Church and Plate

I have an Evil Grandmother. (EGM) 

She is my paternal grandmother and a Protestant Bible thumper. 

Maybe it’s not fair to call her evil, but when I was a teenager, I found out how she disciplined my father. She made him strip naked, kneel on dry grains of rice, then beat him with a leather strap. 

That sounds pretty evil to me. I’m sure by today’s standards she would be arrested for child abuse. 

Just before I was born, EGM tried to convince my mother to let her raise me. Because, you know, my mom could always have other children. I can not even imagine…  

To this day, I’m sure she holds animosity towards my mother because, in her mind, she would have done a better job raising me. 

Anyway… 

EGM is a stocky woman about 5’ 2”. She has dyed, black hair that frizzes around her face, and small dark eyes that narrow whenever anyone says anything that contradicts her view of the world. Despite her unfriendly appearance, her silent glare is better than her condescending conversation.  

One Saturday, when I was in college, EGM came over for dinner. This was a rarity since, as I said, she is evil. She doesn’t get along with anyone. Ever. She especially criticized that my sister and I were raised Catholic (I think she took it personally).  After repeated arguments and attempts to circumvent our religion, my parents decided not to discuss religion when she was over for dinner.

It was a clear separation of Church and Plate. 

Pre dinner was pseudo polite. A black and white movie played in the background while we talked about my studies. I was a psychology major and believe it or not, EGM is a social worker. Even talking about school was a competition to her.  As the conversation went on, it was clear that she was attempting to break down my confidence in my career path, because she knew better. 

Eventually, my mother called us into the dinning room.  

My grandmother sat next to my father, across from my mother, her stocky body jiggled as she settled into her seat.  My sister sat on EGM’s side of the table and I sat beside my mother.

As usual, my sister and I vented our frustrations through inappropriate dinner conversation. We were upset about an animal abuse story we heard on the news. Our conversation drifted from stories of animal abuse to the creative tortures that we thought animal abusers should suffer. We were on the receiving end of several dirty looks from my grandmother. Perhaps it was the, "how to keep our victim alive as we tortured him for days,” that upset her. 

“The Bible says man has dominion over animals.” I knew she couldn’t stay quiet for long. She reminds me of Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter movies, completely self righteous. 

I told her that, biologically, man is an animal. 

“I am not an animal,” she yelled across the table, then turned to my mother, “They are like this because you didn’t beat them enough.” 

My sister and I stared at each other, wide eyed and appalled. I didn’t know if I should laugh or just ignore her. 

“If you ask them, I was too harsh,” my mother chimed in.

My grandmother tried to justify beating my sister and I by quoting more Bible passages. Knowing what she did to my father, it made me so angry. Who the hell does she think she is? 

I told her that the Bible was just a book, written by a man. I emphasized, man. I said, “If you need a book to be close to God, then I feel sorry for you. God should be here.” I pointed to my heart. 

Granted, I said it to piss her off, but I was not prepared for the woman to go berserko.

She reached across the dinning table, grabbed me by my wrists, and started to shake me. I was pulled halfway across the table before I realized what she was doing. I think she was trying to pull me closer to smack me. I firmly, but calmly said, “Let go,”  as I got to my feet. 

I wasn't going to push an old lady.  No matter how evil she is. 

My mother finally stood up and yelled, “Enough.”  

EGM let go of my wrists and glared at me, her beady eyes expressing murder. She grabbed her bag and stormed out of the house, ranting her religious nonsense under her breath.  

That was the last time she was ever invited to dinner. 

BLASPHEMY

I knew the instant the words left my mouth, it was a mistake.

“Andrew could do it.”

I am aware that making comparisons between boyfriends is a BIG no-no. But making sexual comparisons is relationship BLASPHEMY.   

David loathed Andrew. He was younger, stronger, charismatic, and my family loved him. He was also known for his large penis nicknamed Black Magic. Andrew, like David, is Jewish.  When he was circumcised, the skin on his penis darkened, hence Black Magic. 

