speak up

During my stay in fabulous Las Vegas, I ran into a building. Yes, an actual building. The M&M’s Store to be exact. I, of course, blame it on the 4 ft. drink I had hanging around my neck, because when you think about it, you really cant be held responsible for your actions when you’ve consumed that much alcohol. Which was really too bad, since I really needed someone to blame for my big fat toe, which had gotten bigger and fatter and turned an ugly color of bruise.

Turns out, I had aggravated an ingrown toenail, which was a direct result a bad cutting. I didn’t even know what an ingrown toenail was. All I knew was that it hurt. And it was really gross. Eventually, I made my way to a podiatrist, and I would’ve gone sooner, but I wanted a really good doctor to work on my toe. So I waited, until L.A. based podiatrist, Dr. Evans, came to Tucson.

He was supposed to be the best, but the reality was, he was the most painful doctor I ever had. Almost as if he was inexperienced. He examined my toe by squeezing it and poking it with his finger, and even though I wanted to scream, I kept my mouth shut. I figured I was supposed to be feeling pain, with my toenail cutting into my toe and whatnot. Plus, he was from L.A., and all the best doctors are in L.A. so he had to have known what he was doing. I think. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, even after he stabbed my toe eight times with a needle to numb it.

I had my drastic toe surgery the week of Valentine’s, which is why I was thankful that President’s Day fell on the following Monday. I had the day off, and I needed it. I had been working overtime on a bad toe, which totally threw off my balance and left me looking like Bambi, after birth. I didn’t complain about it though, because I knew I had to work either way, so what would be the point? My film director friend, Jeff didn’t see it that way. He said, “When things happen to us, we do one of two things. We talk about it. Or we don’t. And for the most part, it’s the things that we don’t talk about, that we should.” I totally rolled my eyes at that one. It was a swollen toe for Pete’s sake, not a

But maybe Jeff had a point. Maybe I did need to say something. After all, if humans were capable of making mistakes, then wouldn’t doctors, who were human too, be capable of mistakes as well? Even the L.A. ones?

Later that day, at my follow-up appointment with Dr. Evans, I wondered how the treatment of my toe would go. If I felt pain, I would say something. I would speak up and turn a wrong into a right. But if it didn’t hurt, did that mean, I couldn’t complain about the last visit? I hunched over my toe to inspect Dr. Evans work as he pulled out what appeared to be, a mini grapefruit scooper and began to scoop away at the dead skin debris that had accumulated between my nail and the skin, in the space that he had created earlier. With each scoop, a shock of pain went through my entire body. It was so severe that I could feel tears start to form. I kept saying "Ow! Ow! Ow!" all to no avail. It was like having that bad dream where you’re being tied down to a pair of train tracks, by Snidely K. Whiplash, and you scream for help, but nobody can hear you because, of course, it‘s a black and white silent movie, so you scream louder and louder and louder until at the very last second you wake up in a cold sweat. Except this wasn't a dream. This was real. And so was my pain. And then in one swift movement it was all done. Dr. Evans had touched a nerve, that must’ve been linked to my left arm, because up it went, upside Dr. Evans’ head. I had hit him. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked and so was he. We sat for a few moments in silence until Dr. Evans said, “Ok, I think we’re done here. I’ll just finish up here and you can go.”

I could go? Just like that? No follow-up or anything? Last time I saw Dr. Evans he told me I would have to go in at least another two times. Even my paperwork said the same thing. Was he really mad that I hit him? Was he really that petty? I mean, he had to expect some sort of repercussion after hearing me tell him he was hurting my foot and ignoring my cry. Right? Maybe speaking out wasn’t the right thing to do. It cost me a third appointment, despite the fact that I tried to point out that he had said otherwise. It was just not my day. I should’ve just stayed quiet and let the doctor do what he knew best.

But, as I later learned, maybe speaking out is good. It happened the following Thursday, during the Tucson Rodeo Parade. Over half the entire city had the day off and traveled to South Tucson to sit on the curb and watch the world’s oldest and largest non-motorized parade. There were horses and cowboys galore, including the world famous Tucson Arizona Boys Chorus, which I used to be a part of when I was younger. You know, before I realized that wearing sparkly bandana’s while singing show tunes was not the road I wanted to head down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it all, as I had to work later on that day. Which is why I left early, to make sure I would and could beat the traffic.

