The Jaded NYer Takes a Break

Instead of just disappearing off the face of the 'net, I'm letting you know that I'll be on hiatus until August 3rd. I'm taking a much needed break to deal with a full plate of issues that I don't feel right burdening any of you with right now (was that sentence grammatically correct? See why I need a break??).

Thank you all for reading my ramblings and not demanding to be removed from my mailing list all this time. I look forward to coming back refreshed and with a wealth of new material to keep you enlightened, entertained and distracted from your jobs (Marcin...I'm looking at you...).

Enjoy your break. Go outside and get some sunshine!

I'll try and enjoy mine.

*smooches*
------------
Oh now I do recall,
we were just getting to the part
Where the shock sets in,
and the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick.

Rain, Rain Go AWAY!

I wish it weren't so hard for me to get through this "inner peace" book, or that I wasn't too busy to attend those meditation sessions in SoHo like I wanted to, because it seems that more often than not, I'm in the funkiest of funky moods. And I sit around pouting to no one in particular, trying to get my way from no one in particular (see- THIS is why I need a man!)

Today, rather than blame myself for dilly-dallying at work and now finding myself stuck in the middle of a trillion deadlines, I think I will blame the rain.

I understand that rain is necessary in the natural order of things (I am a former scientist after all) but does it have to come on a Monday when I've gotten little to no sleep and I've been slapped in the face with all the work I didn't do last week which is now due?

And does it have to come on a day when my umbrella breaks and N reminds me that she left her umbrella at school and all we have for the three of us to walk the five blocks to the train station is K's small green Totes umbrella?

And does it have to come on a day that I stupidly grab the wrong jacket from my closet and leave the house that way, much to my fashion sense's chagrin? Or on a day when I forget to pack my lunch and have to pay almost $15 for a meal that left me feeling nauseous, reminding me that I've STILL not gone to get a physical or to visit an OB/GYN like I promised myself (and my family) I would?

Yeah, I'm gonna blame this funky mood on the rain. Why not? If wack-ass Milli Vanilli can do it, why can't I?

*no smooches...my pants are all wet n shyt and I don't feel like kissing you"

------------

If you got a hunger for what you see

You'll take it eventually

You can have anything you want

But you better not take it from me

For Want of a Man, a Job Was (Almost) Lost

Last Thursday night...oh boy, last Thursday night...

I tell you what (she says in her best Hank Hill impersonation), sometimes I wonder if I'm 32 or 23...seriously, because I make these CONSCIOUS, SOBER choices that are just so immature and STUPID!!!

So it's my last night of freedom and I decide to check out La Bola at Gonzalez y Gonzalez (that was pretty uneventful, except for the two drunks who fell outside on the sidewalk in a laughing fit and Evelyn NOT SHOWING UP!) and then head up to Dyckman to see Sergio Vargas in concert.

First let me say that although I'm Dominican and like to talk a good game, I grew up in BK and The Heights scare the shyt outta me. For real. So not really knowing where I was on Dyckman, trying to find some wack ass club BY MYSELF...I swear I felt like I was in an urban horror movie: dark shrubbery to my right, housing projects to my left.

When I finally found it, sometime around 12:30AM, one of the ladies outside the club informs me that they are not letting anyone in yet. At 12:30AM. Oh, my bad. I guess they were operating in DP time...

So I wait around, because gosh darn it! I love love love Sergio Vargas, and it was my last night of freedom, and I'd made the trek all the way uptown. And then I realized how under dressed I was. All the other ladies were exposing breasts or legs or both. They had on layers of make-up, and their hairs were flawless. I foolishly showed up in my usual Brooklyn/Lower Manhattan bohemian style: jeans, top, flats, hair tucked away in a bun, only a smidgen of make-up. What they hell was I thinking?

But again, I was not leaving. Sergio was just moments away, I could almost feel it! So I waited, paid the extremely RIDONCULOUS cover (don't they know who I AM???) and stood around, BY MYSELF downing whiskey and coke and waiting for my man to take the stage.

Which he finally did at around 3AM.

So what time did you leave, Raquel?

I made it to the Dyckman station of the A-train by about 4:15AM

And what time did you make it home to SOUTHERN BROOKLYN?

Hmmm, like 6AM or so?? Yeah, six-ish. And genius that I am, I decided that I'd take a quick nap before showering and dressing for work, even set my phone for 7:20, and then laid my pretty little head down on my pillow.

