Ink High

Every time I get tattoo work done, I come home feeling jazzed! Giddy-like! I don't know what it is, but I feel elated and talkative. Maybe it's having been through a battle of sorts; a mind-over-pain battle though many people with a lot of tattoos say that they enjoy that feeling, the carving and the scraping. I'm one of those people. There are parts of the body that are definitely more sensitive and painful and when those areas are being worked on it's a white-knuckle moment, but usually when I get into a zone, my skin numbs itself and I can withstand hours under the needle. When I hear the buzz of the gun, I soak it in. The high-pitched rattle gets my motor going, and I enjoy the entire process. By the time the session is done, I'm ecstatic; I can hardly contain myself.

I just came home from the Pomona Tattoo Expo, the show I've been going to for years. I got the last of my back done by my man Tim McEvoy and I'm high as a natural kite right now. It's finished! My back is finished. Here's the main thing I had done today, the apple. I can't take how much I love it. The artists complain that this expo has gone down hill in terms of the overall quality of artists and the crowd, but I still love it. Here's the thing, you can saunter up and down the many aisles and see the most intimidating characters from every culture, but when you smile at them or talk to them they soften and smile back. They gladly engage in conversation. They are always nice to the kids, with mine or anyone's. And it's the only time you can stare unabashedly at a guy with a full-face tattoo.

Here's my girl Jinxi. She gets all of her work done at the same shop I do, but with a different artist. I met her about five years ago. And I'm not lying when I say she's the nicest person I've ever met in my entire life. She exudes generosity and warmth. She's a mother of three, volunteers, is obsessed with cupcakes and dotes on anyone who will come within touching distance. Oh and she also has an octopus tattooed on her throat, various things tatt'ed on her head and full arm and leg sleeves. I think she's really beautiful and mainly because she glows from the inside. I love Jinxi!Jinxi got a cupcake tattooed on her hand today. It may be her fourth. This one's the best though.I had to add this goofy picture of us too only because it caught the guy in the back who has almost his entire body done by Jinxi's artist. They are portraits of his family, many of his wife, many of his kids, that guy Jesus in the middle there and he just had his own hands tattooed on his belly as a symbol that he gladly holds his family up when he needs to. It also looks to me like a pose of sheer devotion and surrender. He's another one as nice as can be and he practically chokes up when talking about his wife and kids.You know what I've learned after so many hours of being at tattoo shows and at the shop, is that these artists gossip and complain and share and shoot the shit like any other person at a job. I mean, obviously, but it's pretty funny to witness a bunch of big tough-guy tattoo artists sitting together philosophizing about relationships. Some are just looking for a good girl, a nice healthy relationship. One bitter guy who's been hurt advises them to sleep around. They'll then talk about what works with women and what doesn't. The gentlest advice came from a guy with some sort of scribble-scrabble tat on his head and a small diamond under his right eye. He whipped out his phone to share pictures of his newborn son, his third. OH, it's the best kind of eavesdropping. Here are some other conversations heard and had today.

*An artist from the next booth asked to see my butterfly and asked me what I was getting done today. Almost his entire face was tatt'ed. He had tribal lighting bolt designs down his cheeks and around his nose; he had like a word moustache that read "SOUTH SIDE" above his lip. I told him what I was getting done after showing him my back. Then he said, "I'm such a pussy about getting tattoos now." We laughed, but he was serious.

*A guy with cheek-bone piercings and a spider web on his neck came into our booth while I was getting worked on and started talking to the artist named Big Gus next to us. The pierced guy was complaining that these other artists were trying to take his shop down; they were talking shit on him and his shop behind his back. Big Gus said, "It's a compliment, dog. If your shop wasn't shit, they wouldn't be trying to take you down, bro." The pierced guy said, "I'm going to sit down with these guys and just fucking tell them that it hurts my feelings that they're talking about me like that." I looked over. His finger was curled over his lip. I wanted to hug the guy.

*Big Gus' "old lady" gave birth to their first baby daughter four months ago. My artist Tim told Big Gus that his daughter Sailor is now five years old. (Sailor!) Big Gus said, "It just makes you more homesick and shit, right, dog? I mean, fuck, I miss that little girl all day long." Then Tim talked about how Sailor is at an age where she can call him at shop and he loves that, but when he hangs up the phone, he just wants to go home and see her. Big lugs!

