Author: Toda La Pesca

The Doorman in My Bewbz

I spent my last full week in Madrid wearing yoga pants and singing Santana’s “María María” as I cared for a teenager of the same name.  I was having a blast but feeling pretty suburban so to welcome the weekend I wore an outfit that made me feel like a prostitute on her way to a high-school orchestra concert. It’s difficult to say whether wearing a push-up bra makes me feel sexy or if it’s just that I enjoy the feeling I get from tricking weird men into whooping at what are really just two well-sculpted pillows. Jose María, the doorman, had rung me before I went out to tell me he had a package waiting for me and that I’d better come get it since it was his last day.

Now, I’m five foot ten or eleven in heels and Jose María is five foot on a good day. He ushered me into his office where I explained that the package contained a tablecloth made by my great-grandmother. The top of his head ended right at my big fake cleavage and I tried really hard not to laugh as he told me about his retirement plans. I wished that someone were painting us. They could title it:

Jose María and an Awkward Glamazon or
Tiny Doorman Passes Parcel to Possible Prosti or
Could Franco Have Foreseen This?

No one painted us, as far as I know. I crouched down to give him the customary dos besos and then walked out, me and that century old tablecloth both marveling at where we’d ended up.

How To Pack in 24 Self-Reflective Steps

I’ve done a lot of market research on lifestyle blogs/listicles and I’ve noticed that a lot of people seek help when it comes to putting their things in bags and then traveling with them, so I thought I’d share my own method. I’ve been packing this way for years and its always worked for me.

  1. Take your suitcase out of the closet. Open it.
  2. Walk away from the suitcase.
  3. Put a wig on.
  4. Take a casual selfie:IMG_20170702_233124_817
  5. Think: I am lookin’ like a drowned, harassed rat (then wonder who wrote that line in “Let’s Have a Kiki” and envy them).
  6. Start playing one or two songs on repeat. This year I’m listening to Rihanna’s “Love on The Brain” and “Higher.” The best lines are “What do I gotta do to get in yo’ mothafuckin’ heart?” and “I just really need your ass with me,” respectively.
  7. Receive a message from a friend with a link to Tina Turner’s  1982 performance of “Proud Mary” and then spend between ten and thirty minutes freaking out about how amazing Tina Turner and her legs are.
  8. Clean out the pockets of your winter coats and wonder why it is always in the pockets of said coats that the most bittersweet of memories live.
  9. Read your old journals and feel mildly embarrassed. Destroy between twelve and fifteen pages after you deem them too dramatic and/or dirty for public consumption in the event that you suffer an untimely death and someone has to go through your things.
  10. Take the wig off and feel a little bit sad about it.
  11. Have a brief panic attack when you think you’re a year older than you actually are.
  12. Have lunch.
  13. Have a coffee.
  14. Have a tiny mental breakdown as you compare your life today to your life at this same moment last year. Entertain the possibility that you are making all of the wrong decisions, all of the time. Realize that you feel this same way when you compare your life two weeks ago to your life today and resolve to be more carpe diem because, seriously, who cares?
  15. Think for a good bit about the absurdity of being afraid.
  16. Repeat Step # 4.
  17. Start folding and stacking clothing. Find a slim journal among a pile of t-shirts, start reading it, and begin to suspect that your past self planted emotional bombs all over your room in some kind of sick plan to thwart your departure.
  18. Start taking your books off the shelf, smelling the pages, and remembering where and why you read each of them.
  19. Wish someone would bring you a snack and a proper iced coffee.
  20. Throw all of your clothing on top of your suitcase, reasoning that, while this does not qualify as packing, at least it has gotten closer to its final destination.
  21. Repeat Step # 6.
  22. Make and eat dinner.
  23. Call your sister to inquire about how many formal dresses you’ve left in the closet at home. Although you have no plans to attend any black tie events during your visit, this feels urgent. Chat for an hour with multiple family members about eyebrows, taxes, and “Ice Cream Jerks.”
  24.  Write a stupid list about everything you just did and promise yourself that you’ll make more progress tomorrow (cuz you’re responsible as eff and started this three days early).

Luv and pride,

Seo

I Don’t Need a Calendar

Dec7th 022

I know it’s May when I start thinking about getting a career counselor and fantasizing about being reborn as a bohemian richboi.

