Monday, December 31, 2012

Of Bribes and Year's End

Starting my truck requires bribery now a days.

Most mornings (or afternoons, or evenings...or just whenever), it likes to trick me.

Iris opens the driver door, propels herself over the car seats and opens the passenger door (that door refuses to work with a key). I haul Aeva in who is always too busy hugging a toy or as of late, a leap pad, to bother weaving arms into her harness. Digging for the bottom of the 5 point harness stuck under her ass CANNOT be a welcome morning routine but I kid you not, she never helps the issue. With Aeva snugly restrained, feet banging on the dash, I run around the back of the truck making sure that Iris is as comfortably settled in the back jump-seat as possible and I hop into my seat. I insert the key into the ignition, hear the beeping sound alerting me to power in the cabin so I turn the key and


I cannot tell you how many freezing cold mornings I just slam my forehead on the steering wheel. Theres only one way to fix this and it comes with a good dose of frozen fingers, fear of electrocution, and public humiliation. I have to bribe the be-damned hunk of Harrison Ford Steel to start. Heres how I do it:

Popping the hood, I come up the driver side of the truck sliding my hand down to the latch soothing the now stubborn beast.
"Its ok there big guy...juuuuust looking to see what ya look like this morning"
Finding the terminals on the batteries, I inch in carefully.
"Whats this?? Are your connectors loose? Well Ill just check and see..."
Before you know it I yank off the negative terminal and the Beast sets off its car alarm, rousing every goddam nosey neighbors attention on this ghetto ass block. Silencing it requires pulling off the positive terminal while being careful that the negative terminal doesnt slyly tap back into the game and fry me something toasty.
With both terminals off the battery, the Beast is silenced.

"Ha! AND what?!"

There are two exposed fuses in the maw of the Beast that have a tendency to confuse me. One is of apparent value to the Ford, the other could fizzle out and die without grunt of care. Recently i've marked the important fuse and its this one I yank out with frozen fingers this morning....and drop into the guts of the engine. Fun-fucking-tastical. Luckily I have long fingers, small wrists, and a desperate need to reach the fuse at any fleshy cost.

Come here my precious....
"See there Beast? I have your fuse. You want your fuse back you say? Well theres only one way to go about must let that engine purr, or chortle or what ever is necessary in order to get us chugging along 295 cuz I GOTS ta go! Deal?"
I can only imagine that this inanimate and inconsiderate metal wreck on wheels nods its head? Hood? Shocks??? Appealing to my humanity for the return of its buck toothed fuse. I let it watch me think a minute, admiring the little piece in the gray light of the ass-crack of dawn.
Pocketing the fuse, I replace the negative terminal first and then cautiously connect the positive terminal all the while hoping it wont zap the ever living crap out of me. Ive got metal in my body and horrible luck with machinery... you tell me not to worry...

The cabin light coming on is a sign that so far, were good. The Beast has given me a false sense of hope a few times before, but not today. Today when I turn the key, the Beast roars to life and even does a little shimmy to show its enthusiasm. Jumping back out, I replace the fuse, unhook the hood and let it slam. I pat the beast and climb in.

It seems that this year is personified in my decrepit Found On Road Dead Ranger. Its been crappy. I went from Jeep Compass smooth living, to begging a two seater truck to just make it one more more day. There is much compromising, bribing, and plain ol sucking-it-up now a days for me and the gals. We've moved too many times and began to find boring days to be the most appreciated days of all. I've learned to rely on myself, and myself alone because when youre locked out at 1 am, Maintenance will NOT pick your lock so fucking keep a spare key SOMEWHERE.
Theres a lot to be said about the past year but its just that...past. Its almost nearly chronologized in this blog, all my one step forwards 10 steps back choreographing my own little cha-cha. I cant tell you that I am better today, because I dont always feel it, but I am alive. Im ... wiser. Im able to take in situations without just sitting down and giving up or hiding under my covers until Ive cried it out of my system.

Today the girls and I toasted the arrival of a new year freshly bathed (to clean off any impurities of the past), with money in our hands (for financial stability in the coming year), yummy food in our bellies (that we may never find our selves hungry), Sparkling Apple-cranberry Cider (for the sheer loveliness of simple things to be enjoyed), and poppers... for joyful noises in our coming year of Restoration.


Sunday, December 16, 2012

Sandy Hook

I first heard about it, like most everyone else, at work.


I was in an office full of coworkers whom have kids. There was discussions about what they could do to prevent it from happening to their own children. What we as a country could do to preventing it from happening again.

I put my head down and delved deeper into my stack of paperwork. I will not think.

I was delayed in leaving work due to my work load. I shouldered my bag at 15 past my usual exit time, got in my truck and drove steady. I will not rush.

My daughters excitedly greeted me with squeals and stories of a school field trip. I listened and commented. I will not panic.

I switched off the local radio station.

At home I let them stand in the kitchen with me and make a hodgepodge dinner from left overs, handed out juice boxes and settled on the couch with bowls in our laps to watch a DVD. Uneaten dinners still went unrewarded with dessert.
I offered up hot cocoa in mugs we designed, popped in a second DVD to the girls' surprise, and snuggled in the dark. 9pm. 1030 pm. 11pm. Tired girls made their way up the stairs having surpassed even a weekend bedtime.
I crawled in bed and had fit full dreams. Night terrors.

Most everyone that reads the words I write tell me I have a way with these words. I write like I speak. I am able to commit to paper things that others have difficulty expressing even verbally.
Where are my words now? I am unable to wrap it around the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary. Why are my words unable to penetrate grief and unravel it in a form for others to read and understand?

These little ones are gone. They barely touched this earth and from it they were stolen. In believing that we are all part of one consciousness, one soul...I believe that they have reached our Greater Form and are free from the pain and anguish and terror they must of felt. But the grief and pain is always for those left behind isnt it? Thats the reality of it. We who stay behind are left with a lifetime, however long or short, of grief and sorrow for those we no longer walk the path with.

These parents. They cherished the 2 pink lines such few years ago, Im sure. They prepared their entire world for an arrival of a life, the greatest achievement we could ever be granted. They took care to wipe runny noses, and child proof homes. They kept doctor appointments and taught self awareness. They held little hands growing bigger, skin made of their own skin, and knew that this child was theirs and theirs alone. This child they knew like they could never know another being in this existence. This anchor to life here, this purpose in a small little frame and upturned face smiling brightly.

There are no words for me to try to express what is only a FEAR of a call saying my child is gone.  A FEAR. That in my absence someone has dashed the breath of the little one who is the better form of my very soul.

They say a teacher shielded children and paid for it with her life. They say that others tried the same. Some failing. Some not. Their absolute bravery for children not even their own...the love that buoyed them through the sacrifice.

I dont care to hear what gun laws/behavioral health could/could not have done. I dont care to see or know about the odios excuse for a human who brought this upon innocent children. These things dont matter right now. They cannot change a fucking thing.

Ive met with death, of that Im sure. There cannot be anyone who at some point in their life hasnt thought: whats the point? I know I have. That very question was poised to me by Death while inside the wreck of my vehicle some few years ago.
'Whats the point?' It asked as my vision narrowed and I felt a calm release just up ahead. In that narrow tunnel I saw my Iris, head bowed over a scraped knee. Alone and without me. 'I could never kiss another boo boo' were my exact thoughts at her desolate image. So I started to scream. She is my point, as is Aeva. My children are my point, reason, and purpose in life. Without me, who would be there to guard and love them like only I can?

Those parents...

Ive seen my dearest friend hold her only child and know whats to come. Hold her close as she released from this world.
I have hugged friends who held in little boxes the child who was born without breath.
I have myself grieved the loss of two angels who I never got to hold.

These parents...they held these children and KNEW them...planned their future knowing their voice and interests and scent...Yet someone took them.

From far away they get told.

