Countdown To Middle Age

Hello, Thirty-Nine!

Tres leches cake at Sazón that'll make you
wanna slap your momma!

*smooches...enjoying life*
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I rarely get to say that and mean it, but right now, I am enjoying life.

"Another Door Closes"

One of the hardest life lessons, for me, is accepting that things come to an end: relationships, lives, TV shows, and even access to your favorite Buffalo wing joint. A huge part of me wants to shrink into myself and wallow in it. Cry. Curse. Hide.

I've had to learn that my hesitation to accept these ends is just fear of the unknown. How will I go on if I can't run off to my grandma, sit at her feet, and lay my head on her lap? Or if I can't watch Tessa and Ryan find true love on "Suburgatory"?

I mean, I did stay in a dead-end marriage because I was afraid to tackle this life by myself, but look at me, coming up on eight years as head of household, rocking the hell out of this shit. I'm teaching myself that's OK to feel sad and still leave the house, face the day, have a good time with friends, and enjoy the air that I breathe. It doesn't mean I don't feel what I feel.

Every end and change is going to hurt--it's going to hurt deep--and I will want to cry, curse, and hide, but it will not kill me if I don't let it.



Every day I will make a conscious effort to keep going. Not dwell. Move forward. I'm like a shark in this world, and if I stop I know I will truly die. And frankly that's an end I'm not trying to see any time soon (or ever!).

In the meantime, I'll just find peace in the sweet breeze from an open window.

*smooches...practicing my yogic breaths*
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"we're here for a good time, not a long time."

In Case Your Monday's Been Shitty

Feast your eyes on all this beauty:

L to r: Authors Blu Daniels, Rebeca Lucret, Theresa Varela,
Alicia Anabel Santos, and Raquel Penzo. (c) 2014 David Stewart

These smart, talented, GORGEOUS women participated in my Lit Crawl Brooklyn event, "When Brooklyn Was Brooklyn," and will be featured in the book next year. If you missed it you MISSED it, because it was one helluva show.

But at least I'm being kind enough to allow you to gawk at us. You're welcome.

*smooches...busy being a proud "momma"*
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for every four "eh" events there's one awesome, and that one makes all the others worth it!

Hello, Weekend.

I've been waiting for you FOREVER. The stress of life is trying to kill me. Come, let me nestle in your bosom...



*smooches...hoping Monday takes its time as well*
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hope y'all have a good one, too!

If You Don't Mind...

i'm gonna bathe in this love you've left behind by the bed
i'm gonna use it to rinse my hair; maybe soak my tired feet
maybe soak my tired soul

i'm gonna carry it in a Tupperware in my purse
feast on it on my lunch break; maybe add some pepper
to taste

i'm gonna sit it next to me on the sofa and watch
our favorite movie with it; i'll pop some popcorn and we'll
eat and laugh and

if you don't mind

i'm not going to tell anyone i still love you

*smooches...offering this contribution to Throwback Thursdays*
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I don't even remember for whom I wrote this. I must not miss him anymore, whomever he was.

You're Invited.

Really hope you can make it!

*smooches...keeping busy*
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if I stop, I die.

I Prefer A Far-Away Crush

That unattainable man in a picture somewhere that I don't know and will never meet? The one with the messy beard and long dreads? With the washboard abs and chiseled everything else? The one who loves to paint and dance and cook and travel the world? Who loves sports and the arts equally? Who cares about me and my work and my family?
 

SOURCE: beardedandblack

 We're perfect for each other in my head.

All others need not apply.

*smooches...indulging in some internet eye candy*
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and don't even bother telling me if you know this guy. It ruins the fantasy if I actually have access to him!

The Myth Of Motherhood

In typical Jaded fashion, I tend to stay off of social media during big US holidays, because sometimes I just get tired of all the talk about the same damn thing. Mother's Day is no exception. I mean, of course I enjoy seeing photos of everyone's mom--I'm nosy like that--but it's the memes and overly-saccharine status messages that just do me in. Things like "Nothing is more rewarding/important/meaningful than motherhood" or "My mom is my best friend!" or "I'm now complete because I have this child." You get the picture. I hate that shit.

