In order to arrive at having pleasure in everything,
Desire to have pleasure in nothing.

In order to arrive at possessing everything,
Desire to possess nothing.

In order to arrive at being everything,
Desire to be nothing.

In order to arrive at knowing everything,
Desire to know nothing.

In order to arrive at that wherein thou hast no pleasure,
Thou must go by a way wherein thou hast no pleasure.

In order to arrive at that which thou knowest not,
Thou must go by a way that thou knowest not.

In order to arrive at that which thou possessest not,
Thou must go by a way that thou possessest not.

In order to arrive at that which thou art not,
Thou must go through that which thou art not.

When thy mind dwells upon anything,

Thou art ceasing to cast thyself upon the All.

For, in order to pass from the all to the All,
Thou hast to deny thyself wholly in all.

And, when thou comest to possess it wholly,
Thou must possess it without desiring anything.

For, if thou wilt have anything in having all,
Thou hast not thy treasure purely in God.

In this detachment the spiritual soul finds its quiet and repose; for, since it covets nothing, nothing wearies it when it is lifted up, and nothing oppresses it when it is cast down, because it is in the centre of its humility; but when it covets anything, at that very moment it becomes wearied.

- St. John of the Cross, "The Ascent of Mt. Carmel"

Thank you...

...so much to Mary, for sending me an email to get my off my ass and back to writing.

 

Meet Mary:

http://journals.aol.com/frankandmary/JustMary/

Good Times

I had so much to write about, and then...  I didn't. 

Things started to get crazy and between battling the French at my daughter's school and trying to stop time, my step-dad took a turn for the worst as did my friend Karen.

Karen died 4 days ago.  My step-dad was taken into a psych hospital about 2 weeks ago.  The same day Karen died my mom called because she didn't think my step-dad would make it.  There is a bit of a funny story in there, but I can't really think of it right now.

Derek Jeter was sweaty.  As a matter of fact he was dripping sweat on the field, and although I thought it was fairly disgusting to touch his back and feeling a small puddle I still did it, and told him it didn't bother me at all.  I can't remember who else was in that dream, but I did make faces to the other person, because I was indeed very grossed out.  Then I made the decision to not name our newly put-together baseball team the "California Rainbows" because everyone would think it was a gay thing, so I decided to go for "California Sun Rays." 

I'm going to blame my friend's obsession w/Jeter and baseball for the dream last night, as I would much rather dream about kissing George Clooney.  Patting splashing-sweaty men in the back is not really my sort of thing.

I've been doing mind-numbing things lately, as obvious as it is from my rambling above, but I just got to the point where I chose to stop thinking.  I had to decide what I was going to do about my impending trip to Florida to see my s-dad the same day Karen died, and started to feel the same way I do when I'm at the top of a very high roller-coaster looking straight down.  It was at that point I made the choice to stop thinking.  That and because of my phobia of airplanes and my shortage of time to try driving to Florida.

Since then I've been doing a lot of cataloging (I bought a scanner and some library software), organizing (which in my world means "turn the whole house upside down, feel overwhelmed, take a rest") and trying to help others.  So I'll be trying to help raise a bit of money for Karen's daughter by selling some things.  I was able to get the pink hat that she was wearing the day we met...

And that makes me happy.

G

Bigger Love

A friend and I want a Commune. 

We want the same setup as "Big Love".  Three or four houses next to each other and a big swimming pool in the middle.

My house would be the Art house (or the limbs), where the kids come to express themselves and be free.  My friend's house would be the "Office" (or the brain) where the adults would have their "no kids" area, in other words... quiet.  The other house would be the entertainment (or the stomach), where we would go for meals, watching TV and welcome visitors.  The fourth house... we still don't know. 

But every time we face a problem, we immediately apply our "the commune!" and see how it would all work out:  carpools, lifeguarding, homework time, PMSing, traveling husbands, all of it.  The possibilities really are endless...

The only problem we've run into is that my friend and co-conspirator wants our husbands to live elsewhere and only come for visits when we "schedule them in".  To me, that is not a possibility, and if mine is the only one actually allowed to live in the Commune, I'm not sharing.

G

Little Monkeys

Why do I sometimes love to write and sometimes feel like my journal is this old aunt who talks too much that I owe a visit to?

What can I write about...  This weekend the girls (the real girls, not as in my women friends who are clearly too old to be addressed as such) are having a Disco party in honor of Peyton's birthday.  I will be attending as "hired help" (makeup artist) and the only reason our son and Peyton's brothers are allowed to attend is because Peyton said "they can be the waiters". 

