OS101

Sooo, someone near & dear to me is going through a breakup right now and maaaan, I feel for him. I remember those days when heartbreak was an unwelcome and unruly resident in my heart. A few years ago I was the absolute definition of a hot mess. I'd cry so hard that I'd give myself a migraine, then I'd cry because I had a migraine. My go-to iPod playlist was called "Hang Myself from the Shower Curtain" which I'd blast on high while going for angry tear-soaked runs. Wine & ice cream were my BFFs. Harry Potter and The Golden Girls were my sources of comfort. 

It was however my writing that became my most potent form of solace. Sometimes I'd write letters that I knew I'd never send, other times I wrote emails to friends or entires in a journal. I wrote and wrote and wrote just to try and get my sadness out of my body and out onto paper where I might perhaps set the words on fire and symbolically purge those gut-wrenching feelings once and for all. Alas, I decided against the whole pyro thing and kept a record of my musings. There is one piece in particular that I've always been proud of- not because its particularly profound or groundbreaking but because its very- me. It's real, it's quirky, it's honest, it's sarcastic. It seems appropriate to post now, because sometimes we all need a reminder that we aren't born knowing exactly how to love. I give you "OS101."

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OS101
   You know, when I first enrolled at USC and was browsing through the list of majors available through the College of Letters of Arts and Sciences, I came across several interesting selections: say, Multidisciplinary Activities, or Slavic languages. What does one do exactly with a degree in Slavic languages? I fully comprehend and acknowledge that in this day and age, an undergraduate major does not necessarily have any bearing whatsoever on one's career path. Scholars from both organic chemistry and comparative literature alike are our future neurosurgeons and college professors. But still: Slavic languages. Think about it. That one really narrows the scope, n'est-ce pas?
   So I say to myself, as long as we're choosing random majors, I can think of a few useful ones that I have yet to see in any college catalogue. How about "OS101: The Opposite Sex?" And I don't mean gender studies; that discipline has more to do with actual gender roles in society and whatnot. Psychology and human development come closer, but they still don't get to the meat and potatoes of the interaction that for our purposes I'll refer to as "dating."  Where are the classes on how to date, how to read mixed messages, how to know when to call and when to text, when to keep talking and when to shut the %*#$ up, when its ok to sleep with someone, when you can know for sure that a man likes you -and I don't mean "like" as in "I like ultimate cheeseburgers." I mean LIKE, as in "I'm going to remain faithful, share the remote, tell my friends about you and be considerate of your feelings even if I don’t understand them.” When to pursue a romantic endeavor and when to keep it pushin’, when to bow out and accept the end of a love and when to fight tooth and nail to salvage it... I want to know if chicks in the caveman days were facing similar debacles to those that I am confronted with today: I mean yeah I have electricity, vaccines, a car, a cell phone, In'n' Out and Pinkberry, but did Cathy the Cavegirl much like yours truly have to wonder whether Tommy the Troglodyte's one grunt versus two meant he just wasn't that into her?!?! In the Elizabethan era, did women walk around with their asses wound up as tight as their teeny tiny corsets, frustration coursing through their veins because the Duke of Devonshire or some other mother!@%#er didn't send a letter with his manservant this week or signed his parchment "I loveth ya" versus "I loveth you?" Was the Spanish Inquisition really just a cover up for more wily intentions? Did Queen Isabel need a nice governmental way to pretend she wasn't just interrogating broads to see which one of those heffers was being knocked off by King Ferdinand??!?! These are the things I want to know. This is the knowledge from which I feel I could reap true benefit. And I have PLENTY of ideas for curricula: I'm thinking lab practicals, group presentations, powerpoints, focus groups... the whole enchilada. And not the Taco Bell version, the grandma-made-it-from-scratch, this-tastes-so-good-its-got-to-be-sprinkled-with-crack kind. 
   The truth is probably that no one, not Albert Einstein, not Marie Curie, not Bill Gates, not even Dr. Phil or Oprah or (gasp) Maury Povich would have been or ever will be able to figure out the opposite sex. None of them can with absolute certainty and unequivocal terms explain to me why women annoy the bejeezus out of men with their emotional outbursts and yet slay them with their passion and their kindness and the look they get in their eyes when he walks in a room. They can't map out for me why men have insensitivity programmed in their genetic code but then show moments of mind-blowing tenderness and comforting strength. Why someone's scent and giggle stay engrained in your memory like they were branded there with hot iron and why someone's kiss can so perfectly mimic the effect of a potent hallucinogenic. No one can tell me why fools fall in love, why unrequited love has to hurt SO much, why I'm so stupid over light eyes and full lips... and no one ever will. I suppose that's part of the beauty, the magic, the illustrious, overwhelming, all-consuming and let's not forget downright sexy quality that love encapsulates. I think maybe it is because it is shrouded in mystery and so difficult to attain that love continues to be chased by millions with a consistence and fervor rivaling the pursuit of the Holy Grail. Maybe someday, whether with a man I presently know or with one waiting in the shadows, I'll get it. Maybe I will be so all consumed with a love that for once is felt in return that I'll finally believe my own assertion that the purpose off all the shitty relationships that went awry is to make The One truly stand out from the crowd. Maybe you really do have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the prince, as tacky and cliché as that sounds. Maybe someday soon the male that continues to capture my heart and slay my senses will reach out and hold my hand. Maybe he's the one but doesn't know it yet. Maybe he's not and I don't know it yet. Maybe I'll meet a hottie at the bar scene tonight and he'll confess that I'm the most stunning woman he's ever seen, and he'll want me to bring my friend Jazzy along for a date with his homie who happens to be Chris Brown look-alike (side note- this was written pre-Rihanna beating. Chris Breezy can now pound sand). Maybe we'll have a dance-off atop the roof of the Bank of America building in Downtown and discover we've found our soulmates amid the wind blowing our hair while the bass of "Forever" pulses in our chests.
   Or... maybe my life in its present state isn't so tragic, and with a few tweaks in a few select departments, happiness and self-possession might well be within reach. Maybe it's up to me to find validation within myself and not through an external source. Maybe the ball is in my court. Maybe it's time to make a move. Maybe.... juuuust maybe.

