Self Portrait Challenge - Nude June #3

More Nudie Junies aqui.

Self Portrait Challenge - Nude June #2

I sat on the bed naked, with the camera. It was a combination more explosive than I thought it would be. After work I had locked my bedroom door, stripped down and sat on the bed. My legs were creased from where my jeans had dug into my skin. The dogs curled up at the head of the bed, half intrigued. This felt liberating and ridiculous. When I started snapping shots I felt like I was pushing the limits with the photos -- I mean I had no underwear on -- but I look at this rather pedestrian picture and sigh. I realized then that I waffle between liking to be naked and not liking to be naked.

I sleep in a jog bra. I like the feel of a corset. I like to be cocooned in clothing, and this isn't a fashion-driven decision, but often one of security.

But once, on vacation with Husband at a woodsy hotel, the balcony faced only pine trees and I sat out there often, naked, without the least bit of self consciousness.

And a few times when I was a child, I swam naked in my mother's rich boyfriend's pool while they holed themselves up in other parts of the house. And I loved it. I was floating away, completely in control of my own self. I haven't swam naked much since without overt flirtation and sexual coyness that embarrasses me now. I miss skinny dipping just for fun, because it felt good. Maybe I just like to be naked in Nature. Strange.

Taking this picture was harder than I thought it would be. I had to peel away layers of work clothes and I searched around to turn on an Artistic Switch as the kids whined on the other side of the door about dinner and end-of-the year homework. And my dogs looked at me like, Whatever, and I did what I could fully aware that when we don't take naked photos often we really only want ones that make us look as good as possible; art be damned.

I think I can do better next time.

More nudists HERE.

Photo Journaling y Nude June

I love when I turn on my camera and find photos that the girls have taken without my knowledge. Mina is the most notorious champion of this. I stared at this photo for a long time. I think it's really beautiful.

I tried to take pictures of me riding my bike. I'm not sure why I thought that would be easy/easier. This is as good as it got. I was riding to my Kick My Core's Ass Class.

The girls painted the dogs' nails. Carmen was the most willing participant. She picked that blue color. Maya held up two colors and Carmen sniffed blue. Blue it was. Hmm, not sure why it came out sideways, but there you go. Then the dogs got massages. Doggie Spa Day! I heard Mina say from the patio, "Hey, look. I'm giving Lupe one of these kinds of massages." I thought, Uhoh, but then saw this. I laughed for about five minutes. Here's another random, guerrilla photo this time taken by Maya. She was trying to get a picture of her Interview Outfit. At school, professionals from the community came into their classrooms last week to interview the seventh grades about what constitutes a worthwhile life. Questions like: How are you living your life in a worth while manner? What famous person leads a worthwhile life in your opinion? What non-famous person? I was the lucky answer to that one. She told the business woman that I was constantly trying to make their lives better, that she wanted to be like me. I'm choked up just typing that. So the kids had to wear what Maya calls "fancy clothes" as if they were going on a real job interview, and we realized she had no fancy clothes; not one dress or skirt or pair of slacks hung in her closet. (Man, I love that word: Sl-acks.) We went to Old Navy and got this number. Oh, and she got glasses last week. Glasses to see the board at school. I told Husband that we have one daughter who can't hear and one who can't see. Husband said, "And you can't do either." Touche, Mr. Rivera! I'm sorry for my weak-ass genes, girls. (Dang, Maya's pretty.)
Hey, it's Nude June over at Self Portrait Challenge. I'm digging that. Not so much so I can put my naked ass on the Net, but I find it provocative and interesting in a scary way. During the first week most of the participants nervously rambled about their trepidation doing this. Many said they couldn't. Some posted really nice photos, if not safe ones. That's an awakening for me. I think we would all probably cringe initially at this, but the challenge seems mostly about getting past that uncomfortableness and getting to a place where we find our bodies artistic and beautiful. I'm down with that. I'm double dog daring myself to push my limits on this. I'm mean, don't expect any vagina-as-a-flower shots or anything, but if I can get an interesting photo at the edge of my nakedness then let's do this! I didn't think to check into June's challenge until Tuesday, the usual day to post the entry for the week. I scrambled and posted the new back tat photo. I feel it was a mere warming up. No limits were tested here considering I had posted this photo without any egging on from a challenge or dare.

Happy Weekend. I'll talk to you later.

Today's Commute, LA River Binge

Track 11 waits for the morning train.
I wait for the morning train in plastic party shoes, with serape bag.

