The Daily Blogtina

On Crushes

Dictionary.com defines Crush to be: “verb (used with object) 1.to press or squeeze with a force that destroys or deforms, verb (used without object) 11.to become crushed, and lastly as noun 15. Informal: a. an intense but usually short-lived infatuation b. the object of such an infatuation: Who is your latest crush?”  I love how they end their definition as “Who is your latest crush?”.  I’m not a stranger to crushes. Hell I’ve got crushes on celebrities, the butcher at the Armenian market, the guy at Antigua, and even the guy that draws blood at the Red Cross. For whatever whimsical reason they’ve attracted my attention. These particular crushes that I speak of aren’t deep seeded nor are they infatuations in the least. They’re just fun. Fun as in OH LOOK THE BUTCHER GAVE ME AN EXTRA PORK CHOP…He’s a CUTIE. Not as in I can’t think straight and my words evade me in said crush’s presence.

Today I realized something. I’ve got a crush. A blush inducing, deep seeded crush. The kind that makes me afraid to speak in my crush’s presence for fear I will make a blabbering idiot out of myself. I’m afraid that my sensibilities have escaped me. I daydream about little nothings. I hear his voice in my head and even then I’m mesmerized. I laugh at inside jokes only he would understand, and when he says my name — HE ACTUALLY SAYS IT RIGHT— I feel a pinch in me.

Oy. Vey. This no ok she say…to be continued.

Cuando Me Llueve me Lluvisna…

When it rains it pours…literally.  For the one soul that read my last post, thank you. You pretty much figured out that I am was miserable. I remain out of sorts and as I sit here typing this, the weather is one with my spirit. It’s gray and cloudy outside. It’s drizzling with a consistent ferocity that seems to scream sad silence at me.

I just came from a sit down with my only favorite man on the planet. By man I mean therapist. He’s adorable and even when he speaks points out harsh truths, I can’t help but grin. He’s right all the time. However it seems easier to take in when he says it. He has an effect on me and to be quite frank, I don’t mind it.

He has pointed out what I’ve come to agonizingly accept: I am codependent on someone whom, while they may love me, is also slowly killing me. I have never had any kind of boundaries or standards when it comes to relationships. This isn’t pertaining to just the men (or lack thereof) in my life…it also goes hand in hand with the people that I’ve been around my entire life: Mi Famy. I have yet to meet a woman of my background who has not had some familial issue. Moms, Dads, etc.

What it comes down to is that I need to get out of my situation as soon as possible. As a result of this epiphany, which came to light via a nasty, nasty verbal altercation in which words were hurled that are probably best kept behind closed doors during banking hours, I’ve cried, felt shame, curled into a ball, decided I was better than what I keep being reminded I am, and finally hitched up my big girl pants and set out to run. Literally.

If you were to have a conversation with the muscles that live on my lower appendages, they’d tell you that “Esa se cree muy muy”.  Loosely translated it means “She thinks she’s all that”.  Well they’re wrong. I know I am not all that. I simply am surviving right now.  I’m trying to make mental and financial ends meet and sometimes the exhaustion that has taken residence within me and grips onto my sanity so tightly it chokes me, only seems to disappear when I am out and running ( or at least my attempt at running).

I have some big changes lined up. I’m working at getting out of this hell. I’m praying a lot for peace within me, and I’m trying to change the life I’ve languished in for too long.

For now, it’s the best I can do. Run-walk-jog and pray to God that I keep on fighting the good fight.

On Fighting the Good Fight…

Yo, ‘sup? I am sure that there is an English teacher from my past rolling in her grave because of my salutation.  Please forgive me, Mrs. Bachand. I promise I know better and I absolutely do not begin 99% of my written communications that way.

Well…here I am. There you, my dear and loyal readers, are.  So to the one person that may per chance glance upon this so aptly titled post…hi. 

I’m in one of those moods. The kind that call for ellipses on an offensive level…….copious amounts of Jameson and Ginger Ale……movies spoken in a language I can’t and don’t want to understand rife with pasty white butt cheeks and not enough cursing in a language I can speak.

I am frustrated at myself…or is it with myself? What is it I tell my students? OH YES…good readers ask themselves if they understand what they read…NEWSFLASH….I DON’T. In Spanish the saying is somewhere along the lines of “Ni yo misma me aguanto”. I can’t remember if there is a diaresis or an umlaut over the u so please if it bothers you, call Professor Guerrero (ERHS reference…yes I went there)……….

