the chommo chronicles

.new york silhouettes.

I don't think it's paranoia: people really do look at me weird when I walk down these mean NYC streets. But listen - they've got cause. If I happen to have my iPod on, then I am singing along with a lot of force but with zero sound. Like, I'm really feeling the music, it's touching my soul, I'm rocking out with my non-existent cock out, and I am singing along, but I'm actually mute, so all I can do it mouth the words with a lot of feeling. If my hair has chosen to misbehave that day, well then, it's time to get disapproving looks from my lovely Latin ladies. Also, I have extraordinarily sweaty eyelids, which means that unless I've applied an industrial grade mix of powder and eyeshadow that day, chances are pretty high that my eyeliner will have smeared all over the place, leaving me looking like a junkie straight off a three day bender of the good isht.

These days, though, I think the weird looks are directed less at me and more at my new-ish toy, the Fuji Instax camera Kim Jong-Illmatic gave me to cure my analog photography blues. It looks like a Polaroid camera (kinda), it sounds like a Polaroid camera, and it produces instantaneous photos with a technology you'd think people have never seen before.

It doesn't help with the people-staring-at-me-all-weird business when I abruptly stop at street corners to capture random scenes. My current obsession are late summer/early autumn  celestial-architectural silhouettes, both because they're pretty (I think) and because they're pretty hard to mess up, but mostly because I tend to take them between 4pm and 6pm, that magical hour where the skies above New York City are straight out of a fantastical painting.

.of sweet things and poofy dresses.

Two weeks ago, my ginormagantuan family gathered to celebrate my niece’s sixteenth birthday, dancing into the early morning, taking advantage of the open bar, mugging for a million cameras, and thanking Sweet Jeebus that we’d moved sufficiently along the immigrant arc that we could now start having parties catered rather than having to bring in our assigned dishes in aluminum containers. (That last part may just be me.) The event itself was a sweet mixture of old world and new – it was a Sweet Sixteen rather than a quinceañera, but my niece still had a gaggle of teenaged friends and family serving as her “court”; there was no mass, but the birthday girl still wore a (slightly) poofy white dress and conformed to the old rituals involving shoes and a tiara; the color scheme (red and black) was more Twilight than blush and bashful, but there was still something indescribably sweet about this cultural rite of passage, this firm demarcation between childhood and (young) adulthood.

Being exactly 16 years older than Caro, I find myself wishing I had a similar occasion to gather my friends and family around to celebrate my entry into a new phase of life. This may be because I myself never had a Sweet Sixteen and have in my life had scant opportunities to wear poofy gowns; even my wedding dress was exceedingly simple. In fact, the last time I remember wearing a poofy gown was sometime in the mid- to late-1980s, when I served as junior bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding. And really, if all your poofy-dressed memories consisted of this image, wouldn’t you want to give it another go?

A few years ago I did threaten to organize a Sweet Sixteen Times Two party for myself, but that was purely motivated by my longtime wish to hold a party where the DJ played only 1980s-1990s R&B, hip-hop and freestyle. I also wanted to see whether Kim Jong-Illmatic would make good on his promise to act as my chambelán whilst wearing a baby blue tuxedo with matching cummerbund, bowtie and ruffle shirt. It was more of an idle fantasy than an actual plan, and I never really pursued it. Plus, I had no idea it was so expensive to rent a hall in NYC.

But now that I’m actually here, with my 32^nd birthday less than two weeks away, I find myself wishing that there was a rite of passage for people my age. This being the age of big decisions – the age when the full weight of the what-do-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up question manifests itself – there would probably be a little less sweetness to such a ritual. It’d be more like a Tense Thirty-Two, a This-Is-What-It’s-Like-To-Be-An-Adult Thirty-Two, a Terrified-At-My-Bank-Balance Thirty-Two, or, for those lucky ones, a This-Is-Right-Where-I-Want-To-Be Thirty-Two.

This is not to say that I am unhappy with where I am right now. Quite the opposite, actually. There is something incredibly fucking awesome about finally being old enough to really not give a shit what people think about you. I feel like I am closer to my family than ever before. I’ve finally learned how to deal with my hair. I've decided on a signature cocktail, and finally learned that my absolute red wine limit is two-and-a-half glasses. 

Still, I’ve been doing nothing but coasting for the past few years, pretending to be an adult – a mujer hecha y derecha, as my mom would say – while all the while secretly convinced I was still twenty-three years old and capable of living a fancy-free life. For the first time I feel like I am on the cusp of actual adulthood, that it really is time for me to ask myself those hard questions, to give due consideration to the BIG ISSUES! around which I’ve been cutting a wide berth for the past few years. Do I want to have children? Should we get life insurance? Do I really care about owning my own home? Is my current profession really what I want to be doing for the rest of my life? How can I save more money than I spend? How can I make my dream to Paris a reality?

Yes, there are many people my age who’ve started answering these questions, and, as Ramona Singer would say, koodooze to them. I mean that sincerely, because I am terrified. Excited, but terrified. Excited, terrified, and out of breath. Excited, terrified, out of breath, and apprehensive. Excited, terrified, out of breath, apprehensive and curious. Excited, terrified, out of breath, apprehensive, curious, and….Eh, you get the picture. It’s scary as hell, but I feel like I’m up for the challenge. Maybe. Hopefully.

