When on the Eve of Your Birthday...

I trust by now the stupor of Cinco de Mayo has subsided.  Cinco de Mayo.  Mexicans don't even celebrate the holiday in the way Americans do.  I've often wondered if that joy of food and drink would be seen differently if, for example the Germans and the Japanese celebrated Pearl Harbor day by stuffing themselves stupid with hot dogs and Miller High Life, you know to keep it authentic.

Transitions, transitions.  Everybody seems to like a bit of change.

When on the eve of your birthday like I am, transitioning to a more wiser state of being and thinking naturally takes hold.  Why can't every birthday after 25 feel just like turning 25?  Maybe for some of you that one age of "possibility" may have come earlier, or later and maybe for some of you, not at all.  Turning 25 for me was supposed to be that age where the world opened to me like a flower.  All of my dreams would simply come true: well known and respected writer, you got it.  That one movie with Keanu Reeves that births two Academy Awards, covered.  But somewhere between the champagne and the trip to Holland to finish my last semester of my post graduate studies reality erased those can't miss ideals of success with saran wrap. Mafia style.  Then, my father died.

Admittedly, every year from 26 to the day before my 32nd birthday has been like a smoke-filled haze. Sometimes I think I may never fully awaken from it.

How does purpose find those covered in fog?  Like, is my dream to write that fog?  I can't help but wonder. But at least for now this here and whoever of you these words reach feels like a step in the right direction.

As a token of my optimism, please feel free to enjoy copious amounts of food and drink on my behalf.  If we are traveling a path to nowhere we'd might as well treat it like a holiday we just don't understand.

Social Cueness

Can I get a this just in?  Well shit, how were we supposed to know Donald Sterling has Prostate Cancer?  Being sick may not redeem you.  But it does get you another shout out on my blog.

I'm sure this news must have been released in an effort to explain away the Sterl's *cough* reality *cough* that he has well and truly been outed as a racist that, "gives money and food and clothes and cars to the black players" that used to play for him.  What else did the chemo do?

I hope this will be the last we hear of Donald Sterling.  If you're somehow not satisfied:

I quit.  It's Friday.

Stabbings and Stereotypes

Yesterday, I was going to post something that is completely useless.  Today, I'm letting my heart do the talking.

There but by the grace of God...

Maren Sanchez in March trying on her dress for the Junior Prom.  She died last Friday.

Sixteen is a difficult age.  It's tough to deal with hormones, homework and house chores.  Nobody can understand you in the way a good friend can.  And, friends can be keepers and losers in the blink of an eye.

When I was sixteen I developed a massive crush on a classmate, (for more on that story checkout La Douleur Exquise) and even though he didn't feel the way I did about him, I never allowed myself to become swallowed by my disappointment.  I never let the disappointment turn into obsession.  I never let obsession turn me into a killer.

Friday, April 25th.  At 7:14am, Maren Sanchez was at her locker in the hallway of Jonathan Law High School in Milford, Connecticut.  At that very moment her classmate and friend, Chris Plaskon, approached her and invited her to their Junior prom which was to occur that same evening.  Maren, who already had a date declined his invitation.  At 7:15, Plaskon alledgedly wielding a knife, began mercilessly slashing into Maren's face, neck and chest.  Maren lay on the floor in her high school hallway bleeding.  School security guards ran to her aide removing Plaskon from the scene.  The school nurse and teachers attempted to save Maren.  After arriving at the hospital in the neighboring town of Bridgeport, Maren was pronounced dead.

Why am I telling you this story that has already been told dozens of times through different news outlets?  It's because of the color purple.

My favorite color is purple.  It is a color that is considered regal.  Those who adore this color are considered to be ambitious and of good judgement.  They are creative.

Maren Sanchez's favorite color was purple too.

Maren was a singer, paintball enthusiast and athlete.  She does a cover of Phillip Phillips "Home," that frankly is better than the original track.  In the You Tube video Maren literally looks like a beam of light performing on a stool with her guitar, accompanied by microphones.  But, there comes a point where even royalty deserve their privacy.  And, I don't think she's been receiving it.

When I was a journalism student in University, one of the first things we learned about reporting the news was the importance of the connection.  Every piece of news has got to be connected to where you come from in order to get others to pay attention.  Mulling over this story personally, I became sickened by the continuous stories that talk about the things that have been happening since Maren Sanchez died.  First, it was the tribute her classmates paid her taking a picture donned in their prom clothes while holding her dress, pictured above.  Then, it was the outpouring of support from people in the community.  Then, it was that Chris Plaskon would be tried as an adult for killing her.  Then, there was a lady who randomly showed up to leave flowers at a memorial staged at Sanchez's and Plaskon's high school.

Seriously, isn't it enough already?  I mean really, why aren't we talking about how it was this boy managed an obsession so strong that it made him a killer?  Why aren't we talking about how we as school systems, and we as communities continue to fail our children with silence?  You think security is important?  Open up your eyes and ears to the things you think is only, "kid's stuff" because if it wasn't before it is definitely clear now: Kids are killing kids like it ain't no thang.

This story breaks my heart because these children were me at sixteen just like they were you.  How did we make it and they didn't?  Take that feather and place it in your cap.  I bet you won't have the words to call it anything but...


Stereotypes are dangerous...

"We live in a culture...we have to live within that culture"--Donald Sterling

Today Donald Sterling was banned for life from the stadium where the LA Clippers play and, sanctioned owing 2.5 million dollars per racist comment made about the black people he employs and, the black people who love basketball.

Until a few days ago, if you asked me who Donald Sterling was I'd shrug and keep it moving.  It's no secret to those who know me that the game and business of basketball is as interesting as watching paint dry while watching golf, in an office full of certified public accountants talking numbers.  However thanks to his ex-girlfriend, V. Stiviano, everyone and his grandma not only knows who Donald Sterling is, they want to meet him outside in the parking lot after school.

The Jewish owner of the LA Clippers and a former attorney was outed as a racist after some taped conversations miraculously and probably lucratively made its way into the hands and ears of the yellow media machine.  Now quotes like, "I don't want black people at my games," and my favorite, "Do I know the players are black?  I give them money and food, and clothes," are making the rounds in media outlets corporate and common.  Is it shocking that yet another white person is found to be racist?  Personally speaking, no it isn't.  But what is shocking is the undying cycle between whites and blacks, that, "whatchumean you racist, I'mma kick yo ass," with no real change to the acceptance and evolution of color and cultural difference.

Here we go.

Donald Sterling, knowing that he employs black players for the LA Clippers should understand the sophistication of tact.  Dude, you are getting awards of thanks from organizations like the NAACP.  Get real.  He however admittedly understands that certain cultures exist in a society which rules are followed.
And, it is in this way that black people are just as guilty.

As a minority, I am fully aware of the intricacies of race relations.  Sometimes, I get caught up in the reverie of stereotypes.  Most of the time I shake my head wondering if anyone else thinks the way I do.

If it is such a problem for ant person to speak of minorities based on stereotypical views, logic would follow that the very people viewed negatively would change those glasses racist people see out of by evolving their culture, you know the development and improvement of the behavioral characteristics of a certain social, ethnic or, age group.

Raise your hands if you've watched Basketball Wives.  Raise your headphones if you really get the evolutionary message of HipHop music.  These are only two of a variety of cultural characteristics that show all people the "idea" of black people.  Their reach beyond the TV and radio is prolific.  Now, think of the Jazz Renaissance, think of Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit."  Think of celebrated writers Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.  Think of Rosa Parks.  Think of Motown.  Think of Eric Jerome Dickey.  Think of Toni Morrison.  Think of Stevie Wonder.  Think of Maya Angelou.  Think of Neil Tyson DeGrasse.  Noticing a difference here?

It's true, Donald Sterling made really racist remarks about black people.  But how was he equipped with the ammunition of stereotype?  Sure, part of the stereotype struggle is found in how we as people are nurtured yet, in a global society that grows smarter by the second something is tweeted what does the black culture have to offer, what is popular?  I'd argue it shouldn't be snatching weaves and fighting while listening to the hottest new album where the material is superficial as best.  We as minorities are playing into the system built for us to keep us down.  Racists are never going to change, but we can.

