dating with the enemy

They say in high school, the easiest way to infiltrate a clique, is to talk about anything from the three universal topics: TV, music, and clothes. Of course, it also helps to unite against a common enemy...a good choice would be the sexually challenged P.E. teacher. The clique I had tried to infiltrate? Yearbook. I was a senior, with no experience, and to the class I was nothing more but a mere mortal stranger, trying to learn all the secrets of putting together a well-put, end of the year, memory book. And though it may sound like war, it's worse. War is just hell. This was high school.

And like every high school, we had that one girl that all the kids would make fun of. You know the kind...bad at sports, a little overweight, friends with the lunch ladies...and Zahqwandra Thomas was just that person. She wore bifocals, her teeth were a little crooked, and she smelled like onion and feet. And though she was loud and obnoxious, I never said anything mean at all to her. Until one day, when she tried to get a petition going to have me kicked off the yearbook staff as Copy Editor. Apparently, she did not appreciate the helpful criticism I offered. But really, how can you include "When da sun iz out, da best thing to do is pop yo collar and chill wid yo homies by da poo," in a yearbook without making it sound ghetto?

From then on, I tortured Zahqwandra mercilessly behind her back, as any and all students would have done. Of course, my torture tactics were the best. I'd spray her rotting and decaying backpack with my Axe Essence deodorant spray and the class would go wild. I mean, I killed. I mean, I totally killed. And then, a year later, I found out just how much of a total bitch I was.

The Arizona Daily Star had its annual "Five Star Senior Achievers Across Tucson" article and Zahqwandra was one of the chosen few. Why? During her sophomore year in high school, Zahqwandra's mom had decided to live in Nigeria with her new husband, and not wanting to live a whole ocean away, Zahqwandra decided to stay. At first, she stayed with her sister, but after a month of living on the couch, Zahqwandra knew she needed to take matter in her own hands. For the next three years of her high school career, Zahqwandra ate, studied, slept, and lived out of her car, working two full-time jobs, while maintaining a 3.5 GPA. As soon as the article came out, everyone showed it to me. I felt so horrible, but then a little ok, when I realized I never actually made fun of her in front of her face...just behind her back. Which was worse, but thankfully she never heard any of it...or did she?

Earlier this morning, I took my younger brother Collin to his job interview at Target. He was psyched about the idea of working there, while I was psyched about the family discount I could, and would, use. But then, a dark cloud settled over the store, for behind the glass sliding doors was Zahqwandra. Last I heard, she had moved to Virginia Beach to be in the army, so it was a surprise to see her standing inside the store as the hiring manager.

After the group interview, and a quick "Please dont fire him, before you've hired him" prayer, Zahqwandra and I talked and caught up.

ME: So...did my brother get the job?
ZAHQWANDRA: David! I cant tell you that...that's confidential information.
ME: Yeah, I know, but...you know...
ZAHQWANDRA: I'm sorry, David, I cant tell you. If you're brother is hired we'll let him know. It wouldnt be fair to the other candidates, would it?
ME: Yeah, but the other candidates arent from Tucson High. They dont got that Badger pride, like we do.
ZAHQWANDRA: David...I cant...I really cant...I'm sorry.
ME: Ok, well...cant say I didnt try.
ZAHQWANDRA: Ok...
ME: Hey...now that you're back in town and whatever, do you wanna grab a bite to eat and hang out? Catch up on old times?
ZAHQWANDRA: Ok! Sure!
ME: Great...
ZAHQWANDRA: It's a date! Ha-ha-ha! We rhymed!

True, it was a cheap ploy into making Zahqwandra thinking we were friends, but is going on a date with someone, you picked on in high school, to help further the career of your brother all that bad? I mean, I know sometimes in life, you have to make sacrifices in order to advance in your career, but should I be the one making the sacrifices? I know I should be the one apologizing, but sacrificing...? I always felt bad that I never told Zahqwandra I'm sorry but was this really my chance in disguise?

the awful friend

It's been said, that there are certain topics, that should be refrianed from conversation. One such topic is, money. Which is ironic because money is one of the primary engines that fuels civil society. In fact, money is one of the most important things in our lives, although it's terribly materalistic to admit that. And in my experience, I've seen more friendships break up over money than over anything else. And I wonder...can a friendship ruined by money, still be salvaged?