*A couple came over to our booth to talk to another artist Chris. The guy was huge and was wearing a Phoenix Suns basketball jersey and straight-billed cap. He had a collection of mish-moshed tattoos, all faded and old. They looked home-done. His lady had a worn and pretty face, dense-black hair curled softly and pulled back at the sides. She was big and a bit beat-up looking. She carried a beer. The artist Chris said, "Hey girl, the last time I saw you, you were wasted!" She said, "Oh man, I was? I'm always wasted." Chris said, "You were all 'I love you guys'. You were at the I Love You Stage of being wasted!" They laughed. She said, "Oh man, I'm sorry!" Then she turned her attention quickly to the t-shirts hanging in the booth. "Babe! We should get that fucking t-shirt for Chai (their son). Wouldn't he shit himself over that t-shirt?" They got the t-shirt, cradling it as they staggered off.

*On the stage at the front of the expo they were announcing a contest to judge the best female butt at the show. I said to the guys in the booth, "Will they have a contest for best guy butt next?" They shook their head no then Chris said, "Yea, why don't they? I'd go up there and pull down my pants, put one hand in the air and dance it out." I said, "Hmm, maybe that's why they don't let men up there."

*Many passerbyers looked at the apple and speculated on what it meant. "You're from New York!" No. "Are you a teacher?" No. "Oh snap, are you Eve? The apple is for temptation, right?" No. I told them that it was because I was vegan and because fruits and vegetables are the best! And they yelled, "Right On!"

When the apple was done, I hugged Tim and said, "Wow, Tim, I love it so much. I think you should start dreaming up an all fruit and vegetable sleeve for me." His eyes lit up and said, "I'm so down for that." Then he and his wife Roxanne started to plan it out. I didn't have the heart to tell them I was just kidding. Though it's not that bad of any idea.

Here's Tim, Roxanne and me. The giddiness was starting to kick in, if you can't see it all over my face.

Waiting For Tuesday

Husband left for New York on Wednesday night. He's going to his 20 year high school reunion, then he's bringing himself and Mina home on Tuesday. Some have asked why I'm not going to the reunion with him, and frankly, that's not fun. "Hey, 'member when we peed in the bushes near the locker room??" Yea, no. Knock yourself out, Husband. Betsy and I escorted each other to our reunion and I couldn't've imagined boring Husband to tears with more obscure and insider reminiscing. Betsy and I had a blast though. I did, however, make sure that Husband took the hottest pictures of me to show off. He was completely on board with this because my husband was not granted a growth spurt until AFTER high school, where, I believe, he then slowly sprouted into a big hunk of a man. But he still thinks not-to-fondly of being scrawny and un-hot in high school. "Would you have dated me in high school," he asks. And I say, "No." But I didn't really date in high school at all, number 1, and I'm three years older than him, so definitely not. Anyway, he's going to show up to his old high school, a big hunk of a man; Mr. Cool in a seersucker jacket and great jeans showing off photos of his trophy wife and beautiful children. Get all the ex-cheerleaders questioning why they didn't fawn all over him before. Knock 'em dead, baby!

He left on the red eye and by Thursday morning I hadn't received a text or a call reporting that he had arrived safely. And you might know by now that I'm not too fond of planes at the moment -- or, they're ok, just causing me some recent panic -- so, I see no text or call and I say to myself, "It's ok, he's fine." I try to call him, y nada. "He's fine. Should I turn on the news? Don't turn on the news." My anxiety was at a very low burn but burning none the less. I tried calling Mina. Nothing. Finally I called Mama Luz and I said breathlessly but cool, "Did he make it ok? Is he there?" And she said, "Oh yea. He and Mina are sound asleep curled up together in the guest bed." My anxiety melted to soft and squishy tenderness. I miss them both so much.

Husband sends me random one-line texts throughout the day. "Stupid humid - want to come home." Or "Your baby smells like onion chips!" (Meaning Mina's caught a case of baby B.O.) Or "I can easily turn into a fat slob in Long Island." Or "I haven't showered yet." Or "Did I tell you how beautiful our baby is?"

I really can't explain well enough how perfect this guy is for me. It's at a molecular level.

