Chapter 2 #2
Which is why I’m doing the segment. It’s been six years, and I want to remind myself that my person is out there.
Everyone I have contacted to do a segment has been so excited to work with me.
I can’t wait to see what the outcome of my study shows.
Mom and Nay helped me build a little tally section under the scoreboard from my dad’s old podcast room.
He donated a lot of money to his high school in New York, and in return, they gave him the scoreboard from when he played since the money he donated bought a new one.
The damn thing is heavy, but between the three of us, we were able to hang it up.
My living room isn’t really what Nay envisioned.
She had it in vivid colors with all kinds of furniture, and while the seafoam green on the walls does make the space bright, the room is full of my dad’s old equipment that, I swear, took me a year to get the smell out of.
The space has all kinds of products that different hockey companies have sent me to promote.
I have a love seat for my guests and then my chair, which is one of those cool ADHD chairs that I can sit in all different kinds of ways.
I know it’s distracting to some, but it makes me comfortable and I feel it helps me keep up a quick dialogue with everyone.
My mics and sound equipment are set up all over the place in a clean and professional way.
The table in the center has snacks that my mom keeps stocked.
There is an actual hockey goal below the scoreboard and even a spot where my guests can pick a stick to score a goal.
Dad used to defend, but since only my brain is engrossed in hockey, I don’t play my guests.
I’d make a fool of myself for sure. No matter the fact that I’ve been on skates since before I could walk, I can’t seem to skate, hold a stick, and shoot.
I mirror a giraffe on acid when I try.
Along the wall are my desk and editing equipment, which is where I spend a lot of my time. The space is sunny, welcoming, and I know I’m making my dad proud. Thinking of my dad has me looking down at the photo of my mom and dad on their wedding day with my tía.
My mom and tía lost their parents when they were eighteen and twelve.
Mom took custody of her sister and raised her.
She met my dad at the hotel she was cleaning when he was staying for a game.
He says it was love at first sight; she says she was annoyed he kept asking for more towels.
Tía says that he got one look at her fat ass and fell hard.
He never really did deny that.
It doesn’t matter, really, because he married her not two weeks later and took on Tía like she was his.
He always fathered her, but for my mom, she and Tía were best friends.
Two halves of one heart, and sometimes I get really pissed that my mom and dad didn’t give me a sibling.
I wish I had a person like my mom has Tía and had my dad.
I exhale and remember that I’m not alone to drown in my grief of losing him. Not when two fiery Latina women stand before me with hands on their wide hips and the need to “fix” me in their minds.
“She needs to do something. She’s going to end up an old maid,” Tía cries dramatically.
Too many telenovelas, I tell you.
“Old maid? Excuse you,” I chastise. “Do you know how wonderful it would be to grow old, never answer to anyone, have like eight dogs, and never have to share my bed or remote or, hell, my snacks with anyone?”
I know. Great picture, right? I’m not lying.
I am an introvert who enjoys nights in rather than going out.
The last time I went out, I got the call about my dad.
My therapist tried to say I have some trauma, and maybe I do, but I never really liked going out before.
I like my space, but I wouldn’t mind having a guy to share it with.
I’m just not telling these two that. Tía gives me a bored look while Mom clutches her neck in horror.
As a good Puerto Rican daughter, I am supposed to get married and fill up these childbearing hips with babies.
But I’m tapping into my dad’s white side and saying the hell with that for right now.
I’ve got things to do, and carrying babies isn’t it.
I know you’re wondering why my tía isn’t married with kids since she’s preaching that I need to get out there.
She wants me out there to get off, not to make babies.
No, that’s all my mom. For my tía, she doesn’t want a kid to feel the pain she felt when she lost her parents.
Or anyone, for that matter. Especially after we lost my dad.
“But you’d share orgasms, lots of them,” Tía insists, and I roll my eyes.
“Until he can’t get it up,” I throw back. “I am perfectly happy alone, with those toys in the packaging. I don’t even know what that one thing is. Why are there three heads?”
My tía winks at me, and I know I’m not ready for the answer. “One for the clit, one for the glory hole, and one for the toot.”
Yup, could have gone my whole life without knowing my tía bought me a sex toy for all my holes. Before I can even try to come up with something to say, my mom cries, “You don’t mean that, mija. You want to find a man, don’t you?”
“Or six,” Tía suggests, and I roll my eyes again.
“One will be fine since the idea of that toy makes me cringe. And yes, Ma, I want a family.”
Because I do, but the whole putting myself out there thing is hard.
I’ve been burned.
I’ve been ghosted.
I’ve been broken.
It’s easier just doing me.
“Just not right now,” I add, and she nods eagerly.
“Of course not now. You’re so busy.”
“Yeah, too busy to even get off,” Tía mutters. “I will unpack and clean the toys. Maybe find some time?”
I feel like closing in on myself from the horror of her unpacking those toys. “Tía, please. I’ll do it.”
“No, you work. We’ll do it,” Mom adds, and I want to die.
Like, please, someone stuff a dildo down my throat to suffocate me.
As they disappear, I rush to get up, tripping over an ottoman before chasing after them.
Because while there are a lot of things I let my mom and tía get away with, cleaning my sex toys isn’t one of them.