Death is Everywhere

This week was El Dia de los Muertos and I had thought about writing a piece about my abuelita as a sort of ofrenda.  I was going to talk about her love of jello (pronounced “yellow”…that is how she offered it…”Would you like some yellow?”), the fact that she never learned to drive, and how she lived in the United States for 50+ years and never spoke English, her constant singing, and so on.  But the truth is I didn’t know her very well, because I have lived in the United States (off and on) for 35 years and don’t speak Spanish.  And even though The Day of the Dead is not about death, but remembering those who came before us it seems that for me death is everywhere this week and I can’t seem to escape it.

I realized as I struggled this week with the issue of euthanasia that I needn’t bother with creating an altar for my abuelita, because I already have one for my cats.  I have a dresser in my room with porcelain Siamese cats reclining, sleeping, smirking and doing whatever these majestic creatures do (eat, drink, sleep and you know what) and this collection did not start out as an altar, but since the passing of my kitties JoJo and Yaz it has become one.  Nestled amongst these figurines are two boxes with the remains of my two cats and this week my 15 year old cat, Cleo, was almost added.

Cleo, the matriarch of my cats and my baby before I had babies is dying and as I shuffled her between vets getting first, second, and third opinions I struggled with the question of her death.  She is an older kitty and I have been mentally preparing myself for a few years that this day was coming, but it never occurred to me that it would be now or so difficult.  Her spirit seems willing, but her body does not.  Or is it wishful thinking on my part that she can at least recover long enough for G to see her off when it is time to send her to the spirit in the sky. Fanciful, I know.  But there has been many tears dropped this week and lots of long telephone calls with many discussions.  Yesterday I sat in the vets office signing paperwork concerning Cleo’s remains when she made the effort to hobble to me and began purring when I began to pet her.  I couldn’t pull the plug, sign her death warrant, not that day.  After assurances from the vet that she is not in pain I took her home.  Cowardly, perhaps.

I guess it’s not surprising that since I have spent my time crying and contemplating death that I should feel overwrought about the news at Fort Hood.  I readily admit I am an emotional wreck this week.   But even if I wasn’t so emotional, I would still be shocked and crying over this latest tragedy.  This morning I was reading the short 2-3 sentence summaries of the victims in The Denver Post and the last one I read was about Staff Sgt. Justin Decrow.  His summary read as follows:

Decrow, 32, was helping train soldiers on how to help new veterans with paperwork.  He had been stationed in South Korea for a year and was waiting for a position to open up in Fort Gordon, Ga., so he cold move back with his wife and 13-year-old daughter.

And just like that I was reminded of how random death is and how precious our time together.  I don’t mean to sound like I am preaching a sermon, but all week I have been dealing with the question of death over a loved one as well as dealing with other domestic issues that normally arise and aren’t usually so emotionally charged when you have your significant other with you.  And up until Thursday there was a military spouse like myself who was dealing with everyday life and after a year in Korea wondering when her husband was going to be able to swing an assignment back to her and her daughter.  There are several lessons to be learned hear and I hear them all, but right now I am too busy crying and thanking my lucky stars that for this week death has been alluded.

The Pedo King Lives and He’s “Powered by Frijoles”

I love bumper stickers.  They are a welcome reprieve from another trip in the car driving to yet another errand or lesson.  Sometimes they make me giggle or they are just as likely to get me seething; but they always get me thinking or remembering.  Today for instance, I was leaving the gym as I do everyday and I look over at another car and see the bumper sticker of the day—”Powered by Frijoles.”  Instantly I am reminded of the time my family and I trekked across the border of Laredo into Mexico.  My stepdad is a  very polite person and makes it a point to learn and use the local language of whatever country he is visiting.  So while we were in Mexico he used his gracias, por favor, and perdon extensively.  Except for one problem…when we overheard him saying, “perdon;” we heard “pedo.”  When my mother asked him what he had said and he repeated,”pedo.”  We died laughing and it took a while,before we could sputter an explanation of how the word pedo means fart in English.  “Oh,” he replied, “No wonder they moved out of my way.”  Hence his title as the “Pedo King.”

