self portrait tuesday

This is my fifth entry for the Personal History theme at Self Portrait Tuesday.




I realized I would be remiss if I didn't cover the most basic of my histories, the longest-running aspect of my life to date; the fact that I was a baller. I was a through-n-through gym rat and pick-up game junkie.

After I was introduced to basketball at age eleven, it became all I thought about and all I wanted to do. In junior high I played at lunchtime with the boys. I played if I was wearing pants or if I was wearing a dress. In high school, I had a stern coach named Coach Dick Beedy and if you can judge by his name, he was 150 years old which meant his coaching style was the same as the inventors of basketball: All pass, no flash. This was how women’s basketball was coached back then, and it bored me to tears. I was voted MVP of our less than mediocre team that received no attention from colleges, and my hopes of possibly turning pro fizzled -- Oh, and there were no women's pro teams at the time.

I then discovered street ball; pick-up games on park black tops, at Venice beach and at a legendary gym called Memorial Park. In my senior year in high school, I ditched school at least once a week to play at Memorial. I was the only girl that played there regularly and I would light it up from 15-20 feet if the guys underestimated me, which was often. During the NBA off season, a handful of pro players would come to have some fun with the Memorial legends. I also played a stint over at the Hollywood YMCA where I once guarded Arsenio Hall -- I'm not even shitting you. And Denzel Washington would play there on occasion too. Yes he would!

After Husband moved to California, we started playing at a gym that was becoming the Place to Play. During the NBA lock out, the place swarmed with second string pro's and elite college players. We went to the gym a few times a week, giddily. Both Husband and I can recall separate and perfect days at the gym where we won all day long on chemistry-clicking teams. We played five hours of basketball until our shoes nearly exploded off of our blistered feet in a fireball. It was bliss.

During my adult street-ball career, there was one other time that stands out. This was when Husband, his brother G, his uncle R and I went to a park in Queens, NY. Together, we ran those courts all afternoon. Not only were we significantly older than the young studs we played, but I, a woman, was the go-to guy. Typically, I played a non-starring role compared to the dominant male players of my team. This was fine as long as they weren’t cockheads about it and as long as we won. But that day I was ON FIRE. During my entire basketball career, I had had many shining moments where I scored beautifully on dudes, sending the crowd into an uproarious high-fiving fit (nothing is more infectious than that), but that day in Queens I was calling for the rock repeatedly because the basket was the size of the ocean to me. I was fading and draining and strutting. On the final point of the last game of the day, I was passed the ball again -- they knew to honor a hot player, male or female -- and with my guy guarding me tightly I pulled up beyond the free throw line and before the ball left my fingertips, I said, "Game, motherfucka." Possibly one of the greatest days of my life. Husband's brother & uncle still talk about that day, which puffs my feathers like nothing else.

This is one of the only pictures I have of me with a basketball. It's from my year book. I'm a junior in high school, warming up for a game.

Happy Lunar New Year, mi gente

It's El Año del Perro, the Year of the Dog and how better to celebrate than to share our colorful day at my beloved Bower's Museum where we went for the Asian Family Festival.




Must I express again how much I love the Bowers Kidseum? Yes! The Kidseum is in a building a few doors down from the converted mission that is the main museum. Kidseum is where we go for the Dia del los Muertos celebration and the African Festival, which will be held next month, and a ton of other fun things. When there is no festival or special event, you can always go to the Kidseum to create an art project that corresponds with the featured exhibit displayed in the main museum. Right now there is a fantastic Egyptian Mummy exhibit so, hieroglyphic writing and reed art galore!

Here's a picture of one the many masks -- this one I think from Bali -- that line the walls:



Here's Mina taking full advantage of the Kidseum amenities such as the extensive tea party goods:


Maya making her Chinese Opera mask:


Slew of children's masks drying in the art room:


Other beautiful accents of the Kidseum; sombreros for dress up:

Kimono on display:


Mina in provided hat and clogs on a horseless saddle:


Taiko drum demonstration:


Showing off their masks:


I love the surrounding neighborhood of the museum which is old southern California, working-class latinos, mismatched sidewalks, porched small white craftman houses with 50-year old palms lining the streets. This part of Orange County reminds me of parts of L.A. I daydream of living over here every time we come to the Bowers:

Photo Booth Friday, Y'all!

Hulaseventy's Photo Booth Friday is all the rage, y'all. I've jumped on the bandwagon, fiercely.