As so far as I'm concerned, Donald Sterling is as forgettable as a bad movie.  We've always had the ball in our court and if nobody has really noticed we can play.  Well.

Stereotypes are dangerous.  Weapons we wield and get attacked by.

Who is going to stop first?

     

Another Good Read

Now on Wattpad: The Ticket, Pt. 1

Lorelei stood in front of the police station looking upon it like a tourist.  She took a deep breath in, reached for the black wrought iron railing and began her ascent up the stairs.  The smell of polished wood and fresh paper copy met her as she opened the door and walked in.  Lorelei took the five extra steps to the receiving desk.  An officer at the desk looked up from his newspaper.

"Good morning," Lorelei said to the officer tidying the loose heair strands behind her right ear.  "I have an appointment with Detective Sanchez.  My name is Lorelei Green."

The officer looked at her, then returned his attention to the newspaper.  He swiftly lifted his hand and pointed to the left of Lorelei.

"Benches."  He said, "wait there and I will page the detective."

"Mrs. Green?"  The detective's voice startled Lorelei.

She stood up from the bench and walked toward Detective Sanchez.  She met his friendly gaze and curled her lips into a half smile.

"Mrs. Green, I understand you need something signed to release your husband's life insurance proceeds," Detective Sanchez said.

Detective Sanchez led Lorelei into the conference room which offered them privacy.  As Lorelei sat down in one of the chairs surrounding the table, Detectove Sanchez went to retrieve her husband's file from his desk. He returned placing the file on the table opening the cover, then took off his jacket and sat down.

http://www.wattpad.com/47347358-the-ticket-pt-1

On Monday: Have you thanked Orlando Weir?

The Popular Post

Sometimes I think my teenage years would've been different had I been popular.

I was confronted by the thought again Sunday after I saw Maya Van Wagenen's Book, "Popular-Vintage Advice for the Modern Geek," and the book that inspired her journey to popularity, "Betty Cornell's Teen-Age Popularity Guide."  I wondered for a moment where these books had been during my dawning into adulthood.  I even picked up Ms. Cornell's classic guide, flipping through the pages until I returned to my senses.  (P.S. Betty, there is no such thing as being either large or, small boned).

When it comes to the timeless struggle of fitting in I will never understand how I haven't managed to cash in on my own experiences.  Middle school was hell, each year bringing a darker and deeper level of falling at the mercy of my peers for being awkward.  I can remember the day I started the sixth grade and hearing my bullies ask why I had returned.  And because I wasn't allowed friends to visit or phone calls, it was difficult to share commonalities with my peers.  And, when there were commonalities, I would press them so hard I'd end up alienated.  One time the queen of the debs and my lukewarm friend, Kayci, returned to school on a Monday after a weekend visiting with her dad.  She was excited because she had just seen Speed, you know the movie with the bus that could fly over gaps in LA highways.  As she spoke about it, my eyes lit up because finally there was something we had in common.  But that didn't last long and by that afternoon, I was back to the Jez thought to be trying too hard.  If Tina Fey had been at school with me that day, I'm sure I'd have been the inspiration for one of the funniest lines in Mean Girls:

Gretchen: That is so fetch!

Regina: Gretchen, stop trying to make fetch happen!  It is not going to happen!

In the seventh grade, I started skipping lunch so that Kayci and her friends could stop calling me their fat friend.  That whole year my weight was a problem for them, funny seeing as not a single one of these girls had a medical degree or intelligent advice to give.  They nicknamed me gorilla.
That same year the sequel to the Ace Ventura pet detective movie was released.  Being an avid movie goer because my dad was an avid movie goer, I got to spend about two hours of its opening weekend laughing until my sides hurt.  That same weekend, Kayci and her friends had gone to see the movie as a part of one of the girls' birthday treats, followed by pizza.  I knew this because they talked about it in front of me, and one of the girls asked the birthday girl to be, Nicole expressly to not invite me.  Nicole saw I saw their exchange to which she swiftly told me a lie, "oh, the only reason I didn't invite you is because we really don't know each other well."  Seriously?
That Monday (I'm seeing a pattern here), the girls decided to use their newly found ammunition to take me down unbeknownst to them that I had seen the very film they did.  Every one of Jim Carrey's jokes fell flat against me with each of them unsatisfied by my reactions.  Even with their shock that anyone would take me to see an Ace Ventura film, I couldn't get happy.  I wanted to, but such a small win in the war of respect seemed worthless.
The eighth grade was welcomed with a hair cut that also decreased my patience.  Of course Kayci and the girls tried, of course the idiot boys in my class tried, but it was tired.  I was tired and ready for the bigger and better things they could never offer, nor deliver.  That year I invited one of Kayci's friends called Cara to kick my ass if she could.  What incurred the invitation was a misunderstanding on her part, but that didn't stop her from opening her mouth to me.  As expected, she had no gall but the tide was surely turning.
By the time we left each other's company in June, I for the first time felt the respect I should've received years before.  High school found me in a safe position, neither geek nor god.  If only I had the pictures to show you all just what I looked like then.

So, what if things had been different?  I'd love to say I would have ruled with a firm and fair hand, but that would take away from my appreciation now as an adult.  Not an appreciation for the shitty kids I had to deal with, but an appreciation for myself and my strength at every turn.  Yeah, not a page turner and, probably not a bookseller, but it is the truth.  I sincerely applaud Maya Van Wagenen's effort to fit in, and I celebrate her handsome reward.

Something else, before I go.  Making the mainstream or, being popular is as much in the eye of the beholder as beauty.  Everything that is popular today dies like a rose bought in its bloom's peak.  As cliche as be yourself reads, it is the best defense against the tortures of pressure.  It's healthy to wonder how different things could be and healthier still just being how you're made.    



 

The Brand New Dirty Old Microwave

Attention shoppers:  should you be in need of an appliance and decide to shop for one, before you pay for it and take it home, open the box.

The other day, we bought a cherry red microwave for our galley style kitchen from Target.  We were so excited to have an assured way of heating our leftovers.  Previously, we've trusted our efficiency sized stove to reheat food with mixed results.  We'd recommend stove reheated fried chicken, charred on one side and ice cold inside.  Mint.

So I left my husband to do the heavy lifting and unpacking of our microwave.  I was in the living room tidying up when I heard him call out to me.
"Baby?"  His worried call got my spidey senses tingling.
"Is something wrong?"  I asked.
"Is the microwave supposed to look like this?"  My husband's sound blended into the smooth sound of puzzled.

I walked into the kitchen.  My husband motioned me over close to the counter where the microwave was sitting.  I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

I've never seen a new microwave look so used.

We paid the sale price of $59.99 for what we thought was a new appliance.  But there it was, someone else's used microwave neatly packed and sealed, and discovered like a plot twist in a bad movie.

..., Yeah.

We were so disgusted, but then we were amazed at the talent of the person who pulled the old dirty microwave as a new microwave trick.  I was impressed.

Target immediately marked the microwave as "damaged," when we returned it.  We were so close to not having stove reheated charred ice fried chicken.  

To the person out there who pulled this trick, you should be shopped for TV magic shows.  Since everything is reality based these days, I cannot imagine a network or ten that wouldn't pay top dollar to show people how they pull scams like this.  It could be like Punk'd meets Undercover Boss and in the end, there are only people left shaking and scratching their heads in disbelief.  Shit, I should've gotten a picture of that for dramatic effect.  

I guess this will have to do.

Yay! No more stove reheated charred ice fried chicken..., what? It's used?!

Wha the Wattpad...

Kiddos, come and see.

Have I told you about the Wattpad?  How about the myth some random contributor was discovered by a publishing company and offered an opportunity for money, after her poetry was read and loved?

Well, the last part is true.

I've since hazarded a try at the free publishing site.  There are millions of writers, loads of genres, lots and lots of fan fictions about One Direction.  

"Why do I care," you ask?  Well, I'm one of them.  Not one of the One Direction fan fiction writers.  That would be like me dropping Catholicism to worship clowns for fun.  #N*Syncforever

What I mean to say is that I am a contributor.  My first short story, Passing Notes, is an ode to my childhood.  Below is an excerpt for your literary pleasure.

