Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
what kind of crazy are these people?
Saturday we had to go to another wedding. One that was looked forward to for a good 6 months or more by Helio's family. I remember thinking in the freezing winter months that when this wedding actually happened I would no longer have a baby in my stomach and how great that would be. Well, the day turned out to be far from great.
Helio had to work on Saturday morning. I told him in a half asleep state to make sure to have his ass in the car by 11:00 to return home and get ready as the wedding started at 1:00. I got up and started by bathing myself, then Levi, then Dante. I knew it was going to take effort to get everyone and everything in order. I had a plan. 11:00 came, I called Helio, my question was "I need you to honest to God, tell me what you are doing, when are you going to be home"? His response: "we are leaving here at 1:00" There started my anger.
Through some persuasion, he returned home by 12:15. We still didn't have a wedding gift and I really wasn't sure where the wedding was. Finally, we were all in the car, tempers had escalated yet Helio had to make another pit stop at a store to find a card. All I could think of is, this is not the time and tried so hard to just keep all my mean thoughts to myself. After the store, we had to return home to leave a key for friends, then things got out of control. It was 12:45 and we were driving in the direction of a couple churches where it could "possibly" have been at yet he did not know. The invitation that was sent out was printed prior to a family tragedy- the bride's brother hung himself this past spring- therefore, all the plans had changed yet they still handed out the misprinted invitations so I had no idea what information was correct and what had changed. I repeated several times on the way to the church, I am not walking down that aisle as the bride is walking down. We arrived just minutes before 1.
I zoomed into the church in heels, one kid in a car seat, and another in his "chanclas" (sandals) that would not stay on his feet as Helio parked the car. Now, I saw a bunch of Helio's family on the front steps of the church so I was reassured that this was the correct location. However, after I sat down near the front of the church and wiped the dripping sweat off my face and situated my youngest on my right boob, I realized I had no idea who any of these people were around me. Then I looked up again realizing that my sons and I were the only gringos in the group as I saw a long procession behind a young maiden in a bright red dress. It was 1pm, I was at the right church, but I was at the wrong ceremony. I grabbed my phone to check the time and I honestly muttered under my breath, "what kind of crazy are these people"? I soon assimilated that I was witnessing another quince anos ceremony and the wedding would be following.
Now, for two days, I just wanted a cup of coffee. I wanted Helio to come home in ample time for us to stop for a gift and get me some. I had a plan. Instead, I sat in front of fans mounted on the column next to me and tried to blend into the crowd. -Not and easy task to do when you are the only white person in the group, one of my sons is blond, he really stands out in a sea of black hair. I sat there until 1:45, wondering what I was supposed to do. Nobody would come sit by me, I had no idea where Helio was. Regardless, he rarely tells me what is customary, like if I am supposed to not be in the sanctuary or what the regular thing to do is for a Mexican holiday (or even if there is a holiday on a particular day) These things I find out through a system of deduction and his cousins odd looks.
As we were approaching the church Helio kept repeating, "I don't know why you are in such a rush to get there, we are going to sit in the church for two hours". To this, I did not listen. I really thought that because it was a wedding, in the United States, it would just be on time, as it was in print. How wrong could I be? The part that really sucks is HE WAS SO RIGHT. This only fouled my mood even further.
We drove to get coffee after the ceremony. We were to drive to Brooklyn Park for the reception thereafter. I attempted to negotiate that we would need to kill a couple of hours as it was then 3pm and what I had read said the reception was to start at 5. Helio just rolled his eyes. To which I replied "well, that's not what the invitation said"! I had lost all sense of even trying, I made Helio bring me home. I skipped the reception and for two days now I have had terrible guilt. I should have been there. It was a happy time for his family after such a terrible tragedy. Instead, I sat in my bed with my 7 week old baby and read all afternoon in the air conditioning. I have to say though, it was a great afternoon without having to deal with anybody. From now on, I am not going to push these things. I always lose and really, he is usually right, which really sucks.
Helio had to work on Saturday morning. I told him in a half asleep state to make sure to have his ass in the car by 11:00 to return home and get ready as the wedding started at 1:00. I got up and started by bathing myself, then Levi, then Dante. I knew it was going to take effort to get everyone and everything in order. I had a plan. 11:00 came, I called Helio, my question was "I need you to honest to God, tell me what you are doing, when are you going to be home"? His response: "we are leaving here at 1:00" There started my anger.
Through some persuasion, he returned home by 12:15. We still didn't have a wedding gift and I really wasn't sure where the wedding was. Finally, we were all in the car, tempers had escalated yet Helio had to make another pit stop at a store to find a card. All I could think of is, this is not the time and tried so hard to just keep all my mean thoughts to myself. After the store, we had to return home to leave a key for friends, then things got out of control. It was 12:45 and we were driving in the direction of a couple churches where it could "possibly" have been at yet he did not know. The invitation that was sent out was printed prior to a family tragedy- the bride's brother hung himself this past spring- therefore, all the plans had changed yet they still handed out the misprinted invitations so I had no idea what information was correct and what had changed. I repeated several times on the way to the church, I am not walking down that aisle as the bride is walking down. We arrived just minutes before 1.
I zoomed into the church in heels, one kid in a car seat, and another in his "chanclas" (sandals) that would not stay on his feet as Helio parked the car. Now, I saw a bunch of Helio's family on the front steps of the church so I was reassured that this was the correct location. However, after I sat down near the front of the church and wiped the dripping sweat off my face and situated my youngest on my right boob, I realized I had no idea who any of these people were around me. Then I looked up again realizing that my sons and I were the only gringos in the group as I saw a long procession behind a young maiden in a bright red dress. It was 1pm, I was at the right church, but I was at the wrong ceremony. I grabbed my phone to check the time and I honestly muttered under my breath, "what kind of crazy are these people"? I soon assimilated that I was witnessing another quince anos ceremony and the wedding would be following.
Now, for two days, I just wanted a cup of coffee. I wanted Helio to come home in ample time for us to stop for a gift and get me some. I had a plan. Instead, I sat in front of fans mounted on the column next to me and tried to blend into the crowd. -Not and easy task to do when you are the only white person in the group, one of my sons is blond, he really stands out in a sea of black hair. I sat there until 1:45, wondering what I was supposed to do. Nobody would come sit by me, I had no idea where Helio was. Regardless, he rarely tells me what is customary, like if I am supposed to not be in the sanctuary or what the regular thing to do is for a Mexican holiday (or even if there is a holiday on a particular day) These things I find out through a system of deduction and his cousins odd looks.
As we were approaching the church Helio kept repeating, "I don't know why you are in such a rush to get there, we are going to sit in the church for two hours". To this, I did not listen. I really thought that because it was a wedding, in the United States, it would just be on time, as it was in print. How wrong could I be? The part that really sucks is HE WAS SO RIGHT. This only fouled my mood even further.
We drove to get coffee after the ceremony. We were to drive to Brooklyn Park for the reception thereafter. I attempted to negotiate that we would need to kill a couple of hours as it was then 3pm and what I had read said the reception was to start at 5. Helio just rolled his eyes. To which I replied "well, that's not what the invitation said"! I had lost all sense of even trying, I made Helio bring me home. I skipped the reception and for two days now I have had terrible guilt. I should have been there. It was a happy time for his family after such a terrible tragedy. Instead, I sat in my bed with my 7 week old baby and read all afternoon in the air conditioning. I have to say though, it was a great afternoon without having to deal with anybody. From now on, I am not going to push these things. I always lose and really, he is usually right, which really sucks.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
I am a lost Japanese man
I have to do more than sit here with two kids and read. My reality has changed. All I can think about is the current novel I am reading. When people come by and we visit, and I find myself holding back, I want to talk about the characters in my book. This is not reality. Currently I am reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami . Therefore, when I sleep, I am a Japanese man looking for his cat, who keeps finding himself at the bottom of a dried up well. I need to wrap this book up this weekend. I need to move on to a different country, a different plot.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
making strides towards romance- the gentler side of me
I want someone to read to me. I recently visited an old college friend and when she mentioned that her husband keeps reading passages from David Sedaris’s new novel to her in bed, I was instantly filled with envy. If Helio attempted, I would probably get super frustrated for the same reasons we can’t play games when company comes over. You wouldn’t know it unless faced with the issue but in order to play games like Taboo or Pictionary with people you must posses a real mastery of the English language. Also, a lot of the cultural jokes are lost on Helio. He gets most of it but references to the 80s or such things, he just doesn’t get it. He tries to though. I just spend most of my time explaining what is so funny. Seven (minus 1) years of getting used to us Americans just isn’t enough.