This is Husband, before he was knighted Husband, and me. Balboa Island, 1997. Maya was two. Mina, not even a thought yet. We walked around on shedding wood planks holding hands, checking out the rides and eating grilled corn sprinkled with cayenne. We went to the arcade and he brushed up on the Kill The Something game and I requested a photo in the booth.

Turbo Kicked Ego

Today, in the mail,the exercise video I was in finally arrived. Yea, I was in an exercise video; a Turbo Kickboxing video. That will be sold. To the public. And viewed by many.

When it was made, it was all fun and games. The best, regular students of my Turbo Kick Class, taught by the brilliant Cheerleader On Crack, were asked to participate in her newest video -- many are sold by her empire -- and I was confident that my je ne c'est qua was ready to be documented. I dig a spotlight. Or I used to. As all the students arrived for the shoot, as we were dressed by bitchy PA's and makeup'ed and rearranged on the floor, I became acutely aware that I was one of the "bigger" students. I do not consider myself big, but I was getting the hint that I had been cast as the normal, “healthy" girl. This still did not faze me particularly, and as the long-ass day of shooting rolled on, I was still hot in my own mind.

After viewing the DVD, I'm now having my doubts. In my mind, I'm so great. I'm the bomb diggity. I usually never dog myself out. I am not a fan of self deprecation at all, because if you're not talking highly of yourself, who will? But when one sees themselves jumping around in spandex next to very tone and lean fitness models, it's hard to the put the brakes on an automatic critical avalanche. I did not look terrible, but the image on the screen did not exactly match the flyness in my mind. Firstly, maybe I should trim my hair more than once a year? Even if stylists love to chop the shit out of my hair, at least then, just maybe, there would a . . .style? And, my boobs are too big to be bouncing around in that fuchsia tank they dressed me in. I couldn't get my eyes off my own cleavage. Jesus. Bimbo Turbo Jam? ug. Also, open-mouthed dancing has been an affliction of mine since I first took a dance class a hundred years ago. When I dance a routine, my mouth is either open in a surprised "Hey!" look, or my lips are puckered, innately, in a sassy "Jazz face." Eyebrows are always raised. It's like a spasm to which I have no control. So, there was a lot of that going on, to my horror, as I kickboxed. On the DVD, there is a "Get to Know the Cast!" section where we are asked questions such as who are you, why do you love this workout and what are your eating weaknesses? And, ok, I looked fine, and I was fairly charming as I rambled about my vegan cookie obsession, but why didn't anyone tell me that my bottom teeth are more crooked and jagged than the hem of Wilma Flintstone's dress? And they're off center, the teeth, as seems to be the case with my whole face when I talk. I'm like a Picasso painting (which, ok, is kinda cool). And I see that after years of holding my surprised Jazz Face, my forehead seems to just stay in that position, up and creased. AND I TALK FUNNY. What's up with that?

Maya and Mina got a huge kick out of seeing "Mami on TV!", but I kinda just shook my head and squinted my eyes to filter out the hotness, and I tried not to look at my triceps that are a tad wobblier than I thought, and I really didn't want to be made aware of that VIA A PUBLIC EXERCISE VIDEO. Ho hum.

People, I love me. I really do. And if you embarrass me with any kind of sympathetic compliments, I will you kill you. With my bare turbockick hands. Anyway, I’m not looking for that. I’m just reporting what I saw. And besides, I’m back to feeling hot again, in my mind.

P.S. I was going to post a picture from the DVD, but I'm so saving that goodness for February's Self Portrait Tuesday theme which is "All of Me, Embrace Your Mistakes, Love the Ugly Bits." HA! What perfect timing.

self portrait tuesday

This is my fourth entry for the Personal History challange over at Self Portrait Tuesday.

This is my favorite pregnant picture. This captures exactly how I felt. Humbled. Loved. Nervous. I did not feel matters were in my hands. I knew I would be my best at mothering. I knew I would be great; I believed I had a natural capacity for that much love and nurturing. And because I wanted to be a mother so badly, I wasn't sure I would be able to have children. I believed wanting it too badly would kibosh the deal.

Before I had Maya, I had a miscarriage. Maya's father, BD, was out at sea on a naval ship, and alone I lost the baby at 10 weeks, on my sheets, in my pajamas, in the toilet. I didn't know who to tell. I telegrammed BD out at sea, and a week later he called me from a port, frantic. Then the calls flooded in from his family asking why I didn't call them. And I didn't know why. I tend to hide into myself when bad things happen.

It took an entire year to get pregnant with Maya after the miscarriage. I was trying too hard. I wanted it too badly again. I tried not to care. When I found out I was pregnant, I chanted in my mind the entire pregnancy: healthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthy

happystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbaby

healthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbaby. . . I willed her to stick. I just chanted this nervously any time I was not talking aloud.