“Thanks for doing this for me.” Monica smiled as she ran her fingers through her thick brown locks.

“Why do you two hate each other so much?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Monica answered raising a brow.  “I’m just glad we get to sit together so we get to be better friends,” she said.

We did become better friends.  It was me to secure her a spot at the front of the line when we would switch classrooms with the Eighth graders in the morning and afternoon.  It was me who would go to fetch whatever she needed from her coat in the cubby area.  It was me who entertained her when she was visibly bored with lessons.  And, it was me who dutifully delivered hand written love notes to Andrew, another in the list of potential suitors, and my heart’s desire. 

One day after days and, days of carrying notes back and forth between Andrew and Monica a rumor erupted within the world of the upperclassmen.  Monica was moving on from Andrew to another suitor.  After hearing, I sat at my desk white as a sheet and nauseous.  My “job” was in jeopardy.  I couldn’t speak to Monica because she had been absent on the particular day the news broke.

I wouldn’t get to talk to her either.  The sudden sickness I thought was due to becoming unemployed was actually an infection.  I spent the next three days in bed.

I got to school the next morning cranky and anxious.  I slammed my things on my desk.  Monica flinched.

“What’s that all about?”  She asked me as though I’d hit her.  Considering the mess that would certainly unravel, I wanted to.

“Did you read Andrew’s note?”  I asked her.

“No, I told you we’re over,” she said with an attitude.  She paused.

“You should be happy I dumped him,” she said, “now you can go back to your dream relationship with him.”

Bitch.

Before I could get my response out, the door swung open. 

www.wattpad.com/story/13646898-passing-notes

JemCourtney31

Taking a Temperature

I almost never do this.  Turns out, I should be.

Blog more, Break less
For the past two weeks I have been warming Tales... like a chicken sitting on her eggs.  I've been trying to understand this process of making what I write not only relatable, but also readable.  On an internet search I found two articles I hope will teach me savvy blogging techniques and of them, the most important:  Blog more.  Blog with a running theme.

I asked my husband what he thought of the posts since Tales' inception.  He told me unwittingly he thought the blog was about nothing, "it doesn't have a running theme."

At first I was floored, the blog is about my life.  But then I started looking over my posts like a doctor looking over a scan.  Maybe there is some truth behind my husband's comment.  That quickly turned into worried and frantic thinking about how I can express myself, while expressing myself.
Here's what I figured out.

Tales... not appearing to have a running theme is the running theme.  We all remember how wildly successful Seinfeld was, and that was a show about nothing.  We all laughed, sometimes while hugging our sides at the antics Jerry and friends got into, all serving as an explanation to Jerry's opening, telling jokes to an audience about his observation of the world as he saw it.  That being said, I agree with another tip I read about rewriting posts to fit how I want to be seen.  If I can be honest in a way that a tipsy conversation can be life changing, I want to be seen as a witty and intelligent woman who pays attention to the world around her.  The first 19 posts open to a very small world of mostly family, but there's more to it.  And, that's my job to fix.  So, why not start now?

Thursdays are better known for throwbacks.  Today, Thursdays are for taking a temperature.  The temp for example of SELF magazine and their mean girl behavior in making fun of a woman with brain cancer.

Wonder Tutu...

The actual brain cancer survivor, Monika Allen, pictured right was running in a New York Marathon at the time this was taken.  She was also a few days out from chemotherapy.  So, what did SELF do?  They suped up the runner after emailing her for permission to use her picture, then they published it in a section called "The BS Meter," making fun of Allen and making assumptions that her costume makes her run faster.
Haha...No.
Allen makes the costumes for runners and sells them as a part of her company, Glam Runners.
Temperature: These costumes are super cute.  If they aren't too expensive, I'm going to be impressing upon my husband the need to have this and wear it while working out at the gym.  And, I should get one for my gym wife, my kid sister, who has committed to me as I have to her to make our bodies fitter and our minds happier.
As for SELF, think before you publish!  DUH, all people somehow end up in hot water when they do, act, say or publish things that needed more thinking through.  SELF should feature wonderful stories like Monika Allen's.  In a world where skepticism is the new black, the color of courage would help to brighten things up.

#DaddyIssues...
Conscious Uncoupling is the new term for breaking up, according to Ms. Gwyneth Paltrow's blog, GOOP.  She and Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin are no longer together but will continue to co-parent their two children (they better.  There is nothing worse than children growing up to find unhealthy relationships of their own.  Take notes parents because you will be blamed for it).
Today on the E! news rerun of the celeb news from the night before, clips and pictures of the Gwyneth and Chris' relationship were shown.  One clip that resonated with me was a bite from an interview Gwyneth did with Amanda DeCadenet where she talked about the importance of her father in terms of starting relationships.
"When my father was around, I didn't need to find the perfect man because I already had him," she said.
It's so true.
Before my father's death in 2008, my husband and I, then boyfriend and girlfriend were great.  I didn't think there was a single thing that needed to be changed about my husband.  I did and still do push the issue of fragrance as I think a well fragranced man is attractive, but beyond that, perfection(as good relationships go). After my father died, everything about my husband was under scrutiny.  Everything we did as a couple was under scrutiny.  For as long as we dated I had no problems with crowded places, that's just life outside of home.  Three months out from my father dying, we went to see the new Indiana Jones movie, and I was panicking.  I couldn't take the crowds.
Going to the movies with my dad was a weekly tradition.  My father was the kind of man who enjoyed getting up very early to make the first matinee show after making the first few hours of breakfast at the neighborhood diner.  Everything had to be early.  And, everything seemingly had to be crowd free.

That I was facing this panic in public and with my husband, I couldn't and, didn't have a way of sharing this without becoming unnecessarily agitated.
Grief counseling later helped me discover how I was hanging on to even the things about my father that pissed me off.  But, he was the first man I'd ever known, the first man I'd ever went out with publically, the first man I'd ever kissed and, he was the first man I had ever loved.

Temperature: It's sad to hear that Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin are separating, and up until now, the conscious uncoupling term and explanation seemed like BS.  Luckily, I can relate to a Daddy's girl.  For all the things I wish my Daddy didn't do, say or, act I miss him.  Everyday.  

Talk.

Last week was one of the hardest weeks of my life.  It was hard like dealing with everything that could throw a person into a depression is hard.  Seriously.  Before we begin I warn you now: this post includes disturbing images.

Dell Again...
We ordered and waited for my brand new Dell Inspiron 11 3000 series to arrive with breathless anticipation.

It was more me doing that waiting, but Wednesday afternoon we cracked open the box and have been cracking the nut since.  First, this sleek laptop could double as a clutch.  Just give me an hour with colored utility tape and glitter.  But for as cute as it is, my computer has become the epitome of "terrible twos."

My half PC laptop, half wanna-be tablet is a big learning curve.  The windows start page is reminiscent of the iPad start page except all of the apps you might be interested in integrating into a personalized start up can be found in a mess of apps underneath the near non-existent white arrow in circle.  After that "oh" moment, there is learning how to open, switch between and close applications.

Were it not for my husband's light touchscreen touch skills, my PC clutch would've ended up at the PC hospital.  Apparently the banging sounds my laptop was making as I was practicing drag and drop closes made him nervous in the we can't get the hundreds back if it breaks, way.
The most aggravating was the brand new Windows 8.1 update.  If The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have made the Royal Family relatable, the Windows 8.1 update throws a PC user right into the building of the tower of Babel, live and without a translator.  I sat looking at the blank page Blogger became in disbelief. I don't know why it happened in a way to be able to explain it, but I do know I am able to write again thanks to Google Chrome.  #downloadnumber...

If I'm a Bitch, Consider Yourself Bit
As our wait for my Dell Inspiron headache began, I became visual meat.