I love my kids, I love my friends' kids and I have finally realized that my great idea to be a Kindergarten teacher when I was 17 was actually a moment of sheer brilliance, but as with everything that would have been the right choice for me, I ignored it.

I still want another baby with an unwilling husband.  I'm one of those pathetic women who oogle at babies in church, at the supermarket, and anywhere people take babies, and as much as I wish I wasn't like that I really, truly cannot help myself.  Just yesterday I saw a 3-year-old little girl at this birthday party who had spina bifida and was just the cutest thing I've ever seen.  She had the cutest smile, was so full of life and just amazing...

...and as with most people I've met who have children with disabilities, they considered Mary a perfect blessing, and deemed themselves incredibly fortunate for having her, as she is so wonderfully precious...

Sperm bank recommendations, anyone?

G

Inch sale

Yesterday was the big "Yard Sale" at our daughter's school.  Of course I went by (with 4 kids, nevertheless) to help support the cause...

I had always heard the French were dirty, but this was ridiculous.  They had stuffed toys with all kinds of filth caked on them, wine glasses with dust sitting so long you couldn't wipe them with your finger, and an actual porcelain doll with a huge crack parting her face in half and another one going down the chin.  Oh yeah, and all the porcelain dolls were dirty.  And the one w/the crack was $5.

Out of fear, we didn't even look at the clothes laid on top of a tarp on the floor.  My daughter did, however, find some really cute cushions which I checked thoroughly and deemed safe, only to have someone else try to buy them and got snapped at by a French woman I know when I tried to correct the situation...  I know... I try not to generalize but I swear it was so true to "form", the whole experience and everything I'd ever heard about the French...  sigh...  I really did want to enjoy it, I really did!!

And don't even get me started on the woman who was drinking coffee out of a travel mug that had crap caked onto the sides of its opening...  ick.

Call me a bitch if you want, but I left the place feeling all dirty and kind of itchy.  I know it was all mental, just as it was when I saw the movie "Maria Full Of Grace" and felt like taking a dump the whole time, but what can I say?  I have a very active imagination...

G

Thermal Age

Today I was talking to a friend of mine about this procedure called "Thermage", which is supposed to shrink your skin and get rid of sagging, wrinkles, acne and other unwanted things...  all because I saw a brochure on it at the Dr.'s office.

The funniest thing I heard all day was my friend telling me about these wrinkles she has on her forehead (btw, I know she's reading this) and I suppose because she's had them all her life, she blurted out "they are a birth defect", which sent me on a giggling spiral.  Of course soon after I said, "I have a birth defect: my nose is too big", or "I have a birth defect: I'm ugly" and just went down from there (I have a big ass, I'm stoopid, my eyes are too small, etc.) until we probably wore the darn thing out.

Anyway, I'm glad I don't own a t-shirt company.  Or a sticker company.  Otherwise I'd be having these moments of brilliance all too often and would run to print my ever-so-clever ideas which would end up being given away to my friends as gag gifts and would never sell, and I'd go broke.

G

When all else fails...

...write on your journal.

Thanks to Wendela and her gathering of our virtual posse, the calvary came and when the dust settles we'll know if the guys in white really won (2 weeks from now).  But as with any battle there were some casualties and everyone gets either dirty or scarred...

My parents' lawsuit has ended.  I feel so much anguish writing this, but I have to write because at the moment I have nowhere else to go dump.  I spoke to my mom and she told me how my step-dad had to hear all these horrible things his children thought of him and said about him.  Although my mom has been attacked from all sides, she kept her cool and seemingly passed her testimony with flying colors, or, as I like to say, with the truth.

Suffice it to say that words were so damaging, they do not need to be repeated.  But, when the case was over, and my parents left the courtroom my step-dad looked over at his children and cried.

For those of you who know Bob, you know this is utterly devastating.  For those of you who don't:  this is the one man I've ever known that could instill fear in anyone, the man who would never cry, the man who was self-made and tough as nails.  Nowadays, he doesn't like to shave, doesn't drive, and loves books on tape.  And is killing me.

I don't really want to be a drama queen, or come across as one.  But by nature I have this very strong urge to go to my step-dad and hug him, and make him feel so much love that it will help alleviate that which his biological children took away (at least in my mind).  And as it stands right now I can't, and most likely never will.  There is such a strong chance that he will pass away before I see him, it's killing me. 

Today I told him I loved him, and he told me he loved me too.  His voice was much quieter, though, almost faint.  I thank God my mom didn't leave him, and I hope at some point he will realize that he is loved, above money, above blood, above all things material.  Unconditionally.