The reason I was able to keep Husband's plane-anxiety to that manageable slow burn yesterday morning, I believe, is because I haven't been drinking coffee. WHAT THE!? I know. When I got back from New York I just thought maybe I shouldn't really drink coffee anymore. It wasn't a grand announcement or goal. I just didn't. When I thought about it deeply, I knew that coffee was starting to effect me more dramatically than it has in the past. Some days I was fine, like I've been for most of my life, and other days I was becoming much more nervous and anxious and agitated than I've ever been before. Also, with the raw experiment, I'm not feeling the soy creamer. I know, deep down, that soy creamer should go, or so much of it anyway. In the couple weeks that I've been back, I've had a couple cups of coffee. Almost like, are you sure? And nothing. I'm not craving it or begging myself for it every morning. I have been drinking tea, green and black, but I feel much more calm and unnervous with the tea. I miss coffee, but in a symbolic sense. I love the smell still. I love the idea of coffee, of getting coffee, of loving coffee. I just haven't been drinking it. It's an odd concept for me to which I'm still adjusting. I can't even say that I've given up coffee. I just haven't been drinking it. My coffee pot still sits on my counter. We're like amicable ex-lovers who have always enjoyed each others company, but know it may be time to move on. I'll touch it and think fondly. But I don't turn it on. P.S. I've been drinking the sickest teas from Teany. I visited Teany during my last two trips to NY. I order online now too. The selection is overwhelming, but I'll recommend a couple: Earl Grey Creme -- sort of a lavender-y, vanilla-y black tea that's delicious; Japanese Cherry Green - fantastic! Almond -- very nutty and rich. Oh and they sent me the Celosia Blossom tea on accident, and watching the bound buds open up in the tea pot is beautiful.

I realize that when I'm all alone, I shop more. So hard to drop all vices at once. I bought this apron yesterday.

Missin' Mina

Mina's terribly homesick. She's been calling me a lot since I left her in New York. This is the first year she's been like this. When she was younger, she would silently go with any flow, but as she's shaping into a true kid who feels empowered to express herself, she's become, among so many other wonderful things, a little more clingy. This is also the longest we've been apart from each other. When she calls me crying, I have to ride a parent's razor's edge; I want to comfort her and make her feel better, but I don't want to give her any indication that where she is -- with family who love and cherish her -- isn't a safe and fun place to be. So we talk on the phone for a good while everytime. I'll talk about anything. I sound chipper and excited and I let her talk about anything she wants to talk about and eventually her tone gains levity. I can hear when she's reached manageable ground. One morning she called and read to me her required summer reading right over the speaker phone. Some nights, I sing to her all our regular good-night songs.

It makes me miss her more. I don't like to hear her worried or to the point of missing me where she feels alone. I felt chronic, profound loneliness as a kid, and I know she's in a much different situation than I was, and usually during the day she's having a great time with the family, it's just that I'd do backflips to alleviate any trace of that from her voice. I usually do. I don't mind.

Once when I was eight, my mother had gone out for the evening and I had settled myself into bed with the TV blaring loud enough to drown out the silence that blasted through the rest of the house. I felt ok when the TV was on. She'd be home soon, I believed. Then the fuse to the TV blew. I stared at the blank granite-gray TV screen for many, long minutes. It was then just me and the lamp and the four walls and the dead TV. The silence took over and panic crept up. It was the only time I thought to call for help because usually when things went wrong when I was alone, I'd just fix it or figure it out. I called my grandmother, Mama, and told her what had happened. She lived too far to come over, but she asked me if I still had that puzzle book she had given me last Christmas. I did. She talked to me for a while; her voice was chipper and sweet, and she would have done a backflip for me not to sound so alone and panicked. And I felt so much better, even after we hung up. I did puzzles until I fell asleep, with the lamp still on and the TV still dead.

I forgot to show you my favorite photo from when I was in New York. It's on my Flickr but I gotta put it here too.

Don't you just kill yourself to make someone laugh like that? We were at Cafe Blossom, the new one on the Upper West Side, and I had been taking photos of food and of the girls. We were goofing around at the table, as usual, and I said something that just struck Mina funny enough to laugh like this. I pushed the button on the camera that was still in my hand. Maybe one of my favorite photos ever.

So, I miss my girl badly. I miss them both a lot. Maya and I are used to the summer separation, but Mina and I are still getting adjusted.

Raw Begets Raw

Since being home from NY, and since that exclamation point that I experienced on the air plane, I have been eating mainly raw. The experience on the plane made me more honest about who I am without all the extraneous examination. The favorite parts of myself became more clear, and that was that. So far, I've managed to hold on to a lot of that feeling. And after that experience I couldn't deny that even though I've blathered on about food and baking and this and that and blah blah blah, I mostly really like to eat a raw, fresh simple diet.