So at 11AM, when I finally made it to work, I was convinced that Sergio Vargas had cost me job. But it would have been absolutely worth it, because from my spot on the dance floor, he could see me staring up at him in adoration, and pointed to me when he sang the lyric, "...la quiero a morir..." That alone would have kept my spirits up while on line at unemployment.

*smooches...sooooo lucky that everyone at work was on vacation but me..."

-------------

If I expected love when first we kissed

Blame it on my youth

If only just for you I did exist

Blame it on my youth

Countdown to Lockdown: The Return of the Babies

Yes, folks, my reign as the singlest single woman in town is coming to an end. Tomorrow, after work...*ominous music plays in the background*...I'm travelling up to Nyack to collect my children.

Children. Child plural. I loathe the sound of that word. BLECH!

I do miss my babies, I do, but when I look back at the carefree weeks of July 2007, I can't help but get a little misty-eyed.

The late night booty-calls with Mr. DJ. Dinner and a movie with Aaron. Partying with Mari in DC. Getting inked. Clubbing like it was 1999. Being attacked by killer mice from outer space. Getting slushees from the gas station at 3AM. And again at 6.

It's all about to end.

It's about to be replaced with "Mommy I'm hungry!" and "N. stop it! You're not playing right!" or "K!! It's my turn on the computer!" and my personal favorite: "Mommy, can we sleep with you?" This coming from two girls who love to flail their limbs about all night, so that by the time you wake up the next morning, if you got any sleep to begin with, you find a toe up your nose and a knee in your butt.

So no, you cannot sleep with me. And there is no dinner. Ever again. Forget that dinner even exists.

And if you both don't stop all this bickering, I swear on my collection of John Cusack DVDs, I WILL sell you to the gypsies!!!

*smoochies...feeding you a filler blog to cover for the blog I want to write but can't- not yet*
--------------
Yo sobrevivire
no me preguntes como no lo se
el tiempo cura todo y va a ayudarme
a sentirme diferente...

The Mouse That Ate My Sanity

Here's something I bet you didn't know: this Jaded NYer is SEVERELY afraid of mice.

The thought of their disgusting, diseased-riddled bodies traipsing all over my living space, infecting the air I breathe just cause the chunks to rise in my throat and makes me shake uncontrollably.

Last night, 2AM, alone in my apartment, trying to work on my D.C. blog post, I spotted a mouse peeking out from behind my sofa. And the level of anxiety and fear that washed over me...I can't even describe it. I didn't know what to do. All I kept thinking is "How long has it been here?" "What is it looking for?" "Is there food somewhere strewn about?" "How did it get in?" and "OMG!!! ARE THERE MORE OF THEM???"

I was in full-panic mode. And didn't have anyone around to rescue me. Because I'm all Jaded and bitter and refuse to let anyone in and so I have no man and live alone.

It occurred the me that perhaps someone would still be up and come to my rescue. Mr. Baseball. So I called. And he was up, but he was working, and all he could offer me was a talking down off the ledge, or rather chair, because by this point I had absolutely lost my shit. I mean full on crying and shaking and on the verge of 100,000 nervous breakdowns and 2.7 seconds from throwing up all over my desk.

Let me add right here that, dirty dishes incident from last week aside, I maintain a messy yet clean apartment. I NEVER leave food out, I don't allow food any place other than the kitchen or dining room and I toss out my trash every other day. True I let my clothes lie where they fall when I disrobe, and my kitchen table is no longer for eating but rather for all the mail I get from Capital One threatening me because I owe them money, but other than that, I don't see what a Filthy McNasty little mouse would want in my apartment. Is he working with the CIA? WTF? WHY WAS HE IN MY APARTMENT????

When I finally saw it leave through the huge GAPING CLEARANCE under my front door (mental note: buy a door guard!) I felt a little better...but no, not really. To me, everything in my apartment was/is now tainted and I want(ed) nothing to do with it. All I could think was "He's gonna come back when I go to sleep and I'm gonna wake up with it in my hair!!!" and that visual alone made me cry even harder.

And if you think I've exaggerated any portion of this blog post so far, you obviously don't know me very well. When I say crying, I mean CRY-ING...like a little kid. As in I wanted my mom, Papi, even my ex- ANYBODY- to come and get rid of this mouse and assure me that it was gone for good.

Mr. Baseball finally convinced me to put a towel under the door to keep the mouse out after I refused to pack a bag and go to his house for the night (are you kidding? Move from the safety of my chair? with that nasty, zombie, killer mouse waiting for me out in the hall? I wasn't going anywhere!), turn most of the lights on and just go to bed.