My girls dawdled today. They both took their sweet sweet time getting bathed and dressed for bed. In PJs they both sat on the couch with me and watched Cinderella until Aeva herself asked to go to bed. Im exhausted, they have a million bedtime rituals, and my injuries are particularly achy today.

But I am just tucking them into bed. Kissing eyes that are merely sleepy. Smoothing faces I will see in the morning. They are my point. And they are alive.

Oh little souls.... the grief resounds in my soul. And your parents...I cant ever even imagine.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Ho Ho Holy Fudge Sticks

Baltimore was most definitely NOT my top choice of towns to live in when it came time to find my own place. Its busy, noisy, dirty and dare I say ghe-heh-toe.
That, my ebonically challenged friends, is my way of sprucing up the word that best describes my dwellings: Ghetto.
Im not going to get into what exactly makes this place so.....Urban....but understand that I dont enjoy the firehouse alarms and Police sirens every quarter of an hour. The first time I heard the firehouse let out its wailing alarm I thought: OMFG! Were under attack!!
I quickly ducked as did the girls and we kept an ear out for 'The Big Voice' to tell us what to do next.

Apparently only military bases have those kinds of sirens. This one was just for the fire rescue.

Naturally, what with the constant authorities running amuck, my friends became concerned that I would need protection in case of a house invasion.
Get a gun! They said. A nice little glock with a safety!
Ha! I rather a shot gun! Scariest sound in the world!
So is its price tag unfortunately.

I got this guys! I got this! I have a broad sword! An honest to God broadsword. Stands 3/4s of my height and possibly just as heavy. Unsheathing it is a struggle but I was confident that I could wield it should someone dare break in during the night. I envisioned myself standing at the top of the stairs, a mighty sight, sword poised and ready to slay any heathen who dares cross my threshold uninvited.

What actually happened was I glued up an alarm system that went off when contact with the door sensor was interrupted. It conveniently failed to stay glued at around 3 am that same night, rousing me panicked and disoriented with its 'wake-the-dead' shrieking. I bypassed the sword, smacking into the bedpost, dresser, and door jam before unsteadily reaching the apex of the stairs, taking 3 wobbly steps down and tumbling the entire rest of the way.
Good news? If I had picked up the sword id be a mess.
Better news? Im sure even a thief would think twice about robbing a woman crazy enough to launch herself unarmed as ammo at his entrance.

Ah, good times. Good times.

But its not just me. No. See, I decided to go out to a bar called Howl at the Moon one weekend with a friend to listen to the dueling pianos and relax with a few drinks. Being that Baltimore is pitifully parking-challenged, and I dont need a DUI, I called a cab.
Dont EVER get into a 'cab' that lacks the Taxi signage, meter, nor visible licensure to operate. No matter how confident your 'friend' is.
First and foremost, no good cabbie immediately launches into his views on pot and the government's plot to control us through its illegal status. I started to question his sobriety when the words 'at least when you smoke you only like, sleep for a while and then get up and like, live again. Cuz alcohol and meth, they like make you sleep and you never come back man' came along
Somewhere with in a mile of the bar my cabbie decided to stop. In the middle of the street. Wayyyyyy before a green light.
Both my friend and I kept ducking to see if perhaps we had stopped at a red light that was too far above us to see from the back seat. Nope. No red light.
Thats when genius said: "Oh man, this isnt a light! Whoa, guys, why didnt you tell me this wasnt a light?"
Id of jumped out if wasnt held down.

Yesterday I thought it would be nice to try to make life here in Bmore much more ... normal. I ran into Walmart and grabbed a long box labeled 'Christmas Tree-6 ft tall' and raced home to show the girls. Today, after dinner, we broke into the box and voila: The grown up version of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, tilt and all.

And fuck 6 feet. I can see over the top of it and I KNOW I havent grown vertically lately. The bedamned thing is scrawny and gnarled and every penny a $20 buck slump.
Much like me and this situation we call home, the girls took to it in excited little voices, lacing the plastic threaded wires with strings of lights and shiny baubles on hooks and making it merry. Theyve lit it up and placed sweet candy canes all on its pokey branches, making it a tree worthy of gifts and joy.

The bottom half of lights has fizzled the fuck out.

I aint seen nothin'.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

2 Little Monkeys

One of the perks..ok the ONLY perk of not being fully divorced is that I am still able to go on base at Ft. Meade and see the doctors there under my soon to expire Tricare coverage. There isn't a spouse anywhere in the military that has never complained about Tricare at least ONCE and yet,...

Is it sad to say Ill regret losing my Tricare more than the Ex?

....I need to buy a little bicycle bell because Im going to Hell in a handbasket...

Like any good military nurse, my LPN ran me through the gamut. Height, weight (ug, blindfold-led), blood pressure, temp, agonizingly personal questions.

"Any anxiety? Depression?" Ha, what military spouse doesn't experience that?
"Are you getting treated for it?"

Fact of the matter is I havent seen a psych for a great long time. I've always been more of an after-action review gal. I put my head down, push through, and once Im on the other side of the battle field I come in for damage assessment. Being a Psych student you'd think Id practice what I will one day preach: Ask for help.

"No. Im not."
Eyebrow raise.
"Im putting in a consult."
Well, ill stick it in the recycling bin.

For all of my pains and troubles the doctor pretty much tells me Im stupid, this whole appointment is stupid and for my efforts I get a FluMist cuz, you know, that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with what I came in for. Makes perfect sense in the Military Clinic world. Trust me on this one.

Great day to have a runny nose too. There I am sniffling, trying to look for tissues, but grateful that Im not being poked with a needle.
Until the nurse stops by in passing and takes my "FluMist Informational Pamphlet" and replaces it with "FluShot Informational Pamphlet"

"Sorry doll, Doctor didn't realize you're Anemic. We have to give you the shot."
Classic. Me.

On the drive home I mulled over the chat the Nurse had with me about reaching out for help with depression. I dont like to take pills. I dont enjoy sitting in a chair and 'talking about my feelings', thats what this blog is for.

"See there?! I tol' you I got MUSCLES!" Aeva has kicked the dash and is now using the resistance to flex what I can faintly see as her calf muscles, pant leg pulled up as high as she can reach from her 5-point restraint system. Which isn't much. I rein that sucker in TIGHT.

"Im gonna be a SUPER hero!"
"Oh yea? Whats your super hero name?"
"Aeva Zazzle D!"

Iris and I both laugh at her choice which humors Super Aeva Zazzle D not.

"Is. Not. Funny."
"Ok, ok, ok, what will Aeva Zazzle D do?"
"Im gonna keel aww da snakes!! Im gonna run real fast and Ima help you with my super powers!"

Im starting to worry about my daughter's fascination with killing things at this point. Earlier this week she slipped me a absurdly large post card of a disgusting Cicada (thanks Bass Pro Shop...instructive assholes) saying: "Dis bit me lass mornin'" Not two seconds later a stink bug zooms between us landing squarely on the TV screen.

Jogging in place, arms flailing, Aeva's face resembles the 'Scream' mask...not a sound coming out of her mouth till she spots her boot, grabs it and yells:


Thank god for my cat-like reflexes.

As we are reaching the home stretch on this cold, wet, windy, and pokey day Iris has started up our rousing chorus of "Down By The Bay". We butcher it like pros. Scaring fellow drivers when they see all three of us bellowing children songs and bouncing in our seats. Im by no means a good singer but Im really fucking this chorus up, my voice cracking and horribly out of tune because thats just how we like it best when Aeva, ever the umpire, gets upset.

"Im MAD at you!"
"Because what?"
"Dont SAY dat word!!"
"Why are you mad?"
"Im gonna sing now. Ima sing wit Iris"

Iris is great at ignoring us. She's well on past the Bay and on to "5 little Monkeys".  Aeva adds her quiet little voice, slowly swaying in her restraints.

"You sing too now momma"

Momma doesn't need to call the Doctor. She's got her Monkeys right here with her and they make her all better.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Because of you...

