MY SINVERGüENZA

Back in the day!

    Every girl needs a sinvergüenza in her life. I have one, and he’s fabulous. My sinvergüenza is a five-foot-five dynamo of a man, who stands six-feet-tall by attitude alone. On the dance floor, he can twirl a chica like me, who stands five-feet-eleven in heels, without missing a step.

     I met my sinvergüenza years ago through mutual friends. I was single, and he was married. But a little thing like marriage could never hold him down. My sinvergüenza hit the clubs every weekend, strutting his stuff like a prize rooster. He treated me like his number one hen, even though our relationship always was, and still is, strictly platonic. In fact, we became such close friends that some people wrongly suspected I was his mistress. He often scared off  single men who may have been interested in me. However, since finding future partners in nightclubs is not highly recommended, I’m not sure this was an entirely bad thing.

     We did have a good time, my sinvergüenza and I. One time in particular comes to mind. Our group was partying at a club called “The Juke Box.” Somewhere, around midnight, the DJ called for a male and a female volunteer to participate in some late night shenanigans. My sinvergüenza’s hand shot up. The next thing I knew, he was pulling me toward the DJ booth. The DJ instructed me to climb atop the bar in front of his cage. After a few pushes, I was standing well above the crowd in a miniskirt. After the cheers had waned, the DJ instructed my sinvergüeza to lie horizontal on the bar stomach up. Then he instructed me to lie on top of him. The crowd went wild. “Do it! Do it! Do it!” they chanted.
     
     Fueled by the cheers, and because I didn’t know what else I could do at that point, I propped myself above my sinvergüenza, in a male push-up position. The crowd cheered louder. With my heart pumping wildly in my chest, I slowly lowered my body closer and closer to my sinvergüenza. I don’t know if it was the adrenaline pumping though my veins, or the idea that I was about to mount my sinvergüenza in front of five-hunderd people, but just before my chest reached his chest, I pushed myself back up. Then I proceeded to do ten perfect male push-ups over top of him, while the crowd counted. 


     Fortunately, the DJ interrupted the show before my arms gave out. I returned to vertical and curtsied.  The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. The DJ shook our hands and gave each of us thirty-five dollars each for our impromptu performance. 


     Later that night my sinvergüenza and I stopped for an early morning breakfast at Waffle House to celebrate. After an omelet and a few laughs, we parted ways. I went home alone as usual.

      Eventually time moved forward, I married, and my sinvergüenza divorced and moved overseas. Though, we had kept up through a social web site, we had not seen each other in person for fourteen years. That was until last week, when we met for lunch.

    We laughed and joked about old times. He amused me with the story of how he met his current wife. He was at a dance with his live-in girlfriend, when from across the room, he spotted a beautiful stranger dancing like an angel. He excused himself, telling his girlfriend that he was going to chat with an old friend. He bee-lined it across the floor and asked the beautiful stranger to dance. Five dances later, he returned to his girlfriend, with the phone number of the beautiful stranger in his pocket. To make a long story short, he dumped the girlfriend soon afterwards and took up with his soon to be wife. 

      Through his brutal honesty, my sinvergüenza has opened my eyes to the ways of brazen men. Nonetheless, I am happy to have him in my life. Not many men have the savoir faire to pull off the kind of stunts my sinvergüenza does and still be endearing. Yes, men like him are few and far between. And though at present he is happily married, I take still take caution when I lean in to give him our customary kiss on the cheek goodbye. If I let my guard down, he is likely to plant a big one smack on my lips.  

     Oh, you are still not sure what is the meaning of the word sinvergüenza. For the purpose of my story, cheeky devil about sums it up.

MY FRIEND

The Twins

     Her given name was Belinda, which means beautiful, and anyone who was fortunate enough to have crossed her path, knows that she lived up to that name. She had an hourglass figure, hair like Gloria Estefan, and large, mahogany eyes that lit up like moonbeams when she was happy. But “Linda’s” beauty was not only on the surface, it seeped into her pores and wound itself tightly around her inner core. She was a kind, loyal, devoted, and generous friend, who came into my life, and left me with a plethora of marvelous memories that I will always cherish.

