whats love got to do, got to do with it?

If you’re wondering why you can’t see the last post, I had posted on Friday, there’s a legitimate reason for that. I do NOT want the aforementioned party to read what I wrote, because then there would be an awkward tension between us. Believe me, I know. I’m all about the awkward moments, always trying to avoid them but somehow managing to get in them.

Like last Tuesday, for example. My friend Maria was looking at her phone bill, when she noticed that they had included her father’s phone bill in the same envelope as well. She casually looked over the call logs and noticed that there was one number in particular that had been dialed quite a number of times. Being of the curious mind, Maria called the number and was shocked to hear a woman’s voice on the other line. She immediately told her mother and together they investigated the strange number and the even stranger woman. Turns out, Maria’s dad was having an affair. For the past two years, he was seeing another woman, something that had turn from a casual one-time fling to something really serious. Maria was devastated. Here was a man with a devoted wife and four kids at home, believing they were truly a happy family and…it was beyond sad.

Maria called and shared this shocking and intimate secret, asking if I could come over since she didn’t know what to do for her uncontrollable and heartbroken mother or how to keep her younger, unknowing siblings away from all the mess. I was unsure too, but I went, taking a tub of ice cream and a basketball. Maria’s father came home late that day. The moment he walked in through the door, all hell broke loose as Maria, her older brother, and her mother yelled at him, demanding an answer. It was really awkward, watching this grown man break down into tears, wondering when and where his life went so horribly wrong. It was like the proverbial car accident on the highway. And I had a front seat viewing. I didn’t know if this was my cue to leave or not, so I sat in stony silence, trying to blend in with the furniture. Which was kinda hard, seeing as my clothes aren’t made out of furniture fabric.

Two days later, Maria called me up again, asking me again for support. Not knowing how to handle a situation like theirs, Maria and her mother went to the church asking a Father and a Nun for help. Reminding the devastated duo about the power of forgiveness, they both advised Maria and her mom to let the adulterous adult back into the house. And they did. But not long after, Maria’s dad left again, which is why she called me. She needed someone to figuratively hold her hand while she went to go get her dad back. Turns out, the woman he was having an affair with, lived not two blocks down from Maria and her family. And outside her house, was Maria’s dad’s truck. I sat in the car, waiting, while Maria and her brother tried talking to their dad, asking him to come home and to stop hurting their family. He declined, apologizing, but making very clear that he had made his final decision.

It made me mad. I know it wasn’t even my dad, but just the fact that a person could dismiss an entire family and an entire life so easily was beyond upsetting. Her family was in shambles and obviously confused because two days later, Maria’s dad came back and the family accepted him back in. I didn’t get it. How could they welcome such a cruel man back and call him dad, all over again? Was there something I was missing? Maria said, it was because deep down, way, way deep down, they still loved him. But how was it possible to love somebody who hurts you so badly?

Later that day, my Aunt Cassandra got arrested. Talk about your awkward reading, huh? Somewhere west of Tucson, in a little small town called Ajo, my Aunt was pulled over for speeding, but ended up in jail on three counts of marijuana. How embarrassing. If you’re gonna get arrested for drugs, do something high class and designer. But in all seriousness, it was actually kinda scary. With my aunt put away behind bars and a hearing set for this Thursday, our entire family’s world turned completely upside down. First and foremost, there was my little cousins to think about. What would happen to Bianca and Anthony? Their dad didn’t want them, as he made it perfectly clear several times when he divorced my aunt, several years back and no one in my family was financially capable of adding two extra growing mouths to their own family.

That’s when my mother formed an impromptu meeting with all her brothers and sisters, minus one, and told everyone that this would be the one thing that would either break us or make us stronger as a family. Yes, we would have to make a lot of sacrifices, but that’s just what families and friends do in times of need. They help each other out. They’re just there for each other. And after spending a weekend watching my cousins, in what can only be described as a formulaic Garry Marshall movie, I understood Maria‘s family decision just a little better. Despite the fact that my aunt left my cousins so abruptly, they still loved their mother. Kinda like the way a dog still loves you, even after you punish it for chewing on all the furniture. No matter how many times they disappoint you, there are certain members in our family that we just cant let go of. The same goes for certain friends and other loved ones. It’s not so much a matter of forgiving as it is just love. Good ol’ fashioned, unconditional, I-don’t-know-why love.

the science of stress

In life, there are many questions that will always remain a mystery. Questions like, if a tree falls in the forest and there is no one around, does it make a sound or who in the hell thought it would be a great idea to put Mariah Carey in another movie? But the most puzzling question I wonder about is, why do we still have science fair projects in grade school?

It was science fair season at Gallenger Middle School and my cousin Katrina called me up and asked if I could help her put together an award winning science project. I still don't know why she asked me, since science has never been my strong point. I remember my seventh grade chemistry teacher, Mrs. Cannon, would always have me observe the science experiments we did in class instead of participate, because I broke too many mercury thermometers and used too much sand on the chemicals I accidently spilled. So I was kinda honored that my cousin thought of me, when she was planning her science fair project. Me. Mr. Science Guy. Who'da thunk? Of course now, I wish I hadn't been so eager to help.

As it turns out, my little 6th grade cousin is a perfectionist freak to the tenth power of nerdom. And her science project had to reflect just that. Katrina's teacher had handed out an example of how a science board should look like and Katrina was determined to make an exact replica. She had to. It's what the teacher wanted. It's what she expected. If you didn't do it her way, you'd end up like Jennifer Bincini.

Jennifer Bincini was a past Gallenger student who tried to add her own sense of style and flair to her science fair project and according to urban science fair lore, got an F for putting her procedure on the right side of her board, rather then on the left. I assured Katrina that nothing of the sort was possible, since you couldn't get points knocked off for creativity, but she wouldn't hear of it. She couldn't hear of it, because in the back of her mind, all she could hear was her teacher telling her to do it exactly as shown in the example handout. Or else. What the "or else..." was, I wasn't sure. All I knew was that it brought tears upon tears of fear to my cousin's face.

