Three Things That Went Well Today...And Why.

1. I had a really good talk with Sabrina, and got some new strategies for overcoming my obstacles in life. Also reframed some things that had been bothering me. This happened because I was contemplative about how I've been feeling and also had a seeking heart to find better ways of doing things. I opened up my heart and was vulnerable. I spoke authentically. And when you do that, I think it touches people's hearts, and they want to help if they can. Sabrina suggested reading "Flourish" and trying this exercise from the book. So here I am...writing down 3 things that went well today and why. And I plan on doing this for a while.

2. I took several bags of trash out. Practically filled up the trash can. I decided that I would rather have these cluttery things gone from my bedroom immediately, and so I cleaned off the windowsill, and went around my room gathering up things that I knew were trash, and took them out to the cans immediately. It went well because I didn't think too much about it, I just took action and did it ASAP.

3. Made plans to see two of my friends tomorrow in SF. I called them, and FB'ed them, and extended an invite. It went well because I reached out and made a concrete plan.

An Evening In With The Hounds

J-Lo came bounding into my bedroom tonight, proudly carrying the dried tortilla I gave to her this morning, after it fell on the floor while making breakfast. "Come here Pretty Girl." Her brown eyes darted in my direction but she didn't move. Skimper-Scamper came merrily over into the circle between my legs, where I had patted the bed cover and invited Ms. Lo. I crawled down to the foot of the bed and encircled the sleek elegant dog in my arms. She needed love. I hugged her, laying my head on her backside and scruffed up her neck the way she likes. She moaned at me, like she wanted something or was not quite happy with the situation with the puppy, but I just kept on loving on her and telling her what a good dog she was. I leaned down and inspected her tortilla, half-eaten, and quickly becoming brittle and air dried. I broke off a small piece and offered it to her, but she didn't want it. The tortilla had become more of a trophy. Kind of like a shiny red toy fire engine that one kid gets to flaunt in front of the other. When she turned away from the morsel, I offered it to Cecino. He voraciously munched away at it, immediately drawing the attention of the Whippet. She moaned again, as if to tell me how dismayed she was that I gave it to him. I snuggled up again to her and told her it was all right. She could share. Slowly, the puppy came gently creeping up on my right side. At first he just sat there quietly, intently eyeing me and Ms. Lo. Then he crept forward some more gently sniffing her feet while I pet her. Eventually, he got close enough to nose her tummy, and then he did this thing that I had seen him do before, but didn't understand until now. His tongue came out and he gently prodded her nipple, attempting to urge out some milk. She moaned again, this time at him. He stopped. But came back and tried kissing her tummy-tum again. I had seen him do this, but I always thought it was just a gentle sign of affection. I was never close enough to notice that he was lapping at her teat. J-Lo's never had puppies. And her nipples are barely even there. But this puppy was trying to suckle at her belly. I had witnessed him air-suckling in his sleep before. Poor little one. Poor Ms. Lo too! No wonder she gets snappy with him sometimes. Dear dear puppies. How I do love you.

I have been digging out things from my freezer, working my way through the still edible yet mysterious items. Last evening, I boiled up 4 Cornish game hens. I had bought a bunch of them FIVE years ago! My mom and I had our share, but the last 4 were buried deep in the back of my freezer taking up valuable real estate. The hens had been wrapped in that thick industrial shrink wrap that turkeys come in, and then packaged and wrapped again. They didn't have freezer burn, and smelled just fine when I defrosted them. But still, five years is a long time, and I knew that I wasn't going to be willing to eat them. So I boiled them up for the hounds. They know this drill because every once in a while, when I get a good deal on chicken (usually thigh meat), I'll boil up a big stock pot of it for them and then shred the chicken, discarding the skin and bones. Then I'll take the chicken stock and make a big pot of rice for them. Monica taught me how to do this. It's great! And the dogs love it. I mix it in with some of their dry kibble and some cottage cheese. I fed them the feast last night. From the looks of it, they'll be feasting for a while on the two stock pots of home made dog food. 

The Comfortable Feeling of Being Known and Loved

She had a way of making you feel comfortable in your own skin, and just feel good. I remember days, times, being  together, just *being*. Laughing. Being known and loved. And feeling so content and full of joy that it seemed that the both of us just shined. Sunshine just shooting out of us from all angles.

