thanksgiving dinner and a show

It's one of American history's most familiar scenes: a small group of Pilgrims prepare a huge November feast to give them thanks for a bountiful harvest and show them their appreciation to the Native Americans who helped them survive their first winter. Together, the Pilgrims and Native Americans solemnly sit down to a meal of turkey, pumpkin pie, and cranberries.

Of course, if given a second chance, I'm almost postive that the Native Americans would have stayed at home instead of dining with people who would later steal their land in exchange for smallpox infected blankets. Thanksgiving was not a time to socialize with people other than your family. Which is why I couldnt understand why my cousin Camille invited her boyfriend Devin for dinner.

They met one afternoon during football practice, in classic Americana style. He was a lineback, she was a cheerleader, so their paths were obviously destined to meet. There was nothing really wrong with their relationship, except for the fact, nobody could understand how Camille didnt notice Devin's ginormous bobble head-head. It was like a Macy's Parade Balloon he had to balance on his shoulders. It was such an easy laugh, how could I not take full advantage?

I convinced Devin that Thanksgiving was not just a day of giving thanks, it was also a day to give your girlfriend a gift to show your apprieciation and gratitude for not breaking up with you. I'll admit it was a little underhanded and devious, but it was all in good fun and if anything I was actually helping their relationship last longer than one of Pamela Anderson's marraiges...in some, not so obvious, sorta way...

After Devin left to try and find an open store and a good gift, I told my cousin Camille to light every candle in the house and she did, including the candles next to my Aunt Maria's wreath of dry goods. The wreath of dry goods was a craft project, made out of twigs, cotton, and dried lemon and lime wedges, that my aunt had found in an old-fashioned Better Homes & Garden book. No one noticed the flaming candle until we we were about to sit down for dinner. That's when my little cousin blew it out. Or at least, tried to.

Instead the flame just sorta leaned back and ignited the wreath of dry goods into a wreath of fire, which in turn, ignited the satin curtains. The entire dining room was ablaze and so my Uncle Art ran out to get the water hose, while the rest of the family formed a line, passing the Thanksgiving dishes back into the kitchen, hoping to save my Aunt Maria's antique tablecloth from destruction. By the time my uncle got back into the house, the floor to ceiling china cabinet had caught on fire and once again we formed another line to save the good china, for fear it would all come crashing down into a million pieces as orange and yellow flames continued to dance across the china cabinet.

And while we dealt with the problem downstairs, upstairs, my little cousins were dealing with a problem of their own. Remembering their safety lessons from school, each one of them called 9-1-1 until two fire trucks, an ambulance and several police cars came to the front door. I guess it's not really a Tellez Thanksgiving until the fire marshall comes to your house. As we sat outside in the backyard and had a picnic style Thanksgiving, I couldnt help but feel bad for adding to Devin's preset notions about our family.

And I dont know if it was because we were sitting outside, or if because there were new people at dinner this year, or if because my mother didnt make the turkey this year, but I started to think that for some reason, Thanksgiving didnt seem like Thanksgiving this year. It just seemed like any other day, only with enough food to feed Cambodia. And I know Thanksgiving is more than just food, parades, and getting two days off, but this year...I dont know. It seemed that that's all it was this year. When you're a kid, there's an certain je nais se quois about Thanksgiving that makes it a fun, family holiday. But when you get older that you discover there's an actual process to develop that "magic" you once held dear to your heart. And I wonder if it'll be like this for the rest of my adult life?

when opportunity comes a-knockin'

Two months ago, my good friend Madelaine got a job interning at Z-93 The Shock, a local news radio station. It was the kind of job that every student with a journalism/communications major dreams of that came with a lot of perks...answering numerous phone calls, lots of fact checking, endless hours of research, making that cup of coffee just right. But the perk that Madelaine loved most of all, came after a month of hard work and dedication. Madelaine's boss, Staci Griffin, offered Madelaine the chance to produce, write, direct, and star in her own Saturday morning show. And the person Madelaine chose to be her co-host? Me.

According to Madelaine this would be our chance to make our voices be heard around Tucson, with a ground breaking mix of heady talk, music and politics that would break up the mold and shake up the student booty. I mean, body. Well, depending on the music we played, the booty too, I guess. But Saturday mornings? I mean, what self-respecting college student was up at that time? But then again there was the experience and the fact that Oprah Winfrey got her start in entertainment by doing a small radio show.

Still, it was a request I had to think over before giving my final answer. I mean, radio personalities had to have fun and exciting lives. Would mine qualify enough to fill an entire three hour show? And while I was mulling over Madelaine's offer, I got another one.

Down the street, from Alice's Downtown Flower Market, was a community art school, called ArtFare, where one could learn how to draw, paint, sculpt, or even dance. And judging by the people who worked there, one would guess that one could learn the art of flattery there, as well.