The raw cooking class last week helped that come into focus too. It was a beautiful class taught well and engagingly by Loren Bruni, and it demystified fancier raw recipes. It was much easier than I thought it would be. It was so stimulating on every sensory level that I couldn't deny how much it moved me. The food we prepared was bursting and intense and we all groaned and yelled out after every bite. The day after the raw class I took Fran's elegant vegan cake class which was a lot of fun, I have to say, but mainly because Fran is such a joy and such a great person and I love to be around her. To my total surprise, Bahar from Where's The Revolution was also taking this class, and we got paired in the same group which was great. She is as sincere and as lovely as she comes across on her blog. Along with Fran, Bahar made the experience completely worthwhile. Our group made a Black Forest Chocolate Cherry Cake that was outrageous. Of course, my camera battery had died mid-trip, and I believe Bahar will send me some photos of our work soon. After the class had completed all of the assigned baking, we were encouraged to sample it all, but I couldn't get through what I had put on my small plate before a severe stomach-ache stopped me from sampling anything else. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't try the truffles I had made with the chopped dried cherries and rolled in a clove sugar. I couldn't try the hazelnut opera cake that another group had made and that looked really good. The only thing that didn't make me double over was the Cherry Granita, a sort of cherry-juice, lemon-zest slushie that was so good.

So, am I going to over analyze all the time I've put into baking, all the money, all the thought, all the posturing and back-patting. During the cake class, I still felt hopeful. I was jazzed to bake Fran's lovely recipes and be around her energy. I absolutely love the kitchens at the Institute. I felt comfortable and able; I know I am a competent and fine baker, but after the testing and when I felt immediately terrible, I knew I would have to come to terms with where I was taking this. I couldn't even talk about this before the trip, but whatever happened on the plane allowed it all to drop to the ground like a heavy, velvet curtain. I still can't articulate what I'm not anymore, but I feel pretty good about what I am.

The shake pictured above is an adaptation of one I had at Cafe Gratitude years back. Young coconut water and the meat, dates, raw almond butter and lot o' ice. On top there is a raw mix of dried goji berries, nuts, cocoa nibs, and tiny coconut shreds. I bought this mix premade over at Juliano's. He puts it on all his shakes and it's brilliant and delicious.

I'm not even going to say out loud what I am. I'm just going to be it, for once.

My girls are still in New York. Maya leaves today for Las Vegas where she'll spend another six weeks and Mina will be in New York another three. I miss them terribly. At certain times of the day it hits me hard, but I know not to squander the entire time lamenting their absence. I might as well enroll myself into Codependent Summer Camp for Adults if that's the case. Sometimes their absence is a surprise in good ways. On Thursday, I got out of work early and I day dreamed about taking an adventure to Thai Town to buy a case of young coconuts. I had been pissed that Whole Foods and other local stores were selling their coconuts at $2.50/each. Then I realized there was absolutely no reason I couldn't just get in my car and take an hours-long adventure to any funky market I fancied no matter where in LA. I double checked my mind: "Right? No where to be? No one to pick up? No homework to oversee? I'M OUTTA HERE!" I had a great time.

Thai Town is on border of Hollywood and the part of Los Angeles that's on its way downtown. I went to a good-sized store called Bangkok Market. Any place that has an altar in the parking lot is ok by me.

The market was great, stocked mainly with things that were fascinating and unrecognizable.

There were about ten kinds of coconut milk. And many flavors of whatever this is.
Essence of durian? Whoa.I bought my case of young coconuts, which took a few minutes to get because the cashier barely spoke English. I pantomimed, really, and eventually got nine coconuts for ten dollars. Score!I also bought kaffir lime leaves because I'm obsessed with nailing a fantastic raw Thai coconut soup and I had convinced myself that these were a key element. These leaves are gorgeous and smell phenomenal. Two leaves are connected together like a figure eight, in Spanish they are called hoja de ochoThis afternoon, I did nail the soup. I drew components from about four different recipes, considering only the ingredients that would make it the most flavorful to me. It was fantastic, and later there were no signs of a stomach ache.

Home from Trippin'

It's not like I did a lot in NY. But something kinda happened to me. Good things, I think. A peeling away that has left me a little stripped and unsure, but in ok ways.

