My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
Parents like to talk about their children.
Moms love to gossip about theirs.
We especially love to gossip about...
how they’re doing in school,
their social life,
their clothes,
their friends,
their friends’ allowances
their friends’ curfew,
their friends’ parents,
their friends’ parents’ jobs
their friends’ parents’ homes
their friends’ parents’ vacation homes
their cars,
their favorite junk food,
their test scores,
their grades,
their teachers,
their crushes,
the 4 bases,
the best deodorant,
the best tampons,
the best house for smoking pot,
the best beer,
the worst beer,
the best way to get high,
the worst way to get high,
the coolest mom,
the coolest dad,
the most boring mom,
the most boring dad,
the worst mom,
the worst dad,
the worst child,
and of course, the best child.
Usually mine. Always mine.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
At Your Service. Not!
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
I was out sweeping the stoop, one of those annoying domestic rituals attached to the seasons. In the winter, I shovel; in the spring, summer, and fall, I sweep the stoop. It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that when the weather is warm, the pollen gets to me, thanks to a pin oak tree in front of my house. There is a nametag nailed to the trunk in case anyone was interested. My preference would have been for a warning sign instead: Danger! Danger! Tree sheds. Tree spreads pollen. Sometimes, the pollen is so bad I can barely open my eyes. There are days when I look like Rocky and that’s on a good day.
But someone’s got to sweep and that someone is me.
So I’m going about my business when I notice the caregiver of a neighbor, two doors down, smiling at me. Until today, we’ve done nothing more than exchange nods. The smile is a change from our routine. She starts to walk in my direction, pushing a stroller with baby Lucca in it. Well, he isn’t exactly a baby anymore but he is in the stroller.
I smile back and go about my business when I begin to feel that I am being watched. In fact, the caregiver is now standing in front of my house.
“How long have you worked here?”
OMIGOODNESS! People, this is very grating to my delicate ears. I can feel the sweat oozing out of nipples.
I understand it’s a case of mistaken identity but why couldn’t I possibly be the “owner” of the house instead of the cleaning lady? Given that I was wearing rubber gloves, an apron, and clogs covered in handpainted flowers, the mistake was unintentional if inevitable. But the gloves were made by Casabella and the clogs were from a Swedish catalogue called Hannah Anderson. In this instance, the details escaped her because what she saw instead was, like her, I was a person of color. In her mind, I couldn’t be anything other than....
But lady, I was wearing pearls! Huge, lustrous, South Sea pearls on my ear lobes. Perfect spheres the size of marbles. Anyone who knows pearls would know they weren’t from Carolee.
And there’s the rub: she knew nothing about pearls. Sigh. Next time, I will wear a tag that says, “Owner.” Now, let’s see if she can read.
I was out sweeping the stoop, one of those annoying domestic rituals attached to the seasons. In the winter, I shovel; in the spring, summer, and fall, I sweep the stoop. It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that when the weather is warm, the pollen gets to me, thanks to a pin oak tree in front of my house. There is a nametag nailed to the trunk in case anyone was interested. My preference would have been for a warning sign instead: Danger! Danger! Tree sheds. Tree spreads pollen. Sometimes, the pollen is so bad I can barely open my eyes. There are days when I look like Rocky and that’s on a good day.
But someone’s got to sweep and that someone is me.
So I’m going about my business when I notice the caregiver of a neighbor, two doors down, smiling at me. Until today, we’ve done nothing more than exchange nods. The smile is a change from our routine. She starts to walk in my direction, pushing a stroller with baby Lucca in it. Well, he isn’t exactly a baby anymore but he is in the stroller.
I smile back and go about my business when I begin to feel that I am being watched. In fact, the caregiver is now standing in front of my house.
“How long have you worked here?”
OMIGOODNESS! People, this is very grating to my delicate ears. I can feel the sweat oozing out of nipples.
I understand it’s a case of mistaken identity but why couldn’t I possibly be the “owner” of the house instead of the cleaning lady? Given that I was wearing rubber gloves, an apron, and clogs covered in handpainted flowers, the mistake was unintentional if inevitable. But the gloves were made by Casabella and the clogs were from a Swedish catalogue called Hannah Anderson. In this instance, the details escaped her because what she saw instead was, like her, I was a person of color. In her mind, I couldn’t be anything other than....