At first I thought "Jaded, that's because you're dead inside" but no, I think maybe some of y'all are a little too obsessed with buying into the Myth of Motherhood.

Being a mom isn't EVERYTHING. It really isn't. I mean, my kids are cool people, were cool from jump, and we have fun together and OF COURSE I care about and love them, but they are not my life. They are my job and responsibility. I brought them into this world and it's now my JOB and RESPONSIBILITY to provide them with the tools they'll need to carry on well as adults. Those tools can include lots of things, but that's basically my JOB and RESPONSIBILITY. I was lucky enough to have cute babies, too, so that made it easy for me to want to do these things for them.

My life, however, is not defined by these girls. And my best friends are adults who are my age or at least in my generation or adjacent. I was not incomplete before having a child. I was actually fine. A little reckless and quite drunk a lot, but fine. When they move on to their own homes and lives, I will be fine, too. We will come together on occasion, eat, gossip, sing off-key, and make fun of people, but we will live our individual lives and be fine.

I honor and appreciate the women who raised me and made it their job to take responsibility for my upbringing, but there is more to life--MY life, at least--than being a mom.

But I'm dead inside, so what do I know.

*smooches...fresh off a smooth gossip sesh with my mom*
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what? that's how we bond!

I Fill This Void

with food.

So much food that it rises up into my esophagus
Teetering at the back of my throat
Threatening to spill out of my mouth

I fill that void
with sex.

Anonymous, no strings, fake names sex
Leaving in the dawn in a cab sex
Never call me again ever sex

I fill this void
with whiskey.

Shots lined up at the bar like chorus girls
Kicking their way down
Jazz hands scratching at my liver

I fill that void
with danger.

3AM alone on the platform
Taunting with my indifference, my apathy
Daring someone to come at me

I fill this void

with you.

*smooches...digging in the crates for Thursday*
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this bad poem totally describes my 30s. totally!

We're All Adults Here, Right?

FRIEND: This is my second attempt at contact. I'm done now. No reply, no goodies. I shall go to the freaky store, lol quench my own damn thirst.

ME: How many are there out there?

FRIEND: IDK I only go to one.

ME: "Hey! Welcome back, [FRIEND]!"

FRIEND: O_O!!! I'm [FAKE NAME] in there!

ME: hahahahaha!

FRIEND: Cash only lmao!!!

ME: #Trife

FRIEND: Prolly

ME: *orders online; plain brown box*

FRIEND: #TrifeLife

*smooches...unapologetically unashamed*
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I don't see none of y'all paying my bills OR quenching my thirst O_o

It's Not About The Hair

So if we're friends on The Facebook, you saw me complaining about how short my hair is when curly. Yes, the very haircut I was just in love with made me miserable when I tried to 'fro-out. It's so fucking short, y'all. I almost cried real tears. And it was hard for me to understand at first.

Until K was born, I'd always worn my hair short, about ear/chin length. Always. That was just my preference, my look. Short, bouncy hair. Then I stopped relaxing it and grew it out, sometimes down my back, sometimes just to my shoulders, but always long, whether curly or straight. It became my thing. I didn't think it would be a huge deal to go short again, until I stepped out of the shower after my first shampoo since the haircut, and looked in the mirror.

It wasn't until I was getting ready for work that it really hit me, though. It's not about my hair being short--my hair grows fast and I'm sure it will be back to it's regularly-scheduled length by Christmas. It's about my face. My face is different than it was when I used to wear my hair short. Different in a bad way. I came to realize that I just don't like my face.

I don't like the shadows under my eyes or the old blemish scars or that if I stare long enough, one eye is smaller than the other. I don't like this weak-ass chin that is now accentuated by my short-ass hair. I don't like that the weight I've gained has made my cheeks look puffy. I JUST DON'T LIKE MY FACE. I can admit that and still go on with my day, live my life, pay my bills.

