It's Still Raining There

Rain... my God I love that sound.

No words can ever express what it means to me, though a few can give you an idea: memories, peace, redemption, life. My soul's bitter dirt and grime floods away along with pebbles and dirt for at least a moment and the soft earth side of me, the one that splashed in puddles and climbed a nearby dam in the middle of a long ago storm comes back.

Tonight I stepped outside my apartment's shelter and put myself at the mercy of the sky. Droplets hit me like soft bullets that gently exploded on my skin. I was soaked but intact. So is that rainy day, from drenched clothes to God painting.

I hope we always remember when it rained.

How to Mutate a Quesadilla

Some people burn water. Brandon mutates quesadillas. Last night he created a Frankenstein of foods: the pizzadilla.

It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. We were hungry and I wanted a quesadilla. His epiphany came as we went by the canned pasta: put Spaghettios and eggs in it. Sleep depravation made this sound like an interesting experiment at the time. He reassured me it would be the "best white-trash quesadilla ever."

I should've known how this would turn out when he started cooking.

"You don't fry a quesadilla," I said.

"Really?" he asked.

Seriously? I thought.

"No, you just warm up the tortilla, put cheese in it, close, and flip it."

"Well, I'm a yellow person making brown people food. I need guidance."

The "pizzadillas" came shortly after that. I took a bite. It was gooey. And cheesy. And simply flat-out weird. Confused is an understatement for my taste buds. They didn't know how to explain this to my brain.

"You like it?"

This is Brandon's equivalent to "Does this make me look fat?" "It's interesting" was the best I could muster.

"You didn't like it."

I didn't say anything.

"You may insult me, and you may insult my cooking, but you CANNOT insult Billy Ray Cyrus' favourite meal!"

I don't think Billy Ray Cyrus would eat this.

F...M...L...

I work at a bakery where we offer a free slice to customers. There's a trash can next to the stand and breadboard. It's been there since I can remember, no biggie. The Health Department has never said anything about during their routine visits and I've never heard anyone complain about it.

Bored with an empty bakery gave me the urge to clean. I was sweeping near the stand and as I dumped the trash in the aforementioned bin, a lady walked in.

"Hello, ma'am," I greeted.

"It really bothers me that you're dumping that trash near that jelly and butter."

My, my, aren't we blunt? OK, she had a point. We have spreads near the breadboard for patrons to try and maybe the rubbish bin's location wasn't ideal. I just didn't appreciate her tone.

Not knowing what to say, I put down my broom and pan and went to wash my hands. I didn't want her "calling me out" on something else. As I rinsed the soap off she said, "Some people just don't think."

I "snapped."

"Well ma'am," I retorted in matching tone, "A lot of people just don't think about some things."

Talk about Freudian slip.

"I work with the Health Department, and you're supposed to do this because it's what they said, not because I'm telling you."

F... But she wasn't done. Oh no.

"You never argue with a customer about something like that." She paused. "You know, I think I'll come back another day. You're not the person I want waiting on me."

It's OK, you're not the customer I want to wait on either.

"Alright." I was fine with her leaving.

In one last effort to chide me, she turned before walking out and said, "I don't know your name, but rest assured I will call you in."

Ouch. Really, lady?

The radio and I were once again alone. I leaned on the counter and stared out the window, mulling over what just happened. I couldn't and still can't believe I talked back. Why did I say that? Usually I'm good at holding my comments in. And I wasn't grumpy: I was awake (I went in at 12:30), chirpy, sweeping and singing to the Oldies station. Maybe I'm just too tired to whip back verbally when I open at 7 a.m. My friend Kelly said I just happened to have a good comeback. See what happens when you're fully functional?

I am slightly worried about the Health Department calling. Working in food service is far from my life goal but I don't want to be fired. Right now it's the steadiest job I've got. I just need to not think about it anymore.

That lady was right about one thing: I should never argue with a customer; this reaction is not my norm at all. But as a behind-the-counter employee, I will only take so much from a client, especially in her tone. So to you customers, remember there might come a point where your cashier will fire back.

Cookbook for One

I love to cook. Most times I'll settle for something simple (e.g. cereal) but occasionally I'll get the urge to bust out my cutlery and cooking-ware and make something "fancier."

Part of my hesitation comes from not having someone to cook for. Not just a significant other, just... someone. I'd be happy to even feed a roommate one in a while. Most of my friends have different schedules and my sporadic inner chef doesn't plan who to invite.

Portions become math "problems" since it's only me in this hole-in-the-wall apartment. Recipes are usually adjusted and recalculated. I sometimes wish there was a single person's cookbook.

Today I was fortunate enough to share my culinary creations with my friend Frances. Things tasted a whole lot better with good company.

The menu? Pisto (Spanish ratatouille) on top of tilapia, roasted potatoes with rosemary and shallots, and shepherd's pie in a gluten-free crust (courtesy of lovely Frances).

The Hand Bit Me

Since May I've been waking up more frequently than not because of numb hands. Lately I'm afraid of falling asleep. Sunday I woke early to severe numbness on my left hand; last night I woke up at 2 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep. My fingers tingled, felt swollen and ready to burst; I couldn't move them and tried shoulder rolls, an arm massage, a cold press, a hot shower, and laying on the floor to relax my muscles. Eventually they gave up and let me function normally in time for work at 6:15 a.m.

I'm afraid I'm getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Years ago my mom had surgery on both hands. We basically did everything for her that summer. The surgery was successful, her hands are pretty functional, but she still cannot put much pressure on them. E.g. push-ups are out of the question.

I think the culprit is a knot that frequents my back's left side. Pinched nerves can cause what I'm going through. If so I'll take the those over CTS, thank you.

As of now holding up the phone or driving become painful as minutes pass. Meds are not go-to solutions in my mind but I've been taking some Tylenol. Weight loss, back-strengthening exercises, yoga, better posture, and a chiropractor should help.

I struggle to consider myself a true one, but as an artist I can't lose my hands. OK, nobody wants to do that, but we definitely take for granted everything we do with them. What makes me a little more sad is the fact that I was gearing up to pick up my pastels and inks again.

Pssst...

I can't say much for this situation but I can tell you this: contrary to popular belief, sometimes secrets do make friends.

Farewell, Al

I currently had two pets: Ferdie, a parakeet who likes to talk to his mirror reflection, and Al, a leopard gecko. I left them under my parents' care while I traveled for two weeks.

Mom and dad decided to pick up my sis. "Hey, bring my zoo when you come up," I told my mother.

Pause. Pause not good.

"Honey, Al got out of his tank."

"What? When did this happen?"

"A couple of days ago. I wanted to tell you but didn't want to put a damper on your trip."

A few more lines and I hung up. I felt sad and heavy and wanted to cry.

Beky, my sis, for some reason couldn't understand. How would you feel if mom and dad lost Waffles (her bunny)? "It's different," she retorted.

No, it's not. Just because I couldn't pet or cuddle with Al while watching TV doesn't mean he wasn't a good pet or I didn't care. I had him five years and had grown very fond of him; I loved watching him stalk and pounce crickets and friends' reactions when they held him.

The spot on my bookshelf where his tank used to be is occupied by Ferdie, three wooden geishas and a bamboo plant. It looks nice, but it's different. I feel the need to fill the tank and emptiness with something else, but it wouldn't be right; it's too soon.