Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Going back to Cali, stylin', profilin'
My newest adventure will take place in San Jose, CA. I booked a short trip to explore more of northern California to determine if I will take the plunge and relocate. The end of April and beginning of May will be a busy time for me, physically, mentally, and emotionally, as I go from one coast to the other. April showers in Miami versus dry, San Jose mountain air in May: which climate's influence will prevail? Which will be the arbiter of a life-changing decision to find my new home? I can't wait to find out.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Miami, Miami...you've got style
In fewer than 60 days, I will be in Miami. I've wanted to visit this city for years. I cannot wait to spend idle time on the beach and be back on my beloved east coast. Do you think the pastel, borderline tacky, art deco buildings will dissuade me from pulling up stakes and relocating to this southeastern paradise? I hope not. I hope the cosmopolitan excitement extracts me from my current state of just plain boredom with Dallas.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Cleveland Rocks
No, it really doesn't rock. I can't believe I considered moving there when I was a stupid, newly married 23-year-old. The things we do--or almost do--for love!
I mention Cleveland because I've watched "Hot in Cleveland" all weekend while in bed with the flu (throwing up in the middle of yoga class: not the highlight of my weekend, but hey, I'm not too proud to be self-deprecating). I watched it partly in honor of my mom because she loved this show and recommended it. I've also zipped through the first season because it really is funny and has a great cast: Valerie Bertinelli, who is one of the cutest people ever; Jane Leeves, one of my favorites from "Frasier"; Wendie Malick, who's always witty; and the timeless Betty White.
The show's references to LA, from which three of the characters hail, perpetuate my musings on California. I've been thinking about moving to a new city a lot lately, and San Francisco is one of my top choices. I realize it's ridiculously expensive, I have no acquaintances there, it's 1,500 miles from my closest relatives, and it's prone to earthquakes, but so what? Life is too short to wonder what could have been.
What I hope does not happen is that I end up a slightly bitter, lovelorn cougar who's compelled to start a new life in a midwestern town that is the punchline of so many jokes, and not just the jokes in "Hot in Cleveland." Ha! I'm so mean. Maybe San Francisco will open me up to experiences that aren't portrayed in a 22-minute sitcom. For now, it's still enjoyable to watch it and have some cheap laughs.
I mention Cleveland because I've watched "Hot in Cleveland" all weekend while in bed with the flu (throwing up in the middle of yoga class: not the highlight of my weekend, but hey, I'm not too proud to be self-deprecating). I watched it partly in honor of my mom because she loved this show and recommended it. I've also zipped through the first season because it really is funny and has a great cast: Valerie Bertinelli, who is one of the cutest people ever; Jane Leeves, one of my favorites from "Frasier"; Wendie Malick, who's always witty; and the timeless Betty White.
The show's references to LA, from which three of the characters hail, perpetuate my musings on California. I've been thinking about moving to a new city a lot lately, and San Francisco is one of my top choices. I realize it's ridiculously expensive, I have no acquaintances there, it's 1,500 miles from my closest relatives, and it's prone to earthquakes, but so what? Life is too short to wonder what could have been.
What I hope does not happen is that I end up a slightly bitter, lovelorn cougar who's compelled to start a new life in a midwestern town that is the punchline of so many jokes, and not just the jokes in "Hot in Cleveland." Ha! I'm so mean. Maybe San Francisco will open me up to experiences that aren't portrayed in a 22-minute sitcom. For now, it's still enjoyable to watch it and have some cheap laughs.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
You ought to hear my long snake moan
One of my favorite albums from the ‘90s is PJ Harvey’s To Bring You My Love. Lately, I’ve been putting “Long Snake Moan” on repeat. It’s a ferociously strong and sexual song that defies the waifish appearance of Ms. Harvey. Her desire for control, fueled by violence that pushes her to the brink of murder, turns the tables on the archetype of physically dominant men in the sexual realm.
To Bring You My Love twists and turns through the throes of a tumultuous affair. The narrator bars no holds against a man who evilly seduced her, jilted her, and left her with child. “C’mon Billy” wails the angst of pleading for a lover to stay by a desperate woman’s side. The accompanying string section weaves the agony and longing throughout the tune.
Another standout that saw radio release, “Down by the Water,” reveals the strength of a scorned woman who focuses solely on her young daughter. The narrator defines maternal instinct to the hilt as she goes to the depths of the ocean for her lost daughter.
A woman scorned is not necessarily dangerous but certainly powerful. To Bring You My Love represents the output of ‘90s female musicians as a standout in composition and feeling.
To Bring You My Love twists and turns through the throes of a tumultuous affair. The narrator bars no holds against a man who evilly seduced her, jilted her, and left her with child. “C’mon Billy” wails the angst of pleading for a lover to stay by a desperate woman’s side. The accompanying string section weaves the agony and longing throughout the tune.
