Holy mother of all scares!
Do I have a psycho magnet or something? Can they smell me?
Today as I was walking my usual 10 minutes stretch towards work, i was approached by an older man, I would say 50 or so, wearing a hat and sporting a walking cane, and he started by stating his desire to be respectful to me. He then proceeded to ask me if I was one of the undercover cops that followed him. I told him no. He asks: "Are you sure?" " Yes, I'm sure."
"Cause this area is full of them, at all times, full of undercover cops watching me."
"OK"
A jogger passes by, and the crazy dude stops and watches the jogger as he leaves, and then asks me suspiciosly: " Is he with you?"
"Um, no."
He then asks me if I clean houses in the gated comunity nearby. (Yes, I usually clean houses while wearing high heels, makeup and a cute braided updo.)
I tell him no, but refuse to tell him where I work, cause I am not that crazy, and hell, if i had had the iPod just a bit louder, he wouldn't only know where I work, he could have followed me in. I was almost to the entrance... (I guess that means I should start paying attention to what happens around me, no more iPod listening while I walk, which sucks bigtime 'cause that is the only time I get to just lose myself to music and think my own thoughts. It really, really sucks. )
He told me his name a few times (Can I say it on the internet? Will it violate any of his rights, and will he be able to Google it and find this post, get furious and try to kill me?... ) and where he worked. He knew that I walked this road almost every day, and gave me his card in case the undercover cops, or the federal judges that live in the gated comunity, or the joggers, or anyone gave me any trouble. It was a card of the business he said he worked for, but his name was nowhere in it. Instead, on the blank side of a business card there was the name of his mother, handwritten with huge infantile letters, some capitals, some not. He told me to call his mother, and she would get him a message. (I guess that means they don't allow him his own phone. She might serve as a filter. )
This entire conversation took about 3 minutes, and scary minutes they were. (I am not measuring it in "scared minutes", but in how long I took to reach my destination. I took 4 minutes longer than usual.)
I said good by as soon as I could, and went to my building, checking to see he was gone before entering. I had promised my youngest sister to photograph the upside down christmas tree they put in the lobby, but she will have to wait, 'cause there was no way I was going to linger in the fully lit lobby in case the creep decided to follow.
So, what should I do now?
I suppose I should be varying my schedule, so that he can't follow me as easily. But the road is a straight line. The only way I could do that is to ask permission from the people in the gated comunity to use their roads as detours. That could work.
But what I really should be doing is getting my driver's license. I stopped when I got the new specs, because I needed time to get used to the way they warped distances. But then, inertia set in, and I have not returned yet. I really, really should. I will call the teacher today.
But maybe I should also take some self-defense classes. No tae-kwon-do or any of the showmanship stuff. Krav Maga is whatI would like. Don't know if there are teachers in Puerto Rico. I'd better find out.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Paternalist Government
Thinking again about the nationality issue, about what it means to be a nation and not know it, or to know it but not be allowed to state it.
And I am thinking about the paternalist behaviour so evident in so much of our government, and in so much of our lives.
Like the student proficiency tests they give in public schools each yeaor. If we pass with flying colors, the Department of Education will receive less money from the federal government, because we don't need it anymore... So the tests are prepared, specifically, to highlight how stupid our students are. And every year they show up stupider than the year before. So there is a sense of hopelessness in students and teachers alike, knowing that there is no way they can get better. No matter how hard they work, they can't get ahead of the game. And all because we expect daddy state to make it all better, to send us some money and make the problems dissapear. And we sell for money today whatever dignity we had , whatever amount of pride we could earned, whatever amount of achievements we could have worked for. But Daddy State pays us to be stupid, and we take teh money, and become stupid.
In all fairness, they don't make us take the money. This is a local scheme made by corrupt local politicians. But it would not work if there was no big State willing to cover for our shortcomings. It turns us into parasites.
Also, there is the issue of the " political sweet potatoes", the local phrase describing a certain kind of cretin that gets a job in the government in payment for his or her involvement in the campaign of the party in power. They literally get paid to do nothing, so they can scratch their asses for a few years and pretend to work. Before the mass layoffs, it was a common feature to see a group of, say, road repair workers, two of which were workin and five were supervising. You don't see that anymore. But the leeches weren't fired,oh no! They have to work now that the real workers were laid off. There is no one left to pull their weight.
And also, the human reproduction specialists, those bitches that throw kid after kid to the world, not caring at all about how she will feed them, since the welfare will cover it. And daddy state will feed the little monsters, and she will get her nails done every week with what the babies' daddies give her for child support.
So there again, the notion that someone else has to deal with your shortcomings, that someone else need to take care of the things you don't want to take care about. Th e sense of entitlement, of deserving to be given things just because...
And I know such things, also happen in the USA. Maybe they have different names, but this rot is hardly exclusive to us. But Puerto Rico is such a concentrated country. Everything here happens with a certain intensity.
And I wish there were no older cousin to receive our hand-me-downs from, so that we could use new clothing for once, paid with our own money and earned by our own work.
And I am thinking about the paternalist behaviour so evident in so much of our government, and in so much of our lives.
Like the student proficiency tests they give in public schools each yeaor. If we pass with flying colors, the Department of Education will receive less money from the federal government, because we don't need it anymore... So the tests are prepared, specifically, to highlight how stupid our students are. And every year they show up stupider than the year before. So there is a sense of hopelessness in students and teachers alike, knowing that there is no way they can get better. No matter how hard they work, they can't get ahead of the game. And all because we expect daddy state to make it all better, to send us some money and make the problems dissapear. And we sell for money today whatever dignity we had , whatever amount of pride we could earned, whatever amount of achievements we could have worked for. But Daddy State pays us to be stupid, and we take teh money, and become stupid.
In all fairness, they don't make us take the money. This is a local scheme made by corrupt local politicians. But it would not work if there was no big State willing to cover for our shortcomings. It turns us into parasites.
Also, there is the issue of the " political sweet potatoes", the local phrase describing a certain kind of cretin that gets a job in the government in payment for his or her involvement in the campaign of the party in power. They literally get paid to do nothing, so they can scratch their asses for a few years and pretend to work. Before the mass layoffs, it was a common feature to see a group of, say, road repair workers, two of which were workin and five were supervising. You don't see that anymore. But the leeches weren't fired,oh no! They have to work now that the real workers were laid off. There is no one left to pull their weight.
And also, the human reproduction specialists, those bitches that throw kid after kid to the world, not caring at all about how she will feed them, since the welfare will cover it. And daddy state will feed the little monsters, and she will get her nails done every week with what the babies' daddies give her for child support.
So there again, the notion that someone else has to deal with your shortcomings, that someone else need to take care of the things you don't want to take care about. Th e sense of entitlement, of deserving to be given things just because...
And I know such things, also happen in the USA. Maybe they have different names, but this rot is hardly exclusive to us. But Puerto Rico is such a concentrated country. Everything here happens with a certain intensity.
And I wish there were no older cousin to receive our hand-me-downs from, so that we could use new clothing for once, paid with our own money and earned by our own work.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Holy Shit, a whole month without posting!
No wonder I felt like I really ought to come around.
Family news, there are two new babies in the family and one of them is mine.
Not the one of the human variety, thank the goddesses in their mercy.
That one belongs to one cousin who totally screwed up with the wrong sort of guy and ended up pregnant.
But babies are a blessing in whatever fashion they choose to come so welcome to the family, little Dylan.
My cousin called me the other day to ask if I would like to be Dylan's godmother. Of course I would!!!! I would be his fairy godmother, and would spoil him like the cute, cute little monster he is.
Except, I got out of the Catholic religion at about 14, so I never made it to the Confirmation, so I can't.
Would it be exceedingly hypocritical of me if I took a confirmation in a religion I don't believe anymore, just for the sake of being a fairy godmother?
Had to tell my cousin to call my eldest sister and ask her. She too got out of the Catholic religion a long time ago, but she had sense enough to get Confirmed.
And regarding my baby, I went to the West side of the island to meet tiny Dylan and see how my cousin was doing and if she needed anything I could provide her. (A User's Manual, maybe?) While we were there, her mother-in-law came by and dropped a bag with a tiny, tiny orphan kitteh. Husband and I decided to try and raise it. It was so small that one of its eyes was still closed, and the nails were out all the time.
The cat behind her is my husband. ;-)
Back then she was also too little to know what gender she was, so we discussed a few options.
If it had been a boy, I would have called it Gateau Mocha, which means coffee cake, and sounds like "gato", cat in Spanish. Loved the pun, totally intended.
But turned out it was a girl, so her name is Tira Misu. Remains in the candy theme, and incorporates the name Misu, which is the standart name for a cat around here. And when I say standard, I mean it is practically obligatory. You would never call a dog Misu, and if you say the name Misu, everyone knows you have a cat.
Here she is, just one week after.
I don't have any more recent photos, but she is now in full battle mode, using us as stairs for the places she can't reach, playing with Kojiro, and all around being a crazy kitteh.Crazy thing is, instead of thinking less about Simba, I am thinking more about him.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Nationalistic Rant
There is a topic that obsesses me lately, but in a minor way has been part of me since I had use of reason and it will probably haunt me forever. I suppose the problem could be the same for all Puerto Ricans, but I don’t see a national dialogue going on. Or, if there is such a dialogue, it is taking all the wrong ways about it, asking all the wrong questions.
I mean the problem of the National Identity.
I hear the argument: “We are not a Nation!” “We are, too!”
I hear them discuss whether the official governmental language should be English or Spanish.
Lately they have even dragged our flag into it, since different parties and ideologies use different kinds of blue for the triangle part. ( Just for the record, I am squarely on the side of light blue. The flag was created and used by the Nationalistic Movement long before the rest of the country appropriated it. Also for the record, I think the argument is stupid. Three versions of the same flag were used in conjunction for decades, and most of the public never even noticed.)
So , you can see, there is a national dialogue going on. But they are discussing the wrong things. Or at least, they are not addressing my concerns.
Not that they should, you know. I am only one (admittedly weird) citizen. But I don’t think that I am so unique that I am alone in wondering about the part of me that is “Puerto Rican” and what it means to be one, of what is entailed in my identification with this land and its people, with this mongrel blood, with this convoluted history.
And possibly the topic is just too large, as I am having trouble organizing my thoughts to convey my meaning….
But possibly, too, it is not quite large enough, since I keep on finding parts that add to the size of the puzzle, leaving as many empty parts as it had before.
Let me see if I can explain…
GOLDEN AGE
There is a phenomenon in folklore and literature called The Golden Age.
It refers to a distant past (purely mythical or with some factual base) that embodies the most cherished values of a nation.
Often it is a land in disorder in which a hero can grow and seek to make orderly. It is a landscape filled with perils, that threatens with death or worse, should the hero fail. It is an era that allow men and women to test their mettle and show their true character. It allows them to fail miserably, or emerge victorious, in virtue of their own efforts.
Examples that come easily to mind are : Arthurian England, cowboy Wild West, and the Japanese feudal (Samurai) age.
In our literature, they use the Jibaro mountain men in a similar fashion, but I doubt the relevance of the symbol in this context.
The Jibaro, for those of you who are not Puerto Rican, is the native mountain man, our Hillbilly so to speak. Descendant of Taino (Eyeri) Indians escaped to the mountains, the escaped black population they harbored, and the white men who raped or kept mistresses among the lower classes, they became field laborers in the plantations. Theirs was a meager, dirty existence. Their children suffered from anemia and parasites.
Hardly a heroic image, don’t you think?