I wanted a father to replace the one I lost.  His children have a father who want to replace him with money.  But it's ok.  Because in my mind my real dad is in heaven and my step-dad loves me like a daughter, and as long as that bond is strong, whether one-sided or not, it's unbreakable. 

G

Today, Tuesday part 2

My mom and step-dad went to court today to continue the battle with my step-shithead.  Although it again dragged on needlessly, it seems the guys in white are going to win, and the guys in black will not, as every good ol' Western should be.

Thanks to my idiot step-brother having less intelligence than I ever thought, he lied on the stand.  There is proof of what he tried to deny and by golly the lawyer wearing white will get 'im.

Because for the outcome to be any different would be so wrong.  So incredibly wrong that I would have to go to some special doctor to erase all the memories I have of fairy tales and Westerns and Charles Bronson going after some guy who killed/raped/attacked his wife/daughter/significant other to get justice...

G

Today, Tuesday...

I got the call from the dermatologist (actually it was one of the girls in his office) to tell me I'm not going to die.  Whatever funk is on my skin is benign (all 3 of them), so now I'm just left with a sting every time I sit down and no desire to show off my cleavage or any part thereof or to wear tube tops (ok, that one is not new).  Those little scabby scars are so incredibly ugly, and remind me of old people who've had cancer removed from their face.  I don't know why that is, but that's how I link them... maybe because the first time I ever saw such a thing was on an elderly person.  No wait, that's the only time I've ever seen those, only on old people.  So now that I'm not going to die, I can go back to freely obsessing over getting old.

G

On Tuesday...

... I should get a call from a dermatologist.  He's supposed to tell me if the suspicious skin marks/patches/moles he shaved off me yesterday are benign or not.  Although I have many freckles and various other funky skin stuffs, those 3 were the only ones he marked for removal.

The plot thickens...

G

Huff-ing and puffing

I saw Hank Azaria jogging (sorry I'm stuck w/that term, can't replace it with the more current "running" even if I try) through Beverly Hills yesterday.  And it was just me and him.  No one else around.  Except for my kids in the back of the car and my mother on the phone. 

More later...

 

Ok I'm back.  So I'm on the phone w/my mom and see this guy in a white T-shirt and no one else around.  Because it was Beverly Hills I figured I'd have a good look to see if by chance it was someone interesting.  But first I must make a notation... While George Clooney was still in his scrubs and filling the home screens as the new hot TV actor my heart belonged to the man not ashamed to vacuum while wearing really short Daisy Dukes and channeling a flamboyantly gay man.  His name?  Hank Azaria.

As jealous as I was of his seemingly-perfect relationship with Helen Hunt, it made him more so the ideal man, as he wasn't commitment phobic.  That's, of course, until they actually got married and promptly divorced.  While nursing a broken heart through Helen Hunt (I thought maybe he cheated), I grew distant, almost apathetic from all things Hank Azaria, in case he was... a dog-pig (like Clooney in my dream w/the strippers).

Back to the man in the white t-shirt.  It was him, Hank Azaria.  And as desperate as that last breath before going under water, or the last attempt to catch something before it crashes to the ground, my brain reasoned as best as it could:  I rolled my window down, slowed down the car and when he looked at me I mouthed "I love you!".  Everything else is a fog.  I faintly remember him asking me "What?" and me repeating it.  Then I think there was a peace sign or something, yet I was so mortified as within a nano-second I heard the big CRASH of the item I failed to catch in my attempt... my shame.

I had no dignity, no shame, and apparently no brain.  I mouthed those words because I fortunately had a small amount of sense that made me aware of my kids in the back and the confusion it may cause them to see their mother randomly shouting "I love you!" to strange men on the street.  And I was also lucid enough not to interrupt my mother with this loud declaration of love as I was driving down the street, she's already living with one person with dementia.

Ah, to live among the stars...  It's so incredibly difficult to live here and not get somewhat caught up in it.  I usually stay cool as I don't find many people as impressive, but... Hank Azaria? 

It just doesn't get better than that.

G

Wacko-wacko

Our kids have decided to go to another school next year.  C wants to go there because during recess the kids are much more physically active (Dodge Ball and Hopscotch, she says) and S. Jr. almost peed his pants when he saw this school's computer room.

The day we went to check this new school out and to test the kids to see if they were ready (the homeschooled one is, the other one will need to get caught up a little - kudos to me), we did a full tour and were impressed all the way around.  I also heard that it was very hard to get in, but because we belong to the parish (and I serve) it isn't a problem... ah, to have connections...!

