Of course an Aquarian would post something like this...

I credit my Aquarian friend, Elli, for finding the link.

Growing flowers to understand dying

I went to the cemetery today to visit my grandmother. While I was at the cemetery, amidst the feelings of sadness and sorrow watching my family pray over her grave, I thought of death. 

Wandering past tombstones and the ghosts of children and veterans lingering in the gray cold of fall’s first chill I couldn’t help but read the tombstones of the living.  I stood there wondering about these living ghosts’ current lives.  I wondered if having a headstone with their names on it in some cemetery was cause for them to wait for death instead of celebrating life.

To have your tombstone readily engraved while alive was an idea that baffled me.  When you’re young you don’t think much of dying. 

Beloved Mother, Beloved Daughter, Beloved Wife, Boring, Boring, Boring…what will my tombstone say?  What legacy will I leave behind?  Will I be one of the many Beloved Daughters?

To my family reading this, please PLEASE put something creative on my tombstone – better yet, put something funny.  That way when people walk by, they’ll know that I ENJOYED life and am probably enjoying death (if that is possible, I have yet to find out).

I kept praying in my mind, conversing with my grandmother’s soul, asking for guidance on my next steps in life, wishing there were some sort of manual saying, “please proceed to this destination for the next two years…”  Then something happened.  Through some odd epiphany of sorts I felt that this is it.  This is such a time of beauty and uncertainty I’m only going to dream about later when the path I’m carving through cluttered forests becomes cemented and far too easy to trace. That’s when I’ll sit back missing the wilderness of unchartered territories and missing what I have now.

I have choice now – I can choose what path to walk, what terrains to venture into or stay out of and how to do it. 

Out into the wilderness I go!

Gracias Abuela!

P.S. If I die and my tombstone is one of those run of the mill beloved daughter, beloved wife titles to showcase who I was in life I will haunt my loved ones until they change it.  So if some months after my death you experience odd occurrences such as finding your work files in your refrigerator or your toothbrush in a cereal box you obviously messed up. 

My final act will be to make people leave my grave laughing instead of crying.  How would you feel if every time someone came to visit you they just burst into tears?  Thanks for the flowers and all, but damn, is the thought of me that much of a downer? 

P.P.S. You all know how much I love all animals so you better bring your pets, I don’t care what the cemetery rules are – it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission (Mayor Daley quote – can you tell I’m from Chicago)?

P.P.P.S. I just found out that there are elephants buried in the same cemetery as my grandmother and that little fact, my friends, made my day.  

Let's Evolve (for our daughters)

I'm re-posting this from a previous blog because obviously the world isn't listening fast enough:

I’d been debating whether I should blog about this type of thing or not, but part of the reason I started my blog was so that I could have a voice in a capacity that I am not normally able in other aspects of my life.  I work within the business community in Chicago.  A great deal of the type of work that I do has to do with developing strong business relationships with business owners and other stakeholders within the Hispanic business community.  I also happen to be a young woman and I like to go out and have a good time by which I mean go out with friends, colleagues, etc. and have a couple of drinks while getting to know each other better or at an event etc. 

It has been more than once that certain men within this community have tried to leverage their position or the role they play within my current network as an excuse to be able to behave inappropriately towards me or towards other women.  It’s become increasingly frustrating for me to deal with and all the while I keep asking myself why I should have to deal with it. 

It’s a catch-22 situation with so many shades of gray.  There have been many many times when I’d like to tell the person exactly what I think porque "no tengo pelos en la lengua," however I’m increasingly cautious of the nature of business relationships and knowing the type of animal I am dealing with.  Most of the time these men that behave so inappropriately are so threatened by women’s power or by feminine energy that politely telling them to please never touch you again or to please fuck off is a direct threat to their masculinity. (Of course I wouldn't say it that way..but I'd want to)  Most of these men are dealing with so much insecurity that to threaten their masculinity in a public place among colleagues and friends would cause the type of reaction that can be explosive and incredibly mean.

As a young woman in business all I have is my reputation.  I need to be incredibly protective of it.  I am careful of the circles I am around and try and keep those circles tight.  Rejecting the advances of someone who is influential within this type of community and that has a strong voice within the organizations and corporations that I work with calling you a man-hating feminist or bitch generally doesn’t preserve your reputation.  Also, when so much in this world is based on perception and not reality; the smoke and mirrors of who you are becomes quite the ugly picture.  I would hate for all the amazing men that I know, that can call themselves feminists, that do their best for their sisters and daughters and wives to help advance other young women in business without having to play this game, to think of me as something so far from what I actually am.