Before I had Mina, I had a miscarriage. At 10 weeks again, but this time Husband was with me. And he was nonchalant about what had happened. We had Our Worst Fight in Our History that night. I didn't feel as desperate after this miscarriage because I felt maybe Maya was enough of a blessing already and I wasn't going to be allowed another. But only three months later, I became pregnant, and again all I did in silent moments was chant: healthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthy

happystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbaby

healthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrong

babyhealthyhappystrongbabyhealthyhappystrongbaby . . .

Floating

When I was young, from about thirteen until I don't remember when, my mother studied Tibetan Buddhism. She studied intently for years. I would often go to the Buddhist center with her and hang out or do my homework as she took classes. It was a place where I could rest my mind. The center was a converted house, a large rich brown craftsman style in the heart of LA. Concrete steps led to the house and they were wide and slanted and cracked. The house had barred windows beyond the thick, square-columned porch, and the door was heavy and huge, splintered at the base and a little lighter shade than the house shingles. Inside, the vibe wrapped me up, insulated me with heavy quietness. My only and sincerest urge was to lie on the huge fuchsia and turquoise prayer pillows and stare at the tankas and be alone. Nobody minded this. The caretakers of the center were kind and gentle to me.

After years of going to the center, my mother embarked on a series of higher, initiate classes. They were held every night for hours. Usually I stayed home alone and cared for myself, but for this particular series one of the monks encouraged my mother to enrolled me in the Lam Rim course which was the basic Tibetian Buddhist teachings. A well-known and ancient rinpoche was visiting from India and, through an interpreter, he would conduct the Lam Rim teachings. I was fifteen, and I studied this every night for a couple weeks.

I rarely talk about these teachings because they are hard to just . . . bring up, but when I have mentioned them, I speak humbly of the experience. It was a great honor to be taught by this particular teacher, to even be taught this at all. But more honestly, I felt it was divinely purposeful that I took these classes. I was not shy or coy during class, and I stared directly at the rinpoche, drank him in. He often stared at me as well. He spoke in long, quiet Tibetian phrases moving his hands like a dancer, flowing them from side to side as his gold and crimson robe sleeves swung below them. He would close his eyes and speak on. The interpreter waited patiently to translate as we sat on pillows, cross legged and captivated. When the rinpoche opened his eyes, he would often look directly at me. This did not startle me. I thought he recognized something in me that I knew vaguely myself. The interpreter used big words that made no sense to me; words that described levels of hell and heaven. Words that other students scribbled furiously in their notebooks. I sat and stared. But when the rinpoche spoke of compassion and motivation and suffering, to these things I paid attention. I believed that the names of hell meant nothing when the basic concepts were so difficult. How hard to live a life with a goal but without a goal? The concepts of relieving suffering and practicing compassion with only clear motivation eluded and encompassed me. I floated in a space where I innately understood it all and where I had no idea what he was saying. In the end, sadly, all I wanted was more recognition of my specialness. I had succumbed to the vanity of the teachings because the subconscious recognition of it had been too much. All I could think about was, "I know he saw It in me!" I thought he saw that his youngest student was his clearest receptacle of his words, and because of this connection, I was dying for guidance. As the classes and weeks ran on, as I sat there sponging up his words and collecting his stares, I waited patiently for word of a next step for me. I needed his help. "Divinely I understand! What now??" But, the message escaped me in this desperation of guidance. When the series ended, I was not called aside. I was not told I was a chosen one. I was confused, and had frankly missed the point.

What consistently floats to the top over the years about the Lam Rim teachings are the most basic concepts, I believe the hardest still: Am I compassionate in all instances? Do I help end or relieve suffering? What is my motivation in everything I do? When I think of these concepts today, it still feels like I am floating in that space of all knowing and never understanding. Nearly the same thing that I felt at the end of yoga. But I am self conscious of the vanity I still feel in this complicated space. I feel embarrassed that this space makes me feel special with no tangible manifestations of my apparent, internal greatness. I realize that the specialness and the manifestations are all the wrong motivations. So, again, I am floating.

5 Guilty Pleasures

I was digging Ms. Andrea's post over at hulaseventy today. She did a meme listing her top five guilty pleasures. And I wanted to do this today too because sometimes I let myself sink into my guilty pleasures a little too much. Recently being one of those times. Currently, even.

Here's my list because who doesn't want to hear about other people's obsessions?