Bed...yeah right. Bed for me last night was basically me tucking I don't know how many blankets under my bedroom door and sitting up in my bed with a broom in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Every creak in the night I heard, I imagined it to be the mouse's cronies that he left behind just to torture me.

When my body finally forced me to go to sleep, I dreamt that the mouse had come back, bigger and badder, tore up my couch, ate through my bag of bagels and pissed on my computer. After barely an hour and a half of sleep, I awoke with a start at 5:17AM. It took everything I had to actually get out of bed, shower and dress myself, and finally, ever so carefully, leave through my front door (instead of the window like I wanted to) and go to work.

And as I dozed in my seat on the F-train, I had all these visions of the mouse and all his mouse buddies from college partying like rock stars in my apartment: playing poker on my table, ordering porn online, posing as me in chat rooms and eating all my bagel chips and hummus.

How can I actually go back there and LIVE IN THAT APARTMENT? I just know that mouse is plotting against me! He's PLOTTING AGAINST ME!!!!! I KNOW IT!!!!

*smooches...willing to pay for ANYONE to get rid of this mouse*
------------
You'll feel it
When I stamp it on your forehead
So you will never forget
That you're a reject
And you're a no one
And you're nothing
Little impotent one

The Jaded NYer Goes to Washington

I hadn't seen my baby sis in a minute, so I decided that I would hop on one of those crazy Chinatown buses, again, and head on down to D.C. to pay her a tiny visit. And oh what I time we had.

In order to appreciate this blog post you have to understand a few things:

1. My sister...she's crazy. Not the usual "ha ha" fun times crazy, but certifiable. And when she's pissed...watch out. I only have myself to blame, though; I made her that way.

2. I've been carded maybe four times in my adult life, so I rarely even carry ID anymore, nor do I remember when it expires...which it just so happens, my ID expired this year...in May.

3. The Adams Morgan section of D.C. is not parking friendly. At all.

4. Dominicans? Almost non-existent in D.C.

5. Mari practically grew up in the church, so we have a certain level of behavioral expectations from her...which little by little is getting shattered...and it all started with the Key West trip last year...

6. All the videos in this blog are poorly shot and almost always 15 seconds too long. Also, I tried to embed them into the post, but YouTube and Google Video were giving me so much trouble, I finally had to instead settle for including the link to the URL. Please forgive me, as I am still learning how to use my digital camera and all this newfangled technology!

First night there was pretty uneventful- I arrived, we drove a bit, got pizza, went home. Mari went to bed, I watched TV and surfed the net.

The next morning, instead of staying home to entertain and feed her house guest, Mari went to some sorority community service event and left me to fend for myself in a house with no food and shotty internet service. What was a Jaded NYer to do...but snoop around. And shoot this piece I like to call, "The Truth About Mari:"

This was after I scoured around looking for food to keep my stomach from eating my other organs:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4079250619829134972&hl=en


And when I finally found some food, I also found this:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4089866601589262079&hl=en


After I had some food in my belly and Mari came home to fix the internet, we went to RFK Stadium where there was this supposed "Latino" festival, only in D.C. Latino means Central and South Americans...no Caribbean folk to be found for miles around. But a popular Dominican singer, Raul Acosta of Oro Solido was going to perform, and the advert promised us comida tipica, so we went.

What we found instead was a bunch of short peeps from El Salvador, non-Dominican food and a cover band that thought they were the shyt. But wherever we go, Mari and I make our own fun, and this time was no exception:

This is Maria...she never stopped dancing during the entire festival
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6822596827959328152&hl=en


This is some crazy booty dance started by Toño Rosario...a crazy Dominican
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-765612284251242103&hl=en


That evening we were to see some finalists from the next cycle of America's Next Top Model, but we stayed too long at the fair. However, we thought we'd go to the venue anyway and see what was up, only to find that, even with my under-eye bags and dark circles, I GET CARDED IN D.C. And wouldn't you know it? My permit just expired two moths ago. WTF?? Why didn't anybody remind me?? And yes, I did say permit...what of it?

Still we were hopeful that some other place would come to their senses and NOT CARD A 32 YEAR OLD WOMAN, went home to change and drove back out to Adams Morgan. The car ride was a blast:

Bollywood's Next Big Star:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3485460818102982564&hl=en


But driving around a 10 block radius for 2 hours looking for parking? Then driving to a Maryland IHOP only to find it would be a half hour wait? And then finding the supposed 24hr supermarket closed as well? Finally having to settle for chicken strips at a local McDonald's? Well I found it amusing. Mari...not so much...