I wondered just what kind of facist was this woman that needed to have perfect science projects. Was she some kind of Nobel prize winner that expected her students to produce mind blowing presentations out of rubber cement and construction paper?

Either way, since I had already told katrina I would help her, I knew I would have to deal with the psychotic episodes that would surely follow. And they did. When I accidently glued her list of materials on the less "vibrant" side of the pink construction paper, she went crazy. When I arranged the title in a fun and curvy way, she had a ballistic outburst. In truth, I probably should have had her committed against her will. If she was acting like this at age 12, imagine at age 30. I would be saving her from a life of un-needed stress. But then again, it would have made the next family reunion a little awkward.

It took six diapers, five vicodin, four crying outbursts, three poster boards and two whole weeks but we finally got that project done. It was the most strenuous project I had ever participated in, that I had actual tears of joy when my cousin finally left my house.

I needed a break. I needed to escape to a place where I could be at peace and collect what was left of my sanity. My salvation came when my good friend Madelaine called me a few days later.

Madelaine had planned to spend her entire spring break visiting the beautifully, historic country of Spain. It was a total dream come true.The only trouble was, her passport had not come in. Somewhere down the processing line, someone forgot to enter her information in the computer, which meant her passport would not be ready on time, as promised. Madelaine flipped. But unlike Katrina, she had good reason to. Her only chance of getting to the country, besides selling herself on the black market for white slavery, was to go to L.A. and plead her case at the Regional Passport Agency. Only then would she know if she would be visiting Spain. And the person she asked to accompany on this impromptu trip to L.A.? Me.

So what I guess I'm trying to say is...if you're between the ages of awesome and old fart, will be in the L.A. area between now and Tuesday, and know of a really great restaurant, look me up! You have my email...

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.

what happens in vegas...

Whenever people go and visit the fabulous city of Las Vegas, they always say, "Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." These people obviously didnt have a good time. Or maybe it's because they had too good a time. But how could you not? The beautiful hotels, the friendly people, and all the free alcohol to be used at your disposal...

In my fantasy trip, Rose and I would have been greeted at the airport by a yellow and black checkered cab, the kind with all that extra plush space to lounge around and act all 1940s decadent and driven by a jolly man with a funny accent and a newsboy cap. Instead, the only taxi's available outside the McCarran International Airport were those big, ugly minivan kind that smelled like two parts Lysol, five parts Airwick Solid. In my opinion, that was just no way to arrive in Vegas. So I ordered a limo. A white stretchmobile, fully equipped, fully accessorized, and fully capable of helping us make our grand entrance.

As we drove down the strip, I felt like I was in one of those video montages you see in the movies with the actors looking out the window in awe at all the sights and sounds of the city. Only this was my montage, with that cheesey Elvis song "Viva Las Vegas" playing in the background. And it continued to play well into the night as we made our way to Jet, the ultimate nightclub in Vegas, strolling past the outside lines and velvet ropes, courtesy of a call made to my new friend Rod earlier that day.

The next day, with enough alcohol in our system to fill up our marble hot tub, we donned our dark, oversized sunglasses and Venti Caramel Macchiatos and stumbled our way to Chapel of the Bells, which was the closet thing we could find to a church on a Sunday morning, on the strip. It was also a chance for me and Rose to get a feel of how her upcoming nuptials would be like and a chance for me to see if marriage with Damien was something she really wanted to do.

Turns out it was. True, Damien wasnt a candidate for Boyfriend, Father, or even Human of the Year, but he did have his good qualities. Which I really cant recall at the moment, since I was unable to function properly during my state of inebriation. But I do know I left the chapel with a new mission in mind: to try and stop this bizzare wedding. I only had about a day before the rest of our friends and the groom-to-be would arrive so I had to work fast, because, as the old saying goes, friends dont let friends become members of the Future Bitter Divorcees of America Club.

After witnessing several, “what the hell?” marriages Rose and I made our way back to the Mirage to Japonais, for a free mid-day meal, courtesy again, of Rod, my soon-to-be best friend. After eating the best sushi of my life, we headed to the casinos and for a brief mortal minute, I forgot all about my mission, because I was on a total roll. On my very first try, I won$40 on the dollar machine. And then $35. And then $20. And then $12. And then $11.75. And then I stopped because I finally saw the pattern in my winnings and realized I didn’t have a house to mortgage off for some extra cash. So I did the next best thing and moved to the penny slots where, on my first try, I won ten thousand...pennies. Which added up to about a hundred bucks, but that was totally fine by me because it was way more than what I, an unprofessional, inexperienced gambler, expected to win.

With my winnings in tow, Rose and I ventured down the strip and began to do all the tourist-y things like collect those little cards with the hookers posted on them, posed with both living and dead celebrities at Madame Tussaud's, watched the water show at Bellagio, saw the sexy sirens of T.I. have a verbal battle of innuendos with fellow pirates, and cheered on the Coyote Ugly girls as they danced on the bar and kept our glasses filled with refreshing and delicious alcohol.

With another day gone to waste and me being wasted beyond all human belief, I knew I had to hurry if I was to put a stop on this wedding. And fast. I tried bringing up past horror stories of Damien's actions, to which Rose replied, "If it was possible to erase all those days, I'd still want to be with him." I tried pointing out all of Damien's flaws, including the fact that he had no arm definition and that his moustache made him look like a mouse, to which Rose replied, "It's not what's on the outside, it's what's on the inside that counts." Damn the person who created that hateful speech.