So I sit back, biting my tongue, lumps forming in my throat out of anger, and smile sweetly laughing along to the disgusting conversation while sinking deeper into my chair.  What can I do?  If I ask them to please not speak to me in that manner in the nicest way, then I become the prude that everyone feels they need to be careful around to protect my feelings and that's not who I am.  I’m simply a rational human being that hates having to put up with other peoples’ issues or bullshit simply because I was born 26 years ago a woman.  I make sure they feel my icy reaction not encouraging their behavior, but am I condoning it by not saying anything?  Have I become part of the game that I hated?

I am so grateful to all the women that came before me in business for paving the way so that I could work within this world and feel around me an endless sea of possibilities.  We still have so much work to do but now it’s up to me and the intelligent women of my generation to do it.

I had had quite a few close calls with men in the past while traveling by myself in Mexico and in Spain.  They upset me at the time so much but they were “cultural differences” or “cultural misunderstandings.”  I was different; I came from a world where women could say what they want, could be free, could travel by themselves and have a great conversation with someone of the opposite sex and it not mean she was wanting anything more.  Now, I see this in my community and my own backyard and the issue is more complex than what I ever imagined.  It's imbedded in all societies in some capacity and it's going to be a long hard road to change it, but I've got my walking shoes on and I'm in it for the long haul.

Fuerza to all of my sisters!

I leave you with this poem I wrote when I was 19:

When I was younger I used to turn my turtle onto her shell just to watch her extend her neck and flip herself over.  Now I’m rolling out of someone else’s bed with the taste of vodka and cigarettes in my too-dry mouth remembering voices praying a thousand Santa Marias in the living room of my abuela’s house the day she died.  My parents used to carry wooden rosaries, my brother and I would carry thick fallen branches we’d find in the woods.  They always gave me splinters and made my hands feel dirty but it wasn’t as bad as the time I stood, just barely, pushed against a fence my hands forced over my head by a stronger hand, while the other wandered around my chest looking for what other secret places he could find next…my hamster used to dig into the wooden chips of his cage to try to escape, but he never did like I did, into this giant ant colony of a city and life is writing me Post-It notes:

• ·         Don’t forget to pay your rent
• ·         Remember how he loved you once?
• ·         And so Jen…who are you now?

These are the poems that come when you fall in love with the wrong people..

The Nihilist Thief

You drew a quick sketch of me on the train
I had a dream about
that waiter from the restaurant
downtown where we ditched the bill
he was holding me as I waywardly
turned myself in
all I had was water...
I never mentioned you.

The police were drawing a quick sketch of me
and you were laughing
and tapping on the one-way window
I glared into the mirrors

I know now
you're not good for me
your moods dictate wind
I am the current
I used to go sailing alone
and watch the sky for the colors
but I now know how the sky changes
and no longer do I wish to see it
Fear is my companion

So I lay quiet these days
afraid of storms
but more afraid of those perfect days
with the warming sunrises
and the sunset's beauty
that marks the sky
with colors that seem
newly invented every time
it reminds me of the way
you used to hold me
and tell me everything would be fine
that was a lie

It reminds me
of running around the city
walking endlessly
with no money
and that drive along the lake
when you used Nietzsche
to tell me
that there's no where else you'd rather be

it reminds me of that
pale blue of your eyes
that converts to a deeper blue
when you pleadingly apologize
I can't say no
to my spoiled child
I am a discipline less mother
feeding your baby bottles
and you are beautiful
wiping my kisses off your cheek.

I'm in love with a dead man...

He is truly so beautiful and dear God his voice...if you do not enjoy this, you have no soul.

The List

These are all things I dream of doing in this lifetime.