The next day, she was still a little bitter:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8107689267134067016&hl=en

But again, a fun car ride took her mind off of things:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2791490111127012730&hl=en


Until I realized...I was gonna miss my bus:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-7650991704520425868&hl=en

And although I had to pay an extra $20 to get home at a decent hour, it was all worth it!

Highlight of the trip:
All the fine ass thugs I saw on the streets of D.C.... hey boys...

Low point of the trip:
I forgot to make a video of a pissed off Mari trying to find parking...or maybe it was for the best...it would have sucked to bring my camera back home in pieces...

Would I do it again?
Hell YEAH! As a matter of fact, I'll be back there in mid-August. Can't wait!

Hey boyyyysssss....

*smooches...from our nation's capitol*
-----------
Wont You Meet Me At The Bar
Respect Big Pimpin
'Tell Me How You Feel
Mama Tell Me What You Sippin'
A Certified Dime Piece
Deserve Louy 1-3
150 A Shot
3 For You And 3 For Me

Thursday is the New Friday

I am taking full advantage of this "kids gone for the summer" thing! Don't get me wrong- I miss my babies, but there's something to be said about not having to feed them every two seconds and not having to censor my phone conversations.

Last night, I hung out in the LES: first to see Mike's work displayed at the Aidan Savoy Gallery, and then to attend another DJ Medina event...a concert with timba great Danny Lozada at Crash Mansion in the Bowery.

Going to the LES always brings up old memories of me and mami traipsing all over this city as if we were gypsies with no real place to be. She used to work for a swanky restaurant, keeping the books, and I'd go to work with her, sit at the bar with my Shirley Temples and goldfish crackers and whatever goodies we'd get from the cuchifrito place nearby. Then we'd hop on the bus, cross the bridge and go shopping for what she called "quality goods" from the million-trillion Jewish shops in Williamsburg. Good times, good times...

The art show was cool; besides Mike's work- which I love- there were some other really good pieces, namely one that looked like a child's drawing and had the words, "I'm a dirty girl" scrawled in the corner. Pure genius! Of course there were some I didn't get and left me thinking: I coulda done that. But that's the nature of art I guess, and what makes it so great.

Marcin was there and we were able to catch up a bit on the craziness going on in The Basement and about his crippling addiction to camera equipment. We even allowed someone new in our crazy circle of jaded bitterness (run for your life, Wendy- DO NOT GET MIXED UP WITH US!!!)- a friend of Mike's who produces a reality show about homicide for cable...coolness...

At Crash Mansion I met up with DJ Medina, took his pic for the article, chatted a bit, then hung around waiting for Lozada to take the stage. I hate going to these things by myself, and during my eternal wait it occurred to me that last time I came to this venue to interview a different timba band, I was also alone. Moments like that I do regret not having a man in my life...but then I go home to my huge bed, lay across it diagonally and thank god I don't have to share my pillows!

Finally Lozada takes the stage and he kills it- that dude has the energy of like 50 men [insert dirty joke here] and I can honestly say he earned a new fan in me last night. And on the conga drum was none other than the bandleader from La Bola, the reason for my last visit to Crash Mansion! But I was getting tired of just standing there, with no dance partner, worrying that I needed to go home and moisturize my tattoo.

So during a slower song (some time around 11) I found Medina, said my goodbyes, and readied for my trek back to Brooklyn.

Highlights of the evening:

>The alcapurria I treated myself to from the cuchifrito joint on Clinton off Delancy...mmmmm

>Seeing Mike and Marcin again...I totally miss those guys!

>Getting hit on by a 26-yr-old on the subway...the twins were out in full effect, you know.

Low point:

>I almost called Mr. DJ for another booty call...so glad my phone died before I could finish dialing the number!

I can't believe my summer o' freedom is quickly coming to an end! Quick, what else can I do before K & N come back???!!!

*smooches...craving more alcapurrias and a couple of pasteles*

-------------

And being alone

is the best way to be.

When I'm by myself

it's the best way to be.

When I'm all alone

it's the best way to be.

When I'm by myself

nobody else can say goodbye.

Anatomy of a Tattoo

It's true what they say; once you get one tattoo, you get the itch to get another. And another. And another.

The trick is, especially for us females, finding the right body art that won't look completely stupid on your 85-year-old corpse. The last thing you want is the morgue guy or funeral director chuckling at your "FABIO RULEZ!" tattoo. Or at your seductively ornate "tramp stamp." Choose wisely is all I'm saying.