Sweetest Jasmine,

The first email I read from your daddy, I was certain he was a woman.

“Jodie Uhl writes:
We will be by this afternoon to pick up the formula”

I don’t think Id ever met a male Jodie, and most of the folks on the local Freecycle group were women. I had posted a huge bottle of formula my then 2 month old Aeva didn’t need and your daddy had set up a pick up from my house.

And he was LATE.

Granted I wasn’t really in any hurry to get the formula picked up but was afraid of having anyone knock on the door and wake my sleeping infant. I was a tad neurotic back then.

“Jodie Uhl writes:
Im sorry were so late! We will be there soon! “

Ofcourse, by the time I got that email, Aeva was sound asleep and I was keeping close watch on her so that nothing would disrupt her.  I was determined to give Ms. Uhl a stern look of disapproval when she arrived.

A huge red SUV pulled up in my driveway. License plate MAXAMOS, a tribute to your mother’s personality. When I open the door there’s a man there, ear splitting grin on his face.

“Hi! I’m so sorry were late! We got stuck at the hospital with my daughter’s chemo session. We tried getting here as quickly as possible”

Chemo?? Daughter? Is this who they’re getting formula for? My mind went on a tilt. If she’s young enough for formula and she’s in chemo…

A month or so ago I had just lost my step-mother to a terrible form of cancer that had coated all her vital organs and weren’t even visible in scans. I had taken the 14 hour drive to Miami 3 days post-partum solely to bid her farewell. She had lived a life, perhaps not as long as we’d of wished, but she had had years of it.

I felt so embarrassed for my insensitivity and annoyance with your dad that all I could sputter was:

“Is she ok?!” Because of course, you idiot, no one EVER undergoes chemo when something is wrong….

“She’s alright, just tired. Would you like to see her?”

How can I describe the first time I saw you? I don’t think words can ever convey the way my heart both swelled and cracked into so many pieces.
You were tiny. 7 or 8 months old and hardly bigger than Aeva. You were slumped over in your ridiculously pink car seat, sleeping away the unavoidable exhaustion from chemo, wearing a frilly little bathing suit. It was slow motion going for me. My eyes skimming over your little bowed head, the scars pulling the breath from my lungs in sharp rifts. Little hands cupped, palms to the sky. Skinny little legs and fat little piggies painted, in pink of course, each dotted with a minuscule rhinestone.

A hand reached out to stroke the stubble of hair on your head, pulling my attention up and across you to your mother.

“This is my wife, Stephanie.”

She was, and is of course, beautiful.  Dark hair cropped short and a quick smile. It was then that I found out she was Puerto Rican and in the Army at the base that I lived in. Being that I am Cuban, your mom and I instantly clicked. We promised to keep in touch with each other, share recipes, and hang out. We could commiserate together the lack of good coffee and real food.

I held it together long enough to close the door behind me before I ran to Aeva who was stirring. I scooped her up and fell to my knees crying. My selfish heart wringing itself out: It could have been my daughter…my daughter…

Your story is very long. Multiple chemo and radiation sessions. Multiple hopeful surgeries. A Hemispherectomy. I lost count of how many facebook statuses from your parents included a trip to the hospital. How many texts we exchanged about where the progress of the cancer was.

I regret never having had the time to drive out to your hospital a few hours away to see you. See, back then I had such petty little worries. I was too busy. Too concerned with things that needed to get done. I had a household to run and children to take to and from activities. A husband and a life that kept me going, going, going.

After your hemispherectomy we all held our breath. We waited a while for you to come out of the haze of such a delicate operation. You had half your brain removed in an attempt to take the tumor that kept multiplying ever more rapidly each time doctors intervened. They even took some from your brainstem.

I waited to see that smile of yours again. It was my point of reference. You got it from your father I think. The way you could smile from ear to ear. Jasmine was Jasmine if she was smiling.  I am currently switching between this piece and all your pictures on your mother’s facebook and all I see is smiles. Tubes and smiles. Scars, and smiles. Machines, bandages, ports, and smiles. Smiles. SMILES.

There was an evening that we went to your house for dinner. My husband at the time, Iris, me, and your playmate Aeva. As was usual for Your Highness, you were on your bouncer set upon the coffee table that was otherwise covered with medicines and all sorts of instruments. You were front and center to the large screen TV your daddy had Mickey Mouse Playhouse on. We always knew you liked something if you yelled at it, beating your chest with one hand while one foot kicked so hard I sometimes feared youd managed to kick yourself off that table.

Aeva had been taking turns between zoning out on Mickey and holding your hand to sway to the music when we saw her trying to find a space on the table with you. I ran to grab her and take her off the table but Jodie intervened. He cleared the whole other half of the coffee table and stood Aeva up on it.

“C’mon Jasmine! Dance!”

Aeva held your hand as she boogied to the ‘Hotdog dance’ and you kicked away, singing along too. As the song came to a close, Aeva hopped down in search of her daddy who had walked outside.

You started to scream.

It was piercing. I don’t think I had ever heard you scream like that. You turned as best as you could, seeking out where Aeva had gone, one arm waving franticly in her direction. My baby doll ran back to you. She climbed back up on the table and settled in, hand in hand with you, to watch Mickey Mouse.  That night when it was time to say goodbye, Aeva noticed your port over your heart and in her limited language skills told you:
“Jasmine has boo-boo on da heart? I kiss. I make it betta”

Everyone watched as she leaned down and kissed you right over your heart and you let her.

I wished, and dear gods, I prayed that my very mortal child had done you some good that day. I held that wish so strongly, that a simple kiss could heal you.

The day that I found out that there was nothing further anyone could do…It was a  tumbling effect. The wish didn’t work. There must be something. Some doctor. ANYTHING. We just CANT give up. I felt adolescent in my anger, lashing out at everything. Faulting those who had no fault. I wanted to steal you. Carry you running until I found the answer to your cure.

I wanted to escape my very body. I didn’t want to experience this pain and uselessness.

I am selfish, little one. If I felt this hurt, I couldn’t even imagine your parents’ pain.  And I didn’t. I crawled into bed and cried till exhausted, I fell into nightmares.

Heartbreak, loss, and pain are not new to me. I have learned how to cut it out of my life when it becomes unbearable and move on. I steel myself against the worst of the storm and turn away.  At time, I run away from it.

I went to visit you when hospice was being set up in the living room of that large house your parents bought with dreams to see you fill it with years of memories. Your room could come straight out of a page in a Pottery Barn magazine. The twin sized bed you never had the chance to sleep in. A miniature table ready for the tea party we had hoped you’d have. The closet your mother had filled with clothes for when you’d be old enough to start pre-k even. It was never a thought in her world that you wouldn’t.

I met Jessica then. She has eyes that see things we all miss. And a talent that brings her photography to life. I helped her set up for a photo shoot of you. Moving you gently, dressing you as the angel we have always known you are.  In every picture she took we saw your peacefulness through the clamour of hospital drips and machines. Everyone took turns taking a picture with you that day. I was scared to ask, to take away time we had so very little of. To seem…selfish again. Jessica told me to get up, to hold you and as I leaned in to kiss your sleeping little face, she snapped a shot.  It’s the photo on my wallet front.

There was no way to shut you out.

I had meant to, I think. I was told by someone I loved that I was stupid to stay so close, knowing I was only going to lose you.

Most evenings I was over at your house. The amount of visitors was staggering. From nurses, to church friends, to friends and family from out of state.  The local news came by to do a piece on your amazing life. I hung back and helped clean up the kitchen from all the food that was being delivered in a steady stream. I made coffee and your momma’s favorite: CafĂ© con Leche. Neither one of your parents would leave your side, not that anyone can blame them. Often I offered to watch over you while they took a few hours of rest. The best I got was your mom passing out beside you while I watched the slow rise and fall of your chest. Time was closing and I was afraid to see you leave us.


My house was being packed that 29th of October. I was exhausted from going between my place and yours. Laying my pounding head down, I tucked my phone under my pillow and let myself curl around Aeva’s for just a little afternoon nap.

