May 8th, 2011 2:05pm - Mother's Day 2011

When I returned from Australia this past December, I didn't know what I'd be doing. My life plan had as much direction and ambition as a blind sloth. When my mom insisted that I get a phone so I could live like a real human being, I considered it. When she offered to pay for it, I deliberated my options.

After three minutes of Internet research, I was flustered and perplexed. I hadn't searched for anything online in months and the myriad of pop-ups I encountered distracted me to no end. Within thirty seconds, I had accidentally clicked a pop-up and was reading about Viagra. Upon reading that Viagra doesn't cause an erection when there is no sexual desire, I realized what I was reading, screamed "for the love of God!" and settled on the first phone that appeared on my screen: a Prepaid cell phone through AT&T. When it arrived in the mail, I tore open the package giddy to join the twenty-first century again. The phone was large, blue and silver, and elliptical. It looked like it belonged on a space shuttle in the 1970's.

After two weeks, I became disenchanted with my space shuttle phone. It didn't look anything like a real phone, and I became a subject of mockery for all of the technologically advanced six-year-olds running around with iPhones. My primary frustration, however, was that my space shuttle phone didn't work. I was living in Santa Rosa, in northern California, and I barely got service. I would sit in my office discussing the economy and the number of distressed properties with a potential client and my phone would cut out.

When I called AT&T to politely inquire why my phone calls disconnected thirty-eight times a day (I was a Realtor, I talked on the phone a lot, okay), they reviewed the coverage area.

"If you're within one and a half miles of the 101 freeway, you should have good coverage. The rest of the area doesn't look so good," I was told.

"I'm looking at the goddamn freeway out my window right now!" I insisted. "It's probably a fifth of a mile away, and I'm talking to you on the office phone because my cell phone won't make calls." I knew it wasn't the representative's fault that AT&T had shitty coverage. "Just reposition the goddamn satellites or something!" I said passionately. I didn't scream. She still hung up on me.

By April, my mom had had it with AT&T. We disconnected her AT&T iPhone and my AT&T space shuttle phone, and my mom bought us both Verizon iPhones. I was ecstatic over my iPhone. It didn't drop calls and it even took pictures (space shuttle phone didn't). My mom was not so enthused. Somehow her new Verizon iPhone magically uploaded her contact list from five years before. When she tried to rectify the situation, her AT&T iPhone erased her current address book contents and uploaded her contacts from five years before. She owned two iPhones with outdated address books. This was not ideal for a Realtor. After hours on the phone with Verizon, and directing profanity at her new phone on a daily basis for two weeks, it was too much for her. She couldn't take it. My mom went to Bora Bora and Tahiti on vacation for three weeks. For reasons that are beyond me, she left her new Verizon iPhone in a bathroom drawer and took her inactive AT&T iPhone with her. Two hours later, I received a frantic voicemail from an unknown number. It was my mom calling from the airport to say that she'd left her phone on the bus. I sighed and a few days later I picked up the phone from the bus station office and placed it in her car's glove compartment.

My mom returned three weeks later, arriving the day before Mother's Day. It was the first Mother's Day in three years that I had been in the same country as my mom. It was also the first Mother's Day in eight years that I wasn't hung over and feeling like death.

She called me on Mother's Day from my sister's phone to tell me that her phone didn't have service.

"Call Verizon," I told her.

"I don't want to go through this again, where I don't have contacts or text messages or my voicemails or notes," she cried.

My mom, brother and sister were supposed to pick me up at 11:30am. By 1:30pm, Mom was still on the phone with Verizon and Apple. I was still at the place I rented. I decided to drive to her house anyway. When I walked in, mom had her head in her hands and was staring at the kitchen counter, dejected and beyond comfort.

"Look, someone tried to break into the iPhone case," she told me wearily, pointing at the case.

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would someone break into the case? It takes two seconds to remove it," I replied and looked at the phone.

"Wait, Mom, that's your old phone. That's why the case is all scratched up. That's your AT&T phone. It's not going to have service because we cancelled that service last month."

She had been on the phone on Mother's Day for four hours trying to get Verizon service on an AT&T phone.

January 3rd, 2011 4:52pm - Christmas and Fire

My least favorite thing about Christmas is church. My most favorite thing about Christmas is stalking shoppers walking to their cars. I follow unreasonably close and pursue them like a creeper. I flash my lights. I throw the car in park and rev my engine. When shoppers turn and look at me, I shout "Merry Christmas." I smile and wave like a normal person. It confuses people.