But what I loved the most that day was the sheer joy in our son.  So much so that at one point he ran up to the Director (who was giving us the tour), raised his arms at her and screamed "WACKA-WACKA!!".  To this day I dont' know why he did this, but I'm still laughing.  She basically looked at him and went "Oh, ok!" and kept walking.  Fortunately they had already accepted him and I don't think she could go back on her word, thankfully.

I'm dreading next year's 7:50 am classes, but I suppose I'll cope.  The neighbor 2 doors down has a child who goes there as well, and although I could ask her, I'm not sure she would carpool w/me.  I tried before (our kids attend Cathecism at the same time) and she didn't respond...

Off to ask our son if he wacka-wackaed her too...

G

The apple doesn't fall far

Gwyneth Paltrow = Tree

It is amazing to me the impact parents have on their children.  Even at an age where you would think you could stop crying over it, or being afraid, or feeling unworthy, it hits you again.

I have a friend who is falling apart because of the treatment (or lack thereof) from her father and step-mother.  She's almost 40 but as vulnerable and pained as a child of 6 years.  It's really heartbreaking.  And let's not even get started on me...

But when you realize that the #1 source of all our information, whether emotional, intellectual or otherwise comes from of these 2 beings that gave us life it's no wonder so many of us have issues.  I remember thinking that if my dad said the sky was brown instead of blue, I would argue it to death with those who insisted it was blue, solely because "my dad told me so"...  [BTW, Steve Martin just knocked at my brain's door with his "try teaching your kid all the words wrong" routine, funniest bit he ever did]

Now I'm a parent, and this enlightement of sorts is not helping me at all in the "don't beat yourself up" department, as I constantly question my parenting skills.  The things I say and/or do...  how I hear our daughter replicating the things I say and in the exact way I say them and our son is affectionate to a fault. 

But to me, being affectionate could never be to a fault, so I guess some things I'll just have to own...

G

 

The little bottle that could

All is lovely in parent land.  One minute you're quite content with being one of the more "relaxed" parents and the next minute you're spiraling down into Horrible Parent Hell.

Since moving back to California, I was reminded from the second I put my feet on our new home soil that this place is a lot more health conscious than say, Indy.  But the thing is that some people go way overboard and I've met kids who've *never* had sugar.  One just the other day got to try Coke for the first time.  She's almost 8.

Yet lately I've been more aware of exactly how much sweet I am allowing my children to have and have had to make a drastic change, compliments of my own mouth.  I had been more relaxed about the whole sugar intake thing because I would use my old "Oh, I used to eat such and such, and I turned out alright" adage until one day I was having a mental breakdown and put two and two together.

So I can deal w/the fact that maybe the sweet road I traveled was sweetened so much  by processed, refined sugar that it might have had something to do with slight problems in my childhood, although the problem was never obesity, as many say.  Aside from the homemade caramel/sugar/Nesquick Chocolate Bombs I frequently made for myself in a big bowl,  I particularly remember these little liquor candy chocolate bottles I used to buy at the kiosk and eat with much pleasure.  Obviously they held liquor inside, but more importantly, the bottles were made of sugar and coated with dark chocolate, which, to me, were heavenly.

Heavenly.  Maybe because after eating them I would be flying higher than a freaking kite.  Not recalling this, I had my sister send me some of these little bottles, and yesterday I received 15 of them.  I quickly and excitedly opened one up to have my first bite.  I didn't remember the liquor being so strong, nor that there was so much of it, but lo and behold I ate ONE and felt very happy.  To top it off, I'm such a moron (just sometimes) that I couldn't wait to get home and thinking these things were harmless I ate my first one in the car.  Nora, sitting next to me could smell the liquor as could the kids in the back.  Thank God and everything wonderful that I did not get pulled over, as the stench from the alcohol was intoxicating enough and although I wasn't anywhere near drunk, how would I explain?  Fortunately, I soon stopped to go grocery shopping and then it hit me.  It took me hours of pinball-like aisle shopping to get done.  It was fun, not so much for those waiting for me...

Right, so what do we make of this?  Was anyone watching me when I was little?  We're talking from age 7 on up, drinking liquor and happy about it, since I was never told it was a bad thing.  I also wasn't told "no" when I had a little swig from the bottle of "8 Hermanos" anissette liquor every day after school.  My mom said that a little bit wasn't harmful, but my guess is she didn't know about the little bottle that could...  Then I remembered the New Year's day when I woke up with a headache and my mom said I overdid the cider.  I think I was 8.

So that's what happens when you're the youngest of 5 in a family where the father is a doctor and the mother is overwhelmed by too many offspring.  I no longer say "I did that and I turned out alright" because I didn't, I'm not alright.

