It’s Story Time Saturdays time again and Jess from Shuggilippo is sharing a hilariously edited moment withher little guy. Jess read Harry the Dirty Dog for her guy. Listen in, laugh out loud, and then grab a book, a kid, and sit down and share the wordsmith love.
Jul 122010
I had one word when I came across these Booty Pop thingies at the store the other day…
“Seriously?”
The Husband could barely contain his laughter as I alternated between staring at my own Naturally-Popped booty and the “Hi, My Name’s Candy and I’m a Stripper!” accessory I can’t imagine ever needing to use.
“You should buy those,” he joked (I hope). “Would make for a great blog post.”
I glared at him, motioned to my J-Lo’s-jealous-nalgas (Spanish slang for booty, peeples) and just repeated myself. “Seriously?”
Then we came across these bad boys at Target. In the men’s section. My first reaction?
“Seriously?”
I asked The Husband if he wanted a pair. He likes comics. And he’d have been all about the Captain America’s. But then I imagined him running around our bedroom in with a sheet tied around his neck wearing his Man-der-roos in a superhuman effort to get lucky and told him to forget it in between the laughter and the tears.
And then we came across these on our last stop before heading home. Buttercup walked right up to the display before I could say anything, put one hand on the packaging, and looked up at me with a quizzical look on her face.
She said one word.
“Seriously?”
And she hadn’t even seen the commercial.
Seriously?
Yep…
That’s my girl.
May 232010
“I love you, Mama!” Buttercup’s eyes lit up as she ran to me when I walked in the door.
Hug, hug, kiss, kiss.
Then…”You got me a surprise? Ok, I close my eyes.”
The second part of that sentence was said without her waiting for an answer. Just chalk that up to the almost three years The Husband and I have spent riding high on our little girl’s smile every time we bring her something home. Even a found penny is considered treasure in her eyes.
But tonight was special.
I just arrived home after five days away at The National Latino Writer’s Conference and made sure to return baring a gift strong enough to erase the Mama-guilt I’d been sporting since booking the damned ticket six months ago.
And I found it. A sweet, hand-made little Mexican girl doll I found at the Hispanic Cultural Center’s Gift Shop. I was so excited at the prospect of actually giving Buttercup a doll that represented a part of her culture that the slightly WTF price tag didn’t stop me. And when I got home and gave her the doll, Buttercup squealed and then asked what to name her.
“Lola?” I said after thinking a moment.
“No, that’s not him’s name,” she told me. She’s been experimenting with pronouns lately and well, it hasn’t been going very well.
“Her, m’ijita. Now, what about Mercedes?” It’s our middle names. The Husband thought that one up and I was secretly hoping she’d pick that one.
“No,” Buttercup said, her finger on her chin. Then her eyes got wide and her mouth broke into a huge smile. “I know, mama! Him’s name Hannah!”
The Husband’s eyes met mine over our daughter’s head. He was trying not to laugh.
“Awesome. I bring home the most ethnic doll I can find and she names it Hannah.” I put my palm to my forehead.
Buttercup smiled up at me. “Yep, I named him Hannah. And I love him, too.”
End of conversation.
May 142010
So I’m on the computer, procrastinating as usual before I do my actual writing when I come across a Blog Frog discussion that got me thinking.
Heather from SITS (The Secret is in the Sauce) asked who regretted sharing their blog with family and I chimed in saying that I have no regrets because they don’t know…yet.
Here’s the deal: If I get a book deal, the cat’s out of the bag. I refer to the blog a few times and admit that I have selected a few of my favorite posts, which are already included in the manuscript. To me, the book and the blog are linked because they are both extensions of myself. That being said, there is a lot of shit I wouldn’t be blogging about right now if I knew my mother-in-law or Tia or Madrina were sitting down to read.
Like the word shit. Or my favorite potty mouth tag for when I say things like fuck.
And yes, both words are perfectly peppered throughout my manuscript for just the right amount of seasoning.
Which takes me back to why I’ve kept the book and the blog a secret from my family and yet shared it with the world.
- You don’t know me. So judge away. Point and laugh when I say something stupid or grimace when I talk about my weight. Either way, it’s all good and we can still respect each other in the morning.
- They do know me. Which means that if I had started this blog, or the book, knowing that Aunt Bonnie or Tia Elvia were going to be peaking over my shoulder to see how things were going, I would never have had the chance to get comfortable with my own voice. I would have automatically censored myself like I do at family functions. And that really would have made for voiceless writing.
- By the time La Familia gets wind of the book and the blog, I won’t care. (Ok, so maybe I will, un poquito) I can make a big announcement warning them all that I say bad things on my blog and in my book and they’ve been warned so don’t read it and bitch ‘cuz it’s not gonna change. And then they can peek and bitch and I can remind them I warned them and then they’ll grumble and say things like “aye, Míja”and then we can all move on.
So really, it should all work out in the end.
And side note? This is me thanking the publishing industry for creating such a long and drawn out process for getting a book on the shelf at Borders or Barnes & Noble. And my muse, for drawing the process out even longer. Because really? The longer I have to prepare for the Mexican mess that’s gonna come with La Familia learning I say fuck in public is not gonna be pretty.
So no, Heather. I don’t regret anything.
Yet.
May 052010
I grew up speaking Spanglish, think in English, and thought I was adopted until I was 13 because I’m the only female in my family over 5 feet tall. That’s when my fourth sister shot up to my level and made me breathe a huge sigh of relief I wasn’t going to have to look for my real parents and become the subject of some crazy documentary.
My Spanish has no regional dialect, which makes it easy for native speakers to know I’m American-born and my English is sometimes confuddled with words I cannot say without an accent (hello pina colada!) to confuse everyone else. And by the way, I roll my “r’s” when I say the word “three.”
Remember Chi-Chi’s? Aside from it being a “Celebration of Food,” the commercials were also reason enough for my sisters and I to fall down laughing as kids because we weren’t allowed to say the word. It might have meant food to you. But in our house, chi-chi’s was just another word for “boobies.” And Cinco de Mayo? Yeah, we never celebrated it.
I wear a religious medallion and make the sign of the cross before doing anything that can alter the history of the world, like stepping on a scale or driving past a cemetery, but I only drag my ass to church on Easter. I have tias, tios, and just said good-bye to my Guelo (Gramps) when he joined my father and Guela (grammy) in el cielo last month.
And I didn’t really know anything about my culture aside from the world my family surrounded us in until I took a Mexican History class in college. I wasn’t the only first-generation representative in that room. And I wasn’t the only one who felt a huge surge of cultural pride shoot through every fiber of my being when I read Victor Villasenor’s Rain of Gold. Nor was I the only one in class to go out, buy the book in Spanish, and hand it with shaking hands to someone who meant the world to me.
My dad got that copy. And now I have it, as well.
I’m not going to the bar today. I’m making spaghetti for dinner…not tacos. But that’s because I don’t need a holiday to be who I already am.