Mind you, I realize that things were not all peaches and cream in the Wild West, feudal Japan, or Medieval England. They surely had their own share of thugs, diseases, and mysery. But they have been polished by age into a sheen. Stories have turned these places and eras into what they never were. And these stories shape the national consiousness in a way that cannot be measured. They transmit a sense of land, of identity, of pride.
This cannot happen with the Jibaro. The very essence of a Jibaro story is that of a victim of circumstance, a virtuous, honest, hard-working people, trapped by hunger and ignorance into back-breaking labor. (In Bagazo, one of the most famous stories about Jibaro, the lead character is booted out of his job in the sugarcane plantation because he is old and not as efficient as he used to be. He confronts his boss, and the white man shoots him. And he dies, he ends up describing himself as “bagazo” the fibrous remains of sugarcane after all the juice has been pressed out.)
And they can not be reworked into something different, because they are historically recent. Their ragged clothes cannot be fashioned into armor. The Jibaro is too permeated by the smell of defeat, of resignation, to ever be useful as a national symbol.
But it keeps on being used that way, and that seriously pisses me off!
What kind of a nation chooses for itself such symbols? Why identify ourselves with an ox, a workhorse, a whipped dog? What do we see in ourselves that we accept such symbols? Don’t we aspire to more?
I want stories about warriors fighting to make a better world. I want us to identify ourselves with the pitirre bird, a little bird so territorial that it will fight dogs, large animals, and even guaraguao hawks, in defense of its nest. Now, THERE is an image!!!!
This picture was taken by my husband. It is a very young pitirre that fell down from its nest. And still you can see the spirit. “What are you looking at?” Heh!
More appropriate to the task of being a national symbol are the times immediately after the first contact between Spaniards and Taino (Eyeri). Right there, there’s narrative gold. Two sides locked in conflict over a land, both sides convinced of the justice of their cause. A hardly idyllic age that has the potential to drag into the sunlight the heroes and the monsters that inhabit the hearts of men.
Why hasn’t it been used??
I suppose it is not a mythology agreeable to any of our past or present governments. It stinks to high heaven of Nationalism, and that, simply, will not do.
But we don’t have literature like that. Or at least, I have not found it, and I am a fairly prolific reader. I have searched for this literature. The nearest I have read that resembles what I envision is El Ultimo Sonido del Caracol by Tina Casanova, which is excellent and I would recommend it to everyone, but is so obscure that even if you Google the title, you will get only 3 correct hits. It is about our Taino (Eyeri) heritage and how it endures and lives in us.
I will stop for now. I am not finished, but I need some time to organize my thoughts into coherence.
I mean the problem of the National Identity.
I hear the argument: “We are not a Nation!” “We are, too!”
I hear them discuss whether the official governmental language should be English or Spanish.
Lately they have even dragged our flag into it, since different parties and ideologies use different kinds of blue for the triangle part. ( Just for the record, I am squarely on the side of light blue. The flag was created and used by the Nationalistic Movement long before the rest of the country appropriated it. Also for the record, I think the argument is stupid. Three versions of the same flag were used in conjunction for decades, and most of the public never even noticed.)
So , you can see, there is a national dialogue going on. But they are discussing the wrong things. Or at least, they are not addressing my concerns.
Not that they should, you know. I am only one (admittedly weird) citizen. But I don’t think that I am so unique that I am alone in wondering about the part of me that is “Puerto Rican” and what it means to be one, of what is entailed in my identification with this land and its people, with this mongrel blood, with this convoluted history.
And possibly the topic is just too large, as I am having trouble organizing my thoughts to convey my meaning….
But possibly, too, it is not quite large enough, since I keep on finding parts that add to the size of the puzzle, leaving as many empty parts as it had before.
Let me see if I can explain…
GOLDEN AGE
There is a phenomenon in folklore and literature called The Golden Age.
It refers to a distant past (purely mythical or with some factual base) that embodies the most cherished values of a nation.
Often it is a land in disorder in which a hero can grow and seek to make orderly. It is a landscape filled with perils, that threatens with death or worse, should the hero fail. It is an era that allow men and women to test their mettle and show their true character. It allows them to fail miserably, or emerge victorious, in virtue of their own efforts.
Examples that come easily to mind are : Arthurian England, cowboy Wild West, and the Japanese feudal (Samurai) age.
In our literature, they use the Jibaro mountain men in a similar fashion, but I doubt the relevance of the symbol in this context.
The Jibaro, for those of you who are not Puerto Rican, is the native mountain man, our Hillbilly so to speak. Descendant of Taino (Eyeri) Indians escaped to the mountains, the escaped black population they harbored, and the white men who raped or kept mistresses among the lower classes, they became field laborers in the plantations. Theirs was a meager, dirty existence. Their children suffered from anemia and parasites.
Hardly a heroic image, don’t you think?
Mind you, I realize that things were not all peaches and cream in the Wild West, feudal Japan, or Medieval England. They surely had their own share of thugs, diseases, and mysery. But they have been polished by age into a sheen. Stories have turned these places and eras into what they never were. And these stories shape the national consiousness in a way that cannot be measured. They transmit a sense of land, of identity, of pride.
This cannot happen with the Jibaro. The very essence of a Jibaro story is that of a victim of circumstance, a virtuous, honest, hard-working people, trapped by hunger and ignorance into back-breaking labor. (In Bagazo, one of the most famous stories about Jibaro, the lead character is booted out of his job in the sugarcane plantation because he is old and not as efficient as he used to be. He confronts his boss, and the white man shoots him. And he dies, he ends up describing himself as “bagazo” the fibrous remains of sugarcane after all the juice has been pressed out.)
And they can not be reworked into something different, because they are historically recent. Their ragged clothes cannot be fashioned into armor. The Jibaro is too permeated by the smell of defeat, of resignation, to ever be useful as a national symbol.
But it keeps on being used that way, and that seriously pisses me off!
What kind of a nation chooses for itself such symbols? Why identify ourselves with an ox, a workhorse, a whipped dog? What do we see in ourselves that we accept such symbols? Don’t we aspire to more?
I want stories about warriors fighting to make a better world. I want us to identify ourselves with the pitirre bird, a little bird so territorial that it will fight dogs, large animals, and even guaraguao hawks, in defense of its nest. Now, THERE is an image!!!!
This picture was taken by my husband. It is a very young pitirre that fell down from its nest. And still you can see the spirit. “What are you looking at?” Heh!
More appropriate to the task of being a national symbol are the times immediately after the first contact between Spaniards and Taino (Eyeri). Right there, there’s narrative gold. Two sides locked in conflict over a land, both sides convinced of the justice of their cause. A hardly idyllic age that has the potential to drag into the sunlight the heroes and the monsters that inhabit the hearts of men.
Why hasn’t it been used??
I suppose it is not a mythology agreeable to any of our past or present governments. It stinks to high heaven of Nationalism, and that, simply, will not do.
But we don’t have literature like that. Or at least, I have not found it, and I am a fairly prolific reader. I have searched for this literature. The nearest I have read that resembles what I envision is El Ultimo Sonido del Caracol by Tina Casanova, which is excellent and I would recommend it to everyone, but is so obscure that even if you Google the title, you will get only 3 correct hits. It is about our Taino (Eyeri) heritage and how it endures and lives in us.
I will stop for now. I am not finished, but I need some time to organize my thoughts into coherence.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Paro Nacional en Puerto Rico- UPR
So, the governor went ahead and performed the mass layoffs.
Thousands and thousands of i-am-kicking-you-outta-here letters in one day.
Then an egg flies, smashes innocently behind its target. But the attitude of the egg thrower was applauded throughout the land. It lifted our morale. Even those of us who still have a job felt righteous anger at the way all this has been done. I think we all wish the egg had hit the governor on his head, and that we were the throwers.
And then, today, the people went to the streets to stage a mass demonstration. All well and cool, I am behind them 100%.
But I am so fucking pissed with the students of the UPR( Universidad de Puerto Rico- Rio Piedras campus).
They feel the need to stage a protest or strike every goddamn semester. EVERY SEMESTER. It seems like a rite of passage; kids newly out of their parents house and supervision stretch the bound of their freedom for the first time. But they have to be so stuuupid about it I feel ashamed sometimes in their stead.
Like now. They went to the protest to add their numbers and help the laid-off.And they act so stupid and take the chance to commit many kinds of petty crimes, that they detract rather than add to the merit of the main protest. I saw some of them throwing empty beer bottles against a building facade. There was some tire burning. Many walls now sport graffitti they did not have yesterday: "Socialism or death!"
Like, seriosly? Is that a threat? Are you saying YOU chose to die over living under capitalism, or that you want ME to die for your economic preference?
Sometimes I despair over the levels of sheer stupidity and irresponsability that grace the halls and classrooms on this, the best university on the island.
Anyways, my husband is over there right now, working in the university. He slept only 2 hours last night, and has been working for more than 24 hours now. And I won't be seeing him soon, it seems, because the students went into overtime-stupid and decided that though the demonstration had ended (for the adults were tired already and had responsabilities at home) they were not tired at all and were ready for some mayhem. So they headed for the University.
To break some more bottles and spray paint slogans on all available surfaces, no doubt. I tell you, this happens all semesters. We know the drill.
The campus guard was ready, and with the police they resisted the students. There were rocks thrown. Eggs, of course. There was violence, and for a second there it looked pretty bad.
My husband called to tell me he would be staying in campus today. He remains on call.
Thousands and thousands of i-am-kicking-you-outta-here letters in one day.
Then an egg flies, smashes innocently behind its target. But the attitude of the egg thrower was applauded throughout the land. It lifted our morale. Even those of us who still have a job felt righteous anger at the way all this has been done. I think we all wish the egg had hit the governor on his head, and that we were the throwers.
And then, today, the people went to the streets to stage a mass demonstration. All well and cool, I am behind them 100%.
But I am so fucking pissed with the students of the UPR( Universidad de Puerto Rico- Rio Piedras campus).
They feel the need to stage a protest or strike every goddamn semester. EVERY SEMESTER. It seems like a rite of passage; kids newly out of their parents house and supervision stretch the bound of their freedom for the first time. But they have to be so stuuupid about it I feel ashamed sometimes in their stead.
Like now. They went to the protest to add their numbers and help the laid-off.And they act so stupid and take the chance to commit many kinds of petty crimes, that they detract rather than add to the merit of the main protest. I saw some of them throwing empty beer bottles against a building facade. There was some tire burning. Many walls now sport graffitti they did not have yesterday: "Socialism or death!"
Like, seriosly? Is that a threat? Are you saying YOU chose to die over living under capitalism, or that you want ME to die for your economic preference?
Sometimes I despair over the levels of sheer stupidity and irresponsability that grace the halls and classrooms on this, the best university on the island.
Anyways, my husband is over there right now, working in the university. He slept only 2 hours last night, and has been working for more than 24 hours now. And I won't be seeing him soon, it seems, because the students went into overtime-stupid and decided that though the demonstration had ended (for the adults were tired already and had responsabilities at home) they were not tired at all and were ready for some mayhem. So they headed for the University.
To break some more bottles and spray paint slogans on all available surfaces, no doubt. I tell you, this happens all semesters. We know the drill.
The campus guard was ready, and with the police they resisted the students. There were rocks thrown. Eggs, of course. There was violence, and for a second there it looked pretty bad.
My husband called to tell me he would be staying in campus today. He remains on call.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Labor Woes - Cont.
It is escalating.
I get this pressure in my chest sometimes, as if I had forgotten to breathe for a long time.
And maybe I have. Sometimes I stop breathing when I feel particularly upset.