1.       Scuba Dive

2.       Hike Macchu Picchu

3.       Visit Cuba with my father

4.       Do yoga regularly for an entire year.

5.       Go raw for at least two weeks

6.       Fast for 21 days straight.

7.       Live in another country for at least six months.

8.       Make my way to India

9.       Visit Thailand

10.   Be a published author by a national publication.

11.   Shoot a gun (not at any living thing of course).

12.   Master something.

13.   Learn to play my guitar by ear.

14.   Learn to tune by ear.

15.   Start my own company.

16.   See an owl in the wild.

17.   Pet a lion or a tiger.

18.   Live outside of Chicago for at least a year.

19.   Run a 5k

20.   Do yoga on a mountain.

21.   Own property

22.   Go to Egypt and tour the pyramids

23.   Ride a camel

24.   Skydive

25.   Visit Alaska

26.   See a Polar Bear wild.

27.   Write, play and sing a whole album worth of my songs (even if it’s never distributed)

28.   Live in an indigenous community for a while.

29.   Hang out with primates (other than humans)

30.   Become a mentor

31.   Inspire at least one person to live their dream and or achieve something on their list.

32.   Go to Yellowstone National Park

33.   Take a family vacation with my brother and parents and any other family that wants to join (as grownups)

34.   Take an Archery class (per my secret obsession with Lord of the Rings)

More to come!

Help me make my dreams come true.  I guarantee any funds received will be used exclusively for one of the items above.

Click on the donate button below to contribute!

Better than that would be for you to donate it to your own dream fund and nurture that which makes you happy, but I mean if you've got the cash to spare...I'll take it!

I know why the caged bird sings…

My friend has a tattoo of a bird in a cage on her left arm.  She says that when she goes crazy (which she’s expecting to do at some point, I guess) she will get another tattoo on her right arm of the bird freed from the cage.

So is it the caged bird who sings, secured in her cage?

Or is it the bird who’s too busy flying above the clouds weightless; his wings flapping in a rhythmic trance?

Is the little metal gate of your cage open, or are you comfortable in the confines you’ve made for yourself?

The cage never existed.  Happy travels!

Photographs taken from the Manos/Mundo/Corazon: Artists interpret La Loteria exhibit at Columbia College Chicago.

The Birds Always Sing After The Rain

When I was 22 years old I went backpacking by myself to the southern part of Mexico for two months.  I spent time in many indigenous communities that had a completely different perspective on life than I did, growing up in the United States.  Everything was different; their sense of time, their sense of priorities and their spirituality.  I spent time with them and listened.  I soon learned that they had more to teach me, than I them in many cases. 

San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas

One of the people I met worked at the Mayan Museum of Medicine in San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas.  His name was Miguel.  I went to go visit him after walking two miles from my hostel to the museum in the rain.  I wasn’t in the best of moods when he looked me over and said: Sabias que los pajaros siempre cantan despues de la lluvia? Did you know that the birds ALWAYS sing after the rain?  It was a simple response to the melody of chirps and songs that were serenading us at the moment but really it was a metaphor I still use in my daily life. 

Miguel didn’t have a sense of space or time the way I did; he also didn’t see it as an issue.  When in Rome do as the Romans, and I found myself caring much less about the details and much more about the moment.  In his native Mayan language there did not exist the conditional tense, that is: should have, would have, could have, etc.  In his language they speak in the present.  That was probably one of the most rewarding things about being around him.  He was always present and in the moment.  When he listened, he really listened and when he spoke, he used his words wisely.

It wasn’t all easy lessons like with Miguel.  I spent time in Veracruz shortly thereafter and really wanted to drink a beer after having abstained from alcohol for more than one month.  I walked into a bar by myself to drink a beer and write in my journal.  I was not left alone and saw the harsh reality of being a woman in a country that has a very different sense of what women should and shouldn’t do.  

The men looked at me as though I was half crazy and spoke to me as though I was for sale.  I felt angry, not so much at them, but at this culture that seemed so unfair to women and allowed men to do as they pleased on the basis of their sex.  I felt the frustration of an outsider who wanted to turn their culture upside down and show them mine because of a sense of superiority and enlightenment.  I grounded myself and reminded myself that I chose to be there to listen and learn and not to conquer their beliefs.  I reminded myself that it wasn’t my job to do so and furthermore, I knew I wasn’t going to win that battle so I finished my beer and went for a walk instead.

It's a bit nipply in here...

I like the way he looks at me...

Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick

My phone died yesterday.  I was supposed to meet my friend at this bar I’d never been at.  I ended up walking the wrong way and came upon this park downtown.  I saw this gorgeous dog and its very friendly owner.  I stopped to chat with her for a bit (and try to get directions) and as destiny should have it; she’s a business owner.

I told her my dream of owning my own business one day (well, one of them) and she was so gracious to offer me some good advice: speak softly and carry a big stick.

I don’t have any tattoos.  I used to date a guy with tattoos (okay maybe there were a couple) and I’d always get asked if I had any.  I don't.  I always said that I enjoy not being defined by things physically like piercings or tattoos because it allowed me to be more shaman-like: shape-shifting from board rooms to wolf sanctuaries to galas.  I liked being ambiguous and non-definable – there’s power in that.  I realized that from an early age that if others can’t grasp you, they can’t pin anything to you. 

