Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard

Today, as Isaiah was talking a mile a minute in the car, I told him that when I was a kid, adults used to say that children should be seen and not heard.

Think about that for a moment. The huge difference between being a kid in 1983 and 2013. Not to put too fine a point on it, in 1983 kids were expected to entertain themselves and stay out of trouble. It wasn't just us kids that parents didn't want to hear from. They didn't want the school calling home, they didn't want notices from the library, they kind of just wanted to have a kid to dress up and show off at the holidays, and to sit down and shut up the rest of the time. There was none of this open up and share your feelings shit. Your parents did NOT want to hear it. If you broke up with your boyfriend and lay across your bed sobbing, they didn't validate your feelings and build you back up until you were in a better place emotionally. They told you to keep it down in there.

My uncle Sol would respond to emotional turmoil (or any turmoil, really) by saying, "By the time you get married, it'll be all healed." He said that for skinned knees, too.

When I was a teenager, my mother was horrified - yes, horrified is a good word for this - to find out that I'd had sex. Of course, sex was never, ever discussed prior to that day. When my mother found out I was taking birth control (courtesy of my grandmother insisting we visit Planned Parenthood) she freaked out, when maybe, just maybe, she should have said that if you're going to do it anyway (and I was) that it's important to protect yourself from more than just pregnancy.

Today my son brought home an assignment from his health class, asking students and parents to discuss appropriate ways to show affection, whether it's ok to have sex with someone you plan to marry, and how to prevent HIV. So we discussed, in both a clinical and (what I hope was) a realistic way. When my mother found out we'd had sex ed in 8th grade, all she said was, "Don't have sex." Oh well, I guess now I won't. Said no one ever.

It's amazing we didn't come out to be a generation of terribly emotionally stunted people. We were expected to not have any emotions or relationships until we left home, and then we were expected to embark on healthy relationships as functioning adults. Ha! Now parents are the extreme polar opposite, they want to be right smack in the middle of everything their kids do. It's as if they forgot how to parent and think they're simply older friendly type people who share a dwelling with these kids. Parents who think it's ok to accompany their kids to job interviews, and write letters to college admissions departments because little Susie deserves that spot even though she's only got a 2.3 GPA.

Wait a minute. Maybe instead of teaching us to be emotionally dead, or at least emotionally quiet, our parents were inadvertently teaching us the beauty of self sufficiency. You didn't get the part in the play because someone was better than you, now suck it up, kid. That made us suck it up and try harder next time. They sure as shit weren't writing letters to school administrators on our behalf. (See paragraph one, they didn't want to hear from those people, so they weren't exactly initiating communication) We had to do it ourselves.

Back there in the car, when I tell Isaiah that according to my parents' generation, children should be seen and not heard, he immediately told me that idea was woefully outdated. He said, "It's not the 80s!" and then he rolled down the window and screamed at the people on the street, "I am Isaiah! And I will be heard!"

Fuck yeah, kid.

Once Upon a Time, in Grown Up Land

Before I tell you this, you need to know something. I'm an adult, with a job and a mortgage, a 401(k) and life insurance. I have purchased and leased cars, and I understand payments and interest. I also understand risk management and credit worthiness, and the effect certain things have upon credit scores. 

Today I did something that felt dirty and explicitly wrong.

I applied for a credit card.

I know, that sounds crazy, doesn't it? How does a grown woman feel like a kid sneaking a cookie by simply applying for a credit card? Like any other good mental hang up, this one has a back story.

When I was just barely old enough to drive, I started getting credit card offers in the mail. And like most dumb kids, I opened a bunch of credit cards. Like, a whole bunch. And while I was responsible in that I paid the bills (well, the minimums) each month, I surely didn't track how much I was spending. Which led to my ultimate mortification of having my Carson's card turned down when I was buying a gift for my now husband. I stood there, defiantly telling them to check it again, when they finally said, "You've reached your credit limit, miss." I spent YEARS paying off those damn cards. 