None of my influential ideas were working. I needed to find sanctuary in a place where I could gather my thoughts and regain my strength. That's when I decided to bring out the big guns and take Rose to a male strip show with guys who had even bigger guns. One call to my BFFL, best friend for life, Rod, and I had a pair of comped passes to Austrailia's Thunder From Down Under. Hopefully the sight of ten gyrating crotches would help Rose forget about her own soon-to-be, wedded crotch. It didnt help. Instead, the sight of all those swarthy hunks dancing around us only made Rose hot and horny and by the time we got to the airport to meet and greet the rest of her wedding entourage, Rose and Damien were like one. One big mess of kissy, huggy love. Blech. I guess getting off the plane made you realize how important love was. And how important getting off was. Ew.

But with new, flown-in reinforcements, I knew Operation: Stop Rose And Damien From Entering A Marriage That Would Most Likely End Due To A Conflict Shown On An Episode Of COPS was back on track and good to go. The only thing was, everyone was kinda for this wedding. The general feeling was, if this wedding made Rose happy, then what was the real harm? Everybody wanted Rose to be happy. Was I the only one who cared about her?

The next day, with our friends in tow, we did even more tourist-y things, like walk to the top of the Stratosphere Hotel and watch wannabe singers perform as Britney Spears, pre-Cheeto diet, Elvis, post-Priscilla marriage, and Michael Jackson, pre/post/mid-cosmetic surgerical operation. Then it happened. Between a Cher and Madonna tribute, Rose and Damien started having one of their classic arguements. If they were rich and powerful and lived in the glamourous hills of Beverly, those two would succeed at becoming a tabloid Hollywood couple yet. But for now, their heated arguements were reserved only for me and our friends. And the other poor, paying customers that sat amoung us. It got so bad, that eventually Rose dragged me and our friends Pamela and Josh outside, where we walked in complete silence to the Bellagio. I didnt know what to do or say, but inside, I was jumping up for joy-joy, knowing a wedding was definitely not on the horizon.

Josh and Pamela wanted to do some gambling and I figured it was the perfect way to help clear Rose's mind. So we made our way around the tables and ended up watching this older English gent play Craps. His accent was so funny and so British that we couldnt help but adopt English accents ourselves and cheer on Mr. Carpenter. And though our bloody accents were Dick Van Dyke-bad, Mr. Carpenter had a jolly good laugh and promised us $100 poker chips and dinner at Olives, if we continued to keep cheering him on. Mr. Carpenter hit the jackpot and won over $67,000 that night, but it was around the $30,000 mark that I realized maybe I was wrong about Rose and Damien.

ROSE: I say, the ol' chap should just stop right now. He 'as too much at stake.
ME: Bloody 'ell! You're only saying that because you lost a hundred pounds.
ROSE: Quite right. Quite right. But, if I had that much I would stop all-togetha now. Just think of 'ow much 'E could do with all that money. And 'e's just gambling it all away.
ME: Because maybe 'E enjoys taking risks. Maybe 'E's tired of always playing it safe and never winning.
ROSE: But that's playing too bloody dangerously, dont you think?
ME: But it makes 'im one 'appy chap, eh?
ROSE: 'E's gonna be one sorry chap in a moment.
ME: Who cares? So long as 'E's 'appy and living in the moment, then what's the harm?

It was then that I had a crystalized clear thought and realized that the same philosphy I was preaching in the City of Mortal Sin, could be used towards Rose and Damien. Sure, they had issues. A lot of issues. Like more than your average newstand, amount of issues, but if getting married was something they wanted to do, then really, who was I to try and stop them? Besides, when I thought about it, Rose didnt ask for my opinion on whether or not she and Damien should get married. She just asked for my support. And what kind of person did that make me if I couldnt support a friend? After all, husbands and wives come and go, but it's the people who are your best friends that stay with you forever. Or until someone with better connections comes along. And though I know it's totally cliché, but, if you're able to make a friend into a spouse, well then that's something worth betting on.

for better and for worse

Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers, or candlestick makers. Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad. One way or another, though, every human being is unique, for better or for worse. And the person you couldnt deny that was ultimately unique, for better or for worse, was my friend Rose.

I had known Rose since my days as a sales associate at my first job, Forever 21. And though I never would have predicted in a million years that I would be friends with such a sassy and brassy person, I did. And still was. In fact, if looked at a certain angle, most people would raise their eyebrows in question as to how two completely different people like me and Rose could ever be friends. But we were. Which is why I was one of the few people, not related to her, invited to her birthday dinner. Her family considered me more than just a friend. They considered me a part of their family and made me the guest of honor.

As the guest of honor, I was the most talked-about and talked-to person of the party. Next to the birthday girl, of course. And though the limelight seemed to be shining on me more than it should have, it was because Rose's entire family was thankful and utterly grateful for my pressence in Rose's life.

According to Rose's family, I had been a major catalyst who helped make a tremendous change in Rose's life. Before me, Rose was a high school drop-out, living with her baby-daddy, Damien, always getting drunk and higher than Snoop Dogg, every weekend. Of course, I couldnt take too much credit for the "change" in Rose, since it was a series of "cant-remember-a-thing" parties that made us closer, but over the course of our friendship, as I matured, so did she. She stopped the all-night partying along with the binge drinking and the heavy smoking. She left Damien and saw that there were other guys out there who did and would apprieciate her. But the biggest change of all, was that Rose was actually studying for her GED, in the hopes that she could take some classes at a community college. That task alone showed a growth in Rose, that her family never saw possible, but ultimately made them thankful.

I had no idea I had such an influence. It was like that post, my blog friend Jillian wrote last week. During his days as a firefighter, Jillian's dad had to defibrillate a man's heart, only a week after recieving his paramedic certification. Up until that moment, it was one of the most nerve-wrecking events in his life, as he wondered if whether or not he was capable of saving a man's life. Turns out, he was. In more ways than one. That story was a reminder that we all play a part in the grand scheme of life and you never know just whose life you may touch or change.