About five minutes after I left, five-year-old, Brielle Boisvert came riding down the street on a beautiful white horse, waving and smiling to the crowd. And right in front of my family, is where a tragedy happened. A run-away wagon bumped into Brielle’s horse, throwing her up into the air. As she landed onto the asphalt, her horse trampled over her, along with the run-away wagon and the horses pulling it. My Aunt Sylvia was the first person who rushed out to Brielle’s side and held her hand, telling her it would be alright as her mother and sisters, got off their horses and pushed through the crowd to the fallen cowgirl.

It all happened so fast, that it was almost hard to believe, hundreds of people witnessed the death of a little girl. It was all so terribly tragic as everyone discussed what they saw and what had happened to both the police and to the news crew. The only person who wasn’t talking was my Aunt Sylvia. Every time she tried to talk about it, she would burst out into an emotional flow of tears as she realized that Brielle probably died right there on the street and not on the way to the hospital, as it was reported. The case is still ongoing as police are asking the community for any and all leads as to what could have spooked the horses that trampled Brielle. I feel that my Aunt Sylvia knows a lot about what happened, since she was right there in those last crucial moments and was taking pictures of everything. But she’s not saying anything. And I don’t know how to convince her otherwise.

the young and the heartless

It's weird. When it comes to holidays, images of snowmen, Santa Claus' and baby Jesus' usually conjure up feelings of warmth and love. So it's surprising that when a holiday that specializes in hearts and being in love, does the opposite.

It all started the Thursday before Valentines Day. I had woken up with a crink in my neck, Anna Nicole Smith was found dead in an embarrassing, cheesy hotel, and my good friend Martha, just informed me that she was moving away. Before I could even get all the details, I immediately told Martha I would take her out to lunch, for one last meal, one last conversation, one last goodbye. Of course, as luck would have it, I left my brand-new, black, Water Buffalo Double Billfold Coach wallet, from Las Vegas at home, so I couldn't take my friend out to lunch. I asked my co-worker and friend, Adrianna, if I could borrow a couple bills and to my surprise she opened the cash register.

ADRIANNA: Just write an I-O-U. I do it sometimes when I need to borrow some money.
ME: But doesn't that make us short at the end of the day?
ADRIANNA: Well, I put it back the next day. Alice understands if we need to borrow a few dollars. Just so long as you pay her back. It's almost like petty cash.

As it turns out, Alice actually did understand. Sorta. What she couldn't understand, though, is why I didn't ask her, personally. And neither did Adrianna, as she shook her head at me in disappointment. In hindsight, taking money out of the register, wasn't probably the best thing to do, despite the fact that Adrianna did it on a regular basis and that my old friend was moving away, who, as it turns out, wasn't really moving away per se, just leaving her job, downtown. But nonetheless, it happened.

And though I was clearly in no situation to point the finger, I couldn't understand why Adrianna didn't say anything to back up my actions. Wasn't there an unwritten rule in the workforce, that co-workers had to stand together, united against the oppressive and tyrannical figure that was our boss? Where was the love? I'll admit, my punishment was very lenient Alice forgot about the whole missing money issue within a matter of minutes, but still, not having the support of my co-worker and friend really bothered me. It bothered me even more, when a similar incident happened later on that day.

A customer came to the shop and bought an arrangement of orange gladiolas to be sent to one of the offices upstairs. It wasn’t until after she left that I realized the arrangement was being sent to Bry, the attorney my friend Hadassah was seeing. Otherwise known, as the other man playing the part in her theory of dating. But flowers from another woman? I had to tell her. After all, she was in the middle of a Pros and Cons list, debating whether or not she would go steady with Bry or Guy. This was a factor that had to be included. Because, as Adrianna said, "You're her friend. If the tables were turned and it were you, wouldn't you want to know?"

And I would, if I were in that situation, but, as it turns out, I cant. Or at least, I'm not supposed to. Somewhere down the floral business history line, some stupid florist came up with the rule that customer relations and business with a florist must be kept secret with the utmost trust. Alice explained to me, in front of a disapproving Adrianna, that what a customer does with flowers they purchase, is there own business and not ours. For example, if a guy came to buy flowers for his mistress, knowing full well we knew his wife, we could not tell the wife. No matter what. For a half second, I kinda wished Alice's husband was having an affair, so she could see that sometimes rules have to be broken. But the thing I wished the most was, that Adrianna would actually say something, instead of leaving me out to hang dry. She made me feel guilty for keeping the information to myself. And true, I probably would've still said something to Hadassah, regardless if Adrianna said anything at all, but the fact that she did and didn't say anything about it made me wonder if she was just out to get me. Or was I just being paranoid about the whole thing?