Eight months ago, my friend, Susan-Catherine, a major executive rep for an investment company, gave me two free tickets to go see Gwen Stefani and The Black Eyed Peas. The company for which she worked for, was always giving her free concert tickets to entertain clients, but since the tickets she was given were aimed towards a younger audience, she would give the tickets away to students or sell the tickets on Ebay and profit from the auctions.

After the free concert, Susan-Catherine encouraged me to keep in contact, which I did, but as the months passed, my emails, grew less, and then one day, they stopped altogether. Until three weeks ago, when I saw Susan-Catherine online and asked her if she had any Madonna tickets. I thought it would be the perfect birthday gift for my friend Madelaine and so did Susan-Catherine, which is why she sold me a pair of two tickets, Section 102, Row D, for a grand total of $80.

But then something tragic happened. Susan-Catherine gave my precious tickets away! She claimed that since I paid her 12 hours later than I said I would, she thought I didnt want the tickets and so, she gave them to someone else. I was plauged with confusion. Why would my friend Susan-Catherine do that to me? Had she no soul? Was it because I was an awful friend? I mean, yeah, I know I hadnt really kept in contact with her, and I'll admit the Madonna ticket request totally came out of left field, but was that enough of a reason to warrant a cancellation on the birthday surprise for my friend?

Later that week, I had to confront the belated birthday girl, Madelaine, and tell her that the birthday gift I had planned would be forever belated. I felt awful. Madelaine had already told everyone she and I were going to see Madge, live and up-close and to crush a dream like that was just...well...awful. But why was I feeling awful? I wasnt the awful friend...or was I? In the course of one week, I had broken a payment promise, and a gift guarentee. And it was all because Susan-Catherine wanted her money at a certain time.

It made me upset to think that Susan-Catherine had made our friendly transaction into a business merger, but when you work for a large investment company, I guess the value of money increases. Just like the price of Madonna tickets on Ebay. As the days leading up to her concert decreased, the price of tickets increased. And so, hoping to keep one of the promises I made, I placed a bid and scored a pair of floor tickets, Section AAA, Row 51. The seller was touched by my story and sold me the pair of tickets for a grand total of $150. The tickets came in yesterday, via FedEx, along with an email from Susan-Catherine.

David...I know you might be a tad bit upset that I have sold the tickets to another individual, and I apologize for the confusion. I did not think you were interested when I didn't hear from you for so long. I hope this does not put a damper on our friendship. I will be in Tucson next week, and maybe then we can meet up for lunch? Let me know...Susan-Catherine

death by karma

In a town like Tucson, where you're most likely to see your old friend from the third grade pumping gas at the same gas station as you, you start to realize just how small this town really is. And when it's that small, well, it's not that hard to be found. So it's no surprise, karma has found me.

Friday afternoon, I was down in the basement of Alice's Downtown Flower Shop with Ashley, when I asked her if she was going to Alice's place later on that day.

ME: Hey, so are you going to Alice's?
ASHLEY: No...I dont think so, why?
ME: Oh, well, dont you wanna help with your cake?
ASHLEY: My cake?
ME: Yeah. Adrianna said something about making you a four-tier Hello Kitty cake.
ASHLEY: No. Adrianna told me Alice was making a Hello Kitty cake for her niece.
ME: No, she told me the cake was for you. I thought it was for your birthday or something.
ASHLEY: Maybe you heard her wrong.
ME: Or maybe I just ruined your surprise. Sorry.

I later found out, that's exactly what I did. That night, when I got to Alice's house, the first thing Alice told me was that the cake was a surprise for Ashley. Feeling horribley bad for ruining a surprise, I began to play bartender and drank my sorrows away. Four bloody mary's and three glasses of mango rum later, I was buzzing and what better way to spend my state of buzz, than at the movies?

So there I was, with my good friend Madelaine, getting ready to see The Da Vinci Code, a little drunk, a little hungry, and a little tired. Ok, so it was a lotta tired and I totally missed the last hour of the movie, but who knew karma was sitting just a few rows behind us?