And it wasnt only Rose's life I changed. It was her entire family. Small little things I did, like shopping with a few members of Rose's family or even just having a small conversation with them, affected their actions and words. And they showed their appreciation by profusely thanking me over and over again. Who knew I had such an impact on so many lives?

The next day, as we made our way to the airport and through a sea of fake pony-skin and Samsonite-wannabe suitcases, I began to wonder how many lives in Las Vegas I could and would help change. It would be like that movie, Pay It Foward, only there wouldnt be any hooking up or any tragic deaths. But there would be a few choice comedic moments. Like when airport security made Rose go back outside and dump out her tangerine/almond/mint shampoo into plastic baggies because she was over the limit that was permitted. Like it was my fault Rose hadn't kept up with the new traveling guidelines. But, after we were seated on the plane, Rose said something to me that made me wonder if I had any part in her deluded decision.

ROSE: David.
ME: What?
ROSE: I actually have a confession.
ME: Well, since I am an ordained priest.
ROSE: Shut up. No. I actually have an ALL-tierior motive for coming here.
ME: You mean, UL-terior.
ROSE: Whatever. I'm getting married.
ME: What?! To who?!
ROSE: To Damien.

People are always telling me things I dont want to hear. This one had crossed the line. I caught a glimpse of Las Vegas as we circled before landing. It was weird. I'd seen that view a million times in movies, TV, magazines, newspapers. So it was like I'd been here before. Except I hadn't. This time I wasnt taking in the view of Las Vegas while a list of opening credits rolled. This was real. The Bellagio, the Wynn, the MGM Grand, all the spectacular monuments leading to the heart of the city. But the only heart that mattered to me, was that of my friend Rose.

frenemies and enemends

It all started the week after my birthday, when my friend Rose tried to think up of ways to make up for the drama I encountered. And the number one idea was…drum roll, please…a trip to Las Vegas! Of course, the trip would be the week of her birthday, but it was a free trip, nonetheless. And since the word “F-R-E-E” is my favorite four-letter word, next to “S-A-L-E”, how could I refuse?

Just thinking about partying and living it up in the City of Sin had me all giddy and so thankful I took that seasonal job at Gap. I became even more giddy, when my friend Kelly introduced me to Rod, the party host at The Mirage during a seasonal party. Man, talk about being in the right place at the right time, meeting the right people who could get you into the right places at the right time. Seeing the way Kelly laughed at all of Rod’s bad jokes and the way she tenderly stroked his arm, despite the fact that he was wearing jeans from the late 80s/early 90s, it was nice to know I could count on my friends using their whorish ways to gain me free access to clubs while in Vegas.

And speaking of all things good and free in the City of Sin, a local radio show was holding a contest, in which the 49th caller would win tickets to go and see that Canadian Showboat, Celine Dion along with a three-day, two-night stay at Caesar's Palace. I had to win. If only for the free night's stay at an internationally known hotel. Unfortunately, after listening to Soft Rock Hits of the 70s, 80s, and 90s for hours upon hours the only place I placed was second and ended up winning a pair of tickets to a motivational conference and passes for the Arizona Diamondbacks spring training. The person that did win? Brenda Lewis. Ugh.

Next to Isabel Dior, Brenda Lewis ranked just as high on the mortal enemy list. There was just no reasoning with someone who would never forgive or forget past petty differences. That’s when I got an idea. Maybe I could become "friends" with an enemy. A frenemy, or enemend, if you will. It would be like one of those old war movies where a stunning and captivating spy infiltrates the enemy camp, gains access to all things guarded and private and escapes in the nick of time to great success. Of course, I knew it was the stuff of Hollywood dreams, but dont some dreams come true?

Meanwhile, across town, a friendship was being renewed via cellular. After hearing of Isabel's newlywed status, Maria felt that, as an old friend, it was her duty to congratulate the bride and groom. And as my friend, it was Maria's duty to fill me in with all the gossip. Suffice to say, Maria learned that marriage had changed Isabel. It actually made her way more mature. According to Maria, Isabel had finally recieved her much needed reality check and saw that the world wasnt her own big, giant playground as she once thought it was. She had grown as a person and Maria felt that maybe this time around, we could all actually sit down and have a polite and cordial dinner, forgetting our hurtful past and creating a better future.

Of course, I had different plans. Maybe if I was able to become friends with Isabel, then maybe that would be a way for me to fix things with Brenda and then maybe that would be a way for me to try and convince her to give me the Celine Dion tickets and three-day, two-night stay at Caesar's Palace and maybe, just maybe, justice would be restored. I mean, would it be so terribly wrong to become friends with somebody in the hopes you could get something out of it?

Later that week at eight, I was dressed to the nines, waiting for a party of ten outside of NoRTH, with my friend Maria. She and Isabel had combined forces and planned an impromptu dinner party at one of Tucson's hottest restaurants and I was bestowed an invitation to what would be an interesting night. As Maria had predicted earlier that week, married life did wonders for Isabel. She spoke with a voice that was more calm and less shrill and in a surprise I never saw coming, Isabel was less, dare I say...selfish? She was actually listening to people's stories rather than trying to top them and she was…well…just less selfish. You had to actually know Isabel in order to fully understand that last thought, but trust me, if I’m able to say that the girl who convinced her parents to let her "disappear" in Mexico for a couple of months during her senior year because she was "overwhelmed" and "stressed," was less selfish, then she was.

But being less selfish wasn’t the only change I saw in Isabel. During her barely three-week old marriage to Ed, Isabel had actually gained confidence. Not that she wasn’t confident before, but there was a sense that she was much stronger in spirit than before. Isabel was actually walking the walk, rather than just talking the talk, a task that was once believed to be as unfathomable as Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. But she was.

