My dad went in search of THE book and never came back

My dad also dreamt of writing books. One was enough, he would say. With one book, all would make sense. One day, he went in search of THE book, and never came back. I would have preferred if it had been a pack of cigarettes. Clichés make me feel warm and cozy. 

On which I become productive. Well, sort of.

I have it! I can't believe I forgot about my life-long dream. Writing a book. That will productive. A book about… About… Hum.

I will get back to you on that one.

Who would have guessed accomplishment would feel this empty

-Change my old Razr phone for a blackberry or iPhone and tap inane notes on them continuously and manage (love this word) my… hummm… agenda.

-Subscribe to all new media and technology feeds and pretend I read them.

-Subscribe to FourSquare and pretend I have friends going places with whom I can network.

-Learn to knit my own black sweater.

-Learn how to paint nails properly as to look polished with perfect manicure instead of slovenly slut with chipped nails.

-Learn how to look poised so people will think I’m reliable and offer me responsibilities I don’t really want.

-Beg and bribe to become a contributor for the college paper despite being a foreigner.

And my favorite:

-Go to vernissages to network and feel artsy, therefore, becoming a full-fledged (and accomplished) poser.

I just made a list, which many sites cite as the fist step to a more productive life. Hurrah! I finally accomplished something!

Hum.

Who would have guessed  accomplishment would feel this empty.

On being more productive

So, talking about being productive… I’ve being doing some (productive?) research. From the more than 17 million hits on the net about How to Be More Productive, I come to the conclusion that  “Writing advice on productivity” should be tip number 1—although it’s mentioned in none of the million lists.

I am followed therefore I am

Sometimes I get despondent and feel that I should be more productive with my life. I never thought in those terms when I lived in Venezuela. There you are supposed to survive first (no easy task, let me tell you) and then eat, party, go to the beach or protest against the government… or protest against people who protest against the government.

But here, it seems life is measured in achievements.

And when I contemplate my life in those terms, it falls short. More than short: like really, really short.

Even if I put all the books I've read in one huge pile.

Most of my friends write at least one lovely pretentious blog where they explore deep and intellectual stuff (and contribute to another dozen), they then tweet about what they wrote and rehash it once more on the dozen profile pages they manage. And, of course, they take classes like “How to become a brand.”

For them, "followers" and "likes" are the measurement for achievement.

I have none (OK: 2, but they're good friends and follow me out of pity.)

Worst.

I want none. What is wrong with me?

"You are 19” Uncle M tells me. Yes. I agree. I’m 19. But so is everyone else… and look at them!

A single thought

—So why are you single? I ask Marta one long, boring afternoon we spent spotting artists-wannabe in Washington Square.

—Because I want to, she replies calmly, not defensively like most single chicks no matter the age.

Crap. One of the few women trained at birth to master The Rules, and she doesn’t give a damn.

A child of The Rules

My friend Marta is a child of The Rules. That’s how her adventurer-Spanish-mother-to-be caught her Jewish New Yorker husband. She has told Marta the story 100 times. And when Marta said to her “But you were from Spain? They don’t have Rules there!” she answered, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Which I guess means, “If a city is full of neurotic sheep-like morons, you must act like one in other to catch one.” But is it really worth it? Becoming even more of a moron in order not to be the only moron alone? Marta certainly thinks so. Her fate (and birth) rested on it.

How Mommy Met Daddy

Just came back from my “how to farm contacts for your online community” class where I asked around about The Rules. Expected faces of ‘what’, or ‘is that related to the Ten Commandments?’  Sore disappointment. Most American girls know about The Rules. That’s how, and I quote literally, ‘Mommy met Daddy.’ 

That was back in the 90s

But that was in the 90s. Is my generation, dating in the 10s, following those old fashioned absurdities? Aren’t we all about immediacy? We google people as we are being introduced to them. We know their educational, criminal and financial background before we finish the first beer. And by the time we get home, we have all of our social media network telling us those sordid little stories we really don’t want to hear (yet). Instant relationships. Almost like instant oatmeal, but not as healthy. 