This Christmas, my mom bought matching pajama pants for herself, me, and my sister. They were from Abercrombie & Fitch and collectively cost what I had been getting paid for a week's work in New Zealand. I tend to shop at Forever 21 and H&M. All major clothing chains employ children and are ensconced in labor scandals. I might as well get my clothes cheap.

Christmas morning, we opened presents. My mom, sister, and I wore our matching pajamas, and my brother got my mom a big-ass candle.

"It smells so good!" she exclaimed and immediately lit it in her bathroom. Minutes later, my sister changed out of her new pajama shirt and pants. She threw those pricey p.j.'s on the bathroom counter. On top of the candle. The candle exploded.

Christmas casualties one and two: new pajamas, new candle.

October 8th, 2010 10:45am - Little Nipples

I've never been concerned with the size of my boobs. Men have bigger knockers than I do. Ten-year-old girls have more pronounced bazongas. If I had juicy juicy mangoes, I'd accidentally hit them. I'd trip over them. I'd run them into walls. My mom's offered me breast implants because she wants me to be happy and confident.

If I had hooters, all of my shirts would be slutty and inappropriate, and I guarantee that within two years, the silicone would rupture, deflate, or explode. I'd get hit directly in the milk wagon by a baseball, a goat would jump on me, or I'd run into a tree attempting to snowboard. I've repeatedly replied no thanks to the fake ta ta's. It wouldn't be a good investment. They just wouldn't last long.

While my mom and I frequently discuss my fun bag deficiency, we have never reviewed my nipples. We were in Queenstown, and my mom asked me to rub lotion into her upper back. As I smoothed the cream between her shoulder blades, she turned around and placed her hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what?"

"I think you have little nipples, and you probably got them from me. I'm sorry. My mom had such beautiful large ones."

October 6th, 2010 12:37pm - Queenstown, Mom, Bar, Boys

I stayed in Sydney at a friends' place on Bondi Beach for almost a week. It was fantastic. Except that when my mom and her friend arrived in Australia to meet up with me at the end of the week, I was in the process of shedding my fourth layer of skin. Like a snake. From now on, I'm restricting myself to traveling through countries that have an ozone layer.

My mom and her friend are babes. Twice men referred to my mom as my sister. And they weren't trying to flatter or be funny or clever. They were serious. Both times, while in stores wandering around, I raised my head to locate her, and was told by employees, "If you're looking for your sister, she's over there." My mom wasn't even in earshot.
My mom, her friend, and I ambled through the QVB, Sydney's Queen Victoria Building. I left them for three minutes to find a bathroom. When I returned, they had moved. Fifteen minutes, two phone calls and a text later, my mom said that they'd gone out for a coffee. They were at a pub three blocks away. The pub didn't serve coffee.
When my mom and I cruised on over to Queenstown, New Zealand, we wanted to hit up the bars. A few nights ago, we went to the Ballarat Trading Company. The lighting was dim and the atmosphere old school. There was a piano, guns and animal heads on the walls, and framed black-and-white photos everywhere. The country of New Zealand does not have bears. Regardless of the fact that the Trading Co. boasted a stuffed bear standing up, there were maybe six people in the bar.

My mom and I sat on stools at the bar sipping on our second glasses of Chardonnay when two guys in their late twenties staggered in. Each one's weight supported the other as they wobbled through the doors. They were wrecked and it was awesome. They each had handfuls of cash. They stammered next to us at the bar, threw their bills into a pile on the bar's counter, and then emptied their pockets of money. Fives, tens, and twenties blasted from their bodies.
"Whadday wanta drink?"
"Chardonnay, thanks!" my mom exclaimed.
We danced. I don't just mean me and one of the guys. I mean, one of the guys started swaying, my mom mistook it for dancing and began dancing. The other drunkard smiled and almost fell over. I joined in because I felt awkward.
The guys rocked out. They sang, they laughed, they screamed. They amused me. After they paid for four drinks for us, I announced that it was my round. The guys wanted whiskey, my mom and I wanted wine. I turned around to the bar and ordered two whiskeys and two glasses of wine. The bartender asked if the whiskeys were for the guys.
"Yes," I replied.

"They're cut off from the bar. I'm really sorry, but I can't serve them. You can't get them drinks."
"Awesome, saves me money!" I said and turned back around with the two wine glasses. The guys were gone.
"What happened?" I asked my mom. "Did you scare them off?"
I was joking, but my mom replied, "maybe..."
She had lectured them and verbally abused them for allowing a girl to pay.
"I never ever ever pay," she had said to them. "I'm a girl, and girls don't pay. You never make girls pay. What kind of men are you? Seriously, what kind of men are you that you make girls pay? Do you have balls?"
They ran away. I attempted to explain the concept that after taking advantage of guys and their drinks, it's only polite to reciprocate. Girls should buy one round after the guy has paid for two or three. My mom had none of it.
"Girls never pay," she repeated.