We glowed together. 

I miss her. It's been over a year now, and I still miss her. I feel haunted. I went from not being able to dream of her, and wanting so desperately to be able to, just to be able to hug her and laugh with her, tell her I love her one more time, and to hear it from her; to dreaming of her almost every night. That's something only Mac knows about me. -And now you. I dream of my dead mother every night. In my dreams she comes to me. Sometimes I remember that she's dead in my dreams, and sometimes I don't. But always, we are together, and I feel the love.

Living in her old house, my childhood home, I realize that in some way, my heart has been waiting for her to come home. My family has been in this house so long, I know every sound. I even know the sounds of the cars in front of my house. I remember a younger me, sitting in my room; I would hear the muffled sound of my mothers Volvo come up the street and park in the driveway. Sometimes, she would stay in her car a few minutes longer enjoying the song that was on the radio. And then, I would hear her car door shut, and she would bounce up the front walk and steps, keys jingling, the all too familiar sound of her opening the lock in the door, and then bounding in the house. She'd call out to me and come find me, fresh faced and happy -always happy to see me. She loved coming into my room and sitting on my bed and catching up with me. I loved it too. I would do the same thing to her. When I would come home, I would find her and come sit on her bed. We'd talk about our days. The people in it. The things that frustrated us, or made us feel real good. She worked at the post office in Sonoma, as a window clerk. Sonoma's a small town. And everybody knows everybody else there. I remember times that I would drive the 45 minute commute (one way), just to have the pleasure of her company. We'd leave early in the morning, sometimes as early as 4 O'clock, when the world was still cold, dark and quiet. I would drop her off in the morning, and pick her up at the end of the day. Now that I'm older, and gas prices are obviously much higher, this seems like a strange thing to do. But we loved it. We both really loved each other. And being together, doing nice things for one another, was part of that joy. I hope to find that again. In me, and in other people. I love you Momma, and I still miss you. You were one special lady. 

Healthy, Healthy, Healthy Frog Ass

I just had to post this here. I was thinking about it today, and realized that I didn't want to lose or forget this.

Vanessa Medina

google translate just told me that the translation to one of my favorite cooing/soothing stories/songs that I know from childhood is actually: "Healthy, healthy, healthy frog ass." -Close google. Close but not quite. BUTT very amusing.

 ·  · October 3, 2010 at 11:14pm

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    Cody Refreshingbeveragegrinder Parson that is AWESOME! I have to know, which song?

    October 3, 2010 at 11:18pm · 
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    JoãochOx Vieira Jr. primaaa!! como estas??!!! se le quiere mucho!!

    October 3, 2010 at 11:26pm · 
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    Vanessa Medina ‎@ Cody: it's "Sana, sana, sana culita rana" it's basically the story of a little tadpole who's lost it's tail. And it hurts and it's sad. But the story goes "Don't worry little tadpole, though you've lost your tail and you may be sad and in pain right now, you will get better. And soon, you will be a great big frog." It's like a soothing cooing that my mother and grandmother used to do. When my mom got sick, I would do it to her too. The "sana, sana, sana" is the most important part. It's not just about the words, but about *how* it's done. It's an expression of love and care. Sana means heal. So you say "sana, sana, sana" (heal, heal, heal) and all the while you stroke the persons head/their hair. You soothe them. And kiss them/rock them/hug them, whatever. It's also a metaphor for change and how painful it can be sometimes...but also how it is growth. And at the end of it, one will be stronger than they are now.

    October 3, 2010 at 11:37pm ·  ·  1 person
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    Cody Refreshingbeveragegrinder Parson I dig it. and, yeah, good job Google lol

    October 3, 2010 at 11:41pm ·  ·  1 person
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    Vanessa Medina Yes google...some things just can't be translated into words I guess. lol

    October 3, 2010 at 11:53pm · 
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    JoãochOx Vieira Jr. is the form of lenguaje!.. xD

    October 3, 2010 at 11:54pm · 
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    Becky Sanchez that is hysterical, I love words lost in translations lol que viva Google!!!

    October 4, 2010 at 4:54am ·  ·  1 person
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    Vanessa Medina I know Beck, isn't it funny! Can't you just imagine..."Healthy, healthy, healthy frog ass." There. Now don't you feel better? ;)

    October 4, 2010 at 6:55am · 
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    Rainee Everett Stahr I've been using Google translate at work to help the students with their pre-trips and driving.... God only knows what I'm telling them to do......no wonder they don't stop....