 I’m grateful for having walked a mile out of way into that park last night.

The 20-Something Conundrum

The 20 – Something Conundrum

Ever since the New York Times article came out about 20-somethings I've been doing a lot of thinking about my generation and how we differ from our parents and past generations.

As a result, I’ve “interviewed” several peers, colleagues and friends of all generations about the qualities that differentiate Generation Y and why we are the way we are.  In addition, I’ve done some soul searching and good old internet research (how Gen. Y of me) to present the following perspective on the subject.

First, a few definitions for the purposes of this work:

Millennials, Generation Y (Gen. Y), 20-somethings: These terms refer to people between the ages of 22 and 34.  There is no clear cut definition that was to my satisfaction regarding the start and cut-off ages of this particular group.  While I may use these terms interchangeably, I am referring to the same group throughout. 

Location, location, location: These terms refer to only those 20-somethings living in the United States.  I will go more into why that is in later blogs.

I can’t help but want to defend my fellow Millenials from the constant flak and badgering we get from society and our parents from having several different careers or directions in our 20s.  The times we are living in are very different from our parents and WE are different.  Information is at our fingertips, the world is readily available to us through our phones as well as our education.  We live in a global economy, global marketplace and the simplicities of life our parents enjoyed like the flexibility of having a stay at home parent have suddenly become a luxury.

My parents came here as immigrants from Mexico and Cuba and while it may seem as though they knew what they wanted from the beginning; it’s like most things in life that take form like the telling of a story: it’s much easier to tell it once you know what the end looks like.   My mother was raised like a good Mexican woman; expert at cleaning and cooking, her purpose in life was to find a good husband and breed (This isn't meant to be offensive, my mother, like most Latina mothers, is a force to be reckoned with and she's likely tougher than you).  My father’s path was slightly less defined until familial obligations forced him to be financially stable with an eye towards the future.

They were not raised in the United States during the 90s watching Reality Bites and The Real World and listening to feminist activists like Ani Difranco and going to punk rock shows the way I was.  They also didn’t have the choices my brother and I had so they did their best with all they had to work with.  They did pretty well for themselves; putting my brother and I through good universities, purchasing a nice suburban home and travelling a great deal.

I understand their frustration with my brother and me.  They worked really hard for us to have the opportunities we have at this point in our lives and careers.  It must be really annoying to have a daughter like me who thinks settling down is something you do when you’re in your 40s. For Godsakes, I’m already 26 and God knows my clock is ticking (especially with no boyfriend, right mom)?  


My brother can’t decide whether he wants to be a New Yorker, Chicagoan or California dreamer and so he has moved from coast to coast and places in between with his career.  My parents keep hoping that we become more sensible: purchase some property, make some investments, settle down.  

It seems like the only thing we can all agree on is that our youth is this sweet elixir that vanishes more quickly than tequila at a Mexican wedding.  We just can’t agree on where or how to drink it.

Sometimes, I think I wasn’t born to settle down and sometimes when I try to, I just long for another adventure, while each one makes me thirstier than the first.  To me my 20s means I am free.  Free of mortgages, free of marriages, free of long-term commitments and maybe it’s my only shot to have my adventures.  


I don’t want to wait for retirement; I won’t have my body then, and there are no guarantees that I’ll even make it to my 70s anyway.  Janis Joplin once said, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”  I’ll have a lot more to lose when I’m older and “settled.” Kids might come into the picture as well as a mortgage, a husband and all those other things that I’m supposed to want right now, but I don’t.

My mother is constantly thinking she did something wrong in raising my brother and me.  Somehow, it was a mistake to send us to college or to bring us with her on all those vacations because we were bitten with the travel bug and now we can't stop. Or maybe we learned too much in college and expect to encompass it all in a career.

Our generation as a whole is highly educated with up to 51 percent of us having some college in our educational background.  This, in stark contrast with our parents whom only had a high school education, has helped create what I call the 20-something conundrum that is plaguing and blessing we Gen Yers.

The 20-something conundrum has to do with the paradox of choice.  The current belief system we operate under in Western society is roughly as Barry Schwartz, (The Paradox of Choice, 2005) puts it, “The more choice people have the more freedom they have.  The more freedom they have the more welfare they have.” We are essentially “paralyzed” by too many options and too much freedom that choosing a path is more difficult.  When we finally do make a decision we are likely to be less satisfied by that choice because we are too busy thinking about what could have been with other options.  A perfect example are our parents: they chose the path they did with more ease because of less choices. 