Me as Linda on Halloween

     Initially, Linda and I connected over our love of dance. We met on a Country Line Dance Team in the mid ‘90’s. While strutting our stuff to the tunes of the hot new country music star Alan Jackson, et al, we branched off on our own, and with two other friends created “The Mambo Girls”—a Latin dance team. When we weren’t on stage, we could be found in the center of the dance floor at one our favorite clubs. We became BFF’s, almost inseparable. Many a night Linda and I suited up in matching dresses, sometimes in different colors, and we would dance into the wee hours. Our propensity to dress alike earned us the nickname “The Twins,” in some circles, which was ironic since appearance wise, we were opposites, with my eyes and hair as light as hers were dark.

    Over the next few years, Linda became more than a friend, she was like a sister to me. We vacationed together with our kids, and celebrated our birthdays together—we were both born in August—we shared hopes and dreams, and even a few tears. Unfortunately, life got in the way, and we drifted apart. I married. Linda did the same, moving three states away.

Three of The Mambo Girls reunite Me, Linda, and Elsa

     For almost ten years, we never spoke, though, I'd heard tidbits about her life through mutual friends. Then, in summer of 2009, both older and wiser, we reunited, and for the remainder of the year, we worked on  rebuilding what we had so recklessly tossed away. We vowed to get together from there on out every summer, for no less than a week. Linda was back in my life, and life was good.      

     I wish I could write the end of this story differently, but today I am not writing fiction. The reunion of our second summer was never to be. Linda passed away just over a year ago. Many of  us were unaware she was sick, but that was Linda style. She was a proud, strong, Puertorriquena, and she dealt with her problems head on and in a private manner. Linda would not have wanted her friends to pity her. And I do not pity her, but I do miss her. I only hope, that while she was here, I touched her life as much as she has touched mine.

Happy Birthday Linda! I will look for you tonight dancing amongst the stars.

Your friend Sue.

Linda's pride and joy. She inherited her
mom's eyes and her smile.

POSSESSED BY THE DARE DEVIL has won Honorable mention!

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http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com/2011/04/possessed-by-daredevil.html

MY HUSBAND HAS TAKEN UP TREE PLANTING Won honorable Mention at HumorPress.com

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http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com/2011/03/my-husband-has-taken-up-tree-planting.html?showComment=1301888807286#c2133871005035590855

I Hate My Husband's Chewed Gum!

I won honorable mention in a humor writing contest for my piece I HATE MY HUSBAND'S CHEWED GUM!http://humorpress.com/Results/Essays-2011_02-03/c-HonMens/Essay-2011_02-03-HonorableMentions.htm#2

Possessed by the Daredevil

     The Kid learned to ride a two-wheeler, and in the first week of practicing his new skill, he rode out in front of a car. Twice!

    I need to confess something. I am not a young mom. I did the Hollywood starlet thing. I gave birth to The Kid when I was in my “new twenties.” And while the mental image that I have of myself may be new, my nerves are not. My poor old nerves are frazzled from four-plus decades of experience. And, two days ago, after The Kid's second near miss with a minivan, they reared their ugly neurons.

   

      My body ran down the street, hands in the air, screaming like a banshee while all the neighbors stood gape mouthed in their front yards. I yanked The Kid off his bike, and then dragged them both home.

    My first instinct was to throw the damn bike in the trash, but I realized that would be selfishly witchy of me, so I took a different approach, a more sensible one. Bound and determined to teach The Kid the rules of the road by example, I pulled my rusty ten-speed out of the garage.

     “Follow me,” I said.

      Surprisingly, The Kid listened for once, and the ride went quite well. We were on the way home, when from a peripheral glace, I spied the dirt trails near the power lines.

    

    “Come on Kid, we’re going on four-wheeling.” I called out.

   

    The Kid and I had a blast! In fact, The Kid had such a jolly time, the next day, he begged me to take him on another “fun” bike ride.  

    Recently, a dear old friend reminded me, that, as a child, I was the neighborhood purveyor of fun. And now--sniff--my eight-year-old kid wanted to go biking with me. The idea of being a "fun mom," a "cool mom," swam in my head, and my chest swelled with pride. I wiped a happy tear from my cheek, ran to the garage, grabbed my bike, and yelled, “Come on Kid!” 

     The two of us happily rode off toward the four-wheeler trails.

     We chose the exact route as the day before, but towards the end of the trail, rather than turn right, The Kid requested to go straight. Being in an adventurous frame of mind, I agreed. But what awaited us at was more challenging than anything else we had encountered. At the end of the trail was a six-foot by six-foot ditch. It looked steep, but not impossible to navigate by bike.  My inner daredevil possessed me, and I said, “Kid...let’s do it!”