Later, I was married and had a decent job, and started opening credit cards again. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. This time it was two if us opening credit lines like there was no tomorrow. Thousands of dollars later, we entered a credit counseling program to pay off the cards. Strike 2! After some time, we were able to clean our shit up and buy a house. Cool, right?

Wrong.

Know what comes with buying a house? Furniture and repairs and broken appliances. Leaks and breaks galore. And when you run out of case for these things, you open up a Home Depot account. And a Lowe's account. And a Wells Fargo account. Then you take out a loan to consolidate, but end up opening more account afterwards. Then one day you take a look at your monthly bills, and all of a sudden a ton of seemingly small monthly payments adds up to eat away at a major portion of your income. Ouch. So you enter credit counseling. Again. 

A few years ago, stressed to the point of death by a job I hated, my return to school, parenting Thing 1 and Thing 2 and caring for my mother through her cancer diagnosis and treatment, I may have forgotten to pay a bill or 6. Like most households I know, I, the wife, managed the bills. Our cell phones would get cut off because I'd forget to pay them. Our car insurance lapsed. It's not as if we didn't have the money to pay them, it was simply that I was so overwhelmed that I couldn't think straight. So I took Jesus up on his offer of taking over the bills for Martinez, Inc.

Hallelujah! 

Back when I managed the bills, I's sit up and night and worry to the point of physical sickness. If I was late paying the day care, I'd draft letters in my head to the director, asking for one more week to get caught up. I'd call our car insurance guy and beg for an extension. I was missing payments, overdrawing the bank account, double paying the cable bill. It was terrible. I'm so glad a responsible adult stepped in! Now, I don't even look at the bank account. I'm not even 100% sure when I get paid. Or when the car payments are due. All I know if that since he took over, we've actually had car insurance and cell phones. And he manages to pay for things like our new fence, and the sod that finally made our house look like a real house and not the scary dirt covered mess of a yard that it was before. 

My contribution to all this? Not using credit cards. (Let's not discuss my $40K in student loan debt just yet, ok? And the Bloomingdales account which is really for charity anyway....) I figure if he's managing the ins and outs of our money, the least I could do was not add to the balancing act. It's a little embarrassing at times to not have any credit cards. For my recent business trip, I had to go tell my boss that I don't HAVE any credit cards for booking travel, and so the company would simply have to do it for me. Yeah, way to be a professional adult there. Or when we had a collapsed pipe and didn't have any credit cards on which to put the thousands of dollars it was going to cost to fix. Yeah, had to go ask a friend, and we're STILL paying the monthly payment on that account. And probably will be forever (as I said, I do understand interest.)

So what prompted me to open a credit card? Especially after chiding a co-worker for her recent credit fueled shopping spree? Simple. Christmas is coming, and my dear husband manages our bank account. There's no possible way for me to buy him a christmas gift - which he tells me every year not to do, but really? - without him seeing exactly what it is and what was paid for it. And besides christmas coming, what if something happens and my kids suddenly outgrow everything they own? They are boys afterall. What if I need emergency shoes or coats or whatever for them? I can't exactly go to Bloomingdales for the essentials, now can I? Sure, that's my justification. It's rational. But it doesn't make me feel any less dirty.

I Walk in Dark Alleys

Here's a confession of sorts: I walk in dark alleys. 

Apparently this is bad, or so my husband tells me. Alleys are simply a part of living in Chicago, thus I use them to my advantage. They may save me a whole minute sometimes. Yesterday when I got off the train, I could plainly see that the shortest and most direct route to my car was through an alley. Normally I would not even stop to consider an alternative, but something made me remember the admonishments of my dear husband, as I looked down that perfectly shortened route to my car. 