I don’t know what to do! I cannot play this game!
And it pisses me off because for the first time I felt well in a job. People were nice, there is a nice “rapport” with my coworkers. They tease each other in a harmless way, and there is a sense that you can count on them to help.
And I remember when I was working at Hell Hotel. It was a nightmare; pure, unadulterated misery. My boss hated me and made no effort to conceal it. He took every opportunity to demean me. I was in anguish everyday, because I really, really was afraid of going to work.
When finally my contract expired and they did not renovate it, it hurt economically and I cried all the way home. But it gave me such an enormous sense of relief that I know, positively, that I should have been gone from there long before that.
And this guy is turning this job now and poisoning it for me.
(I suppose I better name him; I cannot keep on calling him “that guy”. I could use his office nickname of The Cookie Monster, earned for his eating habits. But what he really reminds me of is a Vogon, from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. So from now on, he will be known as Mr. Vogon.)
Stupid things will set him off, and keep him in a dark mood for days, and I know Mr. Vogon is plotting against me as he plots against so many people in here.
Yesterday I was at the company building very early in the morning. I am always the first there, and everybody knows it. I live by my husbands schedule, which means I am at work at 6, even though work starts at 8. They practically open the building for me!
And I was on my cubicle working on an assignment for college. It was 6:30 or so. I was very concentrated on what I was doing; I did not hear Mr. Vogon coming until he slapped the wall very hard to scare me. And scare me he did. Pissed me off, because I almost had the perfect idea to convey a meaning in my translation, and he had made me forget it!
Mr. Vogon said: “Wow! You must get up very early! You get here before I do!”
And I said: “Yes, I do.” I was trying to remember the way that sentence was supposed to go and I had no time for pleasantries.
And he got pissed, and said: “You want me gone! OK, Ill go!” He turned and left He did not speak to me for the rest of the day, but I caught him giving me dirty looks whenever I turned.
And then, today, after I sent him some documents he had requested to his e-mail, he tells me to print those documents and give them to the temp that is working for him now. I ask if I could forward the e-mail to her, so she can print them herself, (as this is what they hired her for and I did not have time to do this right now). He went into a hissy fit, and said : “I will print them myself, then!”, and stomped off my cubicle.
And I’m like, it’s not that big of a deal! You want me to print them? I can print them! I just think that since it’s her job to do this thing, she should do this thing, and their project should not affect in any way my regular functions.
But I am not truly sorry it worked like that.
I am anxious, worried and just plain scared.
I know he will use this in his war against me.
Yet, I want him to understand that he is not my boss and I am not his assistant.
I am not there to satisfy Mr. Vogon’s needs, nor is he there to satisfy mine.
I can help with stuff, just as I help those I can, but I am not here to do his work for him.
I am not here to keep him happy and contented. I am here to do a job, and if his stuff interfere with mine, his stuff will have to take a hike.
I had hoped this temp worker would keep him distracted and away from me. It does not seem to be working out.
And anyways, I ended up printing those document, just because the temp asked nicely. I was handling the phone lines, writing an e-mail, preparing a quotation and searching part numbers, yet I printed those documents and explained them to the girl, because she was polite.
I get this pressure in my chest sometimes, as if I had forgotten to breathe for a long time.
And maybe I have. Sometimes I stop breathing when I feel particularly upset.
I don’t know what to do! I cannot play this game!
And it pisses me off because for the first time I felt well in a job. People were nice, there is a nice “rapport” with my coworkers. They tease each other in a harmless way, and there is a sense that you can count on them to help.
And I remember when I was working at Hell Hotel. It was a nightmare; pure, unadulterated misery. My boss hated me and made no effort to conceal it. He took every opportunity to demean me. I was in anguish everyday, because I really, really was afraid of going to work.
When finally my contract expired and they did not renovate it, it hurt economically and I cried all the way home. But it gave me such an enormous sense of relief that I know, positively, that I should have been gone from there long before that.
And this guy is turning this job now and poisoning it for me.
(I suppose I better name him; I cannot keep on calling him “that guy”. I could use his office nickname of The Cookie Monster, earned for his eating habits. But what he really reminds me of is a Vogon, from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. So from now on, he will be known as Mr. Vogon.)
Stupid things will set him off, and keep him in a dark mood for days, and I know Mr. Vogon is plotting against me as he plots against so many people in here.
Yesterday I was at the company building very early in the morning. I am always the first there, and everybody knows it. I live by my husbands schedule, which means I am at work at 6, even though work starts at 8. They practically open the building for me!
And I was on my cubicle working on an assignment for college. It was 6:30 or so. I was very concentrated on what I was doing; I did not hear Mr. Vogon coming until he slapped the wall very hard to scare me. And scare me he did. Pissed me off, because I almost had the perfect idea to convey a meaning in my translation, and he had made me forget it!
Mr. Vogon said: “Wow! You must get up very early! You get here before I do!”
And I said: “Yes, I do.” I was trying to remember the way that sentence was supposed to go and I had no time for pleasantries.
And he got pissed, and said: “You want me gone! OK, Ill go!” He turned and left He did not speak to me for the rest of the day, but I caught him giving me dirty looks whenever I turned.
And then, today, after I sent him some documents he had requested to his e-mail, he tells me to print those documents and give them to the temp that is working for him now. I ask if I could forward the e-mail to her, so she can print them herself, (as this is what they hired her for and I did not have time to do this right now). He went into a hissy fit, and said : “I will print them myself, then!”, and stomped off my cubicle.
And I’m like, it’s not that big of a deal! You want me to print them? I can print them! I just think that since it’s her job to do this thing, she should do this thing, and their project should not affect in any way my regular functions.
But I am not truly sorry it worked like that.
I am anxious, worried and just plain scared.
I know he will use this in his war against me.
Yet, I want him to understand that he is not my boss and I am not his assistant.
I am not there to satisfy Mr. Vogon’s needs, nor is he there to satisfy mine.
I can help with stuff, just as I help those I can, but I am not here to do his work for him.
I am not here to keep him happy and contented. I am here to do a job, and if his stuff interfere with mine, his stuff will have to take a hike.
I had hoped this temp worker would keep him distracted and away from me. It does not seem to be working out.
And anyways, I ended up printing those document, just because the temp asked nicely. I was handling the phone lines, writing an e-mail, preparing a quotation and searching part numbers, yet I printed those documents and explained them to the girl, because she was polite.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Labor Woes
I am worried.
There is a situation at work that I don’t feel emotionally prepared for. It engages my want-to-escape mode. Most of my co-workers have dealt with it, but some have been fired because of the depredations and malicious rumors created by an older colleague.
This guy has been working in the company since forever. He is firmly entrenched in his position, and has actually been ready to retire for years. Yet he remains.
I entered the company as a temp to help him on a special project. Two weeks turned into two years and counting, and eventually I turned into a regular employee.
The thing is, this guy likes to have someone to boss around, and since I was hired to be just that, he feels entitled to make me do his stuff. He introduces me to people as his “assistant”. Good goddess! The Managers of the company don’t have assistants!
Every chance he gets, he makes a mention of how “he hired me”.
And, no, he didn’t!
The company temp-hired me to help him out in a special project; then real-hired me to work in something else, unrelated to him.
Now, I don’t have the time to do his work for him. I am not paid to make copies for him, or to redact his correspondence, or to simply listen to the stupid sexist jokes he tells. (How do you say “virgin” in German? Gudentight! Got it? Good and tight!)
And he is taking this badly. He feels I am being disrespectful.
He has complained to my boss (who knows him already, so he isn’t taking it too seriously) and to the boss of my boss (who doesn’t, so he might be doing some damage.)
I tend to not complain to my boss, because I feel that being manager must be at times a bit like being a schoolteacher. “Miss! He is pulling my hair!”
He must be beyond tired of listening to complains from both costumers and employees. I try not to add to his blood pressure. I really like my manager. I have had some really horrid bosses in the past, and I appreciate what a luxury it is to actually like your boss.
And there is the thing about the sexual harassment.
They tell me that he has caused three girls before me to be fired. All the three had in common was that they did not respond to his sexual innuendos.
So three girls before me lost their jobs to this idiot because they did not document his behavior.
But he has sent me e-mails asking me out. I remember last October, as I was working on the geisha costume, he was quite insistent on taking me out for lunch. He kept telling me that my costume was pretty sexy (Ummm… not.). And once, he went as far as telling me that he thought I was gorgeous or something like that. I maneuvered and mentioned my dear, dear husband. (Have I mentioned that I love him very much?) Then he went all weepy, and said that now that he was old, no one found him attractive. I mentioned his wife. That particular conversation, I printed and showed it to a coworker and to my husband.
Coworker said to use it against him.
Husband said to tolerate it; it was inoffensive.
I should have listened to her.
I quickly went through my e-mails yesterday, after one incident when he went all belligerent on me, and searched for my own harassing history.
FUUUUUUDGE!
I don’t have proof. I lost the e-mails when I closed my temporary outside e-mail account in favor of the permanent company one. I don’t even remember what the address was, so I can’t have it reopened. I have no proof!
And now I have lost it! Goddamit!!!
Damn all these e-mail changes!
Now he has been attacking me behind my back. I have been warned by sympathetic coworkers. And I feel like a sitting duck, unable to respond, defenseless and vulnerable.
I am not made for this! My personality makes it hard for me to engage in workplace guerrilla warfare. All this intriguing behind people’s backs, all these conspiracies.
There is a situation at work that I don’t feel emotionally prepared for. It engages my want-to-escape mode. Most of my co-workers have dealt with it, but some have been fired because of the depredations and malicious rumors created by an older colleague.
This guy has been working in the company since forever. He is firmly entrenched in his position, and has actually been ready to retire for years. Yet he remains.
I entered the company as a temp to help him on a special project. Two weeks turned into two years and counting, and eventually I turned into a regular employee.
The thing is, this guy likes to have someone to boss around, and since I was hired to be just that, he feels entitled to make me do his stuff. He introduces me to people as his “assistant”. Good goddess! The Managers of the company don’t have assistants!
Every chance he gets, he makes a mention of how “he hired me”.
And, no, he didn’t!
The company temp-hired me to help him out in a special project; then real-hired me to work in something else, unrelated to him.
Now, I don’t have the time to do his work for him. I am not paid to make copies for him, or to redact his correspondence, or to simply listen to the stupid sexist jokes he tells. (How do you say “virgin” in German? Gudentight! Got it? Good and tight!)
And he is taking this badly. He feels I am being disrespectful.
He has complained to my boss (who knows him already, so he isn’t taking it too seriously) and to the boss of my boss (who doesn’t, so he might be doing some damage.)
I tend to not complain to my boss, because I feel that being manager must be at times a bit like being a schoolteacher. “Miss! He is pulling my hair!”
He must be beyond tired of listening to complains from both costumers and employees. I try not to add to his blood pressure. I really like my manager. I have had some really horrid bosses in the past, and I appreciate what a luxury it is to actually like your boss.
And there is the thing about the sexual harassment.
They tell me that he has caused three girls before me to be fired. All the three had in common was that they did not respond to his sexual innuendos.
So three girls before me lost their jobs to this idiot because they did not document his behavior.
But he has sent me e-mails asking me out. I remember last October, as I was working on the geisha costume, he was quite insistent on taking me out for lunch. He kept telling me that my costume was pretty sexy (Ummm… not.). And once, he went as far as telling me that he thought I was gorgeous or something like that. I maneuvered and mentioned my dear, dear husband. (Have I mentioned that I love him very much?) Then he went all weepy, and said that now that he was old, no one found him attractive. I mentioned his wife. That particular conversation, I printed and showed it to a coworker and to my husband.