July 9th 10:07am - Geriatrics and the Dominican Republic

My grandma has two living sisters. One of my great-aunts recently hosted a dying party for herself. Nobody in her medical or familial circles corroborate, but she's convinced she's going to kick the bucket before Christmas. My other great-aunt is a coffin dodger. She's been in and out of the hospital for years. Seven years ago, at my dad's fiftieth birthday party, I had a beer bladder. I peed every five minutes. Upon every return, my great-aunt would interrogate me as to who I was. Every time she'd recall my identity, she would scream to everyone within a twenty-foot radius, "You were such a brat when you were younger." She sounded like a WWF wrestler. She's had some strokes.

On my way back to New Zealand, I stopped off in Southern Cal for a few days. I attempt to resurface once a year in So Cal to remind my extended family of my existence. Because I missed the Dying Party two days before my arrival, my grandma organized a fifteen-person brunch in Long Beach. The great-aunts were there.

The following day, my cousin and I watched the World Cup semi-final between Germany and Spain. We had been seated in Belmont Shore's sports bar Legends. We ordered a beer tower, because nobody wants to be sober during a semi-final World Cup game. And then my cousin got a lunatic phone call.

"Where are you," my grandma demanded. She was as hysterical as if she'd just lost a baby.

"At Legend's with Kara. World Cup game."

"So you're not in the Dominican Republic?"

"Um."

"You're in Long Beach?" she continued.

"You saw me this morning. What's going on?"

The great-aunt with more strokes than a round of golf had answered her phone. A man's voice informed her that one of her nephews was in trouble. When she questioned which one, he asked what her nephews' names were. Her nephews' names didn't issue into her stroked-out brain. Her great-nephew's names did. She named my brother and cousin. The Voice said that my cousin had been arrested in the Dominican Republic on narcotics charges. My great-aunt entered something between convulsive and spastic. She raged, repeatedly asking how much money he needed. She screamed for her daughter, who was outside watering the plants. Her daughter asked The Voice for a contact number. He hung up. My great-aunt called her sister, my grandma, hysteric about my cousin, the Dominican Republic, and drugs.

My grandma replied, "What are you talking about? You saw him yesterday morning at brunch."

"Yes, but what did he do after brunch?"

"He worked at the Yacht Club and then came home."

"But how do you know? Are you sure he's not in the Dominican Republic?" my great-aunt insisted.

It was after this exchange that he received the call from my grandma.

"I saw her yesterday. I saw you this morning. I swear I'm not in the Dominican Republic. I'm on Second Street with Kara," he reiterated to my grandma and hung up.

June 28th 5:55pm - Designated Drunk Driver

My friend's graduation party was as paramount as Bill Gates' philanthropy.

The party abounded with music, pool ping-pong, croquet, swimming, hot tubbing, and food and alcohol assortments as impressive as Cate Blanchett's acting.

After my mom had socially swallowed a few glasses of wine, my inebriated self ordained she was going to be in no condition to drive hours later. I stole her keys with cat burglar stealth.

That night, my mom hugged me good-bye and said she was going to drive home.

"No, Mom, you are in no condition to drive! I'm going to drive us home. I have much more practice driving under the influence."

"Kara, you've been drinking too!" she reminded me.

This was quite obvious, as I was holding a glass of Chardonnay in my hand during the conversation.

"Yes, but I am a much better drunk driver than you are Mom. I'm driving us home. You are not."

"You drive drunk? That's horrible. You should never drive drunk!" my mom was apparently under the impression that I was a sober seven year old.

"Mom! You're trying to drive drunk right now! I am the designated drunk driver."

"I am not drunk! I've only had a few glasses of wine. And nobody is a designated drunk driver! I'm calling your brother to come pick me up."

My brother arrived and my mom climbed into the passenger seat with Sandra Bullock's gracefulness. I stood at her window talking to them.

"Goodbye Honey," my mom said, "I'll see you at home."

"Ya, I think I'm just going to drive your car home later once I sober up," I imprudently suggested.

"You do not have my keys and I am not giving them to you!" she said.

"Yes I do have them!" I announced as proudly as if I had been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize.

At this, I flaunted them in front of her face like I used to do to my little sister when she desired the bright red crayon. My mom, with Star-Nosed Mole reflexes, snatched them from my hand.

"Not anymore!" she laughed as they drove away.