Like when she told Brenda’s new husband at work, he was wearing a nice shirt that complimented his biceps, that was something Isabel would never have done before. When Brenda called Isabel to ask why she was checking out her husband and Isabel told her to calm down and to stop being so paranoid, that was something she never would have done before. And when Isabel called out Brenda’s bluff, as Brenda tried to come up with a lie as to why she did not invite Isabel to her small wedding nuptials, despite the fact that it was Isabel who introduced Brenda to her husband, that completely let me know Isabel had changed. Getting those Las Vegas tickets now, would certainly not be an easy task.

Isabel had gone from mortal enemy number one to someone I could actually respect and, dare I say, like. Not that I didnt like her before, but obviously when we stopped being friends, she stopped being liked. The weird thing is, if she acted the way she does now, back when we were in high school, I dont think I would have been her friend. But now that she's changed...does that mean the qualities I look for in friends has too? In which case, that would mean I've changed. But I havent changed...have I?

all shook up

What's up. Ok, so I know I kinda fell off the face of the earth with no good-bye note or any kind of sign, but I think it's pretty much agreed that a twenty-something's life is filled with non-stop action. Especially if they're over the age of 21. I did write a post between Chrismahanukwanzakah and now, but I didnt post it because the material seemed more personal than public. Not that there's anything I wont share with most of you, but there was something about my post that meant more to me than it would to the average blogger. It's the unpublished file that'll probably never see the light of day. But then again...never say never...

It's too bad I didnt post it though. Because then I wouldnt have to explain about Madelaine #2 all over again.

Madelaine #2 was my newest friend at the Gap and my latest crush. Unlike my good friend Madelaine #1, Madelaine #2 wasnt capable of holding an intelligent conversation, but she did know enough words to make me laugh and keep me interested. That is until New Years Eve when I discovered she had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who would propose to her later on that night.

MADELAINE #2: Yeah, my aunt, she's my age, told me the other day.
ME: Wow. That kinda ruins the whole surprise, doesnt it?
MADELAINE #2: Tell me about it. But at least it's given me some time to think.
ME: About what?
MADELAINE #2: About if I was ready or not.
ME: Well...how long have you been dating him for?
MADELAINE #2: Six months. I know, but it's gonna be a long engagement, so it's ok.
ME: So does that means tomorrow, you'll be off the market? No longer dateable?
MADELAINE #2: Yeah, I guess so. Which means if you wanna take me out, today's your last day.

I wasnt entirely sure what Madelaine #2 meant, but nonetheless, I found myself having lunch with her later that day. And it was actually kinda nice as we sat together and discussed teen marriage and how so many young people tried to buck the odds. Like my superficial, mortal enemy, the infamous Isabel who got married three days before Christmas this past year, to a guy we all thought was in the Special Ed class. What was the need to rush out and be known as Mrs. Isabel Dior? Wait. Never mind. And though I rolled my eyes at Isabel's reasonings, I still found myself sympathizing with Madelaine #2's reasons for getting engaged. Except for this nagging feeling I had in my stomach that kept telling me I was doing something not right. But I wasnt. Was I? The whole thing really had me all shook up.

I needed to ask Stella, my newest co-worker at Alice's Downtown Flower Market. She was currently involved with a guy who had a kid and was still techincally "married", though he was in the middle of a messy divorce, which was a direct result of discovering that his wife had tampered with the condoms after he admitted he wasnt ready for kids. Talk about your baby mama drama. According to Stella, if Madelaine #2 was still wanting to go out with other guys, even after knowing her current guy was serious about her relationship with him, then maybe it was a sign Madelaine #2 wasn't ready to make such a big commitment.

And I guess if looked at a certain angle, Stella would be right. But it still didnt answer my question if whether or not I was doing something bad. There wasnt really anyone, other than Stella, I could talk to without getting an answer full of instant judgement, which I really wasnt looking foward to. I guess if looked at a certain angle, you could say I already had my answer.

A few days later I went to the opening of the Broadway play All Shook Up, with Madelaine #1. We had gotten the tickets courtesy of a good friend who worked for Broadway in Tucson Inc., which was located in the same building of the flower shop. And because of the good connections we also got access to the Cast Party after the show. But it was during the middle of ACT II, when Chad and Natalie/Ed sang the song, "I Dont Want To" that I laughed. Partially because it was as if they knew my situation and partially because my phone was on vibrate, letting me know Madelaine #2 had just sent me a text. But I realized that sometimes when a situation arises, well, sometimes it's better to ignore your better judgement and read between the lines. Which I think is what I'm gonna do.

After all, it is a new year, which means it is a chance to experience new, exciting, challenging and significant adventures. So why not start now?

all i want for chrismahanukwanzakah...

It all started two weeks ago, when I brought in my 50s jukebox radio into the shop to listen to 94.9 Mix FM, the 24-hour Christmas station. Not only did the radio add a certain savoir faire to the shop, but the Christmas jingles that jingled out, put everyone in a very, merry, festive mood. That is, all but Ashley.

Growing up near the Mexican border, Ashley and her family weren’t all that big on Christmas carols. In fact, besides the gift giving part of Christmas, Ashley and her family weren’t all that big on Christmas, period. Which is why she rolled her eyes the moment, the moment Barry Manilow came on the radio. But to be fair, it was Barry Manilow. Even I have rolled my eyes more than once at that botox bewilderment. Still, I couldn’t understand what was so bad with Christmas music altogether. Was it the catchy lyrics? Was it the message of the songs? Or was it that most of the songs had over 11 verses that just seemed to go on and on and on and on? Ashley didn’t seem to know herself, just that whenever she heard someone sing, “Deck the halls…” she felt like decking the singer.

It was actually kinda sad that Ashley became irked by Christmas carols, when in reality, they were supposed to have the opposite effect on people’s spirits. Christmas songs were supposed to be festive and joyous as they filled your heart with Christmas spirit. At least that’s what I understood from those old Rankin and Bass Holiday special cartoons. I had to find some way to turn Ashley’s bah, humbug into a fa-la-la-la songbug. Ok, that metaphor sucked, but at least you get what I’m saying.