Coworker said to use it against him.
Husband said to tolerate it; it was inoffensive.
I should have listened to her.
I quickly went through my e-mails yesterday, after one incident when he went all belligerent on me, and searched for my own harassing history.
FUUUUUUDGE!
I don’t have proof. I lost the e-mails when I closed my temporary outside e-mail account in favor of the permanent company one. I don’t even remember what the address was, so I can’t have it reopened. I have no proof!
And now I have lost it! Goddamit!!!
Damn all these e-mail changes!
Now he has been attacking me behind my back. I have been warned by sympathetic coworkers. And I feel like a sitting duck, unable to respond, defenseless and vulnerable.
I am not made for this! My personality makes it hard for me to engage in workplace guerrilla warfare. All this intriguing behind people’s backs, all these conspiracies.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Psychopomp
I learned a new word today, and I want to share it. The word is Psychopomp.
I was googling for the correct spelling of the term puer aeternus, since the lead character in one of the novels I am writing is just that, and I wanted to see what the archetype entailed.
The Puer Aeternus is an eternal boy, the boy that refuses to grow. In mythology, he can be a boy god, such as Cupid, or an irresponsible youth, such as Dionysus. In real life, it is used in relation to men such as Michael Jackson (with his Peter Pan fixation)
Then somewhere, I read that Peter Pan is both puer aeternus and psychopomp, so I had to know...
Googling the new word led me to a whole lot of sites about a song sung by... blah, blah, blah. Who cares?
Now, the classic reference is to a guide to the world of death. The boatman. The voice at the end of the tunnel. Death on a white horse, in the Tarot card.
The psychopomp, while not actively bringing death, keeps the keys of both worlds, the great beyond and the here-and-now. He is the Master of Two worlds. And in this sense, it is potentially a great possible mentor for the main character.
Interesting.
This does not apply to the character I was googling for, but it fits another, and it made me happy. I love to learn new words.
Monday, July 27, 2009
just a minor step towards crazy-cat-lady-hood...
Near the deli where I have breakfast almost every morning likes a kitty.A street kitty, hungry and sad. it broke my heart evry day but I did nothin because I was scared of looking stupid.
then, the other day, the kitty sat on the steps of the deli, tremblig there and looking so hungry that I had to get him some food. I went to the counter and asked the lady for some diced ham for the kitty.
and she said no.
the store policy is to not feed the cat so that it won't hang around the shop.
there is a friking cat dying slowly in front of their shop, and their policy is to let it die.
I was so furious I could have spat at her. I am quite sure it showed in my face.
I resolved right then and there to carry a small amount of dry cat food to feed the kitty, and any hungry-looking kitty, whenever I felt like it.
and that's what i'm doing. carrying cat food everywhere in the hope of feeding stray cats.
I sort of knew it would happen eventually. I already wore the prerequisite cat hair layer in all my clothes.i have more photos of cats than family members in my computer. And I baby-talk to my cat, sure sign of impending cat-crazyness.
Still, this one kinda sneaked on to me.
then, the other day, the kitty sat on the steps of the deli, tremblig there and looking so hungry that I had to get him some food. I went to the counter and asked the lady for some diced ham for the kitty.
and she said no.
the store policy is to not feed the cat so that it won't hang around the shop.
there is a friking cat dying slowly in front of their shop, and their policy is to let it die.
I was so furious I could have spat at her. I am quite sure it showed in my face.
I resolved right then and there to carry a small amount of dry cat food to feed the kitty, and any hungry-looking kitty, whenever I felt like it.
and that's what i'm doing. carrying cat food everywhere in the hope of feeding stray cats.
I sort of knew it would happen eventually. I already wore the prerequisite cat hair layer in all my clothes.i have more photos of cats than family members in my computer. And I baby-talk to my cat, sure sign of impending cat-crazyness.
Still, this one kinda sneaked on to me.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Update on the driving thingie...
I drove all the way to Pinones Beach. Long winding road, not as bad as I was told. At the end of the two hour drive, I was staying on my own lane consistently. Next class, I will be learning how to change lanes.
The next class is scheduled for next saturday, but I think I will have to postpone it. Both the ophtalmologyst and the optometrist said I would need at least a week to readjust distances after I got the glasses, so I don't think that is a good time to start messing with cars. "Objects may appear closer than they are." Damn.
The optometrist lady told me what the prescription meant. Will post it here when I figure out what it all means.
She said I have to wear the glasses all the time. But there are places in the net that say you can exercise the iris muscles or something like that, and fix part of the problem. And since my sight loss started so suddenly, I am willing to try. I get the glasses, of course, but I will also stare at objects at various distances in the vague hope that they will start to go into focus.
Anyways, that's how things stand.
The next class is scheduled for next saturday, but I think I will have to postpone it. Both the ophtalmologyst and the optometrist said I would need at least a week to readjust distances after I got the glasses, so I don't think that is a good time to start messing with cars. "Objects may appear closer than they are." Damn.
The optometrist lady told me what the prescription meant. Will post it here when I figure out what it all means.
She said I have to wear the glasses all the time. But there are places in the net that say you can exercise the iris muscles or something like that, and fix part of the problem. And since my sight loss started so suddenly, I am willing to try. I get the glasses, of course, but I will also stare at objects at various distances in the vague hope that they will start to go into focus.
Anyways, that's how things stand.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Here Kitty, Kitty...
She got one for me, a “Persian” mix from a local crazy cat lady. Simba was taken too young from his mother; he fit the cup of my hand perfectly. My family called him Booger.
I remember when I bottle fed him; he scrambled for purchase for his little paws and scratched his own face.
I don’t have photos of those times. I will try and see if my sister does.
Anyways, when I moved into my own apartment, Simba went with me. He was the consummate indoor kitty, and the few times he stepped on grass he shook his foot off at each step, as if to say: “Ewww! Ewww!” It was so funny.
He had a little trick that he taught himself. If I called him, he would not come to me. But if I made scratching motions with my hand, he would saunter towards me to be petted.
Once I was so broke, I only had one dollar in change in the entire house. There was no human food. There was no kitty food. Not a question of survival, since my boyfriend would be paid the next day. I only had to choose who ate that day and who went hungry.
Simba ate, of course.
I had the dengue fever, and I had no health insurance, so I spent it at the apartment alone. A week of the bone-break fever, alone, too weak to ask for help, too unconcerned to make an effort. I remember Simba placing his cool nose on my cheek awakening me. He kept on insisting I wake up, probably only so that I fed him, but since I was up already I ate too, and washed, and survived.
During my periods of unemployment, he was there to purr at me. During the periods of employment, he greeted me at the door when I returned home.
Not claiming he was perfect. He could be quite the little dictator.
Just saying I loved him.
He died on March. It broke my heart like you can’t imagine. I felt, and still feel, like I let him down, like a bad mother, because I never noticed how sick he was until it was too late.
That first weekend after he died, while I was doing the laundry, I found one of his whiskers on my clothes, and I had to sit right there on the floor and bawl my heart out. I dreamt a few times that I was in a labyrinth looking for something, and it was vitally important that I find what was in the center, only to find Simba there, with his engine on and a mischievous glint in his eye, waiting for me. I grab him, but there I remember that I can’t take him home, that he has to remain there and I have to return alone.
Not alone, really. We still have Kojiro, my husband’s cat and Simba’s playmate.
He is funny, energetic, and playful. He follows me around going: “Miw! Miw! Miw! Miw! Miw!...”. He demands attention, and when he wants to play he wants to play right now!
I love him; don’t doubt it for a sec. But he is such an energetic kitty, and as he is alone most of the day, I am sure he would appreciate someone to torture/play with.
When Simba died, a whole lot of well-meaning people started to offer us random cats. We declined.
But I dreamt the other day of cats, and for once, Simba was not in it. I dreamt that we were overrun with cats. There seemed to be an invasion, kitties entering through the windows, the A/C vent, the clothes dryer vent… And I ran around trying to get the cats out of the apartment, but they kept on coming in. At last I got most of them out, but there was one kitten that simply refused to leave. It was fluffy and gray. Looked like this.
I threw it out the door, and as soon as I turned around, there it was on my couch, looking pleased and quite at home. I allowed it to stay.
Maybe the dream is a sign. Simba at the Rainbow Bridge, telling me to go on with my life.
I want to get a pet for our cat!
Well, maybe for me too.
What do you think?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Yes, I need glasses
The experience at the ophthalmologist was less than spectacular (pardon the pun).
They looked at my eyes while I looked at things, and told them what I thought I was seeing.
I had a moment of panic when I was going to do the glaucoma test, as it involves a thing touching the eye to check the eye pressure. I am a bit phobic about my eyes. There were several tries, until I finally decided I better stare at the doctor’s tie instead of the thing about to poke me in the eye.
But what really pissed me was that I was not given a diagnosis. I asked the doctor and his answer was … somewhat insulting, I think. He said I have “glasses-itis”.
Twice he mentioned that I warranted a stronger prescription than what he was writing down for me, since I have never before used glasses and I might have trouble adjusting to distances again.
WTF?!?!
I am blind enough to have to adjust to distances, and he won’t tell me what I have? Long term? Short term? Curvature of the cornea? Blood flow? Nerve damage? Are the glasses for driving? For reading? Computer work?
What a ripoff! I could have been better off just going to an optometrist.
So, anyways, this weekend I’ll be taking the doctor’s writ to one of those places where they make glasses. Didn’t do it yesterday because I’m broke.
Thinking of taking my old frames with me and really screw them. LOL
For you see, when I was about 15 I was convinced I was losing my sight and my parents took me to an optometrist. My mother took the opportunity to have new glasses made.
The guy immediately declared I needed glasses, gave me a prescription and let me out to check the frames with my dad. The lady started with the Calvin Kleins.
“Out of my range. Cheaper.” I said.
She kept on showing me brand names, and I kept on telling her to go cheaper.
Finally, she took out of under a display a black box. Inside were a lot of glass frames in basic wire wrapped in transparent plastic baggies. At about 10 dollars each, I took them.
My mom got herself a brand name for a few hundreds of greenbacks. I remember they were imitation tortoiseshell. She left them in the sun a few weeks later and they warped/melted.
Dad thought it was hilarious. He kept saying I was showing good sense. LOL
Anyways, I think there was nothing wrong with my sight. For a few months I wore the glasses, but I really saw no difference with or without.
So I stopped…
Until now…
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
What do hair dye and driving have in common?
Did I tell you? Did I tell you?
I dyed my hair blue!
I’ve been talking about it since I was 16. I should have done it at 16. Blue hair looks at its very best at 16.
After a certain age, blue hair no longer looks good. It only looks stupid. And since I was turning 30 last month, I felt it was now or never.
So, anyways, I figured I might as well do it.
I bleached the last 6 inches or so of hair, twice, with peroxide 40. My hair is very thick and black; it never went under dirty blonde.
Then, the dye was applied, with heat and a long waiting time, because the stylist was worried it might turn out green. (Noooo! I want gothic blue, not emo green! ) The other stylists were taking bets on what color it would turn.
Then, the unveiling…
It was blue. (Whew!)
First time I washed my hair, it bled like it was dying, and thank goodness the shower-tiles are blue-green, ‘cause it stained like crazy. But no biggie, it is clean now, and it no longer bleeds so badly. (Bled blue, of course, so I feel entitled to say I am certified nobility.)
I have a bottle of blue for when I need to retouch. And Oh,God! I will need to retouch. I am losing color constantly. Last week I stained blue the back of a gray t-shirt because I was wearing a ponytail and my hair touched it.