Only thing that has my panties in a bunch is that now I don't have all my hair to hide behind.

*smooches...avoiding mirrors these days*
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whooo it feels good to let that out...how long til December?

Seen On The Twitter

To All My Exes:

What's truly funny about this is that my exes don't ignore me, I ignore them. Still, if one of them gets too big for their britches, this will remind them LOL!!

*smooches...bringing just a bit of ratchet into your Monday*
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listen, that little meme made me laugh so hard, I can't even explain it!

Food Is My Drug: A Healthy Jaded Update

It's only a matter of time before I overdose. And by overdose I mean get diagnosed with something like diabetes or high blood pressure or death. Then I'll really have something to be all upset and mopey about.

Last time I got on a scale, maybe a month ago, I was 200lbs. TWO HUNDRED. Folks, this is not a drill. This is not a joke. Jaded is 200lbs of jiggly fat. And it's all settled in her stomach (boooo!) and tits (oh for fuck's sake!) and ass (finally!).

Booty-licious BUT that stomach, tho!

I cannot stop eating. It's like a vicious cycle: I eat these bad foods with additives that make me crave more bad foods with more additives and when I stop all I can think of is I NEED MORE BAD FOODS WITH ADDITIVES. I'm thinking about it right now. Right now. I'm imagining crispy fried chicken. Or homemade tortilla chips and guac. A trough of guac. And fries. I want all of it. I NEED all of it.

"When's the baby due, Raquel?"

And I know it's the food that has me too sluggish to go work out, keeping me from focusing on my work, writing or relationships. My finances are struggling. I'm finding it hard to "give a fuck." That's what additives do. They're the drug that makes you not care about anything. And I want to care because look at me. LOOK AT ME! I'M HIDEOUS!! I'M A FUCKING WHALE!!!

I look like a block of cheese. Gov't cheese.

I have a plan in place. In my head. Someone come over here and drag me to the gym to execute it, and while you're add it, delete my Seamless account?

This is an official cry for help. Thanks!

*smooches...wondering how long before heart attack*
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it runs in my family. I swore I wouldn't be next. but now, who knows?

My Favorite "Meet Cute"

I won't say what online dating site we met on because that's a part of my life I'd rather not relive, but we "met" on an online dating site. We were supposed to meet for coffee on a cold January afternoon and I chickened out. Chats and emails followed, maybe some texts, too, but we wouldn't lock eyes for the first time until Cinco de mayo, the night I also happen to be reuniting with Lani after not seeing her in forever.

We were at Puck Fair: me, Lani and Lani's then-boyfriend, Matt. We fell back into our friendship as if nothing had changed, except now we were legally allowed to drink alcohol out in public together. I'd started the night by getting drunk with Irene at Gonzalez y Gonzalez, so by the time I'd met up with Lani, it was a wrap. "D" and I had agreed to meet for a drink; I told him to come to Puck Fair (in case he turned out to be a CRAZY Lani would know what to tell the cops).

Standing by the bar, contemplating some Buffalo wings, light buzz in my head, laughing and talking with Lani and Matt, I feel an arm rest itself around my waist. I was nervous; this was all new. I was happy to be free of my marriage shackles but I'd been out of the game for nearly 13 years. What the fuck did I know about dating?

I turned to face him and looked into the same soft, brown eyes from the picture he'd sent. He smiled at me and his eyes said "thank god you look like your picture, too." I felt relief, relaxed, attraction. The rest of the night is a blur. I think we all hung out for a bit more before parting ways. He'd driven to Puck Fair (Say what, now? Who drives in Manhattan? People from Queens, that's who!) and offered me a ride home. The rest is history, or rather, none of your business.

We didn't survive the summer. The point is the Meet Cute; the butterflies, turning slowly to face him, his soft brown eyes, and a shared smile. I haven't had a story like that in forever. Since D.

Guess I'll just have to write one.

*smooches...inspired by a writing prompt and an awesome Spotify playlist*
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the best part of being a writer is writing your own happy ending, regardless of the crappy reality before you. imagination is everything.