Afternoon train along the LA River; CAB MOE. (You gotta click on photos for detailed beauty.)
Not sure which bridge; American flag
Bright Idea/Roten Eva
Goofs, reflection
Punch More CAB

Hammers, The Devil, Bikes and Gypsy Beds

I woke up this morning in the worst mood I've been in in a long, long time. My eyes opened to a perfect day and bam I wanted to yell at kittens. It's bad. A Watch-Out-Now kind of mood. A I will punch you in the head over no more toilet paper kind of mood. A if someone tells me to smile I will side kick you kind of mood. Oh man, it's so bad. There would only be a tiny number of reasons why I feel this way, one reason in particular that is the most obvious culprit. I've been on a sugar binge since I made Maya's lovely birthday cake.

Now, do I really want to talk about what an idiot I am? Not really. Do we want to go over the hit-your-hand-with-a-hammer theory; meaning, if you bludgeon your hand it will hurt so maybe stop hitting your hand. So, no, I don't want to fucking talk about that either. Here's my fundamental problem: I do things that make me feel good. I feel so good that I feel I can do anything I like, even the stuff that does not make me feel good. A piece of vegan, natural sugar cake? Sure, I can handle that! Then it rolls into all kinds of shit because sugar is the devil, and all of the sudden I don't feel so good anymore. Que sopresa. This is the cycle of my life though it's been a long time since I've played with the devil like this. I had long stopped hitting my hand with the hammer. And now I'm clawing my way back up, out of the funk, again, towards the light, kicking myself.

I could go on and on about the things that are bugging me this minute -- sugar is a catalyst to unearth the tiniest of grievances into the most major of problems -- but I think instead I'll write about the things that I'm digging right now. It's almost a struggle to coax them out from behind the heavy fog blanketing my demeanor right now, but I think it will be good for me. Just don't tell me to smile. Ooo, don't do it.

I've got a new musical love interest. For the last few weeks I've been listening nonstop at full volume to Gogol Bordello. They are a gypsy punk band from the Ukraine. I yell out the lyrics in broken English and Ukrainian and this makes me happy. I learned about them during my last tattoo session. I had been in the chair nearly five hours and after a series of old metal tracks and some hip hop, one of the artists jammed in his own CD and Gogol Bordello came crashing in over the shop speakers. Everyone bobbed their heads; hardcore artists and clients alike. I watched the owner of the shop with a huge grey rose tat'ed to the side of his neck get up to retrieve paper towels from a cabinet and he trotted and swung his elbows wildly to the music as he did. It's that kind of music. You have to swing and trot and yell out unintelligible lyrics. I love it. Here's some samplings;



What else? Husband feels tremendously better. He has taken to sleeping in the living room on the air mattress we keep for guests. That kind of sucks, but it's all we can think of until we can save enough money for a sleep-by-numbers bed that will make us both comfortable. It's kind of like dating again though he never visits me in my bed. We had the best date on Saturday night -- actually the best day. The whole family took the bus to the LACMA to see a pretty provocative exhibit called Phantom Sightings. The LACMA is looking fierce, everybody. Go, support! We checked out the tar pits on the grounds too and the excavation pit that's been going pretty strong since 1914. It's very, very difficult to wrap my mind around what they are still digging up to this day. As we peered down into the pit we saw a huge pelvic bone stewing in the black pool tagged with a red flag. Another sooty bone was tagged with a yellow flag. They were a giant sloth pelvis and a dire wolf shoulder respectively. I asked the worker from what time were these bones. And she said, "The Ice Age." Of course. The Ice Age. Right there in front to me. Still getting dug up with mammoth femurs and saber tooth tiger teeth and shit. Crazy! We took the bus home and it's been a while since Husband's been on a bus because he was gonna sit next to a guy having a loud conversation with himself. When Husband realized I was waving him back to the middle of the bus, he shuffled to us and said, "Sorry, I didn't realize dude had his homies with him." Later that evening, Husband and I rode our bikes down to The 3rd Street Promenade to catch a movie. I smuggled in snacks and we ate vegan cookies and held hands and laughed, and then we rode our bikes home in the nighttime mildness of our beach city, and man, I was high on life. I looked back at Husband riding. He was aglow from street lights and he looked so handsome in his newsboy cap and hoodie, riding his bike. We're city kids gone green. I told him all of this -- him openly if not loudly being conscientious -- turned me on. Later that night, I visited the air mattress.

Speaking of bikes, how cool is this? Ikea Denmark now has bikes with trailers so you can haul your Ikea loot home with pedal power.

