And there was a second day...

I love her and I hate her. She has a way of moving her body that makes her seem like a choreographer/fairy. Also, she must be on some sort of speed. Damn it. The woman is insane to do this twice a day. I love and hate my zumba teacher.

Today's class seem to go by faster, or maybe I knew what was coming and made an effort to shake it like a salt shaker (because Polaroid pictures are overrated and sort of blurry). I'm equally tired though, and after a shower and a quick bite to eat, I'm down for the count.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two nights ago, I was watching t.v. and my doggy Bluje was all up in my lap, owning my personal space as usual. He knows that I am unable to resist the soft part under his floppy ears that meets the side of his neck. I will kiss it until I am reminded that I am allergic to short haired dogs, and go into a rash frenzy. He's totally worth the itchiness.

I noticed something on the outside corner of his eye, a tiny bump. I felt my heart stop and leaned in to inspect him thoroughly (picture a mother baboon with its baby). There it was, a tiny tumor, just like the cancerous one we removed last July from the side of his tummy. I remembered how grateful I had been that his cancer was able to be completely removed, and though he looked like Frankenpup (or a sideways football?), he had gone back to his normal joyful 2 yr old self. I freaked out, like most moms do, and went to my mom and showed her (equally freaking out...or was it doubly?).

They made him an appointment for this morning at 9 a.m. to 'check it out'. I got a call from Bluje's grandparents informing me that the doctor decided to do surgery immediately and remove it, since it was still small. Given his history of cancer he didn't want to wait long to find out and then schedule a surgery separately. So, I borrowed $160.00 from my aunt and saved my pup's life again. He's happy and safe, the doctor says there's no danger and that I'm a good mom for noticing it right away, even if it was tiny.

I feel immensely happy and a little melancholic. That's what it costs to kill the big "C" in my pup. $160 and I get to enjoy him for a while longer, and he's in good health. The price of my dog's life. My grandmother's big "C"...no money in the world could stop it. No matter what the amount, it would've been looked for and found, to have her a while longer with me and in good health.

Here's to you, Bluje. I should change your name to Lucky. And deuces to you, Grandma. Sorry I didn't have $160.00 when I was 12. I couldn't have saved you, but I would've bought us some of your favorite pizza and new shoes.

When suicidal...Zumba!

Yesterday I feared I had reached a breaking point inside me. I went from angry, to hateful and spiteful, to saying bye to myself. Then I got called bitter, and though I wanted to pretend I didn't give a crap what people thought of me...it hurt.

I decided to take up my co-worker's offer to join her on a fun dance class at the local college. Zumba. I had sorta heard about it, figured it was way too energetic for me and had never tried to do it. I said "what the heck it's only $5 and 30 minutes, it can't hurt".

Watch that video above...that is a 'cool down' video. As in that's how the class ends. It was an hour long. I can't feel any part of my body, not even the angry bitter part. What's better...I didn't walk out. I didn't quit. I kept pushing myself harder and really getting into the music and movements. Turns out I'm a sexy fat ass. Yes. Me. Sexy. I can move, I can shake it and I have a feeling this workout might do wonders for my self confidence.

I'm sweaty and unattractive at the moment. But I feel hyper and hopeful. I didn't give up. I can't believe I did the whole hour.

P.S. My original theory that Zumba instructors must shoot up cocaine all day to do this stands. My instructor is insane. Also, here is a video of my friend Theresa who lives in Hobbs, NM and is a Zumba instructor. She gives four 1 hr classes a day. She has to be on something.

Purge v 2.0

The day started pretty busy, but again the sense of sadness and the pang of solitude took over.

The thing is, why should I pretend to care or that I'm not mad. Act like everything is okay and nothing at all bothers me about people's behavior. Just because I gave up on reasoning with you humans, doesn't mean you are right. You're all grown ups who know what you're getting yourselves into and out of. Stop asking me what I think, because I'm running out of energy needed to humor you.

Why do I blog? To vent. Because when I attempt to vent, I am greeted with someone cutting me off and turning it into their issues. That's fine, I mean, I'm here to listen and all. But I'm just at the point where I'm angry towards it all, and I just might quit everything that proves to be a headache. It's unrewarding. How many times do I have to go through the same things over and over, only to be tossed aside at the end because I'm not as 'fun' as I used to be, as 'dedicated and reliable' as I used to be or just plain ole slaving after you as I used to be.