    October 4, 2010 at 8:06am ·  ·  1 person

    
    

Generic

When I was a kid, my family moved from a cozy albeit funky Victorian era flat in San Francisco, to a sprawling multi-level home in an affluent suburb of Denver. It was to say the least, a culture shock. Gone were the strange and beautiful ethnic faces, foods, and names. There was no lumpia. No more gelato even. I went from a world filled with friends whose families came (recently) from all corners of the globe; the bay area is one of the most culturally diverse places in America. Of course, I found my niche when I got to Colorado. My best friend there, was an Iranian girl in my grade, who also rode the same school bus that I did. I remember getting off the bus early at her stop and going over to her house after school to play with our She-Ra Princess of Power dolls,  and how her house often smelled of spices. Exotic smells. I never told her, mainly because at that age I didn't even know why myself, but being in her home, experiencing a different culture (even if it was only tangentially) felt like home to me. It felt comforting. In the whitewashed suburbs of Colorado, it reminded me of San Francisco, where experiencing and learning about -no, not just learning about...but embracing other cultures, is a way of life there. One cannot exist in the multitude of cultures and customs of different societies which all exist simultaneously within the bay area, and remain culturally isolated yourself. You learn. You mesh. You love and hold dear these things which you live with.

Things were so different in Colorado. It was a place where people were friendly, just for the sake of being welcoming and neighborly. In San Francisco, people were friendly too, but more reserved. More unsure of strangers, and always on the look out for trouble. There was an ease and openness to life in the suburbs. Things moved slower there. Life was quieter there. You could walk around barefooted and there was nothing sharp or dirty to cut your feet on.

I got used to the feeling of grass between my toes. Once, we even fell asleep with our garage door wide open, and nothing happened. Nobody stole anything, or broke in while we slept. Nobody would even think to do that sort of thing there. It wasn't that sort of neighborhood.

One of my favorite cultural differences, apart from the ease and grace of life there, was strangely enough: generic foods. It was the 1980's and there was this bizzare craze in Colorado...perhaps in the whole nation for all I know? But the term "Generic" became so popular. It was odd. At first, getting anything generic was a badge of shame. I would sooner die than have any of my friends from school catch me in the *generic* isle with my mom. -Yes there was an ISLE! I never saw grocery stores in California do that, so for all I know, perhaps Cali was more subtle in how it intermingled the store brands with the name brand items, so you were never really set apart. Even the packaging is more subtle here. Some stores, like Albertson's, even have a store brand with really cute looking packaging. It's reminiscent of retro 1940's war era images. All wholesome and apple pie.

The generic brands in Colorado though were different. Everything came in bright yellow packaging with big bold black print that said GENERIC right across it. And as if that wasn't bad enough, all of the generic items were clumped together in the store in the GENERIC ISLE. One great big isle that was a sea of bright yellow packaging with big bold black letters first and foremost telling you that it was generic, and then telling you in two words or less what the item was: GENERIC Toothpaste. GENERIC Pinto Beans. GENERIC Tampons. There was no way you could play it cool with something like that in your shopping cart. 

These have been revamped. The packaging is slightly different but it's most likely the same stuff that my mom bought in the 80's. 

There was of course also the basic black and white generic.

It was like a bright flashing neon sign that said "Hey world! My mom is cheap!" OK. OK. It didn't really say that. Now that I'm older, I realize that what it actually said was: "Hey world! I don't care about your consumerism. I'm smart enough to buy the same exact product for less than half the price because my self worth isn't tied up in a name brand that you've been brainwashed through advertising and peer pressure to believe is the best or in some way *superior* when really all it is, is more expensive. -Sucka!" I actually miss the generic isle and generic brand now that I'm older. I can see how it would make getting in and out of the store so much easier if you just shot over to that one isle (pretty much guaranteed that what you were buying was the cheapest version that the store had available) got your groceries, swung by the fresh food isles and left. I really wonder why bargain shopping isn't quite as en vogue as it once was? What's up America? 'Cause I know you're all on a budget like I am. ;)

Dry Earth

My life feels like hard earth right now. Earth, that has not grown a seed in a very long time. Dry. Ungiving. Parched and thirsty. Dense and difficult to change. Difficult to break into and move. But even so...I will work to water this dry earth. Giving it the love and water that it needs. Softening it with my belief and encouragement. Loving it when it is dry. And knowing that in time, it will soften. That I can enrich it with my life's experience. Fertilize it. Deepen the softness. Pull up the soft earth. Bringing air and life into it once again. Be patient. Real happiness is coming.