I loved my little Metro Geo and the sticker it sported…”Pagan and Proud.”  I always expected a rock through the window for that one, but instead one day I came out to my car to find someone had planted another bumper sticker underneath my wiper that said, “Goddess Bless.”  I had to smile and just shrugged when later on that day I lost that bumper sticker.  It was enough for me to know that others shared my appreciation for, “My karma ran over your dogma.”

And another bumper sticker that got me giggling was the “Honk if you have seen La Llorona.”  For those of you who don’t know who she is, let me just say she is up there with the chupacabra, the donkey lady, and the boogey man.  Scary stuff, but funny all the same.

What goes around, comes around. Or Karma revisited.

I had a boss once who was a real miserable, inflexible woman.  And a lot of people quit because of her, myself included.  I tried to file a complaint against her, but the higher-ups grinned and nodded and blew me off.  Years later I bumped into a co-worker from the past and learned that this woman had been fired.  I don’t know the circumstances as to what or why, but karma had finally nipped her in the butt.

For the most part I blissfully cruise through life believing that somehow those who  have wronged me will get their just rewards even if I am not there to witness it and smirk.  However, today is one of those days when karma has handed me a gift and although the CEO of Bank of America can’t see my smirk he can read my blog about my troubles with BOA a few months ago and know that I feel justice has been served.  I hope he saved all the money from the fees I had to pay, because the no salary-no bonus thing is really going to suck.

But then again he probably has a financial portfolio with savings galore that equates to fifty-billion years worth of our annual income.  And the scale’s tip once again.

Karma

I try to live my life the same way I eat my meals–well-balanced.  I am a huge proponent of organized-chaos, yin and yang, do unto others as you would have those do unto you, so on and so forth.  All week long I have been thinking about karma and how everything happens for a reason.  Or so I tell myself.  Monday morning kicked off this stream of thought as I drove past my morning workout (the gym) to my annual doctor’s appointment (I was given a clean bill of health after having missed my daily dose of blood, sweat, and tears—balance, right?).  A pleasant surprise awaited me as I walked into the Buckley Clinic and was greeted by the happy scentsation of Starbuck’s coffee.  I promptly asked for a small cup of cafe, pulled out my wallet, and was cheerfully told my coffee was free-it was their first day open!  I thought, “Nice.”  But then I looked down at my two-year old’s expectant face and his chubby hand pushed his sippy cup into mine and he said,”Leche, please.”  Okay, fair is fair.  So I grabbed him a milk from the cooler and promptly paid a $1.60 for 1 cup of 1% milk.  My happy bubble was quickly popped as I realized that I had scored a free cup of joe, but had bought a cup of milk for 28 cents less than what a WHOLE GALLON of milk would have cost me.  But witnessing the excitement a cold glass of leche can inspire in my kiddo rapidly restored my equilibrium.  It’s the small things in life—another witty creed I live by.

Was that when the dinosaurs were alive?

Nothing cries passing of time like hearing my six and two year old scream/singing, “Hey, teachers!  Leave those kids alone!”  And then asking, “Mom, can you repeat that song?”  Yeah, Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” was my favourite song when I was in kindergarten and I remember cruising along in my parents silver Buick with the wine coloured upholstery (a real pimp mobile) yelling from the backseat, “We don’t need no education!”

My gym instructor sometimes makes passing comments about how certain songs were from certain times in  her past.  This morning she was talking about how our shoulders song—AC/DC’s, thunder or something or another song (Forgive me, I don’t know the title.  I was a punker not a heavy metal queen.)—was played at her Homecoming.  A snide commentary about her age, I guess.  Although she is more fit than most twenty year olds.  But I had to laugh  when she said her kids asked her if her Homecoming was, “When the dinosaurs were alive?”  And all she could do was reply, “Yeah, that was when the dinosaurs were alive.”

Hormones are Raging

and not in the way that you think.