Friendships require 50/50%. That means you listen to all the drama, but you also get to listen to all the good things. You're here for the crappy part, and you're also here for the awesome revelations. The triumphs.

Convenience. It all goes down to selfishness and convenience. I am a lot of things, but I'll be damned if I'm either of those. I just want a body. Not even any words. Just the company. I'm tired of words. They're repetitive and stupid. I'm tired of people thinking I really AM that dense and blind and clueless.

I see through a lot of things, I just choose not to bring them up or confront anyone about them. Because people hate being told the truth, they toss and curl like a wounded creature. They lash back and vindicate themselves, in their little deluded heads. They've done nothing wrong, not poor little old them.

Sure. Go on believing that, and I'll go on pretending I don't know what you're doing.

They never learn. Neither do I.

She Breathes.

this weather is deceiving

no clouds follow my steps

the birds sing happy tunes.

one would think winter's over...

but i know better, under my lashes

the brisk air cuts away thoughts.

i'd enjoy saying i'm happy

it'd be nice to welcome the sun

but the gray will return.

it'll be here like a thief,

one that strikes while you sleep,

while you're off dreaming of impossibles.

the longing, the pulling, the ache,

the pit of my stomach shakes,

i see beyond the blue skies.

life's trouble swirl about

days fly off a dusty calendar

my eyes are tired.

embrace inevitability, and a farewell.

This is just to say...

I'm thinking of you today. :)

I'm your Huckleberry

Today, the 2 1/2 week mark of me being seriously sick has been hit. I don't know how my body is physically handling this, but somehow with little to no sleep I am finding the energy to go to work full time. "No, sleep? Why you should be getting plenty of rest, woman!", some of you may say. Darling, I do not enjoy this lack of sleep. I am exhausted and sleepy beyond belief, but between fevers and coughing fits every 10 minutes, it seems impossible for me to get some shut eye. I finally got the right medicine, antibiotics, and at least my fever finally broke. But this cough...this dry, painful, repetitive cough is leaving me drained.

I was convinced a few days ago I had the consumption or something. Yes, I called it consumption and not tuberculosis. Why? Well I'm feeling old and sort of like I live in the wet cold streets of Limerick, Ireland. Like I'm laying on some old blankets, by a dwindling fireplace and my bones can sense the fog settling in. That being said, I also feel like Doc Holliday. Rising every day and being pretty much a badass while I'm coughing up a lung and I have a foot in the grave. Ok, so maybe I'm not actually dying but humor me, I feel like a huge pile of turd-like things.

That being said, I am going to drink 2 more Tylenols to ensure the early demise of my inner organs and I'm hitting the warm shower. Then, I shall bundle up like I have been the past couple of weeks and try to catch some shut eye before the cough gets worse. Och, aye. These poor bones. I leave you with some Chopin.

You know...Frederic fucking Chopin.

My Life

Jose, Guito, Kevin, Javier, Chamo and Yoed.

I was the youngest of 7 grandkids, and the only girl of the family. I am also, an only child. So these guys were/are my older brothers and everything I ever looked up to in life and strive to be like. The three older ones always treated me like a princess and looked after me, their little brothers were always hiding from me and my dolls. They taught me how to ride bike and how to play basketball under our mango tree in the yard. They were my introduction to music and set a standard to be followed in school, as they were all always honor students.

My first memory of Guito? Laying in his bed looking at his Iron Maiden posters while he always had them or Metallica blasting at full volume. I remember hot afternoons of Street Fighter tournaments all crammed in my uncle Hector's living room. Then they went through the cooking out phase and camping phase, on the little hill beside my uncle Felix's house. I always hung around them, sort of unwanted, as little girls who pester older boys tend to be. I can still picture my cousin Guito's long curly hair and a piece of string he used to always have tied to his ankle. The first day of school I got hit by a tennis ball on my neck and it knocked me on my butt. Two of my cousins were playing in the yard at school, and while one of them (Kevin) laughed at me until he had no breath left in his lungs...my other cousin Chamo ran over to me and picked me up, sort of laughing but mostly concerned. He rubbed the spot on my neck that hurt and dusted off my skirt, telling me to be careful when the boys were playing and to sit on the benches.

