The Collars of Christmas

Posted by Shireen Sandoval  12/07/12, 12:11pm

 Dirt kicked-up from the back tires of a 1960's Blue and White Cadillac DeVille, as it sped down a country road. I could see the white-wall tires from a distance, swerving side to side, trying to get traction. I couldn't make out the person inside the car, but it had to be her. I'd been waiting for weeks.

Once the Caddy came to a grinding halt, the car door swung open and a tall, beautiful blonde emerged. There she was, on the gravelled driveway: my grandmother. She didn't let me call her that, though. We were more, say, on a first name basis (Elsa & Shireen.) It's just the way it was. I didn't ask any questions. I was in the 5th grade and it made me feel important.

So Elsa, the big city girl, had driven her old, mint condition chariot to West Virginia to see her daughter (my mother,) in pretty much the middle of nowhere. At the time, my mom was in the middle of a "finding herself phase." Therefore, we "all" found ourselves living in a small town, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. It wasn't easy, but when Elsa showed up, she made the mundane magical. That year she arrived just in time for the holidays.

Her trunk was bulging with gifts from stores I'd never heard of : Neiman Marcus, Lord & Taylor and Saks Fifth Avenue. I remember the gift wrapping. It was just as intriguing as what I would find inside the box. Elsa was generous. I was in love with the white roller-skates she bought me, with bright yellow toe stoppers. I was equally fascinated with the Siamese, feline stuffed animal. The cat was wearing the most decadent collar I'd ever seen. I perched it up on my dresser, only to be adored. I'd retrieve it every now and then just to run my hand over the beads around its neck. It was exquisite. That's one of the last memories I have of Elsa.

My mother and her mother never had a good relationship. It was fraught with turmoil, fighting, tears, and misunderstandings. Personally, I think it's because they were so much alike. Years later, my grandmother would die in my mother's arms. Cancer wrapped itself around Elsa and whispered her life good-bye. I witnessed this moment. My mother cradled Elsa like a baby. The roles were reversed, but the love between them was unspoken, undeniable. I knew at the moment, nothing else mattered.

My mother would never be the same again. As the years passed, I think the pain lessened. When she started letting go, she started giving me gifts (things that used to belong to Elsa,) especially around the holidays, things I suppose my grandmother would have given her. She generously handed over a braided, baby blue, beaded choker, a tight pearl necklace that starts at the throat and drapes down my decolletage and a black and gold, multi-tiered Onyx necklace (think Egyptian.) Each piece is perfectly cut to lay classically on the collar bone.

So it wasn't surprising, (when shopping for a holiday dress this year,) I was drawn to a frock with a beautiful, bedazzled neckline. It reminded me so much of Elsa, it stopped me in my tracks and sent me into a fifth grade fashion flashback. I walked up to the mannequin to get a closer look. I fingered the jewels one by one, that's when I noticed the collar wasn't attached to the dress. I lifted it up and off the dummy and delicately slid it around my neck. It even buttoned, yes, I said buttoned, in the back.

After that, I knew it didn't matter what dress I'd picked, because my new off-white, sparkly neck ornament, could gussy up any gown, but more importantly, I was continuing a fashionable family tradition, "The Collars of Christmas." I think Elsa would have liked it and maybe you will, too.

My cat-tast-tic look cost 65 dollars at www.kokopalenki.com

The Gallant Gladiator

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

The Gallant Gladiator a blog story...

I know it didn't happen in slow motion but it felt that way. My feet danced around me; forward and backward, up and down, side to side. My body lunged in different directions, twisting and turning, in what I thought was a dazzling display of agility. So, imagine my surprise when my enemy sunk her dagger straight into my heart. I gasped in pain and my body grew limp. After she stabbed me, she pulled me close and whispered: "Rest in peace Gallant Gladiator."

Rosebuds, Mr. Herrick, Clover Canyon & Floggs

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

When Springtime approaches, the poem "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May" incessantly runs through my head. It affects me in two ways. At first, I feel a renewal of sorts. Spring brings such possibilities. Then I feel an overwhelming need to inflict pain on Robert Herrick. He's the 17th-century English writer that penned the poem. It's basically a warning to young people to heed love ASAP. He states: "That age is best which is the first." My translation - love is better when you're young (virgin-like) so get it while the gettin's good.

Paula, Kookie & Molly my hair chronicle ...

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I didn't lose my hair all at once. It came out little by little, here and there. It trailed behind me like a brillant mystery novel, leaving little clues to my whereabouts. First, I noticed it on my pillow. Then my shower drain. I'd find strands on my shoulders and frantically pick them off. Eventually a clump would follow. Each piece was like a string of rope coming untethered. The once strong, tightly bound fibers unraveled around me. Over time, my magnificent mane became minuscule. The bottom shed so much it turned see-through. The top, typically full, thinned-out into a lackluster, lifeless thing that just laid there. It was a case of "hair today, gone tomorrow" literally.

A Fashion Felony

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I was in a deep sleep when the raid happened. It was the middle of the night. The sound of the front door getting kicked in jolted me from my slumber. My heart raced. I knew it was over. I had the premonition a few days prior. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. I'd prepared myself - going over and over it - hundreds of times in my head. But now that it was actually happening, I wasn't ready. I looked through the darkness, toward the door of my bedroom and saw flashlights flooding my apartment. A cop yelled my name, demanding my surrender. I couldn't let them take me. Not now. Not like this. I was vunerable, disheveled and undressed.