(Photo ganked from Copenhagenize.)

That's all I got for now. I'm starting to level off after The Crash. I'm gonna go toss any evidence left of sugar-like snacks and then hide all hammers.

Confessions of an Unempathetic Wife

This last weekend, Husband's back spasmed and tightened so badly he could hardly move. Saturday morning he should've known it was coming. He awoke stiff and slightly spasmed already, but he went to his usual rough and tumble tennis clinic anyway. These people, ex-pros and college stars, do not mess around, and he came home early, the bottom of his back petrified into stone. He grimaced and limped and moaned. My first reaction was not to rush to his ailing aid, but to internally roll my eyes. Terrible, I know. I just have not learned how to sensitively deal with injury or sickness. It's like I'm unable. My instinctual reaction has always been the internal head swivel with this echo'ing through my head: "If I gotta be an ox and stay up for everything, so does everybody else goddamn it."

That's not loving, is it? That's not right. I'm not right. But I can't help it! I suck.

Husband and I had plans to go out to dinner with friends on Saturday night -- which we hardly ever do -- and he made a gallant effort to keep the date. One of his best friends was on this side of town with his new girlfriend, and pain be damned, Husband would not miss that scene for nothing if only for the slightest hope of some drama and good laughs. He was in pain, I'm sure of it, but if he wasn't showing it, I wasn't acknowledging it. Not because I was thinking that we never go out, really, so let me ignore his pain so I can have a date -- no, that wasn't it. It's just that I have deprogrammed myself from absorbing an another adult's pain or taking on a grown up's stuff or sympathizing much at all. For Maya and Mina, I would have swapped out my own back for their hurting one in a heartbeat, but since Husband is a grown adult I automatically feel any adult should be able to handle their own shit the same way I do, which is a lot.

I suck hard. Because I don't know back pain. I KNOW, I KNOW it's debilitating and terrible and blah blah blah. I've heard. I know. I just suck. Very hard.

So, we're at the restaurant laughing and having a good time with two other couples. Both of the men, Husband's good friends, are former top athletes and when they heard that Husband's back was jacked, these two huge guys became the sweetest nursemaids on Planet Earth. They know back pain. They understood what he was feeling. We had to wait thirty minutes for our table and these guys scrambled around an extremely crowded bar to get him a chair so he could rest his weary back. I was thinking, You guys keep at it. Barkeep, another drink! Because I'm mean. The chair, positioned directly in the traffic of the packed restaurant/bar, helped Husband. He was propped up on his haunches a bit, trying not to grimace and when I saw him like that I felt badly. I came over and rubbed the top of his back. "You ok?" I said, sincerely. "Yea," he said, which relieved me. Maybe he just knows I'm an asshole. During dinner, it got worse with each passing minute and by the end, the guys had to help him up out of the booth and help him into the car. They gave me instructions: "When you get home, you have to stand on his back, ok? You have to dig your elbows into him to help release this. You have to." I said, "Ok, ok, I will." Maybe they all know I'm a big jerk off.

Getting him up the stairs to our apartment was hairy. I had heels on -- which I practically never wear -- and there was one real moment where we both weren't sure if he was going to make it. At one point it looked like he might fall. Interestingly, in that split second, I felt no bitterness or anything other than I would catch him if he fell. I would have, I know it. Or maybe I would have provided a soft landing for him, but I either way I would've not let him go down. I sincerely felt that because I'm not entirely an evil wife. He made it up into the house, and I got his shoes and clothes off and I walked on his back and dug my elbows into the stone muscles and got him advil and a pack of frozen peas and tucked him in and felt his forehead and wished away all his pain.

For the remainder of the three-day weekend, he stayed in bed with a heating pad and ice packs and his TV and his Grand Theft Auto IV. And I went about my regular ox-like business.


When I was eight months pregnant with Mina, we lived on the third floor of a stair-only apartment building. Maya was three, almost four, and I was working my ass off managing an international purchasing team of twelve people for a top ten semiconductor broker. This is about when Husband nicknamed me The Ox. Put anything on my back; I'll be able to handle it. So, when I was eight months pregnant, Husband decided to break his ankle playing basketball at our gym. He called me from his cell phone on the floor of the basketball court and told me that he had really hurt himself. His voice was whispery and strained, and I was all, "Yea, ok," in a flat tone. Then I realized he was being lifted onto a gurney and shuttled to an ambulance. I scolded myself for being such a jerk. He came home after surgery and parked himself on the couch with painkillers and bedding. The very next day, our beloved cat Puffy broke his hip in a mysterious home-alone accident. I carted his ass to the animal emergency center, stayed there until one in the morning for his surgery, then spent practically the rest of my pregnancy growling under my breath caring for two invalids and carting a wild toddler and groceries and all kinds of shit up and down three flights of stairs after nine to ten hours of work. Ooo, I was hot. I mourned pregnant pampering and I still pout about it to this day.