My husband and I started our Saturday morning (not this Saturday but the one before), bickering.  While that isn't different for our relationship, what occurred later in the day was.  We were walking back home with Chinese Food and enjoying our truce with light conversation.  Walking up the same side of the road we were walking down was a black guy, who was enjoying more than the day glancing at the backside of a young woman walking some feet in front of us.  My husband was mid-sentence as we continued onward.  And then...
"What the fuck are you looking at?"  I met the black guy's glare on my backside.  I had a feeling I would be "checked out" as the woman ahead of me, but as he looked at me this guy was moving his lips as if he were savoring a meal.  I was pissed.
My snap caught my husband off guard.  He asked me what was going on.  I told him.  He looked back to the black guy who was equally caught off guard.
Hubby's snap was to push me homeward.  In the meantime, the black guy regained his sense.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?"  His face contorted into a snarl.
"I'm talking to you, you fuck."  I was going to ask him again what he thought he had the right to look at but my husband grabbed my arm and urged me home.
"Bitch."  That was all the black guy could muster.  I thanked him with my middle finger.

By the time we arrived at our apartment I was furious.  How could that black guy violate me that way?  And while we are on the subject of that black guy, listen up.
Being an attractive woman comes with perks and pests.  In order to get through both, every woman must have confidence.  How a woman conjures her confidence can be explained in this way:  Any magician worth their mettle doesn't give up the secret of their tricks.  As a woman, my confidence is as unpredictable as a magic trick as I am constantly practicing my slight of hand.  However, as a woman, it is my job to protect my body and mind, and spirit appropriately, depending on the situation.  That Saturday afternoon when my backside became a juicy burger was the exact situation where cursing and yelling did their parts to protect me.  I am not an object.
That black guy wasn't the first black guy, or guy to get caught looking where he wasn't supposed to.  My husband for whatever his reason decided a response on his part would be worthless.  Was it worthless because that black guy was black?  Since my husband is white, some might assume yes but because my husband didn't even see the violation occur once he saw I was defending myself, his urge to get me home assuredly was for the benefit of not having to be placed into a confrontational situation because of me.

So, at home my husband and I argued.  His point: what if something worse had happened?  As so far as I was concerned the worst did.  I fought alone to defend my body against a man while my man stood by doing and saying nothing to reinforce my stance.  I expected my husband would see the light, but he decided to see red.  The decorative tissue box was his first victim.

Watching the tissue float like snow to the cold ground transported me back to the kitchen.  I was five.  My mother was at the stove cooking as I sat at our table coloring.  Our peace was interrupted by my father, who for whatever the reason was upset.  A fight was sparked between them.
I forced my concentration on my coloring book until I looked up.  It was a good thing I did too.  A dish my father intended for my mother was now flying in my direction.
There was a whoosh and then a smash.  I was out of there.

Back in winter, I decided then and there to not relive my parent's past.  I took off my wedding rings and placed them before my husband on the coffee table.  He was silent.
"I'm not going to live this way with you," I said to him evenly.
My husband claimed my wedding rings as his next victim, slapping them from the coffee table.  They landed like coins spilling from a purse.
He got up.  After he walked up to me, he pressed his forehead and chest against mine.  I had the distinct feeling he was squaring up to me.
I stuck up my hand.  It made just enough room to separate us.  "No," I said, "this isn't going to happen."
He slapped my hand away, but I held my ground.  He kicked me out of our apartment.
"No," I answered, "I'm not leaving."

Earlier that day after our bickering match died down into civil speaking and  my husband told me that in situations where I have chosen to leave mid-fight, he thought was childish.  As I held my ground yet again, it was my husband who decided to take the childish route.
In hindsight letting him leave would've been the right thing to do.  One thing I've found to be helpful about stepping away is the air we needed but couldn't get in each other's faces.  But, I was listening so well that I tried to stop him and got hit for it.

Yes, that's right.  My husband hit me.

It all started when I stood in the doorway of our bedroom pleading with him not to leave.  In one last attempt to keep him from going, he grabbed me and threw me.  I think I was meant to land on the floor, but I managed to stop myself landing on the bed instead.  After I caught my footing, I fought back.  He grabbed my neck and I pushed him to the bed.  In an instant, we were in a fight, a for real fight.  As I went to grab for him, he pushed me to the bed and elbowed my neck and chest before attempting to pin me down.  I grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pushed him up off of me.  For a moment, we looked at each other.  I didn't want to fight him, I just didn't want for him to leave.  Things seemed to be calming down when I decided to slide my leg from under him to separate myself.  That move set him off giving him the strength to pin me down completely.  Both of my arms sat squashed underneath his knees.
Until now, I'd made all the wrong decisions.  I decided to defend myself when that black guy made a meal of my butt with his eyes.  I was furious with my husband for just standing by.  I decided to not relive my parent's past when I took off my wedding rings.  I tried to get my husband to stay when he made the childish decision to leave.  Now underneath the weight of him, I could decide to continue the fight, or, just decide to stop making decisions.  He won.

He got off of me and ran for the bathroom.  I stayed in our bedroom and made myself like a quiet mouse.

I was shocked.  Why could he be so brave to lash out at me instead of helping when I needed him to?  Why was it so wrong of me to defend myself against a pervert?  That black guy was a pervert.  Days later I saw him on the news when local police made round up arrests of sex offenders that failed to register themselves with the state I live in.

Of course, my husband was embarrassed and hurt by his actions.  His words however regarding the subject weren't so sincere.  He said he couldn't believe I'd made him so angry when no one had ever made him that angry before he met me.  He said he didn't want to think that I was the person who brought the worst out in him.  He said he felt isolated.  He has no friends.  And, I have a problem with him doing things with people who aren't me.
It seemed his lash-out brought out everything but what I really needed to hear.  I was more hurt than I had ever been.  The bruises on my arms and chest felt nothing like what my heart was feeling.  I couldn't get out of bed for days.  Yet, my husband and I kept talking to each other.  Everyday we talked.  And of the things we discussed the most important was this: I needed you to act on my behalf and you didn't.

As random as each of these events are to each other I couldn't help but think about how the learning curve. It seems the rules for tech and tact are constantly changing.  Certain things do need a bit of violence to move the message.  Of the four in this week's tale, that black guy got exactly what he deserved.

My laptop is new, it's fast and, it will take attention to get to know how it works best for me.  My relationship is nearly nine years old, five years in marriage next month.  It will take attention to get to know how it works best for us.  Touch screen, or, touch skin, attention will keep each on the light and loving end.

The Break Up

Today while booting up my laptop Windows XP launched a message from our friends at Microsoft. After April 8, 2014 XP operating systems will no longer receive support updates.  Microsoft offered a free diagnostic to see if my computer would benefit from an upgrade to Windows 8.1, but the diagnostic came with a caveat: if my machine wasn’t upgradeable I would need to buy a new one or, wait until a virus ate my current operating system alive.  If it was, I’d need to purchase a CD with the Windows upgrade to the 8.1 operating system and, I would lose everything I put into my laptop. 

 

Yeah.

 

I received my Dell E1405, or Audrey, as I once called her before she got old and obstinate.  Now I like to call her Piece of Crap PC.  Anyway, Audrey was a university graduation present in 2006.  After a near nine year courtship, I knew the inevitable moment of replacing my machine would come.  I just hoped it would come when I had more money to spend.

 

I have a confession—I am an unemployed blogger hoping to turn my writing into a fruitful career.  I got canned from my job as a hearing recorder which paid very well because my employers were unhappy with my perfume.  To top that off are the budget constraints my husband implemented as the sole bread winner to prevent expenditure and, our apartment for cheap rent including heat and hot water that also comes with sex noises that break the sound barrier and cause the loon who lives below us to bang against his ceiling, or our floor because he thinks it’s us.  The latter oozes the need for expenditure and a move to a quieter building.  But first things first, my new computer.

 

Luckily, we put away a big chunk of the unemployment benefit I’ve received that can be used to purchase a new laptop.

“Great,” you say.  “Go get that new laptop and keep writing.”

What about saving?  Why is it as soon as we get a bit of money to put away, there swiftly comes something that needs to be bought?

 

I now face the stinging reality of buying a new laptop.  Ideally, I would leave the world of Windows and get myself an Apple.  Unfortunately, five hundred spending dollars stands haughtily in the way of that pipe dream.  In the “broke” world, five hundred dollars will need to buy me an operating system with strength and speed to support writing, listening to music, streaming video and, internet usage. 