Why can’t they make a permanent, really permanent blue?
After this, two things might happen:
1- I could get it out of my system and dye it back to black. All returns to normal. Or…
2- I could lose all fear of unnatural colors, and next thing you knew, I would be sporting a tie-dyed Mohawk.
I am considering, in a few months or so, dyeing more of it blue, leaving only a bit in black.
But I’m cool as of now. I am happy with it. Glad to get the nerve. Pleased with the results.
Just to show how screwed up my priorities are right now, last thing I will mention is the driving class I took.
Teacher was very nice looking.
Very, very nice looking.
A hunk.
I will not mention it again.
I just had to express my appreciation of the kind of eye-candy he is.
That’s it.
Anyways, he took me to a suburb to practice my turns. And by “he took me” I mean he told me where to turn. I drove there.
Turns out I have trouble staying in my lane.
I do not have measurements quite figured out yet. I tried to avoid the potholes, only to fall straight into them.
And I forgot once which was the brake and which the gas. (I stopped the car at an intersection, but the engine sounded revved up. My teacher tapped me on the knee and said: “Up!” He had stopped the car; I had accelerated. )
In any case, it went OK, and he told me that considering it was the first time, it went quite well.
It made my day.
Next week we will be going to the beach, taking a long, one-lane road he says he finds useful in teaching people to stay in their lane.
You either stay in your lane, or you take to the sand.
I’m a bit scared, but what the hell!
I figure driving is a bit like dyeing your hair in a totally unnatural color.
It is best done at 16, but really any age is better than not doing it at all.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Nature Red...
Mother Nature: Benevolent Gaea or bloodthirsty Kali?
In other words, do you believe there is an inherent justice in nature, "order" if you will, or is it merely a race for survival, a mad scramble to get to the next stage, pass the baton, where anything goes as long as you keep on running?
Or, borrowing the words of Joseph Campbell, do you believe in the Mythology of Peace or the Mythology of War?
We are all descendants of the mythologies of war. Mythologies of peace were all conquered, enslaved, annihilated.
Those who beat their swords into plowshares, will plow for those who didn't.
Same thing with nature.
Logging towns are endangered due to the protections offered to the spotted owl. The livelihoods of thousands, their futures and their childrens' futures are put at risk. It is a case of us against it, and some of our own species would take the defense of it, the spotted owl, in our detriment.
And that precisely is the point of this post.
Does the spotted owl have any superior claim to the right to survive, reproduce, thrive, than a lumberer?
Do the needs of the elusive American Jackelope trump our own?
There are some who will say: " But we are the only animals that kill for fun!" And that is patently false.
There is more than enough footage of animals being cruel to one another, being mean and killing unnecesarily.
And even if it where true, what would this supposed "morality" mean? When a hunting party from a village and a small pride of bachelor lions meet, when a bear breaks into your home enticed by the aroma of cooking, when armies march to kill one another for the possession of a fertile valley... there is no morality in the battlefield. There is no morality in the killing field.
In any case, the defense of the wildlife is a testament of how successful we are at surviving. We are so far ahead of everyone else at the race, that we can spare the time and effort to backtrack a bit to cheer and help other participants. We can stop a bit to help the special-ed kids when they fall flat on their faces. ( I am thinking of pandas here. Hate me all you want, but if they need help to even have sex, not to mention raising their young, maybe they do not deserve to survive.)
Still, we are in the race. We are far ahead, but we have not crossed the finish line.
We cannot see the finish line from where we are.
And maybe there is no finish line.
Keep that in mind. For that means we cannot afford to trip ourselves up in our effort to help the rest of them. Nature does not have favorites, and there is a running mob right behind you, ready to stomp us out of the race if we falter and fall on the path.
In other words, do you believe there is an inherent justice in nature, "order" if you will, or is it merely a race for survival, a mad scramble to get to the next stage, pass the baton, where anything goes as long as you keep on running?
Or, borrowing the words of Joseph Campbell, do you believe in the Mythology of Peace or the Mythology of War?
We are all descendants of the mythologies of war. Mythologies of peace were all conquered, enslaved, annihilated.
Those who beat their swords into plowshares, will plow for those who didn't.
Same thing with nature.
Logging towns are endangered due to the protections offered to the spotted owl. The livelihoods of thousands, their futures and their childrens' futures are put at risk. It is a case of us against it, and some of our own species would take the defense of it, the spotted owl, in our detriment.
And that precisely is the point of this post.
Does the spotted owl have any superior claim to the right to survive, reproduce, thrive, than a lumberer?
Do the needs of the elusive American Jackelope trump our own?
There are some who will say: " But we are the only animals that kill for fun!" And that is patently false.
There is more than enough footage of animals being cruel to one another, being mean and killing unnecesarily.
And even if it where true, what would this supposed "morality" mean? When a hunting party from a village and a small pride of bachelor lions meet, when a bear breaks into your home enticed by the aroma of cooking, when armies march to kill one another for the possession of a fertile valley... there is no morality in the battlefield. There is no morality in the killing field.
In any case, the defense of the wildlife is a testament of how successful we are at surviving. We are so far ahead of everyone else at the race, that we can spare the time and effort to backtrack a bit to cheer and help other participants. We can stop a bit to help the special-ed kids when they fall flat on their faces. ( I am thinking of pandas here. Hate me all you want, but if they need help to even have sex, not to mention raising their young, maybe they do not deserve to survive.)
Still, we are in the race. We are far ahead, but we have not crossed the finish line.
We cannot see the finish line from where we are.
And maybe there is no finish line.
Keep that in mind. For that means we cannot afford to trip ourselves up in our effort to help the rest of them. Nature does not have favorites, and there is a running mob right behind you, ready to stomp us out of the race if we falter and fall on the path.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
On the news...
The latest topic in PR is our suicide rate.
Well, that and the gay penguins adopting a chick.
But I want to talk about this suicide thing, 'cause I suspect the penguins are getting more media coverage than they want.
Anyways, according to Primera Hora, after the mass layoffs were announced, the Linea PAS hotline started getting about a 25% increase in calls every month. Oh, holy Sherlock! Do you think it might be related?
Then the Suicide Prevention Commission announces their new campaign.
Last campaign was called NO TE QUITES or Do Not Remove Yourself. The first time I heard it I thought they were kidding.
After the mass of factors that push a human being to despair, to consider the unspeakable act, to condemn themselves to hell for all eternity (this being a mainly Catholic country) and all they have to say to say was Do Not Remove Yourself?
And I imagined the would-be-suicide asking back: " Why? Why the bother, why the pain, why the emptiness and the sense of being a failure? Why should I be made to withstand that which is beyond my will to withstand? Why shouldn't I remove myself?"
Would they have an answer for him?
The new campaign is called I Love Life 24/7. I think it is even worse than the last one. This one does not even invite dialogue. The would-be-suicide could just mutter "good for you" and continue adjusting the noose. How is that supposed to be helpful?
Blah! I am not a suicide apologist. I am not the one to push the suicidal guy off the bridge. But I do believe that when to end your life is a personal desicion and one we are not entitled to make for him.
Put a safety system in place! By all means, do. Hot lines and support groups and stupid ad campaings. Go ahead and try to save some lives!
But do not try to hide the fact that there is sometimes more dignity in a death you have chosen yourself than in a life lived against your will.
____________________________________________
As a little side note, the article noted that 90% of successful suicides are men. Women make more attempts, but they usually survive. Why is that?
Basic MO
Well, that and the gay penguins adopting a chick.
But I want to talk about this suicide thing, 'cause I suspect the penguins are getting more media coverage than they want.
Anyways, according to Primera Hora, after the mass layoffs were announced, the Linea PAS hotline started getting about a 25% increase in calls every month. Oh, holy Sherlock! Do you think it might be related?
Then the Suicide Prevention Commission announces their new campaign.
Last campaign was called NO TE QUITES or Do Not Remove Yourself. The first time I heard it I thought they were kidding.
After the mass of factors that push a human being to despair, to consider the unspeakable act, to condemn themselves to hell for all eternity (this being a mainly Catholic country) and all they have to say to say was Do Not Remove Yourself?
And I imagined the would-be-suicide asking back: " Why? Why the bother, why the pain, why the emptiness and the sense of being a failure? Why should I be made to withstand that which is beyond my will to withstand? Why shouldn't I remove myself?"
Would they have an answer for him?
The new campaign is called I Love Life 24/7. I think it is even worse than the last one. This one does not even invite dialogue. The would-be-suicide could just mutter "good for you" and continue adjusting the noose. How is that supposed to be helpful?
Blah! I am not a suicide apologist. I am not the one to push the suicidal guy off the bridge. But I do believe that when to end your life is a personal desicion and one we are not entitled to make for him.
Put a safety system in place! By all means, do. Hot lines and support groups and stupid ad campaings. Go ahead and try to save some lives!
But do not try to hide the fact that there is sometimes more dignity in a death you have chosen yourself than in a life lived against your will.
____________________________________________
As a little side note, the article noted that 90% of successful suicides are men. Women make more attempts, but they usually survive. Why is that?
Basic MO
- Suicidal female: will clean the house, take a bath, wash her hair, shaves her legs, perfumes herself. She puts on something that she knows will look good on her. After she has made sure that she will look good, she swallows half a bottle of sleeping pills or cuts her wrists
- Suicidal male: Shoots himself in the head and fuck the clean-up!
Yesterday I drove
from Rio Piedras to Winston Churchill Ave. 4, almost 5 mile. Took the highway. Scary! Scary!
My husband kept telling me to go faster. "We're gonna get hit! Go faster! Ahhh!"
And I was struggling to remain in the correct lane, what with the potholes and the places where the lanes are not even marked. Also, I suspect I am losing my sight and we were doing this at 4am.
The important thing is we survived.
I told the gals at work: "If you found the traffic heavier than usual, it might have been caused by the trail of chaos, mayhem and destruction I left on my wake as I DROVE TO WORK TODAY!"
They cheered for my achievement a bit, predicted I would be a regular Road Warrior Queen in no time, and were quite insistent in that it was about time.
Then, one of the bosses got on my case about my use of negatives in speech. Metaphysics and such, Connie Melendez, Silverio Perez and the seven dwarves. She said that negative thinking poisons the mind, even in jest.
Well, shoot me! That puts a handicap in my communication skills.
I suppose at the second round I'll be leaving behind me a trail of rainbows, cherubs and purring kitties in my wake.
My husband kept telling me to go faster. "We're gonna get hit! Go faster! Ahhh!"
And I was struggling to remain in the correct lane, what with the potholes and the places where the lanes are not even marked. Also, I suspect I am losing my sight and we were doing this at 4am.
The important thing is we survived.
I told the gals at work: "If you found the traffic heavier than usual, it might have been caused by the trail of chaos, mayhem and destruction I left on my wake as I DROVE TO WORK TODAY!"
They cheered for my achievement a bit, predicted I would be a regular Road Warrior Queen in no time, and were quite insistent in that it was about time.
Then, one of the bosses got on my case about my use of negatives in speech. Metaphysics and such, Connie Melendez, Silverio Perez and the seven dwarves. She said that negative thinking poisons the mind, even in jest.
Well, shoot me! That puts a handicap in my communication skills.
I suppose at the second round I'll be leaving behind me a trail of rainbows, cherubs and purring kitties in my wake.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Under Construction
Not the blog. Me.
I am an unfinished project, a building still in the planning phase.