Maybe I should ask him to read the couple Spanish novels I have sitting beside me on my nightstand. For years it has been a goal of mine to read a full novel in Spanish. I think I could sacrifice one of them for the sake of trying to have a little more romance in my life.
Maybe I should ask him to read the couple Spanish novels I have sitting beside me on my nightstand. For years it has been a goal of mine to read a full novel in Spanish. I think I could sacrifice one of them for the sake of trying to have a little more romance in my life.
Monday, July 14, 2008
U2, New York, & France
You know how certain time periods seem to revolve around certain elements? Such as you are a long time smoker and you try to quit and nothing but smoking comes up everywhere? Or your bike is stolen and everyone asks you to ride with them or there are non-stop commercials on the radio for bike gear just to rub it in? Lately, I have had the following three things come up over and over- U2, New York City, and France.
I’ve heard a lot of U2 songs lately- especially tunes from the Joshua Tree. When I do I think #1 Bono’s wife is a lucky woman and #2 I want to be loved like I have fascinated that Bono loves his wife. I once wrote a poem for a college course where we were to compare someone in our life to food. I chose my mom and an orange. I don’t remember all of it but I do remember trying to convey my relationship with my mother as messy, deep, good and bad. (as a point of reference, I hate peeling oranges, you can’t ever get away from the mess, you get it under your nails and it feels like it is on you all day long, kinda like a mom) I remember some line mentioning the juice of an orange and it spilling down my arm and leaving sticky on my chin. That is how I imagine real deep true love is. You sink into it. It oozes all over you and you are happy to be a mess in it. Bono has a poetry in him. An undulating emotion. He oozes. He is affected by the world and the people in it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end as his woman. I want to have sex like my orange story. I want to be what Bono has been looking for, I’ll be his honey lips.
I keep seeing everything creative point its origin back to New York City. I think I would have loved to have gone there in my 20s and done it up. Maybe I would have survived and thrived? Maybe I would have fallen apart. But I would have had the experience to talk about. I work in a creative field yet I constantly feel like an imposter. I am constantly in meetings thinking, “I don’t belong here, these people are going to find out I am a phony. Because I am not naturally smart, I have to work at my smarts. It takes review and revision for me to get something right. I feel that in design, I need the same. Honestly, I think I need to surround myself with more creative people. In college, I would always sit in a desk next to one of the most creative people in my studio classes, hoping some of their goodness would seep into me just by being near. I feel my insides aching for more creation, innovation, new ideas. I am sick of pushing the business of design. I want the heart of it. I want more. No, I can’t pick up and move to New York as so many do when this urge gets them. I will have to figure out how to do it in my growing city of Minneapolis for now.
Do people really honestly book the Concord to fly to Paris for just an evening meal at a favorite restaurant? I just finished up a book where there was a young budding relationship brewing and the new boyfriend did this to impress the woman. How amazing would that be? I don’t know if I could actually enjoy it without thinking constantly about the cost of the flight. -But really, what an amazing thing to do. I also saw on the back jacket of a book I got in the mail from Amazon that one of my favorite authors travels the world doing lectures and lives in France. That kind of life is what I am always referring to my dear Irish friend as “fabulous”. I need a more fabulous life. These couple things about France made my wheels spin. If I were to have this sort of fabulous life and lived in France, really, I would have everything I need- wine, cheese, small little restaurants, romantic people just because they make them that way over there, cobbled streets, and people who give a damn about how they dress. Reality is, I should have been born a gay man. They get to have their life “just so” and the world just excuses them as “gay”. For me, if I want things “just so”, I am an inflexible bitch who needs to give a little. I want to fuss about what peppers to buy at the grocery store. I want a cute little seating arrangement outside to drink a morning cappuccino that does not get dismantled each night. For sanity sake let’s just hope that France has something wrong with it. France would probably reject me; after all I am an Angry American.
I’ve heard a lot of U2 songs lately- especially tunes from the Joshua Tree. When I do I think #1 Bono’s wife is a lucky woman and #2 I want to be loved like I have fascinated that Bono loves his wife. I once wrote a poem for a college course where we were to compare someone in our life to food. I chose my mom and an orange. I don’t remember all of it but I do remember trying to convey my relationship with my mother as messy, deep, good and bad. (as a point of reference, I hate peeling oranges, you can’t ever get away from the mess, you get it under your nails and it feels like it is on you all day long, kinda like a mom) I remember some line mentioning the juice of an orange and it spilling down my arm and leaving sticky on my chin. That is how I imagine real deep true love is. You sink into it. It oozes all over you and you are happy to be a mess in it. Bono has a poetry in him. An undulating emotion. He oozes. He is affected by the world and the people in it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end as his woman. I want to have sex like my orange story. I want to be what Bono has been looking for, I’ll be his honey lips.
I keep seeing everything creative point its origin back to New York City. I think I would have loved to have gone there in my 20s and done it up. Maybe I would have survived and thrived? Maybe I would have fallen apart. But I would have had the experience to talk about. I work in a creative field yet I constantly feel like an imposter. I am constantly in meetings thinking, “I don’t belong here, these people are going to find out I am a phony. Because I am not naturally smart, I have to work at my smarts. It takes review and revision for me to get something right. I feel that in design, I need the same. Honestly, I think I need to surround myself with more creative people. In college, I would always sit in a desk next to one of the most creative people in my studio classes, hoping some of their goodness would seep into me just by being near. I feel my insides aching for more creation, innovation, new ideas. I am sick of pushing the business of design. I want the heart of it. I want more. No, I can’t pick up and move to New York as so many do when this urge gets them. I will have to figure out how to do it in my growing city of Minneapolis for now.
Do people really honestly book the Concord to fly to Paris for just an evening meal at a favorite restaurant? I just finished up a book where there was a young budding relationship brewing and the new boyfriend did this to impress the woman. How amazing would that be? I don’t know if I could actually enjoy it without thinking constantly about the cost of the flight. -But really, what an amazing thing to do. I also saw on the back jacket of a book I got in the mail from Amazon that one of my favorite authors travels the world doing lectures and lives in France. That kind of life is what I am always referring to my dear Irish friend as “fabulous”. I need a more fabulous life. These couple things about France made my wheels spin. If I were to have this sort of fabulous life and lived in France, really, I would have everything I need- wine, cheese, small little restaurants, romantic people just because they make them that way over there, cobbled streets, and people who give a damn about how they dress. Reality is, I should have been born a gay man. They get to have their life “just so” and the world just excuses them as “gay”. For me, if I want things “just so”, I am an inflexible bitch who needs to give a little. I want to fuss about what peppers to buy at the grocery store. I want a cute little seating arrangement outside to drink a morning cappuccino that does not get dismantled each night. For sanity sake let’s just hope that France has something wrong with it. France would probably reject me; after all I am an Angry American.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
the boobs, they hurt
I have spent the last near 2 days in bed. I came down with the mastitis, which is just so likely with this whole second baby experience. Since the first day of being pregnant with Dante, I have had all the sicknesses one could get. Friday night I started to feel a little funky and by 2 am I was on the phone with the nurse line describing my pain. A very nice doctor prescribed an antibiotic via the phone and Helio went to get my bottle of pill magic by 3:15 that morning. I took a bunch of pills and painfully have been waiting for the flu-like symptoms and soreness to subside. Finally, today I am moving around. I tried very hard to shake it off yesterday by taking two showers, cleaning the house, and attending a birthday bbq but alas, I had to admit defeat and return to my sweaty bed. By 11 am today, I awoke to a drenched bed, body (even my legs were slippery wet with sweat from my fever), and a baby who definitely needed a bath from laying next to me all those hours. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen again these next 46 weeks of feeding. (6 down, 46 to go, then my body is mine…all mine.)
