my grandma thinks i'm cool.
In argentina! on December 22, 2009 at 11:03 pm
Either I’m trying to build your suspense to a virtually excruciating level…OR I’ve been distracted by a deluge of “holiday spirit.” You can decide whether you prefer the former or the latter. Okay, after a ridiculous delay, installment three of “That Time I Went to Argentina.”
In the eighties, my grandparents’ neighborhood was a middle class paradise. Imagine streets lined with sensible ranch houses. Every manicured emerald lawn held an aquamarine kidney shaped pool. Each yard was surrounded with symmetrical shrubs and an ultra-white picket fence. The streets were named after trees: “White Oak Drive” and “Maple Lane.” The mailman knew everyone’s name and he even gave me a stamp every time I lost a tooth. The post-war dream was alive and thriving.
I spent most of my summer days hanging around my grandma’s house. She worked in her office in the mornings, while I jumped rope in the yard and watched games shows in the cave-like family room. At one, she emerged for lunch and Days of Our Lives. I watched this program intently, taking very serious notes on a legal pad. I was convinced that the action-packed soap opera was not only a paragon of fine writing and exceptional acting, but also, an easy way to learn the ways and means of adults. I used the “data” collected from a summer of daytime television viewing to write numerous plays and short stories during the school year for my easily impressed “gifted and talented” program counselor.
After Days of Our Lives ended at two o’clock, I usually took a stroll around the neighborhood. Most of my grandma’s neighbors had watched my mom grow up, so they were always happy to shower me with cookies and Snoopy Sno-Cone Makers. Or I might play in the pool until my skin was pruny. I checked the trees for bird nests (a rare occurrence, but I still fantasized about raising a family of loyal starlings-cum-carrier pigeons). I mapped out the most likely locations for high bee density and then labeled them with yellow construction paper flags. This benefited only me, but I reasoned that at some point my grandparents might entertain guests with bee sting allergies. Read the rest of this entry »
it's hard to turn down free wine.
In argentina! on December 8, 2009 at 10:41 pm
My flight from Philly to Dallas did not offer a movie. And I was too excited to focus on reading (I had packed The Golden Notebook in my carry-on). So I found myself analyzing things in my life that I had been intentionally avoiding for the past few weeks, mainly because I knew that over-analysis would only lead to unnecessary angst/guilt and irrational decisions. By the time my flight was taxiing to the gate, I was angry at myself and a few choice individuals. I contemplated making some potentially regrettable phone calls.
But wait….I was on the way to SOUTH AMERICA! Stupid boys, crappy friends, and ill-advised conversations were forgotten, as I changed into my “comfy” clothes for the overnight flight to Buenos Aires. Oh, you know…leggings, my sweet old lady flight compression socks (I SWEAR they help), a grey fashion t-shirt, moccasins, and (of course) a navajo print sweater. Yeah! FASHION!
I performed time-killing (yet essential) exercises: tooth brushing, face washing, and hair braiding. A visit to the ATM. Forcing myself to drink water. I inventoried my carry-on half a dozen times (I was super paranoid about losing my passport, thanks to that little experience called “Losing my driver’s license at SXSW 2006”). Read the rest of this entry »
(minus the months of stalking orbitz)
In argentina! on December 7, 2009 at 11:16 pm
80 degrees in Buenos Aires.
I flew across the country alone for the first time when I was 16. I was visiting my father, who I had not seen since he and my mother divorced 14 years before. In fact, we had only spoken to one another a few times in that decade-and-a-half…and all of those conversations had occurred via long distance telephone calls in the last few weeks.
The first telephone call had pulled me out of the shower, my legs still bleeding from a particularly reckless shaving session. The strange voice on the other end of the phone sobbed as it declared, “I am your father.” I shivered. There was more. This person was sorry. This person wanted to know me. This person wanted to see me.
“I’m sorry,” I choked, “but I’m going to have to talk to my mom right now. Please call back later.”
I dialed my mom’s office in virtual hysterics. “Someone called me and he says he’s my dad and he wants to see me and how could that be and I’m cold because I just got out of the shower.” Scalding tears of confusion rolled down my cheeks. She urged me to get dressed. And then she was home within minutes.
Somehow a visit was arranged. A plane ticket was purchased. I was going west for a few weeks. Read the rest of this entry »