It takes years, I think, to scratch away at the surface levels of denial -- it did for me any way -- and some of us don't bother with the deepest of levels. It's easy to be content with just-under-the surface truths. Any new truth revealed is a relief though, isn't it? It's like a new day; we're rolling now, aren't we? But there's more. There's always more. I feel I unintentionally dove deeper and yanked away some bullshit this week. Not regular bullshit, like Purpose and Meaning, but more about obscure self honesty; the type of honesty we don't even know we're not being honest about. Not stark unkind truths really, but blossoming ones that go beyond ourselves that connect us to everything else.

The interesting thing is that I couldn't find a pen this week. Every pen in my purse had disappeared, and I always have pens because I'm always scribbling madly inspired notes to myself. But all the pens vanished, so no notes to write, and I was left without the guarded task of making lists and sorting things out in controlled, organized ways. I can see how the lists have protected me from bravely mazing through my mind to root out things and tear down real veils. It was kinda scary; unchartered really. Because when deeper facades go down, who am I left with?

The pinnacle of all of this happened last night. I had taken the subway to JFK airport early to make sure I'd get there on time. I was anxious to come home, not wanting to be alone anymore with my doing-nothing-practical yet mazing, rooting mind. I was without the girls, missing Husband too, and I was stabilizing a tailspin that was equally uplifting and scooting me to an unknown ledge. My flight was to depart at 6pm. We didn't board until 8. We didn't lift off the ground until 10. By 10, I was all but rocking back and forth in my window-seat chair, trapped in and looking at the monster queue of planes around us waiting to take off too.

I don't typically recognize anxiety in myself. I don't understand it. I squash it down deep. I blame it on sugar. I blame it on morons around me. I drop kick it so others can deal with it. But by 10pm last night, I had no where to put it. I didn't even have a motherfucking pen to scribble out a superficial remedy and I decided to let it stay, trapped there too. We duked it out a bit, in the window-seat. If you had had ring-side seats in my mind, you would have seen it wasn't pretty. I called Husband on the tarmac after an hour of waiting and I said, "I just want to come home now." And he said, "Hang in there, baby." And that worked, for a while. Until that jerk Anxiety made me believe that every call and text was a poetic precursor to the plane going down. The woman in front of me asked if she could get off the plane, but we were in the middle of the queue and there was no way, and I thought if she makes us go back to the gate and start over with the waiting I will beat her ass with a bag of peanuts. I wasn't feeling positive. Or loving. Or grateful. But I kept forcing those thoughts on myself, like, "Be fucking positive already. Surround this plane in some goddamn love, will ya? Don't force fate because then we'll probably crash as we take off -- DON'T THINK THAT." At 10, we took off and the crowd didn't even applaud like a good-natured crowd would have. Many grumbled, but I was thrilled to have finally left. Until the turbulence started. I'm sure many people are scared of turbulence. I don't know many more than me. I'm terrified in fact, but I don't usually show it. Except that one flight where I put my jacket over my head and resigned to it all, and that one time I flew in a private flying minivan to Vegas that shook like we were in an 8.0 air earthquake and I held no fear back then and I held on to the ceiling, my face drained and paralyzed, and I sweated through a t-shirt and I was so tense that I got a spectacular workout, but generally when a plane shakes I mask the raging panic within. The plane shook last night pretty good. Not the worst I've felt, but certainly not the easiest, and my mind and I went on a rollercoaster. It was like I was drunk to the point of emotional blathering, and the unearthing of my bullshit began -- known bullshit, some well-hidden shit, stuff I didn't know what to make of -- right there in the window seat as I covered my face with a pillow and sometimes tried to hold onto the window without a good grip. After an hour, the flight settled into a smooth auto cruise and I was ecstatic; so overly happy about this, though any tiny bump caused me to throw the pillow up to my face again. I was exhausted from the mental prostrations. I simultaneously and nervously read magazine articles and flipped through the TV channels, refusing to stop on anything negative and upsetting. But then I started watching Rescue Me because the writing intrigued me and Dennis Leary is a leathery fox, and I had never seen the show before. And then his kid gets hit by a car while he's on a bicycle and Leary and his wife pick up the limp bloody body and drive him to the emergency room and the kid is obviously dead and it was filmed well enough where I couldn't change the channel and I'm all crying silently in my seat . . .and then me and my anxiety go at it again. I'm begging this time, Don't take my girls from me like that! Please god! And I watch the mom's reaction when she realizes the boy is dead and I spend five minutes trying to clear away from my mind what my reaction would be and I nearly start just screaming in my seat. A long, unhinged guttural scream with all my breath. I changed the channel, finally, and tussled with my mind some more to quell the freak out. More of the same strange universal bullshit came up and I let myself stew in it. I tried to release it, but I'm not sure I have.