So I had to share my lack of understanding with him (for which I'm sure he's eternally grateful) I called and explained to him that it made NO sense to me to walk a longer route down a dark side street, instead of a shorter one through what looked to be an incredibly well lit alley. I mean, come on. If you were going to mug someone, wouldn't you rather do it on a dimly lit side street instead of the alley behind McDonald's which is lit up like Times Square? No, he implored me to go the long way, far from the alley. I did, but I didn't like it. Later that night when I realized I was missing some (well, most) necessary ingredients for my planned dinner, I asked Jesus if he was coming with me to the store. Which is literally a block and a half from us. You guessed it, a block and a half down the alley. So I warned him, if he didn't go, that I was going to walk straight down that dark alley to get there.

Alleys don't scare me. Sure there are cats and rats and the occasional opossum. Bums and drunks and hipsters, too. Wait, I could make a song here. Wait again, I have no musical talents. Ok, where was I?

Nothing particularly bad has ever happened to me in an alley. Once I thought I saw a dead guy, and called 911. Turned out he was just tremendously drunk. When I was a teenager, I forgot to tuck my big, gold nameplate into my shirt before walking home one night. Walking down a busy, well lit street, my chain got snatched off my neck. Street: 1, Alley: 0. Another time as a teenager, I was surrounded by a group of thugs who wanted to pound me to a pulp for reasons I never quite figured out (maybe it had to do with someone's boyfriend? Or wearing the wrong colors? Who knows, they were thugs, not Rhodes scholars. Rational thought wasn't exactly their forte) and was thankfully rescued at the last minute by a known gang member. Again, on a busy, well lit street. Street: 2, Alley 0. 

Oh, sometime around 1984ish I was in a laundromat with my mother, and some creep got naked in between the commercial size dryers and came stalking up behind me. My mother screamed and pointed, then everyone screamed and pointed, and when I turned to see what all the screaming and pointing was about, all I saw was a naked butt running out through the back door. Later, say around 1992, walking home from a school dance, admittedly dressed like a child prostitute, a scruffy old guy grabbed my arm. When he realized that he was scaring the shit out of me, he let go and backed away, and I ran as fast as my booted feet would move me. Street: 3, Alley: 0. Of all the weird and unpleasant things I can think of, not one of them ever happened in an alley.

Why are we conditioned to be so afraid of alleys anyway? They're always being associated with bad things. Back alley abortions. Alley cat. Wikipedia (my go to source to end all go tos) says, "An alley ... is a narrow lane found in urban areas, often for pedestrians." Am I not a pedestrian? In an urban area? I say we reclaim our ability, nay RIGHT, to walk in alleys! Who's with me!? 

The Dissident

Driving down lovely Logan Blvd this evening, my children somehow got on the subject of China and it's comparatively restrictive culture. They had some thoughtful discussion (sort of) and landed on the topic of the one child policy. Sometimes I forget that kids process things in a different way, and today was my reminder. Isaiah joked a little about what would have happened if we lived in China, that maybe he or Daimean would have broken the policy. When I explained that Daimean was first, so Isaiah would be "illegal", he cried out, "I can't go to China! I don't want to go to jail!" When I asked him to explain, he said he figured if second kids were illegal, they must be putting them in jail. He went further to say that we can't even visit China, because he doesn't want to go to jail. He doesn't understand why it's ok to visit with two kids, but not to have two kids if you live there, he thinks they're rounding up extra kids at the airport I guess. It's funny that he didn't even consider the parents would be to blame. Nope, they must be tossing kids in jail there. He declared his love for America then, and said he's thankful I had him here and not China.

As if that was really a decision on my part.

Of course there are other places he insists he can't visit. Japan. London. Mexico. He's always got a reason. Once, he told me he doesn't "speak Mexican." I countered with, "You don't speak American, either." We went to Chinatown for lunch, and poor Isaiah couldn't recognize a thing on the menu (in fairness, neither could I, being that it was written in Chinese, but I digress) So now he believes there's nothing in China to eat. Well, for him anyway. Last week I told him we went to an Indian restaurant for lunch, and he made a face like someone had been shot. Is there a word for someone who's afraid of any kind of ethnic foods?

Oh yeah, the word is "child." Silly me, what was I thinking?

