crystal

By Crystal.

I grew up surrounded by games. In my house, Sega, Nintendo and Playstation were staples, as well as board games like Monopoly, Life and Scattegories. Eventually, we got to the point where we had so many games that they filled an entire closet. After choosing what game you wanted to play, you’d have to carefully pull the box out hoping and praying that the rest wouldn’t come toppling down. A real-life Jenga.

More often than not, they DID come crashing down and you got screamed at by my aunt, whose closet they were kept in. Then we’d start to play another game — the blame game — but that’s another story entirely.It was mostly my cousin and my brother who played these games with me. Being several years older, one would think that I would let them win sometimes. Or at the very least, that I wouldn’t be a total jerk about my superior brain crushing theirs in a game of Tetris. No. I wanted to DOMINATE.

I can’t quite remember when this insatiable desire to win formed in me or when it became directly connected to games. Whatever the case, I was a fiend, desperate to win every single game, doing a victory dance when I did and throwing an over-the-top fit complete with flinging myself to the ground in tears when I didn’t.

The times when I didn’t win were few and far between, yet they are seared into my brain. I hated playing Clue[do] with the entire family only to have one of the adults solve the case before I did. HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE MS. PEACOCK IN THE KITCHEN WITH THE KNIFE! I was ONE weapon away from solving that, bitch!

I didn’t say things like that, of course, but I totally thought it and losing got to the point where I decided to do the unthinkable: cheat.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a cheater. Full-blown, 10-year-old, shameful, cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.

Clearly I was destined to become an adulterer later in life, cheat on my SATs and end up as a bum on the streets. I was heading down the wrong path and IT. FELT. GOOD.

I mean, of course I’d always been taught that cheating was “bad.” But I was never really taught WHY. I didn’t learn until later that it’s because it’s unethical and unfair to other people. All I knew was that this cheating thing was AMAZING because I won. Every! Single! Time! So, really, how bad could it be?

I could sneak a peek at people’s cards and win Go Fish. I could accidentally-on-purpose toss a Yahtzee die on the floor and say “It landed on a six!” when I needed the fifth six to complete my Yahtzee. I could casually change my words on Scattegories when someone else had the same word as I did.

I could taste the sweet, sweet victories and I yearned for those more than I yearned for Hershey Kisses or Barbies or the desire not to be a total jerk to my family.

So I started to up the ante. I became less bold in my willingness to take chances. I started making rules about which games we could and couldn’t play. I was only interested in playing games I KNEW I could win. Games where I had a chance of losing (like video games) I only wanted to play alone.

My winning streak skyrocketed. And for a while, so did my fun.

But then I stopped bidding on anything in Monopoly and instead, hoarded my money. And I couldn’t play Mall Madness because my win was left to chance (an electronic credit card swiper decided the fate of your purchases, which was NOT something I was willing to gamble on, even though the game was really awesome, because it was a game about shopping, y’all). And Life? Forget about it. I was not going to end up with three sets of twins who I’d later have to put through college! Ugh.

This maniacal behavior, of course, made it so that nobody wanted to play with me.

On top of that, games weren’t really fun anymore. What’s the fun in cheating during a game of Uno when I’m playing Uno alone?! Then I win AND lose and that’s no fun, either.

The madness had to stop.

I started playing regular games again, though my crack-like addiction to winning made not cheating difficult. It made playing a game I wasn’t sure I’d win scary (but what if I looooose?! Then I’ll be destined for failure! I’d rather be destined for a life of sin and dishonesty!).

Eventually, I learned to let go of winning and to take losing in my stride.

But I’ll be honest: winning is still my favorite. Now I pretend to be really bad at games (“Oh, I don’t know… I’m so bad at this…”) and then relish in the glorious feeling of winning when everyone else thought they would.

So, yes, I let go of my compulsion and learned to have fun. (Since winning and being “perfect” at games isn’t everything.) But it’s clear that I’m still pretty evil and no amount of cleansing will rid me of that.

————–

Photo is Candy Land by Trojanguy

The Fear of Public Speaking

By Crystal Maldonado

April 17, 2011

crystal, life, opinion

3 Comments

By Crystal

Like most people, I’m terrified of public speaking. As a terribly shy, quiet person, speaking to a group of others goes against the very nature of my existence. I mean, talking one on one with people I don’t know makes me nervous enough. How am I supposed to carry on in front of several people at once?

Having graduated from college and settled into my newspaper job, I thought my days of public speaking were essentially over. That is, until my colleague happened to be a professor, who wanted me to speak infront of her class. Cue panic.

I can’t quite remember when I started to be afraid of speaking in front of others. All I know is that eventually, it happened. In fourth grade, I was the teacher’s pet and was therefore asked to assist him with a skit he was doing for a school meeting.

Let me back up a bit. In our elementary school, we had “school meetings” where the entire school would pack itself into the gym and sit on a dusty floor that hadn’t been cleaned for decades. You’d go with your class and your teacher and listen to the principal and Other Important Figures discuss things that I can’t really remember now because I spent most of my time staring dreamily at my crush and talking with my friends about which Spice Girl was better.