Although, Helio scored big with me by going to get the medicine in the middle of the night I have to say that staying at home during maternity leave has not helped me be a more understanding wife of his habits. I find more and more things less tolerable. He has either had a cold or had allergy problems for the last few weeks thus he has been going through Kleenexes like crazy. I find them everywhere. I have bad allergy issues and I manage to throw my tissues away. Helio balls them up and I find them on the sofa, near the washing machine, in the bathroom beside the garbage on the sink. They are bloody and disgusting. I know that I have habits that aren’t necessarily pleasant- such as, I pluck my eyebrows in the car at stop lights (it’s the best lighting for the little buggers), I cut my toenails in the bathtub (its easier when your feet have soaked a while) but I do my best to not impose my habits on others. I put things away, I clean up after myself, I rinse the tub after use. Why is it so hard for him to have the same values? I have to say though, the ultimate gross habit he has- cutting his nails and leaving the remnants of his work on the side table beside the living room lounge chair. That sends me through the roof.
I surprised Helio last September when he was still stuck in Mexico. I sent Levi to grandma and grandpa’s house and showed up for an extended weekend to celebrate our 4 year anniversary. (this is how we got pregnant with #2, there isn’t a need for decency when you are alone) When we went back to his apartment the place was insanely clean. His shirts were folded to the exact shape of the shirt below it in a stack, his shoes were cleaned and lined up in the closet, the bed carefully made- all sheets and blankets appropriately pulled taught and tucked in. Why can’t he do that here in the United States? It must be me, I do too much.
In my ferverish state, I was wandering around the house yesterday really just trying to get from one place to the next, not thinking of how I was dressed or how I appeared. I noticed Helio look down at my now deflated stomach and ask "so are you going to go running today now that you have the green light from your 6 week check up with your obgyn" (or something like that in his still broken English). My response: "Are you insane, I have a fever of 101, you think I'm going to go running? What is it my stomach, you think I need to do something about it immediately, you are an ass" He may go for the meds, but he has no idea when to not comment.
Although, Helio scored big with me by going to get the medicine in the middle of the night I have to say that staying at home during maternity leave has not helped me be a more understanding wife of his habits. I find more and more things less tolerable. He has either had a cold or had allergy problems for the last few weeks thus he has been going through Kleenexes like crazy. I find them everywhere. I have bad allergy issues and I manage to throw my tissues away. Helio balls them up and I find them on the sofa, near the washing machine, in the bathroom beside the garbage on the sink. They are bloody and disgusting. I know that I have habits that aren’t necessarily pleasant- such as, I pluck my eyebrows in the car at stop lights (it’s the best lighting for the little buggers), I cut my toenails in the bathtub (its easier when your feet have soaked a while) but I do my best to not impose my habits on others. I put things away, I clean up after myself, I rinse the tub after use. Why is it so hard for him to have the same values? I have to say though, the ultimate gross habit he has- cutting his nails and leaving the remnants of his work on the side table beside the living room lounge chair. That sends me through the roof.
I surprised Helio last September when he was still stuck in Mexico. I sent Levi to grandma and grandpa’s house and showed up for an extended weekend to celebrate our 4 year anniversary. (this is how we got pregnant with #2, there isn’t a need for decency when you are alone) When we went back to his apartment the place was insanely clean. His shirts were folded to the exact shape of the shirt below it in a stack, his shoes were cleaned and lined up in the closet, the bed carefully made- all sheets and blankets appropriately pulled taught and tucked in. Why can’t he do that here in the United States? It must be me, I do too much.
In my ferverish state, I was wandering around the house yesterday really just trying to get from one place to the next, not thinking of how I was dressed or how I appeared. I noticed Helio look down at my now deflated stomach and ask "so are you going to go running today now that you have the green light from your 6 week check up with your obgyn" (or something like that in his still broken English). My response: "Are you insane, I have a fever of 101, you think I'm going to go running? What is it my stomach, you think I need to do something about it immediately, you are an ass" He may go for the meds, but he has no idea when to not comment.
Friday, July 11, 2008
hammock and breast/face milk
I made my new baby a new hammock today. The one I made for our first son was a bit too American-huge. I thought that he needed something small like they have at daycare. Both the boys will go to Helio’s family’s house for daycare in a few weeks. The woman who takes care of all the kids is Helio’s second cousin but all the kids call her “tia”. (auntie) When we had our first baby I saw this little contraption all sewed by hand and strung up with coated cable I thought, wow, so simple, yet so smart. I immediately ran home to make one bigger and better. The reality is, they like the little ones better. It makes them feel more enclosed and comforted. This will be the fourth kid to use that hammock at daycare. In our tiny 800+ sq. ft. house, we have hooks strategically placed throughout so that no matter where we are, we can string up a hammock.
When we were in Mexico a couple Christmas’s ago, I saw people use the real deal hammocks. They just put a mat in the bottom and tied up the top to prevent the little ones from falling out. It’s true, you don’t need all that baby equipment to have a baby, but I insist- a hammock is the way to go. Without one, I don’t know how to soothe a crying baby.
This new little sport has developed a bad case of face acne that has spread all over his ears and down onto his chest. Once, I was at a graduation party and saw a young Mexican mother put breast milk into her then pink eye suffering little girl. That image is still burned in my memory. Her eyes were all pussy and her mom was man handling her in a kinda rough way to get her to sit still while she dumped milk in her eyes from a bottle nipple. I still feel queasy when I think of that moment. Little Dante looked like he was in pain from his break out so I finally broke down and squeezed milk from my body onto a washcloth to smear on his face. Amazingly, it is working. His face looks like it is calming down yet he smells.
Helio’s family started sharing their “knowledge” of caring for babies as soon as I announced I was pregnant with our first. Some things insane- like rubbing a wet red string in a circle on the baby’s forehead to cure hiccups, other things helpful- use egg white for a minor burn to soothe the pain. I guess I am blessed to take information from both worlds- the US of A and Mexico. You implement some methods; you bring up others at cocktail parties to shock your friends.
When we were in Mexico a couple Christmas’s ago, I saw people use the real deal hammocks. They just put a mat in the bottom and tied up the top to prevent the little ones from falling out. It’s true, you don’t need all that baby equipment to have a baby, but I insist- a hammock is the way to go. Without one, I don’t know how to soothe a crying baby.
This new little sport has developed a bad case of face acne that has spread all over his ears and down onto his chest. Once, I was at a graduation party and saw a young Mexican mother put breast milk into her then pink eye suffering little girl. That image is still burned in my memory. Her eyes were all pussy and her mom was man handling her in a kinda rough way to get her to sit still while she dumped milk in her eyes from a bottle nipple. I still feel queasy when I think of that moment. Little Dante looked like he was in pain from his break out so I finally broke down and squeezed milk from my body onto a washcloth to smear on his face. Amazingly, it is working. His face looks like it is calming down yet he smells.
Helio’s family started sharing their “knowledge” of caring for babies as soon as I announced I was pregnant with our first. Some things insane- like rubbing a wet red string in a circle on the baby’s forehead to cure hiccups, other things helpful- use egg white for a minor burn to soothe the pain. I guess I am blessed to take information from both worlds- the US of A and Mexico. You implement some methods; you bring up others at cocktail parties to shock your friends.
A couple lists
All weekend I thought of things that I like; things that would be very easy for Helio to tune into on special occasions. Here is the beginning of my list that Helio can refer to in a crisis situation, I think it is a good place to start.
