Why I Really DO Love My Solo Life

What the hell does it say about me when my friends send me articles like this:

 

 “Lol-this article made me think of you: Ladies if You Want to Pick Up, Wait Until You're Ovulating."

  

I guess the advice is useful and from an evolutionary and genetic standpoint, it makes sense, but WHAT exactly do my friends think of me if articles like this remind them of me?

I went to my parents’ house a few weeks ago. We went out to eat and afterwards my mother decided that we should go to the huge statue of the Virgin Mary (Virgén de Guadalupe) to pray. I’m not one to pray to Christian relics (read more here), but she’s my mother so I reluctantly sat on the bench with her looking at the flowers, candles and souvenirs: the physical embodiment of heartfelt prayers left at the Virgin’s concrete feet.

I watched my mother’s face as she focused hard on something. I asked her what she was praying for thinking that maybe her cousin’s passing had weighed heavier in her mind than I had originally thought.

She turned to me and said, “I am praying that you find a husband soon.”  

Oh.my.GOD!!! I didn’t know whether I should burst out laughing at this statement or take it seriously and thus take a more sensitive approach. I couldn’t hold it. I laughed. Hard.

“Yenny, you know that this is how Juliana found her husband. Her mother prayed and prayed to La Virgén and now look, she is getting married.”

“Oh, I thought she was getting married because she’s seven months pregnant, but I see your point, it must be because La Virgén willed it.”  

“Yenny, la Virgén makes miracles happen.”

What the….?!?! Me finding a boyfriend is not a miracle! Oh dear God, is it? Maybe, considering the shitty dates I’ve had lately. Well, in that case, I guess I used to be a little miracle machine – like for more than 6 years of my life and I can tell you it didn’t feel THAT miraculous.

I had a conversation with some single friends of mine regarding everyone else’s’ emphasis on relationships. I didn’t notice when I was first starting my career how everyone always asked if I had a boyfriend. I must not have noticed because I gave them the right answer. I was always in a relationship; as such, people reacted very warmly to this asking me for details about whatever boyfriend I had at the time. It almost seemed comforting for others around me to know I had a boyfriend, especially my family, despite whether or not they liked the guy I was dating at the time.

Now all of a sudden someone asks and you say you’re not seeing anyone with a huge smile on your face and there’s still that silent awkward little pause or people say: oh don’t worry, you’ll find someone. Really? Oh good, I was worried that I was going to die alone with those nine cats that I’m allergic to in a lonely apartment on the south side with no friends and no children to take me to a nursing home. Thank you for reassuring that that won’t happen to me.

In these blogs, I feel as though maybe I focus on the bad parts of being single like the horrible dates, but truth be told, no one likes to read about the good ones because that’s boring. Also, I don’t go on good dates because I care too much about the blog and you fine people. 

But today I’d like to list the things I love about not being in a relationship:

• I have made SO MUCH art! I’m talking drawings, music, writing…
• I come and go as I please with no need to explain anything to anyone. Save for my job, I’m truly free to do what I want when I want without need for discussions or compromises.
• I’ve met so many new friends that I feel like I will know for life – some from having gone on dates with them and realizing that amazingly lovely friend vibe rather than a romantic one. Not being attached to a relationship opens doors for many other types of relationships to enter your life.
• I love finding comfort in feeling unsettled. It drives me more than most things in life. I am completely portable at all times. The world is my oyster – I can roam through it at any time seeking only to please and care for myself.
• There’s a sense of complete uncertainty that authors and poets romanticize in their memoirs that seems more prevalent when you’re single. The kind where you don’t know exactly where you’re going or how you’re going to get there, but you know you’re going somewhere. Freedom breeds a certain type of youth regardless of age where the ride of your life could be parked on the corner of the dance studio you pass by or it could be waiting for you downstairs from your favorite coffee shop.
• It’s summer and everyone tends to wear less clothing and since you’re single, you can look AND touch.  
• You actually have time between your job and career oriented activities to nurture your hobbies, go back to school, and hang out with new and old friends.
• You don’t feel dependent on anyone. You are a full and whole person on your own. Regardless of how independent you may feel in your relationship there will always be shared activities and things that the other person takes over doing for you because they’re better at it (like dividing household chores or finances or even being the “strong one” usually). When you’re alone there’s a growth that occurs that is unparalleled to growing with another person. Many times it’s from having to do those tasks you don’t like; or having to be that person that you’re not best at being (like the serious one when you thrive on being the fun one).
• I love being my own best company and being completely content without missing anyone else when I’m alone.