Three days and many, many pre-made Valentine arrangements later, Adrianna and I were at Alice's mother's house, in a garage that we had converted into a freezer. Alice and her friend, Jaz, had gone to pick up more red, pink, and white roses and carnations, leaving Adrianna and me behind with two Catholic school PTA mom's and two drag queens, to get ready for our biggest day of the year. Well, one drag queen and one belly dancer. Apparently, when it came to hiring volunteers to help us out with the mad Valentine rush, Alice wasn't picky. And I don't know if it was because so much time had passed that I had forgotten about Adrianna and her silent mouth, but that Sunday afternoon, made me wonder if maybe she really was jinxing me.

I was in the bathroom, blowing my nose with single-ply toilet paper, and I started to wonder what kind of people used single-ply. I mean, with all the technological advances they do to toilet paper, to make it seem more like a fluffy, cotton towel than anything else, you'd have to wonder what of people lived in that house. And the best way to find out? The medicine cabinet. Unfortunately, besides a couple of razors and a bottle of Children's Motrin, the only interesting thing I could find was a bottle of vicodin, filled with tiny pebbles. So I left, but not before flushing my used tissue down the toilet. But it didn't go down.

Instead, more water came up, along with a small, round, quarter-size thing of...poop! It was Adrianna's! She had used the bathroom before me, and I guess all the toilet paper I used to make my own quilted, triple-ply, plugged the toilet or something because out popped a poop. Immediately I tried using a plunger, but during mid-pump, the orange rubber tore in half! I didn't know what to do, and neither did half my friends, who just laughed and laughed at my unlucky, misfortune when I called them, asking for help. I had no choice but just to wait for the water level to go down, which took a good thirty minutes and by that time it was hard to convince everybody, including the queens, that I wasn't doing what they thought I was doing, in the bathroom. And it was all Adrianna's fault. I had to get her back.

Valentines Day at a flower shop is the equivalent to being in the winner stall at the Kentucky Derby. From sun-up to sun-down, we were one busy little shop of flowers. People kept coming in, spending insane amounts of money, trying to buy the love and affection of their Valentine with roses, chocolates, cheesy Mylar balloons, basically anything with a heart. It was enough to make you sick, but it made me happy, because with all the hours I accumulated, I totally made bank on my paycheck. And though I had spent every waking moment of the past week, getting ready for this day, and was beyond exhausted, somewhere down the day, I was kinda happy that I was making other people happy with my flowers. Hell, I was probably gonna be responsible for the procreation of a whole new generation. It was actually turning out to be a good day.

And it got even better that night, after we closed. Alice wanted to take us all out for Chinese, and oddly enough, everyone accepted the invitation, but me. Guess I was the only one with real Valentine dinner plans. But on the way to my Valentine plans, I got a phone call from Alice, asking me if Adrianna had remembered to bring a dozen roses for her friend Anthony. She didn't. And since I was closer to the shop, Adrianna asked if I could just bring some roses. Which I did. But I brought a bouquet, instead of an arrangement, which did not please either Adrianna or Alice. But I didn't care. I finally got Adrianna back. And it was that satisfactory alone, that made working at a flower shop during Valentines all worth it. Of course, my Valentine date with Colette made it worth it too, but that's another story for another time.

according to rumor...

It all started a year ago, when my friend Madelaine told everybody at Alice's Downtown Flower Market that Mike Lightyear, owner of Mike's Coffee Shop and LightYear Reality wasn’t really the family man that we all thought he was. He was living a double life as a man on the down low. He was bisexual. Not that it mattered, of course, but it did make for some very interesting entertainment whenever his wife stopped by with their two year old daughter and eight month old son. So when my friend Hadassah told me Mike had a dream that she was yelling at him for yelling at me for yelling at her, I had to wonder why.