 

Readers if you are out there…Help!       

 

The Impossible Dream

In honor of the very recent 86^th Academy Awards, I will share a very true story of an impossible dream I have still to this day, although not as frequently.  For as long as I could remember, I’ve dreamt of becoming a two-time Academy Award winner.

 

The Writer…

I’d just turned twelve when I hand wrote my first “script” in an old school notebook.  The year was 1994.  Two movies were released in the spring/summer of that year.  The first was The Crow, directed by Alex Proyas and starring the now cult icon, Brandon Lee.  For a girl my age at the time, the movie left me sideways.  I’d never seen such a story played out on the big screen.  Everything about the film was awe inspiring to my senses, especially the epic love story between a man and a woman, both murdered and each avenged because of the love of the man and of course, the help of a crow. 

The aura surrounding the film was exciting.  It was my first time entering the Emo scene musically before Emo was a lucrative and household term.  The original score brought tears to my eyes.

As a pre-teen, the ability to express just how the movie was inspiring to me was hard.  I did give my parents and my sister the impression I was obsessed with a dead actor, cringey I know, but after years of carrying the experience with me I openly admit my obsession was for the movie itself.  Never before had any movie left me mesmerized like that.  There have been films that have sent my blood pressure soaring, but nothing has left me in the trance you enter when you know you’ve found The One.  This is the first movie that made me think about story telling in a deeper way.  It was my baptism into my birth-write.

 

The Leading Man

Not too long after The Crow my dad took us and family friends to see the movie about a bus that could fly over gaps in the highway at 50mph.  But to be honest, the plot was insignificant.  The only thing that mattered about Speed was Keanu Reeves.

(Note: Sandra Bullock and Dennis Hopper, Jeff Daniels and, Joe Morton were all spectacular in their own right.  To this day I continue to be a massive fan of Sandra Bullock.  My hands down favorite films with her in aren’t even Oscar faves.  Anyone remember Hope Floats?  How about Love Potion no. 9)?

Keanu had this buzz cut and devil may care demeanor that set my pubescent loins a flame. Everything he did in the film was fan-bloody-tastic.  I was truly smitten.

That summer we saw the movie twice in total, but that time I’d already bought tickets for my family and I to go on a most excellent adventure into Jez’s Fan/Crush on Keanu Land.  There was Johnny Mnemonic.  A Walk in the Clouds.  Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. (The Bogus Journey sequel wasn’t as triumphant as the first, sorry).  Tune in Tomorrow.  Parenthood.  There was the first two and a half minutes of My own Private Idaho, but the blowjob scene that followed landed the film on the Do Not Watch list as I was still a girl.  There was The Devil’s Advocate.  Chain Reaction.  There was Keanu’s first, no second time out as a bad guy in The Watcher.  The first was Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing.  There was Hardball.  The Matrix trilogy extravaganza of awesome-sauce.  The Gift.  Constantine.  Something’s Gotta Give.  A Scanner Darkly (WTF).  Point Break. Street Kings.  The Day the Earth Stood Still.  The Lake House.  I saw The Lake House on DVD everyday for about a month.  It was my dinner movie and bedtime story.

My family suffered through a few of the films I’ve proudly listed.  I was teased for having a crush on an actor accused of not being able to act.

Let’s review the evidence.

Is he an Oscar winner for Best leading or Supporting Actor? No.  But he has given some damn good performances.  Hands down, the best of the best for me are his performances in The Devil’s Advocate, Parenthood, The Gift and the super sexy Something’s Gotta Give.  These are the performances I was able to see a certain something in this man’s eye.  He was 100 percent character. He looked like Keanu and talked like Keanu, but was not Keanu for the lengths of those films.

 

Dreaming…

Since that fateful June day in 1994, I have been a fan with a huge crush that evolved into a dating/marriage scenario amongst high school friends willing to listen to the sick puppy hilarity of my plight: I might never meet the star I adore and have him be mine, but I could have a good time making a story out of it.  I even expressed this to my husband Michael when we were dating.  There in all honesty was never going to be a competition between the two as it would obviously be to Michael put a ring on it first.  Yet, in the deep recesses of my heart, there still is and probably will always a small place for he whose name means, “A Cool breeze over the Mountains.”  The truth is I find Keanu Reeves to be an inspiration.  Do I hope one day the Gods will smile and allow me to tell him so? Yes.  Would it be ideal this happens on my journey to being a Two-Time Academy Award winner? Hell yes. 

 

Now, we can go back to the script.

    

In this story, I wrote myself as a girl whose father has been murdered, but because the crookedness in the Police Department prevents a successful and conclusive investigation, I hire a detective down on his luck to help me.  I gave the part of the detective to Keanu, and then I never finished the story.  On a visit to our room to observe our playing habits, my father found the notebook I left open on my bed.  I completely forgot to close it and stash it before I sat to play Barbie with my sister.  My dad started to read the story out loud and it embarrassed me so much that I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the notebook again.  Why Daddy, why?!  Thinking on it now, maybe the reading it aloud was his attempt to be engaging.  Personally, it would’ve been better he read it, call me aside, and then tell me what he thought.  I’ve just always been that kinda gal.

Because of that incident, I started to build plots and scores in my head.  I still gave the leading roles to Keanu and myself.  Of all the stories, there has been just one that continues to haunt me to this day.  I’d love to share it online.  Really.  The only thing is some one of you may like the story a lot. Then you will show your friends this great blog you’re reading.  One of those friends will just happen to be a budding writer themselves.  They will read the story I’ve left for you to read.  They will like it.  I think you get the gist.

 

As the saying goes, “dreams come true…”  Will I now offer up some sort of lesson learned? No. What lesson can I learn from a trip whose ticket sits unused in my hand?

 

Get it?

Nearly a Week In...

Oh!  Has it been that long since we have spoken to each other?  Did you miss me?

I've decided with the recent bouts of illness to reevaluate my place in the world, you know, what I can give back and be a good mench.  Last night on the way back to my mother's house from errands pre snow/ice storm, I noticed a young lady walking along the road without a coat, scarf, hat, gloves hell even a hoodie would've done in the cold weather we've been having lately.  Anyway, it dawned on me that my service to society should be as a public speaker against colds.  First, I catch colds like sweaters catch lint and that is even with yearly vaccines, tens of dollars in spending for hand sanitizer, and trying to distance myself from anyone or anything that looks ill.  Second, when I do fall ill it feels like that part in The Crow where you see poor Eric Draven careen to his death on asphalt.  Gross.
That said, I feel I make more than the ideal candidate for anti-cold public speaking.  I could tour schools, corporations and churches.  I could have each session begin with me oozing snot from my nostrils and coughing like an 80 year-old bingo playing emphysematic.  As the talk wears on, I would grow increasingly better but my audiences would take away the absolute importance of protecting themselves from the elements, and protecting themselves from the elements aspirated by inconsiderate ding dongs out and about.  While you mull over the idea, I'll recap my absence from the blogosphere.

As a Dog...

After my last post about getting colds and getting through them things took a turn for the worse.  Somehow I managed to contract a stomach bug that left me paralyzed with nausea and jack rabbiting toward the toilet with diarrhea.  It was dire.  I had to look away from food commercials to prevent direness evacuating me other than rectally.  Dehydration surely set in which required a brief visit to the hospital for fluids and nausea medication.  I am also now a believer in the Pepto Bismol.
I couldn't figure out what I'd eaten to make me feel so ill.  But that wasn't as annoying as the hubby being a piss poor nurse.  Work appeared to need more TLC than what I did.

Now days out from SSS (Shit Stomach Syndrome), I think I have managed to crack the mystery of how it came on.  It makes best sense in the form of an equation:
cold mucus to stomach + spaghetti= ay!
Maybe I thought I was feeling loads better when I made the spaghetti that changed the course of the following days for me.  After two days into any cold, I cannot stand soup.

UK. OK.

Michael left for England after we heard his grandfather did die.  The funeral took place Tuesday.
I told you guys before about not being able to go because we's broke.  I'm wishing I had.