Things Not To Say to a Girl on a Date Part II

Sad that there is a Part II to this…read PART I here.

Note this is not the same person, but alas some men are just not that bright.  Ah...the joys of being single!  Here we go:

• Don’t call me “Sexy Mexy” on the first date. 
• This is only okay on the third date only if you’re funny enough to me to pull this off.  Very few are.
• Do not take photos of me on your phone while I’m putting oil in my car (because I started to smell something burning – a common occurrence when I drive my car) and then ask me to pose “like Megan Fox.”  Really?!?  Many thing are wrong with this:
• It draws awkward to attention to the fact that I have a really shitty car.
• I can pour my own oil, but shouldn’t you be offering to help or something?
• I bear no resemblance whatsoever to Megan Fox and I’m pretty sure she probably has a nicer car than I do.
• Why the hell am I driving you around?



My car looks pretty similar to this...

• Don’t ask me midway through our date if the other friend I was with the night you and I met is single. 
• Don’t take the last sushi roll and act like you’re going to feed it to me and then eat it yourself and laugh about it afterwards.
• I know I have big cheeks and some people think that’s cute but DO NOT pinch my cheeks.  I don’t need anyone making up for the years I’ve gone without seeing my grandmother.
• Don't lower the volume on my car radio.  I like my music loud and it also drowns out the sound of your voice thus creating a more pleasant environment for me.

Trust me, I wish I was making all of those up.  Had to drive the guy home and told him to get a book on ettiquette and not to call me.  Good times.

Las Lecciónes de Don Jesús: Part I

Start here.

It was raining when I arrived at his house.  I could see him from across the street watching me as I braced the rain without an umbrella carrying an oversized laundry bin up the stairs to the door.  It was so oddly characteristic of him to be watching out his window.

When you’re young, you have this romanticized vision of the elderly watching life happen to other people staring out of windows, but that’s not why it was so…Jesús Montenegro.  It was him because he’s got to be one of the most anxious people I know.  In fact, when I have my brief moments of neurosis I often blame him as being the genetic carrier and I as his offspring (once removed of course) get to now be neurotic about what else I carry in my genes too.

“Hola Abuelo!” I say smiling and wet.  He doesn’t seem to be receptive of my hug (maybe because of the rain) and he steps back to allow me and my dirty laundry to enter while chuckling.

“What is that?” He asks.

“Laundry,” I reply.

He doesn’t waste time with the pleasantries of small talk or ask where I’m coming from but instead walks me down to the basement and leads me to his washer and dryer.  This is another uncanny characteristic of my grandfather.  Work always comes first. 

When I was in high school, I was the first of my friends to get a job.  In my family, as in many Latino families, there was such a strong emphasis on working that sometimes it trumped the value of studying.  One who does not work must therefore be lazy, goes the logic.  And let me tell you, when you are raised my a mother like mine, the last thing you want is to be called lazy.

We walk back upstairs to the kitchen and make some tea.  I pull out my journal and say “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

He looks at the journal and then back at me and says that he doesn’t feel good and that sometimes when you don’t feel good you are in no mood to tell stories.  I sit back quietly and rethink my approach.