And this is why I have a bloody nipple covered in a Star Wars band aid

After reading that, you don't even need to know the rest of the story, do you?

Meet my dog. We'll just call him Stupid. Stupid gets ridiculously aggressive and, well, stupid, when he sees other dogs outside. This means that three times a day when we walk him, we have to be extra cautious and aware of what's going on around us, and whether there are any other dogs encroaching on HIS space. Which, by the way, he defines much like they do in the Lion King. "Everything the light touches is MY kingdom." kind of thing.

Yesterday he saw a puppy and went apeshit. I yanked him backwards so hard that his front end came up and turned, and while his barking ass mouth was still open, he crashed into my chest on his way back down to meet mother earth. Barking dog, open mouth, big teeth, meet my right breast. Hello, nice to meet you. Hey, don't rip that nipple off! That's the abridged version of what happened.

The sensitive skin holding my lady parts together can only take so much, and quite literally ripped. Yes, he damn near ripped my nipple off. My darling husband came home shortly thereafter and administered first aid to my injury, and the fact that my ten year old picks out band aids means we have a limited selection available.

And this is why I have a bloody nipple covered in a Star Wars band aid.

Carnivores Beware

Scene: large farm, somewhere in the midwest. There's a holding pen for cows, and a long, confusing path lined with metal fences - the kind you walk through when waiting in line at an amusement park. It leads to the slaughter house.

I harness a big black and white cow, the perfect Cover Girl model of a cow which you see in commercials for cheese. Harness in place, I attempt to lead her into the maze. She won't budge. I say to her, "Come on, let's go." but she takes a step back and shakes her head. The same way my dog does, as if she's saying NO very emphatically.

I jokingly ask her, "Did you just tell me no?" and she looks right in my eyes, and almost imperceptibly she gives a small nod. I'm sure I've imagined this. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and again give her a gentle pull. Instead of moving forward, she again steps back, only this time I'm sure she's shaking her head "no."

Tentatively I ask her if she knows where we're going, and I see abject terror in her eyes. At this moment, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that SHE KNOWS what's happening, and does not want it. She wordlessly begs for her life to be spared.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the moment I stopped being able to eat meat.

*That last part isn't true. However, I've become increasingly aware of the basic concept that an animal must die if I am to eat meat, and it's seriously starting to bother me. Honestly, I like eating meat. I do. I've got quite the moral conflict going on here.

All Aboard the Backpedal Express

Higher education is for the birds.

I've done a lot of shit talking about online universities. Like, A LOT. Now I find myself in the unfortunate position of having to consider taking that route. Damnit.

It's not as if I attend an Ivy League school, or even Big 10 for that matter. Nope, just a lowly little state university that I chose for it's low tuition and the strong reputation of their teacher training programs. *sigh* Now I'm preparing to graduate with my BA in history, and NOT my BA in education. A history degree on its own is worth just about as much as the contents of my nail polish collection. So I need to find another school which will accomodate my need to NOT pay $100K for school (because seriously, my student loans are already stacking up in a very ominous way) and the need to take classes in the evenings or weekends.

My school researching has presented me with many options. Not many FEASIBLE options, but options just the same. Today I sadly realized that Western Governors University may be the way to go. I hate it when I'm wrong. Although, in my defense, the WGU program revolves around getting you the same state certifications and licenses that Northeastern does - which is the only reason I'm considering it. You won't ever catch me saying, "Well I got my second BA from WGU!" On the contrary, all you'll hear from me - hopefully - is, "Why yes, I am a licensed teacher."

Life is short. Goals can so easily be set aside when things don't go the way we planned. Hear me now: This place is cursed, damned, and yes, your master is the devil! Oops, sorry, I went a little Louis in Interview With the Vampire there. What I meant to say was that I will not let that happen. We will not flag or fail, we will fight.... Um, was that Winston Churchill? Or was that Mel Brooks' take on Winston Churchill?

Anyway, stay tuned for the exciting adventures of moving from a shoddy state university to a shady online one!