The next day, my Aunt Sylvia invited me to chaperone a 5th grade transition/graduation/birthday party for my little cousin Katrina. I, of course, wasnt in the mood to babysit a bunch of 11-year-olds, but since there was the promise of a good cake, I went. And it's a good thing too. The Barbie and eight-pointed star piñata's were filled with the good kind of candy, like Reese's and Kit Kat's, and not that cheap hard candy you can get for almost nothing across the border. As I stood around, watching the kids line up to hit the piñata's, I began to wonder which kids I could take out, when all of a sudden a huge mess of pink tissue paper came flying towards me. Barbie and her Butterfinger-filled body knocked me down.

It was totally humiliating, and when I remembered how cruel and ruthless 5th graders can be, well, it just made the whole thing worse. So, to compensate for being knocked in the head (and for getting the kids all riled up), my other cousin, Vanessa, invited me to a party she was throwing for her graduating class.

Another night with another drink in my hand, I was retelling my weekend tales of the birthday surprise gone sour, my Da Vinci doze-off, and my brawl with Barbie, when Vanessa's friend, Annie, began to tell me how wrong it was to fall asleep during such a controversial movie.

ANNIE: You fell asleep during The Da Vinci Code?!
ME: Yeah. Well, it was midnight and I only had like four hours of sleep the night before.
ANNIE: So?! That doesnt matter! That was just totally disrespectful!
ME: Uh, I already read the book, so...it's not like I was missing much.
ANNIE: Uh, hello?! Did you know there are people in the Middle East dying because they cant see that movie?!
ME: No they're not!
ANNIE: Yeah, they are!
ME: Well, they were dying before the movie came out, and my guess is they'll probably die after the movie comes out.
ANNIE: Oh, you just wait. You think you're so cool now, but you wait! Karma will get you!

Sunday morning, with Annie's words still fresh in my mind, I stumbled into church, with my not so fresh vodka breath. Annie was totally drunk and deluded, but did she have a point? Was karma after me? I mean, sure, karma is an important concept in several Eastern religions, but I was of Western religion, so it couldn’t have that much of an effect on me…could it? But then what about getting hit in the head by the Barbie piñata? Was that really karma's way of getting back at me for ruining Ashley's birthday surprise?

It was too early in the morning to have such a philosophical thought in my head, and so I concentrated on finding an empty pew. My church is set up like a concert stadium, minus the bleachers, with the pulpit and stage at the bottom, and all the pews at a slant, leading towards it, so you can see what a challenge it is to walk down the isle. My family and I settled on a pew near the sound system, when all of a sudden, I tripped on one of the wires and pushed my brother Collin down the isle. Collin rolled down, nearly missing the corner of a pew. He could have lost an eye, but instead he lost his temper and started yelling at me in the church.

It was definately karma. And it wasn't the funny kind like they show in My Name Is Earl. It was the scary kind. But can karma really hurt you? And if so, how can you get rid of it?

all growed up

Last Friday, my director friend, Jeff called me. Jeff was a student film director whose dream was to make the greatest American film of all time. It was also his dream to put me in another one of his films. Originally, he had given me a small part in a student film he was supposed to direct last February, but when he got arrested for a DUI, the whole thing fell through.

Jeff had won some sort of scholarship through some film school in California and was given $5000 to make a movie. And since he remembered my phone number (and my face), he called and asked if I was interested in making another movie. I, of course, had my misgivings because if my "movie career" didnt pan out the first time, really, what was different this time around?

But Jeff convinced me to meet with him and reluctantly, I agreed. I still felt somewhat responsible for being the person that drugged Jeff (and for keeping the green jacket from the first film) so Saturday night, I found myself having dinner at the historic Hotel Congress in historic downtown Tucson with Jeff and his group of drama major friends.