The one thing I recall about the weekly meeting was Safety Man. Safety Man was my teacher. Only, he had a cape and wore an orange cone on his head. Oh, and he took off his glasses. This was obviously a seriously convincing disguise (since, as anyone who has ever watched a 90s teen film will know, taking off one’s glasses makes said individual unrecognizable and, usually, hot — though Safety Man was far from that).

Safety Man would stand in front of the school and explain to us the importance of being safe. No running in the halls! Always carry scissors face down! Never stick a cat in an oven! To this day, I am not sure why Safety Man existed. But he did.

For the end-of-the-year meeting, Safety Man wanted some of my classmates to assist him with a demonstration. I was the first person asked. I declined. Then, I was not only terrified of being in front of a huge group of people (the entire school), but I knew that being associated with Safety Man would ruin me socially.

Later, at the school meeting, I realized that all of the students who had volunteered to help Safety Man received CANDY for doing so. I was seriously pissed that I’d declined. I was willing to debase and humiliate myself for some motherfuckin’ CANDY. HE DIDN’T MENTION CANDY.

Nevertheless, the following year, when I won a spelling bee , I refused to compete in front of other people and forfeited my title. Obviously because no candy was involved.
I do think it’s sad (and maybe even sort of tragic) that we’re all so terrified to speak in front of others because we’re afraid of being judged by our peers, being laughed at, or of making a mistake. In some people, the fear can be crippling; in others, it can just make them very nervous beforehand.

Either way, you’d think, by now, someone would have come up with some really great way of coping, ASIDE from the asinine suggestions of “practicing” (nobody wants to practice speaking in front of people because that means you have to speak in front of people more than you had to in the first place, okay?) and of trying to picture the audience naked or in their underwear (which is just plain creepy).

In high school and college, public speaking usually meant my voice would be really shaky and I’d laugh nervously and awkwardly like Natalie Portman at the Golden Globes:

(For the record, her laugh is WAY extended in that clip, but it makes the awkwardness much more palpable and, of course, funny.)

Since being really awkward hasn’t actually worked to my benefit (shocker!), I had to find a new way to deal with public speaking. That’s where my college friend comes in. As someone who blushes profusely when put on the spot, she came up with the ingenious idea to bring in baked goods, which she would strategically pass around at the start of her speech, hoping delectable chocolate brownies would be enough to distract people from noticing her flaming red cheeks.

And guess what? It worked. Every time. It even worked when she and I were partners for a class project.Know why? Because people fucking love treats (as illustrated by my fourth-grade self who was full of regret for not embarrassing herself in front of the school for some Now and Laters!). They suddenly don’t care if you’re in front of the class pretending to be a cheetah or curing cancer; they just want to know if there’s enough for a second helping.

So, my bestie at work wants me to speak to the class that she teaches. I’m not sure I’ll accept, but if I do, you can bet your ass I’ll bring in a batch of cookies. Or brownies. Or cake. Or maybe a whole dessert table.

Imposed Meanings

By Crystal Maldonado

March 30, 2011

art, crystal, humour, opinion

6 Comments

By Crystal

L: A scribble by Jack (a 5 year old), R: ‘Laburnum’ by Hans Hoffman (a “proper” artist?)

There was a study released that says that one in three art students can’t tell a famous painting from paintings made by monkeys and children.

While this is kind-of-really hilarious, I’m more curious why we give prestige to anything that can be confused with something produced by a monkey.

Don’t get me wrong. Monkeys are pretty great. A little freaky, probably, but you know – we evolved from them and all that crap, and they eat bananas, which are delicious, so they can’t be all that bad.

But when it comes to art, I can’t see them producing something on par with Van Gogh’s “The Starry Night”.

And yet… some of the art that is praised looks the same as if a monkey did make it.

I’m all for the notion that “art is art.” BUT. We seem to impose these notions that some art is great just because of who made it. Take, for example, “No. 13 (White, Red on Yellow)” by Mark Rothko

Or “Blue Green Red” by Ellsworth Kelly.

Both are on view at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Both are considered art. Both are really nothing more than panels of color. You or I could make something similar and call it art, but they sure as shit wouldn’t hang that in The Met next to Monet and Dali. (Although it would be interesting to try, because I could use several million dollars and I’d be interested in doing nothing more than painting shapes for the rest of my life. Then I could use my money to buy an island or something and make it rain M&Ms.)

The point is: if we strip away the prestige and title of a painting and can’t decipher it from a painting made by a toddler or by an animal, then why is it prestigious in the first place?

This isn’t the only time when this applies. People have a hard time telling the difference between expensive and cheap wine or pate from dog food (true story!). Most of the stuff that has value and worth only has value and worth because we think that it should.

I mean, I should know. For the longest time, I had an irrational attachment to a phone case. The phone case had been touched (yes, touched) by my then-favorite celebrity, Nick Carter (why yes, he is a member of the Backstreet Boys, and I don’t even care). I met him and I had my friend, Chrissy, on the phone and I asked him to say “hello” to her. He did, using my phone and, in the process, touching that phone case to his cheek. He touched it to his cheek. HE TOUCHED IT TO HIS CHEEK! Eighth-grade me was riveted by this and couldn’t bear throwing it away (or letting anyone else touch it, for that matter, for fear that it would be “tainted”).