Best Response Ever, said The Grim Reaper

So here at work, my laptop crashed late yesterday. I let one of the partners know (as my boss is out for his mother's funeral today - to which our dept sent nice flowers. But I digress...) so this morning I told her I'd see what I could do with it. WELL the damn thing is dead. Thank baby jeebus someone here plays an IT person on tv, because he was able to recover the files from my hard drive using only a bottle opener. (yes, we employ Macgyver) I then tell the boss lady that my laptop is officially dead, and I head to the kitchen to toast my bagel.

And the toaster breaks.

The CEO walks in as I'm cursing the toaster, and I told him that everything I've broken everything I touch today.

Then I spread my arms and say, "Come gimme a hug!"

Drowning

Proverbially drowning, of course. Because I can swim pretty well actually. But what I can't do is math. I'm drowning in numbers and letters (which should never go together) and arbitrary rules and stupid tricks to solve problems which are asinine in the first place.

I've realized that my inability to even understand the directions given is surely hampering my ability to learn and apply the math lessons. It's even worse than I imagined it would be. Somehow I believed that attending a math class would mean someone would, you know, teach me math. No, that's not what is occurring here. What is occurring is that I sit in class and watch a few examples, and then I get shit loads of homework that I don't know how to do. It's frustrating, infuriating, and absolutely demoralizing. I'm left getting angry with myself for not inherently knowing these things, which is ludicrous.

Fuck yo' math! My anger at being forced to take this irrelevant shit is pushing into the red now, and the stress is physically making me sick.

The Safe Bet Award Goes to ...

Some people take chances. Big chances, like quitting their jobs to go back to school, opening non-conventional businesses, or moving to a new country.

That's not me. At all. Like, ever.

Chicago Fire (some show with the cute German looking kid from House, I'm told it's very popular but all I know for sure is that is ties up traffic all over my neighborhood. But I digress) has prompted some interesting talk from my kids. My little one asked me what if they asked me to be on the show. Immediately I said no. Of course not. I'd never do that.

But not for the reason he thinks.

Say you quit your day job for a tv show, and it doesn't get picked up next season? Then what?

Or, say you are forced to quit your job in order to become certified to teach, but then you don't find a teaching job?

That's exactly what's on my mind as I tell my little one that I have zero interest in being a tv star. After this stupid low level math class this summer, I have exactly 8 classes left to reach my goal of being a certified teacher. In order to finish the last one, I must spend 16 weeks as a student teacher, which means being on staff - unpaid - at a school. How does one spend 16 weeks in a classroom - UNPAID! - when she has children to take care of and a mortgage to be paid?

Well I haven't quite figured that part out yet.

The Ones We've Lost

My favorite uncle was Jewish, a fact completely lost on me until I was 16 or so. He was born 50 years before me, in Feb 1928. His parents came here from Russia in 1905. When I became Red Cross certified as a lifeguard, he gave me the engraved pocket knife he received as a lifeguard many years before. He's been gone for just over 10 years now, and I still miss him every day. Recently I found a stash of cards and postcards he sent to me over the years. None signed with his real name, of course. I looked back at the online funeral guestbook, and I can see that those who knew and loved him most, didn't sign with their real names, either. Most notably are the entries from Henrietta and Beulah Blackheart.

In 1991 I met my godfather's new girlfriend, and I shared the line my grandmother (the aforementioned Beulah Blackheart) had asked me to recite. "Oh, goody, you've brought me a playmate!" You see, she was young, maybe 25 or so. Thankfully she didn't hold it against me. I was a snotty know-it-all teenager, and they were dragging me out of town to a "rustic" weekend in the country. To say I was unhappy would be a grave understatement. She understood my tiny teen angst, and befriended me. She was funny, sweet, and her kid was adorable times a hundred. We lost her in 1992, and it still makes my heart hurt. This week I saw a picture of her son, all grown up, and couldn't help but see her in his eyes. I remember how she laughed when he dropped his first F bomb at 4. When his park outing was cut short and he said, "Ah shit, it's starting to fuckin' rain." She laughed and said, "Well at least he used it the right way!"