So, Husband's been sleeping on the floor since Tuesday saying that he has finally found some back-pain relief on the hard surface, and he's been cursing our soft bed ever since. This makes me nervous. I can't begin to explain how much I love our bed. It's not all-the-way soft like a marshmallow or anything, but it has that buttery pillow-top layer. That beautiful just-soft-enoughness that gives me joy each night. It's the most comfortable bed I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and now Husband is making crazy talk about getting rid of it. I said, "Why don't we get one of those old-people beds, where one half goes up and one half goes down, and one half is all hard, and one half has the pillow-top goodness?" He contemplated. "Then we can get you a hospital tray that rolls over your side and you and stay there day and night and play video games." He looked at me. "Or, let's get you a plywood board and just lay it on your half." Hell no, he said. Please god, don't let him chuck my bed. He can keep his broke-back ass on the floor!

As much as I love the bed, I'm a tad bit torn about hogging it all to myself. I do miss him in it. I really do. The radiation of presence. His smell. Midnight handholding. Sunrise spooning. Our dog, Lupe showed concern the first couple days about Husband sleeping on the floor. She would sit on his half of the bed and not lie down and just look at me like, Why'd you kick Papi out of the bed? And I was all, "Lupe, Mami and Papi are fine. Don't worry. He just tweaked his back. We're fine" which did the trick because she hasn't worried since.

I guess I would give up my bed if it would make Husband feel better. I would replace my soft, sweet refuge of a bed with a floor-like piece of hell so I could get him back sleeping close to me. I would. But if he asks me to assemble the new bed by myself because his back hurts, I will kick his living ass to the couch for the summer.

Embarking On Teenhood

My gorgeous girl, Maya, turned thirteen over the weekend. We have officially entered teenhood, everybody, and I ain't scared. No sir!

My girl is a joy, a model kid. She is fun and strong and smart and responsible and compassionate. She's the most social person I know who can genuinely make people feel at ease and accepted. She is a beam of light; nearly all love.

She is growing into a stunning young woman and I largely ignore grown folks that tell me "oooo, you're in trouble" or "better get yourself a shot gun." Maya's looks are the last thing she relies on; they are the smallest of all her amazing attributes. "She'll be just fine," I tell those folks. "Just fine."

On her birthday Maya requested a few things for me to cook, from breakfast to dinner, and then asked if we could go ice skating during the day. We're not the best of skaters, but it was fun to stomp around on the ice, in from the 70 degree Cali weather. Here are some pic's of the day.

We started the day with a tofu scramble made with fakin bacon and tomatoes. I always forget to take photos of the savory stuff, but here's a picture of the easily-made vegan homemade biscuits with homemade blueberry/strawberry jam infused with lavender from our garden. Molly had brought me the blueberries from a local farm she had visited recently. Forget it. If I never make anything else but jams I'd be happy. Here we are ice skating, or giving it a shot anyway.

What? I'm practically Dorothy Hamill here. Jazz hands don't fail me now. Also, keeping your mouth open like that is an ancient secret to balance. Mami never hits the ice, yo!
We spent most of our ice skating time sitting on the wood benches taking photos like these:


Then I spent a good amount of time taking photos like this:


After skating, I made rice and beans because we cannot have any holiday/celebration/every couple weeks without some beans, and because Maya had asked, "You're making beans, right?" I made enough for the neighbors who stopped by with birthday wishes. Here's my girl's cake, She had requested a chocolate/peanut butter flavor combo and left the rest up to me. It's a vegan chocolate cake with vegan peanut butter butter cream. I've baked a lot of stuff, but this might be the most ridiculous. Punch-in-the-gut good. Worth-the-sugar-blues good. Most importantly, Maya loved it.


Papi and Mina enjoy cake.

Mina enjoying more cake wearing brilliant paper-cup cuffs. Her shirt has Wonder Woman on it, and by the afternoon she had fashioned these cuffs for herself.

Maya dreaming big, I imagine.

Happy birthday, Maya baby, and thank you for being such a great person. I love you so much.