Jesus in my front yard

It’s 7:30 am. Jesus is chillin’ outside my apartment with Enrique. They’re shootin’ the shit. This has been the routine for the last 2 weeks. Sometimes Julio is there too. I’m thankful that they appear to observe Memorial Day as a holiday. I was left in peace on Monday morning. Throwing open the window and screaming, “Shut the fuck up! It’s a holiday, you sick fucks!” is not how I would have wanted to start my morning.

Typically, I open my blinds to greet the morning with a sunrise salutation song and some rejuvenating yoga poses. Just kidding, that shit’s ridiculous. I open them because the coffee pot is in the kitchen and that’s way far away. I need life pumped into my being immediately. Nothing says, “get the fuck on with it” like a brutal dose of sunshine to the unprepared retina.  

There’s one problem: If I open the blinds and begin my morning ritual, I risk exposing myself in my Chewbacca pajama short set to Jesus and his disciples. To be fair, it’s excruciating how awkward and unruly my body is in the morning. I don't wish for anyone to witness that without proper medical reinforcements at the ready.

My hair is matted to one side of my head. It’s pasted to my skull in a drastic slant, like I got drunk, leaned against a wall, and slid down that bitch, then slept on the floor all night. There are creases in my face from both the pillowcase and my hand. It’s not an imprint of my hand, it’s merely creased by the excess skin from the back of my hand where my face has slid down it during sleep. Then, there is the drool that has accumulated in the right corner of my mouth. I favor sleeping on my right side - away from my snoring husband. This is all so steamy.

Standing up, my feet hit the floor with the thud of a much heavier individual. Did I suffer a stroke? Is there some sort of paralysis? Why are my limbs so fucking heavy? All 132 lbs. of me are apparently located in feet. My shorts are trying to crawl inside of my body, and I can feel hair actively growing in my armpits and on my legs. Good morning, world!

This is where I would normally throw open the blinds and shock the shit out of myself with unforgiving daylight. Not today, and not in the last 2 weeks. Jesus is outside. It’s obnoxious really. I get it, they’re roofers and they have a job to do, but it’s 7:30 in the fucking morning! Can this shit wait until 8:30 am when most tenants have left for work? I find it unsettling that 3 tiny Mexicans are sitting outside my apartment, doing nothing while I’m trying to seize the day or whatever. Don’t get self-righteous; they are miniature. None of them measures taller 5’5”. Don’t ask how I know this. Furthermore, I’m still not convinced that one of them isn’t a biblical figure, so I’ll refrain from slamming anyone too hard. Maybe.

Peeking through the blinds, I see one of the men drinking from a Thermos. He spills on himself. He gets angry, starts swearing, then empties some of its contents onto the pavement. I notice the color of the liquid is red, not brown like coffee, but bright red. Is it Kool-Aid or Gatorade? Did he bring Menudo in the Thermos? Whatever it is, I want to run downstairs and ask Jesus to turn it into wine.

Dammit! Chewbacca jammies! The best-laid plans are always thwarted by Chewbacca pajamas. No one can be taken seriously while wearing Chewbacca shorts that are being consumed by their rear end and proudly wearing boulders of crusty sleep in the corners of their eyes like amulets. Is this turning anyone on? No? Ok, moving on…

To the best of my ability, I get ready for work. No sun salutation song, no yoga poses. For the record, the sun salutation song goes: “Oh holy shit fuck, oh goddamn it. Fuck it, let’s go!” My yoga poses involve me trying to crawl out of bed without disturbing the two sleeping, asshole cats that are on the bed. 

The way they position themselves, it’s impossible to get out of bed without twisting your spine, pulling a groin muscle, or most recently, giving myself calf cramp. I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure the cats are comfortable and haven’t been disturbed; it’s at this point one will get up of its own volition and begin furiously licking its ass on my comforter. Fuck you very much!

Jesus is climbing on my roof by this time. It’s just before 8 am. The other two men are stationed below and chatting. Do men actually chat? Women chat, do men chat? The other two men were “talking.” They appear to be finishing up their breakfast while Jesus makes no time for idle chitchat and gets straight to work.