They were a...what’s the word...unique group of people who wore black without being too morbid and spoke big words like "beneficial" and "intellectual" without sounding too pretentious. They were the epitome of what I considered the word "adult" to mean. They were sophisticated and classy and spoke slowly and clearly, while I was a raging mess of a person who spoke too fast with Marsala cream sauce dripping from my mouth. They used French phrases sporadically in their conversations, while I just sat in silence and smiled. The only French I ever mastered was very basic French, with phrases such as "bonjour" and "voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir."

Sitting across from me, was a girl named Monique. The only French she seemed to master was the kiss and the phrase, "ménage à trois." Monique had studied drama for three years, hoping to one day make it to the Broadway stage, but so far she had only made it backstage. She wasn’t much to look at, but she was horny as hell, and it seemed that was all Jeff needed to know to cast her in his movie.

After dinner we went back to Jeff’s apartment for cocktails and a viewing of his favorite movie, Ed Wood. Someone had brought out the kama sutra body chocolate paint and soon, arms, legs, and faces were made into delectable deserts. I coudnt believe this was the same group of mature adults that I just had dinner with. I started to wonder if this was really how adults behaved behind closed doors. Were they just mature on the outside? And if so, why were they afraid to be young and carefree?

I was even more confused as I saw Monique perform fellatio acts on Jeff during the movie. It certainly wasnt a child-like thing to do, but getting sick from the body chocolate and throwing up all over Jeff's lap was. So I decided to ask my friend Rose, at what age do people stop acting young and start acting mature? Unfortunately I never got the chance to ask Rose anything, because she interrupted me with an invitation to a dysfunctional Mother's Day dinner with her...Jesse...and Damien.

Sunday evening, at the Golden Corral Buffet, I was eating, yet another awkward dinner. Somehow, Jesse and Damien had made peace and were able to eat dinner at the same table, but somehow I couldnt accept their newfound friendship. The level of denial was just unbelievable. It was like that one episode of The Twilight Zone where all the people were different, except one person, and the others all thought that one single person was ugly when that person was really pretty, and so they made fun of that person, and...actually, come to think of it, weren't all the episodes pretty much like that?

As I got up to get a plate of pepperoni pizza and mashed potatoes, I started to think, that maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe I was the one that needed to grow up. It's like what my blog friend Jillian said on her blog...

"When I was younger and thought about where I would be at my age or older I always thought that I would have things under better control and that I knew where I was going to be going in my life, and the truth is, I do not the have the slighest idea."

And though, it's something I know I'll have time to figure out, I wondered if it was too soon to be thinking of becoming an adult. But then, as I saw hot chicken noodle soup spill onto the lap of an armless man, I laughed and realized I was not yet ready to be all mature. Someday, I would grow up, but for now, I was happy being the fast-talking, immature, non-French-speaking, person that I was.

As I came back to my dinner table to share my newfound wisdom, (and the funny armless man story) I found Damien, down on one knee, on soda-stained carpet. And it was right there, in front of me, Jesse, and a room full of outlet clothing and Fantastic Sam's haircuts, Damien proposed to Rose. I guess some people, just never grow up.

the definition of marriage

Three weeks ago, my blog friend Miss Jay posted this question on her blog: What causes one marriage to fail where another succeeds? Or better yet, for that matter, what makes a relationship work?

For my mother, it was obvious she believed that a good meal is what seals the deal. And true, they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but is that really enough? My mother asked me, how I did know Jennifer wasnt the right person for me if I never gave her a chance and the truth was, I didnt really know. But what made my mother think she knew what was best for me? It was like that magazine article I read in the 11th grade. In India, most marriages are arranged by the families. The bride and groom may never even see each other until the day of the wedding, yet divorce between such couples is rare. Was their way better than mine?

I needed some answers. So I went to my favorite downtown flower shop to find them.

What I found was that my friend Ashley was in a similar situation. The other week, Ashley's mother told her she had seven months to find a boyfriend. Her family decided to spend the upcoming 2006 New Years Eve going out, and apparently, for a parent, nothing is worse than bringing along your single 18-year-old daughter.