~ Broken-hearted Vanessa circa 2009

About my Papa..

So I recently realized that my last five or six blog posts weren't published properly. Grrrr. I know, you're all disappointed and you've written angry letters to Obama. I'm sorry for letting you down. Gees. I'll re-post this week. Today however is not about me, it's a day for all the fathers out there. I happen to have a pretty fabulous one so I've decided to pay him homage on this humble little blog. 

Alejandro Farias Diaz was born on December 23, 1959 in the gem of all cities of Tijuana, BC Mexico. He was pretty much jipped out of a proper birthday for at least the first third of his life, getting hit with the "this present counts for both your birthday and Jesus' birthday!" bit on far more that once occasion. I would have been bitter as all get out- I mean I get it, the birth of the Messiah is kiiiind of a big deal. But when you're a kid, all you know is you're getting 50% less presents and a whole lot less hooplah on your alleged special day.

My dad is the oldest of five immediate siblings not counting his older half sister. He's almost 15 years older than his youngest sister and has become somewhat of the patriarchal head of that side of my family since my grandfather's passing 30 years ago. That being said, my dad is also... what's the proper word here... Oh yes, weird. He is without a doubt living out his repressed childhood.

See, a lot of parents like to tell you tell you this epic lie to make you feel like an a$$h*le when you've done something wrong, and that lie is the suggestion that your parents never ONCE in their youth made the mistakes you did. They'd like you to believe they were always well behaved: they ate their vegetables, avoided swear words, drugs & alcohol, had their first kiss on their wedding night and never EVER wore white after Labor Day. Well, guess what? My father really was the perfect child and teen, and that's not by his own admission so much as everyone else's. 

My father did what he was told from a very young age and became the poster child for self-sacrifice. On top of being raised in a rigid household, his upbringing was dotted with tragedy and disappointment that I have only come to understand as an adult. I remember the first time I realized that I didn't know my father as well as I thought I did- I was in high school when Dad and I went for a drive and ended up at UCSD where he'd been taking a few extension classes for work. As we walked around the campus, there was a nostalgia in his expression, a sadness even, that I couldn't quite grasp. He then began to speak, not necessarily to me but to the universe; "I was supposed to go here, before. I got accepted. I had a scholarship, actually. A full ride. I was so excited, I even toured the dorms and everything." 

Whaaaa? How didn't I know this?! As far as I knew, he'd graduated from high school then enlisted in the Marines. He served his four years, married my mother and then had me. He'd been a carrier in the US Postal Service and worked his way up to management. I thought that had always been the plan. But it hadn't- he'd wanted to be, should have been the first in his family to go to college. Instead, he enlisted in the USMC because my grandfather wanted him to. I don't expect any of you to understand the dynamic shared by my father and grandfather- let it suffice to say that it was complicated. Very, very complicated. So even though it killed him to do it in, my daddy cancelled his enrollment at UCSD and left for boot camp. The regret in my father's eyes that day affected me profoundly- I vowed then to go to college and let my dad live his dream through me. 