Hadassah, who used to be a barista at Mike's Coffee Shop, was recently promoted as Mike's personal secretary and therefore had access to all the upstairs office gossip. Like who was dating whom, what lawyer was walking around naked in the building after hours, and what two people were caught making love in the stairwell, thus prompting the managers of the Frontier Building to install security cameras everywhere. That sorta stuff. The only gossip that Hadassah didn’t know was Mike's sexuality. Obviously, it was something personal that Mike didn’t want Hadassah to know. But if he kept that part of his life from her, did that also mean he kept part of his dream from her too?

That’s what my co-worker Adrianna and I wondered aloud as we talked about Mike and the dream and whether or not Mike had an infatuation with me or if it was purely coincidental because we both worked in the same building. He certainly was hanging around the lobby more often and he was smiling and waving at us more than usual. Before we could come out with a definitive answer, Chamo, the cook who worked next door at The Jungle Square Restaurant, was silently sitting in the lobby, listening to our conversation and immeadiately reported back everything he heard to the restaurant bartender, in front of two employees that worked in the building. Before the day ended, rumors began to speculate all around the building that Mike was trying to hook up with me.

Of course, nobody dared to ask Mike, so they asked me. I couldnt believe how fast word got out about Mike's dream and how so many people believed it. And when I paused for an answer, some people, actually most people, took that as the only answer they needed. I had outed one of Tucson's promienent business men. But it wasnt my fault. I didnt go around and tell people that Mike was bi. But then again, I didnt deny that he was. But was it so bad that the truth had inadvertenly come out?

It wasnt until Super Bowl Sunday when a rumor of my own came out that I wondered just how Mike might feel. I had gone to a party the previous night and came home with more than just a hangover. I came home with a hickey. Actually, it was a little group of hickies. And though they werent my first, they were a little higher on my neck than usual, which made it that much harder to hide. I couldnt wear a turtle neck since it wasnt 1987 and I wasnt Bazooka Joe's friend, Mort. It was too warm for a scarf, and I didnt have any makeup, so I made due with my hoodie, by pulling the strings.

Unfortunately, the strings loosened, and my mother saw the plum-colored bruises. Immeadiately, she freaked, as did I. Of all the people in my house, why did my religious fanatic mother have to be the first to lay eyes on my exposed neck? I called Hadassah, asked for help, and tried every trick in the book. The brush, the comb, the icepack, the hot tea bags, Icy Hot, toothpaste, deodorant, you name it. But nothing worked. Talk about powerful suction.

And speaking of things that sucked, my mother totally took all the fun out of the Super Bowl party, when she cried to her sisters, my aunts, that I had gotten a hickey, which, as everyone in my family knows, is just a short leap to birthing bastard children. And the person she blamed it on? My friend, Hadassah. I could've told her the absolute truth, but who, other than a character from WB, tells the absolute truth to their mother?

Hadassah and I had been going out to Happy Hour, for the past two weeks, as nothing more than just mere friends. But to the unknowing, it seemed like much more. And it wasnt my mother that thought we were dating. It was half of downtown. Apparently, a girl on one arm plus a drink in one hand equaled a cute couple. People would smile at us and since we paused when they asked if we were dating, we would get free food. It was the perfect plan. Until, of course, my mother made my friend sound like a low-class whore. And it wasnt just my mother. It was also one of Hadassah's boyfriend's too.

Hadassah was in the middle of dating two guys, a theory that my blog friend Carrie< proved was the smart thing to do when dealing with a potential mate. Having been burned badly from her last lover, Hadassah was playing it safe and having fun, which was something she stated clearly when she entered the dating world. The only problem was it didnt abide well with most of her friends or Guy, one of her suitors. He heard it through the grapevine that she was seeing someone other than him. He thought it was me, when in reality, it was actually one of the lawyers upstairs. Somewhere down the line, names got crossed and when Guy told her she had to choose him or the other guy, Hadassah didnt like having her choices limited, so Guy suggested they go on a break. A choice that left Hadassah in tears.

Maybe she did have strong feelings for Guy than she thought she did. Maybe it was time to get serious and choose. In any event, I couldnt help but feel like it was all my fault. Mike, Guy, my mother thinking Hadassah was a whore. I know now, I probably shouldnt have paused as long as I did and let the stories spin out of control, but since I cant go back in the past and change it, I wonder if spreading a vicious rumor about myself will help. The only thing is, what would I say?

*By the way, in case there was any confusion to that whole Las Vegas wedding story, yeah, they did get married. The happy couple will be getting the traditional, matching, His & Her "Bitch" tattoos before Valentine's.