I often feel like a perv. Don’t get carried away, let me finish that thought. I’m fluent in Spanish. I listen to public conversations. To look at me, you wouldn’t assume that I’m Hispanic. Being bi-lingual (and keeping it a secret) has worked in my favor and is a card I’ve played well – when it mattered. Most of what I hear is innocuous, but occasionally I get sensitive material. Today was not one of those occasions. I don’t care what Enrique said to some dude at his cousin’s house last night. And yes, I know that sounds like stereotyping, but I can’t change the facts. We all have a thousand cousins and we hang out with them all the fucking time.

Walking out to my car, I stop cold. What in the fuck is this monstrosity?! The bible crew had erected a ladder impeding the path to my car. I’m not saying there was a moat or a flaming hoop I needed to jump through - there wasn’t even a bridge troll, but there was a ladder and I had to either crawl through the bushes or walk underneath this ladder.

Grumbling, I crawl into the car with freshly muddied kicks. Fuck walking underneath a ladder! Superstitious? You bet your sweet ass! I’m not stupid about my superstitions though - I don’t go tossing salt over my shoulder, that’s just wasteful.

Wasn’t it enough that these motherfuckers had changed my whole morning routine for the last two weeks, now they wanted to try cursing me with bad luck too? Fuck it! Bring it! Initially, I was nervous about the implications of walking underneath this ladder. An appraisal of my current standings helped me reassess my fears.

I just had a tooth extracted and two dental implants placed. I’ve got a 12-yr. old boy who recently figured out masturbation. I know because I walked in on it. I got served wage garnishment paperwork at my place of business for a vehicle I stopped making payments on when I was a shitty drunk. I didn’t know there were legal proceedings happening because all the court paperwork was sent to an address that I haven’t lived at since I was 19 goddamn years old! Motherfucker, I’m 39! I figured it had gotten repossessed as I never heard about it.

Did you know that a fuckton of interest can accrue over the course of 6 years? My mother is transporting my Grandmother back to Mexico. It’s always a crapshoot on the odds of someone getting detained at the border. We ought to start drawing sticks for which of us will have to go get them when shit goes upside down. Yeah, so, go ahead and put your rickety ladder there for the foreseeable future. As far as I can tell, you’d have to wait at least another 1-2 years to collect on any intended form of misery.

I still want to see Jesus turn the Gatorade into wine. I know he can. I want to be able to open my blinds in the morning and not see the 3 Amigos downstairs or hear them up on the roof for that matter. Santa hangs out on rooftops and Jesus turned water into wine. Either leave me presents or make yourself useful and turn shit into alcohol, then be on your way. Besides, at 5’5” you’re more like an elf than a Santa or Jesus figure anyhow.

And with that, you may now all be offended.

Corduroy & Captain Poopy Pants

When you grow up overweight, there are two undeniable truths: That corduroy is not your friend. Not under any circumstance. Not ever. And that you will, without fail, be the last person picked from a lineup for all group sports – for all eternity or you lose weight and gain popularity – whichever comes first.

Adolescence, for me, was an emotional boot camp. I was broken several times over. It was fucking brutal. At 5’7” and 240 lbs., I didn’t fit where normal girls fit. I didn’t move through life like the other girls. Hell, I didn’t even move like one of the guys. I spent most of my time trying desperately to be as invisible as possible while occupying more physical space than any of my classmates; painfully aware of the disparity.

I wasn’t what one would have considered an academic, nor did I qualify as an athlete or a “jock” as we called them. I tried my hand at the whole “goth” craze that was happening, but all the desirable clothing was designed for someone who wore a size 0 or perhaps a 2 if she were bloated. I desperately wanted a homegroup; a place of residency within the social construct.

I found one.

We inhabited the carwash across the street from the high school. We were the miscreants. We were the smokers, the rejects, the misfits, and the have-nots. We were a sorry bunch of assholes. Cumulative GPA couldn’t have been higher than 3.0 and I attribute that to the hard work of, at best, 3 of us. This would be my family of choice.