Andrew is a very long, very complicated story. He was my college sweetheart. We had tons of crazy adventures. I can only describe him as being very loud in that funny, obnoxious, Jack Black kind of way. I always felt something was missing, I knew he was not the one. 

I dated Andrew for almost three years. There were a number of problems in the relationship, and after a disastrous vacation, we broke up. I was in my first year of graduate school, and Andrew was in his fifth year of college (after changing his major). We were going in different directions. 

“I don’t want to marry you.” I blurted it out. He hadn’t asked, but we talked about it. We had a huge argument at a Superbowl party the night before and it was the final straw. 

He was silent for an awkward thirty seconds. Without looking at me, he nodded  and said he didn’t want to marry me either. We shared our crocodile tears and went our merry ways. Two days later, I called him to get back together. I’m such an ass. He said he was too young to have been in such an involved relationship.  

I was not happy, but in true ass format, I continued to sleep with him anyway. In my own defense, I don’t like to jump from one dick to another. I find it slutty. He told me that he didn’t want to date anyone else and that he still loved me. It made me think that sex with Andrew was safe. 

It ended up a really bad idea. 

 A month after we broke up, a bunch of my friends went to a party at a hotel. I went with Andrew. He was’t himself. He was distant, chatting on the phone, and halfway through the night he got piss-ass drunk and passed out in our hotel room.  

I thought I was being polite by turning the ringer off so he could sleep. A text message came through while the phone was in my hand.

“I Love You Too.”

At that moment, a psycho-rage took over. 

My first instinct was to stab him in his sleep with a room service butter knife. I held back. I know we broke up, but I loved him. He said he loved me, that there wasn’t anyone else. LIAR. 

I managed to calm myself down then went through his phone. I pulled up all the inbox and sent text messages and showed the conversation to my friends. I told them I was going to confront him. As any good friends would do, they came with with me.  

Andrew was out cold. He didn’t wake up when I yelled at him. He didn’t wake up when I straddled him, grabbed him by his collar, then smacked him across the face (repeatedly). I calmed down, filled an ice bucket with, well ice, and some cold water then dumped it on him. That woke him up. 

A huge argument ensued and a crowd of our friends gathered to watch the specticle. I think someone video taped it. I vaguely remember pushing a camera out of my face. I grabbed his phone from the table while he was denying everything.  Andrew reached around to grab it. In our struggle, I accidentally elbowed him in the nose. Red ran down his lips and chin in a bloody mess. I didn’t want him to see my concerned.  In a panic I smashed his phone against the wall and yelled, “fuck you,” as I left. 

I’m really not a violent person. I much prefer psychological destruction, but things happen. That was pretty much the end of that. I was so depressed and cried for about two weeks before I sucked it up.  

 I went out that weekend and met a rebound guy. He was sweet, but weird. He had a foot fetish. On our first date he asked to see my feet then gave me a big hug in approval. We only dated for three months, I wasn’t feeling it. He was also Jewish, and said he wouldn’t marry a girl unless she was Jewish too. The religion thing made it a pointless relationship. 

About ten months after my break-up with Andrew, I met David. Early in our relationship, while  watching a baseball game at David’s apartment, my phone rang. It was Andrew, crying. The whore he was dating, dumped him. I found out he actually met her two months before we broke up and she knew about me (hence, the whore). To this day, he swears nothing happened until after we broke up. Yeah, right.

I have to admit, I enjoyed how upset he was. I savored every pathetic, little whimper that poured out of his mouth. I was so giddy about it, I made the mistake of telling David way too much about him, including Black Magic.  

Andrew eventually went to California to hook up with some stripper he met on the internet or something. He said he wanted to, “sow his wild oats.” He called me a few weeks after he returned to New York.  Andrew thought we would start dating again. He said he got everything out of his system, and was ready start a serious relationship with me. He was too late, David and I were already serious.  

Andrew and I became friends, we went to dinner a few times. He tried to charm me into leaving David, but I could never trust Andrew after he broke my heart. That didn’t stop him from pursuing me anyway. 

He showed up at my parents house, (when I wasn’t there) and cooked dinner for them. He drove my sister to night clubs so she wouldn’t have to take a cab. He kept an indirect presence in my life, trying to win favor with my family. It worked, they loved him. 