They say that time heals all wounds. They are wrong.

...And I'm not afraid to use it!

Someone thought it a fine idea to provide me with a button maker, and materials. Silly person. I've made a round of grumpy cat buttons for my co-workers, and taught others how to spend their office time making funny, irreverent buttons. Because caring is sharing!

Today I was feeling a bit like an intellectual snob, throwing around my $10 words and referring to some people as mouth breathers. (well, I think I actually said "knuckle dragging mouth breathers, but whatever) You know a good fix for that? My first scheduled math tutoring session this afternoon. Quite sure I'll leave there feeling chastened where my intellect is concerned.

Chapter 4, In Which I Learn Math

Math. I hate math. I mean, I really fucken hate math. And I realize how juvenile that sounds.

However, in order to graduate, I must take a certain math class. Which I can't get into, because, well, I can't math. According to the placement test, I need to take four classes just to learn enough to get into the class I need. In the words of one Sweet Brown, "Ain't nobody got time fo' dat!"

My school - which is happy to charge me for pre-credit classes - told me that I could not receive math tutoring if I was not enrolled in a math class. And so, a very kind (and brilliant and patient) coworker has been helping me learn math from the proverbial ground up. Seriously, we started with the order of operations - and if one more person sings to me about their dear aunt Sally I will lose my shit. Order of operations, combining like terms, I honestly didn't remember any of it. So she has patiently walked me through it and encouraged me and tried to keep me from feeling stupid. Let's face it, you can't help but feel stupid when you can't do 6th grade math. I feel like my math incompetence is an unfair thing to put on a coworker though. There's so much I have to learn, and so little time to do it in.

Today I appealed to the head of the math center at school, and he was kind enough to give me his approval to get math help for the placement test, so long as I came in with work and questions ready to go. Another kind coworker* donated her College Algebra book to me, and I have a million worksheets printed and ready to go. And so, this week I will embark on a new journey, tentatively called Beg for Help and Hope to Place Higher.

It's ok to Laugh

Sometimes I do stupid things. Like, really stupid.

Life sometimes hands you shit situations to work through.

Parking tickets happen.

Cancer happens.

It's ok to laugh. In fact, it's more than ok, it's absolutely, positively recommended. (Here I could insert any number of old timey phrases about laugher and medicine, but I won't) Stress kills, people.*
When stress and worry get you nowhere, it's time to throw your hands up and say, "Fuck it!" and have a good laugh. Of course, in the case of cancer I wouldn't exactly recommend a good giggle over the more standard treatments. But in addition to? Oh hell yea.

*hey, that works even without the comma. Stress kills people. Just thought you should know.

Why I Hate Math vol. 27

Mathmeticians, ADMIT IT - there is zero practical use for my being able to simplify
-7(n+3) - 8(1+8n)

Simplify, not even SOLVE. That's grunt work if I ever saw it. Here are some random numbers and letters, purposely laid out in a complex way, just for you to make them easier to read. No, no, you're not supposed to actually answer the problem, just re-write. Oh for fuck's sake.

It may be hard to believe, but I am a functioning adult with a real job. My career experience has ranged from finance, risk management, and into SQL and software support. Not once have I ever needed to know why -2 = 2 + v/4.

As I'm struggling through Math Basics 101* a big part of my problem is the underlying frustration of knowing I won't ever apply any of this outside of my required math course work. What's worse, I learn a new rule or process, and my brain immediately overwrites that data with the next one. No, I don't have ADD, I promise. But I don't know how to retain this information in any meaningful way in order to retake the math placement test and score somewhere over "clinically brain dead"

Time is draining away, and I've got to make a move soon. My fear is being forced to take - and ipso facto, pay for - pre-credit math classes. I'm too old for this shit.

*Actually, the placement test put me in Math 070, also tagged under "Academically Disadvantaged", so no, it's not even Math 101.