Another standout that saw radio release, “Down by the Water,” reveals the strength of a scorned woman who focuses solely on her young daughter. The narrator defines maternal instinct to the hilt as she goes to the depths of the ocean for her lost daughter.
A woman scorned is not necessarily dangerous but certainly powerful. To Bring You My Love represents the output of ‘90s female musicians as a standout in composition and feeling.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Black Metallic
I recently rediscovered “Black Metallic” by Catherine Wheel and immediately fell back in love with its ‘90s ethereal beauty. Heavy distortion, smoky vocals and a hypnotic guitar solo mark this one as an early ‘90s, alternative classic.
The song speaks of the pained struggles of a floundering relationship. A man’s partner has become simply disinterested and disengaged. I often conclude the disinterest by one member of a relationship is more painful to the partner than direct abuse. Neglect hurts more than attack does.
Hearing Catherine Wheel triggered my thoughts of my grandmother, Catherine (not that I don’t think of her on a regular basis). She’s gone into a sudden mental decline since the death of my mother, and she’s all but been diagnosed with dementia. My heart is broken upon witnessing my funny, sharp, engaging grandmother become forgetful and easily agitated. It’s as if she’s a different person. I have to remember that her heart has not turned black, though. She remains the truly amazing grandmother I’ve always remembered.
In keeping with the theme of color of this post, I’d like to mention the wonderful efforts of the Alzheimer’s Association and their purple shirt campaign. I participated in two of the last Walk to End Alzheimer’s in Dallas and wear my purple t-shirt with pride. This year, I’ll walk focused on my grandmother, not out of pity but out of hope for a cure. The blackness of memory loss can be overcome with research and advances in medicine. That hope remains in my heart.
The song speaks of the pained struggles of a floundering relationship. A man’s partner has become simply disinterested and disengaged. I often conclude the disinterest by one member of a relationship is more painful to the partner than direct abuse. Neglect hurts more than attack does.
Hearing Catherine Wheel triggered my thoughts of my grandmother, Catherine (not that I don’t think of her on a regular basis). She’s gone into a sudden mental decline since the death of my mother, and she’s all but been diagnosed with dementia. My heart is broken upon witnessing my funny, sharp, engaging grandmother become forgetful and easily agitated. It’s as if she’s a different person. I have to remember that her heart has not turned black, though. She remains the truly amazing grandmother I’ve always remembered.
In keeping with the theme of color of this post, I’d like to mention the wonderful efforts of the Alzheimer’s Association and their purple shirt campaign. I participated in two of the last Walk to End Alzheimer’s in Dallas and wear my purple t-shirt with pride. This year, I’ll walk focused on my grandmother, not out of pity but out of hope for a cure. The blackness of memory loss can be overcome with research and advances in medicine. That hope remains in my heart.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
Adore/Adorn
What level of intensity does adoration necessitate? How much love accompanies adoration? Are things admired meant to be adorned with more than love?
My favorite song of the moment is Miguel's "Adorn." It has a sick beat and lyrics that make me melt. Check it out:
(I can't help but mention I love this singer's hairstyle. I adore Mohawks as well. I don't find them faddish; instead, I find them flattering of appropriately shaped heads.)
I've listened to this song dozens of times over the past month or so as I sift through the rubble of another lost relationship. The man who once called me an amazing woman left me abruptly. His actions remind me that men are great at saying flattering things but not acting accordingly. Fast forward to a weekend in January, when I spent the weekend in San Francisco with an acquaintance I made while on a flight from Connecticut. A guy whose beautiful tattoos and expressions of missing my conversation suckered me into flying halfway across the country to see him ended up ceasing all contact after we left the beautiful city by the bay. Why am I surprised? I am a magnet for guys who view me as good for only one thing.
"Adorn" gives me comfort while making me a bit sad. I wish someone felt about me the way Miguel sings to his love: "You know that I adore you / Let my love adorn you."
In my solitude, I will focus my adoration on my family. The woman who has always been my rock, my grandmother, turned 90 this week. I cherish every life lesson she has bestowed upon me. I adore her wisdom and wit, strength and solace. Her love has adorned my life and will be my focus during this time of what feels like aimless wandering.
My favorite song of the moment is Miguel's "Adorn." It has a sick beat and lyrics that make me melt. Check it out:
I've listened to this song dozens of times over the past month or so as I sift through the rubble of another lost relationship. The man who once called me an amazing woman left me abruptly. His actions remind me that men are great at saying flattering things but not acting accordingly. Fast forward to a weekend in January, when I spent the weekend in San Francisco with an acquaintance I made while on a flight from Connecticut. A guy whose beautiful tattoos and expressions of missing my conversation suckered me into flying halfway across the country to see him ended up ceasing all contact after we left the beautiful city by the bay. Why am I surprised? I am a magnet for guys who view me as good for only one thing.
"Adorn" gives me comfort while making me a bit sad. I wish someone felt about me the way Miguel sings to his love: "You know that I adore you / Let my love adorn you."
In my solitude, I will focus my adoration on my family. The woman who has always been my rock, my grandmother, turned 90 this week. I cherish every life lesson she has bestowed upon me. I adore her wisdom and wit, strength and solace. Her love has adorned my life and will be my focus during this time of what feels like aimless wandering.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Disappointed!
Remember the scene from A Fish Called Wanda when Kevin Kline's character screams, "Disappointed!"? I felt the same way this morning, not because I didn't find jewels in the safe, but because I read a blog entry about Torii Hunter's stance on homosexual ball players.
I always liked Torii Hunter, especially when he played for Minnesota. He's a solid fielder, an even better hitter, and, let's face it, he has a killer smile. That said, reading about his discomfort at the prospect of playing with a homosexual teammate caused me some disappointment. Is he really using the Christianity defense for his intolerance? Please. My understanding of abiding by Christianity is emulating the selfless, kind works of Christ. Then again, I'm a lapsed Catholic, so what do I know?
The religious rants of athletes annoy me. I'm sorry, but they do. Josh Hamilton's phony fervor and so-called rededication to Christ are such a farce. Now that he is "second," he feels his crack smoking, adulterous days are forgiven. While it's true that gone are the days of liquor-swilling, womanizing, cigar-puffing baseball players who couldn't physically represent athletes if they tried, we instead have the same hedonistic players who lean toward pleasurable lifestyles but then excuse such scandalized behavior by claiming they strayed from religion. They use their faith as a platform for improving themselves. Why can't they just admit they succumbed to financial gain and focus on their work on the field, instead of filling press conference time with vapid atonement and religious oratory? It all seems so artificial.
I digress, as usual. Back to Mr. Hunter. Why would the presence of a gay teammate make another player uncomfortable? Do straight men flatter themselves into believing gay men would make passes at them in any circumstance? Why is it acceptable for heterosexuals to make passes at each other in public, but unacceptable for homosexuals to do so? Why does it matter? Please don't give me the biblical literalism approach to your explanation. I can't have that.
Oh, Mr. Hunter. Your dazzling smile won't charm yourself out of this mess.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Swimming/Individuality/Solitude
I feel like being in the vastness, emptiness, and quiet of the ocean right now. Nothing sounds more appealing. I wrote the following in my senior year of high school:
I should have been a swimmer. To feel the caress of the liquid glass of blue, to be immersed in a different world of crystal azure and aquatic refreshment--these are the things I long for now. Resigning a possible position on the swim team of a high school I once attended floods me with guilt now. To be a swimmer was, at one point, an escape from the auditory aspects of the outside world and an entrance into calm, serenity, and tranquility.
The state one adopts while preparing to swim, I feel, can bring him or her to these peaceful states. As I focused on my initial leap into the water, I easily tuned out the echoing chants of spectators, mainly composed of parents, in the humid, steamy natatorium. Expanding muscular cavities deep in my chest brought me to a focused peace while the tracing of the long, black Ts on the floor of the pool mesmerized me, once submerged. Afterwards, the feeling of accomplishment, which could have constituted simply reaching the opposite end of the pool, overpowered the sensations of burning in my eyes and tightness of my skin.
Swimming, although competitive, differs from other sports, for each competitor has the right to silence and protection of his or her territory. Splashing and panting are the means of communication used, and a swimmer may be left alone to do his or her work an individual, private lane.
The rush of water between my fingertips propelled me as I systematically turned my head to the outer world for a supply of air. Ankles bound by an invisible force controlled the acceleration I experienced. My goal while crawling through the water was the glory of the finish--the reach made by extending my fingertips to a concrete finish line. Achieving the goal was great, but the process of doing so was better. I relished in the state of my escape from an outside world of noise and interaction. I loved the freedom the water granted me. I felt as if I could sail through waters that brought me to a new world.
I should have been a swimmer. To feel the caress of the liquid glass of blue, to be immersed in a different world of crystal azure and aquatic refreshment--these are the things I long for now. Resigning a possible position on the swim team of a high school I once attended floods me with guilt now. To be a swimmer was, at one point, an escape from the auditory aspects of the outside world and an entrance into calm, serenity, and tranquility.
The state one adopts while preparing to swim, I feel, can bring him or her to these peaceful states. As I focused on my initial leap into the water, I easily tuned out the echoing chants of spectators, mainly composed of parents, in the humid, steamy natatorium. Expanding muscular cavities deep in my chest brought me to a focused peace while the tracing of the long, black Ts on the floor of the pool mesmerized me, once submerged. Afterwards, the feeling of accomplishment, which could have constituted simply reaching the opposite end of the pool, overpowered the sensations of burning in my eyes and tightness of my skin.
Swimming, although competitive, differs from other sports, for each competitor has the right to silence and protection of his or her territory. Splashing and panting are the means of communication used, and a swimmer may be left alone to do his or her work an individual, private lane.
The rush of water between my fingertips propelled me as I systematically turned my head to the outer world for a supply of air. Ankles bound by an invisible force controlled the acceleration I experienced. My goal while crawling through the water was the glory of the finish--the reach made by extending my fingertips to a concrete finish line. Achieving the goal was great, but the process of doing so was better. I relished in the state of my escape from an outside world of noise and interaction. I loved the freedom the water granted me. I felt as if I could sail through waters that brought me to a new world.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
I want some adobo (a tribute to my sister-in-law)
I often tell myself the reason my eyes are green is the tremendous amount of jealousy I have of others. This is not a desirable trait and speaks to a certain level of immaturity, but I am still guilty of it.
Someone I admire greatly is my sister-in-law, Olivia. She is immensely talented, funny, generous, polite, and caring. She's also gorgeous and makes bangin' adobo.*
I suppose I envy Olivia because we're just six weeks apart, but she seems to have accomplished so much more than I have. She owns a business, receives rave reviews for her theatrical performances, has a beautiful singing voice, and did I mention the adobo? My brother never goes hungry.
Envying Olivia is silly because she's not pretentious about her talents. She is humble and lovely. She and I get along famously, especially because we share similar interests. We took a dance class together and would more than replenish the burnt calories by swapping Sonic cream pie shakes while driving back home. We had a blast planning Patrick's surprise 26th birthday party (pub MIX!), and we always feel comfortable around each other, whether it's drinking tea (PG Tips!) or choreographing goofy Janet Jackson dance numbers. She has given me tough love with her relationship advice but also comfort when she opened the door to her home to me as I was in between apartment rentals.
Olivia has been the sister I never had. She is the one who encouraged me to start this blog in order for me to keep writing after journalism school. I'm grateful to have someone as wonderful as she is in my life. I love you, Liv!
*Adobo (Filipino: "marinade," "sauce" or "seasoning") is the name of a popular dish and cooking process in Philippine cuisine that involves meat, seafood, or vegetables marinated in a sauce of vinegar and garlic, browned in oil, and simmered in the marinade. It has sometimes been considered as the unofficial national dish of the Philippines.[1] (Source: Wikipedia)
Someone I admire greatly is my sister-in-law, Olivia. She is immensely talented, funny, generous, polite, and caring. She's also gorgeous and makes bangin' adobo.*
I suppose I envy Olivia because we're just six weeks apart, but she seems to have accomplished so much more than I have. She owns a business, receives rave reviews for her theatrical performances, has a beautiful singing voice, and did I mention the adobo? My brother never goes hungry.
Envying Olivia is silly because she's not pretentious about her talents. She is humble and lovely. She and I get along famously, especially because we share similar interests. We took a dance class together and would more than replenish the burnt calories by swapping Sonic cream pie shakes while driving back home. We had a blast planning Patrick's surprise 26th birthday party (pub MIX!), and we always feel comfortable around each other, whether it's drinking tea (PG Tips!) or choreographing goofy Janet Jackson dance numbers. She has given me tough love with her relationship advice but also comfort when she opened the door to her home to me as I was in between apartment rentals.
Olivia has been the sister I never had. She is the one who encouraged me to start this blog in order for me to keep writing after journalism school. I'm grateful to have someone as wonderful as she is in my life. I love you, Liv!
*Adobo (Filipino: "marinade," "sauce" or "seasoning") is the name of a popular dish and cooking process in Philippine cuisine that involves meat, seafood, or vegetables marinated in a sauce of vinegar and garlic, browned in oil, and simmered in the marinade. It has sometimes been considered as the unofficial national dish of the Philippines.[1] (Source: Wikipedia)
Friday, December 21, 2012
Can't Escape the Maroon
As Texas is such a hugely populated state, I expect to meet a lot of Texas A&M alumni. I expect another large percentage to consist of University of Texas alumni. Throw in some Texas Tech Red Raiders, and you pretty much have the population of the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex. Still, I'm surprised to meet as many Aggies as I do all the way up here in north Texas. I incorrectly assumed this was Longhorn country (I don't even consider the SMU people).
When you meet an Aggie, you're not gracefully introduced. You collide with the person, head first. You're inundated by spirit, pride, and borderline obnoxiousness. Trust me. I lived with one for more than a year. He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named served our meals on maroon plates, wouldn't allow me to call UT by that acronym (I was expected to say "TU"), drove a maroon SUV, and took vacations to College Station. He fulfilled his dream of graduating from A&M, and he deserves respect for that. However, his maroon rantings drove me to insanity.
Now, I work in an office filled with Aggies. The company owner is an Aggie, but he's a great guy. He's 79 years old and still comes to the office every day. His daughter and her husband, both Aggies, oversee operations and strive to win contracts from the university for work. The president of the company recently named his new puppy "Heisman." Is he a die hard fan? You make the call.
Why am I so dour about A&M? It is a great university. I suppose I associate it with the one who broke my heart multiple times and jaded me beyond belief. Does jaded blood turn from red to maroon? Possibly.
When you meet an Aggie, you're not gracefully introduced. You collide with the person, head first. You're inundated by spirit, pride, and borderline obnoxiousness. Trust me. I lived with one for more than a year. He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named served our meals on maroon plates, wouldn't allow me to call UT by that acronym (I was expected to say "TU"), drove a maroon SUV, and took vacations to College Station. He fulfilled his dream of graduating from A&M, and he deserves respect for that. However, his maroon rantings drove me to insanity.
Now, I work in an office filled with Aggies. The company owner is an Aggie, but he's a great guy. He's 79 years old and still comes to the office every day. His daughter and her husband, both Aggies, oversee operations and strive to win contracts from the university for work. The president of the company recently named his new puppy "Heisman." Is he a die hard fan? You make the call.
Why am I so dour about A&M? It is a great university. I suppose I associate it with the one who broke my heart multiple times and jaded me beyond belief. Does jaded blood turn from red to maroon? Possibly.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Todo sobre mi madre
A while back, I posted a list of my favorite things (how narcissistic!). As I listen to some Sade, I feel compelled to list some of my mom's favorite things as she greatly influenced my tastes.
1. Sade (obviously)
2. Boston Red Sox (also obvious, if you knew her)
3. UConn men's basketball
4. cooking (she was great at this)
5. baking (she was even better at this)
6. Bill Murray
7. New England in the fall
8. Jameson Irish whiskey (on the rare occasion that she drank alcohol)
9. Indian food
10. Thai food
11. her best friend and sister, Pat
12. the color pink
13. needlepoint
14. "Dancing with the Stars"
15. Shakespeare
16. Colin Firth
17. politics
18. the St. Joseph Indian School charitable foundation
19. learning
20. being a teacher--she was a fabulous teacher and the best one I ever had
1. Sade (obviously)
2. Boston Red Sox (also obvious, if you knew her)
3. UConn men's basketball
4. cooking (she was great at this)
5. baking (she was even better at this)
6. Bill Murray
7. New England in the fall
8. Jameson Irish whiskey (on the rare occasion that she drank alcohol)
9. Indian food
10. Thai food
11. her best friend and sister, Pat
12. the color pink
13. needlepoint
14. "Dancing with the Stars"
15. Shakespeare
16. Colin Firth
17. politics
18. the St. Joseph Indian School charitable foundation
19. learning
20. being a teacher--she was a fabulous teacher and the best one I ever had
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
"Thinking more about American Indians in the media"
I wrote this blog post in my last semester of graduate school. A interview with Sherman Alexie in Time prompted me to reconsider this topic, although it is something I should ponder on a more frequent basis.
As I've given more thought to my final project, I have considered the presence or absence of American Indians from the media. Media professionals sometimes tread lightly over this terrain, but I think they need to delve into it more deeply. American Indians, or Native Americans (the debate continues over which term to use), deserve treatment just as any other ethnic group does. Despite the fact that they are outnumbered, they still exist and, tribe by tribe, contribute richly to our American culture.
I follow a sports blog called www.survivinggrady.com. In one post, one of the authors mentioned Red Sox outfielder Jacoby Ellsbury's interview in an issue of Men's Vogue. I immediately clicked the link to read the article. Of course, the first paragraph mentions Ellsbury's Navajo heritage. While it is of note that Ellsbury is the first Navajo player in the major leagues, I still wonder why that facet of his background draws the most attention. Doesn't his athletic prowess trump everything when it comes to lauding him as a member of the team? If Ellsbury were white, would the writer have drawn attention to that? I doubt it.
This presents my struggle with the topic of American Indian presence/absence from the media. While I assert that they deserve equal treatment, I also do not want them to be exploited. I suppose exploitation manifests itself as the ultimate evil of some forms of journalism. Not everyone believes the media are objective in their methods.
As I've given more thought to my final project, I have considered the presence or absence of American Indians from the media. Media professionals sometimes tread lightly over this terrain, but I think they need to delve into it more deeply. American Indians, or Native Americans (the debate continues over which term to use), deserve treatment just as any other ethnic group does. Despite the fact that they are outnumbered, they still exist and, tribe by tribe, contribute richly to our American culture.
I follow a sports blog called www.survivinggrady.com. In one post, one of the authors mentioned Red Sox outfielder Jacoby Ellsbury's interview in an issue of Men's Vogue. I immediately clicked the link to read the article. Of course, the first paragraph mentions Ellsbury's Navajo heritage. While it is of note that Ellsbury is the first Navajo player in the major leagues, I still wonder why that facet of his background draws the most attention. Doesn't his athletic prowess trump everything when it comes to lauding him as a member of the team? If Ellsbury were white, would the writer have drawn attention to that? I doubt it.
This presents my struggle with the topic of American Indian presence/absence from the media. While I assert that they deserve equal treatment, I also do not want them to be exploited. I suppose exploitation manifests itself as the ultimate evil of some forms of journalism. Not everyone believes the media are objective in their methods.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
If Curiosity Killed the Cat, Then What Did Sentimentality Kill?
My grandmother, mother and I share a tremendous amount of traits, but one we do not share is sentimentality. The odd thing is that I am the sentimental one, not my mother, and certainly not my grandmother, who has lived to witness a lot. No, I am the sap, the one who cries at the drop of a hat, the one who cherishes the most minute details of past events. Why this is, I do not know.
Rendering of explanations aside, allow me to indulge in a brief moment of sentimentality. It is a moment seared into my memory, one that affirms the sanctity of mother-daughter relationships. While accompanying my Nana to visit my mom in the hospital, I observed their brief exchanges (my mom had just had a stroke) contrasted with gestures that were laden with meaning. My mom had virtually no appetite; of course, my Nana prodded my mom to eat to maintain her strength. My mom claimed the only thing that appealed to her was orange sherbet. Nana, from her wheelchair, spoon fed the sherbet to my mom, who was not even paralyzed from her stroke. She could have fed herself but resigned herself to Nana's insistence. That simple gesture spoke volumes to me about the enduring ties mothers have to their daughters--no surrender of care, concern, or attention, despite physical or emotional impairments.
My mom and Nana had a special relationship that I like to believe was different from the relationship Nana has with her four other daughters. My mom was the most reserved of the five (I call her the "classic middle child"), the most stubborn, and the least likely to take care of her own ailments. Perhaps that is why Nana was so drawn to my mom--she recognized when her most introverted child needed the most assistance. Or, maybe I'm drawing too much of an emotional analysis from a basic human need being met without pomp or circumstance. Still, I like to remember this moment between my mom and Nana as one of the most meaningful exchanges I have ever witnessed.
Rendering of explanations aside, allow me to indulge in a brief moment of sentimentality. It is a moment seared into my memory, one that affirms the sanctity of mother-daughter relationships. While accompanying my Nana to visit my mom in the hospital, I observed their brief exchanges (my mom had just had a stroke) contrasted with gestures that were laden with meaning. My mom had virtually no appetite; of course, my Nana prodded my mom to eat to maintain her strength. My mom claimed the only thing that appealed to her was orange sherbet. Nana, from her wheelchair, spoon fed the sherbet to my mom, who was not even paralyzed from her stroke. She could have fed herself but resigned herself to Nana's insistence. That simple gesture spoke volumes to me about the enduring ties mothers have to their daughters--no surrender of care, concern, or attention, despite physical or emotional impairments.
My mom and Nana had a special relationship that I like to believe was different from the relationship Nana has with her four other daughters. My mom was the most reserved of the five (I call her the "classic middle child"), the most stubborn, and the least likely to take care of her own ailments. Perhaps that is why Nana was so drawn to my mom--she recognized when her most introverted child needed the most assistance. Or, maybe I'm drawing too much of an emotional analysis from a basic human need being met without pomp or circumstance. Still, I like to remember this moment between my mom and Nana as one of the most meaningful exchanges I have ever witnessed.
Friday, November 16, 2012
What the...?
A new Triple Crown winner has been named, and he is the first winner since 1967. I am embarrassed to have heard this news as recently as of yesterday. While I admit I didn't follow much baseball this past season, especially in the wake of an abysmal season by the Red Sox, I still should have been more vigilant toward a milestone such as the Triple Crown race.
Mom, if you were here today, you would not believe your beloved Yaz has been dethroned!
Mom, if you were here today, you would not believe your beloved Yaz has been dethroned!
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
I have not seen this movie but have heard it's delightfully poignant. I should add it to my collection of shameless '80s favorite, some of which reveal my affection for John Candy.
Let's work backwards:
1. Automobiles - I really couldn't care less about what I drive, as long as it runs well. I bemoan the number of SUVs I see on the road; I think they are pointless. I still occasionally lust after the Audi TT.
2. My cousins and I saw Justin Long on the train back to Connecticut from the city a few years ago. He is adorable. We were too shy to approach him. I recently asked my cousin who would win in a fight between Justin Long and Joseph Gordon-Levitt . "Ugh! JGL!" she stated exasperatedly. I think it would be a close call.
3. On my flight back from my mom's memorial last weekend, I sat beside a positively delightful guy. Of course, he lives in California. Or, he might be gay. Oh, well. Such is the journey of life.
Let's work backwards:
1. Automobiles - I really couldn't care less about what I drive, as long as it runs well. I bemoan the number of SUVs I see on the road; I think they are pointless. I still occasionally lust after the Audi TT.
2. My cousins and I saw Justin Long on the train back to Connecticut from the city a few years ago. He is adorable. We were too shy to approach him. I recently asked my cousin who would win in a fight between Justin Long and Joseph Gordon-Levitt . "Ugh! JGL!" she stated exasperatedly. I think it would be a close call.
3. On my flight back from my mom's memorial last weekend, I sat beside a positively delightful guy. Of course, he lives in California. Or, he might be gay. Oh, well. Such is the journey of life.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Body Surfing
I chose the title Body Surfing for this blog entry because it recalls a few significant things. First, it is a novel by Anita Shreve, a writer my mother and I both enjoy. Second, it relates to my recurring dreams about waves and succumbing to their tremendous, dangerous force. Third, I feel I am surfing a tumultuous sea of emotions as I continue to deal with the death of my mother.
I could easily resent my mother for not having taken care of herself, for taking on too much of a burden by solely caring for a disabled child, or for exchanging her teacher pension as start-up capital for a small business. I won't, though. I want to stay positive in my remembrance of her. I cherish her intelligence, dry wit, generosity to strangers, and incredible work ethic. The problem is that I'm still just so sad without her.
I know I should accept others' promises that my mom is still here, just not in the physical sense. My lack of religion prevents me from believing this. I want her nearby, to hug, to share her smile, to help her brush her hair after her stroke left her weak. I wanted to make her a Nana, to rid her of small business debt, to help her more with my sick brother, and to make her proud by finally becoming a teacher (she was a fabulous teacher for 20 years).
Instead, the heavy waters of loss continue to crush me. At times, my sadness manifests itself in the form of anxiety, and I surf aimlessly without being able to concentrate on a destination. I valued her advice more than anyone else's advice, and that is why I feel so directionless. At least I have a reserve of wonderful memories to give me strength. I need it now more than ever.
I could easily resent my mother for not having taken care of herself, for taking on too much of a burden by solely caring for a disabled child, or for exchanging her teacher pension as start-up capital for a small business. I won't, though. I want to stay positive in my remembrance of her. I cherish her intelligence, dry wit, generosity to strangers, and incredible work ethic. The problem is that I'm still just so sad without her.
I know I should accept others' promises that my mom is still here, just not in the physical sense. My lack of religion prevents me from believing this. I want her nearby, to hug, to share her smile, to help her brush her hair after her stroke left her weak. I wanted to make her a Nana, to rid her of small business debt, to help her more with my sick brother, and to make her proud by finally becoming a teacher (she was a fabulous teacher for 20 years).
Instead, the heavy waters of loss continue to crush me. At times, my sadness manifests itself in the form of anxiety, and I surf aimlessly without being able to concentrate on a destination. I valued her advice more than anyone else's advice, and that is why I feel so directionless. At least I have a reserve of wonderful memories to give me strength. I need it now more than ever.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
(We won't be) Dancin' in September
What about September makes the Red Sox crumble? Is it the rush of cool, New England air? Is it the distraction of leaves changing colors? Perhaps it's being preoccupied with planning Halloween costumes.
Nah. The Red Sox fell from the grace of being first in the AL East by lacking a solid rotation. Millions of dollars invested in Dice-K went out the window as he missed most of the season. A once-reliable Lester failed to secure 20 wins this season. Beckett succumbed to multiple injuries. We hardly saw Buchholz, and we realized some batters are finally figuring out how to hit off of knuckle baller Wakefield.
Yankee management, on the other hand, was shrewd in its acquisition of Freddy Garcia. Although Garcia has not boasted an ERA lower than 3.05 since 2001, he managed to keep the Red Sox scoreless for six innings in a September 24th loss that added another nail to the coffin of Boston's playoff hopes.
Red Sox management should take notes from their rivals. With the second highest payroll in the major leagues, the Red Sox need to control their talent by looking at the right propects. Put simply: go after young pitchers. Tap into the farm system that produced great hitters such as Ellsbury and Pedroia. This time, look for the defensive players. There's no title to defend this season, but the rotation needs to maintain its dignity.
Nah. The Red Sox fell from the grace of being first in the AL East by lacking a solid rotation. Millions of dollars invested in Dice-K went out the window as he missed most of the season. A once-reliable Lester failed to secure 20 wins this season. Beckett succumbed to multiple injuries. We hardly saw Buchholz, and we realized some batters are finally figuring out how to hit off of knuckle baller Wakefield.
Yankee management, on the other hand, was shrewd in its acquisition of Freddy Garcia. Although Garcia has not boasted an ERA lower than 3.05 since 2001, he managed to keep the Red Sox scoreless for six innings in a September 24th loss that added another nail to the coffin of Boston's playoff hopes.
Red Sox management should take notes from their rivals. With the second highest payroll in the major leagues, the Red Sox need to control their talent by looking at the right propects. Put simply: go after young pitchers. Tap into the farm system that produced great hitters such as Ellsbury and Pedroia. This time, look for the defensive players. There's no title to defend this season, but the rotation needs to maintain its dignity.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Rough Seas Ahead
The Pittsburgh Pirates shocked viewers and analysts last month by leading the NL Central. They stayed above .500 for weeks, boasting a young roster with players who aren't exactly household names. So what happened recently?
The Pirates are back below .500 and, although they snapped a seven-game losing streak with a win in San Francisco August 8, they were swept by the Brewers two weeks ago. Andrew McCutchen is hitting .274, above the league average, but not powering enough to compete with rivals in Milwaukee or St. Louis.
A four-game series against St. Louis starts this weekend, and the Pirates can only hope to save face at this point in the season. Playoff contention is a newly dashed dream that didn't seem too far-fetched earlier this summer. In the blink of an eye, post-season hopes fade as the longest season in the sports world navigates toward a close.
The Pirates are back below .500 and, although they snapped a seven-game losing streak with a win in San Francisco August 8, they were swept by the Brewers two weeks ago. Andrew McCutchen is hitting .274, above the league average, but not powering enough to compete with rivals in Milwaukee or St. Louis.
A four-game series against St. Louis starts this weekend, and the Pirates can only hope to save face at this point in the season. Playoff contention is a newly dashed dream that didn't seem too far-fetched earlier this summer. In the blink of an eye, post-season hopes fade as the longest season in the sports world navigates toward a close.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Rock of Ages
People often persevere under strenuous circumstances. Tests of tolerance prove how strong some of us are. My older brother has passed hundreds of these tests.
Over the past four years, my brother has endured a series of medical issues related to major surgery. Throughout this period, he has shown a remarkable attitude in the face of adversity. He yields to no self-pity or sadness. Instead, he laughs at his misfortune and turns his attention to others. He has gone so far as to meet the family of a young girl who benefitted from his skin graft donation. Upon meeting this young girl and learning her story of overcoming injuries sustained from burns, he expressed his gratitude for medical advances in today’s world. His positive outlook never ceases to amaze me.
Even before his surgery, my brother was strong, not only physically, but emotionally. Many were the times he shoveled our (gravel!) driveway so our mother could arrive on campus to teach her 8 am classes during the winter. He handled issues as serious as our parents’ divorce and as light as (but, to true fans, just as traumatic) Red Sox losses. He guarded my younger brother and me and always made sure we were financially secure. He took time to explain music to me, as he once loved to play drums. What’s more, he never grew impatient with me as I repeatedly asked him about fundamentals of baseball and football. His patience is one asset I admire most about him.
So today, every time I choose to complain about something trivial, I think about my brother, who has been my rock. From indulging in garish, ‘80s, hair metal music by Def Leppard, to comforting me through my divorce, to teaching me how to swing a baseball bat, he has been a cornerstone of major parts of my life. I wouldn’t be the same without him.
Over the past four years, my brother has endured a series of medical issues related to major surgery. Throughout this period, he has shown a remarkable attitude in the face of adversity. He yields to no self-pity or sadness. Instead, he laughs at his misfortune and turns his attention to others. He has gone so far as to meet the family of a young girl who benefitted from his skin graft donation. Upon meeting this young girl and learning her story of overcoming injuries sustained from burns, he expressed his gratitude for medical advances in today’s world. His positive outlook never ceases to amaze me.
Even before his surgery, my brother was strong, not only physically, but emotionally. Many were the times he shoveled our (gravel!) driveway so our mother could arrive on campus to teach her 8 am classes during the winter. He handled issues as serious as our parents’ divorce and as light as (but, to true fans, just as traumatic) Red Sox losses. He guarded my younger brother and me and always made sure we were financially secure. He took time to explain music to me, as he once loved to play drums. What’s more, he never grew impatient with me as I repeatedly asked him about fundamentals of baseball and football. His patience is one asset I admire most about him.
So today, every time I choose to complain about something trivial, I think about my brother, who has been my rock. From indulging in garish, ‘80s, hair metal music by Def Leppard, to comforting me through my divorce, to teaching me how to swing a baseball bat, he has been a cornerstone of major parts of my life. I wouldn’t be the same without him.
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