miércoles, 31 de octubre de 2007
sábado, 27 de octubre de 2007
Something to spook your socks off
A public figure in a port town, he constantly was faced with decisions. Whether or not to close the port. Whether or not to stand up for principles over corruption, in a country and culture operating under the thick influence of corruption. Whether or not to call off search and rescue efforts due to inclement weather conditions. Such decisions can create strong allies with those respectful of one’s commitment to humanity and justice. Even more powerful are the enemies that inevitably form once their interests are violated.
In 2005, serving the first of a two-year mandate in the Town, he opted to follow the law and ignore several bribery attempts in various scandals that shook the area. One exemplary case revolved around medical professionals fraudulently filling forms required for law enforcement officials’ proof of eligibility to serve. He turned all evidence over to the Powers that Be, and several were brought to justice, some currently serving prison sentences.
His position often called him out of full nights’ sleep. He had to live separated from his family, his wife and his young children. He had to travel frequently to the capital for legal proceedings in which he was tried under money laundering charges stemming from service under a past president’s regime. He had to constantly deal with the press, especially when there would be a death at sea. He had to answer to fishermen or tourist agencies that depended on the sea to grant them their daily bread each time he closed the port. Once every so often he would be able to get out for a run; he enjoyed running and could easily run the length of the shore between the fishing and the tourist ports, a distance of about ten miles. However, as his daily decisions continued to garner him both the strongest of supporters and the worst of critiques, threats began to reach his ears and he felt he must only leave his quarters either accompanied or packing heat, usually both.
In the next year his health began to deteriorate. He began to experience intense stomach pains. Having always led a rather stressful existence, ulcers were a normal health consideration, and his doctors continued with the same diagnosis for the new pain. He stopped smoking, he stopped drinking and he began to eat well. His physique radically improved, yet the pain only continued to increase. Toward the end of his two-year charge in the Town, he underwent a gall bladder removal. Soon thereafter he returned to his home, leaving the Town and all those issues, optimistically, behind. Three weeks later he fell deathly ill with vertigo while out running and was admitted for a two-week stay in the hospital. He was found not guilty on the money laundering charges, although many others tried alongside him were sent to prison. He recovered from the vertigo, but the stomach pain ensued. Endoscopy after endoscopy, blood test after blood test followed, with a diagnosis of metaplasia--pre-stomach cancer.
The stressful life continued, as work continued to drain him of positive energies. He was held at gunpoint as a thug attempted a robbery on his car. Both he and his wife were involved in minor car accidents within the City. Legal proceedings revolving around the possible interception of telephone calls then took precedence and, although the hearings still have yet to begin the stress of pure anticipation eroded his soul.
It seemed that one bad thing after another continued to occur and, all the meanwhile his stomach pain increased, to the point of barely being able to eat. Bowel movements became problematically loose and he was beginning to lose hope that he, at 39 years of age, had much time left on Earth.
An old friend, of whose daughter he happened to be named godfather, approached him one day and mentioned the possibility of a hex having been placed on him. Both being Catholics, living in an extremely Catholic country, he laughed off that extremely Nancy Drew-esque possibility yet his companion persisted. Over the course of a month he continued to press him to visit a special doctor, a shaman, one who is known for being able to see what is wrong, beyond that which traditional Western medicine will, in what can be its limited scientific scope, be capable of identifying. Finally convinced that he had absolutely nothing to lose, he allowed himself to be taken to this doctor. In a very short time he was told that he had been stricken with powerful curses and was to be sent immediately to visit a type of a sage, a seer, a priest--the appropriate title is elusive but this man had the ability not to cure, as the shaman would, but instead to define and to cast out or undo spells, tasks that fall beyond the scope of a shaman's abilities.
Extremely dubious but feeling, again, that there was nothing to lose he found himself at 6:30 a.m. the next morning at the steps of this seer. There were five others already awaiting his attentions, and there was nothing he could do but wait. He was invited in at 6:30 p.m. and the sage spent two and a half frightfully irrational hours with him.
The region in which he served his two years is one of great Afro-creole influence. Witchcraft is famously practiced there; world-famously, individuals have been known to travel to this area in search of cures for maladies which Western medicine had written off as terminal. White witchcraft invoking the Christian God, Biblical study, love and natural remedies acts as a powerful antidote to black magic that calls up diabolical powers to act in pure hatred against its victims, and both are actively and naturally sought by the population of this area; indeed, the embracing of such powers is as natural as breathing and as accepted as eating.
It was discovered that three different individuals, on three completely separate occasions and in three different locations had created powerful spells of hate toward him. The sage presented him with three bags in which a doll, hand-printed hatred chants on evidently-aged paper, and various “charms” were enclosed. Among these charms were dead frogs, snakes, bullets, items collected from what had been a meeting between him and each of these individuals, and one bag even included a photo of him that was a couple of years old, taken of him when he had assumed his position in the Town in 2005.
He was dumbfounded. His rational mind refused to comprehend the pure quantity of items that were laid in front of him, the demonstrated hatred toward him. How could he, a well-educated Catholic believer and a moral man, fall victim to or even believe that such witchery could do such damage, let alone exist? He logically determined there was no way this photo could have been obtained by this sage or by anybody merely working with him. His identity was unknown to this man previous to the visit. How could he have been so hated? He was presented with evidences of identity of those who created these black death wishes, who are indeed currently serving prison sentences for crimes committed. Also spoken of were explicit details of his life that are not public knowledge and with such detail that he left, two and a half hours later, completely stupefied.