As I tried to think up of ways to get Ashley into the Christmas spirit, I realized things weren’t much better at home. Nobody wanted to trim the Christmas tree, or the house for that matter. My mother complained about opening boxes of Christmas memorabilia collected over the years, while my father was off on another one of his rants about how much Christmas would cost him this year and whatnot. Then my brothers were off on some idiotic, ego trip, thinking they were way too old and way too cool to stay at home and watch classic Christmas cartoons while drinking hot cocoa . Was I the only one filled with the Christmas spirit this year or what?

It was like a cheesy Christopher Columbus movie where it was my responsibility to save Christmas before midnight or else the holiday itself, along with humanity, would cease from existing. But with my finals just around the corner I didn’t have time to save the world. Hell, some days, I didn’t even have time to color coordinate my shirt to my jacket.

But then last week, a call came through the flower shop that changed my entire perspective about Christmas. The law offices of Weinstein and Berger asked Alice and I if we could deck their lobby with boughs of holly and other gay apparel. And in keeping with traditional style, Alice and I went all out, trimming the tree with bright and colorful accessories and the stairwell with fresh, green garland. In a mere matter of minutes, we turned a drab and dreary law office into a Christmas wonderland that was fab and cheery. And just as we were hanging a giant wreath on the stairwell, Mr. David Weinstein stepped out of his office and asked why we had failed to represent the other December holidays. Most obviously and notably, Hanukkah.

Well, Mr. Weinstein, the answer was actually quite simple. During a staff meeting, earlier that week, when the office was trying to decide how their lobby would be decorated for their annual Christmas party, Mr. Weinstein had no opinion whatsoever. But there he was, the unmistakable voice of menorahs and kosher chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. And so Mr. Weinstein asked if we could add a giant menorah with hanging stars of David and wrap the stairwell with blue and silver ribbon, all for just twenty bucks. Now, far be it from me to perpetuate the stereotype that certain religious groups are cheap, but come on! Twenty bucks? The singing and dancing Rabbi hamster at Walgreens, alone, was $9.99.

And just when I was about to tell Alice that Hanukkah wasn’t even a big deal until it came to the U.S. and Jewish kids began to wonder why they didn’t get any gifts during Winter Break, the subject of Kwanzaa came up. If we were gonna celebrate the Festival of Lights, why not include the First Fruits of the Harvest? Would the Black community be offended if fruit was not scattered sporadically around the office? I didn’t know and honestly, I really didn’t care. I mean, Alice and I already used the entire budget that the law office would allow us to use, and with just twenty bucks more and nothing else, creating an entire atmosphere that would appease everyone with different religious and cultural backgrounds seemed so exhausting.

Not to sound like a modern day Archie Bunker, but seriously, when did saying, “Merry Christmas,” to people passing, as children were laughing, become so passé? Why did we have to change everything and get so political? They say if it aint broke, don’t fix it, so why couldn’t we just leave well enough alone? And if I’m not able to get into the Christmas spirit, how am I supposed to get everyone else in the mood?

the religion of toys

Some people have asked me what kind of topics do Madelaine and I discuss in our Religion in Pop Culture class. The answer to that is many. We've found the religious aspect in rap music and dieting. We've made connections to God and comic books. And we've seen how modern heroes, like the Tejano music star Selena, can reach "saint-like" status within a matter of days. Leaving us with the final thought, no matter what your religious background or beliefs are, God is truly alive and well. And he's living right amongst in our pop culture.

Which is why, I'm posting my final presentation. Kinda like a tribute to all I've learned from Mrs. Speidel this past semester.


Toys. We've heard of them. We know of them. We have them. It's an object meant to be played with. Usually, for the most part, toys are associated with children, but it's not uncommon for animals to have them and even a few adults. If you know what I mean. Toys, and play in general, are an important and necessary part of the process of learning about the world and growing up. Children use toys and play as part of their education to discover their gender identity, help their bodies grow strong, learn cause and effect, explore relationships, and practice skills they will utilize as adults. But who knew they shared a relationship with religion in general?



The origin of toys is prehistoric. Dolls, animals, soldiers and miniature representations of the tools adults used, made from materials found in nature, such as rocks, wood, grass, and clay are always found at archaeological sites, In Ancient Greece, when Greek children came of a certain age, it was customary for them to sacrifice their toys from their childhood to the gods.


And while they weren't burning their toys, the Greeks were busy searching for Jews who were learning the Torah. According to popular myth, the Jews devised a toy that could double as both a game and a teaching tool, also known as a dreidel. A dreidel is a four-sided top, played with during the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah. It was used by the Jews who played with it in order to fool the Greeks if they were caught studying the Torah, which had been outlawed.

Such is the power of toys. Toys have been even used to predict the future.

In Korean culture, a baby's first birthday is celebrated with a great ceremony. The mother and father lay several objects and toys in front of the baby and whatever the baby reaches out for, supposedly predicts what skills the child will excel in, in the future.


And while toys were busy predicting the future, they are also being used for work. Between the Dark Ages & the Middle Ages, when children were old enough to play they were taught how to work and use weapons and tools.


In the mid-17th century, a wave of religious reform, caused Oliver Cromwell, a Puritan to enforce an Act of Parliament banning Christmas celebrations and Holy Days, all over England. Cromwell, believed it was his mission to cleanse the country of decadence, the reason being that Christmas and Sundays were wasteful festivals that threatened core Christian beliefs. Not surprisingly, the ban was hugely unpopular and many people continued to celebrate these days in secret. Including children. Toy manufacture's came up with the idea of religious toys, like Noah's Ark, so children could still play with toys while learning their Bible lessons.