Javier used to come over every afternoon after school to play Monopoly with me, and most of the time the others would also follow...but he never failed me. He also taught me how to make a top spin with a piece of string, and how to shoot marbles properly. Jose was the quiet one, sort of, and he always took me around for drives in his first car - a little white Hyundai hatchback. Yoed, well he was the smart nerd and pretty much I just remember him helping me with science projects at school. Kevin...well Kevin is the source of all my crying as a little kid. If something of mine had to be made fun of or broken, it was his job. But it was a phase, as always, and towards the end of my being in PR he was nice to me. I still feel there's some things that were left unsaid between he and I, but there's no hard feelings left. Except my Rainbow Brite doll he decapitated, he owes me that one.

So a few weeks ago, my cousin Guito who lives in Oklahoma flew to Puerto Rico for a vacation, and they all gathered at my grandma's house like old times. Everyone. I wasn't there. They were remembering old pranks, jokes, moments and my aunt texted me to say: "The boys are all here, and they said too bad you aren't". My heart turned into a prune. We are all now at an age that we can share better, where ignorant kid pranks are put aside and we can enjoy each other far more. They had the chance to meet as adults, after going through life's turns and heartbreaks, and bond closely like we all used to. I wasn't there. So there, up there, is the picture of what my cousins look like now. They were all there in my grandmother's front yard, where we all used to sit on a pile of cement bricks and eat frozen treats in the summer. Where we used to stand when playing catch and where my grandmother would send us all, one by one, to grab some herbs or leaves when she was cooking.

I wasn't there. The one time I could've felt like I finally belonged in their midst. I miss you, a lot, guys.

This

"Weight of the World"
~Blue October

A blackout in the room again
a busted lip and broken skin.
I wake up in the bathroom
and dare not bother asking
why the mirror's craked and all I see
are shards of glass inside of me.

There's voices there to dare me,
my father's here to scare me.
My mother sits beyond the door she's
curled up crying on the floor,
look at what her son's done.

When the weight of all the world's gone wrong.
It's gone wrong again.
Gone fucking wrong.
It's gone wrong again.

Well liars they leave a guilty trail.
And let me tell you something people,
I've been lying for fucking years.
That must be why I'm standing in this space.
Disregarding that I've created these monsters
they're on fucking both of my sides,
So I wipe the blood from both of their eyes.
From all four of their eyes.

And while I wait for wounds to heal
I see you by the window sil,
your heart's torn out
a plastic spoon
when honesty lit up that room
so I stole the pillowcase to clean
this mess I've made of someones dream.
Now you've seen what I've done,

when the weight of all the world's gone wrong.
It's gone wrong again
gone fucking wrong
it's gone all wrong again.

This room is old and wise
I fall onto the bed and wonder,
"How did I get here?"
The little boy who would argue with a tree
just fucking thump his head
and he'll turn back to normal.

Now why is that what I see?
Don't bother trusting
don't bother waiting
don't bother changing things that won't give into changing
just let me go away.
I'm packed
whenever
I'm down
whenever.

Happy? Anniversary.

Since the dawn of time, or the first episode of Barney (whichever came first), time has been celebrated and commemorated every 365 days. People celebrate anniversaries for a plethora of things ranging from the normal wedding dates, to the years spent in a cubicle, to the ever magnificent first time a girl gets her period (I knew a girl who did that. One word: Ack.). Hey, even birthdays tried to be sneaky and get their own holiday name. Face it, birthday - you're just an anniversary.

For the most part these are happy occasions, full of love and memories. Overjoyed humans celebrate the fact that another year has passed since a specific moment in time that forever altered their history. This need not apply if we're referring to 'celebrating' the anniversary of someone's death. It's not really celebrating as much as remembering on a yearly basis is it? I digress. Like I mentioned, one would think all anniversaries involved at least two (2, dos, deux) people celebrating that milestone. Makes sense, no?

So why do we find ourselves sometimes (most of the time?) being alone in remembering a specific date? Are we the only ones that carry these memories with us until we no longer have the desire nor the ability to keep time? My first kiss was with my first 'boyfriend' (guy that actually asked me to be his gf and met my parents after an outstanding 2 weeks of meeting over the phone...yeah.) Pablo when I was 16. It was on Saturday, July 21st of the year 2000. Where is he now? He's married to a girl he once introduced to me as his 'best friend since childhood' and they have 2 beautiful little girls. We lasted 4 months, as he broke up with me because I moved to the US and a long distance relationship at that age would be 'too difficult'. Funny thing is, I didn't cry. I wasn't upset. I just said 'ok'. Never heard from him again.