Never bothered me before. I have always had someone to depend on, first my father, then my husband, who would help me out. They would always be there to help me out, always ready to defend me. I was comfortable in the knowledge that they would place themselves in danger, if it came to that, to spare me.
I am lucky. I know, and this is in no way meant to belittle that commitment in them.
Then I started reading cop blogs and survivalist blogs. And I realized, not only their commitment is not returned (Duh! 'Cause I'm a girl, and girls don't have to come to the rescue.) but my attitude itself might put me in dangerous situations. Being protected is no reason for me to neglect my education.
I can't drive. I can't shoot a gun. Don't like to cook and the green thumb eludes me in potted plants. I do alright with plants on the ground, but I am living in an apartment and I don't even have a balcony. Suddenly I realized if there was a crisis or crime I was a sitting duck. Yikes!
I need to get prepared fast.
Carlos found this change in me a bit bewildering, I think. But he is a very laid back man and he allows me my crazy times, so as long as I don't buy myself a milk goat to keep in the kitchen, he is cool with all of this.
Anyways, I devised a plan to make myself into a more self-sufficient person.
First I need to drive. Working on it.
This will free more options for me later on.
I am searching for a house with land to homestead. Not too much land, I plan on urban-homesteading. Right now I live in a metropolitan area, near the bus routes, at the very axis, almost. If I don't drive, I remain constrained to this area, where I will pay premium prices for a small ugly house in a bad neighborhood. Once I have my own method of transportation, I will be able to choose almost any part of the island, so I will be able to get more land for less money.
I plan on getting a gun and learning how to use it. My husband is not comfortable at all with this part, but I think it's important. I will wait until I have my driver's license, though, because it is a matter of escalation. I don't want the gun if I can't handle myself with a stupid car.
Then comes the homesteading thing, and this is not as time and work intensive in Puerto Rico as in the United States. Here things grow all on their own. Spit a seed and you will have a giant beanstalk in a matter of days.
And classes. I want to take first aid classes and learn how to take care of things. But this is a while down the road, I know. Carlos does not have the time to take me to all these places and do all of these things, so everything depends on the driver's license.
For the moment I am working on my cooking. Storing food and water, just in case, because we just entered the hurricane season. There will be no takeout then, so I am trying to master a few recipes before then. My husband happily wolfs down whatever I put on his plate, so we make a good working pair.
First steps first, no?
Step one - cooking delicious food.
Step two - getting my wheels.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Am I going blind?
I first noticed something wrong on January 2008, when I got my apprentice driver's licence. When they show you the E's facing different directions. I aced that test, got my 20/20's but I had to strain for it.I never had to strain before.
Now, since at least this January I have been sort of suspecting I am not seeing clearly. I do not pay much attention to my surroundings anyways, and the loss was mostly on far things, so I was not overly worried. Then the fuzzyness crept nearer and I got the hibbi-jibies.
Now I can deduce what traffic signs say, because of the shape of the words, but the letters themselves are too unfocused to be deciphered. I have trouble seeing things that my bespectacled co-workers say: "Daaamn, woman! And you say you can't see that?"
I can't imagine anything worse than losing my sight. I am a reader. I would die!
And yes, I am aware there is a certain thing called Braille, but I would have to learn to read all over again, and meanwhile I would not be able to read.
Also, I have not yet seen an ophthalmologist. I have an appointment for July, it was the soonest I could get.
I am probably drowning in a glass of water. I have no blindness in my family, on either side. Still, I am anxious.
Maybe this is my body telling me not to drive.....
JUST KIDDING!!!!
Learning to drive
At this age of mine,(turning 30 in two weeks, if you must know) I am learning to drive.
Carlos takes me for a spin in a parking lot we know that is totally vacant on Caturdays. At first he stayed on the car giving me directions, but now he gets off and tells me to drive around a few times and return for him. It gives me more confidence. No more sharp indrawn breath when I make something stupid.
I am still having trouble judging distances, and it's not like I'm learning inside a ginormous-monstertruck- SUV. I am driving in a sedan. Small, compact, automatic transmission.
Still, everytime I turn right I misjudge the distance and either invade the other lane or jump the curve.
I am aware that I sound pathetic. I should have learned sooo long ago that it would be second nature to me. Hindsight is 20/20.
the guys at work tell me that I should get me a professional teacher. Learning with family and friends is harder because they love you and will not force you to go farther than you want to go at that moment, so you learn slooooowly. Or they get nervous easily and rattle your nerves too!
They tell me a real teacher would place me behind the wheel on day one, and we would go on a long-ish trip. Two hours or so. After three days of this, they say, anyone is ready for the test.
And that is scary as hell to me.
I will do it, but after I have passed a slightly smaller test Carlos devised for me.
You see, Carlos goes to work at 4:45 am and takes me to my job. At the time there is very little traffic.
There is some traffic, so I am not in my confort zone, but since I fear I might be a risk to others on the road, this is the best way to test me and give me confidence for the professional teacher.
I will be driving to work on Monday morning. After a week of this, I will be ready for a trip to Ponce and will be blogging about it!
Carlos takes me for a spin in a parking lot we know that is totally vacant on Caturdays. At first he stayed on the car giving me directions, but now he gets off and tells me to drive around a few times and return for him. It gives me more confidence. No more sharp indrawn breath when I make something stupid.
I am still having trouble judging distances, and it's not like I'm learning inside a ginormous-monstertruck- SUV. I am driving in a sedan. Small, compact, automatic transmission.
Still, everytime I turn right I misjudge the distance and either invade the other lane or jump the curve.
I am aware that I sound pathetic. I should have learned sooo long ago that it would be second nature to me. Hindsight is 20/20.
the guys at work tell me that I should get me a professional teacher. Learning with family and friends is harder because they love you and will not force you to go farther than you want to go at that moment, so you learn slooooowly. Or they get nervous easily and rattle your nerves too!
They tell me a real teacher would place me behind the wheel on day one, and we would go on a long-ish trip. Two hours or so. After three days of this, they say, anyone is ready for the test.
And that is scary as hell to me.
I will do it, but after I have passed a slightly smaller test Carlos devised for me.
You see, Carlos goes to work at 4:45 am and takes me to my job. At the time there is very little traffic.
There is some traffic, so I am not in my confort zone, but since I fear I might be a risk to others on the road, this is the best way to test me and give me confidence for the professional teacher.
I will be driving to work on Monday morning. After a week of this, I will be ready for a trip to Ponce and will be blogging about it!
Friday, May 29, 2009
SCARE
I got the scare of the year yesterday.
My husband usually picks me up from work, but he is also what we could call " congenitally retarded". Not as in dumb, I mean he is late for everything. Eeeeeeverything.
He goes out of work 4 hours before I do. So he goes home and falls asleep. I end up stranded. I have begged rides from almost everyone at work.
So, the other day he is not there to pick me up. He is not taking his phone. I figure, he's asleep and beg a ride.
When we are a few streets from home, I receive a call from my Father-in-Law. He and my husband work at the same place, in the same department, in different buildings but both buildings are facing each other. They cannot sneeze without the other learning all about it. " Hey, your son just sneezed. Is he ok?"
Anyways, so he calls me and asks me : " Hey Kiki, how is Carlos doing?"
"Sleeping, I think. I'm not home yet. What do you mean?"
He proceeds to tell me of how Carlos felt a sharp pain in his chest at around 10am, the paramedics were called, they took his pressure and vitals, and they rushed him to the hospital where they were checking his heart. That is the last thing he knows.
I promise to call him as soon as I get home.
My co-worker leaves me a few streets from home, and that has been the weirdest walk in my life. It was the slowest and the fastest one. It felt slow 'cause I need to get there NOW, and it is all I can do not to run like the dickens. It felt fast 'cause I saw nothing, I walked completely immersed in my head, did not experience the road.
I get home. His car is there so they let him go from the hospital and he must be allright. Right?
So why is my hand shaking?
He was sleeping.
Turns out the pain in his chest was muscular, caused by stress. They made a whole battery of tests and he was perfectly healthy. But they gave him a shot of muscle relaxant and that made him sleepy. He forgot to call me. Sorry.
But he had called his father and told him he was alright. He just omitted that part from his report. Arghhhh!
And then Carlos asks me, with a smug look on his face, enjoying this already : "Were you worried?"
"No way. I spent the walk home thinking how much money I could get by selling your stuff. I get home full of hopes and you have the bad manners to be alive! What a spoilsport!"
My husband usually picks me up from work, but he is also what we could call " congenitally retarded". Not as in dumb, I mean he is late for everything. Eeeeeeverything.
He goes out of work 4 hours before I do. So he goes home and falls asleep. I end up stranded. I have begged rides from almost everyone at work.
So, the other day he is not there to pick me up. He is not taking his phone. I figure, he's asleep and beg a ride.
When we are a few streets from home, I receive a call from my Father-in-Law. He and my husband work at the same place, in the same department, in different buildings but both buildings are facing each other. They cannot sneeze without the other learning all about it. " Hey, your son just sneezed. Is he ok?"
Anyways, so he calls me and asks me : " Hey Kiki, how is Carlos doing?"
"Sleeping, I think. I'm not home yet. What do you mean?"
He proceeds to tell me of how Carlos felt a sharp pain in his chest at around 10am, the paramedics were called, they took his pressure and vitals, and they rushed him to the hospital where they were checking his heart. That is the last thing he knows.
I promise to call him as soon as I get home.
My co-worker leaves me a few streets from home, and that has been the weirdest walk in my life. It was the slowest and the fastest one. It felt slow 'cause I need to get there NOW, and it is all I can do not to run like the dickens. It felt fast 'cause I saw nothing, I walked completely immersed in my head, did not experience the road.
I get home. His car is there so they let him go from the hospital and he must be allright. Right?
So why is my hand shaking?
He was sleeping.
Turns out the pain in his chest was muscular, caused by stress. They made a whole battery of tests and he was perfectly healthy. But they gave him a shot of muscle relaxant and that made him sleepy. He forgot to call me. Sorry.
But he had called his father and told him he was alright. He just omitted that part from his report. Arghhhh!
And then Carlos asks me, with a smug look on his face, enjoying this already : "Were you worried?"
"No way. I spent the walk home thinking how much money I could get by selling your stuff. I get home full of hopes and you have the bad manners to be alive! What a spoilsport!"
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Kiki-chan in Mirror Land
I am putting here a post by Crystal, mirroring it, because it seems she might need a little help if a rich man decides he wants to punish her for what she wrote in her blog.
I do not know the guy. He is a country singer and the nearest I have ever been to the genre is Dolly Parton in Nine to five.
But a bully is recognizabe anywhere in the world. They speak the international language of "my stick is bigger than yours".
Crystal, I just started to blog this month. I have no readers as yet. But I guess I can contribute to the cause a little exposure to the two or three lost souls that stumble into these parts of the woods.
I do not know the guy. He is a country singer and the nearest I have ever been to the genre is Dolly Parton in Nine to five.
But a bully is recognizabe anywhere in the world. They speak the international language of "my stick is bigger than yours".
Crystal, I just started to blog this month. I have no readers as yet. But I guess I can contribute to the cause a little exposure to the two or three lost souls that stumble into these parts of the woods.
The Completely True Brad Paisley Story and Other Things I've Meant To Post
I had this long, drawn out explanation going and then I read it and realized that I can sum it up in one sentence: I was a shit when I was a kid. I was my mom and dad's only child and their kids from previous marriages probably ended up getting the short end of the proverbial stick for that reason. That's not to say my childhood was a Disney movie, but I wasn't torn between two parents who lived on opposite ends of the state and stuck with a snotshit sister (that would be me) who was so lonely that she did everything short of set herself on fire to get attention. And I'm sure I considered it.