ME: Why dont you just ask one of your guy friends to do it?
ASHLEY: Because it wouldnt be fair to him. Having to drag him along and be with my family, when he could be at some party, is just not cool.
ME: I dont know. It could be fun. When you're with a friend, anything can be fun. Just dont ditch him, you know?
ASHLEY: Hmmm. You know what? Maybe you should be my boyfriend.
ME: What?
ASHLEY: Yeah. You should. I get my date for New Years and your mom gets off your back. It's so perfect and convient!

I didnt know what to think. I mean, yeah, sure, Ashley was cute, but was hooking up just because it was convient, enough? On the other hand it would get my mother off my back about having a girlfriend that I could marry, just so she could have grandkids. But I was still unsure. And with it being my last week of school and finals, finding a new girlfriend wasnt exactly my top priority.

The next morning, also known as, the last day of school, I found myself at the college computer commons room printing out my final term paper for journalism. And it was there that I saw my good high school friend, Elena. She was writing a last minute term paper on the issue of illegal immigrants, and after seeing how long it was, I asked her why she was so passionate on the subject.

ELENA: David...can I trust you?
ME: Yeah. Elena, you know you can.
ELENA: I'm an immigrant. An illegal one too. I came here from Mexico when I was six.
ME: Really? Like you wandered through the desert and actually crossed?
ELENA: Yeah. We crossed the border through a hole in the fence. Back then it was a lot easier.
ME: Wow. Elena I had no idea. I would have never thought you crossed the border. I mean, I know you're Mexican, but you dont even have an accent.
ELENA: Well sometimes I do.
ME: Arent you scared that someone might find out? That you might get taken away?
ELENA: I'm scared every day. I dont want to be, but I am.

It wasnt fair that Elena had to live a life of fear. She was a full time student who still managed to work 40 hours a week, while I being a sorta-full time student, with no job, complained about not having enough time for anything. For spring break, I dreamed about appearing on MTV hoping to get "discovered", while Elena stayed at home, never going anywhere, because she couldnt leave Tucson. It was a sad college life, and I coulnt help but feel sorry for her.

ME: So why dont you just marry your boyfriend James?
ELENA: Because I love him.
ME: Ok...and?
ELENA: If I marry him, it's like I was using him to get my green card. I cant do that to him. Plus it would look kinda fishy.
ME: How so?
ELENA: A Mexican marrying a German? That'll send up a red flag, and it'll look like I married him for my green card. No, I have to marry someone who's a U.S. citizen. Someone who's available, but not looking for anything romantic. And if he was Mexican, well, it wouldnt look so weird, you know?
ME: Uh, kinda...well do you have any friends like that?

No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, that I wondered whether or not Elena considered me a possible candidate for a groom. I was a U.S. citizen. I was available. And after seeing Elena swallow four onion chili dogs at a high school party one time and pass gas, even after she passed out, I certainly wasnt interested in anything romantic. I was the perfect guy. Hell, I even had that Mexican heritage thing she was looking for. But was Elena right? Was having a similar heritage really what it took to make a marriage work?

I could see why she thought she couldnt marry him, without it looking like she used him, but I couldnt see how she thought marrying a Mexican looked less suspicious than marrying a German. When you love someone, is a factor of heritage really that important?

After finishing her paper, Elena invited me to go out for sushi, but I had to decline. I kinda sensed that her sushi supper was more of loaded lunch with the possibility of marriage and though I did consider myself a good friend, getting married without being in love was just something I couldnt see myself doing. I always thought, that if that day should come, it would be with someone I not only loved but liked as well.

So what does makes a marriage work? Is it a matter of convience or is it having somthing in common? I know that love doesnt always exist in some marriages, but yet somehow, they still seem to work. For a whirlwind wedding that doesnt even exist, the whole talk of marriage is sure creating a great deal of stress...especially for the groom!

caged!

In life, certain events come along so rarely, that when they do, special attention must be paid. Events like Hayley's Comet, perfect birthday dinners, or in my case...getting a wife.

Back when my mother was bedridden with a broken ankle, and the unwanted free dinners were abundant, one meal came from a fellow co-worker of my mother, a kindergarten teacher named Mrs. Janice Marantino. Mrs. Marantino was a self-described, "classy Italian broad" who looked, talked, and acted just like Rosie O'Donnell. She brought us a classic Italian meal of spaghetti and meatballs to our house, and honestly, it was one of the best homemade dinners I ever had. I later found out, it was her daughter, Jennifer, that made the delicious meal, and of course, my mother took this as a sign of possible infatuation.

