Orange Palpation

I stood there, leaned actually, against the counter in the kitchen chewing on a piece of papaya. Orange encrusted onto the rivets of my fingers. Slippery, loose and free falling. I hold on for dear life. I held on like a pro. Only years of papaya eating could a man, such as myself, attain the needed skills to balance a slice of papaya between his thumb and index. Two slices. The very last ones. Gone in Sixty Seconds...try that one on for size Nicholas Cage. I balled up my napkin, imprinted with the orangeness of my palpation, and tossed it into the open garbage disposal. With water running, I let the plate bathe. I wondered, as I grabbed and moved the spout of the water, changing its course along the surface of the plate, what will the plate be used for next? I mean, I noticed that plates are always being used, washed, and then reused. What will its next job be? Will it be used for mac and cheese? Mom's "special" meatloaf? Leftover chicken? Maybe it'll be forgotten about and won't be used until later, way later, during a Christmas dinner party where my aunt Maria will reach far back into the cupboard and pull out an old dusty plate, blow onto it, run it under water, and spoon mashed potatoes onto it. Are we just like plates? Easily manipulated? Or look at it in a more optimistic way. We can handle anything thrown or placed upon us. We'll keep our heads up and face impossible odds, no matter what they may be. Apple pie? Two pounds of chow mein? Maybe even papaya. But what the most interesting commonality we share maybe the fact that we both can live through the ordeal and be reborn. Washed clean and able to do it all over again.



Shits, I gotta go do the dishes, I'll talk to you later.
" Coming DAD!"

So, I was picking up dog shit earlier today and I realized something. I've been pretty down lately and I was wondering why. Well, to tell you the truth, I do know why, but I think it helps to pretend you don't know why sometimes. So then you can wonder why you're sad and then maybe you could pretend you're not. Well, I was thinking about it and all and I thought its okay to be depressed sometimes. I looked at it like a seesaw. You know, that thing they don't have in playgrounds anymore because they're unsafe and what not. So, I thought to myself "hey, maybe depression is just like a seesaw. Sometimes you're down, and sometimes you're up. You just need to know that you won't stay down forever because eventually, that other kid sitting on the other side of you will bring you up, and that kid will go down. It's a depressing way to think of it but at the same time very uprising. Everyone goes through it, even that kid sitting across from you. So just hang on there buddyroo" I felt pretty good after that so I went inside and voluntarily did the dishes. My dad was peering into the refrigerator and picking up random foods and asking me who were they for.
"Who's sandwich is this?"
"Mine."
"Whatta bout this burrito?" he inquired, holding a tamale.

Wow you know what? I was expecting a better post. It sounded good in my head while I was picking up doggie doodoo, but ehhh..whatever. I'm gonna go down on that seesaw now.

Poo.

My brother and dad were arguing again during dinner. I don't remember what it was about but my brother finished his food and went upstairs. After my brother left, I looked at my dad and asked him if he loved my brother, Victor. He erupted in laughter, rice flying everywhere and what not. It was pretty hysterical. I asked him again, more seriously, but he just kept on laughing.
"What a silly question," he said.
"Do you?" I persisted. He quieted a little and swallowed his food.
"What kind of question is that?"
"I wanna know!"
"I love everyone," he said. Suddenly my mom came from underneath her rock and spoke up.
"You never say it," she proclaimed.
"Yeah, you never do," I concurred.
"Why do I have to say it?" asked my dad.
"Because, they need to know,"she said. But then you know Duy and all, he had to go and say one of the cheesiest things ever.
"Maybe he doesn't have to say it. Maybe he shows us his love everyday through his actions"
Basically, I killed the conversation and my dad told me to go clean up Parmesan's crap. Ta da.

You Don't Even Speak Spanish!

My mom tends to be the strangest person in my family. I call her the multiplier. You tell her "Hey we're out of milk" and she'll go out and bring home like 200000 gallons of the white stuff. My dad goes crazy. Haha. I also call her "mannerless" because this one time at this one restaurant, there was a huge waiting line to being seated. It snaked outside, through the double doors, and out around the back. There was a man standing behind a podium writing down and crossing out names of people who were waiting to be seated. What my mom did was amazing, even for her. She walked across the floor, went behind the podium, grabbed the pen from the poor man's hand, and began to write down her name and the amount of people in her party. The man's face was of pure shock. My sister and I made faces. We couldn't believe our eyes.
"What the hell are you doing mom?"
"I'm signing us in."
"Yeah I can SEE that..but you can't just take the guy's pen out of his hand and start writing."
It was pretty embarrassing.
Anyways, that was nothing compared to what a saw a few weeks ago. This one was really strange. I walked into the kitchen and I saw my mom sitting down at the kitchen table cutting carrots or whatever moms usually do at the kitchen table I don't quite remember. Anyways, what was very strange was that she was watching the Spanish channel. I had to take a double take.
"What in the world? Mom?"
No answer..
"Mom? Why are you watching the Spanish channel? You don't even speak Spanish!"
She was off in her own little Spanish world. It was REALLY weird. You had to be there. I was like "wtf" the entire day. Even through all of the weirdness, I do love my mom. I really do. With all my heart. I think that's kinda where I got my weirdness from, my mom. Anyways, I just kinda wish she came with an instruction booklet though. =P