"Damnit!" I exclaimed, confused how easy it was for my mother to outsmart and out-reflex me.

A friend drove me home.

June 1st 11:49pm- Dad Down

Years ago my sister achieved every twelve-year-olds dream: she obtained an Indo Board, aka Balance Board. The Indo Board was to better her balancing skills for skateboarding like an imaginary surfboard refines surfing skills. She skateboarded almost as often as Paris Hilton has communicated an intelligent comment to the media. My sister's Indo elation equated that of Michael Jackson's when dropped off at a playground during elementary school recess. 

A few nights after my sister's board acquisition, I investigated my balancing abilities only to realize I have none. This didn't come as too much of a shock, as I had previously discovered my clumsy propensity on countless occasions. A few months prior, I had crashed my bicycle into a truck. Just as I grasped the glee of wind acceleration with downward speed, I approached a wide turn. Instead of leaning slightly and turning, I collided with the truck parked directly in front of me and fell over like a fly having been buffeted by a fly swatter.

My dad has always had an elevated opinion of his athletic ability. A few years ago my college soccer team convened at my house for dinner after a game in the area. Upon viewing the small shrines my dad had posted around the game room of his football-playing self, my teammates deigned my father Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite. They still refer to him as Uncle Rico.

My dad cleared a small area in the living room and stepped on the Indo Board with the confidence of a professional snowboarder. He rotated back and forth, legs wobbling like Bambi when taking his first steps. And then he fell, blasting into the edge of the board and then the floor with the gracefulness of a mentally disabled triceratops. He moaned, much like I imagine said mentally disabled triceratops would moan, having been felled by a balancing board. He never attempted balance on the Indo Board again. My sister cultivated consummately. I have since ceased all balance tests. I blame my balance absence, like many of my life's deficiencies, on my harrowing hearing and vision. I accept that before the termination of my life, I might have the visual capability of Helen Keller. At least I can tell my future children that their acne has a purpose: I will be able to compose braille messages from their blemishes.  

May 25th 11:24pm - Horseshoes

Today my mom, sister, and I ravaged my aunt and uncle's house like teeny boppers to Zac Efron.

We repeatedly arrive laden with food and require my uncle BBQ for us. We currently purchase the same amount of food for seven people as we did in prior years for twenty. It's about as logical as the hairstyle half hot-pink dreads/half fro.

My mom, a friend of mine, and I resolved to play horseshoes after wandering through the garden, gorging on cheese dip, and lounging by the pool was deemed too physically active. We opted for the game of stand-and-swing-one-arm. 

My uncle's friend's Jeep sat behind the horseshoe pit I was positioned at. My mom warned him to move his car on the chance that she might miss the pit completely and hit the car. He laughed at her and said that's the beauty of his Jeep. Even a horseshoe flung that far wouldn't dent his baby. 

"Oh fine, don't move it. But I will hit it. And it's not going to be my fault, because I warned you!" she exclaimed with maniacal laughter.

Her first toss, my mom's horseshoe went heavenward, and then descended, rolled, and came to a halt halfway between the two pits, about as close to the Jeep as I was to the pool a quarter acre away. 

After some technical coaching from my friend, my throws resembled a rocket launch. I came closer to making contact with the Jeep behind me than my mom did. Two landed so far off the horseshoe pitch that they almost collided with my uncle's truck. We hadn't foreseen the truck's location as a potential problem, it was that far removed from the game. I settled myself next to my horseshoe pit. Judging by the horseshoes final halts around the yard, the pit was the safest place to stand.

"Kara, you're going to get hit!" my mom yelled, "Stand behind the barricade!" 

The barricade was a result of past incidents. My uncle had erected a wooden blockade some feet behind the steel stakes. For protection. As I vociferated, "I'll be fine. You worry too much!" I recalled years before when my dad drunkenly drove our van directly into the wooden gate at the end of my aunt and uncle's driveway. The gate is now metal. Judging by the dents in the horseshoe barricade, I couldn't help wondering if it should be upgraded as well. 

Four minutes later, after I had landed one horseshoe on the pitch and the other in the flowers, I observed my mom throw. Her first piloted in a tree. Her second struck the ground seven feet from me, but then shot to my shin, attacking like a roly-poly on crack. It crunched into my shin with the force of metal with momentum. Instead of the little-girl-shriek I longed to detonate, I clenched my teeth and moved quietly behind the blockade, my fingernails digging in to my palms. My mom uttered the shriek I coveted and screeched, "Oh my God! Honey, are you okay? I'm so sorry! Do you need ice? I told you you'd get hit!" 

