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Happy Halloween! PDF Print E-mail
Written by SQC   

The leaves are falling and while there’s a little more nip in the air, it’s definitely too soon to break out the UGGs. (Apparently there are many women who did not get that memo---these would be the same women who wore them throughout the summer, hence that hint of sand stuck in the shearling, assuming they weren’t Target UGG wannabees.) I’m ecstatic it’s finally little booty time (no, not what happens to my body when I train for marathons), but ankle booties, my favorites, the ones that help you segue from summer to winter. And as Halloween rolls around I’m thinking that I haven’t planned an outfit. I generally try to add something to that day’s ensemble that speaks to the act of masquerading. A pair of weird glasses, some temporary hair color, a little freaky on the make up, anything that says I’m going to join in the reverie and just play along. It’s about the masquerade, the sanctified fraud, our annual agreed-upon lapse in reality. Covering up and becoming something else, getting the public to believe that there’s a transformation they can trust. Everyone is in on the façade and there's an unspoken understanding that it's harmless and we’ll all go back to someplace we recognize as normal and safe.

The masquerade we’ve been asked to participate in during the past several weeks, however, has nothing to do with Playboy bunny ears, goofy eyes, or French maid outfits (that would be Michele Bachman giving Bill O’Reilly a lap dance). And it definitely is not one that any of us can trust or should feel will be as fleeting as our one day of Fright Night debauchery. The charade we’ve been experiencing as the government shut down has been so outrageously NOT entertaining that I don’t know how we’re being asked to be participants again in a few months. Talking heads---Boehner, McConnell, Cruz, and yes, Obama---using words like sequester and fiscal cliff and government default and debt ceilings. Uncomfortable new words, these expressions were as unfamiliar and unnerving to me as white women now riding bikes at 1:30 in the morning in Bushwick. I never was familiar with either before and so I’m alarmed by them, and I suspect that only harm can come from both. These expressions are fanciful and are intended to dress up and distort---very snazzy semantic magic used by the powers-that-be to trick us into not recognizing how badly we’re being bamboozled.

Every time I hear a politician use one of these terms it makes me want to scream because I can’t take being treated like an idiot. Why don’t these rich and tricky policymakers just give up the charade, stop being so polite with their English, and start being honest about what’s really happening: WE’RE FUCKING THE 99% (that would be you Sara) HARD AND PAINFUL…Keep paying more and getting less…Keep supporting your adult children longer than you historically were obligated to as we kill their credit history and demolish what’s left of the economic ladder that was still available to you guys, their parents…Keep giving up benefits and pay while we guarantee citizen-funded lucrative retirements and health care for ourselves and our families…Keep blaming each other and Blacks and Latinos and single mothers and immigrants all of whom will collectively never wield the type of influence it takes to destroy a country. If I heard any of this I might have some respect for our Senate and Congress in their suits, ties, and comfortably unattractive two-inch heels. It’s the best disguise of the season, this attempt to inflict a whole lot of suffering on us, the generally complacent public, for the plundering and wasteful acts that only the powerful can so successfully commit. Halloween ain’t got nothing on these guys, these true Princes of Pretense.

So as the weather gets colder and the next batch of petty non-negotiations approach at the end of the year, I’m sure we’ll be hearing new phrases that’ll raise our eyebrows because of the nature of their novelty. Distinctly new and interesting camouflaging words, expressions that will sound benevolent but will seriously hide the ugly malice that we’re not expected to know is lurking in the shadows. Words we’ll have to practice so we may use them correctly in our daily conversations as we prepare for the next round of panic-mongering and fear in January 2014. I’d like to offer a few:

silver hedging: cutting even more from programs for the elderly

alternate nutritional impacting: reducing dinner for your family to every other night

Venus optioning; mammogramming just one breast in order to make the mortgage payment.

Happy Halloween!

 
CHICHOS IN AMERICA PDF Print E-mail
Written by Administrator   
Thursday, 10 January 2013 15:35

Statistics show that crime is again down across the nation. However, an unreported crime is sweeping across cities large and small. The unbridled spread of chichos in America. Especially in a city like New York. Big city, big chichos.


Ladies, and gentlemen (don’t get it twisted, you have chichos too), for all of you who thought this day would never come---guess again. This day of reckoning when it’s painfully clear that once again you’ve failed at getting into that hot bikini, swimming trunk, or speedo (ewww). That no real effort was made to stop eating those Pringles, Butterfingers, Oreos, fettucine alfredo, fried rice and fried platanos. Don’t lie to yourself, you know you ate those four Weight Watchers candy bars right before going to bed. In fact they were eaten right IN bed (you know you woke up with the crumbs stuck to the back of your neck). And so the inevitable: chichos are migrating, no spreading, because migrating implies they’ve left one area for another and that lard tsunami is extending---the horror---to BACK chichos.