I'd wanted a tattoo ever since I was a little girl ogling the clover tattoo on my Papi's arm. I was told he got it when he was a bad-ass thug on the streets of Santo Domingo, and I wanted to be one, too. Later when I became obsessed with the big hair metal bands of the eighties and nineties, body art became a mild infatuation that I kept to myself. Because even at a young age I understood that these things were permanent. I wanted to pick just the right thing, something I'd be proud to flash during my open casket.

I mean, hey, let's keep it real- I was never gonna be president, OK? I didn't need to stay away from body art. Any profession in my booze-laced future was bound to be OK with tattoos. That was obvious.

Still, I deliberated long and hard, trying to determine what my true passion was, and how to incorporate that in a non-lame tattoo that I'd never be ashamed of.

Writing, while it is my passion, seemed too corny. I wasn't spiritual or religious, so crosses and the such were out. I thought about a "bracelet" with my grandmother's initials (which I still might do) but I wasn't fully ready to accept that she had passed. Plus imagine how many "bracelets" I'd have by the time I died- OUCH! My kids' names...eh...maybe... My then-husband's name? Never that (rule of thumb: never put anyone's name on your body that you didn't give birth to or didn't give birth to you or isn't related to you by blood. Basically no one who can walk out of your life and never come back).

Next thing you know, my 30th birthday was approaching and I still hadn't gotten my tattoo. But then, while perusing through one of Slash's fan sites, I saw it- the tattoo that I just had to have. It was perfect because it was a tribute to an awesome guitarist that I had admired for over a decade and depicted my real-real passion: music.

So down to The Village I went with a photocopy of my tattoo and Irene and Gary to hold my hand (translation: point and laugh at me doing my Lamaze breathing during the ordeal). I limped for a week after that, but it was absolutely worth it- my tattoo was hot hot hot, and two years later I still love my Cool Cat in a Top Hat (title of the poem I wrote for Slash, coincidental).

I immediately started to think of what else I could get.

I wanted to keep the music theme going and thought hard about any other musicians that I admired as much as I did Slash. There's Prince, but I didn't want to get that symbol just yet; I had to mull it over. Meanwhile, Ms. Ani DiFranco played on my iTunes. The song? "Adam and Eve." The lyric that inspired my new tattoo, freshly inked last night by a Mr. Will Harris of Cypress Hill, Brooklyn?

"I just happen to love apples and I'm not afraid of snakes"

It was perfection personified. Ani I LOVE LOVE LOVE. And "Adam and Eve" is a great song that brings up all my Catholic issues AND references my middle name which I use when chatting online: Ivelisse (ee-veh-lee-seh), Evie for short.

I googled and googled trying hard to find an image to perfectly match that quote, finally coming to the realization that I'd have to have the tattoo artist design it for me. So then I had to scour the city for the artist to do it for less that $100. I finally found Will, saw pics of his work, got a preliminary drawing and a price quote, and the decision was made.

Here's the tracing:

My tattoo in progress, outlined:

And the finished product:

HOT SHYT, right? Don't hate bitches...green is not your color...

*smooches...deliberating on tattoo number three as you read this line*

------------

so i let go the ratio

of things said to things heard

as i leave you to your garden

and the beauty you preferred

Why You Should Only Chat with One Person at a Time...

...especially if the TV is on and you're distracted:

Raquel: it is small- I ain't crazy
Raquel: oops
Jack: LMAO
JAck: CAISTES
Raquel: LMAO
Raquel: [ROTFL emoticon]
Jack: I'll assume you're talking about the tatoo
Jack: that helps me
Raquel: yes I was
Raquel: but out of context its even funnier
Jack: good, just keep saying that
Raquel: LMAO
Jack: because out of context, I am forced to envision slaughtered kittens in order to fight the visuals
Raquel: LMAO
Raquel: me meo!!!!!
Raquel: I'm totally in tears over here
Raquel: [ROTFL emoticon]
Jack: I prefer to emphasize the *IS* in your cross chat
Jack: makes it better
Jack: it *IS* small. I ain't crazy
Raquel: LMAO
Raquel: this has to go in the blog!!!
Jack: lol - omg, rocky _ I don't laugh with anyone near as much as I do with you
Jack: omg - my kittens made the blog cut?
Raquel: YES!!!
Jack: dito - poor calicos
Raquel: LOL
Jack: mother cat all pissed off her babies were lynched for an IM session mishap
Raquel: she can have more

*smooches...waiting for the hate mail from PETA*

-------------

Its a new dawn
Its a new day
Its a new life
For me
And Im feeling good

I Remember: An Interactive Post

A while back I worked at Horace Mann School- pretty cool job- and during the holidays they would ask all employees to participate in a bulletin board where everyone would add in a memory that was near and dear to their heart. It could be anonymous or you could attach your name.