I assured her of my continued competence. We finished the game when my friend, who was playing on a team by himself against my mom and myself, achieved his third point. Three was our previously determined winning number. I think normally people play to twenty-one. 

We descended to the house's back porch where my mom again inquired how my shin was.

"I'm going to have a bruise on my shin. People are going to ask what happened. I'll have to tell them my mom threw metal at me," I replied.

"Kara, I'm so sorry I hit you with the horseshoe! Are you really going to bruise? I'm so sorry! I feel awful," she lamented and pulled me in to a hug. Then she sneezed directly on the arm I had wrapped around her back. It was such close proximity that her nose connected with my forearm. 

May 22nd 2:54am - Cleaning Ladies

Growing up, my household boasted cleaning ladies. At one time there was a cleaning man. We harassed him like we would harass our own parents. For example, our kindergarden/preschool selves to him: "Are you a woman? You must be a cleaning lady. Only cleaning ladies clean houses." This probably upset him as much as when we were in Thailand last year and a five-year-old tow-headed girl and her little brother asked my female friend, "Are you a boy?" Her response, "No. Are you a boy?" to which the little girl replied, "You look like a boy." My friend told her, "You look like a boy," walked to me and inquired if she did resemble a male. Regardless of her knee-length camouflage pants, wife beater, hair pulled back, and no make-up, I assured her she looked like a female. The little girl later sent her brother to ask my friend if she was a boy. She answered, "No, I'm not a boy! Are you a girl?" He accused her of looking like a boy, she accused him of looking like a girl. My friend and I appraised each other, and I could detect duplicate desires to bitch-slap the tiny adorable blonde boy. And girl. Like the cleaning man left his sanitation position with my family, we left the Thai store, my friend making a face at the young ones as we exited. 

As a result of cleaning ladies, my sole knowledge of maintaining a household with a Mr. Clean aroma was making my bed, running the dishwasher/ washing machine, cleaning dishes, and flushing the toilet. Until I entered college. Four years expired before I cleaned a toilet. But I scrubbed floors with the intensity of Michael Phelps. Growing up, the cleaning ladies got blamed for throwing away my stuffed animals, misplacing my $14 ring, and hiding my favorite sweatshirt. Years passed before I accepted that those were my fault. However, in high school I was bewildered to return from school to find my toothbrush brush-down in my hairbrush's bristles multiple times. Week 2 I hid them separately in bathroom drawers only to discover the same outcome. Week 3 I even wrote a note in my expert Espanol: "No ponga cepillo de dientes en el cepillo. Por favor. Mantenga aparte." Week 4 I hid my toothbrush in my closet. 

Last week I returned home to ascertain my favorite pillow absconded. After a comprehensive house-search, it was still as absent as Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta in Grease 2. My sister located it five days later. It was on my brother's bed in the same pillowcase as another pillow. This week, my friend's phone charger has disappeared like Casper the Ghost. I told him I was sorry, couldn't find it, but was almost certain the cleaning ladies were responsible for mislaying it. His response, "Maybe they hid it, like your pillow. I don't really understand their humor and am not sure I would enjoy staying in their country of origin." Me: "What are you taking about? They're from Mexico. We've been there!"

May 18th - More to Love

My cousin describes herself as an actress. 

While we were at dinner the night before my brother's college graduation she received a phone call from a reality TV show she applied to entitled More to Love.

The day my brother graduated she withdrew from the ceremony to go to a hotel where the show producers interviewed finalists. She arrived at 3pm. And was released at 11:30pm. During these eight and a half hours she was quarantined in a hotel room without food. Among other paperwork she had to fill out a six-hundred question personality test. Some of the questions: Do you like flowers? Do you garden? Do you like to garden? How important are flowers to you? These questions revealed as much about her personality as it would should a cartoon character complete the exam.

At 11pm her blood was taken and she hadn't consumed food in over eight hours. 

"Are you trying to starve me into being smaller?" she questioned.

We found out later the show is like The Bachelor. But the women are size twelve and over... literally More to Love. 

May 17th 12:35pm - Rental Car Conundrum

My mom shops for groceries like Lindsay Lohan shops for clothes. Today we bought for my brother's twenty-second birthday party. She injected nine 16-packs of hot dogs in the grocery cart. I removed five. She inserted seven packs of ground beef in our cart like they were as necessary to life as beer. I removed three. I never alcohol-disputed her. I added to the cart. 

Hundreds of dollars, hearing, "I'm the mommy! Stop telling me what to do!" and lightheaded-laughing later, we cart-careened to the rental car and unloaded, bulldozing groceries in to the back-seats and trunk like they were bowling balls. 