Things I like:
1. Someone who talks to me, not bombards me with questions but has a conversation
2. Nice, interesting bookmarks
3. Amber
4. Alone Time
5. Honey
6. Lipstick (make up in general, especially with shimmer but lipstick is #1)
7. Tunes- i.e. an Itunes prepaid card
8. Coffee- i.e. a coffee shop prepaid card/ Coffee in bed in the morning
9. Contemporary Fiction- used books via Amazon
10. Earrings- hooker-style, sorta trashy Latina
11. Heels- refer to style in item #9
12. Sassy undergarments- sometimes in a good mood a combination of 9 & 10
13. Bath accoutrements/potions- and the time ALONE in the bathtub to enjoy them
14. Good smelly body creams
15. Pedicures
16. A good hunk of cheese and bread
17. Cash for garage sales (to look for contemporary fiction)
18. CAKE
19. Beer/Wine/Mojitos
20. Ipod accessories
21. Running gear
22. Handbags
23. Technology advances- i.e. add-on for laptop/a new apple laptop (ha)
24. Crème Brule
25. Crisp/tart apples
26. Men with accents (he’s got that covered)
27. White teeth
28. Bedding/Linens- i.e. sheets, quilts, comforters, duvets, pillows, etc.
29. A full bottle of water in the car for any and all car rides
30. Lots of picture taking
31. Reisen candies (once I start, I just can’t stop)
32. A pretty set table
33. Fresh moving air (you wouldn’t think it but this is something we fight about all the time)
34. The sound of the big tree outside my bedroom window in early fall
Quiet time at night to read and be still i.e.- now is not the time to start the day’s questions
Things that I don’t like:
1. Being forgotten on a special occasion
2. My shrubs cut down to 2’ off the ground with a sawzall
3. Tacos every night
4. Being called “gorda” or “gordita” even if it is a Mexican kindness
5. Half done projects
6. Sweaty smelly dirty socks left on the floor in my walking path
7. Capers
8. The hose not being hung back up after use
9. Waking up to a sink of dirty dishes
10. A stove/counter not wiped off
11. Seeds in grapes
12. Garlic
13. Yelling on the phone- use inside voices (very typical Mexican)
14. The garbage can left outside after being emptied
15. A dirty floor
16. Wet cake- i.e. tres leches, mil ojas
17. A dirty car
18. Making dinner just for one’s self and not their other half
19. Arrogance
Things I like:
1. Someone who talks to me, not bombards me with questions but has a conversation
2. Nice, interesting bookmarks
3. Amber
4. Alone Time
5. Honey
6. Lipstick (make up in general, especially with shimmer but lipstick is #1)
7. Tunes- i.e. an Itunes prepaid card
8. Coffee- i.e. a coffee shop prepaid card/ Coffee in bed in the morning
9. Contemporary Fiction- used books via Amazon
10. Earrings- hooker-style, sorta trashy Latina
11. Heels- refer to style in item #9
12. Sassy undergarments- sometimes in a good mood a combination of 9 & 10
13. Bath accoutrements/potions- and the time ALONE in the bathtub to enjoy them
14. Good smelly body creams
15. Pedicures
16. A good hunk of cheese and bread
17. Cash for garage sales (to look for contemporary fiction)
18. CAKE
19. Beer/Wine/Mojitos
20. Ipod accessories
21. Running gear
22. Handbags
23. Technology advances- i.e. add-on for laptop/a new apple laptop (ha)
24. Crème Brule
25. Crisp/tart apples
26. Men with accents (he’s got that covered)
27. White teeth
28. Bedding/Linens- i.e. sheets, quilts, comforters, duvets, pillows, etc.
29. A full bottle of water in the car for any and all car rides
30. Lots of picture taking
31. Reisen candies (once I start, I just can’t stop)
32. A pretty set table
33. Fresh moving air (you wouldn’t think it but this is something we fight about all the time)
34. The sound of the big tree outside my bedroom window in early fall
Quiet time at night to read and be still i.e.- now is not the time to start the day’s questions
Things that I don’t like:
1. Being forgotten on a special occasion
2. My shrubs cut down to 2’ off the ground with a sawzall
3. Tacos every night
4. Being called “gorda” or “gordita” even if it is a Mexican kindness
5. Half done projects
6. Sweaty smelly dirty socks left on the floor in my walking path
7. Capers
8. The hose not being hung back up after use
9. Waking up to a sink of dirty dishes
10. A stove/counter not wiped off
11. Seeds in grapes
12. Garlic
13. Yelling on the phone- use inside voices (very typical Mexican)
14. The garbage can left outside after being emptied
15. A dirty floor
16. Wet cake- i.e. tres leches, mil ojas
17. A dirty car
18. Making dinner just for one’s self and not their other half
19. Arrogance
how quickly it runs out
have just one more paycheck coming to me while I am on my maternity leave. I lied and told my husband that I just received my last check on the 30th to put a little fire under his ass. I am so anxious about it that I have been obsessing over it all night. I will be out of work for another 8 weeks so I’m not quite sure how we are going to pay the bills. I have to give Helio some credit though. He is working two jobs.
He just left to work at the airport tonight. Its so ironic that he is working there. For years it was the ultimate place to avoid for fear of being deported. Now because he is legal, he is very proud of his airport worker’s badge. Anytime he prepares himself to work on a job there he shows me his badge again. I grin and nod. He is proud of it like Levi is proud of doing a painting in school. It is something to be proud of though. He worked hard to become legal. Or should I say, I worked hard for him to become legal. I filled out the 5 inches thick of paper work, paid the mortgage (sometimes barely) alone for months, and endured the first few months of a second pregnancy with a three year old pretending to throw up beside me. It was me who had to call daily for that last month to beg officials to please resend his lost file. He just had to show up with all the paperwork that myself and our lawyer assembled.
He’s been talking to me which makes a huge difference. The house is calm and pleasant when he does. I haven’t had that feeling like I am dragging him through basic daily tasks lately. Maybe I have mellowed or I am too distracted to care. Maybe its because Rafa showed up a month or so ago and is now working with Helio so he has a friend to talk to. As a result, I feel I have no one to blame for my anxiety about money. He is working two jobs, is at one right now, he is helpful, chatty, and keeps telling me how he loves me. He has been taking the noisey-tense moments with kids all in stride and I haven’t had to yell at him. I don’t know where to go with my fear of losing it all because I am not bringing home a paycheck. I usually just take it out on him because I am not mature enough to find a pleasant outlet for my fears. I guess it serves me right, I will just have to learn how to sit in my fear and allow him to work out some of the details.
He just left to work at the airport tonight. Its so ironic that he is working there. For years it was the ultimate place to avoid for fear of being deported. Now because he is legal, he is very proud of his airport worker’s badge. Anytime he prepares himself to work on a job there he shows me his badge again. I grin and nod. He is proud of it like Levi is proud of doing a painting in school. It is something to be proud of though. He worked hard to become legal. Or should I say, I worked hard for him to become legal. I filled out the 5 inches thick of paper work, paid the mortgage (sometimes barely) alone for months, and endured the first few months of a second pregnancy with a three year old pretending to throw up beside me. It was me who had to call daily for that last month to beg officials to please resend his lost file. He just had to show up with all the paperwork that myself and our lawyer assembled.
He’s been talking to me which makes a huge difference. The house is calm and pleasant when he does. I haven’t had that feeling like I am dragging him through basic daily tasks lately. Maybe I have mellowed or I am too distracted to care. Maybe its because Rafa showed up a month or so ago and is now working with Helio so he has a friend to talk to. As a result, I feel I have no one to blame for my anxiety about money. He is working two jobs, is at one right now, he is helpful, chatty, and keeps telling me how he loves me. He has been taking the noisey-tense moments with kids all in stride and I haven’t had to yell at him. I don’t know where to go with my fear of losing it all because I am not bringing home a paycheck. I usually just take it out on him because I am not mature enough to find a pleasant outlet for my fears. I guess it serves me right, I will just have to learn how to sit in my fear and allow him to work out some of the details.
party present
Ultimo Regalo- The Last Present
This Last Present was presented to the quincenera by her Aunt and Uncle (padrinos) as her last present as a girl for now she is a woman…
This will probably sit in their house for years to come in the plastic up on a shelf or propped on top of the TV, regardless of its size.