MOTHER: David. Dont you wanna have kids?
ME: Uh, yeah, but not right now.
MOTHER: Well, you do wanna get married, don’t you?
ME: Mother…I’m only 20 years old and in case you forgot, this isnt Kentucky.
MOTHER: And how many dates have you been on recently?
ME: Let's see...there was that one girl, who turned out to be gay and that one gay guy, who turned out to be psycho. Why do you care?
MOTHER: David, Jennifer is a nice sweet girl. She used to live in New York and you like New York.
ME: But...
MOTHER: She doesnt drive, so you can take her to school with you everyday.
ME: Mom, will you...
MOTHER: And she's a really great cook! Plus, I think you would really like Mrs. Marantino as your mother-in-law.

It was scary seeing my mom so set on marrying me off. And it was even more scarier when I learned that she and Mrs. Marantino had been planning a dinner for both me and Jennifer, behind my back. Everything was set...the food (Italian, of course)...the music (classic Henry Mancini)...everything. All except for one factor: me. I wasnt exactly keen on the idea of having such a pressured dinner, and so when my day of despised doom arrived last Friday, I ditched. I had already told my mother that I would not be going through with the dinner, but my words fell on her deaf ears.

I had hoped that once the weekend had passed, so would my mother's wretched wedding wishes. They, of course, didnt. In fact, the more I detested to the dinner date, the more my mother was determined to make it happen. Come hell or high water, my mother was going to make me eat dinner with Jennifer. Which explained Mrs. Marantino and Jennifer's pressence at my house yesterday.

My friend Madelaine was having a birthday dinner at El Charro, in very downtown Tucson, while I was at home, running very late. I had just stepped out of the shower and into my white terry-cloth robe, when I saw them...my possible future wife and possible future mother-in-law, sitting on the living room couch. Despite our irreparable differences, my devious mother had invited the ambiguously Italian Duo and demanded that I cancel my dinner date plans. I, of course, politely declinded, and so, as retribution, my mother hid my car keys. I was trapped. It was the ultimate ultimatum. And so I did what any mature adult in my situation would do...I called my friend Maria and climbed out my bedroom window.

A half hour later, Maria and I made our grand entrance in the outside courtyard of the Mexican restaurant. I'll admit, it was a bit selfish having all eyes upon Maria and me, instead of the birthday girl, but when you're wearing jeans that conceal from the world everything which is flawed and evil and show only that which is true and plump, could ya blame us?

The food was fantastic and as far as birthday dinners go, it was totally top-notch. At one point, the dinner even became heart-warming as Madelaine stood up and made a speech, telling every individual party guest why he or she was special. Unfortunately, Maria couldnt stick around to find out why she was special, as her special someone, Ray, called her for last-minute chemistry notes. As I walked Maria to her car, the hostess stopped me and handed me a note. It was from Paul, my crazed gay stalker.

David - 8:15 - Paul will be waiting in the parking lot for you.

How did Paul know I was here? And how long had he been watching me and my friends eat dinner? Just the thought of his pressence outside in the parking lot, waiting for me, made me sick. Or maybe it was that carne seca I ordered? Well, whatever it was, it made me feel trapped inside the restaurant. I didnt wanna leave. I couldnt. Didnt Paul know that his unanswered phone calls was a sign that I did not wanna talk to him? Or was his phone set on silent, therefore, making my plea fall on deaf ears?

And so I wonder...when you're trapped in a proverbial cage of fear and ignorance, and are tired of running away from your problems...how do you make your deaf captors listen?

the secret life of colette

The other day, near the Burberry cologne counter at Dillards, I bumped into my good friend Colette. I had known Colette since the seventh grade, when her mouth was full of metal and her hair was full of butterflies, and have had a crush ever since. We hung out during high school and even went to prom together, but during my first year in college we sorta fell out of touch...mostly because Colette never paid her phone bill. So you can imagine how ecstatic I was to see her.