The reason I find myself in Little Village visiting my 86-year-old grandfather is because I want to document some of the rich living history we have as a family.  My grandfather was born and raised in Mexico and in all of my 27 years I don’t remember the last time I sat across from him to really have a conversation with him about himself, who he is, what he was, his passions, life lessons and what fills his mind these days alone in his house. 

I’m not here to place a hatch mark on my good deeds list, I am here to write and my subject doesn’t feel like talking.  I put my journal away and start telling him about my day.  He tells me about his aches and pains and then I start asking him random questions about my uncles and aunts. 

“What year was Uncle Adrian born?”

“1950.” He fires back barely blinking.  Don Jesús’ memory, even in his old age, is sharper than mine.  He remembers names, dates, times, places but I must warn the reader that my abuelito isn’t this cute old man we imagine our elders to be.  He’s tall with a strong build, broad shoulders and a shiny bald head on which he always wears a hat.  He’s tan with brown freckles dotting his still handsome, yet much older face.  At 86 years old, he is probably healthier than most 60 year old men.  He rarely eats red meats or sugars, only drinks tequila on special occasions, limits his bread consumption and eats his five – seven servings of fruits and vegetables daily.  He walks on his treadmill for exercise during the colder days.  In short, he has the type of discipline I wish I had inherited instead of the neurosis I did inherit.  It’s fairly easy to see why he isn’t the type of person to inspire pity, that is, until you start asking him how he’s feeling.

“My stomach hurts.”  I grimace.  I had just gotten him to forget about his maladies for a good twenty minutes.  I find myself treating him like a child: trying to trick him into forgetting about his body; trying to trick him into retreating into those stored memories of his mind and get so lost in there that he makes the same face I make when I write.  Once I accomplish this, I pour some more tea and start again.

To be continued….

Obama, Osama, Yo' Mama and a Llama

Something wasn’t sitting right with me when I woke up to two text messages from friends and a BBC news alert on my phone this morning. It’s not just that I had been having nightmares for the past two weeks. I’d gotten used to waking up startled and examining my body for bullet wounds or bites from wild animals. This morning was different; I didn’t wake up to a nightmare, I woke up what many would call “justice being served,” ten years late.

Justice is such a tricky little word. It means so much to so many that its meaning begins to become this diluted version of righteousness before your very eyes. All across my social media feeds my fellow countrymen and women were rejoicing at the death of Osama Bin Laden, the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks. 9/11: a date weighted so heavily in our young history. We all know where we were when it happened. For me as well as for many of my generation: it will be a story we tell our children, our grandchildren...

Examining everyone’s reaction this morning I finally see that we weren’t just a country in mourning in the months that followed the attacks. We were a country in defeat. 3,000 deaths no longer meant grief, instead it meant: how could some third world countryman outsmart me? I’m American. I come from the best country in the world!

And so we sent out our troops, invaded countries with no REAL basis for being there. It was like watching doctors provide temporary pain relief for the external symptoms without ever addressing the disease. All this happening, while folks paraded in the streets trying to be appeased by a little monkey’s plan for retaliation against mysterious forces that were as intangible as they were hidden.

America, I thought we were making progress, truly. I watched history as a black family moved into the most prestigious white house in the country. I saw little instances of change slowly but surely, reaffirming a recovery from eight years of hell that forced me to hide my passport while I was abroad.

I was even back on the road a couple of months ago proudly telling everyone that I was an American, a Chicagoan; a Patriot.

This morning: all of a sudden, I’m back in 2002 and there are these bloodthirsty people chanting “America! America!” I know I won’t be of popular opinion today, but there was something very disturbing about all relishing in the death of someone; not just death but what we could assume to be the brutal killing of someone. I could follow logic quite well; an eye for an eye; tooth for tooth, but this isn’t the logic I am partial to.

I am not in mourning for Osama Bin Laden.  When you participate in war there are consequences and casualties. That is a reality for everyone: whether you are in the military, love someone in the military, are in Senate seats signing bills or just some plain patriot like me.