I was never much of a joiner, but I liked that. It was a nice community building exercise, and even though I was at the height of my Jaded-ness during my tenure at Horace Mann, I added a tidbit each year.

Now believe it or not, I consider you, my readers, a sort of extended family- and not just because some of you are ACTUALLY related to me, but because I share the most intimate, crazy and embarrassing shyt with ya'll. I consider us a tiny online community.

So I wanted to extend the opportunity to share, to build a little community, to remember what's important or what's been buried or just something that made you laugh. Below are some of mine. What are some of yours?


I Remember...

Fridays as a kid when Papi would bring home pizza or Chinese food or McDonald's for us on his way home from work.

When [my uncle] Julio showed up at my 9th birthday party in his full Army uniform and I felt 30 million ounces of pride that he was an officer.

Dressing Mari up in my doll's clothes and chauffeuring her all over Bed-Stuy in her baby carriage as if she were mine.

Watching WWF and G.L.O.W. with Melvin and David, my two charges when I began babysitting at age 12.

Discovering the "closet 'o porn" my uncle Jose tried to keep locked up.

Standing up to my mother's ridiculous and outlandish accusations for the first time, senior year of high school.

[My great-grandmother] Nenena slipping me $5.00 on the sly, and the sweet smell of the tobacco from her pipe.

Binging on twin pops the summer I was pregnant with K.

Taking a home pregnancy test in a Manhattan College bathroom with Irene outside the door of the stall offering comic relief when I found out I was pregnant with N.

Singing both of my babies to sleep with some Bob Marley.

My dog Rocky, and how much I loved him.

Losing my shit in a Pizza Hut bathroom in Canada while tripping on acid with Crazy Mary.

How great it felt to get accepted into a graduate writing program.

Looking into grandma's coffin, wishing begging pleading for her to wake up.


I hope hope hope you all feel compelled participate.

*smooches...remembering, all of a sudden, how much I love you all*
--------------
Ya see, in life I know there's lots of grief,
But your love is my relief

Dirty Dishes, 2AM Felafels and Balls Dipped in Milk: A Weekend in the Life of Raquel

Sometimes, the life of a freelance writer is just so hard!

This past weekend, I had to observe DJ David Medina at work at two venues for a feature article I'm writing on him. Which translates to: I went "clubbing" like I'm 22 years old or something. I also partook of some not-very-ladylike behavior...the kind of behavior that generates great blog posts...

Let me start by saying that for the past two weeks I have not been doing any "work" at work. I'm not 100% sure why- I have theories but they aren't definite. But on Friday the 6th everything was coming up due: I had a 400 word article due for a freelance assignment at noon, and something like 14 articles that needed to be written/edited for my 9-5. PLUS I had to put together the editorial schedule for two other newsletters at work. I was a tad stressed.

All morning I was on auto-pilot. I pumped out the freelance assignment first. It took me all of 45 minutes (I had already done all the research). Then I tackled the 14 articles while on the phone trying to get the schedules put together. I was multi-tasking my ASS off!

Sometime around three-ish, I could see that everything is going to get done and my boss seemed appeased and none the wiser of how much I'd been slacking off. Job secure for at least another month. AND, by the way, this is proof that I don't need to be in the office from 9-5 everyday: I got all my shit done in one day in like 5 hours!!

Now I could play!

I started surfing PerezHilton and chatting with The Dominican Promoter (TDP henceforth) on yahoo when I hear my bosses talking, and one of them calls some guy an "ECOPIMP" and right away I fall in love with the word. It is the coolest fucking word I've heard in a really long time. So I decide I want to put it on a T-shirt.

Now it just so happens that TDP is also a pretty good artist and a web designer. So I demand ask that he design the ecopimp logo for my T-shirt. He wants a home-cooked meal as payment. I inform him that I live like a bachelor, and that all my dishes are dirty, so if he wants dinner, he's gotta do the dishes first.

And he does.

I mean he seriously came over to my house, washed the dishes and everything. By this time, mind you, I had already decided that I was gonna renege on our three-week agreement because quite frankly, there was no sexual chemistry between us. In fact, I began to find him quite repulsive. But I hate to hurt people's feelings so I didn't say so, just danced around the issue of why we were not in my bed doing the do (I said I had to get ready to go and meet my friend in the city).