Somebody wanted him to die. Three people wished him to die. The curses varied, but in common they all attacked his gut, with snakes in the entrails of the dolls. There were written desires for him to die in an accident or to be shot. The priest undid these curses and told him that he could only undo that which was the Devil’s work. Any naturally caused bodily degradation would require medical attention and treatment. Homework readings of Bible Scripture were assigned for mental cleansing. The sage said that any other person would be dead already after trying to fight the power of this hatred already for two full years; he did not see how this individual had thus far overcome the evil working over his being. The human body and soul cannot tolerate the manifestation of so much pure evil.
This which I relate above occurred this past Wednesday and Thursday. He was reported on Friday to feel at about 75% less abdominal pain than he had felt in recent months, without any production of gas whatsoever in digestion, also a rarity now, and he purportedly could eat chicken that day.
Believe it…or not.
Happy Halloween!
In 2005, serving the first of a two-year mandate in the Town, he opted to follow the law and ignore several bribery attempts in various scandals that shook the area. One exemplary case revolved around medical professionals fraudulently filling forms required for law enforcement officials’ proof of eligibility to serve. He turned all evidence over to the Powers that Be, and several were brought to justice, some currently serving prison sentences.
His position often called him out of full nights’ sleep. He had to live separated from his family, his wife and his young children. He had to travel frequently to the capital for legal proceedings in which he was tried under money laundering charges stemming from service under a past president’s regime. He had to constantly deal with the press, especially when there would be a death at sea. He had to answer to fishermen or tourist agencies that depended on the sea to grant them their daily bread each time he closed the port. Once every so often he would be able to get out for a run; he enjoyed running and could easily run the length of the shore between the fishing and the tourist ports, a distance of about ten miles. However, as his daily decisions continued to garner him both the strongest of supporters and the worst of critiques, threats began to reach his ears and he felt he must only leave his quarters either accompanied or packing heat, usually both.
In the next year his health began to deteriorate. He began to experience intense stomach pains. Having always led a rather stressful existence, ulcers were a normal health consideration, and his doctors continued with the same diagnosis for the new pain. He stopped smoking, he stopped drinking and he began to eat well. His physique radically improved, yet the pain only continued to increase. Toward the end of his two-year charge in the Town, he underwent a gall bladder removal. Soon thereafter he returned to his home, leaving the Town and all those issues, optimistically, behind. Three weeks later he fell deathly ill with vertigo while out running and was admitted for a two-week stay in the hospital. He was found not guilty on the money laundering charges, although many others tried alongside him were sent to prison. He recovered from the vertigo, but the stomach pain ensued. Endoscopy after endoscopy, blood test after blood test followed, with a diagnosis of metaplasia--pre-stomach cancer.
The stressful life continued, as work continued to drain him of positive energies. He was held at gunpoint as a thug attempted a robbery on his car. Both he and his wife were involved in minor car accidents within the City. Legal proceedings revolving around the possible interception of telephone calls then took precedence and, although the hearings still have yet to begin the stress of pure anticipation eroded his soul.
It seemed that one bad thing after another continued to occur and, all the meanwhile his stomach pain increased, to the point of barely being able to eat. Bowel movements became problematically loose and he was beginning to lose hope that he, at 39 years of age, had much time left on Earth.
An old friend, of whose daughter he happened to be named godfather, approached him one day and mentioned the possibility of a hex having been placed on him. Both being Catholics, living in an extremely Catholic country, he laughed off that extremely Nancy Drew-esque possibility yet his companion persisted. Over the course of a month he continued to press him to visit a special doctor, a shaman, one who is known for being able to see what is wrong, beyond that which traditional Western medicine will, in what can be its limited scientific scope, be capable of identifying. Finally convinced that he had absolutely nothing to lose, he allowed himself to be taken to this doctor. In a very short time he was told that he had been stricken with powerful curses and was to be sent immediately to visit a type of a sage, a seer, a priest--the appropriate title is elusive but this man had the ability not to cure, as the shaman would, but instead to define and to cast out or undo spells, tasks that fall beyond the scope of a shaman's abilities.
Extremely dubious but feeling, again, that there was nothing to lose he found himself at 6:30 a.m. the next morning at the steps of this seer. There were five others already awaiting his attentions, and there was nothing he could do but wait. He was invited in at 6:30 p.m. and the sage spent two and a half frightfully irrational hours with him.
The region in which he served his two years is one of great Afro-creole influence. Witchcraft is famously practiced there; world-famously, individuals have been known to travel to this area in search of cures for maladies which Western medicine had written off as terminal. White witchcraft invoking the Christian God, Biblical study, love and natural remedies acts as a powerful antidote to black magic that calls up diabolical powers to act in pure hatred against its victims, and both are actively and naturally sought by the population of this area; indeed, the embracing of such powers is as natural as breathing and as accepted as eating.
It was discovered that three different individuals, on three completely separate occasions and in three different locations had created powerful spells of hate toward him. The sage presented him with three bags in which a doll, hand-printed hatred chants on evidently-aged paper, and various “charms” were enclosed. Among these charms were dead frogs, snakes, bullets, items collected from what had been a meeting between him and each of these individuals, and one bag even included a photo of him that was a couple of years old, taken of him when he had assumed his position in the Town in 2005.
He was dumbfounded. His rational mind refused to comprehend the pure quantity of items that were laid in front of him, the demonstrated hatred toward him. How could he, a well-educated Catholic believer and a moral man, fall victim to or even believe that such witchery could do such damage, let alone exist? He logically determined there was no way this photo could have been obtained by this sage or by anybody merely working with him. His identity was unknown to this man previous to the visit. How could he have been so hated? He was presented with evidences of identity of those who created these black death wishes, who are indeed currently serving prison sentences for crimes committed. Also spoken of were explicit details of his life that are not public knowledge and with such detail that he left, two and a half hours later, completely stupefied.