I’m sure many can relate when you’re at the grocery store and you’re in the cereal aisle.  If you had three options: Cheerios, Corn Flakes or Cinnamon Toast Crunch you’d probably have an easier time deciding on the type of cereal to get, right?  But instead there’s Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Cinnamon Apple Cheerios, Toasted Oats, Multigrain Cheerios and all of a sudden twenty minutes have gone by and you’re comparing ingredients and prices and stressed out about how this decision will affect the rest of your life.  


That’s what the 20-something conundrum feels like except the choices are between: getting a corporate job downtown that pays really well, following your dream to become a writer, actress, singer, nationally renowned cyclist, working at a non-profit and serving your community, backpacking through the Andes, moving to France and studying the language, working for the embassy in China or going back to school and getting your MBA or a Masters in English so you can go back to your old high school and put a new spin on The Great Gatsby.

It’s overwhelming, right?  We are the generation that was told as children that if we can dream it, we can have it.  Our parents sent us off to get really expensive diplomas that we were supposed to graduate with as a passport into the land of opportunity and now we are finding that it’s harder and harder to choose a path knowing what big world there is out there.  


So while I’m busy deciding whether to start my own business, get my MBA or join the PeaceCorps at 26 years old, my parents were bringing their family to the U.S. from Cuba or getting ready to get married.

For our generation, it’s not the work that challenges us, but rather choosing a path and going down it with no fear of regret that’s the challenge.   This is the quarter life crisis; this is the 20-something conundrum.  

Look for more blogs from me about 20-somethings in business within the next few weeks.

Tales From the Coffee Shop

Blasts from the Past this week of early writing from yours truly - must be Mercury in Retrograde that has been going through old journals and unsent letters to ghosts from my past.

The Snake Charmer

The sound of laughing down the hall, the white walls mocking the emptiness I know and it's a look she gave me as they rolled her away and then it's a "this is as far as you can go."

I cried when we were in the room.  She said, "Esto no es nada, uno tiene que ser fuerte en la vida."  I know my tears are disappointing, "Por que no veniste ayer?  Eres un cobarde." and I know it's true - I am nothing but a coward because she is the strongest thing I know.  I saw her weakness in a needle attached to an IV and I couldn't handle it.

"We might need to remove her ovaries."  I fumbled with the buttons on my sleeve thinking about the changes my first home would undergo.  She and I were the same once: I see her in my rebellious nature, my big brown eyes, and I'm in the waiting room, but really I'm fast asleep dreaming while the doctors are removing tumors.  She hates waiting is not a patient person, overly anxious, some would say.  She conveys emotions openly and I am my father.  He's praying in the chapel and fear hides behind his calm.  He hasn't slept for days and he knows how to wait.  He retreats to himself when something is wrong; I retreat to my books.  My mother is a snake charmer that can coax him out and make him dance, but she's in the operating room and the doctors are false charmers using metal instruments to extract the bad.

There's this consistent beeping that is monitoring someone's life down the hall and the laughing in the hallway has ceased.  I am my father again, seemingly distant and cold because we are too deep and yet too easily we overflow with emotion; I cause floods.  I wear a red necklace with a stone shaped like a lifesaver that my mother gave me.  She bought it in Mexico.  I am clutching it tightly hoping it can save me.

If I was where I would be then I'd be where I am now...

The Savior or our Middle Class Values

From my Loyola days...I wrote this when I was about 20 years old.  It's still funny.  Not much has changed in the six years since it was written.  Enjoy.

My mother worries about our family.  She considers herself the savior of our middle class values, and rightfully so.  She makes sure we have the latest in pillowcase design, and the correct color of cushions for the porch décor.  My father thinks she spends too much money, but my mother calls it “investing.”  She thinks of each clever little ceramic house hanging on the wall as an investment.  She also thinks that having a collection of eight different glass vases is investing.  She justifies this by saying she is investing in her option to choose, which gives her a sense of freedom until the credit card bill arrives.  She claims that she rarely spends money on herself, but rather for the family.  My mother believes that we cannot lead a healthy life unless we have a brand new bright red couch in the living room to sit on.  To my mother, it is the couch that makes us young twenty somethings, not the fact that I am in college and my brother is working up the ladder in his new career, or the fact that we go out at night with friends, or even the fact that we are young twenty somethings. 