Bohemian Richboi: Mid-twenties/early thirties, smart guy, lives in a lovely apartment but has never paid rent. Two Masters deep. Parents: biological Mom & Dad and also The State.

In Spanish: Hijo de papá.

I don’t really want to be a bohemian richboi, of course. I like paying my own bills. I get membership, at least, in one of the biggest but most exclusive clubs on earth: people who pay and have little left over. I am willing to admit that I might only say this because I am brainwashed to believe that there is something to be proud of about having less. It is also possible that I just like having something to tell myself when a BRB annoys me. The truth is that I too want to live in libraries and on bar-stools. I too want to believe that knowing the name Jacques Derrida makes me better than.

“Whatever, at least the money I use to buy beer and say stupid things is mine.”

A man I love often said “No sabe hacer la ‘o’ con un canuto.” We used this idiom for a lot of things. She may be a doctor of Philosophy, but she doesn’t know how to save a file. He may have written 400 pages on Economic Theory, but he doesn’t know how to ask the waiter for the check. She may be this country’s premier Agricultural Scientist, but ya boo has never touched a shovel.

“The conversations of straight white men…” a friend of mine says. He never completes the sentence. We have our own ways of making people small, less about who’s read what and who’s been where than it is about OK, who here has ever wanted or really thought about what that might mean?

I went to Warsaw two weeks ago. A man I know thinks that people who live in cold places have better senses of humor. I stayed with a stranger who became a friend. On the midnight bus to Ostrobramska we laughed so hard that our ribs hurt and tears jumped from our eyes.

“What’s the best thing about being Polish?” I asked a factory worker on the Vistula River.

“I am proud of being Polish. We are poor but we have fought for our history” my new friend translated.

I may not be a BRG but I do have enough to dip into worlds that aren’t mine and drink wine there.

A thing called “wealth therapy” exists. It’s often geared towards those who have inherited their fortunes. Therapists teach trust fund babies how to overcome the guilt that being part of the 1% creates and how to accept their fortunes and reach their full potentials (note: the BRB and the trust fund baby are not the same but surely they have some things in common). I read an article about group therapy of this type at Central Park. The group must smell very good. Rich people always seem like they’ve just had a shower. There are tiny AC units under their armpits that puff out essential oils at all the right moments. I can’t be the only one who thinks so. One man in the article said that being rich felt like his “dirty little secret.” It is not possible for me to take this seriously.

He was born, had everything he could ever wish for, and grew up to be successful” is not the sort of story that anyone I know is interested in, but I certainly don’t feel bad for the main character.

Where does rich guilt fall on the hierarchy of shame?

It was May. It ended quickly.

Luv and labor,

Seo

In case you ever wondered how your weirdass middle-school teacher started her days…

As someone who is perpetually behind the times, it’s no surprise that I just started watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, now in its ninth season. As someone with a deep and unshakable love for theatrics and men who are prettier than I am, it’s also no surprise that I’m ADDICTED.

I’m convinced that I’ve seen six to nine Drag Queens on my morning commute. I’ve also begun the past three days lip-sycning to Diana Ross in my bedroom mirror (complete with choreography that will never see the light of day. Again, neighbors, I’m sorry but not sorry).

 

Happy Tuesday Queens,

Seo

I will never grow so old again

Listening to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks is exactly like living in the most painful, beautiful dream you’ve ever had. Very James Joyce. Very makes me want to dance down the metro aisles and also lay down in the middle of the road and cry and also jump into some sea, any sea, and run down an empty street with a lover or with a friend or alone, laughing until the end of time.

irelandpark

Kildare, Ireland 2016

“Sweet Thing” means something different every year, but has been an especially prominent song in my life lately and often played on repeat (sorry not sorry, neighbor). It’s like being a child again. It’s like falling in love with life, with yourself, with someone new after two-million heavy nights. Like getting younger every year. Like looking at the same old world you’ve always lived in and seeing it for the first time again. Like not looking for answers, “being satisfied not to read in between the lines.” Like surrendering to a gorgeous madness. “Hey, it’s me, I’m dynamite and I don’t know why.”

From 1968 with love,

Seo