Tony Barrera

Posted on February 28, 2017 by TeaandBonnets

I’ve been thinking recently about the aura of my home. Sometimes it feels warm and cozy, and other times as if a hurricane of Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons and running shoes has ravaged it. There are days when clutter or not, it is just very quiet. I love the stillness when the television is off, the kettle has piped down, sports radio is muted, and we are all settled in our respective spots for the afternoon. The sun streams in through the windowpanes onto the back of the sofa, its rays gently caressing pudgy cat asleep on the radiator. A few feet away, light snoring rises from the ground as the redhead basset dreams of juicy steaks and wide grassy fields.

Así me gusta a mí. That was the name of a fantastic dance song from my youth (also featured in Penélope Cruz’s breakout film “Jamón, Jamón”). And well, that is how I like it – peaceful, low murmurs, gentle gradual movements. Now when the house and its members are actively engaged in the business of living, I am easily ruffled: treadmill spinning, doors opening, hurried footsteps up and down wooden stairs, greedy lapping of water from bowls, shower jets roaring, and so much more.

But the rare occasions when the house and I can carve out our time to just be, are when I am at my best. I like to slip into a satin kimono robe to really get the ambience going. I sit in a grey armchair, taking the time to place its matching ottoman in front of me for my tired legs. A cup of warm cucumber white tea is waiting on one side of me, and a tall glass of lemony water on the other; that is how you erase the memory of the chocolate chocolate chip muffin and three coffees from the morning. I hear the floorboards creak every so often. And not much else.

Now that dance song from my youth was truthfully about drugs. And big electronic dance music parties (before they were called that) in rundown warehouses, or on neglected expanses of beaches, or in open fields at the edges of towns around the world. And all of that me gusta. Mucho. I often feel my truest self when I am surrounded by that loud bass thumping. Minus the drugs of course, heaven forbid.

And so it is the house and I agree that some afternoons are for silent rejoicing, where we remain observant, gleefully setting aside most external stimulants, and just keeping our mouths shut for a few hours. And other afternoons, heading into early evenings, should throb with a little drum and bass, the pitter patter of animal children demanding dinner, and the clinking sounds of someone fixing a cocktail. Así me gusta a mí. Also.

Fountainhead of Youth

Posted on February 29, 2016 by TeaandBonnets

The other day, I was sitting at a bar and chatting with a friend, when the subject turned to cosmetic procedures. I realized I had had a similar conversation with another friend a few weeks before. And another with a third friend a couple of months before that. The common theme in the discussions? Cosmetic enhancements: everyone does them. And despite this repetitive conclusion, I sat shell-shocked on my bar stool.

I’m not entirely sure why, since my current YouTube obsession is an anti-cellulite massage video (please reference the “Step by Step” post). My Friday night guilty pleasure consists of smearing Vaseline all over my face (right after using it on the wood furniture). I also just fulfilled a dream of shopping for snail essence masks at the Seoul airport. I get our obsession with physical appearance.

Yet, I was dumbstruck by the fact that regular people, walking my streets, drinking Trader Joe’s wine and buying Gap turtlenecks were elevating the beauty game to a whole new level. We’re not talking about reality stars or ex-heads of state. We are talking about the chick with the baseball cap and fleece vest, halfway through her pint of Miller Lite, at the corner Irish dive bar.

And then there’s that: a quest for youth isn’t reserved for those over sixty, or even thirty. It’s now actually for the youth. Ah, what bright eyes she has, you wax nostalgically over a young lass walking by. Go ahead and sing your praises, but direct them to the professional aesthetician that skillfully glues custom-sized fake lashes onto tiny human eyelashes. Repeat monthly.

Debating Botox and wondering about that whole “losing your expressiveness” chatter? Don’t – for all your friends, strangers, and children’s babysitters have already injected themselves. No one else is cogitating about it, and yes, you can still tell when they are mad at you.

Since my adolescence, I have occasionally felt guilty about my frivolous interest in clear skin, and shiny hair that smelled like roses. But now I suddenly feel like an out-of-date Victorian forced into modern times. I can often relate to the Victorians, but that’s an entirely different subject.

Should I have pumped collagen into my jaw line at nineteen, instead of buying one ugly pair of Doc Martens after another? Why oh why did I ever frown at the blackboard during the mystery that was Microeconomics? I should have feigned comprehension, and then immediately asked a pre-med student to transplant ankle fat onto my forehead. And peptides – why am I still not sure what they are, when all the ten year-olds on my block are massaging them into their necks?