My mom settled in the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. A car alarm simultaneously detonated like a car horn blizzard. 

"Is that our car?" she asked, appearing as puzzled as I was when I saw Katie Couric's interview of Sarah Palin (CBS News - October 1, 2008). 

My mom gaped the car door open. The alarm emanated from our car. She shut the door and turned the car off to eradicate the alarm. She was as embarrassed as I was when I peed my pants after a Junior High cross-country race and then had to pose in a photo that comprised the top runners. The photo was enlarged, framed, and positioned in a restaurant by my school that many students frequented. 

"Mom, you must have hit the panic button on the key when you were starting the car," I said. 

When she exerted to start the ignition again, the key locked. She couldn't remove the key. She could turn it but the car wouldn't start. My mom sighed, pronounced, "Oh, fine, you drive!" and flounced out of the car with the pomp of a circus performer.

I locked and unlocked the doors while my mom looked for the non-existent Car Manual. I persistently turned the key while she called the rental car agency for assistance. The office had closed ten minutes prior to our call. I sat and stared dumbly at the dashboard while my mom called AAA. 

While waiting for AAA to arrive my stomach sprung rumblings reminiscent of an earthquake. It was almost 6:30pm and we hadn't eaten since noon. I mentally surveyed the food arsenal we had acquired and settled on Cheetos. I evicted myself from the car and retrieved the monster bag from the trunk, as excited by the prospect of crunchy cheese curls as I was by the concept of a handle of Jagermeister. 

The AAA truck bawled up and a man resembling Bigfoot alighted. His endeavors to start the car duplicated my previous attempts. My mom and I stood outside the car talking.

"I'm going to open a beer if he doesn't get this going in three minutes," I declared. My mom laughed. 

Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds later (I was timing), the engine rumbled to life. Bigfoot exited our rental car with a smile adorning his face. 

The car had been in reverse. Thus, why we couldn't get it to turn on.

Mom exclaimed to Bigfoot, "You're a genius!" while throwing her arms in the air like a circus performer.

Me: "We are not." 

May 16th 3:35pm - Graduation Time

My graduation from USF last year was as eventful as a Chevy Chase Vacation movie. 

Yesterday my brother's USC college graduation was as perfect as LeBron James's arms. 

My graduation ceremony was at 9am. The school ordered us to arrive at 8am. I awoke at 7:40am when a friend pulverized my room door. I groaned like a woman in labor and sat up. I noticed my then-boyfriend curled in the fetal position on my floor as I labored to recall the previous evening's activities. My cognizance ceased at the second bar. I later learned we visited four. The blaring music from the kitchen resembled dynamite to my fuddled ears and I scampered to the shower and scuttled downstairs to retrieve my gown from the dry cleaners. We left the apartment at 8:20am and it wasn't until we reported to campus that I realized my grad cap was AWOL. I MacGyvered one from a table and melted with the grad masses in line pondering if I should sit near people I didn't know so when I threw up in the middle of the ceremony nobody I knew would notice. 

My brother roused himself at 9:15am, catapulted water on his hair, dressed in his grad gown, and appeared on campus to witness Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger's speech. 

During my ceremony I oscillated between consciousness/nauseousness and comatose. My brother, lucid, felt good and slightly tipsy. I felt like a member of the Donnor Party.

A van of my relatives drove north to San Francisco from Long Beach for my 9am ceremony. Five of my cousins, my aunt, and uncle departed LB at 3am. My aunt experienced migraines. She threw up four and a half hours of the drive. The van parked seven blocks from the campus. My aunt ejected herself from the Abominable Automobile thinking she could make it to the ceremony. She sprung to the nearest tree like Marion Jones, threw up, and returned to the car. She lay in the car for the duration of the ceremony.

My immediate family flew in to Southern California the day before my brother's ceremony. The farthest anyone (including aunts, uncles, grandma, cousins) had to travel the day of was forty minutes. Everyone emerged early.

As my body was under the impression that I was dying, so too were my graduation speakers. Three of three discussed cancer and death. Nobody mentioned our accomplishments or hope for the future. They commented on our mortality in monotone drones. My family exited my graduation depressed. 

My brother's speakers were fantastic. Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger (the Governator) was as amusing as Larry the Cable Guy's Letter to My Penis. He opened with congratulating the graduates, which comprised twenty-three hundred females, twenty-two hundred males, and five undecided. 