I think I have reached a crossroad(not in the mood to pull a Frost and revisit 12th grade English) my breaking point.  An obnoxious breaking point at that, filled to the brim with poor choices, offensive grammar, and downright disdain for the wash-rinse-repeat cycle.  I don’t know if it’s the season changing or if it’s anxiety come up in the form of burn out I just know Im not happy.

I’m tired. When does it end? Yes…that there is my whine…here comes the cheese: How do I find my nice again? If you find my nice, send her back. At least when my nice is present, I can stand to face the day and there is no growling or an abundance of offensive ellipses present.

P.S. I really do mean my NICE and not my niece. I said offensive grammar not poor spelling. I’m not in the business of misplacing children that don’t belong to me.

On Parenting…

It’s a blessing and a curse to have a child that is strong willed, independent, fiercely opinionated, and smarter than you are. Sometimes I wonder if I’m coming or going with the Girl.

I love her to bits and am at a loss when she is not around. That being said, some days…I need out—if only to regain my strength from fighting the adult in my 10 year old.

I’m not complaining about being her mother. I am venting about the battles I take on when it comes to friends, birthdays, lip gloss, boyz, Facebook, “MY OWN PERSONAL EMAIL ADDRESS MOTHER”, leftover lunches that have simmered in her backpack (“How is that a problem, MOTHER?”), and wanting to constantly watch movies that are technically inappropriate for her age—yet because of her mad comprehension skillz…she absolutely adores.

Le Sigh…I haz a tired mind.

As of Late…

It would seem that as of late, I find myself wanting to sit and write. Write what, you ask?  Well that would be the pickle. I myself have no clue. I just know that there is an itch to write something, anything even, and I have yet to scratch. I bought a book the other day merely because it jumped out at me, “Writing Down the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg. I sat and devoured the book within two hours of having purchased it.

I took her advice and bought myself a snazzy notebook that felt right (no pun intended) to me. It isn’t glitzy, it isn’t glamorous, it just is. I have a closet full of pens yet none of them have ever inspired me to let the words flow freely. Maybe that is my inner office supply addict vying for a reason to purchase a “feels right” to me kinda pen.

With all these purchases having been made, you would think that at some point I might have sat down and just let the words flow. Well, I sat. I sat some more. I stood little. There came nothing but blanks. I blanked. I blanked and then baked. “Those were some pretty rad brownies, R might like these” is about the snazziest thing I wrote that day in my notebook. Lame.

Flash forward to today. My Professor on Women in America passed back an assignment. It was an essay I had to write on growing up as the second generation daughter of Mexican parents and my analysis on life, love, gender, sexuality, and American culture.  That paper tested my internal wits. Do I censor, do I not censor? Do I reveal what I really think about my childhood? Do I sugarcoat it and paint it out have been mariachis and pinatas all the time? I couldn’t. That would have been a lie bigger than is my bra.

So I wrote. From the heart. I wrote from the eyes of my youth. A youth spent hidden  in corners to avoid battle scenes in the home, fights between mother and grandmother, Budweiser fueled moods, jugular pulsations, ocular situations gone wonky, and the books that soothed me.  I’m not about to go into what specifically I wrote about whom nor is there a copy available for you chismosos (love you all!) out there to set your eyes on.

 Suffice to say that I wrote down the bones and then some and I earned a grade I am proud of. For thirty seconds, ok three minutes,  my eyes watered. Flora and Junie, tingled. I was ecstatic and something in me was renewed.

I realized that while I have the desire to write again, nothing as conventional as a “feels right” to me notebook is enough to encourage the words to flow. No manhunt for the world’s perfect pen will make me a writer.  It simply has to come from the heart, as corny as that sounds. Gag.

I don’t know if there is writing in my future. By writing I mean more than signing field trip slips for the Cherry Blossom and or epic absence notes. It would seem that all along i’ve had this internet space with room to write and never really did.

What I know for now is that for me writing is a mixed bag. There are good days when everything I write (including epic notes) are a highlight. I float on proverbial air and think that I could be the author of the next great American novel.  Then, there are bad days when everything is tinged with madness. I doodle bad words, wish death by fire to everyone on paper, make lists of what lunch meats and Itunes songs are needed to make the Cherry Blossom’s life a little less insane, and sign over my paycheck in chunks to creditors and my landlady. Those are the days that I don’t see rhyme or reason to writing.

As with anything in life, i’ll have to see where this leads me. For today, I’ll take my writing victory and  the reintroduction of myself as a writer/blogger.  My name is Juanita and I am a writer.  Welcome to my playground.