Elementary, my dear

Kids are miserable pricks. In elementary school, I was teased, ridiculed, for the last name I carried. I took the last name of my step-father throughout elementary but ended up dropping it because the teasing was horrendous. I feel bad about it now. I didn’t have the fortitude at that age to just say “fuck off.” It seemed like the end of the world for me then. Relentless teasing all over my last name. I didn’t even have acne yet! I hadn’t even hit peak weight! Fucking assholes. My step-dad though, that guy is a fucking Saint. No one puts up with the amount of shit my mother and I put him through and continues to pick up the phone when we call – no one! They’re divorced now. Both re-married. It is what it is. They’re both healthier people now, blah-blah-blah.

I remember recess and dodgeball. Being the team captain was important. I don’t remember how the captain was chosen. I imagine it had something to do with influence; who had the most of it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it wasn’t randomized. The captains' would then (after deciding who chose first) begin selecting players to form their teams. You remember how this shit goes, right? Back and forth, selections based on favoritism, skill, and apparel. That’s right, clothing. If your threads were tired, you were about as likely to be picked as a three-legged dog with one eye and mange from the shelter. It could happen though, dreams come true for special doggies and kids just like you sometimes.

Such was the case for Jeff. I’ll leave his last name out of this. Jeff was exceptionally bright. He was a math genius and a minority. I’ll leave you to guess which one. Jeff’s intellect was a strike against him in this instance. No one likes a smart kid, especially when it comes to sports. Jeff had a meek nature about him too. He always seemed frightened of things. I think that he may have been ground zero for gluten allergies, probably grass too. Jeff’s second strike against him was his threads. He always wore royal blue pants (floods), and some type of plaid short-sleeved shirt, tucked in. We used to say that he only had one pair of pants that he wore daily. It was a shitty thing to say.

(dodgeball selection process nearly completed)

Jeff, one other bastard, and I are the only ones left to be “teamed up.” The bastard is picked. Motherfucker! Next up: the mathematician??!! Really?! I am last and by default. Fantastic. This is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I’m wearing my favorite burgundy corduroy pants. I hang my head and slowly walk to my place with my team. My thighs are sending signals, giving up my location, to anyone in the immediate area. Discretion is not an option in these pants. Swish, swish, swish. I am further shamed. I am the poster child for latent rage.

“Game on!”

Normal play begins and one by one people are getting picked off. The strategy is to always go for the weakest individuals first. It’s just like in the animal kingdom, take down the weakest, the one with few defenses.

You’d think that Jeff and I would be first to go, but Jeff is quite apt to use others as a human shield and for as large and imposing as I was, people seemed unable to hit me. Is there some law in physics that states that the larger an object is, the harder it is to identify? Did I miss that class? The mechanics of the game seem straightforward: hit the big, mostly stationary object with a ball. Yet here I was, one of last standing team members.  Jeff and I lock eyes. This motherfucker is not using me like a goddamn shield!

The ball is hurled across the court and in extremely slow motion, Jeff, having no other option at this point, catches it. He doubles over, presumably from the force. He stays in this position with the ball curled into his stomach for an unusually long time. Classmates are excited and shocked to see that our very own math fairy has triumphed over his fear of everything not decimal related, but Jeff still isn’t moving. Teachers begin to approach slowly.

We’re told to back away and continue playing elsewhere. Jeff has a death grip on the red ball. He lurches across the blacktop, like Quasimodo, sneering at the other children as he passes.

As it turns it out, Jeff shit his pants playing ball that day. Sure, he may have had a hero moment, but it ended abruptly when he unloaded his breakfast into his royal blue trousers. Given the amount of crap we gave him for wearing the same “uniform” every day, one would imagine that having this experience would prompt Jeff to switch up his routine. Not so much. Jeff showed up to school the very next day wearing royal blue pants and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, tucked in. Bold move, my nerdy friend.

I have no idea where Jeff is now or what he’s made of himself. I’m sure he’s doing well and has soft hands. He has probably never played another team sport just like I have never worn another pair of corduroy pants.

Kids are terrible little beasts. Growing up you will be wise to find someone sorrier than yourself and nurture that. It saved me; it could help you too. Thanks for taking one for the team, Jeff. You’re a real sport!