1. Chocolate Chip Vegan Cookies. I KNOW, I KNOW, again with the goddamn cookies. But if I didn't list the VC's then I'd be cutting out a big portion of what I think about daily. Last weekend in a PMS cloud that grappled me to the floor, I ate so many VC's that I was in an evaporated cane juice funk very similar to its more evil sister, the Refined Sugar Funk, but not as bad and I got over it more quickly. Still, it was bad. So bad that I have two post-it's pasted up -- one at home, one at work -- that read: "Do Not Buy Vegan Cookies -- Will advise when ok to do so again." When you're asking yourself, Hmm, why has Husband lost 10lbs during our Raw Until Dinner quest and me only 2, then maybe I should revise my program because right now it's apparently Raw 'til Dinner, Cookies 'til Dawn.

2. Peacocks. I love everything Peacock. It is a blind and subconscious love, and I automatically want to buy every peacock thing I see. Every time I spot a peacock design I believe it was made especially for me. Every single time I see one live or fake, without fail I gasp a little and think, OH, How pretty! I have a peacock locket, peacock cards, peacock bags including my prized vintage feathered clutch bought off eBay for $20, a gorgeous peacock vase and now a big-ass peacock tattoo on my back which I got at the tattoo convention a couple weekends ago. There is a picture in my flickr box of me getting the tattoo. It was taken in the last 15 minutes of the 5-HOUR ordeal. My guy had broken my will to live after the 4th hour. I seriously said to him, "If you don't finish soon, I'm going to punch you in your face." He had the nerve to laugh. But, still! I got my peacock and I don't even remember the pain now. Like childbirth!

3. Daydreaming. I still daydream like nobody's beeswax. I play the lottery only so I can daydream hard about it for the next few days. I daydream in the car which is the REAL reason my sense of direction is for shit. I daydream during the 7 minutes between putting my book down and falling asleep. I daydream about what a perfect day would be. I daydream that I can sew or cook better or that I own a cafe; that I'm giving a speech or telling someone off or accepting stuff, awards and such. I daydream about how I could live my life better. Some call all this "visualization", but it still feels the same as when I was staring out the window in 4th grade.

4. Bookstores. I fell in love with bookstores at age 8 when my mother used to frequent a feminist one called Sisterhood Bookstore in LA. Crossing the threshold of Sisterhood, she would go her way and I would go mine. I was comfortably surrounded by fertility goddesses and crystals and vagina flowers (I later learned) and I found books in the kid's section to which I could relate. I got my first Judy Bloom book there. The love affair had begun. I was just expressing to Green Whale that I was oddly and ironically intimidated by the library because in the library, people didn't seem to be daydreaming. They seemed seriously studious and hard core, and way above my head. While in bookstores, I could see other people wrestle with their desire to greedily buy as many books as possible. In bookstores now, I carry around an armful of books I call "nominees" until I narrow it down to just one. My impulse is to buy the entire armful and stack them in my house and smell the crispness and stare at them because they are so beautiful, but I realized that I actually read more when I only buy one book at a time. But I gladly take hours to find the one.

5. The Grocery Store. I spend most of my money and a lot of my time at the grocery store. I don't really feel guilty about this. I love to wander every aisle of Mother's or Whole Foods and read every label and test new products because frankly, I can now. Growing up, I ate the same foods over and over again; plain-wrap hot dogs and block cheese. In my senior year in high school, I rented a room from some people I worked with. I remember budgeting $25 a paycheck to spend on groceries and that meant a lot of canned beans, which I liked just fine, but $25.00 even in '85 went fast. After high school, I moved to Berkeley and I worked at a bakery. I made less money than I did in high school, and my diet mainly consisted of free cookies that weren't sellable because they were broken or they were day-olds. Knowing my love for cookies, I was not too sad about this, but honestly after this period in my life I'm shocked that I still do love cookies. Oh, this was also when I was at my heaviest weight ever. DUH! My point is: Once you earn enough money, there are certain things you don't want to restrict any more. I knew a bunch of guys that bought sneakers every pay check because they could; because they once had to wear one pair for the duration of an entire grade. And for me, it's how I feel about groceries. I even love the word: gro-cer-ies. I feel a surge of decadence and luxury because I can fill my cart with not just any food I damn well please, but because I can thoughtfully pick out organic, healthy food for the girls, for all of us. Automatically, however, my heart still skips a beat as I wait for my ATM card to be approved. Ha! I still can't seem to shake this reaction. I go the store about 3 times a week. And always, I can't wait to get there and browse around and get whatever I want. It's better than the mall. It's even better than the bookstore.