My mom decided it was time to give me the ol’ sex talk when I came home asking my older sister to interpret terms I’d never before heard. Terms tossed around by neighborhood junior high girls wearing excessive eyeliner. Terms that cocked a fourth-grader’s head and had her wondering what a cherry, much less a “popped cherry,” had to do with anything.
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In the weeks before our cross-country move to a small condominium in the Boston area, our house became bulimic.
Certain realizations hit you much harder than others. Realizing you may have gone from a career woman to a freakin’ housewife in a matter of a few short months, despite years and years of rolling your eyes at pie-baking and baby-making? Well, as I’ve discovered, that’s one heavy-handed blow right there.
November in the Boston area is full of impending doom. For someone who just moved here from Vegas, it’s clear that something bad — something very, very bad — is about to happen. It’s called winter.
I woke up one morning, in 2001, singing a single line from a hit song at the time. Not the chorus, just one line that caught me: “And on the way I grabbed Soley and Mia.” I sang it enough times that morning to annoy my boyfriend, who wanted to know why I chose that line, of all the lines in Blu Cantrell’s “Hit ’em Up Style” to sing over and over.
Ally wants her Ariel doll. I’ve never met Ally, but she’s standing next to me in line at the Orlando International Airport, where, just like at Disney World, there are signs telling people how long they can expect to wait. It will be 15 minutes before we reach the security checkpoint.
Surely, my daydreams used to be much sexier than this. They may not have looked like one of the calendars an administrative assistant has tucked in her drawer, Mr. October being her secret favorite, but no way did they ever star a washer and dryer.
If you’re a woman working in corporate America, you’ve probably heard of the wage gap. If you’re a parent living with expressions such as “adorbs” and “bestie” on a daily basis, you’re familiar with the generation gap.
I worried a neighbor would hear us rooting for the Detroit Tigers. You may have heard, they faced the Boston Red Sox in the American League Championship Series and lost, sending what is now our local team to the World Series.
Every workplace is cursed with one. Every extended family learns to endure one. Every church tolerates, well, several of them. But when a busybody poisons your condominium building, a place where you escape every other life nuisance, things reach a whole new level of “mind your own damn business.”
Las Vegas is about 400 miles from my hometown of West Valley City, Utah. That’s about a six-hour drive, which translates to less than one full workday. Or three on-demand movie rentals. Or two college football games.
Las Vegas was supposed to be a pit stop for me, a layover between aspirations and realizations. Ten years later, you could say plans got revised.
“Hi! as you know my name is Xazmin Garza. I’m 11 years old. I’m in the sixth grade. …”
And, of course, the homeless man who makes his way to his turf at the same time you exit the highway. He usually holds a brown bag. His silver hair is combed back off his leathery, brick-red face. He stumbles like a toddler learning to walk and occasionally directs traffic.
Within two minutes of meeting, she mentioned she was a recovering sex addict. Who knows when it’s appropriate to reveal that kind of information, but it’s probably not sometime between stowing baggage in the overhead compartment and fastening seat belts.
There are four kids in my family. I’m the third child and the middle daughter, which means I have the unique privilege of having both a younger and older sister.
My Las Vegas house is about 1,800 square feet with a decent backyard and a two-car garage that offers plenty of storage space. The condominium my husband and I will occupy when I move to Massachusetts in two months is 800 square feet.
Five hundred dollars can change someone’s life. It can mean the difference between paying rent and an eviction notice. It can mean three meals a day or a fridge holding nothing but spoiled milk and ketchup. It can mean you’re content or you’re screwed.
There’s nothing more telling of a society’s priorities than condolences. Not just any condolences. Condolences that arrive during nontragic times.
When visiting a new city and true local living reveals itself, I find it nothing short of refreshing. But when it happens in a city I’ll call home come September, it’s more like forecasting.
It wasn’t even a softball question. It was more of the T-ball persuasion. The judge set it up so nicely for her, 40 percent of “women are the primary earners, yet they continue to earn less than men. What does this say about society?”
Dreamers are advised not to marry other dreamers. Everyone knows clouds don’t provide sturdy, stable homes. And without a cold splash of reality, someone could end up holding more lottery tickets than jobs.
If you’ve ever worn headphones with the sound on mute, you might get it. If you prefer a game of Solitaire over Spades, the concept may appeal to you. But, if you’ve ever sat down in a crowded restaurant, placed an order and enjoyed every bite of your meal while staring at an empty chair, you’re already on board.
All the loved ones have gathered. The commencement speakers have taken their seats. And, “Pomp and Circumstance,” the orchestral music synonymous with this event, has just started playing.
They were there all of 20 minutes before the “Days of Our Lives” rehearsals began. Take five women out of a car they’ve occupied for five-plus hours and it’s bound to happen. A disagreement spurs hurt feelings spurs not one, but two dramatic exits.
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