Somebody wanted him to die. Three people wished him to die. The curses varied, but in common they all attacked his gut, with snakes in the entrails of the dolls. There were written desires for him to die in an accident or to be shot. The priest undid these curses and told him that he could only undo that which was the Devil’s work. Any naturally caused bodily degradation would require medical attention and treatment. Homework readings of Bible Scripture were assigned for mental cleansing. The sage said that any other person would be dead already after trying to fight the power of this hatred already for two full years; he did not see how this individual had thus far overcome the evil working over his being. The human body and soul cannot tolerate the manifestation of so much pure evil.
This which I relate above occurred this past Wednesday and Thursday. He was reported on Friday to feel at about 75% less abdominal pain than he had felt in recent months, without any production of gas whatsoever in digestion, also a rarity now, and he purportedly could eat chicken that day.
Believe it…or not.
Happy Halloween!
viernes, 26 de octubre de 2007
National Novel Writing Month
I am too shy to advertise my other blog, done under a completely different name, on which I am working my novel. I have never done this before and, hopefully, this will be a good experience, while getting a lot out on virtual paper. There is a little of everything: travel, sex, drugs, romance, international affairs, corruption, action, suspense, voodoo...you name it, it is there. Could almost be the story of my life...
jueves, 25 de octubre de 2007
empathy
La Princesita and I watched "Juan Querendón" together tonight. She's 6 (well, almost) and has lots to opine regarding what she sees, words she can catch and millions of questions about what is being said in the situations. Watching alongside her, I have a new appreciation for what I had always deemed "overacting" on the part of, particularly, latino actors in their telenovelas. The raw emotion, the body language and the use of music really help to drive the empathy for human situations that telenovelas, by nature, are meant to evoke. I am not a soap opera fan by nature. However, Latin American soaps run for a maximum of 5 months as opposed to 50+ years and are easier, as such, to digest for me.
In this evening's episode, Don Gaytán lost his mother in an operation. Gaytán (his name formed as a mocking of his homosexuality in a heavily heterosexual plot) is devastated by this loss and, consequently, many tears are shed and much comfort is sought in the arms of his crush, Juan "Querendón", by his side fulfilling what any caring, sympathetic human would do, I would hope, for another.
My darling Princesita has always been sensitive to emotion, much like her mother. She watched, transfixed, the operation scene, the panic-stricken faces of the doctors as the mother of Gaytán flatlined, of the head surgeon coming out to inform Sr. Gaytán of the loss, of the tears...
and she cried
and I held her
and I told her that it is okay to cry and that we also need to see the beauty of the scene, the fact that Gaytán's friend stood by his side the entire time to comfort him and the fact that Gaytán and his mother had the chance to express their mutual love for each other before her passing.
La Princesita is now asleep. As I sit and watch her breathe, I am reminded of how lucky I am to have such sensitive, feeling children, as both my baby boy and my baby girl have demonstrated the ability to empathize with others' feelings. This can be a challenge, as it will open them both up to feeling extremely intense emotions and permit them to experience Life to a different degree than a less-sensitive person might. I can only hope they both know that it is acceptable to cry, to feel and to love deeply.
In this evening's episode, Don Gaytán lost his mother in an operation. Gaytán (his name formed as a mocking of his homosexuality in a heavily heterosexual plot) is devastated by this loss and, consequently, many tears are shed and much comfort is sought in the arms of his crush, Juan "Querendón", by his side fulfilling what any caring, sympathetic human would do, I would hope, for another.
My darling Princesita has always been sensitive to emotion, much like her mother. She watched, transfixed, the operation scene, the panic-stricken faces of the doctors as the mother of Gaytán flatlined, of the head surgeon coming out to inform Sr. Gaytán of the loss, of the tears...
and she cried
and I held her
and I told her that it is okay to cry and that we also need to see the beauty of the scene, the fact that Gaytán's friend stood by his side the entire time to comfort him and the fact that Gaytán and his mother had the chance to express their mutual love for each other before her passing.
La Princesita is now asleep. As I sit and watch her breathe, I am reminded of how lucky I am to have such sensitive, feeling children, as both my baby boy and my baby girl have demonstrated the ability to empathize with others' feelings. This can be a challenge, as it will open them both up to feeling extremely intense emotions and permit them to experience Life to a different degree than a less-sensitive person might. I can only hope they both know that it is acceptable to cry, to feel and to love deeply.
sábado, 20 de octubre de 2007
joys
What gives me the greatest joys? I here list my Top 10--all but #1 in no particular order:
1. My children's belly giggles as they play together.
2. Answering my telephone to a personal phone call or having a personal email in my inbox.
3. My travels...past, present and future.
4. The emotional catharsis I feel upon listening to the 2nd movement of the Bruch Violin Concerto, the 2nd movement of Bizet's Carmen Suite, the 2nd movement of Schubert's Unfinished, or the 2nd movement of Dvorak's New World Symphony...note, all 2nd movements...
5. Tuning in to my 80's music and singing along to all the songs--everything from Madonna to Def Leppard to Wham!
6. When I prepare something in the kitchen that actually tastes good.
7. When That Little Light illuminates in the eyes of my students upon comprehension of whatever it is that I happen to be explaining.
8. Being outside. In my garden is an extra bonus; I just love being outside.
9. Feeling truly loved and respected.
10. Coffee-Arties-doesn't matter, simply time with my children and closest friends in any way, shape or form.
That was harder than I thought it would be. After a couple weeks of figurative headaches left and right, I feel the desperate need to focus on what makes me happy and try to bring that back right now.
Tomorrow I will finish my second section of my textbook (level 2, chapters 4-6) by completing the accompanying workbook pages to Chapter 6. I need to prepare a punctuation lesson for my ESL student as well. Lots to do, it is my one workday I seem to get a week.