 David loathed Andrew. He was jealous over Andrew’s relationship with my family. David wasn’t stupid, he knew Andrew kept an eye out for trouble between us. 

One year, on my mother’s birthday, a bunch of friends and family went to happy hour. My mother invited Andrew and I arrived with David. Awkward. It was a fun time, but the night ended with David and Andrew politely arguing over who was going to pay the bill. 

As I said, awkward. 

So you can imagine, the words, “Andrew could do it.” 

Blasphemy. 

Sloth

I’ve been a sloth. 

I haven’t written anything since 9/11.  

After my last blog entry I worked on my Halloween costume. Halloween is my Christmas. I plan my costume months in advance. It’s a big deal for me. This year I was inspired by Steampunk. I tailored a faux suede outfit with chains and pearls, and tedious details. It was a lot of work, involved many sleepless nights, but completely worth it. 

Starting November 1st, fighting off my Halloween hangover, I dove into NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Thirty days and nights to write 50,000 words of fiction. I was planning to write a horror novel anyway and I thought, No better time then the present!

It was a great experience, but I don’t know if I will do it again. I was so focused on quantity, quality was thrown out the window. My grammar and spelling regressed to a second grade level. I also suffered several hand cramps. On the flip side, I now have a little icon that says, “Winner.” 

Thanksgiving came and went. I love food (Which is why it’s my second favorite holiday). 

December 1st NaNoWriMo was over. I promised myself I was going to get back to blogging, but I was so burnt out. I started several blog entries, but I couldn’t get passed the first three sentences. I just stared at the screen and zoned out. 

I needed a break. I celebrated Christmas and the New Year, but besides that, I spent much of my time watching netflix with my dog.

I feel so much better. 

9/11 on 9/11

Today is 9//11. I try to stay away from writing about topics that are globally tragic. I much prefer writing about topics that are personally tragic. However, I was born and raised in NYC, and given that this is the ten year anniversary, I have decided to talk about my experience.  

September 11, 2001

It was my second year of graduate school. I was living at home with my parents and my sister in Queens. I  had a habit of leaving the television on mute while I slept. I was having bad dreams and the television helped. When I woke up a movie was playing. There was an explosion, I didn’t pay much attention. I grabbed my cell phone and called a friend. He picked up and said he was fine. 

“Fine?” I asked. 

“Aren’t you calling to see if I’m ok?” Silence. “Haven’t you seen the news?” More silence. “Someone flew a plane into the Twin Towers.” 

I turned towards the television. I don’t remember thinking anything. I just remember the moment when I realized that I was watching the news not a movie. A minute or two passed and the second tower fell.  I hung up. I frantically dialed numbers; my mother, my sister, my father, my friends, anyone I knew who would be in the city. All safe. Thank God.

I watched the news for two or three hours. I turned it off. It was too much. I was just there a few days ago. I don’t remember who called who, but I was on the phone with my friend, Maye.  We decided that we both needed to get out of the house.

Maye and I met freshman year of college. We were introduced through a mutual friend. She was shy, but I won her over and we became good friends. She was born in China, but is defiantly a New Yorker. I still consider her one of my dearest friends. 

We decided to go to the movies, get our minds off of everything. When we tried to buy tickets, we received a verbal lashing from the guy in the ticket booth. How could we go to a movie at a time like this? He told us that his muslim friends had been beaten up and was in the hospital. 

Maye and I looked at each other. I told him that I felt bad for his friend but we couldn’t sit and watch the news all day, it was too upsetting. Besides, the trains weren’t running, we couldn’t even go to help.  

At this point the manager showed up and gave the guy a stern look. Then we got our tickets. I don’t remember what we watched. 

When I got back home, I found a scrap of paper in my pocket with a name and number, Will. Will worked in one of the towers. I met him at The World Trade Center a few days prior. We were supposed to go on a date. I called his number. Voicemail. I left a message.

The following days were quiet. Will called me back. He was on the ground floor getting a cup of coffee when the plane hit. He said that he ran into the subway, and followed a crowd into one of the cars. He said that the dust was so thick he could hardly see, let alone breath. 