My sister, Leslie, is my dad's daughter from his first marriage. She had been the baby until he and her mom got divorced. They basically despised each other and then all of a sudden, a short time later, I arrived. On the infrequent occasions when I remember her coming to visit, my Dad had a hard time with the guilt that most weekend parents feel, she had a hard time communicating with him (and in all fairness, everyone did) and I was in the middle, jumping around like a monkey on meth. When we moved overseas, I got letters from her every once in a while and she tried really hard to keep in touch. Then as she grew older and her life moved on, the letters stopped. I don't think I was very good at answering them (sent me an email last year? I'll write back! Sure, I will!) and before I knew it, it had been almost twenty years since I had seen her.
My other sister, Lucy, had stayed in the U.S. when we moved to Kuwait and, since she was eight years older than me, by the time we came home, she was married and had a child. But since my dad was still with her mom, she was kind of stuck with me.
Needless to say, I missed having a sister. Between the age gaps, the distance and the emotional turmoil of being the daughters of different women we each fiercely loved and a father who had loved them both, Leslie and I didn't really have a great chance. I wondered about her often and I was saddened that I had never met my nieces and nephews.
One day after I moved, I came across an old address book I had been carrying around since I was a teenager. I had a number for Leslie from years before when my Mom had kept up with those kinds of things. On a whim, I called it and was surprised when my sister answered. We somehow fumbled our way through that first conversation and a little while later, I drove down to her farm in Franklin and found out, much to my surprise, that there is another woman out there just like me. She introduced me to her pot-bellied pigs, Donny and Marie and fainting goats and Bacardi 151 and homemade hangover remedies and I was in awe of how much I loved her (I also found out on a later trip that when rocks get hot enough, they make a sound much like a gun being fired. I have been in Memphis for too long because the first time I heard one, I hit the ground like Tupac). She had, like, eight kids at the time and was thin and blonde and beautiful and I STILL loved her.
There is a point to all of this. Hang in there.
Leslie is married to this great guy, Chad, who wants to have about a dozen more kids, much to the horror of her uterus. Together with his parents, they have/had a non-profit organization called U-Grow that targeted troubled kids in really unfortunate and sometimes awful situations. Chad is always working. Always. They had a petting zoo, a bunch of wonderful service Labs, climbing walls and all sorts of things that made their farm a fun, warm and active learning environment for these kids that sometimes didn't have anyone else who really gave a shit about them. They opened their home and some of the children grew up with them as a family. They cared, they worked their asses off, they didn't live for themselves and they inspired me to be a better parent.
Not long after I reconnected with Leslie, her Mom was diagnosed with bladder cancer after being told for months that there was nothing wrong with her. Sheila died in pain after the cancer spread, so quickly, and Leslie nursed her and cared for her until she finally passed away a short time later. Leslie was thirty-six and had a brand new baby. I wasn't the most comforting person during that time. I didn't know what to say and, "I'm sorry", seemed small and useless in the face of what she was enduring. I have always felt guilty for being the daughter that lived with our Dad and my sister was suffering and basically feeling like she had been orphaned. She moved on through it, rarely did I hear her cry or let on that she was in pain and she continued to be a fantastic mom even though I'm sure she wanted to curl up and sleep for months.
On the heels of that, the farm they rented was purchased by Brad Paisley. Franklin is a mecca of sorts for country singers because it neighbors Nashville and the hills and sprawling countryside are breathtaking. It's home to Tim McGraw & Faith Hill, Alan Jackson, Leann Rimes, just to name a few. For many reasons, the real estate pricing is astronomical and purchasing just wasn't an option for my sister and her husband. The farm they had lived on for almost a decade was a perfect compromise and even though the house was a hundred years old, it suited them. Leslie and Chad met Brad and his wife, the actress Kimberly Williams-Paisley and were relieved to find out that the huge piece of land they were buying wasn't out of interest in the old farm house. They wanted to build a house on the back side of the massive acreage and my sister and her husband were assured that they could continue to rent without any foreseeable problems. Basically, they would be living so far back from the farm house that it was as though they were living on another property. No problem, right?
Wrong.
Before Christmas, Brad Paisley's asshole manager came down (couldn't quite do the deed yourself, eh, Brad?) and informed my sister and her family that they had some ridiculously short time to be out of the house. Ten years of accumulating equipment for the non-profit foundation, climbing walls, a petting zoo complete with horses, pigs, chickens, goats, etc., several vehicles that had been donated and a giant barn full of stuff, but, hey, get the hell out! When my brother-in-law asked, in horror, "Hey man, haven't you ever heard the saying, 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'?" the asshole manager replied, "Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'He who has the the most gold makes the rules'?"
In desperation, the organization asked for a donation from the Paisley's to help cover the massive cost of moving and were met with silence. In a nutshell, Brad Paisley and his lovely wife single-handedly buried the non-profit organization. My sister and her husband were frantically searching for new homes for the animals and trying to find a way to save what they had built over the years. The animals were given away to various places because there was nowhere for them to go and the kids who depended on the happiness they found at that farm were faced with yet another disappointment in a lifetime full of them. Kim Paisley was on Oprah or some such thing a few weeks later harping about her involvement with Purina's charity and how she lovvvves dogs and WHATEVER, ALL THOSE ANIMALS AND KIDS SHIT ON.
U-Grow survived in name only and my sister never complained. She laughed about most of the ridiculousness that is the Paisley's and never got ugly or hateful. She moved on.
A couple of months ago, Chad lost the business he had been building while trying to keep U-Grow afloat. Les has been a devoted stay-at-home mom since her kids were little and now they are trying to keep food in their house as they suffer, again, for being nothing but great people in shitty circumstances. My niece is graduating and doing so without all the frills of a girl graduating high school. No senior pictures, no graduation invitations. My nephew had his sixteenth birthday yesterday and my sister called me and was heartbroken that it was going by without a present. The other three kids are young enough that they're still mostly oblivious to the danger around them. And at the pinnacle of my shitty sister career, Leslie turned 40 on Sunday AND I FORGOT. I didn't call her, I didn't send a card. Nothing. My dad forgot, WE FORGOT. I cannot believe how much of a dickweed I am.
And she started her period.
AND WE FORGOT.
Leslie, I know you don't read my blog on a regular basis, but I'm making you read through this novella. I want you to know how much I love and respect you and that as corny and Hallmark-y as it sounds, you're my best friend. I wish to God I could make all of this better for you, somehow, and I want you to also know that if I had a million dollars, I would give you at least a hundred thousand. (Because I have to help Mom retire and Dad's medical bills and college fund for the kids, that's not included in the hundred thou I'd give you, that's separate and I would want to give money to different charities and U-Grow, get that started back and if I said I'd give you the whole thing you'd laugh and say, "No you wouldn't. Liar.", and we both know I would blow that shit on about a hundred things that have everything to do with paying it forward and how much of a sap I am and we don't bullshit each other like that, am I right?)
I hope this makes you smile.
My sister, Leslie, is my dad's daughter from his first marriage. She had been the baby until he and her mom got divorced. They basically despised each other and then all of a sudden, a short time later, I arrived. On the infrequent occasions when I remember her coming to visit, my Dad had a hard time with the guilt that most weekend parents feel, she had a hard time communicating with him (and in all fairness, everyone did) and I was in the middle, jumping around like a monkey on meth. When we moved overseas, I got letters from her every once in a while and she tried really hard to keep in touch. Then as she grew older and her life moved on, the letters stopped. I don't think I was very good at answering them (sent me an email last year? I'll write back! Sure, I will!) and before I knew it, it had been almost twenty years since I had seen her.
My other sister, Lucy, had stayed in the U.S. when we moved to Kuwait and, since she was eight years older than me, by the time we came home, she was married and had a child. But since my dad was still with her mom, she was kind of stuck with me.
Needless to say, I missed having a sister. Between the age gaps, the distance and the emotional turmoil of being the daughters of different women we each fiercely loved and a father who had loved them both, Leslie and I didn't really have a great chance. I wondered about her often and I was saddened that I had never met my nieces and nephews.
One day after I moved, I came across an old address book I had been carrying around since I was a teenager. I had a number for Leslie from years before when my Mom had kept up with those kinds of things. On a whim, I called it and was surprised when my sister answered. We somehow fumbled our way through that first conversation and a little while later, I drove down to her farm in Franklin and found out, much to my surprise, that there is another woman out there just like me. She introduced me to her pot-bellied pigs, Donny and Marie and fainting goats and Bacardi 151 and homemade hangover remedies and I was in awe of how much I loved her (I also found out on a later trip that when rocks get hot enough, they make a sound much like a gun being fired. I have been in Memphis for too long because the first time I heard one, I hit the ground like Tupac). She had, like, eight kids at the time and was thin and blonde and beautiful and I STILL loved her.
There is a point to all of this. Hang in there.
Leslie is married to this great guy, Chad, who wants to have about a dozen more kids, much to the horror of her uterus. Together with his parents, they have/had a non-profit organization called U-Grow that targeted troubled kids in really unfortunate and sometimes awful situations. Chad is always working. Always. They had a petting zoo, a bunch of wonderful service Labs, climbing walls and all sorts of things that made their farm a fun, warm and active learning environment for these kids that sometimes didn't have anyone else who really gave a shit about them. They opened their home and some of the children grew up with them as a family. They cared, they worked their asses off, they didn't live for themselves and they inspired me to be a better parent.
Not long after I reconnected with Leslie, her Mom was diagnosed with bladder cancer after being told for months that there was nothing wrong with her. Sheila died in pain after the cancer spread, so quickly, and Leslie nursed her and cared for her until she finally passed away a short time later. Leslie was thirty-six and had a brand new baby. I wasn't the most comforting person during that time. I didn't know what to say and, "I'm sorry", seemed small and useless in the face of what she was enduring. I have always felt guilty for being the daughter that lived with our Dad and my sister was suffering and basically feeling like she had been orphaned. She moved on through it, rarely did I hear her cry or let on that she was in pain and she continued to be a fantastic mom even though I'm sure she wanted to curl up and sleep for months.
On the heels of that, the farm they rented was purchased by Brad Paisley. Franklin is a mecca of sorts for country singers because it neighbors Nashville and the hills and sprawling countryside are breathtaking. It's home to Tim McGraw & Faith Hill, Alan Jackson, Leann Rimes, just to name a few. For many reasons, the real estate pricing is astronomical and purchasing just wasn't an option for my sister and her husband. The farm they had lived on for almost a decade was a perfect compromise and even though the house was a hundred years old, it suited them. Leslie and Chad met Brad and his wife, the actress Kimberly Williams-Paisley and were relieved to find out that the huge piece of land they were buying wasn't out of interest in the old farm house. They wanted to build a house on the back side of the massive acreage and my sister and her husband were assured that they could continue to rent without any foreseeable problems. Basically, they would be living so far back from the farm house that it was as though they were living on another property. No problem, right?
Wrong.
Before Christmas, Brad Paisley's asshole manager came down (couldn't quite do the deed yourself, eh, Brad?) and informed my sister and her family that they had some ridiculously short time to be out of the house. Ten years of accumulating equipment for the non-profit foundation, climbing walls, a petting zoo complete with horses, pigs, chickens, goats, etc., several vehicles that had been donated and a giant barn full of stuff, but, hey, get the hell out! When my brother-in-law asked, in horror, "Hey man, haven't you ever heard the saying, 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'?" the asshole manager replied, "Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'He who has the the most gold makes the rules'?"