I have no desire to read Jodi Picoult
Once I was into “my feelings”, now I try to ignore them until they go away. I don’t know if something permanently was shut off when my brother Zach died but since then, I am not interested in touchy lovey stuff. Often I wonder what kinda girl I would be today if he hadn’t died nearly 10 years ago. (can’t believe that this October it will be a landmark 10 years) For a long time I had fantasized that he had “accidentally” had a baby with some young girl and magically his offspring would come to be raised by me. What kind of weirdness is that? Well, no 9 year old has shown up at my doorstep, I think it is pretty safe to assume that this fantasy is officially dead for me. (no pun intended)
We went to the quince anos last night. It was a balls-out celebration complete with mariachis, a coreographed dance routine, a power point presentation of the young girl’s life, and enough meat to have left overs for a good week. I have been saved the pressure of having to hold one of these parties, there are no girl children in this household. The first time I ever went to one of these parties I cried and I didn’t even know the girl or her family. I thought it was a moving experience to see a ceremonious coming of age. Last night, I leaned over repeatedly to a friend and found myself saying “now that’s mildly creepy” when all I could see was a elbow length white glove shoot up above all the heads of those in front of me, pointer finger extended to the ceiling while she was carried on the shoulders of ”los chambelanes” during the waltz.
I might just be bitter and it may have been bound to happen regardless of life circumstance. I have to say, it does make life easier and therefore I think better when the tears and broken-ness ended. Today, I just want everyone to buck up and quit snivelling.
We went to the quince anos last night. It was a balls-out celebration complete with mariachis, a coreographed dance routine, a power point presentation of the young girl’s life, and enough meat to have left overs for a good week. I have been saved the pressure of having to hold one of these parties, there are no girl children in this household. The first time I ever went to one of these parties I cried and I didn’t even know the girl or her family. I thought it was a moving experience to see a ceremonious coming of age. Last night, I leaned over repeatedly to a friend and found myself saying “now that’s mildly creepy” when all I could see was a elbow length white glove shoot up above all the heads of those in front of me, pointer finger extended to the ceiling while she was carried on the shoulders of ”los chambelanes” during the waltz.
I might just be bitter and it may have been bound to happen regardless of life circumstance. I have to say, it does make life easier and therefore I think better when the tears and broken-ness ended. Today, I just want everyone to buck up and quit snivelling.
back to the dirty bathroom
I am waiting for half of my family to get their clothes on so we can leave for this quince anos party. This has been a year in the making and I can’t wait for it to be over. I thought it would be a fantastic experience to be part of being that we are so close to the virgin sacrifice (just kidding, that doesn’t actually take place for those of you who are in the dark on these sorts of events) but it has prevented many people from being part of normal life activities for all of the preparations that needed to be done. Multi-tasking is not a Mexican strong suit. Helio had to work so we missed the “misa” (church ceremony much like a wedding), now because a couple Mexican dudes showed up in our driveway about an hour ago to fix our truck we are officially late to the reception by 30 minutes. We will not be there for an hour still. You know, I don’t care anymore. This used to spawn big fights, now, I just let it go, it’s his family.
These parties go on until very late into the night, I won’t miss a thing except a clean bathroom. Yes, you can take Mexicans out of Mexico but you can’t take Mexico out of Mexicans. You would think that in Mexico there would be large billboards that would read something like “transplant to the Ol’ U.S of A. and you can flush your toilet paper down the facilities!” That would be enough to get me to swim across rivers, sleep in deserts, and hide in trees for hours. I have a very strong sensitivity to proper disposal of bathroom nastiness. Every one of these parties that I go to the people who attend them still throw their used toilet paper into large masses on the floor beside, behind, and around the toilet. By the time the sun goes down in the summer months I can no longer enter the bathrooms for fear of touching something I shouldn’t. The bummer is now I have a new born, there is no way I am getting around using those bathrooms.
Wish me luck, I am going to corral the troops. I have kept my hair down today to allow for a quick hand dryer in a pinch after washing my hands in the lavatory sinks. (there’s never a hand towel or paper to dry with) Hopefully, I won’t be there all night.
These parties go on until very late into the night, I won’t miss a thing except a clean bathroom. Yes, you can take Mexicans out of Mexico but you can’t take Mexico out of Mexicans. You would think that in Mexico there would be large billboards that would read something like “transplant to the Ol’ U.S of A. and you can flush your toilet paper down the facilities!” That would be enough to get me to swim across rivers, sleep in deserts, and hide in trees for hours. I have a very strong sensitivity to proper disposal of bathroom nastiness. Every one of these parties that I go to the people who attend them still throw their used toilet paper into large masses on the floor beside, behind, and around the toilet. By the time the sun goes down in the summer months I can no longer enter the bathrooms for fear of touching something I shouldn’t. The bummer is now I have a new born, there is no way I am getting around using those bathrooms.
Wish me luck, I am going to corral the troops. I have kept my hair down today to allow for a quick hand dryer in a pinch after washing my hands in the lavatory sinks. (there’s never a hand towel or paper to dry with) Hopefully, I won’t be there all night.
eating brie, working on my happy
I’m sick of wearing underwear with asses in them. I have had to do this for officially a month now. I didn’t realize how ass-less underwear, aka: thongs, had become such a part of my wardrobe. While pregnant, some of my ass-less little numbers didn’t fit for the spreading of my hips and if I couldn’t find a good stretchy option I just went without. I think having to wear panties with an ass contributes to my feeling matronly, I grieve my loss of mojo.
I am alone for the moment, everyone is sleeping and that feels like a treat to me. I did not revel in my alone time enough when I was a young 20-ish girl. I wish I had some of those days back. I remember going to a liquor store on a Friday night, picking up a bunch of beers and going home to cable television. If, after drinking a few tasty ones on a hot summer night I felt social, I made a couple calls to see if I could find company. If there was no company to be had, I would just go out alone. Those were some of the best nights I have had. Now approaching my mid thirties, I feel like those were the days.
Today instead, I busted open some brie, something I have waited since last September to do being that its on the no-can-eat list of foods to avoid while carrying a baby. I am savoring every bite. Now, if only I could turn myself into chipper. I think that might require an alcohol tolerance. One of which I have lost since being on sabattical from consumption for the same reasons I could not consume brie. Baby steps…
I am alone for the moment, everyone is sleeping and that feels like a treat to me. I did not revel in my alone time enough when I was a young 20-ish girl. I wish I had some of those days back. I remember going to a liquor store on a Friday night, picking up a bunch of beers and going home to cable television. If, after drinking a few tasty ones on a hot summer night I felt social, I made a couple calls to see if I could find company. If there was no company to be had, I would just go out alone. Those were some of the best nights I have had. Now approaching my mid thirties, I feel like those were the days.
Today instead, I busted open some brie, something I have waited since last September to do being that its on the no-can-eat list of foods to avoid while carrying a baby. I am savoring every bite. Now, if only I could turn myself into chipper. I think that might require an alcohol tolerance. One of which I have lost since being on sabattical from consumption for the same reasons I could not consume brie. Baby steps…
presents are not too much
It’s Helio’s birthday in three days and I don’t know what sort of effort I should put into it. He really isn’t much of anything for special occasions. My family is completely the opposite so it causes great strife between the two of us. Or rather, for me, he doesn’t even notice. He is hard to buy presents for. He doesn’t really like anything. Well, to be honest, he dresses very nice, I could get him some clothes. Or some meat that smells. I despise chorizo and what it does to the aroma of my house. He loves it, makes it many mornings for his afternoon lunch at work. Disgusting.