The phone went off, your mother’s picture on the screen, and I knew.

“Sherlin, this is Stephanie’s sister Janice. Jasmine is passing. Please. Hurry. Stephanie is asking for you.”

Along the way I got stopped by a cop and I didn’t care if he had given me the largest ticket possible so long as he didn’t make me miss you. I hadn’t planned to be there when you did. I wasn’t strong enough to watch my stepmother pass, I didn’t think I could see you pass. The child that could have been my child. The child I loved as much as my own children.

You were surrounded by family and loved ones.  I walked in not knowing what to expect. Someone, your father’s mother I think, grabbed me and held me.

No, no, no…too soon. But my darling angel I was just selfish. Your pain was greater than mine and it was time for you to be free of it.

Ive never been very good at waiting. I put myself to work making coffee, discarding empty soda cans, talking to your hospice nurse.

“Come sit next to me” your mother said.
She was holding you, stroking your little face, counting fingers and talking gently to you. She seemed a saint to me.
“Would you like to hold her?”
“No…you, please…”
I was so afraid to hurt you. To take time away…
Little piggies, painted pink. Your momma’s doing. She always doted on you.
I had cast your hands and feet in plaster that week. Stroking your fat little toes I contemplated why you hadn’t let me hold your little hand but had instead held mine, tucking your fingers beneath mine, your thumb resting against them. The cast came out perfect. Where were you leading me?

I stepped away before I lost my own composure, and your dad took my place. Coffee. That’s what I need. The Keurig wouldn’t cooperate with me. I came out to the living room again at the moment that someone said something funny and everyone slightly chuckled. I was looking at your Aunt I think. Everyone had glanced at someone else. No one was looking at you for one split second.

And in that split second, you left us.

Janice suctioned you. She listened for a heartbeat. I don’t think anyone could breathe.

Our shattered hearts all broke at once. Tears flowed and we keened for your release from this world. From between the quiet cries your grandmother raised her voice in song. A church hymn I believe. It didn’t matter. Slowly each person added their voice, our very souls in each word, bidding us understanding.

I always though I knew what strength and love were.  I was wrong.

Strength is a mother, your mother, washing your little body one last time as though it were the very first time. Gently cleansing you with warm water, washing the soap from your baby-soft hair, patting you dry and wrapping you up in a plush towel.  Dressing you in your prettiest little monkey-print dress, brushing the dark curls she loved so much and radiation couldn’t take from you.

Love is a father, your father, holding you on the couch. Laying down next to you, now free of machines and curling around you one last time, as though it were the very first time. Holding you close to himself and breathing you in. Snuggling his little girl. The world around him gone, no one existing but you.

And compassion. I didn’t know a damn thing about compassion until the funeral home came to pick you up. Walking out the front door with you in Jodie’s arms, your parents stopped short of the van. We all lined the walkway leading to the sight of your parents handing you over tenderly. Tucking a stray fold of your blanket around you. The man holding you glanced at the back of the van…and walked to the front. He sat down in the passenger seat and cradled your head, like an infant, turning you into his embrace.

Your little hand has led me a long, long way since that time. You helped prepare me for what was to come.

Strength, to face even the most dire of situations.

Love, to always give unconditionally.  

Compassion, to understand even in turmoil that others hurt too.

Because of you I have learned to be less selfish. To accept that with pain comes some beautiful lessons.

I have had the strength to love compassionately even when there doesn’t seem to be that option.  Even when I am hurt so deeply I cannot fathom there to be any release.  
And to smile, always smile through my tears.

It’s been a long long year dear angel. We miss you and love you forever more. 

Monday, October 22, 2012

Mothra's Revenge

There I am, peacefully laying in bed...drifting off to sleep...and I hear it.

The rasping of wispy wings. Closer...closer...CLOSER...

Ram rod straight in bed, in pitch dark I scramble for glasses and my trusty cell phone. Clumsily smashing my glasses on, I toggle the power button and my iPhone lights up all of a foot in front of me.

Wave it to the left. Nothing. Atleast not close enough to see.

Wave it to the right. Just the dresser. But it's there... I HEAR it...

*flutter RASP*flutter RASP*

I jump out if bed and punch the wall in my attempt to hit the switch.

And there it is.

What sort of moth IS it?!? It survived the frantic swatting, the shampoo bottle, and a goddamn DOUSING!

Maybe I WAS battling a zombie in there! It makes me think of those zombie ants and how those fuckers and being brain-controlled by a damn fungus.

So I took a cup, and a piece of cardboard and caught the bugger. There's just no way I'm going to sleep with it in my house yet again. It's a damn immortal moth. It can go haunt some other poor damsel. I need sleep and well shaven pits.

Here's a tip: don't try disposing of something out your front door by hiding behind it because your in panties and a shirt. Granted...I wasn't gonna risk the moth getting out of the cup by leaving it whilst I doned bottoms but I digress.
Hiding behind the door only inhibits you from properly seeing your captive out.

It took 3 times and one split decision to send all modesty to hell and just stand near naked at my front door to get the bugger out.

As one of my readers said: I battled Mothra. And unless that fucker can also key two's staying out.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Because a gal cant even shower in peace....

Ok God. Gaia. Ahura Mazda. Allah. Who ever you are. I know you're up there if only because the shit that happens to me could only be caused by a greater being for their amusement. I mean, c'mon. Im a good sport. I shake most of your jokes off, we give each other high-fives, admit you got me there, ect.

You're pushing it there though. Im your child, no? Isn't that what most of your prophets teach? Were bordering on child abuse here, Old Man.

For example:

That moth in the shower was unnecessary. Alright, so I toiled on a sabbath day. Did you need to leave the wispy-winged, multi-legged bugger IN MY SHOWER???


There is NOTHING. And I repeat NOTHING sexy about me hoping around and flailing soaped up limbs in a square foot space while the moth buzzes around in an apparent mirrored frenzy TOWARDS ME. You know what water tends to do to wispy things like bugs? It makes them stick. Thats right. It makes their gross, microscopically furry insectoid bodies stick to my wet FLESH.

So you know what I did? I grabbed a shampoo bottle and BATTED the moth away. Not once. Not twice. Not even just I batted at the poor cretin like I was battling a swath of attacking zombies. Like my life depended on making sure it wasn't gonna get back up and fly at my no-nos.

Im the woman who hand removed 700 baby praying mantises that early January morning after they hatched from the cocoon their mother placed in my real-live christmas pine tree just so we didn't have to kill them. I dont dispatch bugs! I dont kill things!

Im a murderess by duress...

I ended up cowering under the shower head, hoping the pelting of the water would drive it away from me or maybe take it away with the rush of water towards the open drain but that little fucker was kickin! The water only kept it at bay. I took one split second to look away (in case there was something I could use to get him out that didn't involve shampoo bottles), and when I glance back...its gone.

Not in the drain. Not in the curtain. Not in PLAIN SIGHT.

Im just gonna have to deal with one unshaved arm pit and a head full of non-leave in conditioner tomorrow. Fuck if Im going back in there.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Say Hello To My Little Friend

I dont know about you but theres just something about having to wield a power tool before i've had a chance to pee in the morning that makes me want to take stock of my vacation hours.
When I was looking into moving in to my own place with the blondies, I didn't go so far as to envision marble top counters, white picket fences, or even a mailbox with our names on it.

I sure as HELL didn't envision fixing any damn plumbing issues before the sun had a chance to rise.

The first time I took the suped up screwdriver out of its Lincoln Electric box I very nearly caused myself a very messy belly button piercing. It packs a punch and theres just no gradual drill speed. Its either not moving or its halfway through the neighbors wall.