            When I was younger, my mother would make my father drive around rich neighborhoods and go to their open houses pretending to be in the market for a new luxurious home.  Real estate agents would learn our names and show us each room saying, “This room could be for Jenny; the walls are such a pretty pink and everything.”  My mother would act as if she was considering the idea, sometimes outwardly enthusiastic, “Jenny, wouldn’t you love to have this view?  Oh and we could put your dolls right here on these shelves…” It took a few weeks for me to realize that we were not going to move into a million dollar home anytime soon, but after every house my mother would say, “What did you think?  Wouldn’t you like to live in this neighborhood?  They have a pool just down the street.”

            My mother constructed her idea of success in front of us; each house was a new blueprint of her dreams for our lives.  She believed in the philosophy of teasing us with things we couldn’t have so that we would want it more.  She also believed that if she were to control the adults we would become she must start molding us early in life. For instance, my mother decided that I needed to lose weight when I was fifteen.  She feared that if I didn’t lose weight now, I would never find a nice husband.  To encourage my weight loss she developed cute nicknames for me like, “gordita” (translation: little fat one).  She thought it necessary to point out all of my thin classmates and how pretty they all were.  She would even point out young girls’ bodies at the mall and say, “Wouldn’t you like to have legs like that?”  Every week she would tell me of a new diet that she had heard about.  When she’d take me shopping she would let me pick anything out and try it on only to refuse to buy it for me saying, “Oh that style must be for skinny girls.”  She’d yell at me if she saw me about to eat a slice of cake at cousins’ birthday parties, and to spite her I’d eat it with joy, acting as if each bite was the most delicious bite I had ever had in my life. 

            It was at this age that I began to rebel.  I refused to go shopping for new clothes with her and would instead spend my money on cds.  I adopted a boyish style of dress and would plead apathy when she asked for advice on her new hair color.  She would often refuse to take me to my aunt’s house unless I changed my outfit.  Apparently, she wasn’t into the whole “punk” look.  I remember her coming home and seeing my once black hair a bright red.  She wouldn’t talk to me for days saying, “How could I have raised such a low class daughter?”  She blamed herself for a few moments, and then came to the conclusion that it was my friends’ influence.  I set her straight when I said it was all the music’s fault. 

I had fun with my mother.  I like to think of it as an adaptive trait I picked up; a reaction to my environment.  For example, after Columbine I would joke around and say, “That old trench coat in the basement hasn’t been used recently, huh?  I love the way it looks on me.”  She thought I was crazy at this time, with the music, and the dyed hair and all.  I used to make my parents drop me off at the Metro for some punk show just to see my mother’s reaction to the mohawks and tattered jeans.  I would tell her, “I think I might cut my hair like that girl,” and point to a girl with bright blue liberty spikes; the one who probably thought her hair could serve as a weapon in the mosh pit.  This was my revenge, my rebellion. 

At some point after I moved out of the house my mother and I decided that it was time to compromise.  I would try to dress decently when I came home, and she would confine her complaints about my life to one thing for the weekend, like my lack of a boyfriend, which has been her favorite for about four months now.  She believes that a woman cannot be happy unless she is dating someone, so when I come home, she assumes that I am depressed and lonely.  To remedy this she has begun to give my number to men that she thinks are charming.  Most recently, she gave my number to a 32-year-old computer technician who she thinks is perfect for me.  “He’s handsome, successful, and Mexican.  You will like him.”

“Mom, I’m only 20.”

“You’re mature for your age, and besides he’s fun.”

“I know a lot of “fun” 32 year old guys in the city of Chicago that like girls my age.  I meet them all the time, really.”

“Well, if you can do better than why are you still single?  At your age I had two boyfriends at once.  And you, not even one?  What’s wrong with you?”

Yes, conversations with my mother are always full of lessons and insightful observations about one’s worthless existence.  She masks her nitpickings with things like, “I just want you to be happy,” or “I’ll buy you a new pair of shoes.”

  My mother has molded me into the person I am today.  My mold is the exact opposite of her mold, but we meet halfway sometimes and laugh at our differences.  She makes jokes about me having a boyfriend “someday,” and I make jokes about her old house, saying, “Wouldn’t it be great if you guys moved into a huge house with a lovely garden and marble countertops with a huge kitchen?” just as she’s opening the bill from Loyola.  We find ways to understand each other, I suppose.