In desperation, the organization asked for a donation from the Paisley's to help cover the massive cost of moving and were met with silence. In a nutshell, Brad Paisley and his lovely wife single-handedly buried the non-profit organization. My sister and her husband were frantically searching for new homes for the animals and trying to find a way to save what they had built over the years. The animals were given away to various places because there was nowhere for them to go and the kids who depended on the happiness they found at that farm were faced with yet another disappointment in a lifetime full of them. Kim Paisley was on Oprah or some such thing a few weeks later harping about her involvement with Purina's charity and how she lovvvves dogs and WHATEVER, ALL THOSE ANIMALS AND KIDS SHIT ON.
U-Grow survived in name only and my sister never complained. She laughed about most of the ridiculousness that is the Paisley's and never got ugly or hateful. She moved on.
A couple of months ago, Chad lost the business he had been building while trying to keep U-Grow afloat. Les has been a devoted stay-at-home mom since her kids were little and now they are trying to keep food in their house as they suffer, again, for being nothing but great people in shitty circumstances. My niece is graduating and doing so without all the frills of a girl graduating high school. No senior pictures, no graduation invitations. My nephew had his sixteenth birthday yesterday and my sister called me and was heartbroken that it was going by without a present. The other three kids are young enough that they're still mostly oblivious to the danger around them. And at the pinnacle of my shitty sister career, Leslie turned 40 on Sunday AND I FORGOT. I didn't call her, I didn't send a card. Nothing. My dad forgot, WE FORGOT. I cannot believe how much of a dickweed I am.
And she started her period.
AND WE FORGOT.
Leslie, I know you don't read my blog on a regular basis, but I'm making you read through this novella. I want you to know how much I love and respect you and that as corny and Hallmark-y as it sounds, you're my best friend. I wish to God I could make all of this better for you, somehow, and I want you to also know that if I had a million dollars, I would give you at least a hundred thousand. (Because I have to help Mom retire and Dad's medical bills and college fund for the kids, that's not included in the hundred thou I'd give you, that's separate and I would want to give money to different charities and U-Grow, get that started back and if I said I'd give you the whole thing you'd laugh and say, "No you wouldn't. Liar.", and we both know I would blow that shit on about a hundred things that have everything to do with paying it forward and how much of a sap I am and we don't bullshit each other like that, am I right?)
I hope this makes you smile.
LOSER SISTER OF THE YEAR AWARD, 4 YEARS RUNNING!
(and that's Sharpie. Permanent. And I have to go to Wal-Mart. And I didn't fix my makeup or pluck my brows or anything for this picture. I'm shamed into showing everyone how crappy I look)
EDITED TO ADD: I almost forgot to mention the most incredible part...they were told they had to move because the house was being torn down so that Brad could build a bus barn for all his tour buses. As of right now, the house is still standing.
Here are the links to move this around the internet so that as many people as possible know what jackass's the Paisley's are:
Reddit
EDITED TO ADD: I almost forgot to mention the most incredible part...they were told they had to move because the house was being torn down so that Brad could build a bus barn for all his tour buses. As of right now, the house is still standing.
Here are the links to move this around the internet so that as many people as possible know what jackass's the Paisley's are:
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Political doom and gloom (is there any other kind?)
I am not smart enough to get all this economic stuff that’s on the news lately.
But it looks bad.
I see people in the net bemoaning the current rate of inflation, and how much it is about to raise.
And I think, in Puerto Rico we are screwed. You have no idea...
Our inflationary rates have always been way, way above the USA.
Same with the unemployment rates. Ours was 12% in January 2009.
The same date in the USofA, it was 7.6%. Topped off in April 2009 at 8.9%
And it is going to get worse.
The governor of Puerto Rico, Luis “Milhouse” Fortuño is planning on massive layoffs to prevent the collapse of our economy. Turns out the government is grossly overstuffed with employees that paid for their jobs with votes. Decades, possibly centuries of paying for political favors with confy government jobs. We call them "batatas politicas", political yams because you bury them in the ground and let them just grow there. No more effort necesary.
Anyways. We can’t pay for all of them, says Luis. So out they go.
This is the idiot.
Except I doubt the political yams are the ones that should be worried.
Noooo.
Living as I have lived in Puerto Rico all my life, I would wager the political nobodies would go first. You know, the ones that refuse to say or craftily avoid a direct answer when asked for their affiliation. They can't cry Discrimination, can they? But they are not that many, so out will go the guy with the PIP decal on the car, the lady with the pava earrings.
You know how it is in unions, right? When there has to be layoffs, seniority is all that matters. They could spend the day drinking beer and playing dominoes, but they have spent so many years with us that they have to stay.
Something similar. Our political critters will find a way to save their constituents, whether or not they are qualified, interested, or actually bothers to show up at the office.
The unemployment rate is going to spike quite sharply this year.
Which means there will be less revenue from sales and such…
Which means next year around he might feel forced to repeat the performance.
Way to go, Luis!
But it looks bad.
I see people in the net bemoaning the current rate of inflation, and how much it is about to raise.
And I think, in Puerto Rico we are screwed. You have no idea...
Our inflationary rates have always been way, way above the USA.
Same with the unemployment rates. Ours was 12% in January 2009.
The same date in the USofA, it was 7.6%. Topped off in April 2009 at 8.9%
And it is going to get worse.
The governor of Puerto Rico, Luis “Milhouse” Fortuño is planning on massive layoffs to prevent the collapse of our economy. Turns out the government is grossly overstuffed with employees that paid for their jobs with votes. Decades, possibly centuries of paying for political favors with confy government jobs. We call them "batatas politicas", political yams because you bury them in the ground and let them just grow there. No more effort necesary.
Anyways. We can’t pay for all of them, says Luis. So out they go.
This is the idiot.
Except I doubt the political yams are the ones that should be worried.Noooo.
Living as I have lived in Puerto Rico all my life, I would wager the political nobodies would go first. You know, the ones that refuse to say or craftily avoid a direct answer when asked for their affiliation. They can't cry Discrimination, can they? But they are not that many, so out will go the guy with the PIP decal on the car, the lady with the pava earrings.
You know how it is in unions, right? When there has to be layoffs, seniority is all that matters. They could spend the day drinking beer and playing dominoes, but they have spent so many years with us that they have to stay.
Something similar. Our political critters will find a way to save their constituents, whether or not they are qualified, interested, or actually bothers to show up at the office.
The unemployment rate is going to spike quite sharply this year.
Which means there will be less revenue from sales and such…
Which means next year around he might feel forced to repeat the performance.
Way to go, Luis!
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Agüeybaná
Agüeybaná was our old warrior king.
He fought to keep the Spaniards from taking this land, his land. Legend has it that he died early in battle from a bullet aimed at the gold guanín he wore on his chest as a status symbol. He died a failure, brought down by the very symbol of his heathen ways, his deification and impersonation of the Sun.
Legend has been enshrined in history books. It makes a powerful image.
Truth rarely does.
Agüeybaná was a family name. It belonged to the ruling family only. Personal names were something else altogether. They were mutable, temporary only.
The Tainos had a custom of exchanging names to cement good relations and family ties. If your name is X and mine is Y, let’s exchange them, and your family will be like mine, and mine shall be like yours. When the Spaniards first came, Agüeybaná the First, uncle and predecessor of the one we are talking about, called for a name exchanging ceremony with the newcomers. The ceremony was called a Guaitiao. He exchanged his own with Ponce de Leon. His nephew and heir, future Agüeybaná II, exchanged his own with Luis de Whatever. (This was read in history books, out of my reach at the moment. And I could not find the proper links to the net. So my research is not impecable today. )
Thereafter his name would have been Luis Agüeybaná.
According to the records, there was a Taino king called Luquillo or Luisillo who kept with the war after Agüeybaná’s death. He was also associated with the “Carib” revolt. At a certain point he brought the European population to less than 50, all huddled together in the city of
Weather. A mere roll of the dice.
Why do I care for this?
We are taught that Agüeybaná died a failure. He, often used as a symbol of our national spirit, was put out of action on the first round. Disregarding the evidence, we are told of his defeat, and the end of his line.
Just like in the Arthurian myth, the King is wounded and dying, and the kingdom dies around him.
There is a link between them. They are one and the same.
By killing our king, in story, if not if fact, they kill Borinken.
In the inner kingdom of a Boricua’s mind, the king has failed. He is wounded and dying; collapsing. And just like in the Arthurian myth, his land dies around him.
The answer?
The passing of the Grail.
A new king must come out of the mists to awaken the land to its glorious past and still more glorious future. The only hope is a hero who will take up the throne, cut the ties to the failed king and build a new kingdom out of old materials.
No one has proved pure of heart, yet.
And still, I wait for Persifal…
Thursday, May 21, 2009
House
As I've told you before, I am married. Been married for 2 years.
The thing is I am sick and tired of renting. We both work, we should be able to afford it. Carlos works in a government agency and is a Permanent employee, so if for some reason they fire him he can take them to the wringers. He has JOB SECURITY!
I think. The rules are being rewritten as we speak, with all this ressession this, depression that. We might be all going to hell in a laundry basket.
As for myself, after two years working as a temp in the medical equipment industry, I was hired as a regular employee. Mind you, during these two years they had to lay off 5% of their workforce, High Management orders. I saw some good people go. At least one of them is still working for the company as an outside resource or something.
After all of this, they opened up a position for me. I still can't decide if I am in more or less danger of getting the axe. The pay is good, though, and I think I will invest it on some preps for the End of the World.
I am trying not to be too optimistic just in case, but things are NOT looking gloomy. We have a reasonable expectation of monetary health.
We have no children.
We should be able to afford a friggin house.
I can imagine it completely. Blame it on my rural upbringing, but the most important part is the garden. I would have it fenced front and back.
I would take a heavy metal testing kit when we go to check out houses.Want to make sure I can eat what I produce.
On the front lawn would be the citrus trees. I have one small lemon tree that will take center stage. I found a sprouting seed inside a store bought lemon on the day Carlos and I married. Talk about a good omen. So I planted it in a little bucket. Two years. It is smallish, container grown, but looks healthy. Very symbolical.
Anyways, this front garden would hold the citrus. Lemons, oranges, mandarins, and Dekopon, a weird Japanese orange that should fit in very well, if I ever find a seller. So if the S ever does HTF, we will not die of scurvy, at least. Heh.
I once saw something I want to imitate. It was a grape vine, growing from one of those little strips of bare earth they leave in front of some urban plots, as if to convince someone that they have a lawn. Seriously, it was like two feet wide and five feet long. The owners planted the vine, then trained it to reach the roof of the house where they had built a trellis, so that the leaves would go up and the fruit hang down. Loved it.
I would have to check what varieties of grape do well in the
Passionfruit is easy. They take care of themselves.
On the backyard I imagine stacks of yucca, yams, manioc and other root vegetables. I saw this somewhere done with potatoes. They used old tires, filled one with earth, placed the seed potatoes, placed spacers and stacked the next tire on top of it. Rinse and repeat.
Potatoes would not work in PR. Our yearly weather pattern goes like this: Rain season, Storm season, Second rain season, and "dry" season. Not all that dry, really; only in comparison.
Anyway, this method is similar enough to the way our Taino indians grew their root crops. It should work.
Plantains and bananas, for sure. Cabbage. Maybe a bit of sugarcane. Should be great to give bits to children.
Maybe a few chickens, if the local codes allow them. If they don't, I'll get quiet chickens.
I talked about a goat day or so ago, and my husband looked at me like I was crazy. So maybe I'm taking my daydreaming too far.
Sigh. It would be good, though.
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