1. My children's belly giggles as they play together.
2. Answering my telephone to a personal phone call or having a personal email in my inbox.
3. My travels...past, present and future.
4. The emotional catharsis I feel upon listening to the 2nd movement of the Bruch Violin Concerto, the 2nd movement of Bizet's Carmen Suite, the 2nd movement of Schubert's Unfinished, or the 2nd movement of Dvorak's New World Symphony...note, all 2nd movements...
5. Tuning in to my 80's music and singing along to all the songs--everything from Madonna to Def Leppard to Wham!
6. When I prepare something in the kitchen that actually tastes good.
7. When That Little Light illuminates in the eyes of my students upon comprehension of whatever it is that I happen to be explaining.
8. Being outside. In my garden is an extra bonus; I just love being outside.
9. Feeling truly loved and respected.
10. Coffee-Arties-doesn't matter, simply time with my children and closest friends in any way, shape or form.
That was harder than I thought it would be. After a couple weeks of figurative headaches left and right, I feel the desperate need to focus on what makes me happy and try to bring that back right now.
*---------*
Tomorrow I will finish my second section of my textbook (level 2, chapters 4-6) by completing the accompanying workbook pages to Chapter 6. I need to prepare a punctuation lesson for my ESL student as well. Lots to do, it is my one workday I seem to get a week.
*---------*
K's tooth is looser and looser. School pictures are on Tuesday, and the question looms: will Kindergarten pics be with or without a bottom gum gap? We have yet to see. She learned to tie her shoelaces yesterday morning. It took an amazingly short amount of time for her to acquire this skill; I remember experiencing great difficulties learning to tie shoelaces, and now she is not only tying her own but also those of classmates whose laces come undone and, of course, ribbons around her little brother which double as pink horsey-harnesses. She has also figured out how to play "Mary Had a Little Lamb" and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on the piano--in various keys. Her Spanish has exploded, she is starting to read, and she loves to play hangman and unscramble word challenges I give to her. We are having so much fun together.
*--------*
C surprises me each day. He has discovered how to maneuver himself around a bit on the PBSKids.org website I permit him to explore on his own, and completely take care of himself for an hour the other morning while I held class. I checked on him for a moment while my students were working on a pair work exercise to see if he needed a potty break; I was met with a "look" and an "I'm a big boy now, Mommy" declaration. I should have known. He awoke from a nap while I had another student and, instead of seeking me out in my classroom, found a book and sat himself in my great big chair, the "throne," and "read" to himself all about The Computer Teacher from the Black Lagoon.
They amaze me. They surprise me. They fill my life with so much hope and love. They even like to watch my Mexican telenovela with me each night. Who could ask for more?
They amaze me. They surprise me. They fill my life with so much hope and love. They even like to watch my Mexican telenovela with me each night. Who could ask for more?
martes, 16 de octubre de 2007
I'm feeling micromanaged
I don't like to feel this way, and yet I do.
Since my "breakdown" of late last year, I have been seeing a counselor, an older woman, who I have come to see doesn't agree with various of my child-rearing beliefs (like allowing my children into my bed at night), who states how she believes I so need the exercise outlet and should try to get to the gym more than the once a week I can currently work into my schedule, then who chastises me for not appropriately prioritizing my "mental health" time as, the only time left to get to her puts me at a Friday morning when I am, well, prioritizing my physical health at the gym.
Then she starts to suggest how my mother, on her possible (nothing even yet set in stone) trip out in November, can watch the children while I arrange a meeting with her, and even goes so far as to suggest my mother stay in our home for a week just so that I can make a counseling session. My mother has expressed interest in staying in a hotel so that she can have more freedom to go out, shop, etc. in the mornings while I have to run around with the children, teach my classes, etc. Which is just fine with me.
I honestly do not feel I have gotten much out of my counseling sessions this year--I don't feel I've learned much if anything new about myself, and all my self-definition this year has really not come with her assistance but rather through my own alone time and personal reflection. We have even been down to seeing each other once a month or so.
I now have inadvertently double-booked myself for a Friday morning in November--and I think I am going to have to call and cancel. I almost feel like she just wants more money from me--although from the looks of the car she drives, she hardly needs it.
I know it is Fall, I can feel the season tugging at me, and I recognize it this year. It is not as strong of a pull as it was last year. There are changes I need to make in my life to make me happy, I don't know quite how to make them, and she can't help me with that...and these are changes that have absolutely nothing to do with popping meds, which I am personally against for my own body and soul anyway. I don't feel like I need that. I am trapped and need out, and only I can make that happen.
Since my "breakdown" of late last year, I have been seeing a counselor, an older woman, who I have come to see doesn't agree with various of my child-rearing beliefs (like allowing my children into my bed at night), who states how she believes I so need the exercise outlet and should try to get to the gym more than the once a week I can currently work into my schedule, then who chastises me for not appropriately prioritizing my "mental health" time as, the only time left to get to her puts me at a Friday morning when I am, well, prioritizing my physical health at the gym.
Then she starts to suggest how my mother, on her possible (nothing even yet set in stone) trip out in November, can watch the children while I arrange a meeting with her, and even goes so far as to suggest my mother stay in our home for a week just so that I can make a counseling session. My mother has expressed interest in staying in a hotel so that she can have more freedom to go out, shop, etc. in the mornings while I have to run around with the children, teach my classes, etc. Which is just fine with me.
I honestly do not feel I have gotten much out of my counseling sessions this year--I don't feel I've learned much if anything new about myself, and all my self-definition this year has really not come with her assistance but rather through my own alone time and personal reflection. We have even been down to seeing each other once a month or so.