It was and still is very sad that we lost Grandpa Charlie.  He was such a good and thoughtful person.  He was strong.  Even as he fought bowel cancer he swore himself to eating right and exercising regularly.  He was intelligent and very opinionated on the Thatcher administration.
Grandpa Charlie was born and raised in Normanton, England.  He worked as an engineer planning rail systems, (if family is reading forgive me for getting the story wrong).
He and Grandma Jean birthed and raised four children, their eldest, Kathryn, was Michael's birth mother.  (After her sudden death Michael was later raised by Ms. Jane, who was my father-in-law Patrick's second wife).  Their children had children of their own who adored, and still adore Grandpa and Grandma.
I took the opportunity to meet Grandpa and Grandma a year into my relationship with Michael when we were dating.  Their stories from childhood and from being married romanced my head with how life would be like with Michael when we would marry.
I remember our trips to the carvery and ice cream, watching Grandpa Charlie work on his crosswords with dictionary in hand, late night trips to the Chinese round the corner and of course Fish and Chips with tea.
I wish I could've been there to say my final goodbye to Grandpa and to kiss and hug Grandma.  I'm glad Michael wasn't alone journeying to the funeral service as his kid brother went along.

Nearly a week in ails and heartache.  I'm glad the storms that visited since left me shoveling to do.

By the way, I missed you.

How to Receive and Get Through a Cold

When you are full of cold, or any respiratory infection that keeps you from being productive yet productive enough to keep you out of the hospital, work is the furthest thing from the front burner.  Today, this is the case for me.  Still in order to keep writing while the brain is half asleep, I thought it would be amazeballs to offer advice on being sick while sick.
It's either this or, "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," a hundred times.

What?  I Never Get Sick.
You will wake up one morning and feel one of a few things.  First and most obvious is the feeling of being hit by a tractor trailer while sleepwalking and miraculously not exploding into a blood smear.  When this happens, you are sick.
If you wake up and feel like your tongue has swollen so badly that it is pressing against the bottom of your jaw like a baby rounding the home stretch out of vag-ville, you are sick.  And, when you wake up one morning feeling like someone lit a firecracker inside one of your nostrils, oh yeah are you sick.
The first thing you shouldn't do is fret.  Fretting requires the use of brain cells.  Instead, make a list of all of the places you've been.  The place that feels as close to yesterday is probably where you caught the cold.  If you were there with a loved one  or a very good friend, you probably caught it from them.  Like me.
This is the second time I catch a cold from my husband.

Revenge Is Mine!
It would be pertinent to wonder just what kind of woman would allow her husband to bring infectious germs home twice.  But I ask you to change your thinking.  Ask the husband instead what kind of man he is to be sick, get cared for and then after re catching the same fucking cold, decide to be inconsiderate to his wife.  I asked Mike to please sleep on the couch as he was sick, but he decided to be an asshole.  Now that I am sick Mike is my butler, cook and janitor.

Getting Through
When you are sick with a cold unless you are bedridden with something more than a cold, get up and wash your ass.  Overnight as you slept of the NyQuil, your body sweated out your cold symptoms.  Showering will get rid of the "cold" stink and make you feel a little better.
You should also brush your teeth.  Really.  Being sick automatically warrants visitors and visitors aren't going to tell you how busted your breath is out of consideration for your condition.  Do yourself and them a favor.  Floss, rinse, brush.
Move around.  Even if you're pacing from your bedroom to your couch and your couch to the kitchen, movement is good.  Get that stiffness out of your body, let the blood flow.  It will also help you feel better.
Make a "fixer elixir."  Everyone has a fixer elixir.  It's that one drink or food concoction you rely on to get you to better health fast.  Mine is a mix of Fanta Orange soda with EmergenC.  Drink with a straw to get all of the bits that didn't break down in the soda while mixing.  Chase your elixir with water to flush out the toxins in your body from the cold and the soup you've been eating that is chuck full of sodium if nothing else.
Simple protein and carbs.  Being sick is a prerequisite for soup.  I personally don't subscribe to soup as medicine unless my mom makes it.  Canned soup is for when you are well.
If you have an appetite, keep your meals small.  While I'm under the weather I eat sardines, or chicken wings and I limit my carbs to nuts or fruit and veg with potassium.  I also get my Chinese food fix in, but simple stuff rice with chicken, no sauces or dishes that will send me to the toilet.  And speaking of...
Poop.  You have to poop while you are ill because poop has the toxins and bacteria your body no longer wants or, needs.  Drink loads of water to ensure easier pooping.  If you are not pooping before you head for the colace, try a salad, coffee, and cooked leafy greens.  Stool softeners can cause more pain than what they are worth.  If you don't believe me I wish you the best of luck sleeping the night with wicked gas.

So.  I don't think there is a need to recap, you either take the advice or write your own when you get sick.

Make Me Want It

Do you know what is the worst thing about snow storms?  Snow storms make you lazy.  Snow storms encourage the sloth in all of us to curl up and happily do nothing.  Or curl up and eat everything.
Snow storms do not promote productivity of any kind.  And forget about what those beat TV journalists say standing in the eye of it, they really want to be curled up doing nothing and eating everything just like you are.
Snow storms are a cock block.  Then, snow storms make you grovel.
(Well, who else was going to clean up that mess of wet powdery goodness?)

The most recent snow storm has done nothing for my inspiration.  I've spent the better part of three days watching reruns of the history of Saturday Night Live on VH1.  Did you know Elaine from Seinfeld was a member of the cast in the eighties?

I feel like my toy chihuahua Cooper.  I sleep.  I stretch.  I scratch.  I do my spinny thing and go right back to sleep.

On Instagram, I see the photos of folk so inspired by snow they took pictures in it.  While very pretty, they don't tug at the heart strings to make me write.  I mean think about it, how many stories in snow end well?  It's all about the view.
So thanks, for reading this complaint.

La Douleur Exquise

The excruciating pain experienced when wanting someone you cannot have.  Refers to the emotion of the person whose love isn't reciprocated.

In every person's life there is that moment.  The moment you place all of your eggs in one basket, deliver it to the object of your affection, and watch them crush your eggs and basket with the force of Godzilla traversing Tokyo.
For smart people, this moment usually ends in a tear filled tantrum until blackout, thus repressing the sting of rejection.  The rest of us however including myself, meet this moment assured there can be no torture worse than be rejected and, you offer yourself, an effigy to the awkward moments that follow until you've won.  Nobody wins, but one thing is certain.  This moment will become a chapter in your life marked, numbered, and named.

My "moment" is called Paul D'Angelo.

From the 10th grade until we graduated high school, I was sufferably and inexplicably head over heels for Paul D'Angelo.  Paul played on the basketball team, he was wicked good at math and six foot five inches of cute as button.  Lots of girls thought he was cute.  But unlike them I thought Paul was an adonis.  To show him such reverence I sat ridiculously close to him in the classes we shared.  I would eavesdrop his conversations with classmates and but in with what I thought was witty and clever, even if i hadn't been invited to join.  Even our lunch tables were in ear shot of one another.
Anyone would think that this kind of dedication deserved an award.  In fact, this dedication indeed competed with my schoolwork, household chores, and a year spent as a student in an afternoon performing arts high school.  Through it all, I met the challenge of getting Paul to want to be my boyfriend with the confidence of Wyle E. Coyote.  Without fail, I landed every attempt with a poof ball to the hard, cold ground of reality.
Reality had a name too, and she was called Katherine.

Katherine was blonde, built like a southern cheerleader, intelligent and intelligently attentive to Paul's charm.  You see, Paul had a crush on Katherine.  It wasn't in the same way I had a crush on Paul, but she had his balls and heart wrapped around her finger.  It was gross.
Katherine had a number of boyfriends despite Paul's intentions.  She was a rival but not.  One day she became a true rival as I attempted to make a deposit in the bank of Paul worship before our math class, masked as a quick convo over a project we were assigned to work as a group on.  She blocked my attempt and that turned into what I like to call, "The Stupidest Catfight Heard round' the School."
It went something like this.
Me: (skittishly confident) So Paul, I thought maybe you could do this part of the project.
Katherine: Isn't there another time you can talk to Paul?
Me: I'm sorry Katherine, but I wasn't talking to you.  I was talking to Paul.
(Both of the felines are sideways pacing with heavily arched backs.  Hisses slowly evolve into growls.)
Paul: Uh.
Me: As I was saying...
Katherine: Jezrie, Paul doesn't want to talk to you right now.
Me: Katherine, I'm sure Paul has no problem speaking for himself.
Paul: I'm not getting into this.
Katherine: Like I said, Paul doesn't want to talk to you right now.  Why don't you go back to your seat? (Scene)
It was awful.  Cringetastic even.