I won’t, however, parade around touting the American flag today. This is not a victory I want to celebrate. It doesn’t bring back 3,000 lives; there is no closure to some wounds even ten years later with the death of terrorist. Just ask the survivors of concentration camps if the death of Hitler made them feel better about what they've experienced.

The only upside to this is that my tax dollars won’t go to funding ten more years wasted to “bring justice home” and I won’t have to listen to the same people asking, “whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?” as an easy critique of any unpopular administration. At least politically, we can let this one rest in peace.

New Blog Project: Las Lecciónes de Don Jesús

The Lessons of Don Jesús

My mother called me home yesterday.  I had made plans but I couldn't say no to mole. Those of you that have had it know what I'm talking about, but for those of you that are not Mexican inclined (that is what I have decided to call all my non-Mexican friends) mole is a traditional dish originally from Oaxaca.  It's chicken in a spicy delicious chocolate sauce and though it may sound odd, it is the most delicious thing ever.

When I drove into the driveway of my parent's house I saw my grandfather sitting on the benches in front of our front door.  My dog came out to run after my car.  "Hola abuelo, enjoying the sun, it's so warm out here." I said surprised.  This is April in Chicago and the sun made it feel like June.

My grandfather has been alone since 1991 when my grandmother died.  Well, that's not entirely true- he has had several girlfriends and remarried once or twice too.  So far, his wives/girlfriends have either died off or left in some fashion or another.  I used to call him "grandpa pimp" for a while (never to his face of course).  This was even more amplified because he used to have this hat that he got in L.A. which he LOVED.  It said Los Angeles on it but all the letters were bright diamond-like stones.  He was "bling blingin' for the ladies," I'd always joke.  Now he is alone and claims he doesn't want "the drama of a woman."  This, in turn means a lot of work for my aunts.

Abuelo gets on a plane every year after collecting his Christmas presents and flies to California to spend the winter in mild temperatures while dividing his time between Los Angeles and San Diego, where my two aunts live.

He came back to Chicago about a month ago.  My mother says that he is getting older and more demanding to take care of.  "He just gets anxious sometimes," she says.  "It's more difficult for him to tolerate living alone."

It was decided that between the family we would divide the weekdays and take care of him.  My days are Tuesdays.  I've decided to take this opportunity to record an integral part of my family history.  My grandfather has a great memory and loves to tell stories once he's asked.  I learned this after he started to get depressed about getting old and to distract him I asked him how he had met my grandmother.  He went on for forty five minutes about meeting her.  He remembered everything.

Another beautiful thing has happened to make me want to record this important history.  For the first time in our family we have a male born to carry on my grandfather's name.  Mateo Joaquin Montenegro was born on March 26th.  All other Montengro cousins are girls.  Being one of the oldest cousins in the family and a writer I see this as an obligation and privilege to record my family's history.

My grandfather has had an interesting life so check back here for free lessons on life from someone who has lived it for a long time.

How To Attract Creepy and or Crazy Men

Why is it that the guys I seem to attract are crazy, creepy or just wrong altogether? I think I have identified key factors about myself that may be contributing to this:
 
How to attract crazy and creepy men:

• Talk about living with wolves.
• Be obsessed with dead baby jokes. (Although I have seriously made some progress here...)
• Go to bars by yourself just to sit and draw or write poems.
• Wear feathers in your hair.
• Talk about your passionate love for chess.
• Be slightly domineering and assertive (for some reason, crazy and creepy men love strong women).
• Be open-minded (to the point of allowing weird conversations go on way too long).
• Have crazy parents to begin with that are at fault for placing you on the path to being accustomed to crazy behavior from others. (read here for more background)

How to be a creepy and or crazy man:

• Buy me Barbies for my 27th birthday (this is never an OK thing to do for ANY adult woman’s birthday).
• Stare at me every single time I get up to go to the restroom in the hallways of my office.
• Now this particular person has graduated to saying hello. I don’t respond. No one likes to STARED at every time they go to the restroom.
• Take pictures of my apartment when I am not there.
• Ask me to kiss you after asking me if I have ecstasy pills on me.
• L.A. clubs are kind of crazy. Do I look like I have drugs? Seriously…
• Love Jesus a little too much and or think I am going to Hell. (please see here)
• Ask me to wear my hair a particular way prior to going out with you (yep, didn’t end up going out with him after that).