He revealed his three secrets for success: 

1: Come to America

2: Work your ass off

3: Marry a Kennedy

Schwarzenegger spoke of how anything is possible. As a pre-teen in a small town in Austria, he posted pictures of oiled, muscular men on his wall. His mother called the family doctor, thinking something was wrong with her son. 

His mother-in-law, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, was integral in actualizing the Special Olympics. He declared, "Everybody thought if you put the retards in a pool, they will drown. Well, they didn't. And today the Special Olympics is one of the most important events for the mentally disabled in the world." 

My family and I exited my brother's graduation laughing and elated. 

After my ceremony we relocated to a restaurant overlooking the beach called Cliff

House. Helicopters and fire engines awaited us. We learned that someone was stuck on the cliffs below the restaurant, thus the brigade. When we were seated, there were placards at each seat stating: "Happy Graduation Rachel," and the menu options. Forty-nine minutes later our waiter delivered new ones saying "Happy Graduation Kara." My uncle never received his meal. 

After my brother's ceremony we walked a few blocks to a Mexican restaurant. There were no complications.

After my graduation lunch we appeared at the grad party in Golden Gate Park that six of my friends and I had organized for a shared family/friend celebration. Halfway through billows of smoke surfaced in the sky. An unintentional fire had been started in another part of the park. Again, ambulance and fire engine sirens accosted our ears like Paris Hilton barrages retail stores.

My cousin's family hosted a grad party for her and my brother. There were no complications. 

My brother's grad themes: hope and achievement

My graduation themes: disaster and death

May 7th 2:10pm - Boy George and Aqua

I returned to my childhood home haggard and hypnotic. I floundered in, burdened by my Nike soccer backpack, the only baggage I had from my journey. The airlines still hadn't located my luggage. Of everything I disembarked with, I only had my laptop and passport. Two items I was as grateful for as I was for indoor plumbing.

The house had a sole new acquisition: a fish.

While I was sojourning through South America my sister had appeared at my mom's office. My mom has had a fish named Boy George for years. As he is not a human child, that he has "Boy" in his name makes as much sense as naming my firstborn son "Piglet."

My sister observed Boy George immobilized against the side of the fishbowl by the one plant in the tank. This was as peculiar as the time I returned from France to be told that my sister paid to get her hair braided in cornrows, bought a doo rag, and was at a Mormon Camp in Utah. We are not Mormon. 

My sister liberated Boy George and he floated, as alive as Bambi's mother.

"Mom, your fish is dead."

"Oh, honey, don't tell me that," she replied. "I love Boy George." 

My mom thrust tears from her eyes as if they were Anthrax spores. My sister sensed that she was upset, so she visited a store and purchased another fish. 

She reentered the office with the fish and presented it to my mom like it was a signed original copy of Goodnight Moon. 

"He's beautiful, I love him!" my mom vociferated with a hug.

They swung to switch the fish, and saw Boy George swimming around as mobile as the family cat that blitzkriegs my feet every time I walk by. He's under the impression that my toes are mice. I do have some remarkably repugnant feet, but don't feel he is justified in thinking they resemble mice. 

Boy George retained residence in the office while the new family fish (entitled Aqua) advanced home. My mom moved offices a few days later. Boy George's life evidently disagreed with the move. He died. My sister again informed my mom of his regrettable mortality.

Her reply: "Don't tell me that! I love Boy George." 

February 5th 11:52pm - Grandpa

During my childhood, my grandpa lived with my immediate family for an instant. Back in ancient times before cell phones, he babysat us one night. I informed Grandpa I was going to spend the night at a friend’s house and, as customary, he smiled and nodded. I repeated myself to ensure he comprehended (sometimes his hearing aid wasn’t turned on). Again, smile and nod. When my friend and her dad arrived at the door, I notified Grandpa I was leaving to spend the night at my friend’s house. Grandpa shuffled towards the door as I exited. My parents returned hours later and questioned Grandpa when only two of three children were in their beds. Grandpa’s reply: the third kid got kidnapped. My friend’s dad was the nicest, most intimidating, oversized tattooed Mexican. Grandpa sincerely believed I had been kidnapped.

February 3rd 7:45pm - Darker Skin = Win

When her children were young, my grandma emerged from her house to find her oldest son, my dad, in line for a running competition, his skin enveloped in black. When she inquired why he had covered his skin, his response was that he wanted to win.
He sincerely believed that if his skin were darker than his opponents, he would win the race.