Out of principle I don’t want to try for holidays that are catered to him. I want him to understand what it feels like to not be thought of. However, the lesson goes unnoticed. For instance, this year for my birthday, I thought it would be great to all get together and eat at a Cuban restaurant. My very good friend was in from London and was able to attend, I felt that this was going to be the best birthday celebration. Now, as a husband, I feel it’s sorta your job to pay the bill when it’s your wife’s birthday and try to act like you are together. I don’t know if he gets overwhelmed with the English and all but he was zoned out the whole night. Barely spoke, which is odd. My friends were great, they make up for all of that. Sometimes I even forget that I am disappointed in him because of them. Thank God for friends.
Of course, as I was waiting for him to get home to leave for the event, he was exceptionally late. I ended up calling him at the exact time that I had told him that we needed to leave. He hadn’t been home yet to shower and change. It was then that he was at a store with our then three year old trying to find me a present. He doesn’t plan; he doesn’t try to make it special. I scolded him for putting this off until the last minute and told him that he needed to be home now.
The two of them arrived home with a sole balloon. No, “Happy Birthday Mom” or cake. (I love cake, a lot) We went out, it was as fun as it can be when you are 7 months pregnant and can’t sit in a chair for an extended period of time. I also, just couldn’t keep up, by midnight I had to get to my bed. I was exhausted.
That following weekend I was cleaning the house and found on the dresser a wicker basket with a clip top that had not been part of our clutter in the past. It looked like a dollar store find. It wasn’t wrapped; it was balancing two-footed on a pile of folded clothes and had caught my eye because it looked like it was going to fall on the floor. This basket was not presented to me, not even thrown in a plastic Target bag for me to open, and it was not my birthday anymore. In tears a week previous I had said to Helio “I don’t want any of your crap presents for my birthday, please try to make it special” I had hoped that would prevent this sort of let down. I was unsuccessful.
I’m not trying to be demanding or difficult. I just want to be thought of. I have interests, I relay my interests. I think it is nice when your spouse applies past conversations to department store browsing. I do understand that part of it is his upbringing. The lack of making a holiday out of anything was so apparent when we were in Mexico for Christmas in 2006. His family didn’t even get together. I made his dad and his dad’s girlfriend lasagna, which they hadn’t ever had before, and tried to hand over presents. His dad accepted just as Helio does, quickly, anxiously, and in a way, tried to ignore the whole exchange. Prior experience is one thing. However, we have been together over 7 years now. He should now know, presents matter and it is part of the American way. I am American. My family does big holidays and I like them.
Out of principle I don’t want to try for holidays that are catered to him. I want him to understand what it feels like to not be thought of. However, the lesson goes unnoticed. For instance, this year for my birthday, I thought it would be great to all get together and eat at a Cuban restaurant. My very good friend was in from London and was able to attend, I felt that this was going to be the best birthday celebration. Now, as a husband, I feel it’s sorta your job to pay the bill when it’s your wife’s birthday and try to act like you are together. I don’t know if he gets overwhelmed with the English and all but he was zoned out the whole night. Barely spoke, which is odd. My friends were great, they make up for all of that. Sometimes I even forget that I am disappointed in him because of them. Thank God for friends.
Of course, as I was waiting for him to get home to leave for the event, he was exceptionally late. I ended up calling him at the exact time that I had told him that we needed to leave. He hadn’t been home yet to shower and change. It was then that he was at a store with our then three year old trying to find me a present. He doesn’t plan; he doesn’t try to make it special. I scolded him for putting this off until the last minute and told him that he needed to be home now.
The two of them arrived home with a sole balloon. No, “Happy Birthday Mom” or cake. (I love cake, a lot) We went out, it was as fun as it can be when you are 7 months pregnant and can’t sit in a chair for an extended period of time. I also, just couldn’t keep up, by midnight I had to get to my bed. I was exhausted.
That following weekend I was cleaning the house and found on the dresser a wicker basket with a clip top that had not been part of our clutter in the past. It looked like a dollar store find. It wasn’t wrapped; it was balancing two-footed on a pile of folded clothes and had caught my eye because it looked like it was going to fall on the floor. This basket was not presented to me, not even thrown in a plastic Target bag for me to open, and it was not my birthday anymore. In tears a week previous I had said to Helio “I don’t want any of your crap presents for my birthday, please try to make it special” I had hoped that would prevent this sort of let down. I was unsuccessful.
I’m not trying to be demanding or difficult. I just want to be thought of. I have interests, I relay my interests. I think it is nice when your spouse applies past conversations to department store browsing. I do understand that part of it is his upbringing. The lack of making a holiday out of anything was so apparent when we were in Mexico for Christmas in 2006. His family didn’t even get together. I made his dad and his dad’s girlfriend lasagna, which they hadn’t ever had before, and tried to hand over presents. His dad accepted just as Helio does, quickly, anxiously, and in a way, tried to ignore the whole exchange. Prior experience is one thing. However, we have been together over 7 years now. He should now know, presents matter and it is part of the American way. I am American. My family does big holidays and I like them.
ok boss
I’ve been thinking a lot lately of my next husband. What he would be like. I have decided that I would like an Irishman. One who is angry at the world with me and not at me for what the world is. I can’t be responsible for everything and I can’t control everything. I would like to, but alas, it is impossible. I would like a man who is big, maybe a tatoo here or there, nice arms are a must. I would like some decorative chunky jewelery too. No sissy stuff, maybe just a nice ring would do it for me. But the arms are a must. Oh, and an Irish accent. I think it is good to be reminded that you have a foreigner. One of the things that saves me from divorcing Helio at times is his accent. He can say things like “yea, well, sorry bout that” when I am coming down on his ass for not calling me for days when I go 2 hours north to visit my parents for a week (with his two sons, one of whom is less than 3 weeks old) With an accent, it actually makes me giggle. Thank God that was on the phone. I didn’t want him to see that I was actually entertained by his apology.
My Irishman would drink whiskey, like to travel and not get pissed about it during planning, while in transit, and then complain about not having any money upon return. I want him to be clean, not leave his nasty crusty socks on the floor, and please, please, please, don’t fold one hard yellowed sock into the other and leave it hamper. That only means I have to touch it longer when throwing it in the washing machine. Dirty socks have become my all time hated habit of a man. I want my Irishman to have interesting friends, the kind of friends that I would actually like to hang out with or go to the bar with. I can’t think of any that Helio has that I would actually try to find a babysitter for.
Helio does have some great saving graces, he is socially excellent. He charms a room with his Mexican-ness. Old ladies fall in love with him. Men want to bust out the tequila. Hell, I have seen women my age get drunk and rub all over him. This doesn’t bother me oddly. I feel flattered. When that stuff is actually happening, he acts unaware, the insanity is that he is so completely aware. He is so much smarter than he puts off. He wants to appear to be the easy-going, not a worry in sight kind of man. Its just not the way it is.
My husband is so very intuitive. I have told people over and over that he has a homing device built right in, he knows where I am all the time. During the 14 months that he was gone, I would have a melt downs often. There were countless moments that I would decide its all over and would think, yes, I will need a divorce where magically, he would call my cell. I have been at the grocery store, the liquor store, the park, the mechanic where he just shows up, yet, he can’t figure out where I put the peanut butter last. See, he just wants to play dumb. It is a very typical Mexican trait that I have seen his whole family do. Why? What do you gain?
I have learned to not respond. I used to get mad and go into a tirade about where something was or how to do something. Now, when he asks me again to describe what it was that I needed from Home Depot on his way out the door I just don’t respond. It’s easier. He knows, he just doesn’t want to turn on his short term memory. Or if I do respond, he gets the “I hate you and wish that you would burst into a million flames right here in front of my eyes look” and walks out the door saying something like “ok boss” door slam… Beautiful.
My next husband will be angry, but not angry at me. He will want to talk to me. He will be an intellect. He will read- the newspaper, which he will keep me up to date so I don’t report old news to my friends days after events occur & books. I want someone to talk to about a good book. And all of the work that needs to get done around the house, I will hire it done. Enough of the half ass jobs and the patch work. I am a designer, I see the details, they matter to me. I’m not super picky, I just want a tile floor that doesn’t have cracked tiles and when the plaster ceiling needs repair, that doesn’t mean that you put a piece of sheetrock over the hole. My Irishman will have common sense. He won’t stand in a tub filled with water up to his knees and while using a hairdryer to tighten plastic over a window. He will think for himself and on occasion for me.