Sadly, all of those things mentioned above REALLY did happen to me. Even sadder is that there hasn’t been a normal instance to balance any of the creepy crazy instances out. Disillusionment and fear is settling in rather quickly.

Family Vacation Brings up Age Old Question: "Am I adopted?"

After three days on the road with your parents you start to wonder if the marketing wordsmiths behind the term “family vacation” enjoy sick little jokes or are just huge fans of oxymorons.

“Oh no! I’m not walking there.” My mother says defiantly. “We will take the trolley.”

“Norma, that defeats the purpose of coming to a nature park.” My dad retorts.

“If you think that I’m walking in this heat, you are absolutely crazy.”

We get on the trolley.

When I was younger my brother and I used to fight over which one of us was adopted.  “I’m not their kid!  You look like them waaayyy more than I do.” We’d say.  We’d ask our parents if we were indeed adopted.  Luckily, my mother loved lying to us and so she’d invent stories about how I was sold to her by Mexican gypsies in the Sonoran Desert in Mexico.  She’d wink at my dad and he’d go along for the ride.  “Yenni, I had to buy you because of your pretty black hair,” She’d say smiling.  I’d run back to my brother screaming: “I told you so!!  I AM adopted, HAH! It's you who's their real kid!”

Now it’s 20 years later and I’m in the backseat praying to the universe that I don’t carry their genes half as much as I think I do.

“You know, there used to be a coffee shop here.  Years ago, things have changed so much.  I could have sworn that it was here.” My dad says.

“Well, dad, things change a lot in forty years…” I say trying not to sound exasperated.  This is about the 20^th time he mentions that things have changed in San Diego since he’s toured around there.  I’m losing the tiny amount patience I have.

Why am I here?  Why did I say yes to meeting my parents in San Diego and driving into the desert with them for three days?! My parents, who under normal circumstances (visiting once a week on weekends), drive me insane?  First, it’s my mother who ALWAYS knows better than you about how you should be living your life and of course she has no reservations about letting you know exactly what you are doing wrong whether it be boyfriends, jobs, makeup, clothes or even hairdressers.  Then she starts talking about the girl from the telenovela she just watched last night and all the bad things that happened to her because she didn’t listen to her mother, as though this is some sort of REAL point of reference or something.

Then it’s my father who is normally a very well intending individual except for the fact that he is convinced the world is out to get him and his social security checks.  He tries to take the little victories where he can. 

“Jen, put this in your purse.”

“Dad, it’s a packet of honey, we have some at the house and I’m not taking a packet of honey from the restaurant for you.”

Or by calling the hotel room phone from the lobby phone instead of your cell phone from his pocket JUST BECAUSE HE CAN.

Why have I, a reasonably logical and intelligent adult woman, decided to take this trip with my parents?

I realize that I’m very lucky to have the parents I do.  Despite all the writing material they give me, they are good loving parents.  They are also getting older and in great shape to still travel and enjoy life. So if I don’t enjoy them as an adult myself now, then when?  We get older and so wrapped up in our little worlds that we forget about the important things sometimes. 

This gratefulness unfortunately rarely extends itself to you when you’re sitting in the backseat annoyed that you were created by the two people in the front seats who are currently having their third argument of the day about how my father should have changed his shirt and how my mother needs to stop micromanaging his life while on vacation.  

No, you just take a deep breath and thank God you brought your ipod.