As technology changed and civilization progressed to what it is today, toys also changed. They were now mass-produced, making them cheaper to make and cheaper to buy in stores. Parents could now spend their money on printed instructional toys that would aid learning and morality, such as pictorial alphabet cards, dissected map puzzles, books and board games.


In the 1890's, when spiritualism was a big fad, someone came up with the idea of communicating with the dead using a small piece of wood, called a "planchette." William and Isaac Fuld cashed in on the idea, and in 1892, they patented the Ouija board. A Ouija board is used to predict the future, but according to Parker Brothers, the Ouija board is simply a game, but to believers, it's much more. It wasn't until World War I that it became a big success because it was used to keep in touch with loved ones who'd been sent into battle. Since then, Ouija board sales have boomed during times of war.


Some toys have the power to influence people. Building blocks can influence future architects.


Model dinosaurs influence can future paleontologists.


Even dolls possess a certain je nais se quais that have the power to influence people greatly.

Cindy Jackson, an average run-of-the-mill girl from Indiana was influenced when she received her first Barbie doll. To Cindy, Barbie was the epitome of glamour and happiness, an icon to be worshipped. In 1988, she was left a small inheritance which enabled her to begin having cosmetic surgery. Cindy used the money to transform herself, with nine surgeries, into a real-life walking, talking Barbie Doll.

According to Cindy, "from an early age I had been made aware of all the things about my appearance that could be improved."


Her extreme makeover influenced Tim Whitfield-Lynn, who changed his name to Miles Kendall, and between both of them, they spent over $300,000 in cosmetic surgery to become the world's first "real life" Ken and Barbie. But Cindy and Mile's extreme lifestyle isn't the only controversy brought on by toys.


In fact toys have even caused quite a stir in recent events. A month ago, during a recent toy drive, the Marine Reserves' Toys for Tots program turned down a company's offer to donate 4,000 Bible-quoting, talking dolls. Bill Grein, vice president of Marine Toys for Tots Foundation, said the offer was turned down because Toys for Tots doesn't know anything about the religious affiliations of the children who receive its gifts.

"We can't take a chance on sending a talking Jesus doll to a Jewish family or a Muslim family," Grein said Tuesday. "Kids want a gift for the holiday season that is fun," yet on the company's website, their mission is stated as: The objectives of Toys for Tots are to help needy children throughout the United States experience the joy of Christmas.

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And in keeping with the Holiday Spirit, some toys are in fact, regarded as holy relics. A must-have for the toy enthusiast, who will stop at nothing to have the hottest, doe-eyed, furryiest, plushest toy of the season adorning the bottom of their Christmas tree, believing this inanimate object can bring peace and goodwill to all mankind. Or at least to their families. And I should know...I'm one of them!

fall into the job

A month ago, my friend Martha's mother was addmited to Sacred Grace. She had been sick for some time and the doctors believed it would be best if she spent the next several weeks at their facility. Which meant, Christmas this year would include nurses and the smell of lemon lysol. It was easy to see why Martha wanted this Christmas to be fabulous, but of course, with fabulous being the price that it is, she could barely afford wonderful. Which is why she asked me two weeks ago, if I would go to the mall with her and apply for a seasonal job.

The first, and well, really, only, place we went to was Gap. Our friend Rachel worked there, so we figured Martha was a total shoe-in. While Martha filled out her application with detailed dedication, I filled out mine with bullshit answers. When asked what I liked most about the Gap, I wrote, "No one does fashion on a budget like Gap. Very reasonable for great separates," and under Any Felonies I wrote, "Dear God, I hope not!" We turned the applications in, with Martha praying for at least an interview and me praying they werent out of pretzel bites at Pretzel Time.

Four days later, I got a call from Gap asking to come in the following Monday for an interview. I was utterly befuddled. Why was my application chosen? I mean, if they liked what I wrote, then surely they would also give my friend Martha a call. But sadly, they didnt.

I couldnt understand why. Martha's application was far better than mine and it was she that needed the job, not me. But as I thought more about it, I realzied a part of me wanted the job too. I mean, Martha did have a point. Fabulous did come at a price and with the employee discount, my bank account wouldnt look so sad and low. I could choose all my own clothes as I helped the customers. In a way, I would actually be getting paid to go shopping. So I went in for the interview.

Betty, the hiring manager, fell in love with me. I had retail experience and worked during the holidays before, so I already knew what was expected of me. And then I was the only one to make Betty laugh when I told her how I once picked out an outfit for my guidance counselor when she went on Oprah, after she got fired from my high school for posing in a porno magazine and she said...well, I guess you just had to be there. My interview with Betty was actually the best interview I had ever had. Normally, when applying for something, I get all tongue-tied, my palms get all sweaty and I get so nervous that I might say the wrong thing that sometimes, I do end up doing the wrong thing. But maybe it was because this job wasnt as important to me as other jobs were, that I was at ease the entire time. After I left, I realized I did wanna work with someone like Betty. I just didnt know how I was gonna tell Martha.

Two days later, I decided instead of waiting by the phone to see if I had been hired, I would go to the mall. That's when I saw Betty on the store phone, with her blue folder on hand. She was making the calls! I sat outside the store, on the malls conviently hidden maroon leather chairs, watching Betty and waiting for my call. An hour later, with still no call, Debbie made her last call and walked to the back of the store. She had hired everybody that she wanted to and I wasnt one of them. Serves me right. It didnt matter that I had a great interview or that I was able to make Betty laugh. What mattered was that I should've just told Martha the truth. I should've just been upfront about the whole thing and should've just been honest. At least that's what I think karma was trying to tell me.

And while karma was busy teaching me a lesson, I decided since I was already at the mall I should buy myself a little happy. But I couldnt. I didnt feel like buying happy. I felt like buying a drink. And as I walked to my car, I passed the Gap store again, knowing it would be a while before I ever walked back in. And that's when I saw Betty walking right towards me.

