I Like to Match

What I mean is: I like my external appearance to have some kind of correlation to the way I'm feeling. That's why I'm eyeing the $5 plaid pants on Liberty Ave, as well as the $70 pumps I saw at Aldo. More likely than not, I'll spend $100 before noon on pants and dresses... maybe a purse and a pair of shoes from the Gap, too.

God, what's up with me that I wanna spend money when I'm crazy broke? Is it merely the power of suggestion? Could I be that simple minded, to want something only because someone mentioned it - even though its clearly to the detriment of my budget?

When Clairvoyant Symphony asked me to go shopping last week, I surprised myself by deciding against it. Truth is, I've been aching for some fashion therapy and I've been too busy to whip up some gorgeous cream puff of an ensemble. But I know myself. I know that if I'm unleashed (with a fashionable friend, no less!)in a clothes store, I'm in real danger of blowing my account on blouses.

Lately, though, I've reached this point where I desperately need to buy new clothes. For pragmatic reasons, I mean.

For one thing, I'm changing up my schedule. I've decided that while I'm in the States, I'm not gonna be held down by obligations or responsibilities. If anything, I'm gonna be forced to stay active and out and about because of the things that I do. This means that I need some cute but sensible shoes, etc. It also means that I have to pull together outfits with the prerequisite Maria charm, but plain enough to go from school (I'm thinking about taking summer classes), to work at afterschool programs (I'm working at one, and hoping to start getting paid to work at another soon), to work at a bar (I'm applying to bartending jobs to make end's meet). So that's casual t professional to sexy all rolled in one. And if I'm going to yoga, a party, or a political/feminist talk/event - let's not even go there...

For another thing, my body's changed. I honestly don't know how or why. My butt's filling out pants better, my feet are getting bigger, my breasts are becoming more firm, and I'm gaining muscle all around. I'm thinking it has something to do with my newfound healthy habits: going to yoga at least once a week, lifting free weights three times a week, jogging at least a mile and a half every other day, drinking lots of water, limiting meat/poultry consumption, et al. But maybe I'm pregnant?

God, that would suck. That would suck big time. I mean, first and foremost: an abortion would really fuck with my budget. For another thing: if my uterus is scraped any more times, I might as well quit using condoms altogether cuz my parts ain't gonna be workin right anyway.

My period's been irregular since I stopped going to school. Maybe academics was so thoroughly engrained in my schedule that the lack thereof is fucking with my biological clock?

Dad told me yesterday morning that he thinks he has cancer. He said it around this time in the morning, and after he left for work I took a dump, thought about him and what he'd said, and started writing a short story about my family.

I haven't been able to write short stories. I don't know what happened. I started blogging, and the next thing I knew it, all of my abilities in fiction writing were stinted. This was one of the reasons I decided to stop blogging.

Anyway, yeah: Dad told me yesterday morning that he's pretty sure he has colon cancer. He's leaking blood out of his ass. So much so that the toilet water looks like Hawaiian Punch when he's done taking a dump. Despite all this, he refuses to seea doctor. Seeing a doctor would mean having to take time off from work to do tests, biopsies, probably surgery - and, as Dad told me this time yesterday, "We can't afford for one of us to get sick right now. There's just too much at stake."

Yeah, that's righ, folks. Dad might be dying of cancer before my very eyes, but he refuses to take action because if he does, we'll be short of one bread winner and might lose our house.

(NOTE: For those who say, "But your dad's a respiratory therapist. He gets good benefits. They'll pay disability so that he's compensated for the time he misses at work": true and not true. When Mom fucked up her ankle 6 months ago, she was out of work for a while and we learned the hard way that there are certain loop holes and inconveniences to living on a disability check: you have to be injured and unable to work for a minimum of 6 weeks; you won't receive any money until that six weeks is over; you only get the bare minimum (40 hrs) of what you would've made if you were on the job (even if you regularly work three OTs a week, as my folks do); checks come in mad late; et al. That's what Dad was talking about when he said we can't afford for him to go on sick leave.)

Thing is, Dad and I have a lot in common. I get a lot of my xenophobic tendencies from him. Also, we're good at reading people and feeling out premonitions. We know in the pit of our stomachs when something's really wrong. So, the fact that Dad knows that something's really wrong with him? It means that there really is something really wrong with him.

So I get a short story out of all this, which is, I guess, the least that Fate & Karma could've granted me. It's the first time I'm fictionalizing my life, and it's difficult. I'm used to either writing straight-up fiction or straight-up non-fiction. None of this literary fiction or true fiction or whatever BS.

Little Brother is going through some things as well. I mentioned it all in the blog and I don't feel like going through with it, so I'll leave it at that.

And Mom? Well, she's a trooper. But she's physically in really bad shape. Mom's an amazing woman, but she's not very competent at much - including walking without a cane, talking coherently, and logic tests.

I feel like I'm bailing on my fam by moving overseas. I know what you're gonna say: (and by coincidence, Chopin's Death March has started to play on my iTunes) it's my life. I can do what I want. I shouldn't let them hold me back.

But how about in all the movies, when the son or daughter sticks around to pick up the pieces, and they're honorable and the audiences never once ask, "But why are they putting all of their goals on the backburner just to take care of their morbidly obese mom or parapalegic dad or drunk uncle or retarded brother?" We fancy ourselves to be the kind of people who admire and like those who tend to their kin, but when we come face to face with such a person, the first thing we do is shake our heads in confusion and/or consternation.

Forget Asian culture. Forget American culture. Just think of family. What that word means to you, what it does for you, and what you're willing to do for it. Now tell me that I'm crazy for rethinking my entire life plan.

Because what is life but the acting out of emotions and plans and destiny? Shouldn't we all be able to live as those who knew how to love? And who better to love than our family? The people who have taken us in and nurtured us when everything else slammed doors in our faces; the people who continue to love us, even after we've shown our worst attributes -? If not them, then who warrants our undivided attention?

Or are we simply narcissistic, above all else?

I see that my family is circling the drain financially, emotionally, physically, and I can't just stand idly by and plan my move. It's just not that easy.

So maybe I'm setting myself up for failure? Maybe I figure that if I blow all my money on clothes, I won't be able to pay my bills, and thus be forced to stay in New York to take care of my family.

That's very probable.

But even more probable is that I'm scared and I need to feel in control of something, and what easier thing to dominate than one's external personal appearance?