Yes, it’s a few weeks after the New Year, the official start of summer season for us back chicho owners, and every promise you make about exercising yourself into superb shape still has time to be broken. You stuffed your face at the movies watching Les Miz, you ate til you felt like a flaming lechon at Titi’s holiday party and you just generally did not stop moving those gums until they just got tired. So regardless of how many times you swear that this time it will be different, that this time you’ll keep it up and not let yourself slip back to sloppy, that you’ll stop wasting your monthly gym membership, stop forgetting portion control and fat control and carb control and control control…despite ALL your tired vows, you will likely not be any closer to that lofty goal of being somewhere in shape and form between Rhianna and Jake Gyllenhall. You’re not quite a fat fuck, but now your fat rolls have gone from stereo, a little on the left and some on the right---now you’ve upgraded to surround-sound chichos. That my friends is criminal and something, I say something, must be done!!!

 
Momma Hurts PDF Print E-mail
Written by SQC   
Saturday, 22 December 2012 15:31

I was cleaning out an old bin filled with pages of notes and commentaries I’d written and came across something that was penned back when my son and I had hit a very rough patch. I was taken back to a very different epoch in my relationship with my boy and I wanted to share it with any parent who’s at their wit’s end over difficulty with their offspring. My son is now living a productive and successful life and he and I share the honest and loving relationship we were able to rekindle. I hope that reading this reminds us all that time heals most wounds and that there’s light at the end of that tunnel called parenthood.  SC

Momma Hurts
By Sara Contreras


My son definitely hates me. Yeah "hates." It's a strong word I know, making me sound overly melodramatic. (And, by the way, there's nothing mellow about drama.) I know that’s what anyone would think given his actions (or lack thereof), but there’s really no other way of describing what’s going on between us right now. He hasn’t been a part of my life for so long that all I do is look at pictures to remember which way his smile bent. I had known my son's quirky face at one time in my life, when he had been … my life.


He's living with his father now, my ex-husband (the PSYCHO-therapist) who lives but five blocks from me. Five short suburban blocks, yet it feels like my boy’s oceans away and I can only wonder what the routine of his days is like these days. He won’t call me, he doesn’t in any way let me know that I might have crossed his mind, even once. There was no card on Mother’s Day, my birthday came and went, and his Christmas stocking hung full of pens and shavers and gum and shot glasses until well past Three Kings Day. I still keep the tree up until then, our Puerto Rican celebration, the cigar, water, and grass safe under the bed. But my son never came by, never wished his mother Happy Holidays or a prosperous New Year. So his stocking hung heavy like my heart.


He’s fast becoming a stranger to me, something so tragic and unexpected. I haven't known anything about his life, about his opinions on things, about his fears or dreams, in almost a year. I can only stare at his face on paper, my Kodak son, to see if there’s any life left there for me to live with him.  It breaks my heart. I see his beautiful brown eyes, his razored hairline, his glasses, the faded scar over his eye and think “he was once mine and I thought he’d never stop loving me.”  In fact, I thought he’d love me more as time passed once he’d grown into a man, the man I'd raised---the man I thought I’d raised---to cherish and respect and appreciate.  I'd really looked forward to having a man for a son. I thought he’d still find the time to call, even if less frequently, as his life unfolded and he conquered all that was waiting for him. The most compelling assumption I’d ever made was that I’d always be the one, that no matter what his days and nights were like, I’d always hold onto my singular place of significance in his world. That I’d sit coolly on that throne of Mother that I’d earned with all those years I’d offered him.  Yes, he’d remember to call.


I had hoped he’d be one of those special offspring, the ones that don’t let a day pass without talking to their mama, the conversation sometimes scripted, with only occasional flurries of scandal, humor or angst. “Yes, I’m fine. Just making something to eat. Yes, I had a good run. Oh you know your sister, she’s not going to eat with her boring mother. I know. I know. Okay baby boy. We’ll talk tomorrow. Love you too.” That could have been our daily yammer. Instead we don’t speak.


My son's love for me appeared to have been tragically mangled the day I sent him to live with his father. On that awful day I sent my precious but troubled boy to live with his other parent---ironically called my CO-parent by the courts---and all this man did was CO-sign my son's non-compliance and COrrupt the true teachings of my strict rules and guidance. He imposed a poisonous personal agenda with hack jargon that branded and convinced my son he'd been "abandoned." If I tied a bow around the head of my out-of-control 18-year old’s head and left him in a basket on some stranger’s doorstep I might have appreciated what a modern tragic comedy this was fast becoming. It could have been one of those skits on “Saturday Night Live,” with Will Ferrell in a giant basket, bonnet and possibly a soiled diaper for effect, wailing at a perplexed Seth Meyers at the threshold.
This mother did not neglect her son when I sought the hand of my son's father in a desperate fight for his well-being, safety, and growth. Now I can only dream that he will return to me, come back home to that place where not so long ago he’d been made to feel that he was not welcome. I beg my boy to forgive me my perceived slight, hush his father's voice telling him that I’d turned my back on him. That he quiet those chronically active sound bytes drumming the same words into his skull---words that tell him I walked away from him, failed him, callously stopped the clock on what time he had left to love me.


