Sunday (Monday?) Confessional

It's technically Monday here, but it is still Sunday night to me. I have an inexplicable urge to scribble my confessions right now, to secure them with one cathartic click of the "Publish Post" button and hurl them into the blue. Honestly, I'm not sure why it matters. Lately I recall that blog is a 4-letter word, after all. Why must I do it? What, if anything, do I hope to gain? Perhaps I'm writing in hope that someone across the virtual sea will find this bottle and "get me," or perhaps some part of me wishes to record my narcissistic musings in order to re-read them years later and laugh at my puerile notions and awful writing. In either case, this is all rather self-centered. But hey, people are but animals, and animals are selfish bastards by nature.

At any rate, tonight I confess, not sins, but torments, to the Universe:

1. I'm never going to read every book I'd like to read (Duh, right?). This is a truth which causes me irrational but immense anguish.

2. I frequently prefer books to people. Sometimes I don't answer your call because I'm reading. I often disregard the demands of my job, my spouse, my family and friends to spend an evening in rapt conversation with a book. I’m not exactly penitent about this; however, at times I wish I wanted to be less detached.

3. Lately I recognize that half of me, the part that thinks and dreams and speaks en Español, el idioma de mis padres, del hogar de mi juventud, is drowning in a sea of American dreams. I’m terrified at how much of me I’ve lost already. When I lose half of my words, half of myself, who will I be? How will I find the language to sing the sorrow of losing my language?

100 Words: Sunday Venus

On a Sunday afternoon, I stand naked before the bathroom mirror as the four o’clock sunlight pours through slits in the window blinds, painting stripes across my glossy skin. I’ve slept away the week’s calamities and traded To Do lists for doing nothing, and for a fantastic fraction of time I am divinity made flesh. Onyx curls frame olive skin and contend with mahogany eyes for center stage. Each arc, each slope of shoulder, breast, and hip becomes an unmapped Eden, an unsung epic, until –  a hoary tendril, a traitorous wrinkle, a jagged scar proclaims this goddess a mere mortal.

Another Sunday Confessional

I am becoming exactly what I always wanted to be when I grew up. That doesn't happen for many people; I should feel blessed. I do feel blessed. But today I dream of the days when I had nothing, owned nothing, but nebulous dreams.

I remember a seventeen year-old Nadya, napping in a corner booth of the diner in between double shifts. I remember sleeping soundly, pleased with the morning's tips, which I would dutifully save in my college fund on my day off. I remember the euphoria and despair of young love, feverish first kisses and violent heartbreaks. I remember pimples and bad hair days and fashion blunders and chuckle at the realization that time does not alter everything.

I remember forceful encounters with mortality. I remember dying. I remember the hand that pulled me from hell and the mouth that breathed cool air into my burning lungs. I remember the crushing gratitude and elation I felt when I'd been given a second life. I remember decisively setting out to deserve it.

I remember the pang of - something - which reminded me that I'd left someone behind, buried among the mort and rubble. I remember jam-packing my new life with enough distractions to muffle each twinge. It almost worked. Except, of course, for the fact that I still remember.

Sunday Confessional

Last week I began a light-hearted new tradition on the blog, the Sunday Confessional. Read here for more info. Today I'd like to confess my feelings about your fashion choices. That of course requires me to admit that I am no fashionista. I often mismatch my clothes and flaunt the fads a year too late. I never 'do' my hair and I'm lucky if I remember to put on underwear, let alone put together a fabulous outfit. But I, like most of us, am nonetheless a critic, and here are my confessions about your style choices:

I silently scorn people who wear

• Shorts in public (unless you're at the beach or on a hike)
• Flipflops to church
• Bras with strapless tops
• The Snooki hairdo - WTFuck is up with your hair?
• Cropped pants - Will Utah women ever give up the cropped pants? No one else wears them anymore!
• Che Guevara shirts (because  most of you have no idea who you're wearing)

I privately admire people who

• Defiantly keep and show off their body hair (like men who let their chest fur poke out of their shirts)
• Wear itty-bitty swimsuits at the beach - especially when they are unflattering
• Never wear makeup
• Don't mind wearing the same outfit today as yesterday - they only wore it for a couple hours last night...

Feel free to confess your own sins, whether fashion-related or not, in the comments!

Sunday Confessional – An Irreverent New Tradition on the Blog :)

Bless me, readers, for I have sinned. As a child I used to rush to confession regularly and rattle off my list of juvenile transgressions to my patient priest, who bit his lip to keep from laughing and assured me that my horrid behavior would be forgiven for the price of five Hail Marys and seven Lord's Prayers.  These days I’m no longer a Catholic but periodically feel the need to confess my evil deeds. From now on, this blog functions as a confession booth every Sunday! I will confess my wicked thoughts and actions (mostly tongue-in-cheek) and you should do so as well in the comments. Confess and save your souls!

My misdeeds this week: Impure thoughts

1.       Whenever I see someone bent over with their ass in the air while picking something up, I briefly feel an urge to push them down.  

2.       I’ve had so many naughty dreams about George Clooney that I feel as though I know the guy. At this point, he should have a key to my apartment and keep a toothbrush in my bathroom. Maybe even meet my folks. I think he and my dad would hit it off.

3.       I avoid using the garbage disposal because every time I turn it on I fight an irrational desire to stick my hand inside.

4.       I’m imagining you naked right now.

5.       I think most newborns are hideous. If I ever told you that your baby was cute, I lied.

6.       I have a ginormous crush on Rachel Maddow. I daydream about spending an evening with her, engrossed in passionate discussion about the Middle East peace process over grilled cheese sandwiches and Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Could you please pass the ketchup, Rach? I can call you Rach, right?