It was a massacre.

A few hours later in Spanish class, Katherine came in.  She stopped to say hello to her then boyfriend, Victor, but made a b-line for me instead.  She crouched to get at eye level with me as I was seated.  She apologized.
I was so confused by this gesture and what occurred during math that I nodded and said nothing.  But here, and now I'd like to "replay" what occurred had my senses not been knocked the fuck out.
Katherine: Jezrie, (and God did the way she said my name sound condescending) I'm sorry for what happened earlier.  I just thought you were trying to bother Paul, so I acted.  It wasn't mature.
Jezrie: Considering he's my assigned partner for a project I will end up doing all pieces of and, that you had no idea what was going on, yeah I'd agree it wasn't mature of you.  While this attempt to apologize seems to be, I've had time to think about our encounter earlier.  I also have something mature to share with you.
Katherine: I don't understand.
Jezrie: I don't expect you to.  Because of today, there will never be anything I can do to win Paul's affection.  In two years time it will have appeared things change when rumors about Paul and I hooking up begin to spread.  And we will be.  This isn't so much a detriment to you, but the growing I will end up having to do after the damage of allowing myself to be used because you were "unattainable," will lead me to meet the man of my dreams in England, where we will both be studying.  He and I will marry and, he will believe in and love me in ways I had been looking for in Paul and, other little boys that follow.  You and Paul will get married and have babies and live happily ever after, but I will be happier.  I will be happier because I never had to hide the true intent of my heart like this game you and Paul will play with each other for years.  I embarrassed myself, I disrespected myself and, I allowed it.  I had to in order to appreciate my heart's reflection when it would finally arrive.
Katherine: I really don't...
Jezrie: Get it. (Pause) Yeah, I said you wouldn't.  But I do.  So maybe it's me who owes you an apology after all.  (Scene)

If only...

Blood Clots and Cancer

I don't like long stretches of time that pass even though so much is happening.  In near-on three days, Michael and I have gotten some pretty shitty news.  As I am usually thinking of our next conversation in my "scheduled breaks," receiving the news compounded my already full thoughts before spilling over and, sending me into sulk mode.
Monday night, we were on our way to my grandmother's house to talk to her about possibly visiting the ER to treat a blood clot found in her lower right leg.  Before we left our house, Michael found me in our bedroom.
"Granddad is in hospice with liver and lung cancer."  He walked toward the window and parted the curtains with his hand to look outside.  "He only has a few weeks left."
I wrapped my arms around Michael like a towel to a child soaked by rain.
We managed that night to get my grandmother medication to breakdown the blood clot.  The next day, Michael and I began planning for his granddad's end.  Because we've been told there are only a matter of weeks left before he passes, as with most things that are given weeks to live or die, sometimes weeks pass onward accumulating into months, then years.  The only thing we do know is Mike will be there at the end thanks to help from my mother.  Our poor-assed broke-ness means I have to stay behind.

Last night my mother told me something about death I found fascinating.  She said death is something unlike other milestones in life, for every time it happens it becomes a distinctly new experience despite the fact it has already happened before.  In 2011, Michael lost his parents.  His mother went first from cancer in February.  Seven months later Michael's father died after arterial plaque lodged itself into his heart.
The severity of each death, even how close in time each death occurred is overshadowed by the distinctness of the losses.  Generally speaking it doesn't even matter how close a person could be to the loved one they are losing.  Death always seems to bring with it a new set of rules each time the game is played.
For days I've been wondering about that feeling of newness encapsulated by the experience of death.  You could say the feeling of newness is comparable to the beginning of a romantic relationship, but you would be wrong.  There are lessons learned or, ignored each person takes with them from relationship to relationship.  With death there are no lessons.  There may not even be enough time to get over one loss before you're hit again with another like my husband was.
Death just sucks.

Today, we got the opportunity to talk to family about what is going on with Michael's granddad.  It turns out this hospice is actually a nursing home.  After the experience of losing Michael's mother, I learned there are definite differences between nursing homes and hospice.  The latter is your appointment confirmation letter from death.  Michael's granddad does spend a great deal of time resting at the nursing home and the medicines he is being given are keeping him pain free.  Our family do visit regularly and for now we are just waiting.

During the weekend we can find out more about Michael's granddads' condition.  

Sacrifices

Last night around 1130pm, Michael and I got into an argument over money.  We argued because I thought we should cancel our personal training sessions at our gym.  Michael thought we would be able to afford the sessions, and even created a budget where monthly spending on these sessions were factored in.  However, on the weeks the personal training sessions would be taken out of our bank account, we would fall into the red.  And, the red is bad.

Months earlier, the color of our account status wasn't important to me since we were both seeing green.  As a verbatim hearing recorder transcribing cases heard by administrative law judges for the Social Security Administration earned me $50 for every case that went to hearing.  In any given month I could, and did earn $500-$2500.  When I got paid we lived like kings for days worry free because Michael earns a weekly check.  And, as long as our bills were being paid we were cool.
Then, a scent began to linger too long in the air.  The scent although comely became a problem.  For me.
Any person who knows me personally has experienced my fragrance.  I am a lover of fragrance, buying and wearing.  I turned my husband into a fragrance wearer as I grew up with a true connoisseur of cologne, my dad.  Every employment experience  I've gone through had absolutely no issue with my fragrance or the kind I used.  Even working in the poorly ventilated SSA hearing rooms, those who occupied the room with me had no issue with my perfume.  But, when a change in the administrative law judge roster paired me with a judge with more sensitive nasal passages then mine, I soon enough found myself jobless because of my perfume.

Michael and I took the new adjustment in stride unprepared for the reality check we would receive.  When it came, we decided to plan our budget wisely and spend within and at times, underneath our means.  We also agreed I wouldn't have to return to work to focus my energy on creative writing.

Last night after our money kerfuffle ended, I lulled myself to sleep perusing the want ads on indeed.com.  I began to wonder if the sacrifice of me not working is enough to prevent more financial debates.

I want to write.  It may not reward us with wealth of any kind right now, but time and effort will eventually tell the tale of success if I play my cards right.

I think about how things could have been different for me at work had I not been stubborn about my fragrance.  Already understanding there would be clients with respiratory difficulties at hearings, I wore a light perfume.  It wasn't enough even though there were clients, expert witnesses, client representatives, translators, advocates and a few client relatives that occupied the room I did with no issue, many fragranced and a few stronger than mine.  It was a nit-pick struggle I lost because I hate being nit-picked.  Sixth graders nit-pick.  Moms, dads and grandparents nit-pick.  The workplace should be void of it.  Still, I'd be employed if I allowed myself to be nit-picked.  I'd also be careless with my money if I was still employed, because I allowed myself to be nit-picked.  Michael and I would still be living with my mother because of our financial carelessness if I were still employed because I allowed myself to be nit-picked.  Dizzying, isn't it?
How about this:
Thanks to what some might call a fruitless sacrifice of losing my job, Mike and I have our own flat with a reasonable rent bill including amenities.  We can afford to food shop, have internet and, enjoy Chinese Food Sunday on Michael's wage alone.
We sacrifice the "perfection" two incomes might afford us because Michael believes in my ability to communicate through the written word.  This perfection includes restful nights sleep, start to finish.  Cork and a sleep sounds machine currently help us achieve the aforementioned as we have neighbors who think they are porn stars and apparently want us and, anyone else who hears to know.  It's cringe-worthy.  We know sex is happening on the other side of the wall but J. Louis Vuitton Christ, it sounds like live surgery with no drugs is going on instead.
I digress.

Last night, Michael and I fought over money.  Today, we saved money canceling our personal training sessions.  Sacrifice may not be comfortable but we are $120 up.

r-R-Racism!