I now have inadvertently double-booked myself for a Friday morning in November--and I think I am going to have to call and cancel. I almost feel like she just wants more money from me--although from the looks of the car she drives, she hardly needs it.
I know it is Fall, I can feel the season tugging at me, and I recognize it this year. It is not as strong of a pull as it was last year. There are changes I need to make in my life to make me happy, I don't know quite how to make them, and she can't help me with that...and these are changes that have absolutely nothing to do with popping meds, which I am personally against for my own body and soul anyway. I don't feel like I need that. I am trapped and need out, and only I can make that happen.
sábado, 13 de octubre de 2007
by the way...
Oh, yeah....
the catcher on the post below was the operative word "try."
Try to strip? Hmmm....
Oh, by the way...this was posted in the "lessons and tutoring" area, NOT any other area into which I do NOT venture, thank you very much! Some of the "lessons" and "tutoring" being offered is highly questionable in nature...but makes me think....man, I should either change career paths or up my rates!
>>wink wink>>
the catcher on the post below was the operative word "try."
Try to strip? Hmmm....
Oh, by the way...this was posted in the "lessons and tutoring" area, NOT any other area into which I do NOT venture, thank you very much! Some of the "lessons" and "tutoring" being offered is highly questionable in nature...but makes me think....man, I should either change career paths or up my rates!
>>wink wink>>
try to strip?
Craigslist is becoming more than a source of income and advertising for me, it is more and more a great source of endless entertainment. The latest:
guy will pay 140 to try and strip for ladies in virginia (northern va)
Needless to say, this posting has now been removed.
...and I thought I would actually have to *work* for a living...dude, what a market! (oh, that makes me sound so, like, sixteen...)
guy will pay 140 to try and strip for ladies in virginia (northern va)
Needless to say, this posting has now been removed.
...and I thought I would actually have to *work* for a living...dude, what a market! (oh, that makes me sound so, like, sixteen...)
viernes, 12 de octubre de 2007
existing again
I have felt anonymous all week. An interesting statement, considering all of the week's events but I suppose, in the overwhelming wake of so many significant happenings, I am merely trying to find my specific place amid the locura.
Besides the accident. Besides the warning bell of head lice having severely hit a playmate's house and therefore having to wash THE ENTIRE HOUSE in a merely preventative measure...
okay, insert funny story here:
I got The Call on Tuesday afternoon right before I was leaving for a class. So as soon as the kids came home I checked The Young Prince's head and it was COVERED in dark brown spots. Without a further thought I marched them both straight to the bathroom, ordered them to strip all clothing IN THE BATHTUB and then, after the shampooing session was over, to come to me with the nit-comb and, outside, I would go through their hair.
La Princesita was first, and I couldn't believe it---there was absolutely nothing in her hair, on her scalp...nothing anywhere. So once I got The Young Prince out, I saw that neither was there anything in his hair or on his scalp. Strange, I thought. I didn't believe this could just "wash out" so easily. Then I stopped to think, and humbly came to the realization that I perhaps just had a really dirty kid.
Ugh. Great commentary on my parenting skills, right?
Well, the night before they had been in that accident, on the side of the road with lots of dirt and dust kicked up. And to the farm before then.
I called my friend, who said it sounded doubtful, especially in that the color is not dark-brown.
Great. So my kids are filthy. But at least, I think, we're in the clear..for now. I continued, nonetheless, to bag up plush toys and it will be like Christmas again in 30 days. It took three days to wash and dry everything I threw into the laundry room, and I have itched non-stop for days.
Okay...digressing to my week.
Three more outlets blew in the kitchen, to join the oven outlet we have the refrigerator outlet, the microwave outlet and the master telephone outlet. So the fridge and telephone are now hooked up on extension cords and, well, let's just say thank God I am the Crock-Pot Queen.
Mr. Electrician came out yesterday and at least had the decency not to charge me extra for the diagnostic, which will come out of the...are you ready?...$1,500.00 bill for a brand new subpanel and breakers for the kitchen and garden room. I know, we need it. But ...ouch.
That will be fixed next Wednesday. The roof will be worked on tomorrow. While I am working...someone is going to have to pay for all of this, after all!
So...
I went to the gym this morning. At the very end of my workout, I had seated myself atop my final machine to do leg curls and put the bar down atop my horribly bruised right knee (oh, another story...). I commented to the lady next to me, as she saw my reaction, "Just getting old." This opened the door to about an hour-long conversation in which we both met a new friend. She is a woman from El Salvador, married to a man from Massachusetts, an excellent hold on her English, and a mother of two. We ended up exchanging names and numbers.
I showered at the gym, then ran to the market to grab a few things before picking up Young Prince at preschool. At the cashier, I was greeted, she inquired about my children, and we had a lovely chat. I left almost bouncing out of the store back to my car. My heart felt light, my lips couldn't help but smile...
I have not ceased to exist!
Today is a good day. It is Friday--that helps. I am not doing one load of laundry today. My patience level is sky-high. It is windy--I could easily go out and dance around in the falling leaves, twirling my Little House on the Prairie skirt out wide...my heart feels as light as a child's.
Besides the accident. Besides the warning bell of head lice having severely hit a playmate's house and therefore having to wash THE ENTIRE HOUSE in a merely preventative measure...
okay, insert funny story here:
I got The Call on Tuesday afternoon right before I was leaving for a class. So as soon as the kids came home I checked The Young Prince's head and it was COVERED in dark brown spots. Without a further thought I marched them both straight to the bathroom, ordered them to strip all clothing IN THE BATHTUB and then, after the shampooing session was over, to come to me with the nit-comb and, outside, I would go through their hair.
