Mechanical Allegories

December 29, 2010


There is a joke that says that men are like parking spots, all the good ones are taken. Well, that depends on what you consider a good parking spot, my friend. At my age, I have given up circling the mall looking for the perfect spot when I go shopping. I actually look for the furthest spot, preferably in the shade. You probably think this is some kind of metaphor about how my priorities have shifted and my standards have lowered now that I'm older and it is more difficult to find men. Well, let me tell you, finding men – at any age – is as easy as “walking” into a chat room and typing, “Hi, my name is Lolita and I'm here to party!”


The reason I started parking far from the entrance to the mall started as and oft-suggested technique to get a little extra exercise into my day. You've read about it: park far and walk, climb the stairs instead of the elevator, shower in pairs. I may be wrong about the last one.


Anyway, I started to park farthest from the entrance in order to burn 7 calories, now I do it because it's convenient. As soon as I roll into the mall, I turn to the right or left and, voila! There, all along the border of the parking lot are scores of empty parking slots. This, of course, does not apply to holidays. I park, preferably under a tree, I close my car and I walk to the battlefield, passing scores of circling cars with annoyed chauffeurs inquiring: “Are you leaving? Are you parked close? HELP ME, PLEASE!!! I NEED TO SHOP!”


How far is it to the mall entrance, anyway? Has anyone done any research as to how many SECONDS you have to walk to the nearest door? Is that much shopping time lost? It takes an average of 61 seconds between parking far away and shopping bliss versus 71 seconds of circling. If you don't' believe me, check out Ivan Peterson's Math Trek.*


No one ever fights over a parking space at the fringes of the mall lot. No one, that is, except during holidays, that time of year when some people tend to feel lonely and depressed. Well, some people. I park far because I choose to, not because I have to.


Anyway, enough with that metaphor. On to another one.


When I was a young woman, I had my preferences as far as men went. They had to be very tall, very thin and preferably with dirty blonde hair. It so happens, most of the time that was the type of man I attracted. Opposites attract, you see, since I'm 5'4" and quite tanned. I have had two marriages and one long-term relationship since then. Only one was over six feet, none had blonde hair. With time, one realizes that what is attractive is not always on the surface.


These days, I smile inwardly when I hear young women talking about, "I don't like black men." "I hate like fat men." "I would never date an Asian guy." What? It's like going to a buffet and picking the same thing over and over. Me? I'll take the smothered pork with collard greens, the sausage lasagna and some Kung Pao Shrimp, please. And for dessert?


I'll have a parking space in the shade.


* http://www.maa.org/mathland/mathtrek_12_12_05.html

Quiero que me hagas el amor

December 27, 2010

This evening, after work, I was at my usual hangout: the supermarket. I'm moseying around aimlessly – as I refuse to ever write a list of what I need. This leads to buying too much of what I don't need, and very little of what I do need. There is an inordinate amount of mature couples tonight, I notice. Not necessarily elderly, but older. Tired. Bored. Sick of each other. A particular couple catches my eyes – and ears – because they are American. Not just American, NEW YORKERS. That accent is unmistakable, probably because I share in it. But my version has a little Puerto Rico in it, knowhattamean?

Anyway, the husband (I am asuming, as no one else could be this sour looking next to a woman) is walking next to his wife, discussing the prices of various luncheon meats. He seems offended that prices have risen a tad since the vietnam war. So he's walking, with that waddle that so many gentlemen seem to acquire with age, and he's mumbling to himself and/or his wife, whoever listens.

At this point, the supermarket speakers begin to pour forth a song by Ednita Nazario, "Quiero que me Hagas el Amor." Lyrics follow:

Ednita Nazario

Quiero que me hagas el amor

No necesariamente
Tiene que ser ahora
No necesariamente
Tiene que ser urgente
Pero una furia loca
Pone mi sangre ardiente
¯Qué será? ¿Qué será?
¯Qué será? ¿Será el amor?