Have you ever seen that scene from The Breakfast Club where Bender removes a screw from the door resulting in a very mad principal which leads to the whole conversation about how “screws fall out all the time”  and then leads to a OK-Corral showdown which ends in a “don’t mess with the bull, you’ll get the horns?”  Yeah, that scene is played out a lot in my house between my six year old and I.  There are many theories as to why my daughter and I are clashing…some popular ones are: 1.  She’s a “daddy’s girl.”  2.  We are two peas in a pod.  My mom laughs (or cackled) and says, “She’s just like you when you were that age.”  3.  We are all at heightened amounts of stress and if I had to guess what my stress level is I would say red.  4.  Or I am just a bad mom and should have my parenting license revoked.

It could be all of these or none of these reasons, but I am a proactive person and I have enrolled in two parenting courses being offered for free through the school district.  Plus the “free child care provided” helped; and the “free dinner” for one of the classes definitely enhanced the idea .  The first course that I am taking is entitled “Working Successfully with Chronically Inflexible, Easily Frustrated, Explosive Students” (I think it should have been “Explosive Parent”) and despite the psyco-babble that has been thrown my way I have hopes for a harmonious home.

I am a big believer in signs or “coincidinks” as I call them and twice this week I have come across articles in the paper that have pointed to me that I am in the right direction.  The first was on Monday when I read a short blurb about a study that found that children who grew up in homes where there was a lot of fighting ( between the parents, between the parents and child(ren), lots of rows in the home, period) tended to be low self-esteem slackers in their thirties.  Unemployed and still living at home, which probably leads to more rows.

The second article was a short essay in the YourHub.Com by a stay-at-home Mom from Evergreen entitled, “Sometimes I feel like a bad mom.”  And let me tell you she was singing my song when she wrote:

But then, my wonderful  child was replaced with a loud, temperamental, crazy one.

Our relationship was stressed and I stressed over our changing relationship.

I didn’t know how to handle my temperamental child and keep my sanity and dignity.

I cried–a lot.

I asked for help…a lot…and things got better.

So there it is…hope from one mother to another that things will get better.

Addendum, Ad nauseum

It’ s a good thing I can laugh at myself…because I realized this morning as I was munching my breakfast taco that I wrote Teddy Roosevelt and not Franklin Roosevelt when referring to the “fireside chats.”  However, complaining about the presidential address to school children is even more ignorant than my goof.  And if those parents pull their kids from school to prevent them from hearing President Obama’s scary message about the importance of education their kids will be making equally goofy mistakes.  So there!

Rant and Rave and a can of worms.

I blog all the time.  In my head that is.  I compose, I edit, I title, but I don’t always publish—that is saved for the days when I can jolt myself out of my stupor on the couch and actually see fit to type what I have been writing in my head all day long, every day.  A minor victory.   Most of the time I am revising replies to something I have read in the editorial page which I love to read.  For example, I have been following all this brouhaha concerning the presidential address to school children on Tuesday and I keep thinking to myself, “Really.”  Come on people, I respect your right to disagree with the president or whatever, but is there really nothing more serious to be complaining about?  I wonder if Teddy Roosevelt’s “fireside chats” stirred this much controversy?   But this is the United States and it is what it is and they have the right to ignorantly believe that their children will be converted to “liberal” thinking.  If that is the case I would like to know what I am doing wrong,  because my six year old has a knack for missing the big picture, honing in on the minor details that I hope would be missed, and questioning every single aspect of everything.  Sounds like someone easily brainwashed, right?

I can’t help but wonder if these same parents who are threatening to pull their children from school are also the same people who blithely wander through life not worrying about how to pay for their next doctor’s appointment or whether or not their 21 year old kid brother is going to make it out of Afghanistan unharmed or alive.  Which leads me to my next point…I am by no stretch of the imagination an expert as to the details of what is being proposed for health care reform.  Come to think of it there are so many proposals, details and outright rumors that I don’t see how anyone can claim to be an expert on what is going on with this issue.  But the one thing that I keep hearing is “socialized medicine,” and the venom that accompanies this term is frightening.

