Archive for December, 2006

me and my juicy caboosy

I have the brand of butt that seems to have come equipped with a magnet for The Wrong Sort of Attention and which, apparently, demands constant social commentary. It’s not so much a wide butt as it is a bubble butt, which, I suppose, is the better of the two to have, but I’ve come to regard it as a burdensome physical affliction because seriously? There isn’t a butt-related comment within the Derriere Lexicon that I haven’t heard.

It started early. For as long as I can remember, my family has called me “Culona” (a spanish term of endearment which means: one with a big culo or ass) and my mother has often recalled how, during my laborious birthing process, it wasn’t my shoulders but my culo that was the hardest thing to push out. She likes to tell that story. Repeatedly. And to anyone who will listen. Which essentially means that anyone of her friends that I meet invariably sizes me up to see if it was worth the episiotomy.

My father wasn’t much help; at one point during my awkward adolescence, he offered the following encouraging tidbit: “We should take some of that ass of yours and put it where your tits are supposed to be.” Clearly, I have him to thank for my sensitivity. For Father’s Day every year I just send him the same ecard; it reads: Dad, it’s still hard to believe you’re someone’s father.

In college, I studied dance. I took a series of ballet classes from a former prima ballerina who was rumored to have taught Margot Fonteyn and performed with Barishnikov…which basically meant she was older than dirt with a hearing aide. In class one day, she commanded everyone to do the warm up exercises facing the audience from a quarter turn. And then she looked at me through her cataracts and said “Except for you, dear, we wouldn’t want the audience to have to see that derriere of yours now would we?” Suffice it to say that a career in ballet was not to be. Also, that I have an ass that defies visual impairment.

In my adult life, I’ve frequently been the lucky recipient of some of the most creative cat calls from, arguably, some of the finest male specimens on the planet. You know the ones: the unemployed, live-with-their-mother types who spend their copious free time composing sensitive, poetic things to say to woo the ladies, who sag their pants down to their thighs so you can see for yourself that they dropped a few Benjamins (likely their mom’s) for the Tommy Hilfiger underwear…the African American male’s equivalent to a peacock displaying his feathers to attract a mate. And how could a woman refuse THAT spectacle paired with a tender, publicly audible remark like:

“Damn, girl!! You built like a sista!” or “Aww, yeah, girl. Back that ass up.”

And women say chivalry is dead! I don’t know about the rest of my gender, but that shit just makes me want to drop my panties!

Sometimes, it’s a bit unclear whether the comments are meant to compliment or insult. For instance, one day I was crossing the street and a man, walking the opposite direction, was clearly sizing me up. I just knew that, the second we crossed paths, he was going to turn around and check out my ass. My ass has radar for that kind of shit. So, subconsciously, I started rearranging my shirt in the back to make sure there was adequate butt-coverage and to prevent any unintended plumber’s crack. To no avail. From across the street I heard him yell, “YOU CAN’T COVER THAT SHIT UP, GIRL!”

While on vacation in Cuba earlier this year, a sidewalk artist drew an unsolicited caricature of me and gave it to me for free. Let me rephrase that: a starving artist in a communist country gave me a piece of his work without asking for compensation. That must be some powerful shit, right?

I have only two comments about the above representation. Firstly, he clearly has no sense of scale as, and anyone who knows me can attest to this, my boobs aren’t nearly that large or pneumatic. Secondly, I don’t wear blue eye shadow.

Only yesterday, I was walking along on a sidewalk and a van pulled up beside me. The driver’s side window rolled down and the specimen behind the wheel immediately set off the douche-bag meter. But I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt…perhaps all he wanted were directions? “I KNOW you eat yo beans and rice, girl…DAAAAAAMN!” Yeah, no.

What does one even say in response to that? No, actually, in most instances I prefer to substitute my rice with quinoa?




The madness featured here is mine and mine alone. It does not, in any way, reflect the madness of my employers, colleagues, patients, nutty family, or my colorful friends. The privacy of my employers, colleagues, patients, nutty family and colorful friends is sacred & deeply respected, so no names. All words Copyright © la cubana gringa, no method, just madness 2006-2010. All comments © their authors. Don't steal; it's not nice. (And my Grandfather knows people.)

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