A week later we went out on our date. He spoke about his experience on 9/11. He said that every time he heard a loud noise his heart pounded in his chest. I was sympathetic to his trauma, but the tone in his voice made me think he was trying to get into my pants.  My thoughts were confirmed. While driving me home he stopped the car, and pulled out his erect penis. 

I just looked at him. I contemplated smacking him, but as I said, I was sympathetic. Being a survivor can make you do things that you normally wouldn’t. I got out of the car. I could hear him as I shut the door. “Come on, just touch it. We would be so good together.” I walk home. It was only a few blocks. 

We went out twice after that, but I couldn’t forgive his penis display. That was that. 

The following months were tough. I was saddened about the lives lost. At the same time, I’d never seen so many people come together to help one another.  No riots, or looting, us New Yorkers were sticking together. That’s why we’re awesome. 

I’m trying to think of something uplifting to end with. Something that makes you think of puppies and rainbows, but I’m just not that kind of person. Besides, puppies and rainbows seem a little inappropriate, even for me.  

Slippery

I was never big on blowjobs. Just not my thing. Throughout college I had a strict no blowjob policy. I never wanted to have some immature asshole go around bragging that I sucked his dick. 

Fuck that!

However, as I got older, I sucked it up, so to speak.  My no blowjob policy became lax. Although, I always opted for the Happy Ending instead.

David, my boyfriend, it turned out, was a fan of the Happy Ending. Well, at least in the traditional sense of getting a handjob from a “masseuse.” 

A year after David and I started dating, opportunity knocked. 

I had just graduated with my M.A. in psychology, and I needed a thinking break. At the time, I was working in a research lab and all the locked doors, windowless rooms, and constant silence was driving me crazy. I resigned. 

I needed a job. A mindless job.

Apparently, I have a knack for finding the sketchiest of Craigslist ads. First the foot fetish gig then this: Massage Therapy (no experience required. Will train). 

“Oh, I know what that means.”  David said with a nod. 

I was apparently twenty-stupid and in my naivety, I disagreed. 

Now, I don’t know if David devised his plan at that moment, or this was some dirty fantasy lingering in his mind. 

“Let me try it out,” he said, “If you’re right, you can go to the interview.” 

“And if I’m wrong, you get a handjob?”

I honestly didn’t think he had the balls. 

David, I thought, was a pussy. So when he stated that he was going to call the ad, I honestly didn’t believe him. I should have noticed he was serious when he sweetened the pot.

He said that if he was wrong, he would give me a hundred bucks. On the flipped side, if he was right, I would give him a hundred bucks. I reiterated that if he was right, he was getting a FUCKING HANDJOB. The only rule was that there was to be no other sexual contact, especially kissing. I didn’t want to catch anything from some prostitute masquerading as a masseuse. And if he got arrested, don’t call me.

The night came (no pun intend), I went the gym, went home, and waited for the verdict. It was in the early evening when David called. And… Happy Ending achieved. Oh, Fuck!

I tried my best not to get angry. After all, I agreed to this mess. I congratulated him on his handjob and asked him to tell me the details. As he got to the end of his recap, he began to mumble. A sure sign he was hiding something.

“You better not have fucked that whore!” I said violently. 

He assured me that he didn’t. I tried to calm down and coax it out of him.  He insisted that I promise not to get mad before he told me. Jut saying that made me mad, but I promised.

“We kissed.” He said.

I kinda lost it then. I called him the nastiest names I could think of, told him it was over, and hung up. He called me back a few times before I picked it up. We talked and I decided not to break up with him. I just let him know he wasn’t getting anything from me for a long, long time. 

A few months later David was going on a business trip. He asked me if he could visit a “massage parlor.” We had discussed our experiment at length and had become desensitized to the idea. 

I made a deal with him, he could get his Happy Ending, but I had two conditions. First, I was not going to give him a blowjob or handjob as long as he continued visiting whores. Second, if I went out to a night club I would be allowed to kiss someone for every blowjob he got. After a serious discussion, we had a deal.  