My Irishman would drink whiskey, like to travel and not get pissed about it during planning, while in transit, and then complain about not having any money upon return. I want him to be clean, not leave his nasty crusty socks on the floor, and please, please, please, don’t fold one hard yellowed sock into the other and leave it hamper. That only means I have to touch it longer when throwing it in the washing machine. Dirty socks have become my all time hated habit of a man. I want my Irishman to have interesting friends, the kind of friends that I would actually like to hang out with or go to the bar with. I can’t think of any that Helio has that I would actually try to find a babysitter for.
Helio does have some great saving graces, he is socially excellent. He charms a room with his Mexican-ness. Old ladies fall in love with him. Men want to bust out the tequila. Hell, I have seen women my age get drunk and rub all over him. This doesn’t bother me oddly. I feel flattered. When that stuff is actually happening, he acts unaware, the insanity is that he is so completely aware. He is so much smarter than he puts off. He wants to appear to be the easy-going, not a worry in sight kind of man. Its just not the way it is.
My husband is so very intuitive. I have told people over and over that he has a homing device built right in, he knows where I am all the time. During the 14 months that he was gone, I would have a melt downs often. There were countless moments that I would decide its all over and would think, yes, I will need a divorce where magically, he would call my cell. I have been at the grocery store, the liquor store, the park, the mechanic where he just shows up, yet, he can’t figure out where I put the peanut butter last. See, he just wants to play dumb. It is a very typical Mexican trait that I have seen his whole family do. Why? What do you gain?
I have learned to not respond. I used to get mad and go into a tirade about where something was or how to do something. Now, when he asks me again to describe what it was that I needed from Home Depot on his way out the door I just don’t respond. It’s easier. He knows, he just doesn’t want to turn on his short term memory. Or if I do respond, he gets the “I hate you and wish that you would burst into a million flames right here in front of my eyes look” and walks out the door saying something like “ok boss” door slam… Beautiful.
My next husband will be angry, but not angry at me. He will want to talk to me. He will be an intellect. He will read- the newspaper, which he will keep me up to date so I don’t report old news to my friends days after events occur & books. I want someone to talk to about a good book. And all of the work that needs to get done around the house, I will hire it done. Enough of the half ass jobs and the patch work. I am a designer, I see the details, they matter to me. I’m not super picky, I just want a tile floor that doesn’t have cracked tiles and when the plaster ceiling needs repair, that doesn’t mean that you put a piece of sheetrock over the hole. My Irishman will have common sense. He won’t stand in a tub filled with water up to his knees and while using a hairdryer to tighten plastic over a window. He will think for himself and on occasion for me.
matrimony change
I wouldn’t say I was swept up in romance and chivalry when I met my man. I sort of resisted it. Inside though, I knew it was there and loved to be loved like that. I had had a bad relationship right before I met my now husband. It was one of those can’t-get-away from-you sort of things. We dated steady for 6 months and were breaking up for 6 months. I can’t believe I still think of it. It was so very hard to get over, one of the hardest things I have ever done, maybe that is why. I was never enough for him. Nothing I did was interesting enough, talented enough, or golf club enough. (he was a big golfer, I was too silly to fit into that crowd) I actually remember feeling bad that I had no “hobbies”. He even sat me down once and told me the reason that we weren’t meant to be together was because I didn’t have said hobbies. He made me feel inferior which is so ironic because its been nearly 9 years since we split and he is STILL unemployed. I think he was threatened in some way. When I didn’t know how to do something, I figured it out. I was connected to people, he was socially awkward, he made people uncomfortable, he looked like Will Farrell.
This is why I finally allowed myself to love Helio. I resisted for a long time, maybe 3 months until I would finally call him my boyfriend although we were spending every day together, him in his Spanish language, me in English. With Helio, I didn’t have to be anything. I didn’t even have to be interesting. My mother is friends with the old boyfriend’s family, some of them were at our wedding. I tried to make a speech; I don’t think anyone was listening. I remember saying to Helio, thank you for loving me not because of what I can do or what I can offer, but because I am worth loving just because I am. I felt loved and not because I did anything right, just because I was around.
Honestly, I feel things changed on the honeymoon. He turned all things fun into a money counting thing. -Such things as, we can’t eat there or we can’t go on that train because of money. The weird thing is, it always seems he is counting my money. I have always made more than him, not by much but by some. It is good to have someone who is concerned about money but I often times repeat myself over and over saying, “my life is now, I refuse to wait to live it”.
Now I don’t want to be loved just because I am around. I was satisfied with that in my twenties. Now, I want to know why we are together, there should be a reason. Not just because I was the wild one in the group and I would make a good wife. He says he knew from the moment of seeing me that he wanted to marry me. Things just aren’t that clear to me. It took me a while. Heck, I’m still not sure and it will be 5 years of marital bliss this September. I want a partner, a lover, someone who talks to me. I want complexity, inside intimate jokes, and thoughtful pats on the back. I was satisfied at one time with finding stability, simplicity, and a thoroughly devoted man. Is it ok to have needs that evolve to something more and expect your man to keep up? Is that fair?
This is why I finally allowed myself to love Helio. I resisted for a long time, maybe 3 months until I would finally call him my boyfriend although we were spending every day together, him in his Spanish language, me in English. With Helio, I didn’t have to be anything. I didn’t even have to be interesting. My mother is friends with the old boyfriend’s family, some of them were at our wedding. I tried to make a speech; I don’t think anyone was listening. I remember saying to Helio, thank you for loving me not because of what I can do or what I can offer, but because I am worth loving just because I am. I felt loved and not because I did anything right, just because I was around.
Honestly, I feel things changed on the honeymoon. He turned all things fun into a money counting thing. -Such things as, we can’t eat there or we can’t go on that train because of money. The weird thing is, it always seems he is counting my money. I have always made more than him, not by much but by some. It is good to have someone who is concerned about money but I often times repeat myself over and over saying, “my life is now, I refuse to wait to live it”.
Now I don’t want to be loved just because I am around. I was satisfied with that in my twenties. Now, I want to know why we are together, there should be a reason. Not just because I was the wild one in the group and I would make a good wife. He says he knew from the moment of seeing me that he wanted to marry me. Things just aren’t that clear to me. It took me a while. Heck, I’m still not sure and it will be 5 years of marital bliss this September. I want a partner, a lover, someone who talks to me. I want complexity, inside intimate jokes, and thoughtful pats on the back. I was satisfied at one time with finding stability, simplicity, and a thoroughly devoted man. Is it ok to have needs that evolve to something more and expect your man to keep up? Is that fair?
a week or so later
So it doesn’t make much sense to start a blog and then not write for a week or so but much has happened since last week. Starting with last Thursday- I had a very discouraging regular check up. My regular doctor and nurse-practioner were gone therefore I had to meet with a nurse-practioner I didn’t know. I asked said woman to aggressively “poke” me during my check which she declined which just caused a chain reaction. I started to cry, she felt the need to tend to my feelings by standing beside me and placing her hands on me. While stroking my back she repeated “this is a very good place to get out these feelings” and “second pregnancies are so much more trying on a mother” I became thoroughly irritated and did my best to shut down any signs of feelings that needed to be addressed. With clenched fists and a suck-it-up attitude I left the clinic deflated.
I had just been told that I would have to wait until week 41 to be induced. That was exactly 3.5 weeks longer than I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted to be done that day. I had done everything I could think of over the weekend prior- I did my husband multiple times though I had no desire to, I walked enough to put my back into a state of spasms, and drank castor oil that did nothing for me other than give me some stomach cramping for a couple hours. I have lived in Mexico a couple times for a month stretch, drinking castor oil does not compete with the pain of eating tacos daily or having all your food prepared in oil and set out in the sun, bugs, and dirt at night to be presented to you in the morning as breakfast.
