Blood and Guts: Helena Lazaro

So since I’ve been on leave from work (explained below if you haven’t heard), I’ve had a lot of time to discover things about myself (read: overanalyze EVERYTHING ten times MORE closely than usual).

Before I get into that, let me give you a small recap of what has been going on since I dropped off the face of the blog world.

In late November I met this guy that I really liked, and started spending pretty much every waking moment with him because he was supposed to leave the country in early January. I thought it would be relatively harmless; how attached could I get in one month? Well, early January came and went, and he stayed. I got close. Pretty close. The date for his departure was uncertain. And suddenly, he was told to pack his things and go immediately. He was gone within a week and it was all very whirlwindy, so there wasn’t much time to prepare. That’s what my mopey sad poem down there was about.

I haven’t heard from him much lately (for reasons I’m sure he can’t control, and I don’t blame him), and I’m not certain how much longer I can go on investing feelings in a relationship that, for all intents and purposes, exists mainly as a memory.

So there’s that.

On the work front, my studio has been going through round after round of layoff, not really set to end anytime soon. The ups and downs were taking a toll on my health and mood, and time off was primarily intended to help get my focus back, decide where I want to go from here, and move out of this overpriced apartment. I toyed with the idea of leaving the country to teach abroad after hearing amazing reports from several friends who had done so. But then I worried that I was only considering that option because it would delay my having to cope with the matters at hand. And, although I may hide once in a while, I don’t want to run away.

Ok…so I haven’t exactly moved out yet. Or decided where I want to go from here.

BUT!

I did find out that I make really great Pad Thai, and Yellow Curry! I also found out that the Asian market sells LOTS of interesting and mysterious fish products, from crackers to jellies, AND there’s a karaoke machine right out front! It’s awesome. I have been looking for excuses to try new recipes, which I find in the form of brave guinea pigs willing to sample my attempts at exotic cuisine (which is saying a lot, considering the fact that I still haven’t been able to master a grilled cheese).

Strangely, so far, things have turned out well. My Pad Thai subject on Friday thought that it was delish (though he was unfamiliar with the dish). And I haven’t had anyone to second the motion yet, but I move that my Yellow Curry is freakin’ awesome.

I now have a pantry well-stocked with fishy, soy-y, noodley things to have on hand for the next time the inspiration strikes–which is likely to be soon. The more I learn cooking, the more confident I am, and the more I want to try new things.

I know this all might sound kinda lame, like wow Helena, this is what you have to talk about after weeks of silence?

But it’s not just about food (although food is beautiful). It’s an important lesson for me. There was something I was convinced I wasn’t good at, something I really thought I couldn’t do. And all I had to do was honestly try it, put some effort into it and risk scorching a pan or two–to find out it was actually one more strength I had, and not another weakness.

My muse is missing. I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to be with anyone. I want to be in a place behind being, darker and more quiet. Just watching others be. I don’t find any comfort outside the invincibility of dreaming. I’m afraid, knowing what people are capable of doing; each one I let into my life is a liability. So far the odds have been pretty shitty. Trying to sleep with goosebumps covering your ass on a cold night makes you really appreciate all the warm balmy ones that–sometimes–made you feel like you were smothered under a blanket.

Obviously I’ve been down in the dumps for a while. I feel good and happy a lot of the time, too. I’ve met some great people lately. But whenever I end up alone, I start thinking about things too much and making myself mopey.

The other day, I was in the grocery store and I started crying over a Roma tomato. Yes. A tomato. I mean, there’s more to it than that. I was remembering when I learned how to chop them. The boyfriend I lived with for two years taught me how. Every time I prepare them, I think of him patiently showing me how to take out the seeds of a Roma tomato. And I feel a little sad. But now it’s expanded to just SEEING the goddamn tomatos in the grocery store. That’s what has started happening when I grocery shop alone. I look at the produce and remember meals we made together. All the things we shared.

I am now officially in the not-talking-anymore place with my ex. We were very close for as long as a year after the breakup. Then a slow growing apart. Occasional phone chats to play catchup. I didn’t want that, I have no room for superficial relationships or bullshit in my life. But it seemed that he only had the capacity for one true and deep friend. Once he found a new one, there was no place for me in his life. Only a spectator spot.