Picture this if you will.
Me, half asleep staggering into the small bathroom pawing the bath tub facet. Adjusting hot and cold water for optimal comfort level, reaching for the knob that runs the water up to the shower head....3 to 4 turns later my foggy brain realizing theres a slight problem. Squinting I see that the screw on the knob is a philips head screw. Ok. Noooo problem. Its prolly loose or something. Ill just grab a butter knife and unscrew it, check the inside, then put it back together and tighten it.
Half inch effin screw wont tighten enough without the butter knife prying into soft finger-flesh (is that a word?). Fine.
Clash goes the knife. It can lay there on the linoleum tile and bask in its uselessness.
'Ill just ghetto-rig it' says hazy-brained Sherlin. I just need that wrench thingy in that brown moving box. I glance in my room. 6 brown moving boxes. I stumble down the stairs. 13 brown moving boxes. Up the stairs on all fours. 3 more damnable boxes.
What the hell else can I USE??
3 Christmases ago, my father gave me a power drill from his shop down in Dania Beach. He sells power tools and welding supplies for construction workers and the likes. Whilst it was a kick ass gift...This was also the father that didn't so much allow his daughter to use a hammer in his workshop. I was always put to painting duties. Needless to say, I know a great deal about carpentry by sight but diddly squat about how to put hand to tool and not injure myself.
Power cord trailing behind me, bits in hand I walk into the bathroom all 'Say hello to my little friend' Mr. Inconsiderate Shower Knob. Thats right. I got this.
No. No I dont.
Theres no outlet in the fucking bathroom. Atleast...not on the walls. Thats exists...NOT on the wall. But on the base of my light fixture.
Gheeehh Heee TOE.
The bathtub drains slowly so theres a few inches of water in there and Im wearing yoga pants. Alright. I can do this in panties right? No use in getting my pants wet. Shimmy out of those.
'Wait a second there genius' says the slowly clearing brain of mine. 'Water and power tools dont mix'
No problem (funny how I only think that when there most certainly IS a problem)
One foot in the tub. One foot outside the tub. I can just jump out quick if the thing goes for a swim right? Yea, lets just not think that one through please.
I line up the faucet knob and the screw and hand guide it a bit before its time to put some force behind this thing.
The next few seconds are like out of a movie. EVERYTHING slows down. Its just the sound of my breath and the soft clink when the bit engages the x-shaped indention in the screw. My finger tightens a hairs width on the trigger and ZIP!
I strip the top of the screw.
Ladies and gentle men...I suceeded in making my shower fully functional again and sparing my coworkers an unhappy unshowered sherlin.
The temporary adrenaline rush is building me a bitch of a migraine as it evaporates from my system and blood newly flushes the veins in my skull.
I have 46 hours of vacation time left this year. Two sick days. One personal day.

This fixing things is for the birds.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Three C's but the Opposite of the Diamond Ring

What do two chairs, one big toe and two skeins of golden yarn have to do with this time of the night?
Couldn't be anything but Rapunzel hair pieces for Aeva's birthday party favors, unless of course you have a very active imagination.
In that case,...lets just keep it to our selves ok?
I foresee a 5 hour energy shot in my very near wake-up and I havent even gone to bed yet. Its a good thing I keep a large container of instant coffee and creamer in my co-workers drawer (hes conveniently seated next to the hot water ) because these late late nights lately have me entirely drained.
Are you still stuck on trying to figure out how my first line translates into hair pieces?

You cant see the other chair because it was only used to hold my laptop while it played sad songs on Pandora and when I was winding the yarn between the backs in order to keep length consistency.
Unfortunately, you can probably still see how badly I need a nice relaxing pedicure.
Just like I havent been on here since I started my INTENSE job in Human Resources back in June, I havent honestly crafted in a long long while. It felt nice to have yarn between my finger tips. I even dove back into working with tulle and created a full length tutu version of the Tangled Rapunzel gown for Aeva. I havent finished it yet nor received royal approval but once I do, you bet your jewels Ill be posting the gaudy mess on here.
Thanks to a very understanding boss-man, I got to take a sick day today (yesterday, whatever) so that I could wake up with my little one and stay with her through her 3rd birthday.
We got to watch Big Sister ride the school bus. It wasn't a very happy realization once Aeva saw Iris get on and she wasn't going too but nothing a momma cuddle on the walk back to the Jeep couldn't help. After the fiasco of trying to explain why 3 wasn't the magical ride-in-the-front-seat number, we made it to Toys R Us. Following her sister's tradition of snubbing ANYONE wishing her a happy birthday or a happy hello whilst in princess attire and donning the paper birthday crown, Aeva strode through aisle after aisle of toys carelessly slapping passerbys with her Toys R Us issued mylar ballon.
I walked out with a screaming, slobbering newly minted 3 year old who for no apparent reason felt like raising hell even though I got her the unimpressive Rapunzel crown we came for anyways.
A happy meal (yes...yes a happy meal, she ASKED and so fucking sue me..its her birthday...), library visit and nap later, my time with my little one was up. It was Daddy's turn.
Its hard to believe that 3 years ago we both waited fretfully in a hospital room for the arrival of the little one who had made us keep our hearts in our throats with so many threatened moments to her life.
I remember walking out of the bathroom leaving the two pink lined stick on the edge of the bathtub, shaking my head with a smile and shrugging at him as he flew by me to see the results I couldn't mouth. We had lost a baby before her. I was excited but reserved.
The first time I started to bleed I panicked. I ran to the car, drove pell mell to the hospital.
The second time....
There was so so much blood. It was impossible that I could still have her alive. I went into shock, watched from outside my body as nurses installed a port, tests were called in. I was 4 months along.
Facing the wall as I was hooked up to a sonogram machine, I ignored the technician telling me the formalities: I cannot tell you results. Only a doctor can tell you the results of this test. I am only a technician.
Pa-Thump. Swoosh. Pa-Thump. Swoosh.
She had filled the room with the only result I needed, the sound of my little ones steady heart beat. I remember him reaching for my hand and knowing that for now, we were still ok. Doctors couldn't tell us for how long, but we would be fine. For now.
In that labor room we took a gamble to try for a normal delivery. Aeva was born angry and red. We both cried so hard that day. Years of learning the basics of sharing and we couldn't give up a single second with this tender array of our best traits.
3 years go by in a teary blink.
Now I am letting her little fingers untwine from mine and walk to hold his. Its his half of her day.
As they go off to celebrate the beautiful birth of one of the only two blessings in my life, I am signing on this very day the end of a high school romance.
Neither one of us are the people we were even a year ago. Let alone 12.
How does one bury a husband who isn't dead but has seized to exist?
Its a party at a funeral.
Cake, Candles, but where is the Casket....

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Get Some!! Became Got Too Much!

Im not gonna lie.

I totally got my ass handed to me at Body Pump yesterday.
Its Thursday already. Ok... Tuesday. I had my ass handed to me Tuesday. Not that I wanted it back and Im sure that at some point I did lose an inch or (hopefully) more of it.
Heres the thing. Im not sure who the hell to blame but between Europeans and their confusing metric system and ours I walked into Pump class ready to grab the numbered weights I always push : Four 5lb weights two 2.5lb weights.
Now, before you go chuckling at my low numbers, Id like to say: Kiss my ass. YOU come to pump and do the crap we do in 1 hour and then you can laugh. Unless you're a professional weight lifter. In that case Ill laugh because I hear that all that intense lifting makes for a tiny penis.

No. Nothing decreases a female's awesomeness. Sorry fellas.

Anyhow. I set up my bench and grabbed my barbell bar and clips and then selected my weights. Picking up the first batch of 5 weights I was thinking "Shit, a month away has really fucked me up!".  I was determined not to let ANYONE see me struggle so I heaved my lot and tried to walk without looking like I was gonna cave under what I though was 25 lbs.
Totally missed the Kg after the number 5.
1lb is 2.2kg roughly. Yea buddy do the math. That was 55 lbs I was trying to carry across the gym floor. Typically thats not too hard to carry if its say, a bag of dog food. You can heave that big fella over ur shoulder and the kibble nuggets settle evenly so that weight is redistributed in a somewhat even weight. try 6 sliding weighted discs. All pulling ur center of gravity forward so you can give the floor a violent kiss. Possibly spare a tooth or 3.