I guess I am the victim of socialized medicine since my health care is provided by the military.  I am good with that with the small exception that my  husband is now half-way around the world for a year in order for us to enjoy this socialized medicine.  But hey, the last time I checked the United States still has a volunteer force and anyone else who is concerned about health care is welcome to join the military as well.  Furthermore, I didn’t make it my mission in life to study the British NHS, but my British friends never really had any complaints about their health care system and the option to go private was always there.  Sure, only the privileged can afford private medicine, but that is always the case with money.  And isn’t that the antithesis of “socialized medicine?”

Besides, now that we are all complaining about something why don’t we complain about the GEORGIA man who complained about a crying two year old and then slapped her.  This one is near and dear to me since I was personally attacked by an equally grumpy looking old man for my two year old’s tantrum in a store—(See very first blog for details of my own irate man story).  Like many other parents across America, I have to agree with this one…that man would not be standing if it had been my child he laid a hand on.  In fact I was wondering what my mug shot would look like, because no matter what they never seem flattering.

And now that I have ranted and raved and opened a can of worms with my politics or lack thereof I can blissfully sleep and dream of ignorance.

Home and Hearth

It’s the last day of August and I don’t care what anyone says I have seen the signs.  The signs of my favourite season of the year that is…fall, autumn, changing of the leaves, harvest time, etc.  Yesterday I raked my first piles of leaves (there will be several more of these sessions) and I  pondered if it was my wishful mind that was seeing a faint redness in the leaves which would mean that I have seen the end of one season and have only three more to go before my hubby comes home.  G didn’t believe me when I told him that fall was on its way, but this morning I saw a sapling with glorious Merlot leaves swaying on the roadside.  I love this time of year!

However, as I was raking  the leaves to OUR trees in OUR backyard and admiring the two sunflowers that we managed to grow and the pumpkins that may or may not see fruition– due to a bad case of mold that ran rampant when we were sweating it out in San Antonio over a week ago–I realized that I may not be here next year to rake the leaves.  I don’t know where we will be and that is not sitting well with me.

My husband and I both have snail tattoos and this much despised and eaten creature has become something of a family mascot for us.  I like to tell people it is because we are a military family and we carry our home with us.  My husband just likes the cylindrical pattern of the snail shell.  We have always been Bedouins, G and I.  Pitching a tent wherever the mission sent him and allowed me to go and before that as military brats.  And the sense of adventure has never failed us, but this time I don’t want to leave and this impending PCS has me wanting to pitch a fit.  Our plan was to spend the next 4-5 years here in Colorado and then retire to San Antonio, but this remote to Korea without the reward of a follow-on of our choice is really putting a damper on this plan.  And to further complicate things I don’t want to retire to San Antonio after all these years of pining.  I like Colorado–which is strange.  Because I can’t see myself as a Coloradoan.

The question of home and hearth is further made complicated when I think about that expression:  “You can’t go home.”  As I was driving on 35 in San Antonio I saw a huge billboard for Shoneys and I realized that as much as I have grown away from Texas I will always be a Texan.  A Texan by accident it’s true, sense I am sure I don’t have to mention I wasn’t born or even raised there—wait a minute!  Why am I a Texan again?   Shoneys is a grease spoon mostly found in the South up through Ohio.  But the thing is they don’t have them here and I associate them with Texas.  Just like I associate Fat Tire, Old Chicago, and clean, green living with Colorado.

So as I contemplated whether I should plant some more garlic and I raked my leaves and felt sorry for myself I realized that as always home is where my heart is (clicque I know) and that even though I might not be here next year at least I would be with my husband.  And that was something to look forward to—unless we end up at Minot, North Dakota.  A long standing joke between us that wouldn’t be so funny if it comes true.

Happy Birthday, Boscastle?

Life has a funny way of reminding you of things whether it is to do something or just to pause and smell the caffeine.  I have been toying for weeks with the idea of posting a former travellog/journal entry of mine from a visit that my significant other, my daughter, andI made (no second child at that time) to Cornwall, England.  I thought I would post this blast from the past as a tribute to my hubby of better (or worse) birthdays than the one he is currently spending away in South Korea today.  But what can I say?  My first life reminder came in the form of not being able to find the original handwritten memoir after remembering that the majority of my scribblings have been immortalized on a now-defunct computer that is pining away in the closet.  “Oh, n0.  I don’t need anything off my computer,”  I told my husband as he laboriously set up my new one.  I am so not tech-savvy that even if I was ambitious enough to try and retrieve the stuff myself —it would be a catastrophe on a different level other than the one I am about to relay.

