Skip to main content

20 Random Yasminisms

1. I don't like ketchup or mayo. When I see people's food drowned in either, I shudder and remember an old episode from School House Rock with a song "don't drown your food!"

2. I'm impatient. Many people don't notice, but the people who know me feel the moment when I want to yell, "Get to the point!"

3. My favorite vegetable is Brussels sprouts. They are tiny cabbages of goodness.

4. I've been told I have high expectations of myself. This backfires on me because I expect the same from others. If I can do  it, why can't you?

5. My favorite color is cobalt blue. It's dark but bright at the same time.

6. I'm fiercely loyal to my friends and family and will do anything to help, support, etc.

7. Fighting has always been easier for me. I think it's the temper I inherited from my mother.

8. My closet is organized from light to dark within each color. Years of retails has left unable to just hang anything anywhere.

9. I can tell if a woman is wearing the wrong bra size just by looking at her. 8 in 10 woman wear the wrong size. They call me the bra whisperer. This is my super hero power.

10. I got my first tattoo at 29. Up until then I'd been too chicken with the permanence of something on my body. I had commitment issues.

11. This February I will have been married for 2 years. It doesn't feel like it's been that long.

12. The first time I shot a gun I was 8 years old. I learned they weren't toys.

13. I've had bouts of insomnia at different times of my life. I don't know what causes it, but know that my brain has problems "shutting down".

14. I have road rage and often yell at drivers from my car. My hands swing back and forth in the car and I must look like an angry Muppet.

15. I can't live without cheese, but I hate milk. As a child my grandma made me drink a glass of rotten milk on accident. She never made me drink milk again.

16. I get embarrassed speaking Spanish. My voice sounds 3 octaves higher, and I dread the shakiness in my voice.

17. My sister is another Mom. She is ten years older than me. When we are together somehow even now, I fall back and act like I'm 13 years old.

18. I'm worried I won't have anything to write about after I stop writing about my grandma.

19. Years of retail have left me able to smile even when I want to scream. The mask comes in handy.

20. One of my favorite things is enjoying a nice meal with friends on a patio with ribbons of sunlight wrapping in and out of shade.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...
3 comments
Read more

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...
2 comments
Read more

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
Post a Comment
Read more