COLETTE: David?!
ME: Hey!
COLETTE: What's up?! How've you been?!
ME: I'm good. Just...shopping.
COLETTE: Me too!
ME: Yeah, I can tell...
COLETTE: Hey! Wanna help me pick out a Coach bag?

Coach bag? Seriously? Was I the only one who remembered that this was the same girl who used to sew on patches of rock bands onto a denim bag she bought at Target? Obviously, the girl had changed, and yet, I was still the same blubbering idiot who stuttered and sweated when in her pressence.

While I blabbered on, something about dolphins (whatever...I dont wanna talk about it!) Colette admired the assortment of Coach bags, behind the bullet-proof counter. And it was during this time, that a flood of my saliva showered out of my mouth and onto her lime-green halter. Because her head was turned, Colette couldnt see what I saw...my spit, slowly slithering down, making it's way to her denim capris. As luck would have it, the Optic Signature Shoulder Tote Colette was trying on for size, stopped my runny spit and saved me from further embarassment. God bless Coach.

Colette bought the bag, and not a moment too soon, since Dillards was now closed. I walked Colette to her car and told her, that her newly streaked hair, made her look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys. She, of course, had no idea who I was talking about, and didnt know whether or not I had given her a compliment or a slap across the face.

ME: You've never seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?
COLETTE: Who's Tiffany? And why is she having breakfast?
ME: Tiffany isnt a girl. It's a place. The jewelery place?
COLETTE: Oh. Ok. I didnt know you could have breakfast there.
ME: You cant...it's just...the name of the movie.

Ok, I'll admit. Colette wasnt exactly the brightest diamond in the rough, and was a few carats short of a tennis bracelet from Tiffanys, but she was still cute. And as we all know, the rules according to guys, clearly state that "cuteness rules over intelligence any day of the week."

Because my car was on the other side of the mall, Collette offered me a ride, while I tried to convince her that my Audrey Hepburn comment was a total compliment. We arrived at my car, and just as I was stepping out, I was also in the middle of telling Colette that she needed to check out that movie. Before I even had a chance to shut the door, Colette drove away. I was plauged with confusedness. I mean, sure, Colette gave me her new number and told me to call her, but maybe her driving away was meant to be some kind of coded tu culpa?

There were so many questions I wanted her to answer, but would not ask. Not tonight, at least. But soon. Unfortunately I couldnt find anyone who thought talking to Colette was a good idea. My friend Madelaine suggested my best would be to forget the mess that was Colette, but I couldnt. And after seeing her again yesterday, I'm not so sure...

As I was blog-surfing, I read on my fellow blog friend Johanna Edward's blog about that newly controversial book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life by Kaavya Viswanathan, a story written by a girl, who had a secret herself. Allegedly, this young author had plagiarized many passages from other chick-lit novels, and so of course, I went to the mall to investigate. And it was there that I saw Colette.

COLETTE: David! What are you doing here?
ME: Well, I'm not shopping for jeans.
COLETTE: Yeah...I'm...
ME: Hey, I'm sorry I didnt call you.

As I waited for a response from Colette, I noticed a really strange guy standing next to Colette. He had dark, curly hair and was wearing one of those really retro shirts with a dragon print on it. (Hm. So that's who's keeping that company in business, huh?) He was the epitome of geek, but there he was holding hands with Colette.

ME: Hi.
GEEK: Hey what's up.
ME: So you're...
COLETTE: Ok, well, I'll call you, then! Bye!

The girl couldnt get away from me faster. And as I saw her and her alleged boyfriend leave the book store, I wondered, what's up with Colette? Why did she keep running away from me? Was it something I said or something I did? And who was that weird guy she was holding hands with? What kind of secret was Colette trying to hide, and is it really worth finding out?

peace of mind

Your cell phone is vibrating. Again. There are over a dozen unread and unanswered emails in your inbox all marked urgent. You try to ignore the unpaid pile of bills on your desk by focusing on a breaking news story, only to be distracted by the tiny ticker on the bottom. Your favorite vintage Tee you were planning on wearing is still dirty, there's a wail of an ambulance siren outside that wont quit, and as far as dinner's concerned? You're no closer to making it then you are winning that billion dollar lottery.