And yes, I realize that I can’t just sit down one Saturday and go through my check list of important life questions, answering each one in turn and heading off into the sunset confident in my decision. It’s a process. But wouldn’t it be nice to kick off that process with a kick-ass party?

So yes, I would like to celebrate this momentous occasion, my one-woman rite of passage, with a poofy dress, a rented hall, specialty single-malt scotch for everyone (and sure, fine, some clear liquor for the rest of you pansies), and my friends and family dancing up a storm all around me.

And I think I’ve found the perfect dress for it, too.

But the dress would have to be in in baby blue, not red. And I would wear gloves. And my hair up with wispy, hairspray shellacked curls cascading down the side. And of course, a tiara. And a corsage. Because I keeps it real like that.

 © Chommo, 2009.

.morning musings.

I’m what you might would call a “morning person” – not in the sense that I am all chipper in the morning and want to run around and hug the world (sohelpyouGod if you want to talk to me before 8AM), but rather in the sense that I like to get up early, take care of my running/coffee/make-up/wardrobe/packing business at a leisurely pace, and ease myself into this cruel, cruel world by dint of silent, contemplative preparation and the dulcet tones of British white-girl soul singers. But some mornings, man, some mornings try the limited patience that I have for dealing with the fuckery of this world.

.bloggus interruptus.

Wait – does it sound at all like I know anything about Latin? I don’t. Surely the fact that my darling friend La Doctora – and her two sisters (it was a total family domination over dead languages up in Connecticut) – all won the Latin prize in high school counts for something, right? But don’t cry for me Argentina: I won the history prize. True, I tripped going up the podium to collect my prize and my hair was colored a shade of red I like to call Ronald McDonald red, but I was a freaking winner too, damn it

Anyhoodle, this past week my government job* had me on the road to Madrid, which sounds exciting and all until you realize that on these types of trips I work from 8am to midnight with barely enough time to sneak in jet-lag combating power naps during the day. Meetings, meetings, meetings all day – meetings in 4-inch heels, because even though they hurt my feet and appear to be wholly unnecessary to conduct human rights business in Spain, they make me feel like a professional rather than a moppy-headed imposter. It's the Dominican in me. Meetings over two-hour lunches, meetings over three hour dinners, conference calls with the office back home and partners in other cities, countries, continents, disturbed sleep patterns, and barely enough time to:

• viciously lust after beautiful Spanish fashions;

• ponder the popularity of the lady-mullet amongst the Madrileñas;

• convince myself croquetas de jamon are a perfectly healthy way to start every meal;

• remember how much I hate the full-fat and/or long-life milk everyone puts in the coffee;

• feel guilty about missing my training runs (jet-lag makes my body hurt and feel like it weights a ton and produces instantaneous shin splints, okay?);

• remark on the forgotten sensation of sitting in an indoor restaurant or bar where smoking is still allowed; or

• furiously finish my book club’s monthly selection (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – I recommend it, even though I’m still slightly traumatize

Above all, I didn’t  have time to write. But, si Dios quiere, regular posting will resume  as of now.

Well, not right now-right now, since at the time I am writing this I am heading dome on a jittery plane over the Atlantic, reminded once again that turbulence is the work of the devil and that I hate to fly. At least I’m up in Business/First class – awwwww yeah beeches! Complimentary upgrades from my travel agent, that’s what I’m talking about! – but you know what?

I’m not being treated right. It’s like the stewardesses think I’m an impostor, even though I’ve racked up well over 300,000 frequent flier miles on Delta.

True, I am wearing a long black t-shirt embroidered with a white sequined owl. And yes, My hair does look make me look like an electrocuted lion. And, okay, I did get on the plane with about 6 different trashy British celebrity magazines.

But damn, Gina! Read the boarding pass:  seat 2A. One-two-aye. That means I’m at the front of the plane. That means I’m one of the fancy people, if only through a mixture of an incredible stroke of luck and relentless kiss-assery to my corporate travel agent. So, you know, when you offer me – nay promise me! – warm nuts (heh – warm nuts), how’s about you deliver on the promise, huh? How’s about you don’t conveniently forget about me and give everyone else but me some warm nuts? And how’s about you clear my table first, and not last?

Also, ew. I think the old man sitting in front of me just farted in my general direction. People who fart in other people’s general directions should be barred from the fancy seats. 

See you soon.

*Again, by "government job," I don't mean an actual job with the government - just my real life job, he one that pays into my social security benefits and keeps me in bubble gum, comic books, baseballs cards and $30 tubes of mascara.

© Chommo, 2009.




*Again, not an actual job with the government, just my day job – the one that keeps me in bubblegum, baseball cards, and expensive mascara, not to mention Uncle Sam’s good graces.

.friday fotos.