BETTY: David! Hi!
ME: Oh...hey.
BETTY: David, I have a question to ask you. Did you put your cell number on your application?
ME: Yeah.
BETTY: Ok, good!
ME: Why?
BETTY: Because you got the job. Do you want it?
ME: Shut up.

Ok, so maybe telling my new boss to shut up, wasnt the best first words to say, but I really couldnt believe what I was hearing. Especially, when she told me how much I would be making an hour. And so I took the job offer. I felt somewhat exhilarated. Maybe I belonged out there, among the bright spotlights and cashmere cardigans of Gap. But if so, then why cant I tell my friend Martha?

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.

david's declassified halloween survival guide*

I dont exactly remember when my friend Madelaine's obsession with the game Candyland began, but for as long as I could remember, she had always wanted to be the fictional character, Princess Lolly. In fact, a few months prior to Halloween she had even convinced one of the neighborhood kid's to be one of her many accessories, as the Gingerbread Man. So it came to no surprise, when last month, Madelaine asked me to be Lord Licorice.

ME: No, let's just do Archie and Veronica. It's way easier and so much cooler.
MADELAINE: David. I've been known to don a pencil skirt and fake eyelashes in my everyday wear. I'm just gonna look like myself. No one will get that I'm Veronica.
ME: Oh, and like people will get that I'm Lord Licorice? He's not as iconic as Archie.
MADELAINE: Think about it. How many people played the game compared to how many people read the comic book? My guess is more people played the game.
ME: My guess is you're wrong. I just dont wanna be like Ross from Friends in that one Halloween episode where he went as "Spud-nik" and everyone thought he was Doody.
MADELAINE: Trust me, you wont be Doody. You'll be pimp.

And trust I did, as I ventured into several costume shops looking for my costume. Because Lord Licorice isnt exactly a marketed costume, I had to improvise using both my creativity and a pre-packed Vampire of Blood Castle costume. And it was after I bought my costume that I came up with the rules for a good halloween.

Rule number one: buy your costume early. It happened last Sunday morning during Sunday brunch with my family, when Madelaine called to ask me if I could return my costume. Her reason? She couldnt find her costume. Who knew how hard it would be to find a yellow summer dress in the autumn months? But I couldnt return my costume. With the Halloween weekend just around the corner, I knew that would be one task that even my strong powers of persuassion would be defenseless againt and have absolutely no effect on. However, I did use those very same powers on Madelaine and told her I was not trick or treating as Candyland's very own pedophile-looking local, by myself. If I had to be Lord Licorice, then she had to be a character from Candyland as well, whether it be Queen Frostine or, even worse, Grandma Nutt.

Two days later, Madelaine found her dress. It wasnt the right color, but with a little imagination and the right fabric dye, my friend was rockin' a pretty hot lollipop princess look. Maybe Madelaine's Candyland idea wouldnt be so bad after all. They say that fun and happy times come out of the most unusual places, and maybe, just maybe, this would be one of those times.

Saturday afternoon I was still finishing the final touches to my costume by gluing countless red licorice to a gold pimp cane. The glue was still drying as Madelaine and I left and made the party rounds. The first stop was at Madelaine's uncle's house where we learned rule number two: make sure that your costume and accessories are animal retardant. Because we were characters from the fantasy land of candy, our costumes and accessories reflected our fictional origins, which was most appealing, both in sight and in scent. At least that's what the dogs thought as they spent most of their time trying to gnaw off our sweet and colorful creations.

Our next stop was at Madelaine's friend, Daphne's house, where I realized that the Candyland idea was actually well worth the effort. Cruella De Vil, Dorothy Gale, and one of the Mario Brothers were in awe as Madelaine and I made a lap around the house, all agreeing that we both were indeed the best dressed couple of the paarty. The compliments continued well into the night, even after we picked up our friend Bella and headed straight to the north side of town, where we learned rule number three: accept treats only in the doorway - never go inside a house.

The house of horrors we were invited to, turned out to be a house of whores. My boss Alice and Madelaine's new boss Becky, both invited us to the same house with the promise of a good party and an unlimited night of fun, so we had to make an appearence. But by the time we got there, the party had begun to die down. Thankfully though, the drama had not. We were welcomed at the door by the sight of drunken thirty-year old's passed out across the living room floor and throwing up as if they were re-living their high school glory days. My boss Alice was one of them. With drool on her chin and her short black bob wig off-center, Alice tried to look sexy and seductive in her vinyl dominatrix ball gown. Instead she just came off as sick and constapated.

As Alice headed off into the bathroom for a third time, Wendi the Witch graced us with her witchy pressence. Wasnt she supposed to be strapped to a bed in some far away asylum with 3000 units of thorazine swimming in her system? Luckily though, at the stroke of midnight she pulled a Cinderella and totally disappeared. Outta sight and outta mind. Unfortunately though, she was the only one at the party who could perform such a feat, which was a shame since there were some drunken party-goers who should have pulled a Cinderella too, instead of performing the gruesome and horrifying acts of sex on the couch. And so we left.

When you're a kid, you know that a well planned trick-or-treat route is a well way to ensure a good bountiful of fun and candy. Who knew the same rules applied to when you're grown up and old enough to party? Rule number four: plan your entire route beforehand and make sure your family and friends knows what it is. Throughout the night, Madelaine felt as if though not enough people got to see our costumes, because we spent so much time in the car driving from one party to the next. True, had we actually formed a well planned schedule of our night, we probably would have been seen by more people. But that's not the point of Halloween. The point of Halloween is to bump and grind next to George W. Bush and Snow White in El Charro at two in the morning. And to have a contest to see who can down the most medicine-tasting, grape jell-o shots before throwing up. And to eat as much candy as possible, because really, how often do you get to have a hangover with a major sugar high? So I guess, the most important rule of Halloween is just to have fun. Oh and to be safe. But you already knew that...

*RESULTS MAY VARY