His name was Pablo, and like the artist, he claimed to know good art when he saw it. And he claimed that the chalk drawings I drew on the shop board were just that. So good, in fact, he asked if I would come to ArtFare and paint a giant, larger-than-life mural on the three-story stairwell of their building. But I wasnt a professional artist. I was just your average, run-of-the-mill, sketch doodler who still hadnt mastered how to draw hands all that well. Yet, when Pablo introduced me to all his co-workers, he said, "This guy here paints the most beautiful murals you have ever seen!"

Great. I hadnt even dipped my paintbrush into the paint, or rather, I hadnt even seen the stairwell yet and already I was being hailed as the greatest artist of our time. And if things couldnt get any more complicated, after showing me my three-story high canvas, Pablo started telling me about a class he was taking at the local, public cable access television station and asked if I would be willing to take the class with him. According to Pablo, I seemed like a natural television personality, so it only seemed right that I learn the innerworkings of how to produce, write, and direct a television show. Plus, he'd pay for the classes.

Again, I'd have to think it over. Could I really paint an honest-to-goodness mural? And if so, what would be the theme? It would obviously have to inspire people to excel in the arts, using their imagination and creativity, but was I really capable of inspiring people? And speaking of capabilities, was I really capable of being on television? Or was Pablo just pulling my leg? As I began to think about the possibilities of each request, another opportunity came my way. This time, from local writer, James Brook.

James Brook wrote a column for The Tucson Observer and had come across a sampling of my writing when I was had applied at the newspaper earlier this summer. He e-mailed me asking if I would be interested in writing a bi-weekly column for three months about life in Tucson, from a college student perspective.

Being a communications major, all four requests sound like the perfect opportunity to explore my options before I wake up one day, at the age of forty, with the bitter realization that I have wasted my life on a job I hate because I was forced to deside on a career in my early 20s. They say when opportunity knocks at your door, you should greet it warmly with wide open arms, and invite it in for coffee and pie. Ok, maybe "they" dont exactly say that, but that thought that is implied when that saying is said. But when you have numerous doors a-knockin' with opportunities, how do you know which door to open and which door to keep closed?

the juggling act

In life, there are certain events that can raise the stress level on your otherwise average, run-of-the-mill, college student. For some, it's finding out you have class with an ex. For others it's finding that perfect outfit for your first fraternity/sorority party. For me, it's mid-terms.

For the past three weeks, my life consisted of nothing but exams, essays, and everything else in between. From trying to learn an entire language using only my hands to finding religious themes in pop culture, I was completely and utterly stressed. And it wasnt just my work I was stressing over. Four weeks ago, my cousin Katrina asked for help with her 6th grade Egyptian project. A week later, my good blog friend Laurie asked if I could help her 2nd grade son, John, with his Flat Stanley project. And then my friend Britney called and asked if I could help her and her husband Kevin out with their strained marriage. It was all too much.

Take my psychology class for example. I was supposed to write a five page essay on Hamlet’s speech as a window to his madness. What about the window to my madness? Didnt anybody care about the insanity I would soon find myself in? I mean, besides the authors of future college text books that would use this post to be analyzed by future psychology college students, of course.

I was beyond exhaustion and realized, way too late, that I had stretched myself way too thin. Which actually did have it's perks since I saw this pair of jeans in the mall window that were guranteed to change my life for the better. I found myself drinking massive amounts of Red Bull and coffee, sleeping only three hours a night, seeing my life, literally, pass right before my eyes. I was ready to give up. Ready to throw the towel in. Give up on school. That is until I met Judy.

It was a perfectly average Saturday afternoon, and I was visiting with my not-so-average family in Marana to discuss the upcoming Holiday seasons. And during the annual seating arrangement debacle of who sits where and why, my Aunt Mary realized she needed more diapers for her nine month old, twin sons. I was more than happy to go shop with her and headed off to a strange and unfamiliar store, called Wal-Mart. It was there, in the diaper and baby food aisle, where I was mistaken for a parent, by a parent.

Her name was Judy and judging by her blue, synthetic, poly-cotton blend vest, it was safe to assume she worked at the Wal-Mart. When Judy saw me juggling my baby cousin Santos and a pack of diapers, she saw a single parent in distress and knew the situation all too well. She herself was a single parent, trying to balance out her life with a family, a job, and the hope of better future. At first, I was mortified to learn that somebody actually thought I had the look of a single parent, since everyone knows that single parents are dishevled and tired looking, but then I remembered...so was I. So I listend as Judy imparted her single parent wisdom on me. Life's a juggling act and the longer you live it, the more things you're gonna have to balance out. Or until you retire in southern Florida in a refurbished art deco condo, near the beach.

So, I went back to the drawing board and fixed a few things. And surprisingly, so far it's all working out. I got an A on my Hamlet paper. I discovered that diet and exercise go hand in hand with religion. And I even got rid of the dark circles underneath my eyes. This juggling act wasnt exactly half bad and it was just the thing I needed to help get my life back in order. Maybe I should run away and join the circus. But then again, I dont think I was one to live the life of a carny vagabond.