What? Is that you I hear muttering that it's actually Monday and not Friday, so why I am deliberately misleading you with the post's title? Well, I'm sorry. I had a busy, busy, busy end of week/weekend, what with the recuperating from a brutal session with the nice-on-the-outside, evil-eevil taskmaster-on-the-inside personal trainer, the planning for a business trip to Madrid, the nerves at having my hair cut by a non-Dominican for only the second time in my life, the getting ready for my niece's Sweet Sixteen and the subsequent dancing all night long in 4-inch heels even though I swore we were through, the running of eight horrendous, horrendous miles as part of my half-marathon training schedule, and the eventual collapse before the Emmy Awards telecast. [Don't worry, you'll be hearing more about all these things in the future.]

So, only a few days late, I present to you this week's (last week's?) installment of Friday Fotos. This time around, nothing fancy - shots captured with my Blackberry Curve, modifed with the lovely Picasa. Do forgive my tardy(ness) to the party(ness).

.confounded.

I an confounded by a lot of things and spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about them. If you ever see me walking around with a completely blank look on my face (which I do 99% of the time, much to my husband’s irritated dismay), it’s probably because I am contemplating fielder’s choice plays in baseball, black holes, and why middle-aged women get tattoos right on their upper titty area. (That, or I’m fantasizing about eating a big plate of french fries.)

Thanks to the wonder that is Pandora, I’ve spent most of the day contemplating that sub-genre of R&B songs where two people in love with each other, but they can’t be together, even though they love each other so much that they're singing about their love for all the world to hear?

Do you know what I’m talking about?

.bye bye summer.

Summer doesn’t formally end for another five days, but there are signs aplenty that autumn is already upon us – stuffed backpacks on crowded subways, daily countdowns to the MLB playoffs, a sleepy sun that wakes up a little later each day, sartorially dissonant ladies with jackets and scarves on top and pedicured, be-thonged toes on the bottom. Pretty soon the leaves will start to change color, the jackets will get heavier, and the interminable wait for spring training will begin anew. I can’t say that I mind much – an astrological Libra through and through, I live for the briskly temperamental in-between seasons of autumn and spring. Summer makes me sweat and expose more of my raw chicken-colored skin* to the world than I care to and winter gifts me with perpetual hat hair and ashy, dry skin. 

Still, summer in NYC does bring with it some magical moments: street fairs, zeppoles, outdoor concerts, piraguas and Italian icies, Macy's 4th of July fireworks, the orgasmic moment of getting on a chilly subway car after idling for 30 minutes on the 34th street station platform.

But nothing in the New York summertime is quite as magical  – baroque - fascinating – as the Coney Island boardwalk.

.a local request.

The bodega across the street from my house will provide you with all your daily necessities : a wide variety of Jarritos sodas, organic low-fat chocolate milk and aloe vera juice;  calling cards shaped like big Latin booties, french fries, plantains, and mariachi hats; starchy starchy cereals; aluminum food containers in all shapes and sizes;   Fabuloso and Mistolin floor cleaners; an impressive array of feminine hygeine products; tomatoes, avocados, potatoes, yucca, onions; Bustelo coffee; confectioner's sugar;  homemade Dominican cake; Aunt Jemima's pancake mix; ghetto wannabe Froz-Fruit icies; and chile and lime covered Mexican-style peanuts.

They just ask one thing - one teeny-tiny thing - in exchange:

Thank you. They really appreciate it. 

.self-inflicted torture.

At some point in July, I decided I would train for and run a half-marathon before the end of this year. Let me tell you some facts about myself that have been immutable since puberty knocked me on my ass in the late 1980s/early 1990s: I have problematic hair, I am a bit of a chubster, and I am very well-developed in the boobular area (very). For a very long time, these last two traits made me never, ever want to take up the “sport”* of running. And yet there I found myself, looking up Hal Higdon’s half-marathon training schedule, and deciding I had it in me to run 13.1 miles.

Holy isht. What have I gotten myself into? Why? Why, sweet Jeebus, why?

.vee-vah-poh-roo.

The past week chez Chommo and Kim Jong-Illmatic has been full of nothing but sore throats, snot-filled noses, achy limbs, congested heads, half-days at work and prayers to various deities that we had not contracted the swine flu. Thank Jeebus, we are already on the mend and appear to have escaped Porky Pig’s revenge.

Still, it was a pretty miserable week at our Brooklyn pad, and not just because all the cold medicine I was taken made me mistake the Manhattan Bridge for the Brooklyn Bridge. When I’m sick, I like nothing more than to be left alone, a self-contained bundle of misery snuggled up in bed with my comforter and a trashy historical romance novel (they cure all ills); Kim Jong-Illmatic, on the other hand, likes to be doted on, catered to, taken care of, blahblahblah treated like a precious wittle baby. It’s never good when we get together at the same time, since all we do is get irritated at each other and wish out loud that we had a second bedroom because goddamn are you loud and annoying and I don’t want to share a bed with you and could you please stop sniffling and touching me and I think it’s your turn to go sleep on the couch. Yeah, fun times.

But in the midst of all the cold-induced misery, there was a bright, shining, in-the-same-category-as-unicorns-rainbows-and-YSL-faux-cils-mascara gold-silver lining: my discovery of Puffs Plus tissues with Vicks®.

YOU GUYS!  OH.EM.GEE.