6ft deep. 

     The Kid went first.  I plunged in after him, but something went terribly wrong. On the way up, The Kid tipped over. I hit the hand brakes, and the next thing I knew I on the ground lying on top of the handlebars, the rear wheel of my bike up in the air.

     After I realized what had happened, I pushed my bike off me, and then hopped up to make sure The Kid wasn't hurt. He wasn't. In fact, he was laughing at me. Next, I looked around to make sure no one saw what happened. When you are my age and fall down, people become overly concerned, making such incidents even more embarrassing. Fortunately, this time, The Kid and I were alone. I quickly pulled The Kid’s bike from the ditch, hopped back on mine, and the two of us rode off into the sunset.

     (Today, I have a slight limp, two black and blue goose eggs on my thighs, and a pedal-bruise on my shin. Thankfully, I don’t have to bend my wrist to type.)

     But even if I could have a “do over” of yesterday, I wouldn’t.

    

    My Kid learned to navigate over small hills, wheel through tire tracks, and jump mud puddles. The twinkle in his eyes and ear-to-ear grin after each new accomplishment was worth a few minor injuries any day.

     I also learned something about myself that I deem to be important. This old, gray nag maybe ain't what she used to be, but she still has guts.

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

MY HUSBAND HAS TAKEN UP TREE PLANTING

     I didn't intended to write again until next month as I am crushed under the massive weight of my many different projects; however, my husband/nemesis has struck again, and I can't help myself.

      My dilemma began last Monday afternoon when my husband returned home from Lowes with three or four fruit trees in the back of his truck. For the last few evenings he has been hard at work in the backyard digging holes. Now, I am not complaining about this, because trees are good, and I'm delighted that he has been occupied and out of my hair. But last night--given his track record--when my husband grabbed a shovel and said, “one more to plant,” I should have known my delight was about to come to a screeching halt.

     After about an hour of absence he stuck his head in the door and called out for a glass of water, which I promptly readied, ice and all, good spouse that I am, and then I went outside to hand deliver his  drink. I don’t know what possessed me to go out the front door, when I presumed him to be planting in the back, maybe it was some kind of six-sense, or maybe it was some strange kind of foreboding, but  no sooner had I crossed the threshold and I saw my husband's head bobbing up and down on the other side of my car. I scurried across the lawn, hand over my mouth, and there, four feet from the driveway, was a hole.

     “What are you doing?” I asked in my not so nice wife voice.

A FULL SIZED APPLE TREE

     “I’m planting an apple tree,” he responded. His glance never veered from the hole.

      I took a deep breath, and calmly said, “You can’t plant an apple tree there. Apple trees grow huge. We’ll have rotting apples dropping all over the neighbors yard, our driveway, and my car.”

     I was sure my logic would persuade him to move it because even a squirrel brain could figure that a tree that grows between 12 and 20 feet high and bears fruit does not belong next to the driveway, but my husband kept digging and said, “Don’t worry about it. When the tree gets that big, and if it produces apples, then will talk.”

     I couldn’t believe my ears. “Stop. That tree will have to come down in a few years. We have a large backyard. Plant it there."
      My husband kept digging.
   "I know you're not stupid. (Wink, wink.)  Don't plant the tree there!” I screamed. Loudly!

    “The tree stays,” he growled in his deep alpha voice, and I knew he meant it. Then he looked up from the ground and said, “Go back in the house. I can deal with your mental illness inside, but not outside in front of all neighbors.”

      Why I thought I could reason with someone whose frontal lobe is obviously broken is beyond me. I had to think of another way, a more clever way to get though to him. Although extremely appealing, removing my husband, over a tree, would prove too costly, and possibly time consuming. And a bout of fisticuffs with a 230-pound gorilla would most likely prove deadly--to me. So, with "my mental illness" in full swing, I marched back into the house and Googled, “what kind of soil will kill an apple tree?” 

     I feel bad for the little tree, really I do, but it's either my car and my sanity, or it. And today, I'm headed to Lowes to buy some lime, hide it under the top layer of soil, and pray for root rot. It's going to be a slow process, so it's not too late to stop me if you have any other suggestions.




© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved