difficult choices are...well, difficult

I post at a creative workshop (see the link for inkndoodles) and one of my fellow posters published a very heart-rending poem about his struggle with moving away from his home in search of greener pastures, something I think we all yearn for in one form or another. I've decided to post a somewhat edited version of my response here. I can't always be about making fun of my world, since it's a world I do cherish and have sacrificed immensely to have. It may also explain some things about me, and perhaps expose a bit more than I ordinarily would in a public forum.

Our second exile (the exile of my parents from Cuba, our exile from our mini-Cuba) carries with it some heavy sacrifice, least of which is pastelitos and a quick cafe at the Sedano's window. In many ways, it mirrors our parents' ideological crisis. In the end, it is about quality of life.

We found ourselves, in Miami, living above our means to stay barely afloat, not an indictment on my husband's ability to provide for the family, but the overwhelming cost of living, and the prohibitive "extra's" that do make life comfortable and enriching.

The move to Georgia was bittersweet--to leave family behind is not as dramatic as my parents' experience--afterall, we visit, we communicate, we're together several times a year. The pain has been in the daily life that accumulates over weeks and months, and is best illustrated through the children, who grow dramatically between visits. But the children, in spite of the distance, have had the opprotunity to grow up in an environment, that until now, escaped the encroaching hassles of the rat race we ran from in Miami.

Affordable housing? We have a modest home that's spacious and comfortable (getting a little tight with 5 adult-sized people now--but our next home will be a down-size)and with the exodus to college beginning in the fall, soon to be even bigger. Traffic woes? Not really. The furthest we travel is all the way across town for church. That takes 15 minutes at a leisurely pace. We can make it in ten if we oversleep. Work for John is less than 10 minutes away. He can, and has come home for lunch. Regularly. It's closer than running to McDonald's. In the end, cheaper and healthier (OK, forget that he could pack his lunch--but it's not the same).

School and activities: There's plenty to do, and all of it more than we could have done in Miami. Sports, the arts, school activities--all of it within 5 miles. Everybody is home by 6 (OK, there's an occassional late rehearsal and game)and we're seeing signs of empty nest--you know, the kids have their interests, their activities, going out, etc.

In short though, we have been blessed with good neighbors, good people in the community, parents of friends who share our values, that the kids have had experiences and opportunities that would have been not just fiscally impossible in Miami, but prohibitive because of time. Don't confuse my banter making fun of southern culture with a lack of cosmopolitan opportunities. My kids have traveled more than most kids their age, and I can say it would have been impossible in Miami, where just going to the beach presented a sacrifice.

It's a bittersweet drink, but like our parents before us, our role is to do what we feel is right for the family that God has created through us.

Uhm, Orange? Part II

There's a song by Jim Croce that wisely exhorts:

You don't tug on Superman's cape,
You don't spit into the wind,
You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger,
and you don't mess around with Jim.

Mostly, it goes on about messin' with the Big Dogs and getting bit.

This morning I'm nursing the big ol' bite on my backside, after laughing for two straight days about my friends' orange car. You see, it seems that the Japanese, or Korean or somwhere in Asia, they are producing a new line of cars.

Check out the tag. I hope you can read it on your screen, but I'll tell you that this model is called, yup, The Bego.

Man! I promise that unlike Napolean, I have no skills. This isn't a photoshop. Karma has reached out across the internet and bitch-slapped me.

Uhm, Orange?

Generally speaking, it’s usually a good idea to refrain from excessive teasing of one’s friends. I mean, a gentle jab, a hilarious diatribe of ranting and mockery, it all should be done in fun, not in a mean-spirited and hurtful way.

So, it gives me a great deal of pleasure to retaliate, when my friends, who have known my great emotional, physical, and financial strain from having hit a deer, not once, but twice in the last six months, still thought it hilarious to buy me the dullest piece of literature in the Americas, namely, James Fenimore Cooper’s The Deerslayer, as a birthday gift.

Thanks guys. Revenge is sweet, and you have given me the opportunity, nay, the GENEROUS GIFT ON A SILVER PLATTER of dropping by to show me your new car.

It is by far, the most hideous, heinous, comical-looking thing I’ve ever seen. The Keystone cops have nothing on this. Those Honda Elements remind me of people who have really long torsos and itty bitty short legs. The Element looks like somebody took a Hummer, and plopped it on a skateboard. That big ole boxy car requires some tires with testosterone, not those weenie little skate wheels.

So, I had to make nice and ooh and ahh over the car, even though it’s orange. I mean, tangerine. Great. A fruity name for a fruity car.

Alas, it does have some great features. First, it still has that new car smell. Mine smells like cleats. It’s brand new and shiny and clean. I’m afraid of what’s plastered on the back of my passenger seat. It’s very roomy inside—surprisingly roomy. My car isn’t built for the Johnson legs (it’s a good thing I’m not a Johnson, isn’t it?).

In short (I crack myself up—didn’t even mean the additional jab!), it’s not a bad little car. I hope the car wears out long before you weary of its color.

Drive safely; it’s the passengers that are important anyway.

all you're getting is this lame post today

So yesterday's little adventure in documenting my day has left me...well, rather rather put out at the idea of sitting down at the computer so soon after the final post last night.

Nevertheless, I don't dare take the day off. Who knows what crazy call I'll get from Mami, or what kind of hostage situation created by Vicky will assault me.

With that said, let me examine my schedule for the day. First, I have to run 2, 473 errands for John. That should keep me busy for a bit. Oh, and Jonathan needs to go to the orthodontist, which means he's expecting that I take him to lunch.

Then there's the girls, who have late evenings today--to cook or not cook? That's always the question around here during the week. Well, Chris is playing at St. Pius, and it's two games back to back, so that means another night of fast food for her. Vic--who knows?

And what about me? I have to grade two sets of papers that I should have graded last week while I was on spring break, and didn't. Woe is me. You always have to pay the piper. Why don't I seem to learn that lesson?

12 on 12

A little game to show what we do on the 12th of the month. The object is to take 12 photographs throughout the day, to document the routine, or silliness, or random moments.

I woke up at 8:14 am and shuffled into the kitchen for my first cup of java. I certainly hope you weren't expecting me to post a picture of myself in that condition, so you'll have to settle for the cup of coffee on my messy desk, where I checked up on email, started this mess, and helped Jaime with one of his practice homilies. Blissful quiet until....


The King and Master, or in this case, Superman, got up at 10:43 am, whereupon he immediately had several insulting things to say about my choice of shirt (A very nice University of Georgia polo). He said I should burn it, so we went in search of the ultimate Sting....








whereupon, the newly admitted Techie had the honors of pitching the shirt into coffee grounds and who knows what else, at about 10:57 am. Note her slippers have the GT logo.





Then, at 12:57 we all sat down to an artery clogging brunch. Everbody was chomping on bacon, and even the dog was sitting quietly hoping for some scraps. of course, breakfast at 1 is typical if you get up at noon. Nevermind I've already put in a full day.

At 1:45, the queen of I'll get around to doing my sacrament prep homework finally got around to doing it. Class is in an hour!





2:45, time for the garbage detail! Jonathan is the expert in that area.





3:00, time for Sacrament Prep class. Sometimes interesting, sometimes tedious. Isa owes me because I am the sponsor-proxy.



5:05 pm, the picture whores are posing and acting up for the camera.

5:30 Mass. Aren't these angelic looking little angels? Or, something. John and Vicky bolted away from the camera.
7:00 John, Jonathan and me went to get a bite to eat at our new favoritest restaurant, Casa de Waffle--just read the label on the hot sauce.
The movie, Passion of the Christ, ended very late. At 9;40 pm, Vicky decided to take a nap outside the parish hall.

10:51 pm, getting sleepy and finishing up the blog. Phew. Long day.

Another routine Saturday, NOT!

Who gets up at 6 am on a Saturday? My kids. The rest of the world was sound asleep, but Jonathan and Vicky were on their way to the high school at 6:30 am. Bah! I rolled over and went back to sleep for a couple of hours.

Today was a very full schedule. Jonathan had a math competition somewhere in Atlanta.

Vicky traveled a couple of hours south for a literary meet. What is that? I don't know, but it involved her giving an extemporaneous speech. Tell me that doesn't fit her big mouth excellently. If there's anything that Vic has, it's an opinion.

And finally, Chris had a home lacrosse game, which means I was there selling concessions.

All in all a very busy day, and mostly victorious. Jonathan performed very well at the competition, and his JV team took the 1st place trophy (with his personal performance being the best on JV). For a bonus, the Varsity team also took 1st.

Vic placed 4th in the speech competition, thus contributing points to the overall team score--they won 1st place, too.

Chris, unfortunately, was unable to pull out a victory in the last part of the game. For the most part, they were in it until the end. I guess they lost steam, or concentration, or drive. Anyway, no excuses, just looking forward to the next game on Monday. That one is important.
she's in the black on the left
Meanwhile, she's nursing another small injury, when her opponent nailed her with the stick right on the crown of her head. My little thespian pulled out her acting skills and got a bit dramatic with a thrown stick and loudly exclaimed, "ouch" -- but to no avail. The official wasn't buying today, but there were two exciting yellow cards against the other team.

I, of course, sold under-cooked hotdogs and over-warmed pizza. The water was chilled, though, and on a hot day like today, the moneymaker.

I'll go soak my feet now.

UPDATE: a las malas

Vicky is standing over me demanding that I post an original entry, because even though I doctored the one earlier today, it was originally posted in The Secret Blog, which I killed off. She's come back to the office twice, thumping the veins in her arm asking for the next entry, like a heroin addict. Or a blog addict. Whatever.

This is crazy! Criticized by the very people I repeatedly mock in these lines. She thinks I'm going to avoid mocking her for leaving the keys locked in her car this morning. Hmmmm. Perhaps I'll get to that later, as well.

My mother, too, calls me to tell me I haven't updated the blog, and to hop to it. My, my, my. I imagine the editors at the New York Times might be less demanding.

So, here I am trying to dream up something else to say, when I really wanted to be looking for pictures of Ken and Barbie.

Actually, there is a lovely tribute that I can include today, and which, in retrospect really should have been the original entry: Last night I had the pleasure of sitting through 15 middle school speeches on the uplifting, yet terribly cliche topic of "How Bright is My Future."

My future is about 60 watts right now...but I expect it to get brighter very soon. Anyway, it's not about me.

Like I said, 15 middle schoolers telling me about their future. It could have been terrible, but I sat next to the teacher, who among her charges is famously beloved for her sense of humor and her ability to squeeze blood out of a turnip in addition to winning essays and speeches out of prepubescent knuckleheads.

In short, they produce for her because she demands it, expects it, and then goes to their events to support them and beem with pride regardless of the outcome. It's a recipe for success, because three of the six slots for the next level of competition were filled by her students (who competed against the other middle schools in the county). This included the distinction of taking first place in the boys category, and first and second place in the girls category. Kudos and Accolades.

These kids are special. They are incredibly competitive when producing the work, and then, after the competition, incredibly supportive of each other. I love that. There are no petty jealousies, or meanspiritedness about the results, simply sincere well-wishes, and the remarkable pride that it was "one of their own" that won.

These guys are going to conquer the world. And do it with a smile.

Mattel, Plastics, and Postalitas

Sometimes I think I'm the only person that rejects extreme materialism and what my friends and I used to call "the plasticos" when I was in high school. Note: I like to have a nice car, a big house, and fine clothes, and I like to go out to dinner. I said extreme materialism.

Anyway, although it's easy enough to accuse some sets of people in Miami as plasticos, the truth is, that the phenomenon transcends culture. Up here in the Deep South we have plasticos, too. Only, we call them Ken and Barbie, after the obvious reference to the plastic toys most little girls played with a hundred years before those nasty Bratz things became popular, but that's another rant.

Here, I'm surrounded by this brand of Ken and Barbie, but that doesn't keep me from having to play nice.

I remember when I was a kid in the 60's that I received one of the new Ken dolls as a gift. He had plastic hair that was painted a weird light brown, and of course, blue eyes. Ken came with a very mod outfit, and an orange bathing suit, with towel and sandals accessories.

I peeked inside the suit, you know. Everybody did. My dad did, too. One of us was relieved to find out that Ken was not anatomically correct. Guess which one? In retrospect, what would a six year old do with that kind of information? Mattel was prudent and wise to emasculate Ken.

Unfortunately, that has since become my arbiter of reality. I measure folks' level of materialism and disconnect from real life values by how they respond to my personal brand of trailer-park-chic. My friend says I wear comfortable shoes and have natural hair. I think that's code for maybe you should comb your hair and dress up a bit. No offense taken; I am, after all, comfortable. Nevertheless, every once in a while, I run across a distorted sense of my own reality, and see Ken and Barbie all around me.

Help!

The Deerslayer Strikes Again

Well, maybe not. At least this one didn't jump onto the car, just scurried ahead of us and scared the lights out of the kids. No harm done, at least, to us. We inspected the car carefully this morning, and didn't find too much evidence of a serious impact. I must have hit the deer's hind quarters or maybe its leg as it was passing, because I heard, more than felt, an impact, but like I said last night, the brakes did their job.

We looked along the side of the road this morning and didn't see the animal, so I hope she's OK.

Of course, some of you may be wondering what the deal is with me hitting deer. Get over it, I'm a careful driver. That stretch of road is pitch black at night, and it's still a pocket of forest, although the development is encroaching rapidly. I just think there are fewer areas for the deer, and they are concentrated in that piece of road, where they need to cross to get to a pond.

Unfortunately, one of my neighbors hit a deer a couple of months ago, and the day after he got the car back, struck another one. Poor guy hasn't had a car for two months. I suspect that it will only get worse as the area continues to be developed.

It does beg the question of hunting, though. All the hunters I know explain that the purpose of hunting is to control animal populations. We should declare open season on that road. It's far more humane to shoot 'em, eat 'em, and wear 'em instead of maiming them and leaving them on the side of the road.

I always did want to have a buckskin jacket.

I hit another deer

Can you believe I hit another deer on my way home tonight? Unbelievable. Poor Christy was in the front seat again. This time it wasn't as dramatic--I just clipped the deer after stopping on a dime. Christy is giving up riding shotgun with me at night. For lent? For ever

Can you say anti-lock brakes? That's a good thing.

Oh, and there's a ridiculous power struggle going on about flushing the toilet thoroughly. I'm going to bed; the last hour has been taxing on my nerves.

General Beauregard Lee was right

Spring is here! The trees and flowers in the neighborhood are blooming, so I thought I'd just share my morning with you. These are all on the way down to the lake; my favorite is the purple at the bottom of the hill. A Magnolia? How Southern.

The truth is, I would fail any tree identifying trek. I just call 'em the pretty pink one, the pretty yellow one, the pretty purple one.

Except the white ones. I know the name of that one. Bradford Pear. They are everywhere, and to see them from afar you might say, what a lovely bloom! And then you get up close to it, and get assaulted by the stench. Ewwww.

There are tons of them, everywhere. In fact, at the middle school the entire driveway is lined with these beautiful trees. Unfortunately, the kids are dropped off and picked up in that line of trees. The kids are blunt in that way that is special to middle schoolers. Ask any one of them and they'll tell you what the trees smell like.

What's that? You want to know what they say it smells like? Ok, you asked for it. Crotch. It opens up a whole set of questions that I prefer not to go into, but yes, indeed, it does smell like old sweaty clothes. Like you, I am taken aback by their description, however accurate it might be. I guess it's because the trees are packed densely, and the scent is overpowering.

Whatever.

The prettiest trees, though, are the Cherry Blossoms, but they haven't bloomed yet. Keep an eye out for that post in the coming weeks.

Cheers to you all on this lovely spring day. I hope your day is as full of promise as mine.

Greetings all over the world

Yesterday I received birthday greetings from many friends and family. All the calls were warm and affectionate, and in some cases, from very far away.

The furthest call came from my friend, Leonie, in Australia. How wild is that? Of course, there was a cluster of calls from Miami, and a few assorted other places such as New York. Nothing like a call from a loved one to give a warm fuzzy!

I discovered in my conversations, that many people are tuning into this blog, if not daily, at least regularly to catch up with my posts, and what's going on around here. I have a free tracking service on this site, that identifies visitors by location. The girls and I have been tracking the most exotic places, and I thought it would be cool to share that with the regular visitors.

In no particular order, here's a list of locations from within the U.S.A. and then from around the world. See if you can find your home town!

Williston, FL; San Jose, CA; Jupiter, FL; Miami, FL; Hinsdale, IL; Tacoma, WA; Waleska, GA; Mount Laurel, NJ; Tulsa, OK; Rialto, CA; Louisville, CO; Homestead, FL; Fayetteville, GA; Maplewood, NJ;, Norcross, GA; Schaumburg, IL; Henderson, NV; Pompano Beach, FL; Ocean View, NJ.

Internationally, I'll just include the city and country, forgoing the province or state:

Tretton, Norway; Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic; Singapore; Delhi, India; Kunglv, Sweden; Delfshaven, Netherlands; Brunswick, Australia; Dublin, Ireland; Tranbjerg, Denmark; Madrid, Spain; Delph, United Kingdom; Bogota, Colombia; La Garrofa, Spain; Port Hope, Canada; Medicine Hat, Canada; Egypt; Keilor, Australia; Winnipeg, Canada; Helsingborg, Sweden; Arada, Portugal; Ho Chi Ming City, Vietnam; Durango, Spain, Puteaux, France; Shawford, United Kingdom; Essenden, Australia; Richmond, Australia.

Isn't this the coolest thing?

UPDATE: Samurai Returns Victorious

They got rid of the goose egg! McIntosh went DOWN 14-9, and Battle Dyke's replacement not all that impressive for All-American.

All is well in chipmunk land tonight.

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY, but this has nothing to do with that

I had an interesting conversation with some friends yesterday, a somewhat serious discussion on what should and shouldn't go into a blog. There was a humorous incident that involved some people that I mock with a great deal of regularity, as uncharitable as that is. I admit that it makes me a meanie, albeit a funny meanie, but it is certainly NOTHING I would ever post about. There's mean, and then there's mean, and I don't think I have it in me to be cruel.

Or I am a coward.

I guess it takes a certain ability to generate a thick skin as a writer. My friend is a sportswriter--he claims that he tells it like is, and doesn't soften the news. I understand that reporting is all about recounting what happens in a particular event. That does take courage, because people do complain, and accuse writers of having personal agendas and such.

But I wasn't talking about the news, I was talking about a blog, which amounts to sharing my diary with the world. Making fun of a caricature I create by captializing on some stereotypes is one thing; gossiping about my family and friends is entirely different.

I would feel like a traitor to the very intimacy of family and friendship. I'd feel like Harriet the Spy.


Of course, if there was some secret place to post, then all bets are off, but that kinda defeats the objective, doesn't it?

The compressor died, and other bad news

Five hundred dollars! For a teeny tiny little motor. What a racket. There is good news with the bad, as the darn fridge is still under warranty for parts. Of course, they nailed us with a charge for walking through the door, and then, because they had to order the part, will nail us again on Tuesday for labor. At least we had the little dorm fridge in the basement--that's made a lovely addition to the kitchen for the weekend.

***

The Samurai came back with an injury yesterday. She took the full impact of a lacrosse ball right smack in the face. No impressive bruises or cuts, just a bit of chipmunk swelling. I suggested she block a goal with the stick next time.

In reality, there was a penalty for illegal propel, which basically means the other chick stood in front of Christy and aimed for her head. I don't ever want to hear anybody criticize me again for biting off a corner of my nails during a basketball game.

***

Well, birthday weekend is sort of under way, in abbreviated bursts and good intentions. This morning we're off to breakfast as a family, and for the three days of birthday weekend, that'll mark the only time we're all together. Ah, so many signs of the beginning of the end. I guess I'm practicing for future posts about the empty nest.

He's Here! He's Here!!!

Bubba has arrived, and he doesn't disappoint.

According to Vic, "He's hot." Too bad Christy is in Columbus beating people with a stick. He's channeling some of that bad boy, Jess, from the Gilmore Girls.

When he called, we got a good laugh because John confirmed it was another countrified accent, but when he walked in, the first thing I did was make eye-contact with Vicky. Tall. Slim. Dressed all in black. Wearing cool shades.

Of course, the minute he opened his mouth he sounded like The Voice of the South. Ted Turner.

What a shame.

no picture; even I wouldn't stoop that low.

Good morning!

Just a note to say....Murphy has come to roost around here for a while. The refrigerator blew up, or at least, blew out the chiller. So, I've been cleaning that mess. Nothing grosser that the vision of bloody water pooled under the fridge. Oh, well, there were the swirls of melted ice cream to give it a frothy appearance.

Maybe there are grosser images, but I'm sticking with my own gross factor that faced me yesterday as I cleaned and scrubbed.

You realize of course that this happened right after paying Kyle handsomely for fixing the garage door.

The appliance store is sending a repairman later this morning. I'll update y'all on the adventure after Bubba fixes the ice box.

Southern-fried Southern

Larry the Cable Guy has a twin brother that fixes garage doors. I know this because he came out and fixed ours.

He was a good, quick, diligent worker, but he sounded like the stand up comedian. For real.

Now understand that over the years we have run into fewer and fewer native Georgians. Most are older folks who grew up in the area. Believe me, the good old boy network is still alive and well here in the outskirts of Atlanta.

For the most part, though, younger people are generally transplants from the city and usually from up north. Every once in awhile I’ll run into a really countrified person, but that caricature is better left in the movies.

That is, until I met Kyle (pronounced Cay-eel) the Garage Door Installer. He actually said, “Well now that there is lookin’ good. Real good.” What can you possibly respond to that? After fixing it, the garage door did look pretty good. Clearly the written word does no justice to the sing-song southern drawl/twang of the country accent. Just watch local boy Jeff Foxworthy to get an idea. You know, countrified folks are the only people I know that pronounce two syllables in good. Go ahead and entertain yourselves trying to master that feat.

Nevertheless, Kyle is my hero. The garage door not only works beautifully, it’s lookin’ real goo-ood. You can’t beat that.

Y’all come back now, y’hear?

Bubba Gump...I mean Bubba Vic...

Vicky woke up with a fat lip today. Very funny. She sounded like the kid who mumbles in Fat Albert cartoons. That lower lip was just flapping away. I'm posting this in lieu of my regular entry because, frankly, I have a picture that's worth a thousand words.

We figured out that it was the cheese sauce we used for dinner last night. We had nachos with cheese, and the cheese had little chopped up jalapenos. I'm guessing she had a reaction to that. Nothing a little Benadryl won't fix.

Meanwhile, as she was getting ready to leave, we heard her mumbling, "Shrimp stew, shrimp pie, shrimp tacos, shrimp soup...."

Turn away from sin!

So it's another Ash Wednesday and Lent is upon us. I'm giving up sleep. The truth is, I haven't slept a full 8 hours since July of 1988, but that's another story.

We were up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for mass at 6:45 this morning (which means I was up at 5:30). The teens asked our pastor for an early mass, and not only did he agree, but every Wednesday during Lent there will be an early bird mass, followed by a pancake breakfast for the teens. Hmmm. A little appeasement? I think so.

Anyway, there was a packed house, which is a good thing, and a lot of teens went, which is also a very good thing. I hope they keep it up. I know we've made the commitment to do it.

Our new priest, assigned until June, was there, too, and if you know about our woes not having an associate for the past year, you know this is a good thing, too, even if it is temporary.

He's a Father-What-a-Waste--nice looking bloke, and was distributing ashes as if he had a crate to get rid of; consequently I have the kind of gigantic cross on my forehead that I would have appreciated as a child, but considering today's reading and the exhortation to fast in private, kind of an attention-getting billboard on my face. Whatever, I'm so twitchy that it'll rub off throughout the day.