I made a discrete entrance into work and was happy to not have to explain to my co-workers that no, there was no progress in the opening of my nether-regions. I was called into a conference call and had just enough time to down a latte and a “I-feel-so-sorry-for-myself-scone”. As I sat at my desk and ate my treats I wallowed in the thought of having to sit in my “ergonomic” chair one more week. The chair is obviously not ergonomically built for a prego woman who can not close her legs and must rest her stomach on her lap. I climbed the stairs to the manager’s office while holding my skirt close to my legs so that those below me could not see my green briefs, dreading the hour ahead of me. I did not want to sit an hour in his man smell and listen to the reasons why it is important that we have meetings to plan meetings.
I have no idea what happened in that hour as I couldn’t stop thinking of how ginormous my stomach was, the blazing fluorescent lights (40 minutes into the call, I actually started to shield my eyes), and how when this manager writes- he grinds his teeth which makes his nose click, it is extremely distracting. After the call I made a swift exit, and true to the hour, started on my trek to the bathroom. Upon toilet approach, I felt it possible my water had broken. Sure enough upon inspection of things below I felt I had enough evidence to justify a trip to the hospital to be sure. I did my best to keep my emotions in control and not get my hopes up. However, I called my husband and told him to leave work and meet me at the hospital because I was pretty sure things were going to start.
I made it to hospital and they hooked me up to the monitors to check baby movement, contractions, etc. Then they proceeded to do a few tests to see if it was indeed my amniotic fluid. One of which, I had to direct them to my wet “panties’ at the bottom of my huge metallic lame bag. I would have dug them out myself however, I was attached to a computer at the other side of the room. All of the tests they did came up negative. As I sat there and waited for the doctor to come in I kept thinking, if they give me a pamphlet on The Symptoms of Labor, I am going to throw it at someone. The doctor was a very nice man and totally understood my disappointment. Between the doctor and the nurses it was determined that I was either peeing myself or I was just leaking, both of which I didn’t believe but who am I? Obviously, I am no doctor so I must trust what they say. I was discharged and decided it best that I get pizza.
My husband and I stopped for pizza and as we were eating I had another episode. This time I could see I was “peeing” myself all over the booth at the restaurant we were at. I was horrified. I started to describe to my husband how I can’t possibly walk out of here to which he responded, just get up and leave. Which he proceeded to do, thereby ditching me in my pregnant mess. I continued to “leak” the whole way home. I tried to ignore my symptoms but once I walked into the kitchen and slipped on a pool of fluid that had made its way out of my body I thought, this is ridiculous. I called the clinic and was told to return. I went alone. My husband asks too many questions. Each time something else would change or I had a concern he would ask, “what are they going to tell you at the clinic?” or “what is going on?” to which I would kindly respond “if I knew I wouldn’t need to go there would I?” Some things are just easier to do alone and I didn’t want to be bombarded with questions that I deemed unmanageable.
I decided to take the second trip to the hospital as a gift. It was an evening alone, which meant uninterrupted television for me. They did 2 tests which turned up negative again. The same doctor who discharged me was the one who examined me again this time. He decided to do the sophisticated final exam that they hadn’t done earlier that day. This test required putting some of this leakage on a slide to see how it dried- if it dried in the form of a snow flake, it was indeed amniotic fluid. To my great relief it came back that it was positive. Finally, I had made it to the end of this long pregnancy. It was all going to be over in a matter of hours. Tomorrow, more details. Now I must sleep.
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I had just been told that I would have to wait until week 41 to be induced. That was exactly 3.5 weeks longer than I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted to be done that day. I had done everything I could think of over the weekend prior- I did my husband multiple times though I had no desire to, I walked enough to put my back into a state of spasms, and drank castor oil that did nothing for me other than give me some stomach cramping for a couple hours. I have lived in Mexico a couple times for a month stretch, drinking castor oil does not compete with the pain of eating tacos daily or having all your food prepared in oil and set out in the sun, bugs, and dirt at night to be presented to you in the morning as breakfast.
I made a discrete entrance into work and was happy to not have to explain to my co-workers that no, there was no progress in the opening of my nether-regions. I was called into a conference call and had just enough time to down a latte and a “I-feel-so-sorry-for-myself-scone”. As I sat at my desk and ate my treats I wallowed in the thought of having to sit in my “ergonomic” chair one more week. The chair is obviously not ergonomically built for a prego woman who can not close her legs and must rest her stomach on her lap. I climbed the stairs to the manager’s office while holding my skirt close to my legs so that those below me could not see my green briefs, dreading the hour ahead of me. I did not want to sit an hour in his man smell and listen to the reasons why it is important that we have meetings to plan meetings.
I have no idea what happened in that hour as I couldn’t stop thinking of how ginormous my stomach was, the blazing fluorescent lights (40 minutes into the call, I actually started to shield my eyes), and how when this manager writes- he grinds his teeth which makes his nose click, it is extremely distracting. After the call I made a swift exit, and true to the hour, started on my trek to the bathroom. Upon toilet approach, I felt it possible my water had broken. Sure enough upon inspection of things below I felt I had enough evidence to justify a trip to the hospital to be sure. I did my best to keep my emotions in control and not get my hopes up. However, I called my husband and told him to leave work and meet me at the hospital because I was pretty sure things were going to start.
I made it to hospital and they hooked me up to the monitors to check baby movement, contractions, etc. Then they proceeded to do a few tests to see if it was indeed my amniotic fluid. One of which, I had to direct them to my wet “panties’ at the bottom of my huge metallic lame bag. I would have dug them out myself however, I was attached to a computer at the other side of the room. All of the tests they did came up negative. As I sat there and waited for the doctor to come in I kept thinking, if they give me a pamphlet on The Symptoms of Labor, I am going to throw it at someone. The doctor was a very nice man and totally understood my disappointment. Between the doctor and the nurses it was determined that I was either peeing myself or I was just leaking, both of which I didn’t believe but who am I? Obviously, I am no doctor so I must trust what they say. I was discharged and decided it best that I get pizza.
My husband and I stopped for pizza and as we were eating I had another episode. This time I could see I was “peeing” myself all over the booth at the restaurant we were at. I was horrified. I started to describe to my husband how I can’t possibly walk out of here to which he responded, just get up and leave. Which he proceeded to do, thereby ditching me in my pregnant mess. I continued to “leak” the whole way home. I tried to ignore my symptoms but once I walked into the kitchen and slipped on a pool of fluid that had made its way out of my body I thought, this is ridiculous. I called the clinic and was told to return. I went alone. My husband asks too many questions. Each time something else would change or I had a concern he would ask, “what are they going to tell you at the clinic?” or “what is going on?” to which I would kindly respond “if I knew I wouldn’t need to go there would I?” Some things are just easier to do alone and I didn’t want to be bombarded with questions that I deemed unmanageable.
I decided to take the second trip to the hospital as a gift. It was an evening alone, which meant uninterrupted television for me. They did 2 tests which turned up negative again. The same doctor who discharged me was the one who examined me again this time. He decided to do the sophisticated final exam that they hadn’t done earlier that day. This test required putting some of this leakage on a slide to see how it dried- if it dried in the form of a snow flake, it was indeed amniotic fluid. To my great relief it came back that it was positive. Finally, I had made it to the end of this long pregnancy. It was all going to be over in a matter of hours. Tomorrow, more details. Now I must sleep.
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Today I Blog
Them
At the encouragement of a few friends I have decided to try my hand at blogging. In my early 30s, I find myself married to a Mexican man from Central Mexico, for nearly 5 years. I am still amazed with my inability to understand him and sheer shock of his ways, culture, and food habits. We are in our sixth month of adjusting to living together again after having lived apart for 14 months due to the process of immigration. It is like getting married all over again. We have one little guy who turns 4 tomorrow and another on the way that could come at any possible moment. Here, I intend to put the frustration, love, and desperation to words in order to save myself from myself.
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