No necesariamente
Tiene que ser aprisa
Pero hoy quiero abrazarte
Perderme en tu sonrisa
Hazme llegar al cielo
Con un latido eterno
Lento, lento, lento

Quiero que tú me ames
Cómo si fuera única
Quiero que me acorrales
En el rincón más íntimo
Y enredada a tu cuerpo
Te robaré el aliento
Quiero que me hagas el amor
Quiero que me hagas el amor

No necesariamente
Tiene que ser perfecto
Deja volar tu mente
Entre el amor y el sexo
Bajo esta luna blanca
Danza feliz mi cuerpo

No necesariamente
Tiene que ser legítimo
Quiero entregarme toda
Y que sea recíproco
Hazme temblar el alma
Hasta la luz del alba
Furia, calma, furia, calma

Quiero que tú me ames
Como si fuera única
Quiero que me acorrales
En el rincón más íntimo
Y enredada a tu cuerpo
Te robaré el aliento
Quiero que me hagas el amor
Quiero que me hagas el amor, oh, oh
Quiero que me hagas el amor
Quiero que me hagas... el amor

For those of you who don't know Spanish, get a translator! I understand you may lose a little in the translation, so I will give you the gist of it.

This is a woman who's, shall we say, in need?  She starts slowly, calmly telling this man who may or may not be her significant other, that she wants him to TEAR IT UP! She's basically saying to him: “Dude, you're a lion, I'm a gazelle. Any questions?”

This desperate crescendo gets increasingly less figurative as the song builds up (if you'll pardon the oxymoron). In any event, the song is pretty hot and to the point, which makes me take notice of the men (of course) again, but, as I stated earlier, it was oatmeal and prune night at the store.

I start thinking about these men and how they would have responded to this request if they had a few years (okay, a few decades) less on their baggage. The men were all pretty much healthy (they were walking, weren't they?), many had a full head of hair and strong arms still. I wondered about the come hither look my New York husband would give his lady, how their bodies would warm up and their neurons would start to fire. Furia, Calma, Furia, Calma! I stopped myself short of imagining the end of the song, if you knowhattamean. I did not need to throw up on the nice polished floor.

Since I am obviously still a very sexual person and it doesn't look like my drive is going anywhere any time soon, I can't help but to wonder: what's it gonna be like when I'm moseying around the supermarket next to my waddler. Am I going to be a sex-starved housewife, blaming the produce for being so provocative? Who decides when I stop having sex? A man? Really? Depressing.

I'm a hopeless romantic, I don't want little bursts of adventure. I believe in love and marriage and so on and so forth. I want a man to share the rest of my life with, someone I can live happily ever after with.

As soon as my divorce is finalized.

Pause

December 24, 2010

As I put in a big fat 10lb pernil in the oven this morning, I realize, this may not be the best time of year to start the diet/exercise penitence.

I have been on vacation all week and my mission has been to gain weight, it seems.

Maybe next year.

Realization

December 14, 2010

Today I heard again, for the umpteenth time, the following question: “When are you going to find a man?” it was followed by, “I don't want you to grow old alone.” This second part was added by my daughter who is studying in France and is blissfully not alone. Of course, I am not alone, I have an apartment full of children. I call them children, even though the youngest is all of sixteen. At the moment I have the two 'boys' and the girlfriend of one of the 'boys' living with me. It's crowded, noisy and fun. I don't mind, keeps me young.

Anyway, back to the question. When am I going to find a man? In this case a replacement man, since I ended a 10-year relationship last Spring and aparently I have an EXPIRATION DATE on my forehead.

The question is: Do I? Do I have an expiration date, other than the obvious one? Are women prone to spoil if they don't find a buyer in a suitable amount of time? Will green mold start to grow on my privates? Do my pheromones smell like Penicillin? I have to know!

So, I have decided to find the Man, the Saviour, the stale goods purchaser. I will do the diet and the excercise penitence; I will remember to apply facial creams every night; I will buy more provocative clothing; I will even meditate my wishes. And finally, I will make my friends change the question to: “Where have you been? We never see you anymore since you got a new man.” Let's face it, these are the same friends who will be consoling me a year from now, telling me how rebound relationships never work!

Yes, I will give my self a year to do this. And I will document this madness. If I don't find a suitor – heck, a booty call – in this alloted time, well, I don't know. What happens to stale bread?