The Dainty Macaron: Queen-Bee Confection Extraordinaire

Wandering into one of my favorite local shops (Sift Cupcakery) to pick up some sweets, I was taken aback when behind the glass wall, intermingling amongst the cupcakes, was a strange yet tantalizing new treat. It was large and colorful. Like a whoopie-pie on crack. They came in an assortment of colors: pink, deep red, pale beige, deep chocolate brown, and yellow. When I asked what they were, I was shocked.

"They're macarons." the girl behind the counter said.

...as in *French macarons*?!? OMFG they have macarons the size of your head here! Hello AMERICA! Land of the free, home of the obese -where if it's worth doing...it's worth doing 10x the size of the original! :) "I'll take one!" I blurted out immediately. I chose the one that was the macaron cousin of my favorite Sift cupcake, the "Ooh La La". It's a red velvet cupcake with a simple cream cheese frosting. The macaron was delicious. It was so big it made me want to vomit when I was done. But it was still good.

A few weeks go by and I am craving macarons again. I now no longer have to go all the way to Sebastopol to Patisserie Angelica, for a Parisien (by far and away my favorite cake in all the land!). The Parisien is essentially one big macaron cake. There are three layers of almond macaron with a praline buttercream filling and it is to die for!

I also don't have to go to Berkeley to stop by Masse's Pastries for an assortment of the best local macarons money can buy. 

This place is also a culinary *must*. They are mix-masters of different world culinary styles. Incorporating unusual and divine flavors (for a macaron at least) such as the Asian Yuzu (it' a citrus fruit. Think: the lovechild of a mandarin and a grapefruit...on their sexy vacation to Paris.) Anyhoo... I don't have to go there either because now there's Sift. Making French macarons in my own backyard. 

Or so I thought, until I returned weeks later to find their macarons had evolved even more so. They were now peitie -the size they should be. And daintily packaged in a cellophane bag, in clusters of four. Excitedly, I took home my new prize and tried the other flavors in the bag. They were...terrible. Visually they were appealing. Beautiful even. But the flavors had none of the subtlety or complexity of Masse's confections or Patisserie Angelica. The pink one, tasted like Easter candy. Bright, overpoweringly sweet, and artificial. It was an assault on the senses. The only so-so one was the chocolate flavor. The rest, including the rouge Ooh La La had to be rejected. Before the proportions had been all off...but the flavors were good. Now, the size was correct, and the macaron it's self was still palatable, however, the filling had been replaced with a cheap sugary icing, a cheap sugary icing that hadn't been mixed well...so the powdered sugar was still gristly on the tongue. ICING!!?! WTF! There is no ICING in a MF macaron! What are you doing here Sift!? I expected more from you. :p

Zion National Park

Back for a minute from a long road trip to Zion National Park. For those of you who are like: "Huh? Where's that?" and you're not feeling like Googling it...it's in the Southwestern corner of Utah.

Beautiful country. "God's country." -Geeze when I say that...some part of me squirms and thinks: "Man...this feels like the adult version of believing in the Easter Bunny or Santa." Does he exist? I'm not sure. What I'm pretty sure of is, I don't know...and you don't know...but I guess we'll all find out one day. But I digress...

I went with my little cousins, Jenna (13), and Daniel (10). For a long time, I had been wanting to do something nice for both them and their parents. So, I called them up and invited them. Luckily, everyone was up to the impromptu adventure. :) And it was a blast!

The drive down took FOREVER! Practically 24 hours! Primarily because of some heinous pockets of traffic that we hit on I-5. It seemed to get worse the closer to the L.A. area we got. There were two spots where we spent about 3 hours (in each spot) going about 5 miles an hour. :p But by the time we got into Zion...it was all worth it!