I know rationally it’s not a race to keep up; but if it were, the reality is that I am barely at the starting point. I will never meet the requirements for ultimate cosmetic maintenance. It might be because my recent conversation with a Buddhist monk excited me as much as finding French brands at the Walgreens’ beauty counter. It could also be because I believe dog slobber is a highly effective antioxidant. Clinical results to come.

Step by step

Posted on January 12, 2016 by TeaandBonnets

Me: “Do you want to pick up the takeout now, or shall we do it in an hour?”

My mother: “Why do you have zits on your face?”

And that, my friends, is how you silence an adult.

I was as mortified as any fourteen year-old. I could have delivered a million excuses: changing seasons; PMS or early menopause; E. coli-infested chocolate; the dog licked my face. But silence seemed a more dignified response.

I suspected I would rush home after dinner and desperately pound the keyboard Googling “good skin gone bad.” But in my newfound quest to embrace acceptance and its colleagues (non-judgment, self-love, positive thoughts, et al.), I let it go. Instead of focusing on selfish, superficial worries that would hopefully vanish in a few weeks, I would concentrate on solving bigger problems – afflictions that had plagued generations of women and many men, at a global level without discrimination. Afflictions like cellulite.

I did my research, and a few days later, a French company’s brainchild arrived at my door. When in doubt, always go French. There is zero probability they will prescribe heavy exercise or fat-free living. I unraveled the instructions with excitement. One may think there isn’t much to learn about applying creams. But which finger should you use? Is it a circular motion, or more oval? Tapping or light massage? Clock-wise? I don’t like to chance it.

The instructions came in six language versions, two of them Asian ones. This was an excellent sign. If the ladies of Tokyo and Beijing were buying this up, it had to deliver.

There were eight illustrations of a lovely naked woman with her hair in a perfect ballerina bun. First, sit on the floor, back straight up against a wall, with legs outstretched – easily done. And then I stopped understanding. For in the next picture, the young woman appeared to be going into labor, as she sat with knees bent, pushing apart her thighs with her hands. And there were arrows shooting up the sides of her legs. And, wait, was she now lying on the floor shoving her pelvis up into the air? Rosemary’s cellulite baby.

The written portion offered little help, with its multi-step approach (phase 2, part 1, zone 3), and incremental stretches for those “accustomed to exercise.” I tried to muddle through the other language versions, but all were as clear as mud. I felt dejected as I set the instructions down. I would never complete the “natural draining process,” or have “refined buttocks.”

Alone and scared, I tried to find some glimmer of hope. I sat on the bed and opened up a blank page on my laptop; I typed the number 1. I find lists to be very comforting. And slowly the letters flowed from my fingers onto the screen: 1. Fine greasy hair 2. Callouses and/or corns 3. Ashy knees.

There were many more global maladies out there for me to solve.

Pride Before the Fall

Posted on July 31, 2015 by TeaandBonnets

It was a sunny summer morning, a Monday morning, to be precise. I had just finished walking the dog and found myself with twenty extra minutes to spare before beginning my commute. I suppose it was the fact that for once I did not touch the snooze button, but rather, got out of bed exactly when my phone commanded me to.

Gifted with this sudden luxury of time, I recalled how many successful world leaders had morning rituals of meditation, visualization, or affirmations that set the tone for their days. I seized their spirit and invested my extra minutes into frothing my cappuccino to perfection, and mindfully sprinkling cinnamon freckles on top.

Even with that feat accomplished, I had some remaining time. I felt like indulging. Surely I deserved it after waking up unusually early and getting the redhead basset into bikini-ready shape. The sun was streaming in through the kitchen window, and I sheepishly looked at him lying on the tiled floor. “Go ahead, I won’t judge,” his giant brown eyes said. Or they could have been asking “When’s lunch?” Either way, I took it all as a green light and opened the kitchen door to the deck.

There in all its morning glory was a magnificent tan hulking specimen. Smooth and perfectly golden. Surrounded by six equally sublime companions. I gawked, unable to take my eyes away, fully aware I was letting my baser desires take over.

They looked as young and shiny as the day they arrived in my home many years ago. All my sins magically erased. As they let themselves be stroked, I recalled all the drunken nights of spilled red wine and melted candles. No evidence remaining. Oh, my deck table and chairs, freshly pressure washed and stained by my own hands.

I took a step back toward the house, careful to not slip in my leopard-print sling backs, and sipped my coffee. The wood glistened brightly in the sunlight. I was worthy after all, as Oprah had always said. I heard a creaking door, but before I could quickly run back inside, a cry came at me, ”Busted!” My neighbor M. poked his head out of his back door and grinned. The only thing worse than doing actual home repair is being caught being impressed with yourself at seven a.m. on a Monday. I’m hiring someone next time.