And I did. In May of 2006, I received my Bachelors degree in Business Administration from the University of Southern California's Marshall School of Business. I donned my cap and gown and got ready to walk the stage at the Shrine Auditorium with one of my best friends Daisy Gonzalez right behind me. I was standing behind the curtains in a waiting area of sorts while hundreds of graduates in front of me were slowly called by name when I noticed a rapid succession of flashes just to the left of me. This area was closed off to photographers, press and parents alike, but I could have sworn I just saw- FLASH FLASH FLASH!!! There it was again. I was still trying to make the spots in my eyes go away when I heard Daisy laugh out loud- "V! That's your dad!!!" Sure enough, there he was- his prized SLR with extended lens in hand- taking dozens of pictures when he wasn't supposed to be- having crossed  several security guards and red tape to get there. He'd been doing this all my life at school plays, Christmas pageants, dance recitals, etc. and it had always been so embarrassing. That day, however, it made me cry. He was proud, so proud. I got flashbacks to those stressful nights at the dinner table when we didn't think we could afford to send me to school; the trips to the many schools he hauled me to when I insisted on touring their campuses; my interview at USC and the first photo I ever took with my Dad in front of Tommy Trojan- how my dad hugged me and kissed the top of my head and said "This is your school. We'll figure it out;" the traditional trip to the school bookstore whenever my parents visited because my Dad was clearly trying to amass every last piece "my kid goes to USC" memorabilia in the joint. My dad had worked his whole life to get me here, and I couldn't have been more thankful.

The years have gone by and I've moved back in with my parents since moving to San Diego after my eight year stint in LA. And with each year that passes as my dad gets closer and closer to retirement, I see the screws in dear ol' dad's head loosening further and further. Several of you know that one of our prized possessions is our Vitamix blender: some of you also know that months before pulling the trigger on the purchase, I was roused most unceremoniously from a nap to the sound of what I thought was our home being broken into by a chainsaw-wielding murderer. How are the two related, you ask? Because my dad couldn't bring himself to buy the damn blender but instead made a pastime of watching YouTube videos of the freakin' thing cranked on high volume. I stormed into the hallway to see his guilty face and his hand on the mouse looking like a kid who'd been caught red-handed looking at dirty pictures. And it doesn't stop there- we've had to have many tough conversations about my day's habit of blending his smoothies at 5 am on the weekends and screaming out "yeeeeeehaaaw!" all the while. He apparently feels the need to goad the thing on while it shreds through his spinach, carrot and oranges, and also feels like Vitamix is a reincarnated cowboy.

His list of eccentricities goes on: 

- At least two or three times a month, he puts on a blue lucha libre mask before opening my bedroom door and whispering "One day I will reveal my true identity!" Why? Hell if I know. 

- He gets a wild hare up his ass at the most random times and decides to do random things. Like when he walks into a room, plants one foot on the ground then pushes off with the other one over and over so it looks like he's going round in circles on an invisible scooter. Or how for no good reason and always when I'm eating or drinking something, he runs at me from across a room and side-tackles me. I go flying, he often cracks a rib... No big deal. Then we go on with our day. 

- He insists that my mother and I give him too much food for dinner, not because he can't finish it or the portion sizes are obscene but because he refuses to be too full to snack on tortilla chips or peanuts afterwards. It would be like a day without orange juice if we didn't hear the pantry door opening followed by the familiar rustling of plastic wrapping after dinner. And he wonders why my mom started calling him Snacky Gonzalez.

- Speaking of tortillas, don't serve that man a meal that doesn't have at least two out of three of the following: rice, tortillas and beans. He's the one guy I know that has a mild panic attack if there are no tortillas warmed up when we decide to get Shakey's Pizza, Fried Chicken and Mojo potatoes to watch a sporting event together. 

- When we watch sports, my dad is the quintessential jinx. It's maddening when in a tight game where my team desperately needs to make the next shot or get that first down, Dad chimes in with "He's gonna blow it, he's gonna blow it. See? He blew it." 

- Then there's his expert commentating: "Man, if we don't win this game, we're gonna lose." Howard Cosell, Marv Abert, John Madden... And my dad. Prolific sports commentary at its best. 

- My dad sings in the shower... Ok fine, you might argue that a lot of people do this. Yeah, we'll not at ungodly hours of the morning on weekdays and weekends alike. And the songs themselves are a constant five or six songs from what I call "Dad's Greatest Hits," which is a complication of one liners from verses or choruses (always the same parts, but never entire songs) that he has been singing since my brother and I we were kids. Our bathrooms share a wall, so I get the second loudest concerto in the house after my mom. I'll be brushing my teeth and hear "IIIIIIII'VE BEEN CHEATED! BEEEEEN MISTREATED!!! <gargles mouthwash, spits outs mouthwash> SAID IIIIIII'VE BEEN CHEATED!" Other favorites include "My momma once told me, when I was a baby!!," "God bless America, laaaaand of the freeeee!" (Yes, I've corrected him), and some Spanish selections from Vicente Fernandez. 

In short, the man is an odd bird sometimes, but I love him just the same. I've seen the true identity behind that creepy blue mask, and what lies beneath is a model son, brother, uncle, husband and of course father that I'm proud to call my dad.