La Princesita was first, and I couldn't believe it---there was absolutely nothing in her hair, on her scalp...nothing anywhere. So once I got The Young Prince out, I saw that neither was there anything in his hair or on his scalp. Strange, I thought. I didn't believe this could just "wash out" so easily. Then I stopped to think, and humbly came to the realization that I perhaps just had a really dirty kid.
Ugh. Great commentary on my parenting skills, right?
Well, the night before they had been in that accident, on the side of the road with lots of dirt and dust kicked up. And to the farm before then.
I called my friend, who said it sounded doubtful, especially in that the color is not dark-brown.
Great. So my kids are filthy. But at least, I think, we're in the clear..for now. I continued, nonetheless, to bag up plush toys and it will be like Christmas again in 30 days. It took three days to wash and dry everything I threw into the laundry room, and I have itched non-stop for days.
Okay...digressing to my week.
Three more outlets blew in the kitchen, to join the oven outlet we have the refrigerator outlet, the microwave outlet and the master telephone outlet. So the fridge and telephone are now hooked up on extension cords and, well, let's just say thank God I am the Crock-Pot Queen.
Mr. Electrician came out yesterday and at least had the decency not to charge me extra for the diagnostic, which will come out of the...are you ready?...$1,500.00 bill for a brand new subpanel and breakers for the kitchen and garden room. I know, we need it. But ...ouch.
That will be fixed next Wednesday. The roof will be worked on tomorrow. While I am working...someone is going to have to pay for all of this, after all!
So...
I went to the gym this morning. At the very end of my workout, I had seated myself atop my final machine to do leg curls and put the bar down atop my horribly bruised right knee (oh, another story...). I commented to the lady next to me, as she saw my reaction, "Just getting old." This opened the door to about an hour-long conversation in which we both met a new friend. She is a woman from El Salvador, married to a man from Massachusetts, an excellent hold on her English, and a mother of two. We ended up exchanging names and numbers.
I showered at the gym, then ran to the market to grab a few things before picking up Young Prince at preschool. At the cashier, I was greeted, she inquired about my children, and we had a lovely chat. I left almost bouncing out of the store back to my car. My heart felt light, my lips couldn't help but smile...
I have not ceased to exist!
Today is a good day. It is Friday--that helps. I am not doing one load of laundry today. My patience level is sky-high. It is windy--I could easily go out and dance around in the falling leaves, twirling my Little House on the Prairie skirt out wide...my heart feels as light as a child's.
miércoles, 10 de octubre de 2007
a blur
The week passed so rapidly that I feel I can hardly see straight. The Monday off always throws my entire being into confusion for a week, feeling a day behind that in which I am supposed to be existing.
It is now 2:00 a.m. Sigh. 3rd sleepless night in a row. It has been a stressful week on many levels. I wish I could compartmentalize everything that occurs in my life, allowing at the end of the day all the little Drawers of Events to close as my eyelids drop...but oh, that would be way too convenient now, wouldn't it?
*--------------*
My eldest started Kindergarten this year. She is adjusting well, making new friends and really reading with enthusiasm and true enjoyment. My youngest thrives in his new Preschool class three mornings a week. It provides him with just enough time to be away from Mama Llama to still appreciate her when she comes to get him at noon. I am so proud of my babies.
*--------------*
I was told to watch out not to get suckered into volunteering for too much at school, as so many opportunities would be pushed toward me. I have naturally always been a leader but prefer to do so in a quiet manner (except while teaching...HA!) and, upon noticing that the school needs a Recycling Coordinator, I jumped at the chance. Honestly I thought this would involve going a couple times a week and doing some "dirty work" by collecting the bottles and cans that are collected in the teacher's lounge or the front office and somehow arranging for them to be included on Thursday morning recycling rounds in this town. I have been given quite an education in PTA protocol, however; this effort has involved the school board, the Town Council, the various levels of school administration and the custodial staff--and I am to work to coordinate the various parts in order to initiate a not-yet-existing program.
I feel strongly about recycling, so in my opinion this is a worthwhile investment of time and energy, and is "behind-the-scenes" enough for me. This Friday will be the Grand Initiation of the recycling program, at the school's annual "Sock Hop" which I will (gulp) attend with one, if not both, of my little monkeys. I guess we shall see what becomes of this, and what exactly I will have to do. The PTA president is an amazing lady--it seems she really has everything all in place, all necessary and important parties notified and involved accordingly, and I merely work under her direction. I suppose that is good now; being such a newbie to the school and the system as a whole, I have a lot to learn, not only about protocol but also about the simple things like, say, who exactly is the vice-principal.
*----------------*
The wind is blowing fiercely tonight. The weather is changing. I, the Human Barometer, can feel each gust in my sinuses. Fall is finally descending upon us, and with a sudden blast that has us tumbling from 90º temperatures on Tuesday to what are supposed to be in the 60s today. Time to put away the shorts once and for all. I am definitely going to be wearing a sweater today. And perhaps long underwear.
It is now 2:00 a.m. Sigh. 3rd sleepless night in a row. It has been a stressful week on many levels. I wish I could compartmentalize everything that occurs in my life, allowing at the end of the day all the little Drawers of Events to close as my eyelids drop...but oh, that would be way too convenient now, wouldn't it?
*--------------*
My eldest started Kindergarten this year. She is adjusting well, making new friends and really reading with enthusiasm and true enjoyment. My youngest thrives in his new Preschool class three mornings a week. It provides him with just enough time to be away from Mama Llama to still appreciate her when she comes to get him at noon. I am so proud of my babies.