And I never cooked; I ordered take out instead.

But you should have seen what a great job he did on those dishes!! And my ecopimp logo? Still on its way. Don't hate the playa...hate the game...

So now I was off to work. The first stop in my crazy weekend was a place on Seventh Avenue South for a Brazilian party- just samba til you couldn't samba no more. Evelyn came with me (hey girl!) and we had a great time: Medina really turned it out. There was good music, strong drinks, a great crowd, and yummy 2AM felafels.

I wish I could say that we went home after the felafels. Or rather that I went home. But I made what is called in the hood a "booty call" to a certain Mr. DJ, who I supposedly can't stand but also can't get enough of. Hey- no judging, okay! I had just churned out over a dozen articles in one day, practically skipping lunch and teetering on the edge of a heart attack!

After a few whiskey drinks, the last 30 minutes of House Party II, a handful of old-skool music videos and some activities that I won't detail because it would probably make my sister blush, I finally made it home on Saturday afternoon, where I spent the bulk of the day napping and watching old episodes of Roseanne online.

The next "assignment" was taking me to Bembe, a really hot spot in Willy-berg that I'd visited before (with Mr. DJ, actually) and this time I brought Lani with me (who by the way, has the funniest, coolest mom I've met in a really long time!!!). We hung at her place while she got ready, drank a little rum, and listened to her mom go off on the "African Diaspora mother-fuckers." I just knew this night was gonna be awesome!

We get to Bembe and as usual the place is hot and sweaty and full of people having a good time. Medina is in the dj booth doing his thing and the live percussionists are channeling the spirits. I didn't really dance at the Brazilian party the night before- I admit to being intimidated by the samba- but at Bembe? WHAT? I was in rare form. I might have lost 20lbs from the combination of dancing and sweating. And then gained back 10 from the drinks (shut up!).

As an added bonus to the evening, I ran into someone I knew from college, a certain hotty hot hot hot dude named Orlando- but when you say his name you have to do it all falsetto-y and sing-songy: Or-laaaaaannnnnn-do- because that's how us girls would say it in college. He was as gorgeous as ever...with a wife and two kids. But that's besides the point. He was as gorgeous as ever...

At the end of the night (translation: after we shut down the joint at 4AM) Lani, her new beau that she just met at the club, his two cronies and I made our way to the Kellogg Diner for some breakfast.

Make a note: eggs are probably NOT the best thing to eat after a night of drinking and dancing. Perhaps just a fruit cup and some water. Just my advice.

During our lovely meal, Lani told the story of her ex, Matt, who thought that because he is half Mexican he could eat Habanero peppers like candy. And learned the hard way that, no, no you can't. The visuals of Matt desperately trying to relieve the burning from his mouth...and THEN his balls...will never EVER leave me. That story sustained me all Sunday, as I lay in my bed, tired and hung over as all hell and wondering when the hell did I get too old for this shyt???

*smooches...insert clever closing line here*
------------
Everybody's got a bomb,
we could all die any day
But before I let that happen,
I'll dance my life away

Finally, A Panel Date...and Other Musings

Up to the minute news from Raquel-town:

"I Don't Get Emotional About Stuff Like That"
N.'s response to why, upon hearing that her great-aunt had passed away, she did not cry. And she said it so flippantly and with a somewhat jaded tone. That child is more like me than I thought. I'm afraid.

Secret Single Behavior
Sex and the City enthusiasts know what this is: the stuff you do when you are alone in your apartment, with no man (or woman...or kids) in the mix to judge you on it. Stuff so silly and quirky that you'd never do it in front of anyone else- not out of shame, but because no one would understand your reasoning but you.

I've been engaging in my SSBs ever since my girls left. And it feels divine!

DUMPED!
After two years of writing movie reviews for a certain website during the New York International Latino Film Festival- for little to no money, mind you- they let me know that this year they have "someone else covering the event."

Oh. Really.

Lady Estrogen is not gonna like that one bit. You've been warned.

Finally, A Panel Date
Sometime in September, the higher-ups at FDU will let me know if my thesis is worthy of a passing grade and the subsequent MFA diploma that comes with it. AND that I am to present my thesis paper on August 11th on the afternoon before graduation. OMG! You guys! I'M GRADUATING!!!! Like for real!!! Which brings me to...

Raquel's Graduation Blowout!!!!
When I finally received my BA from Alfred, I opted not to participate in the graduation ceremony, much to my mom's chagrin. This time, I will allow myself to be caught up in all the hoopla, mainly because I'm super proud of this degree and I've made some great friends at FDU- I wouldn't miss graduation for the world!