So, life continues to spin its web and I brought my laptop with me so that I could post this oh-so-special tribute to my hubby while I am away from home and sweltering in drought-stricken San Antonio.—  Another clue to where I am leading with this.—  However, once again I am having technical difficulties and can’t get the wi-fi connection that I need to use my laptop at my parents house and I am using a desktop instead (the horror!).  The other equation to life’s lil reminders came in the form of Discovery Channel’s “Raging Planet.”  My parents were watching this program last nite and the current rage was floods-or flash floods to be more precise-something San Antonio could use desperately right about now.  I paused, stared at the TV and boasted:  “Yeah, that was how Boscastle was like…”  Not even five minutes later my parents yell, “Hey, they are showing Boscastle.” 

For my husbands 32nd birthday I planned a surprise mini-break to Cornwall or more specifically Boscastle–where  Tintagel, the legendary castle of  King Arthur resides.   We spent five hours in the car driving from our home in the peaceful Cotswalds (imagine the bird-tweeting music of a scenic woodland scenario) to the temultous English coastline known as Cornwall and checked into our in-the-middle of where? Bread and Breakfast before heading off to lunch in Boscastle.  We had lunch in an old restaurant (see future posting of retrieved original story) and headed off to the Witch Museum.  A must see that is no longer there.  After the dark, stuffy musuem we walked out onto the coastline in a light mist.  Luna and I wandered about as Daddy explored the crevices of the rocky coast for a bit.  As we walked back I noticed that the water of the little inlet that we had passed was getting stronger and was no longer a peaceful, stream of water.  Although alarm bells were not quite ringing, I remember thinking how quickly all of this could change and how stupid people were for getting too close to the water.  You don’t live in San Antonio without learning the dangers of flash flooding. 

It wasn’t until we stopped in the tourist shop that my spidey instincts kicked in as Greg and I heard the shopkeepers talking, phones ringing and the words “sand bags” being bandied around.  At that point Greg and I decided to leave–and he could add to this, but for some reason we decided to start making our way up hill instead of trying to head back to the B and B.  I could be wrong, but I think it had something to do with being hell-bent on seeing Tintagel, 100-year flood or not.  The water was quickly rising, but once again, being from San Antonio we weren’t too alarmed for the opposite reason—we have seen worse.  But I remember being amazed and finding it strange as I saw ordinary household items flowing out of homes and stores and down the street.  This is when things began to turn bad. 

We made it uphill, but quickly found ourselves having to turn around in every direction we went.  Roads were being closed and cars were quickly finding themselves stranded and in some cases washed over.  Realizing that Tintagel wasn’t going to happen we started to slowly try andmake our way back downhill, but soon found ourselves also unable to do that as the waters were now rising and moving quickly downstream.  As we pulled over with other stranded cars I started making escape plans in my head and unbuckled the little one in her car seat as I frantically squashed scenes of trying to unhook her car seat underwater in my head.  It was finally dawning on us what we were dealing with and how there really wasn’t much we could do other than sit put and hope for the best.  Luckily, it was right at this time that the owner of the field we were parked against opened up his gate and allowed our car and several others to pull into his field and out of the fast moving and rising stream.  Now in relative safety we were finally able to see what was going on in Boscastle below us.

We watched in amazment as Britain’s “largest emergency rescue since WWII” took place and people were being airlifted from rooftops and cars were being swept out to sea.  Mostly the cars from the car park we had just exited a short time before.  And all I can say is that it is a shaky feeling when you realize that you are part of a historical moment and surviving someting  awesome as Mother Nature at her finest. 

Somehow we made it back to our B and B, but not without it’s own trials and tribulations (namely a flooded out car and flat tire).  We decided to cut our losses and left the next day.  And although it wasn’t the birthday that I had planned for my husband it was one of the better ones, because we were together and we were doing things that we like to do.  Happy Birthday, Honey!  May the next flood be better!