*--------------*
I was told to watch out not to get suckered into volunteering for too much at school, as so many opportunities would be pushed toward me. I have naturally always been a leader but prefer to do so in a quiet manner (except while teaching...HA!) and, upon noticing that the school needs a Recycling Coordinator, I jumped at the chance. Honestly I thought this would involve going a couple times a week and doing some "dirty work" by collecting the bottles and cans that are collected in the teacher's lounge or the front office and somehow arranging for them to be included on Thursday morning recycling rounds in this town. I have been given quite an education in PTA protocol, however; this effort has involved the school board, the Town Council, the various levels of school administration and the custodial staff--and I am to work to coordinate the various parts in order to initiate a not-yet-existing program.
I feel strongly about recycling, so in my opinion this is a worthwhile investment of time and energy, and is "behind-the-scenes" enough for me. This Friday will be the Grand Initiation of the recycling program, at the school's annual "Sock Hop" which I will (gulp) attend with one, if not both, of my little monkeys. I guess we shall see what becomes of this, and what exactly I will have to do. The PTA president is an amazing lady--it seems she really has everything all in place, all necessary and important parties notified and involved accordingly, and I merely work under her direction. I suppose that is good now; being such a newbie to the school and the system as a whole, I have a lot to learn, not only about protocol but also about the simple things like, say, who exactly is the vice-principal.
*----------------*
The wind is blowing fiercely tonight. The weather is changing. I, the Human Barometer, can feel each gust in my sinuses. Fall is finally descending upon us, and with a sudden blast that has us tumbling from 90º temperatures on Tuesday to what are supposed to be in the 60s today. Time to put away the shorts once and for all. I am definitely going to be wearing a sweater today. And perhaps long underwear.
martes, 9 de octubre de 2007
another accident
I heard only the first words on the voice mail and broke into a cold sweat.
"There's been an accident."
I didn't listen any more but to get details of where they were. I didn't even grab my purse, and I left my front door wide open. 'Come, get everything you want. My babies have just been in an accident and I am going to them. That's all that matters right now,' I wanted to shout as I ran down the stairs, somehow not falling on something.
I had been with a student and thus turned off the telephone and the answering machine, out of respect for my student's time and our lesson.
As I sped up the streets two miles to where Hunter Mill and Lawyers intersect, my mind was racing with images of our accident a year and a half ago flooding my mind. The one in which we should have died, but our secure Outback did its job, valiantly giving its life to save ours, the carseats likewise restraining our children so that, even upside down, they were kept in their seats and did not sustain even a scratch.
I approached the intersection and waved to the police officer directing traffic. Stretching my neck out of the car, I yelled, "I'm their mother!"
I was trembling like a leaf. In the middle of the intersection was a car overturned. I hoped it wasn't our truck.
I got around the corner, parked on the side of the road, put on my hazards, and dashed across the stopped traffic. The truck was there, door crashed off, my babies just fine. They ran to me and told me all about it. My husband had to stay with the truck to find out about towing and said he would catch a cab home.
The drive home was endless, mainly due to the winding-road detours we had to take. My mind worked incessantly to figure out how this could have happened. I later got the scoop, although it is still difficult to picture:
They were the first car in a line of cars at the left turn light, which was red. Right lane traffic to go straight, however, was going on a green light. An 18 year old girl, evidently very distracted, came up the crest of the hill at such an angle that she somehow did not realize she was heading right for the row of cars along her left, stopped in the turn lane. She hit our truck on the passenger side, and with such a velocity that it made her flip. She had to be cut out of the vehicle, and she suffered a concussion. It is a 35 mph speed limit on that road; to have flipped like that she must have been accelerating much past that.
La Princesita has spoken of both accidents last night and today. The Young Prince seems to have forgotten it happened. This is the second big accident they have both been in, and I was never in one until I was 34 years old. I feel horrible for them. It is my job to ensure their safety--but how is that possible when you can't trust others?
"There's been an accident."
I didn't listen any more but to get details of where they were. I didn't even grab my purse, and I left my front door wide open. 'Come, get everything you want. My babies have just been in an accident and I am going to them. That's all that matters right now,' I wanted to shout as I ran down the stairs, somehow not falling on something.
I had been with a student and thus turned off the telephone and the answering machine, out of respect for my student's time and our lesson.
As I sped up the streets two miles to where Hunter Mill and Lawyers intersect, my mind was racing with images of our accident a year and a half ago flooding my mind. The one in which we should have died, but our secure Outback did its job, valiantly giving its life to save ours, the carseats likewise restraining our children so that, even upside down, they were kept in their seats and did not sustain even a scratch.
I approached the intersection and waved to the police officer directing traffic. Stretching my neck out of the car, I yelled, "I'm their mother!"
I was trembling like a leaf. In the middle of the intersection was a car overturned. I hoped it wasn't our truck.
I got around the corner, parked on the side of the road, put on my hazards, and dashed across the stopped traffic. The truck was there, door crashed off, my babies just fine. They ran to me and told me all about it. My husband had to stay with the truck to find out about towing and said he would catch a cab home.
The drive home was endless, mainly due to the winding-road detours we had to take. My mind worked incessantly to figure out how this could have happened. I later got the scoop, although it is still difficult to picture:
They were the first car in a line of cars at the left turn light, which was red. Right lane traffic to go straight, however, was going on a green light. An 18 year old girl, evidently very distracted, came up the crest of the hill at such an angle that she somehow did not realize she was heading right for the row of cars along her left, stopped in the turn lane. She hit our truck on the passenger side, and with such a velocity that it made her flip. She had to be cut out of the vehicle, and she suffered a concussion. It is a 35 mph speed limit on that road; to have flipped like that she must have been accelerating much past that.
La Princesita has spoken of both accidents last night and today. The Young Prince seems to have forgotten it happened. This is the second big accident they have both been in, and I was never in one until I was 34 years old. I feel horrible for them. It is my job to ensure their safety--but how is that possible when you can't trust others?
sábado, 6 de octubre de 2007
bragging rights
I finished my first publication!