When on DayQuil ...

You should not make business decisions, drive a car, make database changes or use ovens.

Yesterday I compared it to meth, and today I remembered that's what they use to make meth. Big surprise!

What I've Learned

This month I'll turn 35, which is cool because it means I've lived long enough to learn a few things, and still have enough time to apply the lessons I've learned.

I've often said that the very people who need self reflection the most are the ones who aren't doing it. This is true for me as well.

It's ok to ask for help. Wow - major shocker right here.

We're not perfect, and never will be. Doesn't mean that we can't continue to work on improving. Enter new family motto - Well, it's better than it was!

The old folks in your family, they're not going to live forever. Take the time to talk to them now.

Perception is everything. Respect other's perceptions of situations.

Volunteering is good for you, as well as whatever organization you're with. Just do it.

Stop rushing so much.

Make sure you care more about the people around you, and their lives, than the TV characters from the shows you watch. (Can I exclude The Walking Dead from this?)

When your kids want to talk non stop - let them. Before you know it, they won't be talking to you at all. Enjoy their stories, laugh with them. Ask them questions. And don't interrupt them when they answer.

So, in my 35 years, that's what I've learned. And you know, be nice to animals, too.

The Ugly Duckling

Generally I'm pretty secure about my looks. I mean, I don't think about them too much. Sure I'm a bit overweight, but I'm fighting genetics here. In a crowd, I don't especially stand out, I'm very, well, average.

But recently there have been some strange things said by family that are making me wonder whether my assessment of my own looks is way off base. Maybe I'm like the hunchback, and I've just conditioned myself to think I'm normal?

Here are some of the gems I've heard lately.

You weren't a beautiful child. You were a "cute" kids. But my, you're such a beautiful woman now.

...and then my friend said, "Wow, she's really pretty" and then I stopped to think about it and yeah, you are.

...and even with that forehead, you're very pretty ...

...and you're not *too* fat ...

And so, dear family, I just want you all to know that you people look just like me!

Saying Goodbye

In the early hours of Friday morning, my great aunt Hilda passed away, surrounded by her family. She always had a quick smile, big laugh and treats for kids. She was my father's second mom, taking care of him when he was young and his own mother wasn't around. He loved her so much, and so, I loved her. He always brought her yellow flowers on her birthday, which was two days before my own. She said we were so alike because we are the only Piscies in the family, but she was wrong. She was open where I am closed, and she was forgiving while I hold grudges like they're gold. It's a cold, grey day here in Chicago, the world a little darker with her absence. Today I'll bring yellow flowers to her for the last time, as we lay her to rest.

Friday morning when I finally went to sleep, as I dozed off, I heard her laugh. I held that to me and smiled, imagining that somewhere, my father was greeting her, welcoming her as always, with those yellow flowers.

Today's Life Advice, from the Salad Guy at the Cafeteria

When I ordered my salad today at lunch, in English, of course, one of the cafeteria employees came over and asked me, in Spanish, of course, why I didn't order in Spanish. My response, in English, of course, is that I don't speak Spanish.
Then he asked where I was born. As I shift my weight from foot to foot like an impatient child, I tell him I was born here. Then he says, "No, your father, where was he born?" Reflexively I say "Puerto Rico" and he nods like I've just solved a puzzle.
At this point did I ask myself, "How does he know it was my father, and not my mother?" No, because I'm not quick thinking like that.
He said, "But your kids, they speak Spanish, right?" and I said, "No" instead of "What in the hell do you know about my kids you stalker?!"
Did I ask myself, "How does this guy even know I have kids?" No, because it didn't really creep me out till I left.

He went on to tell me that all but 2 workers there are Mexican, and in 10 years, I'll have to speak Spanish to get a better job. Cause in my sweater dress and pearls, I obviously look like I empty bedpans for a living.

But he was very serious. He wasn't trying to be creepy, he was just trying to share some knowledge.

Thanks, Salad Guy, for the inspiration.