The Rules could only have been created in the US

The concept “Rules to catch a guy” can only have been born here, in the US.

In Europe dating is sort of simple... at least at the beginning.

In Latin America even more so.

Here, you need rules. And you need to be trained to use them effectively (efficiency being key for romance… I guess?). And, of course, you have to pay for the training.

So your date may be paying for dinner (an absolute must according to The Rules) but you actually already invested a bundle to be trained… Which means you need a return of at least three or four dinner invitations to recoup your investment.

An interesting study: how many women got their penny worth of romance when using The Rules. 

Retro dating

There is a French chick in class called Garance. This chick, Garance, was talking about tricks to catch guys. Rules, she called them. It seems there was a book like 20 years ago that became the definite guide to fish a live one. Where I come from, you just get drunk, make dewy eyes and poom, they come and French kiss you until you are out of breath or on the verge of puking (sorry, but excess saliva does not agree with me.)

Yet after so many people talking about my lack of strategic thinking… I guess rules may not be such a crazy idea. Like not replying to every text message he sends you (hard, very hard, given it’s a very instantly gratifying habit although a definite nerve wrecker in the long term). 

On the art of writing

My teachers complain about my writing. If I am to be a serious writer I should have more technique. I should draw my readers in, maintain the tension, and hide things from them. Then, vroom!: surprise them. Just listening to them tires me. I give it (and write it) as I think, live, suffer, whatever.

‘Where is the strategy?!?’ would exclaim Uncle M. Glad he’s not here at the moment. Busy talking politics with old mates. They all agree that the WWII was caused by the stupid Versailles Treaty yet they spend ours discussing why it was so wrong. Guys, move on. We’re on the doors of WWIII for God’s sake. 

btw

Did I tell you I paid $4 for the coolest, warmest black winter sweater ever? H&M eat your shorts. Literally. I found those too at the thrift store. For $3.

On the need to type with my fingers

The need to tap with my fingers (yes, like there was an imaginary keyboard) while I talk or I think is extremely asinine. I’ve been trying to stop, but it creates too much anxiety (and remember, I’m all about instant gratification).

I picked up this “endearing” habit during one of my very “educational” internships at a magazine (two years ago, when some were still around, well, like… five.) For three months I spent 10 hours a day transcribing interviews of TV executives saying sentences like “content is king” or “you need to connect with the viewer” like it was something new and astonishing. After a few days I reached enough speed to type the BS as it was been delivered, not one word missing.

The little money I made during the internship was in fact the product of winning bets. “$20 says you can’t type that fast.” I would put on my “maybe you are right because after all I’m a moron” face, take out the recorder and press play—believe it or not, I was using an analogue recorder… with tapes, I’m telling you, quite retro and quite cool in fact. I still miss the sound or rewinding. In any case, digital or analogue, a freakingly distorted voice would come out and recite word by word what was written on the doc. The $20 holder would lose his smile by the first paragraph. Become slightly upset by the second graph. Kiss his $20 goodbye by the third one.

I told you before, don’t let accents fool you. Or moronic faces. 

By the end of the internship I had made enough to renew my wardrobe at the local thrift shop and had found the art of typing so soothing, it became my anxiety remedy du jour.  It still is.

Don't blame it on ADD

Every time I blame my eternal losses at chess on ADD, Uncle M scoffs.

—Stop using ADD as a crutch, darling. Face it. You’re just incapable of thinking beyond instant gratification. It’s your generation. No strategy whatsoever.

In chess or in life? In any case, ADD plus a tendency for instant gratification doesn’t bode that well, does it? Am I really part of a strategy-less, self-gratifying childish generation? Is it not just me like I thought? I need to tap my fingers. Now. 