We spent most of our time there cycling through a few activities. The average day was an amalgamation of: sleep until you're sweaty and hot, get up and go swimming in the river, play, laugh, talk, relax, then when we're cooled down...at some point we'd notice that we were hungry...so we'd head back to camp, make some food, eat our meal (usually with s'mores), wash up, get our heads cool by running them under cold water, then take a nap from the food coma. :) Rinse and repeat. It was a good time.

I didn't have time to do the hiking that I had planned on. An executive decision was made to forgo the hikes this trip. After running it by Jenna and Daniel, it became apparent that they were much more interested in going swimming rather than the *awesome* hike through The Narrows.

So...I made the decision to go do things that we would all enjoy and just relax. I made the right call. We had so much fun. And on the ride home, we stopped in Las Vegas for lunch! Ahhhh Las Vegas....how I love you for your amazingly clean public restrooms. Casino's and Mormons...they have the cleanest restrooms. :) (It's the little things in life that make it all worth it.) ;)

We took a different route home, and cut through the Nevada desert. Meandering through one horse towns like Beatty, Goldfield, and Tonopah. The drive home went much faster, due in large part to the overwhelming *nothingness* that is the Nevada countryside. No SoCal traffic! :)

We stopped to get gas, sandwiches and of course try on hats. :)

Lookin' good Daniel! 

So...I'm definitely going back to Zion. Next time, I will pack lighter -take waaaaay less clothes. Jenna and I agreed that one pretty much only needs to take their swimsuit, PJ's, and a pair of shorts. (the shorts are optional) :) As well as the PJ's....OK...so you only need to take a swimsuit. :D And I'll slot more time to enjoy the scenery once I'm there.

George Is Missing

Last Sunday, I spoke with George in the evening. His foot hadn't been healing (he's diabetic), and the doctor told him to stay off of it. Then he told me that his vision had faded out to black in one eye, which *really* worried me. "Um...George? Do you want me to take you to the emergency room?"

"No, no. I'm going to make an emergency appointment with my specialist on Monday. I'll call first thing tomorrow morning and get in. I'll call you on Monday or Tuesday to let you know how it goes." -He didn't want to go to the emergency room because he figured that they wouldn't be of much use. That they probably wouldn't know what was up with his vision and that they wouldn't have a specialist on hand over the weekend. After thinking about the many times that I took my mom to the hospital, and how frustrating it would be having to explain and get the emergency room staff up on my mothers condition, I thought about it and decided that George was probably right.

George is a very practical man. When you call him, and get his answering machine (and yes...he has an *actual* machine in his apartment) the recording that you get says: "Leave your message after the beep." That's it. Straight forward. Simple. Clear. He's the kind of man who calls when he says he will call. Shows up when he says he will be there. He's steadfast and reliable. So when he didn't call me on Monday or Tuesday to let me know how he was, I began calling him. It's now Saturday. And I still haven't heard from him. On Friday I called the hospital that he usually goes to. This morning, when I still hadn't heard from him, I called all of the other hospitals in the city as well. Then I called the police department to do a welfare check. My friend Katy, who is a social worker advised this. She told me exactly what to say to make sure that someone actually does go down and do a check. She told me things that I wouldn't think to emphasize. Wouldn't *know* to emphasize...how would I really? I've never done this sort of thing before. She told me to tell them that he's old, the last time I spoke with him he was sick and was going to go to the hospital, that he has no family, no one to make sure he's OK, and that this is very unusual behavior. That I speak to him *all the time* and that I haven't been able to get a hold of him since Sunday. That he would call. That he always calls.