We stood on a slippery slope. 

Shaking the Devil

I broke a wine glass the other day. It shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen floor. The shards nicked my feet in three different places, leaving tiny bloody dots. I was really annoyed. I only had two wine glasses.

I decided to take it as a good omen.

Breaking clear glass will ward off The Evil Eye.

I know, it’s superstitious.

Hexes. Curses. The Evil Eye. All intentionally, or unintentionally, cause misfortune, illness, or harm.

Ever feel someone staring at you before you notice them? Feel the thick air of tension from someone agitated nearby? Is it that far fetched that someone can focus their agitation, envy, or hatred, and it cause harm?

After the Hok incident, my mother didn’t think so.

How do you protect yourself, you ask? Preemptive measures! When I was a child, that meant a ritual blessing and spiritual cleansing.

Flower petals, leaves, spices, and blessed water, these are the ingredients for a cleansing ritual. The specific ingredients change for the person, and the desired results. I remember the scent of cinnamon, and the shock of having freezing water poured over me, while my mother and aunt recited prayers.

I was SAVED!

There was a log break from the family witchery after that. Besides the bi-monthly tarot readings, all was calm. At least, until high school, when it was decided that I was hexed. I don’t remember how, or even why it was decided, but it was.

“Put a glass of water under your bed tonight,” instructed my aunt, the bruja. She said she was going to come back the next morning. So, before I went to bed, I picked out sturdy glass, filled it with cold water, and found a spot directly below my pillow.

The next morning, I met her in the backyard with my glass. She told me to pour out the water, while reciting a prayer, and leave the glass. I did. As I turned to face her, I was assaulted with florida water. She dowsed her hands then splashed it at me.

The florida water I expected. I did not expect her to grab me by my shoulders, turn me towards the trees, and shake the Devil outta me. She shook me very hard, yelling, “Pray, pray!” while reciting a prayer herself.

I was taken incredibly off guard! In my head, I was like, What the fuck?? I tried my best not to laugh. It’s not that I didn’t take it all seriously, I just have a nervous laughter (which has gotten me into trouble).

Afterwards, she gestured with her hands, done. Then she walked into the house, and had a cup of coffee with my mother. You know, like any normal person would do after a sorta exorcism. I just went back to my room and gossiped about it with my sister.

Hexed or not, better safe then sorry.

NOTE: Florida water is a floral and citrus scented cologne used for ritual purification. It is available at your local botánica, voodoo shop, or witchcraft store.

Sordid

 “You know, I’ve always had a rape fantasy.” That’s what David said when I told him about my rape. I KNEW he was way too interested. He kept asking questions and leaning in to hear all the sordid details.

It happened a long time ago. I'm over it. Luckily, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. That would have been traumatic. I wasn’t beaten either. I suppose that would be the bright side, if there was a bright side to rape.

The History of Rape, he was almost proud to bring out his prized porno. I assume he thought that since he had a rape fantasy and that I had been raped, we were cosmically meant to have a deeper, meaningful relationship.

On the surface, David was highly educated, with a double major. He grew up in the Midwest, and was raised as a Conservative Jew. In reality, he was void of common sense. I often wondered how he survived life. He was also, hypocritically, an atheist. When I met him, he lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and worked in the financial field.

At this point, we were experimenting sexually, and had recently become exclusive. We were in the tell me your dark secret phase. “Can we role-play a rape?” He had the nerve to ask me that. I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.

It may sound incredibly fucked up, but after some thought, I agreed.

The role-playing lasted about three minutes. I screamed as he ripped off my shirt then I did it. I punched him in the face. Hard. Suddenly, he wanted to stop. He said I was fighting too hard. I assured him that real life rape was nothing like his circa 1980, big bushed, oh-no-don’t-put-that-big-cock-inside-a-me, wannabe history of rape VHS.

Idiot.

I don’t know why I stayed with him. Maybe I was too busy with graduate school to invest time in anyone else. Besides, before the confession of his delusional rape fantasy, we got along well enough. David never brought it up again. Who knows, maybe that punch knocked some sense into him.

One can only hope.