So of course, I need to do it up BIG! After it all goes down, we're gonna party like it's 1999. For real. And that you will not want to miss. More info to come...


ING Direct is Mad Gangsta!

Look what the finance mobsters professionals sent me a couple of weeks ago:

Dear Raquel,

Customer Number: XXXXXXX137

ING DIRECT is committed to helping you save your money.

We noticed you have not been actively saving your money with us and we want to help...

...We plan to review your account again in about 30 days. If you haven't started to take advantage of the great ways we can help you save, we will close your account. At that time, your account balance, plus any interest earned, will be transferred back to your external linked checking account.

Well ex-cuuuuuuse ME!

Don't Renege on the Deal, Dude!
No, I don't want to go to your house and just "chill" or "get to know you better." What part of our arrangement did you not get? I am NOT looking to be your girl, fall in love or any of that crap! Now, if you're calling for some jungalistic boudoir action, okay. Anything else is unacceptable, as noted in the contract you signed.

Just stick to the rules, okay? Don't ruin these three weeks for me...

Tattoo ME!
OK, readers, I'm taking the plunge (finally!) for the second time. I'm getting inked next week. I found a talented, independent artist to design the artwork and brand it on me at a price that won't break the bank. Can't wait till ya'll see it!!! It's gonna be so f%#&ing COOL!

"Not With Your Hair Looking Like That"

My mom's response to me asking if she thought I would get robbed on the subway for not carrying my desk fan in a shopping bag. Then she added: "They probably gonna think you just got put out of your house. They'll leave you alone."

Even after 32 years, that woman's tongue has the power to CRUSH mere mortals!

And you were wondering where I got it from...

*smooches...on my way to the salon to get my hair fixed (happy now, MOM?)*

--------------

Downtown lights will be shining

On me, like a new diamond

Ring out, under the midnight hour

Well no one can touch me now

And I can't turn my back

It's too late, ready or not at all

Peas. Pod.

Jack: i just got off the phone with the dude you don't like

Jack: kinda proper

Me: lol

Jack: interesting

Me: interesting enough to fuck, or interesting like you just made a new friend?

Jack: why not both?

Me: hmmm

Me: both...

Me: now that's a concept

Jack: i want my cake

Jack: and i wanna comermelo

Jack: i mean ...

Me: lmao!!!!!

Me: too late

Me: you wrote it

Me: now it's a blog post!!!

*smooches...no longer able to eat cake...THANKS JACK!*

----------

You're a dirty, dirty man

Oh in so many, so many dirty ways

You're a dirty, dirty man

And you've been hidding your little dirt all over this hip place

I Saw It on the Dollar Menu

L: I want fries! And sex!

Me: When did they bring back the McSex? I've been waiting and waitng...

*smooches...hungry for all the wrong things*

---------

I don't care what they say

I'm not about to pay nobody's way

'Cause it's all about the dog in me

Mm-hmm

This Relationship Will Self-Destruct in 21 Days

There's something so refreshing and freeing about finite relationships. No, really.

Just think of it: no worrying about "where this is going" or if this person is "the one." All you have to do, for three weeks, is just sit back and enjoy the ride. Be wined and dined, complimented, entertained, distracted and kissed just right and right when and where you need it.


Then after the three weeks are up, you gracefully bow out, say "Thanks for the memories" and keep it moving.


Readers, I am at the beginning of one such arrangement, and I have to say the excitement of it all is exhilarating. Now don't worry about me- I'll be careful. I always am.


This new "business partner," we'll call him The Dominican Promoter, was introduced to me through a mutual friend, who knew exactly what I was looking for while my girls are gone and I have some free time on my hands.


He's laid back and relaxed, isn't looking for anything serious, and understands that we have a pre-arranged expiration date. What could be better than that?

I can tell he's dying to know why I'm only giving him three weeks, and probably thinks I will get sprung and start calling him during week four to get my fix.

Silly boy! Have you not seen the size of my Pride? or Ego? Lady Estrogen would never allow that in a million years. And that bitch don't play.

Besides, as Jack so elequently put it, I got the bulk of our combined 200-point IQ; he's definitely NOT a keeper.


But don't be surprised if in the coming weeks you see me with a huge Cheshire cat grin on my face. It's just a reaction to the summer "heat."

*smooches...finding new uses for men every day*
----------
I can't help who I'm is
when they play my shhh
I just love to dance
every time the beat drop
I love to wild out
damn right
shake it all night
Ay that's my jam
every time the beat drop