Maturing Youth – Epilogue

Posted on February 27, 2015 by TeaandBonnets

Well, at our age, we often say,

As we start one more activity in the busy day.

Be it grocery shopping, or cell phone talking,

Or hatha yoga or charity auction hawking.

We start to think of our furrowed brows,

And our new daily mantra: peace right now;

Of our blossoming love for herbal tea,

Or beach trips that are just about watching the sea.

It’s suddenly clear, just how much we have shifted,

Towards the finish line of the lives we were gifted.

Snowflakes, crackling fire, fat book, old dog.

Today, this is what I call living high on the hog.

And when nostalgia suddenly seems to appear,

For velvet ropes, thumping bass, permanent high gear,

I rise and sprint in my orthopedic mules

To the nearby pantry, which has all the right tools.

A beloved blue teacup, bought when money was dear.

Add sugar, cocoa, flour, and maybe a single tear.

For we have reached the time when youth can’t be faked,

But oh bliss, oh joy, we can always have mug cake.

Silent Night

Posted on December 12, 2013 by TeaandBonnets

We find ourselves again in the season when we nudge little ones, and grown-ups, to take time and remember the wonderful bounties of life. With the nip in the air, it is very easy for yours truly to stay home and ponder many topics, including my own good fortune. I sit comfortably next to two of my blessings, pudgy cat and fat neck long dog, and initiate my mental rambling: Dearest Virgin Mary, praise be to thee.

Then I remember that despite my fixation with good popes, I am not Catholic, and reach for my Gratitude Journal instead. Oh come on, you either have one or think about starting one.

Dear Gratitude Journal: Thank you for your recycled pages and the percentage of your profits that go towards planting new trees. I am also indebted to the sharp Japanese minds that have devised this excellent razor point pen, as well as my dog’s diapers.

GJ, I really welcomed Mother Nature’s temperature choices today. Freezing the ice on the front steps, preventing my safe access to the gym. And then gently melting it in time for the Chinese food delivery.

But now, GJ, I open my heart to you and acknowledge my shameful behaviors. I think I am finally ready to make a change this year. I’ve woken up too often with a headache and a mind full of regret, stomach jostling with nausea, and heart pounding with discomfort. GJ, no more false promises to control myself. I am an addict, and must just stop buying the family pack of eclairs “in case of emergency.” Or claiming disdain for fortune cookies, and then secretly using them at one a.m. as a topping on a pint of salty caramel ice cream. I vow that tonight was my last dinner made up entirely of soft cheese.

I am very grateful for this safe space you have given me, GJ, where I can be vulnerable without fear of judgment. Oh, and thank you ever so much for Skyfall. Good night.

Monday Melancholy

Posted on October 1, 2013 by TeaandBonnets

My heart is racing as soon as I roll my arm over to the nightstand, and pound the phone with my thumb. Snooze, snooze, snooze, please. I roll back and close my eyes, while my brain goes from dazed to alert and concerned in seconds. My chest feels very heavy with an occasional tug every few minutes. My stomach is chattering loudly. Another week, same start. I silently analyze the possible reasons for the discomfort. Is it last night’s pinot noir, followed by a dark chocolate, gelato laced Napoleon? Or the dull pain felt since realizing my pets will all pass before me? Maybe, as the morning talk shows say, the simple lack of sleep has prodded my body into dysfunction.

There isn’t much time for quiet contemplation on a Monday morning, and so I jump out of bed for the morning ablutions. The sick feeling accompanies me. It hovers over my hands as I stack papers and shove them into a bag. It is observant while I open and close the fridge, before ultimately deciding that today needs to be a fasting day of sorts.

Can it be that it is another Monday, and I am still sourcing dull outfits paired with interesting bracelets for a looming staff meeting? That is the most disconcerting thought of all. I will sit quietly, facing the organizational chart of “committees supervising sub-committees leveraging councils,” and I will take furious notes…about my grocery list.

I grab the requisite house and car keys and rush out of the house, down the steps and into the car. The package in the passenger seat is the one my husband said he needed today; so I awkwardly squeeze back out of the car with the package in one hand and keys in the other. I am certain I will burst into tears.

I break into a smile instead when I walk up and see my open kitchen door. My basset labrador (yes, such a thing exists) is standing in the center of the room, tail wagging and face grinning. My husband is there too – clearly the dog is magical, but not enough to sprout thumbs, or grow four feet taller, and tackle door handles.

Somtimes, a long dog with a fat neck is what takes the edge off. I turn on the ignition. Dunkin’ Donuts large French vanilla with cream does not hurt either. Inner peace comes slowly.

Tea and Bonnets

Hipster musings on fretting gracefully

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