But lady, I was wearing pearls! Huge, lustrous, South Sea pearls on my ear lobes. Perfect spheres the size of marbles. Anyone who knows pearls would know they weren’t from Carolee.
And there’s the rub: she knew nothing about pearls. Sigh. Next time, I will wear a tag that says, “Owner.” Now, let’s see if she can read.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I MUST CONFESS
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
About two months ago, I decided to go to Confession after an absence of, oh I don’t know, so many years. I did not have anything particular to say or confess. I had not committed any mortal sin that would have warranted my presence in the Confessional. It’s true that my mind wasn’t exactly fallow for all that time, preoccupied as it was with all sorts of adulterous, murderous, gluttonous thoughts but they don’t count.
I wish I could explain the impulse that possessed me to go but I can’t. Just did.
I chose to go in the afternoon when I assumed there were would be fewer people. I like walking into an empty church and having this big, voluminous space all to one’s self. Including me, there were nine others waiting their turn.
I felt awkward, nervous even. Like that nine-year old all over again kneeling before the sliding panel, waiting for it to open with a sharp noise, and seeing the silhouette of a man who could see me, all of me, but not the other way around. A man who usually came with a double chin and a voice that seemed to have risen from Hades. I remembered feeling trapped and claustrophobic, of not being able to escape, of being swallowed alive by my sins and this man.
What was I doing here?
I was up next. In the time it took me to walk over to the Confessional, I could have turned around just as quickly and left. But I’d gotten this far. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open...
...and stepped into a brightly lit cubicle the size of an airplane stall. Inside were two chairs next to each other, and on one of them, sat my parish priest whose eyes popped out as soon as he saw me. He looked like he really wanted to fall off his seat but there was no room. So instead, we giggled and chuckled as he invited me to take my place next to him as if we were old friends enjoying a quick cup of tea, knee to knee.
I know I was there for no more than ten minutes yet I could have stayed there forever. I wanted to keep on talking, saying every thing I had kept to myself all these years, no matter whether I made sense or not. Father M. sat there with his eyes closed, listening, nodding, smiling and not saying anything particular or meaningful in return.
By the time I left, the line had gotten longer. And I still couldn’t remember what brought me there in the first place.
About two months ago, I decided to go to Confession after an absence of, oh I don’t know, so many years. I did not have anything particular to say or confess. I had not committed any mortal sin that would have warranted my presence in the Confessional. It’s true that my mind wasn’t exactly fallow for all that time, preoccupied as it was with all sorts of adulterous, murderous, gluttonous thoughts but they don’t count.
I wish I could explain the impulse that possessed me to go but I can’t. Just did.
I chose to go in the afternoon when I assumed there were would be fewer people. I like walking into an empty church and having this big, voluminous space all to one’s self. Including me, there were nine others waiting their turn.
I felt awkward, nervous even. Like that nine-year old all over again kneeling before the sliding panel, waiting for it to open with a sharp noise, and seeing the silhouette of a man who could see me, all of me, but not the other way around. A man who usually came with a double chin and a voice that seemed to have risen from Hades. I remembered feeling trapped and claustrophobic, of not being able to escape, of being swallowed alive by my sins and this man.
What was I doing here?
I was up next. In the time it took me to walk over to the Confessional, I could have turned around just as quickly and left. But I’d gotten this far. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open...
...and stepped into a brightly lit cubicle the size of an airplane stall. Inside were two chairs next to each other, and on one of them, sat my parish priest whose eyes popped out as soon as he saw me. He looked like he really wanted to fall off his seat but there was no room. So instead, we giggled and chuckled as he invited me to take my place next to him as if we were old friends enjoying a quick cup of tea, knee to knee.
I know I was there for no more than ten minutes yet I could have stayed there forever. I wanted to keep on talking, saying every thing I had kept to myself all these years, no matter whether I made sense or not. Father M. sat there with his eyes closed, listening, nodding, smiling and not saying anything particular or meaningful in return.
By the time I left, the line had gotten longer. And I still couldn’t remember what brought me there in the first place.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
HELP: The Shiksa Dispenses Advice
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer.
“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them.
“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”
I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.
Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction.
The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.
OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.
Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?
I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all.
*not their real names
I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer.
“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them.
“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”
I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.
Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction.
The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.
OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.
Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?
I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all.
*not their real names
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