Lets just say I never got to add two of the 5kg weights. I effectively survived the class pushing double my usual weight.

This morning. Yesterday morning, what ever, was a different story. Due to some unfortunate luck and lack of mercy, I sleep on a pallet twin mattress on the bottom bunk with Aeva. Any given day its cramped and I hardly get any sleep but after that workout I was devastatingly sore in the morning when Aeva trampled me and then pried my eyes open to ask for the cereal she NEVER eats.

I dragged my good friend Jocelyn with me to body pump with me yesterday. I caught her via text as she was inevitably writing me a death wish for having put her through my kind of torture. I cant honestly say that it was a way of repayment for the one Cardio Kickboxing class she took me to 4 years ago where I was only slightly silently praying Id have a mild cardiac arrest so I could be excused instead of only FEELING like I was having a heart attack.... but I think it could be viewed as paid in full.

Im sure we looked the pair walking stiff legged and nearly on the balls of our feet (less muscle extension and contraction) at the mall where we met this afternoon to try to get me into a decent business wardrobe. We definitely seemed like lazy moms when we wouldn't chase our rambunctious preschoolers dashing in and out of racks of women's clothing, using leggings as jump ropes, and peeking into dressing rooms. Thing is we COULDN'T. Id rather yell and make empty threats than move faster than our peg-legged swag and risk losing all muscle cooperation and thus falling bag-o-bones style to the floor. Im pretty sure my neurons all had a meeting some time last night and decided on a quota of hourly voluntary use of muscle control. Once I used up my allotted muscle commands... I was shit outta luck.

I've been sitting on this stoopid heating pad most of the evening but I think all I've gotten from it is a rash. The heat gets to the flesh of my tummy but does diddly squat for my hip and thighs. I dont think I can point my damn toes without wincing.

I have a feeling Ill be sleeping on the couch... theres a step up to get to the room. Its not worth the effort :/

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Friendship Wanted, Inquire within

Theres definitely something I missed about living in an apartment complex. It may sound crazy a bit but I miss having neighbors in mass quantities. What I dont miss is how hard it is to engage them in conversation.  I got used to living in military housing where the moment you drive up to your new house, chances are your neighbors are lining your sidewalk like a welcoming committee.

Granted they're only there to be nosey most of the time.

Though there was that one time I drove up a while after the Ex had started to unload the moving truck and happened upon my next door neighbors and their kids talking to him. I later found out that their observation of my Ex and his work buddy unloading led them to think they were a gay couple and they wanted first dibs on the friendship possibility.
This was previous to the repelling of Dont ask Dont tell so I am not sure WHAT exactly gave them that impression but it humours me to this day.

Ahhh...good times.

At any rate, the only person I have befriended as of yet is my mailman. How unlikely is that?? He comes about 6 times a week, for 10-15 minutes and is then gone again.
As it seems to be the typical way to find me, I met Mr. C my first true day at the apartment when I arrived at my door and found my key faulty.
Two locks. One key. No ENTRY.

Ye Shall Not Pass! said the bronze knobs.

Ye shall tremble at the hands of a lock smith!, I replied.

Except the locksmith (a maintenance worker I had to go seek by foot), was chatty.
"Did you try both locks?"
Well no, I batted my eyes and nothing happened so I hailed a true knight to aid me in my time of distress.
"Yes. Yes I did."
"Hmm. Maybe you have the wrong key?"
"I just moved in. I dont know whats wrong I just know the key wont work"
" there another key?"
"If I HAD another key I would of tried it. Look Im not trying to be a dramatic bitch but I am tired, been up since 5 and I REALLY just want to lay in bed for a few minutes before my kids arrive."
"Oh. Ok. Well. See. Im going to rekey it for you. I will have to get my tools from my truck so that I can unfasten the bolts----"
Thats about as far into his love affair with locks as I got before I tuned out and my eyes glazed over.
Im TIRED dude. And im quickly losing my ability to keep my mouth in check. Im trying to be patient as he turns into Charlie Brown's teacher when I note the mailman peeking over his shoulder with a grin. He catches me looking and he shakes his head.
Good. Im not out of place to say:
"Alright really, I get that and its nice but thats MY dog you hear whining on the other side of the door having to go piss with an urgency and besides not wanting him to relieve himself on the carpet I am truly RUNNING OUT OF TIME before my kids return and I would REALLY like to catch a nap. That said, do what you must but PLEASE, let me in!"

Mr. C is an elderly black man with an easy chuckle and an obvious enjoyment of things being said as they are.
"You'll be alright, girl. You're funny though...talking like that. Good GAWD have mercy...heres your mail, now go on and get a nap!"
Seems Cerb knows him now too. I was sitting, as is my habit now, on the floor of the balcony one afternoon when out dashed my hell-hound bent on giving someone a piece of his mind. Across from my building Mr. C was getting out of his postal truck, laughing and waving at us.

I wish it was that easy to make friends with others here in the complex.
Its not that Im shy, its that I fear that I may come off as too forward. Or odd.
Maybe even crazy?
Pff. Right. Im no where NEAR crazy O_o
I sit here on the balcony floor, my ass going horribly numb with pin pricks and the likes, smoking a cigarette and others are doing much the same.
Some are leaning over banisters, some sitting on the stair case. Others in their cars, doors open, music playing. Those with better regards for their behinds, have patio sets.
Im tempted to walk over and say: "Hi. I noticed we've got a few things in common: smoking, insomnia, numb arses, and possibly loneliness. Lets be friends!"
Maybe that only works in the military where you can offer a complete stranger cat litter cake and/or candy on halloween late at night when you can barely make out their face and they suddenly become family.
Or maybe I need to learn a new way to make friends.
Id put an ad out on craigslist but Id like to live to a ripe old age.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Smart Mouth for Hire

I'm sure that my neighbors must think that I am a high executive at some snazzy office in downtown DC.
After all I have all the tell tale signs:

  • Every morning this week I have walked out of the apartment in a business suit, hair pulled back, large stack of papers in a file, laptop case, mug of coffee, and huge dark tint sunglasses. 
  • I'm often found checking my iPhone and imputing some quick notes.
  • I don't smile. 
  • I arrive home looking slightly wrecked but still monkey-suited, coffee mug in hand. 
  • If you catch me any time after that, I'm in jeans and a tee and no shoes (damn those heels!) looking slightly bewildered. 

I mean, I'm only guessing but from what I've glimpsed in DC those fellas are no joke. They walk brisk. They look intense, and there's always the suits, coffee, and cases.
I could be completely wrong though because if anyone takes my above description and labels me one of the elite DC-tonians (is that the term?!) then I'm sure I'm wrong too because:

  • The suit and accessories are for the 3 billion interviews/job fairs I have attended this week. 
  • I check my iPhone for the time. Then check it again because I didn't actually note the time. Then turn it back on to figure out where the hell I'm supposed to be going anyhow. 
  • Smiling implies happiness. I. AM. NOT. HAPPY. Something about trying to sell myself off like a hooker to some executive or his minion isn't appealing to me. I save my smiles for the line-up.
  • I arrived wrecked possibly because I'm sure Ive shook hands with at least 40 different possible employers and had to put on the charm each time. Its exhausting. And germy...I'm also possibly wrecked because Ive attempted to tear off my coat jacket while driving down I295 and failed. Managing to extract one arm while doing the driver's side shimmy isn't easy but its apparently entertaining to fellow traffic members. 
  • Anything remotely normal and requiring no acting skills has become suspicious. What do you MEAN I can just walk up to the mail box and no ones going to question me where I see myself 5 minutes after retrieving the junk mail? Or why I believe I'm the best choice for it? Its because there are bills in this stack ...AREN'T THERE?!
Here's a little thing I have learned about job fairs. They're like cheap and/or free advertising for big companies. It must be. Otherwise why would they sit there with all the advertising propaganda and sales schpeals but no job applications. All the online job fair tips Ive read tell you to bring as many copies of your resume as you can carry without your arms falling off, yet when you meet with a representative they hand you a card/flyer and tell you that they don't accept resumes in person. You must log on and put your resume on their data base, in case they have an opening. So why even come out to the job fair if they're not offering interviews and aren't willing to take your printed sales pitch? At the end of the day I was loaded up on corporate goodies which I shoved into some company's printed tote and left with maybe 6 or 7 less resumes than I arrived with.