I'm not going to dive in into any more examples of such things (although I'm dying to go into the whole "I remember the date I first met Scott, Neil, Cathy, James, Dave, Owen and Shane online. In that particular order. Only Scott, Cathy and Shane are left and are the only ones that remember the first time they met me.") Yes, go ahead, breathe my dear reader. You shall not be subjected to my walk down lonely anniversary lane.

But I will say ONE thing. I hate that I'm the only one that saves a movie/event ticket stub or a silly receipt of a day that meant a lot to me, while you never even give it a second thought. I hate that a year later, I remember certain things as clear as it was yesterday when it happened. It makes me sad, to celebrate a "Hey it's been a year since you sorta walked into my life and showed me good people still existed."

On a side note, there is such a thing as celebrating a year since meeting someone that turned out to be a douche and now, a year later, you've moved on from that sort of hurt and dysfunctional friendship. Yeah, that was for you Neil and Dave. I met you both December 08. Good riddance. Also known as, Good Anniversary. :)

Damn Skippy, Skippy

Yes.

And, yes.

It's 3 a.m. and she must be lonely...

The absence of wording in the past few days, does not correlate to a lack of general thoughts. Though, I really wish that were the case. What does a mind think of at 3 a.m.:

Should I rearrange the Minimates at work?
Did I close my HEAT ticket at work?
I'm so huge it's just depressing at this point.
I mean seriously, who'd look at me?
Stupid hair is gonna be flat on one side in the morning.
My back hurts, I need a new mattress.
I'm broke.
Did I pay the credit cards?
I'm broke.
I'm hungry.
I'm fat, so I wont eat.
Stupid diabetes, making me hungry all the time.
Stupid food making me fat.
Stupid fat making me diabetic.
Stupid diabetes, making me hungry.
What a cruel circle.
I'm never going to have kids.
I'd be a horrible mom anyways.
I wish I had kids.
I'm broke.
I want to go to New Zealand next year, visit Brendan.
I want to go to Cali again, last time we didn't have enough time.
Or maybe I can finally go back to PA and meet my goddaughter.
She's 3 and I haven't met her, what kind of godmom am I?
I'd be an even worse parent.
I hope Shante gets her back soon. Stupid baby daddy.
Baby daddy is such a ghetto term, I chastise myself.
I want a baby.
Baby's smell.
I'd have a cute girl, hair like mine. Name her ilana.
What if it's a boy?
They'll pick on him for being named Lestat.
But really like the world needs another lil boy with a spanish name.
Lil Carlos? Lil Jose? I don't think so.
Lestat Joel sounds nice when you say it in spanish.
But I'd have to move to PR so they can say it right.
My kid would melt in the PR heat.
I'm hungry.

So on...so forth. I'm exhausted. Going to go feed...because...well I'm hungry.

Oh, Zoeybird. Oh, Celie. Oh, You.

These are the reasons I love you:

Because of who you are when no one is looking.

Because you don't sit there and pretend to preach to me on how to control my life, even though the answer to my problems might be obvious to you...you sit there and go through the notions with me, when I don't deserve it.

Because I cannot hide anything from you.

Because you, and only you, know things no
one else can know or understand.

Because you are brilliant, funny, beautiful, loving, and hard-working when you aren't being convinced otherwise.

Because I can be me, completely, when I am with
you without fear of saying the wrong thing.

Because you opened your heart and life to me, and trusted me to not hurt you.
And even when I've had my slips, you've known to read my heart
and accept me back.

Because you brought to the world and are raising two amazing girls, who are equally loving and caring and good-natured. Pure hearts.

Because you recognize the gift in me, and do not think me a
lunatic for the things I dream and see in my head.

Because for some unknown force or reason, you feel like the other half of me
that I never knew existed. A half that fit perfectly when we first
met face to face...and everything else just made sense.
It was never forced. It was never awkward.

Because you have this undying hope that there's good left in the world, and one cannot help but feel optimism right along with you with every time you rise from the ashes.

So when you are feeling unworthy, unloved, kicked to the side, forgotten, angry at yourself, disappointed in yourself and life, and downright ready to quit: bury it. You are neither of those things. You deserve what you give, and one day you will see it and stop settling for less than that.

Meanwhile: I love you. I'm going back to bed, had to wake up and put this down before I forgot to say it.

Goodnight, Zoeybird.