This is a new lesson for me. I’d never been with anyone that way. I was sure that someone I loved so much would always be close to me. How can you mark someone that deeply, and then just drift away? How can you spend years and years together, and one day be strangers? I’m struggling to understand it, realize that people do it all the time. They get divorced, they disown family, they break up, they go to foreign countries and never come home again.

I know this is the only real chance I’ll have of moving on. I’ve been keeping everyone outside, all the love I needed came from him. I couldn’t imagine someone new ever meaning as much to me. Now I’m forced to come to terms with it all. Yes, you can love someone and intend to spend your life with them, then not. They can be your best friend and wind up a phone call that comes once every four months. And no matter how much they mean it when they make a promise, sometimes they just can’t keep it.

So, now what?

Thanks for listening, even though you don’t really have a choice.

Dear Disgusting Pee-all-over-the-seat-lady,

You make me sick. I saw you by the elevators today in the snug tweed miniskirt and black pantyhose/white pumps combo you’re so fond of (even though you’re clearly pushing 55, you insist on wearing skirtsuits that end long before mid-thigh, but that’s another issue). I wanted to stop you before you left the building and ask you, once and for all, what your fucking problem is.

I know you might deny it, but I’ve run into you coming out of the stall with the pee ALL OVER the toilet seat enough times to realize that you are the culprit. Frankly, I’m fed up with it. I’d like some answers. I’d like to know how a grown woman (really, a woman of retirement age) manages to splatter an entire toilet seat and its environs with her urine.

Perhaps you’re in such a rush to get in and out of the bathroom that you don’t have time to aim. I know you work for the kind of stuffy old boys that really are counting your break minutes, so I could see that. Maybe you’re such a germophobe that you feel uncomfortable even hovering over the seat, and instead choose to take your chances aiming from a fully standing position, creating splashback. I’m almost positive it has something to do with those pantyhose. Of course, the theory that haunts me most, is that you have a horrible, enormous vagina that sprays in all directions*.

Whatever the cause, I wanted to tell you it really fucks up my day. You ruin the first stall toilet for ALL of us (the first stall IS the most commonly chosen, just so you know, you selfish cow). Even worse is when someone comes in as I’m washing my hands, and they come OUT of the pee-splashed first stall with that disgusted look on their face, and then go into the second stall, and I just KNOW they think it’s me!! That’s a bunch of bullshit! I’m not taking the rap for your piss-poor potty habits anymore.

I’m going to send a memo to all the women on this floor, with a picture of you in your dated, too-young tweed skirtsuit, and your white pumps, and a caption that says, “I am the disgusting pee-all-over-the-seat-lady.” I don’t see why I shouldn’t. If you’re going to do that kind of thing, you should at least be ready to own up to it.

Sincerely,
Helena “Opens the Door with Paper Towels” Lazaro

*I apologize to all who are disgusted by this statement, but at least you don’t have to WORK with said mutant vagina.

I’m not sure why, but there are few things that give me as much satisfaction as a good fight. There’s no comparison to reaching the most irretrievably melodramatic climax possible—and storming out of a room. Slamming down a phone receiver can be good, but nothing feels quite the same as slamming a door.

I’d like to blame it on being a Leo, or being a Cuban…or on the fact that I saw my mother perfect the art of the fight with my father so regularly that I became a protégé of sorts—and for years, her worst adversary (succeeded by my sister). If she’s unhappy when we turn it on her, I hope she takes comfort in knowing that We learned from the best.

Continue reading Love is like a Roundhouse Kick…

I’m not sure whether it says more about my bad laundry habits or bad man habits, that just today I got around to washing the shirt I wore on our first date–and we split up nearly two weeks ago.

I’ve been thinking about happiness lately. Thinking about how to get it. Most of my life, I’ve seen happiness as something that I could attain by putting the right pieces into place. Like solving a puzzle. Everything would slide into position and the whole thing would burst wide open. But there was always that one missing piece, preventing my from achieving my goal. Standing between me and happiness.

For me, this missing bit was forever Him. If I could just meet Him, that man, that perfect man, I’d find the love I was promised in every fairy tale, I’d find my happy ending. Everything that was wrong, every depression, every thing inside of me that ached, I attributed to the need to find Him. Once I did, everything would be flawless and complete.

Continue reading Someday My Prince Will Come. Tell Him I Got Tired of Waiting and Went Downtown….