Even then, I think I had some inkling of just how bizarre and crazy and irrational that was. I couldn’t help myself, though. To anyone else, it was just a phone case (and a pretty ugly one at that). To me, it was special because he had touched it (in the same way that someone might think that a hat owned by Johnny Depp might be special).

Most of the time, we push our own feelings or perceptions on things – usually objects, but I guess it’s sometimes also fitting for people or places – and it makes us come to illogical conclusions. Sometimes it’s a big group of us admiring the same thing (like a Jackson Pollock painting) and sometimes it’s something personal, that wouldn’t mean nearly the same to someone else as it does to you.

It makes us think that a piece of art (which actually looks like a monkey swiped paint across his butt and sat on the paper) is “REAL ART” worthy of being admired and praised simply because of who it was created by. That the Chateau Lafite 1787 $160,000 bottle of wine (the most expensive wine in the world, I looked it up! Google never lies! Ever!) is somehow a million times better and more worthy of drinking than the $13.98 bottle of Apple Crannie (a real wine from a local vineyard, which is quite delicious). That a phone case touched to the cheek of a childhood role model somehow holds the essence of that person. Perceptions make us do crazy things.

For the record, I still have the phone case. But I keep it now to remind me of how crazy I was as a kid, not because he touched it. I swear.

My First ‘I Love You’

By Crystal Maldonado

March 24, 2011

crystal, humour, love

5 Comments

By Crystal

I was five when I first told a boy I loved him.

It was kindergarten – my most sophisticated year ever, the same year I’d accidentally tasted wine for the first time and learned grand things like how to write my name and make chocolate pudding – and I was smitten.

Before school, I’d never spent much time with children my age. There was my younger brother (at this time, he was a boring one-year-old who happened to share my birthday but couldn’t do anything cool like play Barbies with me) and my cousin (whom I lived with and who was like my brother, except he was a year younger than me and I could make him do awesome things like swear and lie).

The rest of my time was spent with people at least five times my age or older. I liked to think of myself as a classy five-year-old – I did, after all, own a Disney tea set.

So my first encounter with my peers was slightly fascinating, slightly confusing. At five, I already knew that carrying a Barney backpack was poor form. Others did not seem to know this and proudly donned Baby Bop lunchboxes and sang the “I love you” song. I wasn’t concerned with trivial things like purple dinosaurs. I knew all about relationships from the refined programming that I’d seen on television: soap operas and talk shows. I knew that relationships were the end-all, be-all, and I was behind in life because I was five and I needed a boyfriend.

That’s where Danny came in. It was my first real venture into a real-life person with eyes a different color than brown (nearly my entire family, aside from my grandfather and an uncle has brown eyes). I was in love. From the way his hair was always sticking up in the back like he’d just gotten out of bed and didn’t have a care in the world to the way that he, too, knew carrying a Barney lunch-box was soooo not cool, I knew this man should be my boyfriend. (Though I had no idea what real boyfriends and girlfriends did, aside from look at each other longingly.)

Being the shy, introverted, but clearly-full-of-emotional-turmoil child that I was, I decided that simply telling him wasn’t enough. I had to write it to him in a letter, much like I’d seen in the movies. I used free time one day to make a card that was short and sweet: “Danny, I love you. Love, Crystal.” At the end of the day, I marched up to him (in probably a more confident manner than I’ve ever done anything since) and said, “Here.”

School was let out and off we went. I didn’t think much of the letter when I got home, except that I knew now he also had to tell me that he loved me and then we could love each other forever or something, whatever that meant.

The next day, when my mom picked me up from school, my teacher and my mom called me away from my friends, giggling. They held up the letter. I was mortified.

“Did you write this?” My teacher asked. I remember being so embarrassed that I just ran away, leaving them giggling. I wondered how they’d gotten that note and why they felt the need to intrude on what was clearly going to be a lasting relationship.

Danny never did say he loved me back. Perhaps it was the ethnic tension that may have emerged if he had – he was white, I was Puerto Rican (probably the only in the town, aside from my family). Or maybe it was because I was really kick-ass at drawing giraffes, and he was intimidated by my budding art skills. Or maybe it was because we were five years old and had no clue what being “in love” actually was.

Whatever the case, it didn’t discourage me. It just taught me not to throw the words around so carelessly. I didn’t say them again to another boy in a serious way for fifteen years. But it was glorious.

Do First Impressions Count?

By Crystal Maldonado

March 17, 2011

crystal, humour, opinion

3 Comments

By Crystal

When I was 21, I started interning for a local newspaper in the Features department. It was the biggest in the state and I remembered driving by the towering building when I was younger, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, feeling sorry for myself because I knew I’d never work there. I told myself it was because I was too GOOD to work at a newspaper (I was convinced I was going to work for an international magazine), but really, I just thought they’d never hire me.

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crystal

The Confessions of a Lifelong Cheater

Imposed Meanings

My First ‘I Love You’

Do First Impressions Count?

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