I'm trying not to despair... but I'm not fond of the circus act. Why cant I just get paid for being witty and sitting at home sipping coffee all while browsing pinterest?

That's right. Because I got fired from being a SAHM :/

Someone pass me a beer.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Deja Poo

Im not trying to be vulgar but really, I think my life revolves around shit.
Thats shit.
This is THE shit.
Shit, what did you do??
What IS this shit?
This shit is good!
I've got shit to do.
He's got shit for brains.
And today:
She shit on the carpet.
I bet you can guess who that was.

Yep. Aeva.

I was putting around with ideas of how to return from my little absence these last few days when I had something of a deja vu.

Aeva pulling down her pants with that look on her face that says "im in way over my head",  and smears of .... stuff... on her backside. Sound familiar? No? Go back and read my first post ever. Trust me, youll be sitting there cringing along with me.

This time however, Iris was with me and we both sprang to action like super awesome super heros. I went for both of Aevas hands (learned that lesson!), and she went for wipes. Completely disabled from being able to perform further damage, Iris led Aeva away to the confines of the bare bathroom (we've yet to get our home goods) and I quickly disinfected the carpet before it set it. Something about Camden Apartments not liking the idea of me cutting a chunk of carpet out for sanitary reasons.

We are so classy we ended up dousing Aeva with a rinsed out Slurpee cup.

I cannot wait till I am out of this ridiculous potty training stage. It feels like it will take FOREVER to get Aeva to dispose of her nuclear waste in the john rather than the local surroundings. Its also not cool that I spent most of my 36 hours of driving from Texas to Maryland reaching behind me to squeeze the groin diaper area in order to determine if we needed the upteenth pit stop that HOUR.

Speaking of that trip. Ta-Daa! We made it! A tad belated but its been busy boys and girls! Ive been walking the interview strip in my knee high hooker heels (discreetly hidden under my very professional slacks mind you) tooting my goodies (aka skill sets and job experience) and handing out my resume like its no ones business. But...hopefully becomes someones business..never mind. You get it Im sure.

Anyhow, like any good kid recently scrubbed raw clean from a messy moment, Aeva donned her ballet shoes and took her sister out for a spin on the dance floor/ painfully bare livingroom. I took some cute shots (even one where Aeva did some overtly dramatic face-first faint) but theres not frick fracking way to get it OFF my phone and onto this damned thing so if anyone figures it out for me, you get kudos. And brownies maybe. Or just brownie points. I dont have any of my home goods :(

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Snarky Dark Bitch

If I close my eyes and just use my imagination...then I am sitting here at Panera Bread in San Diego with my laptop, a coffee, and a bagel typing away my newest novel. Not a care in the world and no rush to get anywhere.
That is, until, my nose starts to run like a faucet because I apparently choose the most unseasonably cold week to visit sunny California.
Theres also the 3 infants at the table next to me (each with a respective mother, dont worry...) and a very pregnant mom-to-be (no shes not one of the ones with an infant...I hope). The babies have been having a conversation of their own since before I set up beside them outside in the chilly weather and I have been trying ever so hard not to ask if I can hold one.
Creepy...I know. But I miss my own two babies. I have not been able to talk to them much since I have been out here because the Ex's phone unexpectedly broke and so phone calls do not go through. FaceTime requires WiFi that just isnt universally accessible so I have only seen their bright faces maybe 2 or 3 times since Friday last.
Needless to say, I am having withdrawls. The good news is I leave tomorrow but probably wont arrive till friday thanks to the grey hound bus schedule.
Im honest to goodness ready to end this less than eventful trip. It was a good idea but I dont think im meant to be a gypsy without my two blondies tagging along and making any trip 10 times its usual hassle.
So heres the real reason I logged on and pulled up a post. Ive come to the realization that I am a dark (read negative) snarky bitch.
Lets raise a poll.
Rather not invoke my possible wrath?
Ok so yes. I am having some terrible luck and its almost a complete continuation of the last few YEARS. Can you honestly blame me for getting to the point where I just sit and sulk and yell at lovers kissing because I am one bitter bitch about anyone being happy right now?
Alright I dont yell. I just give them the stink eye.
It extends beyond that however. I have friends on 3 different fronts as we speak. There are those who are willing to sit by me and nod and rub my back and generally ignore my ill moods except to try sweetening them with little bribes of coffee and pictures of monkeys sniffing their butts and fainting.  They know that im being exactly who I am and that I will eventually walk out of it. Theyre trying to be encouraging.
Theres the polar opposite friends who feel I need to snap out of this black hole of a depression with a dose of reality, bootstraps, and tough love. They dont allow me my antics and generally snarl right back at me when I show teeth. They dont think my ways are healthy and so they want to save me from myself. They too are trying to be encouraging.
I think the third pool of friends are in shock. Theyre there and they speak when spoken to but for the most part resemble those comical 'see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil' monkeys (what the heck is up with monkeys?!)
If I fake the positivity then I am not being myself. If I continue with my snarky bad moods, then I am being hurtful. Theres no win here for anyone it seems.
Geezus its so damn cold out here my fingers and brain cant interact coherently. My brain is working out knots in this argument that really should be put to page but my fingers are doing sgwruc92rcpa;102@#!# so often that I think Im gonna pack up and go HOME. I think my neurons are feeling some frost.
Alright. Heres the gong (GONG!!) anddd..... DISCUSS!

Saturday, April 28, 2012

From sea to shinning sea

I'm writing to you from the road. Currently, I'm sitting behind the driver of this greyhound bus.
I know. It's been a while huh? I took down my Facebook and 'ran away' from the social media world. It took a little while before texts flooded my phone to see if something awful had happened. Was I 'ok'? You realize, I started this blog BECAUSE something awful happened. I find the notion humorous.
No. Nothing 'awful' happened to me. Not really anyhow. I just reached that point where I was on chatter overload. Everything grated my sanity and I took a break. I knew I'd return. I figured, eh, a week. That became two. That hit 4 before the texts got whinny and I might as well go back to Facebook where the pleas keep to their own walls. I put it off for days which is surprising to me ABOUT me.
Goes to show huh?
Back to this bumpy road that makes mobile blogging an optical challenge. A few days ago I got offered a sweet little chance to take a plane ticket and fly to the west coast. I'm at the point where stress and emotional strain is causing me to make mistakes I regret almost as soon as I make them. It's a domino effect and I want out.
So I said yes.
I've never been to the west coast. I've dreamt of it like any young girl would but what east coaster doesn't want to compare beaches?
I just miss my babies.
They're still in San Angelo with their daddy, looking forward to a week long visit from their grand father and great grand father. While I am glad they get the family time... I just don't want to be there in that tiny place for it.
Iris was all flustered that I might see Hollywood without her. Aeva probably didnt understand what I was explaining about coming back soon. I laid them down in their beds, kissed them good night...and stole away.
Yes that's guilt you hear. I want so badly to have them sitting with me on this bus sharing my gypsy blood antics and holding their hands when I finally meet the waters lapping on the shore of the west coast.
Next week when I return, we start our move to Maryland so that the girls can be close to their daddy and me. I'm just hoping that when I return I'll have a better grasp on how to tackle this fork in the road of my life and minimize the mistakes I can't take back.
We just stopped at a gas station and while I grabbed a coffe I looked around for my two blondies whom surely are going for high fructose corn syrup in licensed character bottles.
My gypsy blood needs her gypsy girls.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Fowl play

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking: Hey look at that, she's doing a mid day post! Could this mean she wont be posting at 3am when all sensible adults are asleep in their beds because she's going to sleep at a normal hour?

