hot girls

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Here’s a Love Story for You

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Rudy was about 16 or 17 years old, living in Honduras, (long before he met California). He was a senior in high school, a star basketball player, and an overall good guy. A nice guy. Friendly. Sometimes observant, sometimes talkative.

There he was one evening, walking across the only bridge in town, when he sees her walking in the opposite direction. Her green eyes look at him, casually. Her long dark hair rustles in the breeze.

The most beautiful girl in the world.

She’s Honduran with mix of her dad’s Australian.

Rudy gazes at her, shyly, unable to speak.

Unfortunately.

He doesn’t see her for a few days. And then he does. Again. Crossing the bridge.

“Hola,” he says.

“Hi,” she responds.

And off they go, heading in the opposite direction, passing without another word.

He asks friends about her. Asking them about the beautiful girl who speaks English.

“Oh, her? She’s been around. Where have you been?” they say, playfully shoving him.

One night, not too long later, he goes to a party and sees her there. He feels his heart pound, excitedly. Feeling confident, Rudy introduces himself and asks her to dance.

She told him she used to have a boyfriend with the same last name. “Yo tenía un novio con el mismo apellido.”

Bravely, innocently, and boyishly he responds, “¿Quieres otra novio llamado Romero?”

She laughs. As if he’s a joke.

Rudy wants to sink into the earth. He feels stupid. Why did he ask if she wanted another boyfriend with the same last name?

So, he turns, walks away, drags his feet. Feet that seem to take ten years to move to the other side of the room. His head hangs down. He starts to leave with friends. The party is over, for him at least. But, she runs after him, says she can see he’s feeling down and that she is sorry, she didn’t mean any harm. Didn’t mean to be rude.

Suddenly the air filled with music.

Rudy asks, “¿Quieres bailar?”

She grabs his hand and pulls him with her, back to where the party is.

 

 

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I’m White. He’s Not.

The summer sunshine reminds me of a time, long ago when the shade of our skin was one of a few times color defined Rudy and I.

We made plans to spend the day at Huntington Beach in southern CA. We gathered a few what we thought of as necessary items to enjoy the day: a radio, towels, an ice chest full of snacks and drinks, magazines, and baby oil.

Baby oil?! Seriously, baby oil?!

Well, I’m telling you, at the time it made perfect sense. A quick way to color the skin.

A BIG MISTAKE, to say the least.

For me, anyway.

You see, Rudy has lovely brown skin. I am glow-stick white.

There we were, slathering that oil on, all over our exposed skin. Both of us looking nice and shiny. Feeling satisfied, we horizontally positioned ourselves, side-by-side, each on our own colorful towel, relaxing, to the point of snoozing under that hot sun.

Rudy noticed I was turning pink, said as much, but let the issue go when I said, “Oh, it’s okay. I’m fine. I’m getting a tan!”

As mid-afternoon approached, in the heat of the blazing sun shining brightly in my eyes, it was hard to tell if I managed more than a slight coloring. I felt I should continue to sunbath, just a bit more sun, a bit more color but, it was time to leave. So we did. Plus, we were hot, and tired.

We stopped at a mini-mart on our way home. A cold ICEE, Cocoa-Cola flavor, please! was in order. As I stepped out of the car, my skin – especially behind my knees – hurt. Not too bad. Just a slight irritation.

My reflection spoke to me from the glass of the store window. “Oh, wow, you did get some color. Definitely!”

I looked towards Rudy and noted that he had tanned nicely. He looked all chocolatey-brown, not milk-chocolate but rather dark-chocolate, like Hershey’s Special Dark. He was looking good, real good!

Cold drink in hand, I eased myself back into the car. I could feel the sun soaking in, doing its job of coloring me.

Ah, what a soon-to-be joke!

When we returned home I asked Rudy if he wanted to go to the pool, to cool off before we headed to our little abode, our own personal space. “Sounds good to me!” he said with interest.

The pool was somewhat crowded with other residents living in the apartment complex. The water felt good, soothing. It seemed people didn’t want to look our way, but they did. “Hum, am I looking good with some sun on my lilly-whites, or what?” I modestly questioned under my breath.

Or what? was the answer to my ridiculous thought!

30, maybe forty, minutes later, when we entered our place I immediately walked to the bathroom to shower off the day’s debris. “Oh. My. Gosh!” I sort-of yelled as I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. “I am so red! My face looks like a cherry tomato!”

“You are red. Really red.” Mr. Good-Looking-Dark-Chocolate-Brown casually stated. “Seriously red.”

I’m Red. He’s Not.

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A Girl and her First (and last) Bottle of Wine

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16. years. old.

Yep, sixteen is the age I was when I learned wine just didn’t work for me. You see I vomited, threw up, barfed after an afternoon of overindulging in drinking wine. At the beach. Under the hot sun. With my sixteen year old friend. We were having fun. Working on a tan. Well, she was. I was working on a sunburn. We were just lying there, on the Newport sand, on top of some colorful beach towels. Extra large. Lots of space. We talked. We laughed. We drank. Wine. Red wine. Without much food. My friend had a handle on it. Took it slow. Unlike me. I drank from that bottle as if I were drinking water. I didn’t know that I should slow down. That I would pay a price later. All I knew was that I was feeling pretty cool. Drinking wine. Underage.