We landed at 12:30am in LA. I had been thinking about my reunion with Husband for three days, but when I saw him I felt raw and embarrassed, unbeknownst to him. I tried to explain a little of what I was feeling, but spoken words in these situations fail me because I can't seem to shake the self consciousness from them, and I teared up enough to know that if I kept talking I would have cried for 10 minutes straight. It's not how I imagined our reunion. I didn't want to dump that on him. I talked instead about how earlier in the day I had been caught in a thunderstorm in the middle of the Gay Pride Parade where a couple of men in short-shorts sought refuge under awnings on the street, and some women danced on the top of a halted double-decker bus anyway. I hadn't done either; I had stood in the rain, looking around me. I told him about how much I loved cooking in a commercial kitchen and that taking the gorgeous raw class moved me, and the wonderful cake class left me with a stomach ache, sadly but unsurprisingly. I told him about how I had bought the pretty brown dress I was wearing even though it wasn't really my style because I loved how many women in NYC didn't schlub around the city and that dresses beat the heat well and looked pretty but not too fancy, enough for me to want one. He told me it really was pretty.

My week and the plane ride home didn't make me feel too exposed, I was finding. I didn't feel that uncomfortable. I felt a little unsure of what I had been through. I felt happy to be home. I love NY, but I really, really love California. The Cali breeze was a soothing welcome home as was holding Husband's hand during the rest of the drive home, not having to talk anymore about the bout I had had with myself. I smoothed out my brown dress and squeezed his hand and told him again how much I loved and missed him. I decided I'd wait until the next day to see how I felt about the other stuff. And today I still feel unsure and raw, but mostly I feel underlyingly yet undeniably inspired.

Feeling Family

We're at Mama Luz's and Big Papi's house, chilling. In fact, we're blasting the El Cantante soundtrack and we take turns blurting out the words as we skip-dance around the living room and the kitchen. Mama Luz and I are the types who have to move to this music, we cannot help ourselves. Mama Luz is barefoot, in jeans and a stained tank top. She busted her toe a couple weeks ago, but every time I skip into the kitchen I spy her twitchin her hips anyway, her shoulders hunched, one hand on her stomach and swaying her head to the music. Every other song we make Maya and Mina get up and dance with us. Every once in a while Big Papi says, "He don't do it right" and he means Marc Anthony doesn't do the Lavoe songs justice, and I agree and don't agree. I am a sucka for the graininess of Anthony's voice. He does no wrong in my eyes. Mama Luz neither. We're under his spell. Big Papi and Mama Luz come from the NY Salsa Golden Era of the 70's, when the most spectacular and innovative artists emerged, and Luz and Papi would came in from the Bronx to catch shows in Manhattan wearing wide collars, gold chains, mini skirts and sassy short haircuts respectively. Mama Luz still rocks that cute hair cut and oooo she'd cut off four fingers if she could figure out how get back her chiseled, mini-skirt popping legs again that are really not that far from being what they were. She wore a mini skirt to my wedding for god's sake. She could probably still bat those humongous eyes that take up most of her face to get what she wanted; expedited no less because her smile and stare glint with a spec of no-good.

Big Papi, the soft-spoken and kind one, just finished telling us a story about how he bitch slapped an employee a couple years back. Some new guy at his job kept calling Big Papi a cabron and hijo de puta and chinga tu madre don't you know, but in an endearing way the guy said; no harm meant, that's just how he talks. Big Papi, thirty years this kid's senior explained that this may just be a cultural misunderstanding, but PR's don't talk casually in this manner and he better cuida la boca , watch his mouth. Of course the kid said, "Sure, Cabron." And Big Papi slapped him up twice; it's documented right there on the company camera. I said, flipping up my hand, "You warned him fair and square." He said, "Yes, I did." I added, "I thought you were the non-violent one in the house." I glared over at Mama Luz as she laughed. "He can throw down if he needs to," she said with pride.

Needless to say, we're having a great time.