It's days like these that you just need a break from it all. I, of course, find my break in the mall, in a little place called, Origins. It's a store where one can find skin care products, candles, bath oils, and just about everything else you need to help you unwind for a relaxing afternoon. My choice of peace? The Peace of Mind™ gumballs. Filled with peppermint, basil, and eucalyptus, these tiny white gumballs not only help tense jaw muscles relax and unclench, they help soothe the band of tightness around your head as the pressure, tension and the weight of the world melt blissfully away.

And I knew that on a day like last Thursday I was going to need them.

It was the day before the funeral, and I went to the downtown flower shop to help my friend Madelaine arrange floral wreaths for her five-month-six-day old, kinda-sorta nephew. (I say "kinda-sorta" since it's kinda-sorta easier than saying "Madelaine's mother's boyfriend's daughter's baby." Yeah.) As I helped spray-paint the white carnations baby-blue, I realized that these flowers werent just for anyone. They were for somebody whose life was cut short. Way too short.

The very thought of the whole thing was depressing. We were going to bury a baby. And maybe it's just me, but I dont think people arent supposed to bury their babies. Babies are supposed to bury their parents after they have lived a long and fruitful life. It was heartbreaking, reading his tiny obituary, but it was even more heartbreaking seeing my friend arrange his baby Kermit doll and baby rattles on his wreath. A few times I could see Madelaine tear up, but each time she stopped, knowing that she needed to be strong for both herself and her family.

Friday morning, I attended the funeral of Heriberto Cota Cruz Jr. It was a small ceremony at Martinez Funeral Chapel, with close friends and family. And under the maroon flouresent lights and the larger than life painting of a sad Jesus, holding an antomically correct heart with a crown of thorns surrounding it, was a tiny powder blue casket. The kind of blue that made prom tuxes look tacky, but on a baby casket...somehow, the color was refined.

I, however, wasnt as refined. Under the blood red lights, my charcoal-grey, Ben Sherman shirt turned into a weird shade of lavendar-plum. My black square-toed shoes were pinching my toes. And my hair? Well...let's not even go there. So much for death with dignity. But as I approached the tiny casket, all my problems seemed to fade. My shirt seemed less colorful, my shoes pinched a whole lot less and my hair wasnt a big disaster as I thought it was. I had somehow found peace with my look.

And sitting on the front pew, Madelaine had found peace with Heriberto's (aka Squishy) passing.

MADELAINE: I dont know, David. It's weird. I feel like I should be more sad.
ME: Why?
MADELAINE: Cuz my Squishy died and all, and I'm not even crying as much as I thought I would. It's like...I know that that's not my Squishy up there. It doesnt even look like him.
ME: Oh, I know. They totally messed up his eyelashes. They're way too clumpy.
MADELAINE: Yeah. I know. They did a bad job. He doesnt look like I remember him. That's not my Squishy up there. My Squishy is in a better place. And I think, just by believing in that...
ME: ...it's why you're not sad.

Unlike the baby's mother, who was crying a never-ending flow of tears, Madelaine knew in her heart, that that body in the powder blue casket wasnt her Squishy, because her Squishy was in Heaven. By believing in that her Squishy was in a better place, Madelaine was able to find peace with his passing.

And I was able to find peace, with my issues of death. I realized, thanks to most of y'all's comments up in here, that death shouldnt be something to fear. Rather, it should be seen as an adventure and something to look foward to. And until that day comes, I should just relax and not even think about it and just live life.

As we said our goodbyes to Heriberto, Madelaine left him with one last prayer and I left him with one last Peace of Mind™ gumball.

I shall call him Squishy...

True, he couldnt use the gum...

and he shall be mine...

and it probably would attract more bugs to his coffin...

and he shall be my Squishy.

but maybe, knowing that he had Peace of Mind with him, would give us all, peace in our mind that somewhere out there, Heriberto was looking down on us, smiling and enjoying his afterlife adventure.

Come on, Squishy! Come on, little Squishy!