR firm. New to this whole working mom thing, I looked to other moms for cues as to how to balance work and family while fitting in at the office. Because – well, I work in PR where you’re kind of expected to be hip. BUT THEN I noticed the moms. Now, I’m not trying to be mean here. But I NOTICED a lot of flat shoes, elastic waistbands and sensible bags. All-right, we’re moms. And that’s how we dress, so adjust Jennifer. All good?

Uh, NO. THIS ISN’T THE PARK.

First off, when you work in public relations, you really do work with a lot of fashion-conscious young people. And if you’re in a senior level position like me, you really want and need the junior folks you’re hoping to mold into superstars to look up to you, right? Here’s the part where I piss people off and challenge the industry up-and-comers to tell me that they really truly respect their “elders” in the industry if they aren’t at least current in their dress.

Look. I wear sweats and throw my hair up in a ponytail when I’m at home or on the weekends. (You should see me now.) Because just like most moms – women, really - I like to be comfortable. But that’s just not right for work. I’m not saying I’m a fashion plate. I’m not. I just like to stay current. And – bonus – the fashion plates feel comfortable with telling me when it’s time to retire a pair of jeans because they’re too big, for instance. (Thanks, Allison.) And they would seriously call me out if suddenly I decided to wear Crocs to the office. (Which, by the way, I wouldn’t even wear to the park. Ladies, please consider your footwear. Crocs – like Kix - are for kids.)

Then there’s this: Ever notice that the women who make it to the top of companies generally look good? As in – they (cliché alert!) dress for success in their industry? Oh, and they wear heels because, well, they appear taller, their legs look better and deep down inside they feel more confident.

So back to the day I started a new job at that (very good, I should mention) PR agency. I realized at that moment that I didn’t want to be put out to pasture in my 40s or 50s simply because I chose to forget that being a good and proud mom doesn’t mean you stop being a woman and a professional who wants and needs to look good, too.

So I called my friend Sarah and said: “Honey, you’ve gotta help me. Let’s go shopping.”

We did.

And we bought heels. Lots of them.

And guess what? Nobody ever believes I’m 40.

Not my colleagues. Not the bartender. Not even the hottie.

The Most Important Thing I Learned at BlogHer

2009-07-29T01:13:00.000-07:00

You guys rock. That's what I learned. I'm sitting here tired in the middle of the night trying like Hell to compose something coherent but I can't. But you have. All of you. Never mind that I write for a living.

Anyway, just wanted to say that. As for the coherent post? Later in the week, I hope. I realize it'll be late and old news and nobody will want to read it then. But hey, I've just acknowledged that you rock harder than me. Please forgive?

On Embracing Loca

2009-07-21T00:46:00.000-07:00

My friend and colleague Harry used to call me La Vides Loca. I convinced myself at the time that it was because Ricky Martin’s song “La Vida Loca” was hot, and that my last name was Vides. Oh, and that I’m Latina. He was in no way calling me loca (that’s “crazy” for you gringas). Because that would be bad. Or so I thought.

Fast forward, uh, ten years. Enter life, marriage, child (who’s now five) and a bunch of transitions that are none of your business. (Though I reserve the right to make it your business later.) And suddenly I’m ready to confess: there’s a bit of loca in me. And I’m damned proud of it. In fact, it’s a family tradition. The proof?

Exhibit A: Las Tías. (that would be my aunts).

My Dad – Lico – is Salvadoran. He’s got a bunch of siblings – most of them women. Throw in a few of his cousins and we’ve got quite a crew of cackling ladies. Yeah, they cackle. You should see ‘em at family reunions. They cram together on the smallest piece of furniture possible and have one hell of a time.

They make fun of us young people. Calling us fat, flirting with our men and telling us all that WE TOO are crazy.

US: Who, me? No way man. We’re normal. You guys are nuts.

THEM: [Loud cackle] Ah, but you’re a Vides. You’ll see.

In comes Tía Elsa. Easily one of the craziest of the bunch. She lives in El Salvador and spends a ton of time in France so we don’t see her that often. But when we do – ay, no. You better take regular bathroom breaks or you might pee your pants. Really.

So one day, after a few cocktails, she pulls my sisters and me aside to tell us why this whole crazy thing isn’t half bad. Here’s what she said:

Miren, niňas. In dees world dere are twooo kinds of pee-pol. Crreesy (that’s crazy) pee-pol and stooped pee-pol. I’d rather be creesy dan stoopid!

You shoulda seen the look on our faces. See, here’s another thing about us Vides girls (and our brother, too). We have ZERO tolerance for stupidity. Even our own. So, well, we eagerly agreed and toasted to being crazy. Cuz it sure beats stupid.

So as I embark on this new era of my life I call mykid’sgoingtokindergartensoonandI’mnow40soshitineedtoworkout…I’m gonna fully embrace La Vides Loca.

(Thank you, Harry).