Fat chance. I just wanted to write early, plain and simple.

Im sure theres a few of you going 'Well DAMN, what am I supposed to read when I wake up in the middle of the night or am sitting on the pot in the morning if she's posting NOW and not while Im blissfully unconscious?? She's throwing off my morning routine!'

And I feel so incredibly awful about this because you know, y'all are all so gosh darn loyal readers that you follow my every post and leave me amazing comments of encouragement.

Can you hear the sarcasm? Its DEAFENING. Its ok though. I know who y'all are. All 50+ of you that click on my links while you do your morning rituals for a little laugh. On the other hand theres my 5 registered followers. Maybe I should just treat them to cake, unicorns, and rainbows. Take that Anonymous viewers! Cake! Unicorns! AND Rainbows!

Speaking of chickens. Thats whats for dinner. Yesterday one of my fellow bloggers and highly talented friends posted about how grossed out she was with the whole chicken she was cleaning and trussing for dinner. She thought it felt like a small naked child. I thought that was putting it mildly. I've always thought it felt more like it was a cold naked dead baby. Try getting THAT image when you're 8 months pregnant with a child that hasn't allowed you to keep much down. While I was sobbing about how I just COULDN'T carve up the poor naked baby because id KILL it...I let it fall to the ground.

I never said it was a rational thought.

That was a little over 8 years ago. Ever since then I have had someone else carve up the chicken and/or dress it. For the most part I just kept a whole chicken in the fridge hoping I could casually ask a guest cut it up. Other times I bribed/threatened people.

Lately, for obvious reasons, there hasn't been anyone readily available to take care of the chicken slaughter. I was staring at the cold bagged little bodies at the commissary a few weeks ago when I decided I needed to get over my fear of dead whole chickens. It helped that this commissary doesn't carry rotisserie chickens, they were out of chicken breasts, and the butcher denied my request to cut it up for me. I didn't think it would be wise to bribe and/or threaten him. Just to make me that much more determined to get over the whole morbidity of a whole chicken, I bought two.

Needless to say, because I am so a-fucking-mazing...the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd attempts at roasted chicken were spectacular. It also goes without saying that Iris generally requests this often now. What is it with kids and repetitive menus??
I gag and get goosebumps (or should I say chicken bumps? ug...) most of the time I am washing the infant sized things and I still only use tongs to clear out and dry the cavity, but it gets done.
Today I was prepping a chicken for the oven before I leave to the gym (no I dont leave the oven on when im gone, the Ex is here with the kids. He monitors) when Aeva sauntered in.

Aeva: Momma, I want some more grapes; WHOA!! Whats dat!?
Me: Its a bird.
Aeva: A BIRD?!
Me: (*shiver* CRAP. Why did I just say that?! That makes it worse!) I mean, its a chicken.
Aeva: A...chicken?? WOW! Dats cool! Its a BIRD, its a CHICKEN!
Me: Its a chicken.
Aeva: Its a DOG!
Me: (still trying to get done shoving napkins up the chicken's wazoo) Its a chicken.
Aeva: Its a SHEEP!

Iris walks in to see the commotion. Lately she's becoming a little attached to me. I dont want to think what this means nor why its happening in this precise moment in life. It can wait. It makes her a little jealous of Aeva which is why she is prompted to be so cuddly towards me. She's always been a daddy's girl so I am pleasantly surprised albiet taken aback most times.

Iris: Momma, I love you so VERY much. Can I have a hug and a kiss?

My ever oblivious child, she hasn't realized Im wrist deep in a fowl. Ug. Theres just no good way to say these things.

Me: And I love you but can it wait or would you like a dose of salmonella?
Iris: (backing away) Ill...wait...
Aeva: ITS A BIRD! (No she doesn't skip a beat)
Me: Its. A. Chicken. (Losing patience here. I cannot get over the gross feeling of pulling thread tight around raw chicken skin)
Aeva: Its an ELEPHANT! "PBRRRRWWWWW!!!!" (thats her imitation of an elephant trumpeting and my poor ability to phonetically spell it. For emphasis she signed the word elephant, using her arm as her imaginary trunk)

This. This right here is what makes even this incredibly disgusting cooking requirement survivable. Covered in chicken guts and having trouble swallowing without a threat of upchucking, both my kids still want to hug me, love me, and make me laugh till I cry.

That and the AMAZING smell emanating from the kitchen.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Indecent exposure

I may just be able to learn from my own mistakes ladies and gents.

I am coming to the realization that I have a knack for embarrassing myself with how I dress..or as yesterday was the case, DONT dress. I also have a bad habit of locking myself out by means of leaving/losing my IDs. On this base, you must have your military ID in order to get in through the gate. If you dont have your Mil ID, then you can stop at the Guest Center outside the gate and use your drivers license to get a pass.

But of course if I dont have my Mil ID, chances are good that I also dont have my drivers license. As of late I cant even FIND my drivers license. What does this mean? It means Im quite screwed.

The first time I left my wallet at home was on a morning that I was running late to drop Iris off at school. I jumped out of bed, wrapped Aeva up in a blanket and sped out the gate and down the street. Coming back I realized my oversight and thought I could sweeten up the gate guard into letting me back in since they see me EVERY single weekday. I know two spouses who get waved in, I should be able to get waved in too right?

Couldn't be any more wrong. I was turned away and directed to the Guest Center.

Let me paint you a picture. I was wearing pink PJ pants with white polka dots and the Air Force PT shirt I had slept in. Because I had literally RUSHED out of the house...I was also sans a bra. I was at least coherent enough to slip into my pink fuzzy slippers (I have been known to drive stick barefoot). My hair was in its usual messy bun only it never looks as cute as it does on other women. My hair likes to be impossible. I threaten it with shaving it off but then my face tells me Id have worse problems in the mirror if I did that.

I found a sweatshirt in the trunk so I at least averted the braless embarrassment but when I get one stroke of good luck I just KNOW something else is coming. The tiny Guest Center was crowded with contrators awaiting passes when I got there.

*Cricket*Cricket* yep. I was that poor a sight. But thats not where the other shoe dropped.
Because I didn't have ANY form of ID and both my neighbor and my Ex were unavailable to escort me in to the base I was given a police escort.

Course they couldn't allow me to drive the half mile to house though. Thats too easy. Or, 'illegal' in their opinion. I was escorted in the BACK of the cop car.

Nothing like getting dropped off at your house in your bedroom worst and then having to climb back in with your wallet so you could walk through the Guest Center again and claim your vehicle.

I swore that this would never happen to me again, but really y'all should know me better by now.

Of course it happened again.

I managed a bra this time since it was well after noon. I was wearing little shorts because the days have been getting warmer and I shaved my legs (women will understand that sentiment). Feeling every bit like the Wonder Woman on my shirt I thought I could rock knee high boots. It was raining so I substituted boots with pink and purple plaid galoshes. No ones gonna see me anyways. I was just driving up and grabbing Iris.

I sat at the corner gas station for 20 minutes waiting on my friend and savior Jen to come fetch Iris from me so she could get my ID at the house. I was NOT going to stride in to the Guest Center in that get up.

Tonight I needed filtered water because theres no way I am gonna drink this nasty liquid calcium water that San Angelo pipes into my tap. I ran out of gallons but I always have a 24 pack of bottled water riding in the jeep. I meant to make myself some coffee and sit on the porch so I had pulled on knee high fuzzy boots because I was too lazy to change from itty bitties to long pants, and for lack of finding my regular hoodie I fished out my Tinker bell halloween one.

I was THIS close to walking out of my patio to my car when I caught myself. This,...was all too familiar. I sat my happy ass back down. Coffee can wait till tomorrow.