“The father makes the son a man” my own father had told me and I’d believed him. Sadly things have only gotten worse for us: my son has became more consumed with rancor, drifted further away from me, and dropped deeper into the well with his demons.


I always thought I'd been a great mother and it still doesn't make sense to me that I’d worked so hard to give this kid a shot at greatness and, well, here we are. I'd never missed a day of work unless one of my kids was sick, never missed a match or open-school night, and my son still can't remember all those foot massages I gave him when he was little. For all those efforts and more, it's just really lousy that my son hates me.

 
Facebook Page-HACKED! *oh my* PDF Print E-mail
Written by SQC   
Wednesday, 22 February 2012 18:19

Ok so I’ll admit I had always been a bit of a Facebook elitist and, by that, I mean that I’d always felt it was somewhat beneath me to associate myself with such an easily available and indiscriminate way of dealing with people. When I first heard of it my first inclination was to consider it just another juvenile distraction perpetuated to intoxicate the ignorant masses away from the more pressing issues facing mankind and being addressed by intellectuals like myself. I was NEVER going to join this cabal of aimless dummies with their sad addictions to their computer because I, Sara Contreras, had far too much sophistification and panache for such a mundane product of the social media.

Well, let me tell you, that was then! My account was hacked twice and hijacked so badly by spammers it was disabled and I’M ABOUT TO LOSE MY F-----G MIND!!! I can’t connect to so many people for whom I have no other contact info. I never realized how genuinely dependent I’ve become to the abundant cache of information available at the touch of a button! I can’ sleep, can’t find anyone at their understaffed pathetic Customer Service to help me and I’m just so lost and sad. I wish I could post my FB page on the side of a milk container as “Lost and Missing” because I’m so desperate to find it and bring it home to where it belongs. The hacker assigned me a dummy page with 4, WHAT@@@!!!!, 4 friends, having jacked my 4,000+ FB family. My hacker even made me suffer the indignity of attaching the name “Saharah Contrerash as some cruel joke.  If you get spam related to sneakers or shoes, please know it’s not me: I’d never promote sneakers and I’d never have an ‘h’ at the end of both first and last names. My hands are shaking, my nerves shot, and I’m like a captain at sea flailing about looking for safety. Oh wait, that was the guy on the Italian cruise ship! Bad analogy.

I never expected to miss my FB page so much and this experience has served as a reminder to never take anything for granted. Wherever you are my darling FB account, please forgive me and come back to Mama. We never have to talk about this awful experience again and I promise to never forsake how truly wonderful and important you are to me. I love you Facebook page!

Last Updated on Wednesday, 22 February 2012 18:25
 
2012: HAPPY NEW YEAR! PDF Print E-mail
Written by SQC   
Saturday, 31 December 2011 13:03

It’s almost the new year and I wanted to take a few minutes to thank everyone who’s ever been to a show, bought a DVD or t-shirt, told a friend about me, friended me, Youtubed me, tweeted about me, followed my career, in any way supported comedy (especially Latino), or has just been a lover of laughter and the sharing of a really funny story. I promise this year will bring another round of the crazies and I know I will see many familiar faces.

As far as resolutions are concerned, stick to the ones you can easily accomplish, like changing your sheets and calling your Mom more often. (I already do one but I’m not saying which.) Pledging yet again to lose 40 pounds in a few months can really be biting off more than you can chew (pun intended). Promising to exercise a little more and cut soda out completely is more reasonable and will likely give you a 10-15 pound head start for next year. (If you really think you could do the 40 pound thing, then please let me know and I will gladly share some of my secrets for healthy living. That’s my promise.)

And, ladies, getting that pap or having a mammogram is also something that has more of a chance of happening than getting your baby’s father to fully disclose his off-the-books income in family court. Yes that ass should be doing more but nowadays you take what you can get since most of the judges are disgruntled ex-husbands themselves (especially in Bergen County, N.J.). I firmly believe that if you take care of your health somehow everything else works itself out. I know too many gracious and wonderful women who put everything before themselves and forgo the simplest methods for guaranteeing they’ll be around for their grandchildren. Make that promise to yourselves.

So, what else do I promise for the New Year? To make networks notice me, change my home décor drastically, spend more time with my kids and parents, and be more honest with myself. Okay, the last three are more doable than the first because I might have to do a perp walk on the evening news to get ABC’s attention. But I will keep that pledge and still work hard at making it happen. I do believe it can. So to all those that also believe in all goals big and small, I wish a very Happy New Year.

Last Updated on Monday, 02 January 2012 02:24
 



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