Mama Luz and I went dancing a couple days ago, and it hurts me to report that the salsa scene in New York is dead, temporarily I'm praying. I told her it's a travesty that Cali is KILLING the NY scene and she agreed. The other night we went to a place called the Crazy Donkey. This was probably mistake number one. When they advertised "Latin Night" it didn't occur to us that they mainly meant reggaeton. I like reggaeton ok, but certainly not without Husband because this is a let-me-get-my-grind-on dance if there ever was one. The last time we were in Puerto Rico over four years ago, reggaeton had taken over the island and we spied out two couples on a double date in the parking lot of Luquillo Beach. A pair of well-endowed thick sisters were coupled with two skinny and thrilled dudes. When I say date I mean to say that they were standing outside a car with wide open doors and reggaeton was blasting over the car's speakers. The kids were dancing or should I say the boys were kind of standing there, kind of gyrating and the girls, both of them, were bent over in front of the boys working it out: Hands were flat on the ground, booties shaking and stirring. As Husband says, their butt cheeks were wrapped around these guys. We stared and sang, "Daaammmn." At the Crazy Donkey there were no dancers as interesting as the couples at Luquillo, but there was still blatant attempts to rub against something and every time a reggaeton came on I hid out near the bar. When they played the infrequent salsa, Mama Luz and I would naturally dip our knees to the beat and move our feet. No men knew how to dance beyond a basic, sad step so Mama Luz lead and I followed and we turned and shook it and laughed. A group of women kind of semi-circled us and after the couple songs ended, one of the women pulled Mama Luz aside and said, "If we could just get these guys to dance that old school stuff like you ladies we'd be so happy." Mama Luz said, "I hear you." When she told me, I said, "That's old school?" And here I thought it was timeless.

Mama Luz is boiling meat in a pot right now. It smells disgusting. I tell her so. She made a salad too, to impress me and I secretly love that she tries hard to impress me on that level. When she accidentally puts marinade on the salad instead of dressing she yells, "MIERDA COñO MOTHER FUCKER" and we laugh. This is the tone in which Mama Luz usually speaks. We're always like, "Why are you yelling?" And she says, "SHUT UP." Food is the funniest topic in this house. Mama Luz says, "Mira, I don't know why my cholesterol is so high." I say, "Yo, you're still drinking whole milk. That's nasty." And she yells, "THEY SAID ON TV THAT THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THAT AND 2%. I CAN'T DRINK THAT FUCKING 2%." I say, "Gimme a break." And she smirks. When she comes in with a grocery bag, she likes to announce what's in the bag. She says what she thinks is the healthiest stuff loudly: "I GOT BROCCOLIS" (The fact that she adds an "s" to the end of many words might be the trait that endears me the most to her.) So she got broccolis "WHOLE WHEATS AND BANANAS." Then she pulls out whole milk, salami, cheese danishes and cigarettes, but she doesn't announce those. "OH AND I GOT MY WATER." What she means is that she got a bottle of diet pepsi which she splits between two other empty bottles and fills the rest with water. She claims this is the only way she can drink water. "I HATE THE TASTE OF WATER. AND THIS WAY IT'S STILL HAS NO CALORIES."

I can't tell you enough stories to explain how much I love these people.

This Just In & Other Cosas

My horoscope the other day said this: "The final count is in. Your stars are claiming that your obstacles are 90% imagined. Just un-imagine them and you're free to move forward. It's as easy as it sounds." The final count is in, it said. Do you believe the balls of my stars? Why do my stars have to have my exact personality? Why can't I get all nurturing, coddling stars like everyone else. The horoscope is so great, it's now pasted at my desk at home. "This just in from the stars: Get over yo'self. " It's too good.

In Other News . . . When I was young, I wanted five children. I named them all and I practiced caring for that many. I drew pictures of myself with a lot of kids. I babysat a ton. I was psyched to have a huge family especially since I'm an only child. After Maya was born I thought, Whoa, wait a second. I immediately wondered if I had been insane to have wanted five kids. How could I have five children when all I wanted to do was stare at this one? I revised the number of kids to three. I could surely handle three. After Mina was born I though, Uh whoa. How on earth am I supposed to watch after three when I only have two eyes? I decided that enough greatness had passed through my body. I packed up my womb and declared No Mas.

What I feel for my girls and how much they mean to me is a constant hum of energy that gives form to my existence. Duh. But it doesn't mean that I don't remember very clearly how hard parenting was in their youngest years. The worry was much more intense back then. The Brink always seemed nearby. Remembering that particular brand of exhaustion makes me anxious; it is a bottoming-out kind of exhaustion, a cry-along-with-the baby-praying-to-be-knocked-unconscious type. Being a mother is the hardest job I've ever had because I've always wanted to be great at it. The balance to be a whole person, and not just a mami, maybe that's the hardest aspect of all.