Ok, so it's not my first. I have published in the academic world on the analysis of the text of a 15th century young Spanish girl's tragedia and appeared in various conglomerative books that illustrate teaching ideas for the foreign language classroom for the lazy or idea-less teachers who need a boost...not that they would ever end up looking for spicy new ideas in one of those manuals, anyway.
I didn't even publish a la Kinkos. I did it at home.
Bound it and everything, all by myself. Of course, I found I put the three appendix pages in the wrong place. Damn. I knew something would happen.
But it can fly...they are, after all, following the first chapter...? jajaja
It looks good. Does that count for anything?
My new class starts on Tuesday. I am thrilled. My own textbook has been a dream of mine for almost as long as I have been teaching, and I feel like celebrating the first round finished.
Yippee for me.
Ok, so it's not my first. I have published in the academic world on the analysis of the text of a 15th century young Spanish girl's tragedia and appeared in various conglomerative books that illustrate teaching ideas for the foreign language classroom for the lazy or idea-less teachers who need a boost...not that they would ever end up looking for spicy new ideas in one of those manuals, anyway.
I didn't even publish a la Kinkos. I did it at home.
Bound it and everything, all by myself. Of course, I found I put the three appendix pages in the wrong place. Damn. I knew something would happen.
But it can fly...they are, after all, following the first chapter...? jajaja
It looks good. Does that count for anything?
My new class starts on Tuesday. I am thrilled. My own textbook has been a dream of mine for almost as long as I have been teaching, and I feel like celebrating the first round finished.
Yippee for me.
jueves, 4 de octubre de 2007
island dreams, revisited
I seem to be in a bit of wanderlust mode lately. Or perhaps in a deep longing for what has been, for that which was, for the moments-voyages-epochs during which I grasped Life by the horns and let it take me for the ride that I now only recall through dream sequence reruns.
Last night's adventure took me back to the Galápagos Islands, my "personal paradise" of 15 years ago that has yet to be equalled in any of my travels. In my dream, I was there with my father, my mother, and my children--an interesting mix of people considering my father was no longer alive when my eldest was born. Together we waited for the morning garua to burn off, inhaled the fresh ocean air, observed the amazing animal life there is to behold, and made contact with a local I had met in my previous voyage to the Islands for a more personal tour through the eyes of a Galápagos native--a tour I was blessed to have received at the time of my travels there.
In my 1992 stay on the archipelago my friend gave me a book titled "My Father's Island" written by Johanna Angermeyer. It gives an extremely personal account of one family's habitation of the Galápagos Islands. The characters in the autobiographical novel are all real and people (or ancestors thereof) that my friend knows personally; all galapagueños are related if not by blood, through the pure experience of living in what had been, at one point, one of the last places on Earth whose natural beauty had been unmarred by human existence.
One of my high schoolers is currently working on an oral presentation for her Spanish class regarding problems in Latin America--a rather broad topic. After brainstorming with her some possible ideas, she decided to investigate further the topic of the Galápagos Islands and the destruction of the islands due to heavy increases in tourism, population growth, the introduction of non-native species to the Islands and the effects of El Niño on the flora and fauna. On my part, I have tried to communicate with my contact, who lives in Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz, for a native's perspective on this question.
My student and I spoke one day following our session, and I told her that for as much as I would love to return to the Islands, that perhaps my best gift to them would be to not return so as not to further contribute to their destruction. It is a moral dilemna; indeed, if I were to go to live and actually contribute to their preservation, the question would be different.
I will continue to dream, to visit my paradise in my mind. At times I feel like I live too much in the past. Why do we, then, create such marvelous memories only to be chastised or chastise those who constantly struggle against this longing to return?
Perhaps it is time to pick up this book and read it again.
Last night's adventure took me back to the Galápagos Islands, my "personal paradise" of 15 years ago that has yet to be equalled in any of my travels. In my dream, I was there with my father, my mother, and my children--an interesting mix of people considering my father was no longer alive when my eldest was born. Together we waited for the morning garua to burn off, inhaled the fresh ocean air, observed the amazing animal life there is to behold, and made contact with a local I had met in my previous voyage to the Islands for a more personal tour through the eyes of a Galápagos native--a tour I was blessed to have received at the time of my travels there.
In my 1992 stay on the archipelago my friend gave me a book titled "My Father's Island" written by Johanna Angermeyer. It gives an extremely personal account of one family's habitation of the Galápagos Islands. The characters in the autobiographical novel are all real and people (or ancestors thereof) that my friend knows personally; all galapagueños are related if not by blood, through the pure experience of living in what had been, at one point, one of the last places on Earth whose natural beauty had been unmarred by human existence.
One of my high schoolers is currently working on an oral presentation for her Spanish class regarding problems in Latin America--a rather broad topic. After brainstorming with her some possible ideas, she decided to investigate further the topic of the Galápagos Islands and the destruction of the islands due to heavy increases in tourism, population growth, the introduction of non-native species to the Islands and the effects of El Niño on the flora and fauna. On my part, I have tried to communicate with my contact, who lives in Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz, for a native's perspective on this question.
My student and I spoke one day following our session, and I told her that for as much as I would love to return to the Islands, that perhaps my best gift to them would be to not return so as not to further contribute to their destruction. It is a moral dilemna; indeed, if I were to go to live and actually contribute to their preservation, the question would be different.
I will continue to dream, to visit my paradise in my mind. At times I feel like I live too much in the past. Why do we, then, create such marvelous memories only to be chastised or chastise those who constantly struggle against this longing to return?
Perhaps it is time to pick up this book and read it again.
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