When the upchucking and the hangover finally left. Left me alone. To have headache-free days. I knew that was it. I would never drink wine again. Couldn’t stand the smell, or the taste, of it. And all these years later. I still hate the smell and taste of wine. Don’t drink it. Not even when everyone else around me is enjoying a glass. All because I foolishly drank way too much wine when I was sixteen. Drank too much while simply having fun with my friend, at the beach, getting drunk.

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Watch This. Listen, too.

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I seriously love to people-watch. I am enthralled with the social aspect of human nature.

Every avenue of relationships pique my interest. I am oh-so curious how people, all kinds of people, everywhere, all over the place, in various situations react to this, that, and the other.

I like to dig deep into what is happening, simply by watching. Watching. Watching. Watching. And listening. Trying to decipher what is really going on. Deep. Down. Below. The. Surface.

I wonder, quite often, what would I do without people. People all around. People adding a dimension to my life that deepens my feelings toward the world at large.

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whoa! or woo!, which one are you?

liz's butt in jeansOkay, so you’re walking down the street, or along some path in the park, or maybe you’re at the mall, or the grocery story, or it could even be that you are working out at the gym, entering the movie theater, maybe you’re at work, or at your child’s day care and it’s in the afternoon and your walking back to your car, kid slung on your hip, or you’ve just walked outside your place of residence to grab the mail, or maybe you’ve knelt down to pick up the cell phone you just dropped, or….. well, let’s just say you are anywhere and a guy looks at you, a girl, a woman more like it, and he says WHOA!… as you walk by. Or, rather, instead, he says WOO! 

For some odd reason these expressions sparked some interest during a sit down dinner, or maybe it was just a casual conversation, with the ratio of men higher to the total women in attendance, when a light-hearted debate ensued trying to decipher the meaning of both seemingly quick assessments. No one really was able to define each compliment (it is? isn’t it?) but rather gave their – lot’s of laughter issued here – opinion. Most assumed whoa! was when a guy was likely responding to the girl, or woman, wearing something tight, like a skirt, any length above the knee, but that is snug on her round rear-end, and cinched in, making the waist small, the butt rounder. The hot girl. Whereas if a guy says woo! – the cute, or pretty girl – she’s still looking good but in a more comfortable way. Someone who’d be wearing jeans, perfectly fitted, not too tight, not too loose, with a basic t-shirt, or a pretty blouse and sandals or some other carefree type of shoe, with hair flowing loose, free from the binds of bands or pins.

Well, now, not that these expressions are even relevant, or as some might say, maybe they are just stupid sexist hoot-and-hollers that men make, but our conversation about them did produce a fun and lively conversation, and tons of laughter. So worth it!

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Parenting 101

There’s this fine line between disciplinarian and friend, when it comes to being a parent. Kids need rules, yet, they also need someone they trust. Someone to talk to. Someone like me.
I’ve never grounded my kids. Rather, I find quiet moments to talk about a situation, without making a big deal. Which in turn develops a bond between us. A solidarity.
One day, when Brad was at a friend’s house, I took the opportunity to clean his way too messy room. As the pile of clothing, and other junk, began to diminish from the top of his dresser, having settled back into the drawers, I spotted the Kindle Fire. I had forgotten about the electronic reader, as I had given it to Brad to use for school; so, for me, it was out-of-sight-out-of-mind. During the summer, he said he wanted to spent some time getting acquainted with the gadget, to just play with it, learn how to use it.
Sounded good to me.
I picked the Kindle up, which was tucked into the black leather jacket I had bought, to protect it. I stretched the elastic band off the cover, flipped it open, turned it on, and browsed through items Brad had downloaded. Just checking in, one might say. Games, Facebook, and a few magazines.
I should have guessed, but I hadn’t. Nor was I surprised. Or even mad, that one of the magazines included lots of photos of girls; young women, actually, in teeny-tiny swimsuits. HOT women, emphasizing breasts and rear-ends.
I laughed. To myself.
Later, when Brad was lounging on his bed, I walked in, asking how his day was. It was fun, he told me. And he thanked me for cleaning his room.
“Oh, and by the way, I was looking at the Kindle,” I began.
Brad gave me a sideways glance, narrowed his eyes, and smirked a bit.
“I saw the magazine you downloaded. The girls,” I continued.
He just looked at me. Waited for me to do some more talking.
“I see you have good taste,” I joked.
He smiled, and looked down.
“And, well, anyway, I have no problem with you looking at those pictures, but a word of advice.”
He waited, patiently.
“You need to delete them. The Kindle is for class books, for reading, and I don’t think your teachers would like those photos on campus.” I finished.
“OK,” Brad answered.
The night before his first day of school, I asked him if he had everything he needed. If he was all packed up.
“Yep,” he responded. “And, yes, the magazine has been deleted.”
I am sure he will not be surprised when another respect for women conversation drops into ours lives somewhere down the road.
I am building a lifetime with him. A trusting relationship, so that he knows that no matter what, he can always count on me.