To the credit of the San Francisco Police Department, they listened. From the initial officer who took the non-emergency call that I placed, to the street cop who called me back shortly thereafter. They followed up promptly. They contacted the owner of the building, and unfortunately, everyone who has a key to George's apartment is in L.A. this weekend. :p But they also spoke with his neighbors, and they said that he usually leaves his shoes outside of his apartment door. The officer said that there was a pair of Crocs (oh George...Crocs? :)) outside of his door, but that his neighbor said that he wears other shoes when he goes out and that they were missing. "That's a good sign right?" I said. The officer wasn't sure and asked me if I wanted them to break down his door. I really am not sure. I don't want to make the wrong call on this one. He very well could be in a diabetic coma in his apartment, slowly dying. That thought has crossed my mind. Or he could be in a hospital somewhere...and maybe through some clerical error or perhaps the person not hearing me clearly, when I called to see if they had a patient with his name...he didn't show up? But was actually there??? Or maybe he's dead, which is *why* they don't *currently* have a patient by his name? Or maybe he's at a friend's house, being taken care of because he was too sick to care for himself? I honestly don't know. Or he could be just fine (fingers crossed) and in a very out of character manner has simply forgone checking his answering machine or calling me like he usually does? -Yeah...that last one is not likely...but I hope it's what has happened. The police officer told me that if I wanted them to break down his door, that someone would have to be there to take responsibility and secure his apartment. -makes sense. Glad to see that they won't just break down a door and leave it unlocked. :p I'm waiting a bit longer. If I don't hear from George today, then I will do it. The logical part of me says so many things. I'm not sure what to do really. I don't want to break George's door down and have him come wandering back home. But I *really* don't want to do nothing when he needs me. ...And what if I already have? What if I should have broken his door down on Wednesday? I have a horrible feeling inside of me. ...Of "What if?" What if...George is dead? How am I going to handle it? How am I going to reconcile myself with that, knowing that I may have acted too late? What if...we break down his door and actually find him?

Please George...Just be OK?

Letting Go A Little More...

So we (MacArthur and I) went out to the ocean today and scattered some of my mother's ashes. We hiked down to a beautiful small cove and said a few words. It was a strange combination of heavy, painful, and freeing. Such a weight was lifted when it was all done.

On the drive out to the beach, I was quiet. First, I got a call from Noreen (FHA president). She asked me how I was doing, and was actually very nice. I was glad I got a chance to connect with her, specifically *not* as her employee. For so many years, I worked for her, in such fear because of the things that my supervisor would say. She created an atmosphere of fear. I never really got to see Noreen as a whole person. As a human. I remember the guidance that I got from Niki was to keep under her radar. She made it seem like Noreen was a fire breathing dragon. When in fact, she's actually a very nice person. I mean she's just a normal human being. Powerful -yes. But that is *not* a bad thing. It's encouraging. I am always inspired when I get to see a strong woman in action. It's empowering *to me*. It helps me see that "I can do that too"! That I can develop those leadership qualities in me and help empower others (both women *and* men) in the world.

The next call I got on the way out... was from a gentleman from the cemetery. He told me that they had gotten the permit in sooner than anticipated, for my mother's burial, and that we could do it on Monday. So we moved it up a day.

The sooner the better is now my attitude. I realize that I have been carrying this enormous weight this last year. So much grief. So much seriousness and sadness. I feel like I have been dying slowly. On Monday, when we lay to rest, the remainder of my mother's ashes, I anticipate that it will not only feel like a relief and give my heart some peace and rest; but that it will also be somewhat like a symbolic death and burial of the last vestiges of the me that was before. The last of the old me. The child that could never imagine this kind of tragedy, or living past it alone. It's time to live. To embrace *living* -with joy. -Even without my mother. I'm kind of like a begrudging little caterpillar...that didn't really want to shed it's cocoon and blossom. I really didn't. I wanted to stay a caterpillar. Comfortable and loved by all of my caterpillar friends and family. But that's not how life worked out. I keep telling myself though that: this is a great opportunity to forge my life into whatever my heart desires. I'm casting off everything that I've ever known. Losing everything. Having my heart and family torn away. But having the space and opportunity to build a new life. Develop deeper relationships with distant family members and making them *not so distant*. -Close even. And I am so grateful for all of the people who have loved me through my darkness. And through my sadness. George, my mother's best friend, has always been a source of encouragement, strength, and laughter; which in my opinion is completely necessary for surviving the Spanish Inquisition. "No one *expects* The Spanish Inquisition" they say...but it happens to us all at one time or another in life. Heartbreak is part of being human. It's part of loving. And I guess it's worth it.

I felt so close to MacArthur today. So lucky that he is my love. And so sheltered from the storm by his love. Jodi put it well, when she said "I'm not the kind of person who believes in God. But if I *was* I would find it amazing that just as one great love of your life leaves...another one arrives." Truer words were never said. And I am so grateful for the grace that God, The Universe, or what-have-you has bestowed upon me.

I plan to go forward with my life, and live in a manor which would make my mother proud. I will be happy. I will have joy in my heart. And I will develop my abilities and contribute something of worth and value to the world around me.