February 1st 8:54pm - Uncle = Entrepreneur

In his childhood, in an early entrepreneurial effort, one of my uncles instigated a newspaper business. He roamed the neighborhood, collected and compiled news, employed a dated copier machine as printer, and sold each issue for five to ten cents. His journalistic endeavors ended with a neighbor’s complaint owing to a headline that read, “Is the Stork on the Way?” followed by, “Looks as if Mrs. ??? is having a baby soon, or is she just putting on weight?”
She was just gaining weight.

December 27, 2008 4:23pm – Birthday Report

My birthday was on December 22nd.
Twenty-three years ago I managed to insert myself into this world two months before my due date. As her first child disembarking two months early, my mom was deprived of normality – aka Lamaze classes, a baby shower… essentially any and all customary preparation.
My seven-months-pregnant mom and my slightly inebriated dad returned home from a holiday party whereupon they both submerged to bed. My mom awoke my dad hours later professing she was having the baby. My dad’s response: “No you’re not, go back to sleep,” coupled with his body rotating away. My mom shrugged, rationalized he was probably right, and attempted to harness sleep. Later, she again determined she was going give birth. She re-woke my dad to the same reaction. She ascended from bed and called the hospital, who adamantly insisted she come in. After another unresponsive reception from her husband, she packed what she unknowingly judged crucial birth-items, and equipped herself for the hospital. She roused my dad, who, once he comprehended she might actually have the child, supported her to the car and drove her to the hospital.
My dad jubilantly called his sister from the hospital at four-thirty in the morning.
My dad: “Hey! Guess where I am right now?”
My aunt: “Jail?”
I was born three hours later.

December 26th 8:31pm - Licensing Foreigners

A couple years ago the Extended Family visited my grandma’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. As is custom, kid table (ages 17-23) and adult table subsisted. Allowing illegal aliens to secure driver’s licenses was a prevalent topic at the time. Following a charming, hands-linked, heads-bowed, exuding gratitude prayer, we assembled ourselves properly, grandma overseeing her offspring and family. Everyone gracefully reposed and commenced consuming food. Within minutes the topic transformed to licensing foreigners.
The adult table (kids table’s focus: champagne):
* “Illegals don’t deserve licenses. We have enough legal foreigners who don’t know how to drive as it is.”
* “If they can’t legally live here, they shouldn’t be allowed to legally drive here.”
* “And the problem isn’t just with one kind of foreigner.”
* “Asians go so slow and are such bad drivers because they can’t see. Their eyes are slits.”
* “Well, shit, the blacks are always speeding because they are racing to get away from the cops.”
* Laughter. “Leaving a TV or two behind in their escape down the road, huh?”
* “I’m serious. They’re always running from something. Maybe from a girlfriend pregnant for the third time...”
And the conversation persisted. The following day a cousin informed the family that as a college class assignment she had recorded the dinner conversation and was writing a paper on it. Grandma almost plunged to the ground.

December 25th 11:56pm - Christmas Dinner

My brother gains incessant gratification from procuring eccentric gifts. One year he bequeathed me a “Sister to Sister” card, signed with (naturally) his first and last names. Another year: no card, no present. This year: a book entitled, “My Horizontal Life. A Collection of Stories: One Night Stands.” I wasn’t exceptionally enthusiastic, consequence of any insinuation. Brother harassed me with assurance the book was supposed to be hilarious.
He acquired another book for my nineteen-year-old sister. She opened to an arbitrary page, read a paragraph, and, open-mouthed, passed off book. I read, snickered, and distributed to Brother, who sequentially perused the passage, and despite Mom’s appeal to examine section, closed and returned the book to the youngest child in our family.
Christmas dinner topics of conversation (evidently instigated by Brother’s gifts): romance novels (i.e. detailed, intense porn), sex, and celebrities.

December 2nd 3:25pm – Pepper Sprayed

In 8th grade my mom resurrected her working-world life and suited up as a real estate agent. Simultaneous with her Agent resolve was pepper spray. Mom immediately procured Mace for protection against the crazies, zanies, and insane she was confident she would encounter in her new profession. For easy accessibility, she situated the spray on her keys.
It was logical: easier to locate her keys, simple to grab if her safety was compromised.
My mom, my sister, a friend and I were in a sandwich shop one blistering afternoon. I was contentedly perusing the menu when abruptly a scorching, fiery sensation molested my mouth and nostrils. My eyes streamed and my vision curled. I staggered and coughed. Incomprehensible sounds emanated from my throat as I clutched my scorched tongue in one hand and my blazing eyes in another. My sister bowled herself to the ground. My friend blindly darted away, gagging and wailing.
My mom said later when the three children surrounding her began behaving like burn victims with cries and screams charging the air, others in the store bestowed horrified and perplexed expressions on her. She elected to discard the pepper spray that day.