I openly admit my blog is more of a e-diary of my journey to be a creative writer.  There will be times entries are personal like the first few I've posted and, there will be others... personal public service announcements that are too important to point a blind eye toward.

Check it.  We live in a racist country.  We eat, breathe, read, and breed racism.  We are also hypocritical racists, pointing the finger at other racists for their racism without looking inward at our own racism.
Any dictionary defines racism as, "the belief that some races of people are better than others."  Slavery, The Civil Rights movement, President Obama's re-election campaign are only a few of the many blatant historical events expressing America's issue with race.  As bothersome as these events have been for America as a nation, there is one event, reoccurring and thought provoking that could change our outlook on race relations and, how those relations feed the vehicle of racism.  That event, my friends is love.
There is a scene is Spike Lee's "Jungle Fever" where a group of black wives sit together talking about the idiosyncratic reality of black men being interested in white women.  Dating white women.  Having sex with white women.  Being seen out in public with white women.  Watching this scene as a teenager I scoffed at what seemed to me to be pedantic and antiquated notions of what is considered normal in what races should love and marry.  Then I met my husband, and was thrown into the conversation.

In 2005 while on a student exchange in Preston, England, I met Michael Courtney, half Brit, half Irish and all white.  Our mutual attraction led to a relationship.  In early December of that year, Michael's all Brit and white friends came to visit for a day and met me, a Connecticut born, almond skin toned Boricua of Potorro and Nuyorican parents.  It wasn't surprising to me his friends naturally assumed I was black as a lot of blacks in the UK looked like me, either children of black, or black and white parents.  It was however refreshing that after correcting their assumption, I was immediately integrated into their fold of friends.
While we lived in the UK, Michael and I were freely void of strange looks and incoherent comments in reaction to our interracial coupling.  Michael's parents took me into the family and finished raising me as one of their own when I had no place to live after a student housing setup went kaput.  There was nothing out of the ordinary in terms of our experience as a couple.
Then, we moved to America.
Being back in my home nation, in my home town, I felt confident Michael and I would galavant the streets of New Haven holding hands, kissing and having fun with each other just as we did in the UK.  But, I was wrong.  Whenever we walked the stretch of Whalley Avenue that is predominantly black, we would hear things like, "git it girl," "what?!," "oh no," and my personal favorite, "assholes."  Clearly, our bubble was popped.

Michael and I aren't the only interracial couple to come under the glaring eye and ignorant voice of people who just don't get love does not discriminate.  On January 4th, a Georgia couple were in the news after complaining to a restaurant whose valet had racially insulted them on a ticket left on their car key with the slur, "jungle fever."  The couple who are black and white were offended and made an example of the black valet when they asked the fellow be fired and won.  But the media portrayal led me and other readers to assume the valet was white, thus prolonging the black versus white issue.

Going back to the scene in "Jungle Fever," a film about a black man who takes on an extramarital relationship with a white woman, I may have scoffed at the notions being discussed as a teen, but now as a woman I understand.  My history classes were littered with lessons on discrimination and racism in our evolution as a people. What wasn't really discussed in depth were the forced interracial relations between slaves and slave masters.  Being a mulatto carried a stigma in the era of slavery.  As the years rolled forward, it was illegal for a black person and a white person to be in a relationship and, those who did were caught and jailed.  Remember Mr. and Mrs. Loving?

Today as we live in America under a democratic administration headed by a black president, can't we begin to take a look at how and who we love without being weighed down by the stigma of ignorance?  I'm not just talking about couplings between men and women either.

As Hollywood films portray, almost all romances begin and end happily even if the somewhere in the middle gets rocky.  Jungle Fever ended with the separation of the black man and white woman.  But, what if it didn't?  What if the black man divorced his black wife and moved in with his white girlfriend?  What if the black man's child learned to live with the strength of her mother and father being happy living and loving how they please?  What if the film itself was enhanced under the microscope so that viewers could see that even in the black culture of the film the darker black men were married or coupled with lighter hued black women?  Isn't it crazy how these questions are making you think?  Or, is it crazier that we haven't already been asking ourselves, and each other these questions?

Of all the stigmas that plague our country, racism is one that can be heavily modified if not eradicated, only if people start thinking and acting differently.  As a Puerto Rican, I don't have the public historical account of the enslavement of my ancestors with forced interracial relations, and further embattled eras of acceptance and equality.  That could be because historians haven't gotten to it, but I think they are already burdened with the black/white relation struggles on the mainland.  Their burden is helped by the media and its continuous ignorant discussion about race relations like the recent discovery that the Romney family have a black addition.  Films and TV shows don't help historians either even if the plots include racial integration.  There is always a character that serves as the voice of the nation, the black maid and white family friends in "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner," the relationship between Archie Bunker and George Jefferson, even the very present couplings in "The Cosby Show."  Who else saw that the kids raised in the mid 1980s thru to the early 1990s all had boyfriends, girlfriends and, husbands and wives who were all black?

Loaded to the brim with questions and hints as to how the r-r-racist views of our country could be changed it should make you wonder, how long is too long before we are comfortable with the color of our skin?

My 12 Days: rounding the home stretch

I cannot believe it has taken this long to post.  The New Year came in inspiring change I would have liked to share, but then I allowed distractions to veer me off course.
Here's what happened.
A lovely little snow storm dumped seven inches of snow on us, seven inches we helped my mother dig out from which also meant sleeping over at hers.  We ended up losing heat on the second floor of her house and had to call in the gas company for a fix so that we wouldn't freeze our butts off later on in the night.  The visit from the gas company thickened the plot when we were informed we would need a plumber for a mechanical issue growing worse.  The start of the plumber search handed us a curve ball when we discovered my mother's house has a defective modem, hence no internet and no posting.
Though the detour has been most interesting, I have managed to keep my mind on wanting to write and, wanting to write about something and seeing we are very near the end of the 12 days of Christmas, I thought it would be fitting to discuss friends.
In the days following the holiday, I messaged a friend on Facebook who I was very close to while we were at school in England.  Matthew and I since that time have drifted apart.  Life lent a hand but I definitely played my part not being as open and considerate as I should've been.  Always regretting this I finally worked up the nerve to ask if I could write him and he accepted.

I met Matthew at a birthday party for a now mutual friend when we lived in a dorm at school.  Since the moment he asked me about taking out a liquor stain of a t-shirt, we've talked and spent a good deal of time together, a few of the times turned into adventures like the time me and a few of our friends played look out for him as he ripped a dress code sign off of a night club doorway.  Another time we took home a traffic cone.
Matthew and I would listen to the new singles he scored from iTunes, his love for the new tech, procrastinating on course work and spying.  Where we lived there was a small quad that other students would walk through and hang out in making them unintended subjects in people watching.  Matthew would report to me and our friends his exploits while at Promo, a weekly club fave.
It seemed our friendship would only grow stronger as time went on.  He paid my application fee when we applied to live together the following school year.  He even shared his food with me when I couldn't shop for myself.

If I could relive those moments exactly, I would never have taken advantage of his care and concern for me.  I would have paid him back the fee money as soon as we got to school.  I would have and should have shown him more appreciation than what I did.  And after those things happened we didn't stop being friends although i started to feel less trusted.  In hindsight, I deserved it and suffering the strain our relationship took when I chose to spend more time with my husband when he was my boyfriend without being upfront about it, or attempting to strike a balance between the two.  Over time, I felt alienated by my own choices and living with our mutual friend and friends of theirs, it wasn't long before I became wrongfully resentful.  I was an asshole.

If we can reconnect, I will feel lucky and super blessed to keep Matthew as a friend beyond Facebook.  I tell you this story because today, especially today it seems so easy to make and lose friends.  You can make a friend under false pretenses just to bully them through voice, paper or electronically.  But a real friend is hard to make and even harder to keep.  You have to be able to appreciate the differences that define you individually and foster the similarities that bind you.  Matthew is one of seven of the realest friends I've ever had.

The New Year came in inspiring change.  I am changing the course of my friendships.  I have only just begun but I hope if you are reading this out there, you too can earn back and keep what you think you may have lost.

Happy 2014.