Which is why whenever someone asks if Husband and I want another child -- a boy, we must want a boy! -- (and we've been asked this almost every month for nine years since the day Mina was born) Husband and I, in unison, say, "Hell no." Sometimes we bark it. Sometimes we sing it. Sometimes we punctuate it in different ways. Hell. No. Sometimes we Whitney Houston it: Hell to the no.

There was a tiny window when Mina was about two where I told Husband I'd be willing to shoot for a boy if he felt that was important. He kicked off our current resolve with a resounding, "Hell no." The concept of carrying on a family name is lost on us. What does this have to do with our immediate existence and making the most of our lives and raising good people? We don't know. So, Hell No has remained our answer.

This is on our minds as of late because there is an eerie baby boom going on with people we know. Babies are being born all around us. Grown ass women my age are deciding to have another baby when they have kids ten and fifteen already. And Husband and I cower and deflect the incoming "Don't you guys want another" left and right. Our friend Amy had a baby last week. Her sweet angel baby was born on the heels of her year-and-a half old sweet angel of a son. Her oldest is four. I instinctively cringe at those numbers. We visited Amy and them last weekend and as she took a shower I cradled the newborn for over an hour. She fussed once and though I felt rusty handling the fragility of a three day old, instincts dusted themselves off and the baby was a joy to hold. I hardly stared at her, which, back before my own children I would've soaked her in through my eyes, not able to absorb enough. I held this little one and flipped through a magazine. I looked down at her tiny face a few times, mainly hoping she wouldn't cry for the sole reason that I wanted to give her mother a break. When mommy came downstairs refreshed and arms outstretched she asked, "Does it make you yearn for another?" "Not in the least," I said too quickly. Amy seemed surprised and maybe I was too blunt. I added, "She is a sweetheart of a baby, but they grow and soon they're running around like --" I looked back at her son who was being followed by a hawk-eyed nanny. "Like My Little Monster?" she said. "He's hardly a monster." I said. I thought too of all the help she has; nannies and family and friends. I answered solely from my own experience: "If they're good or bad, you are constantly running after them. Nonstop. I just don't have any desire to feel that sense of Red Alert every waking moment, y'know?" Her four year old walked in trailed by Mina who was watching after her. I thought I heard Amy sigh even though she didn't have to have a second set of eyes to track her toddler son. Either way, she's going to be on Red Alert for years to come, and I was doing a happy dance on the inside that I wasn't her.

I have an IUD. It will expire next year, and Husband and I have had many conversations about him going in to get is junk adjusted to No Baby Mode. He's not hesitant in the least, but we're Busy and we're This and That. I say, "If we end up with a surprise, ooo Lord have mercy on our souls . .. " He said, "Oh my god, I know. I'll call. For sure, I'll call the doctor this week. The omens around us are too great." It has dampered our intimate life. Well, that and the fact that he's still sleeping on the goddamn air mattress in the living room.

This just in from the stars: Obstacles Imagined!

I leave for New York on Friday. The girls will be staying with family for a couple weeks and I'm kind of like a shuttle service. I'll hang with family too, but I'll get knocked to the side so everyone can dote over the girls. It's how it should be as far as I'm concerned. After five days in Long Island, I'm going to steal away to spend 3 nights and 4 days in Manhattan by myself. Can someone say Dreamy? I'm gonna take two more classes at the Natural Gourmet Institute. I am taking an Elegant Vegan Cake class, which will be cool, but the class I'm most excited about is the Raw Mexican Fiesta! class. Taking this raw class was a last-minute decision. I've been feeling a lot of conflicted feelings about baking lately, which I'm a little too torn to really express right now. I tend to always gravitate back to raw food. Some say that's a natural progression: Vegan to vegan raw. We'll see. All I know is the thought of mastering some raw chef-ery excites the shit out of me. And check out what we'll be learning:

Creamy Avocado and Chunky Golden Corn Soup; True Mexican-Style Chili with Crunchy Cheddar Nut Cheese and Macadamia Sour Cream; "Grilled" Red and Yellow Peppers, Garlic Spinach, and Summer Squash Fajitas with Guacamole and Pico de Gallo; Flan de Coco with Mango Sauce.

Dudes, raw flan de coco?? I'm so all over that.

Obstacles Be Gone! I un-imagine you.

Talk to you later, mi gente.