Confusing genealogy

The fact that Uncle M is and is not my great grandfather sometimes confuses me. He’s in fact my granddad’s uncle but adopted him when his brother, my granddad’s dad, died. So we’ve always treated him as the great grandfather… Yet we call him uncle. Duality runs in my family. Confusion too. And drama. And Neuroses. And Prozac.

Adding ADD to the equation

As you see I have ADD, which means I get bored easily and can never focus on anything for very long. This sentence is already way too long.

Mr. Rushdie made me a blogger

The only thing I love more than books is writing. Not because I write well—I wish, but after reading Mr. Rushdie I wisely gave up all my literary ambitions—but because when I write in English, I have no accent. Grammatical mistakes: plenty. Odd constructions: even more so. But accent: zero. When I write a sentence on a paper, a text on my phone, or a joke on a chat, no one answers with that stupid “Where are you from?” Or the even scarier, “Your accent is so cute! I so do wish I had an accent, it’s so sexy.” Yeah, right. Ask Mexicans in Arizona if they think having an accent is cute or sexy. Having an accent is falling pray to profiling and misconception. You speak different, ergo you are different. You sound dumber, ergo you are dumber. Great! 

Although I do have to admit an accent may come handy at a certain point: people without accent never see people with accent coming.

Strategy-less in life

—Check.

What do you mean, “check”? Again? It’s always like that. I think I’m winning and, boom, Uncle M reverses our fortunes at the last minute, and then stares at me, badly hiding a smirk.

I’ve been playing with him all my life, which isn’t that long, but still. Can I win at least once?

I move my hand in protest and almost upset the chessboard, which is perilously balanced over a pile of dusty books. I need to tap my fingers on something. No free space. Every piece of furniture I own seems to be covered with papers, gadgets, magazines or books falling to pieces (I get most of them from recycling bins or second hand stores.)

—I really think I should get a digital reader, I say, slyly.

—Don’t you dare, answers an incensed Uncle M. Check.

Finally, my eyes land on a beaten copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula—Twilight fans: don’t even dare talk to me—I grab it and balance it on my right leg, while tapping on it with both hands. I feel soothed. Go ahead, Mate, I can take it now.

But Uncle M has not moved. Something is wrong. Maybe he has been bluffing. Maybe his check is not real, just a little maneuver to check my alertness. Or maybe…Maybe I forgot to make my move. 

Prologue

I’m sitting at a decrepit fruit juice bar in Soho, sipping the perfect combination of carrot and apple juice while reading the crappiest chick lit (I’m in heaven!) when this guy starts chatting me up. I smile dryly and try to get back to my book, but, no, Mr. Middle-management executive has decided to embark on a speech. Politics… blablabla… economics… blablabla. I try to act like I’m listening but can’t stop looking at my new shoes (new shoes are so much more interesting than platitudes) until I hear… “you and your people…” Oh, not again, please. I’ve had it from American boyfriends, coworkers, acquaintances and even from a lovely couple I was traveling with for a few days in China (honey, I voted to support you and your people.)

You and your people. What sort of sentence is this? Who are my people? My family? My friends? Hispanics? Do people forget how many people speak Spanish around the world and how different they are?

Even worse: how do you know I’m even Latina. Because in my case, I’m actually Belgian… Well, sort of. I was born in Brussels from a Belgian father and a Spanish mother. One grandfather is a Spaniard; the other two are Belgians (don’t ask me why I have three grandfathers, it’s a long story). One grandmother came from Cadiz and the other was born in Cologne. I grew up in Venezuela, where I have a bunch of Venezuelan cousins, and now live in NY. I have family living in 5 different countries and speaking at least three different languages. So, I ask again, who are my people?

But when you are wearing new shoes and the sky is blue, why even go there. The best thing is just to smile and sweetly say: ‘Can I have another fabulous juice, pleeeeasssse? Oh…A make it extra large’… And let the bastard pay.