But thanks to things I wasn't supposed to do I'm sure I enjoyed my moments of happy here and there............

G

Unlucky girl

Ok, I have to get this off my chest and over with.  A few days ago I ran into a friend of mine in a very strange way, one of those "it happened for a reason" sort of way.

She had been battling bone cancer and just moments before I ran into her was told that it had spread all over (kidneys, lungs, etc.).  Needless to say we hugged and all that.

For some reason I don't want to go into details.  I don't really want to write about it.  The situation is pretty horrible because she has a 7 year old daughter (friends with our kids) who is not wanted by her multi-gazilionnaire father (my friend's ex-husband) and hasn't seen him since age 1.  At some point I might disclose who he is and we can all collectibly start a movement to boycott his products... 

More later.

G

 

Lucky Girl

The other night not only was George de-throned, but I fell in love.

His stage name was Nicholas.  He was tall, dark and handsome and worked in a sex house.  For some reason, my husband and I went to it and I remember going in madly in married love.  But at some point things turned weird (I think it was after the orientation meeting but before our appointment in one of the rooms of this sex house) and this guy made me feel like he knew me better than anyone.  He gave me a signed copy of his sex-education/training video box, not the actual video.  I managed to get my husband occupied with some girls that seemed fairly desperate (after some old man tried to kiss him) and started to desperately search for this guy all over the place.

It was stressful, exciting and insane.  I can't remember anything else, except I should have written the whole dream the morning after, but now, 2 days later I forgot the details.  All I know is that I was devastated because I woke up in love with someone who not only didn't exist, but wasn't the one I was married to.  This feeling of empty longing lasted quite a while.  Enough to make me call a couple of friends just so I could share my misery.

As the day progressed, the dream slowly faded along with my feelings of desperate love.  THIS IS THE PART THAT WILL MAKE SOME PEOPLE SICK:

In the afternoon, I slowly started to confuse the tall, dark and handsome guy with my not-so-tall, blonde and "hottie" husband.  The more I thought about it and time passed the more my husband crept into my mind.  By the time night came I was a desperate housewife in love with her man, after realizing that the feelings I had were for the one I married all along.

Lucky for us the kids went to the neighbors' and we were able to act as we did when we were dating and childless:  We spent the night wondering through Ikea and had a beautifully quiet dinner.  We talked and I felt so in love, amazed at the fact that we've been together so long.  Altoghether it was perfection, being able to spend all this time alone with him, knowing he'd have to leave me again the next day.

And yes I got some.

Twice.

G

 

Where have I been??

It's exactly one month since my last post...  jeeeezzzzzz.  I think I just go through these spells where I think I write so incredibly bad, in a very dull and bored housewifey sort of way. 

But then I read some other stuff I wrote that I liked and got inspired again, but I have no idea where this will take me.  Let's see...  I've been watching The Sopranos (sucky), Big Love (cool), Sons & Daughters (great), and The First 48 (because I want to be a detective).  What I like the best is that there are people who live in this town who are into the workings of shows and hearing their take on what the shows are doing is very interesting to me, I assume (and especially) because their views are in agreement with mine, otherwise I would probably find their opinions a little... I don't know, but let's just say that I'm glad they are as smart and perceptive as me.  Because, of course, I know everything and I'm always right.  Except when I say I'm not, which makes me right again.

I don't know what it is that I'm feeling tonight.  All I know is that my husband is gone (again) which means I will probably get sick (as usual), and for the umpteenth time I come to realize I can't live without him (bastard).  And even though I'm post-PMSing, I am still not used to the feelings and still can't come up with any other way out than numbing my mind with television until all hours... and wake up exhausted the next day.

On to other things...  I have some great new friends.  So great that one even drove me on a stalk/hunt for George's house.  So great that the other one even helped us find it.  So great that although you can't see his house from the street would even be willing to go through his trash with me, or at least wait for me in the car while I went through it.  So great that I didn't subject her to trash digging, but she did wait while I checked mailboxes to see which house it was (before we got help with directions).  And I must add that although he's on the cover of Vanity Fair's "Green Issue", there was no recycling bin at his house.  Only the yard waste and regular trash bins. 

On the way home my friend and I talked about how dissappointing it is to actually meet celebrities.  I mean, most people who need that much attention basically have something wrong with them anyway, right?  Do I continue my quest and take that chance, that he will be a huge dissapointment? 

So I'm one degree away but kind of stuck.  My friends are going to a party that George will attend, but unfortunately I can't go as the nanny because the kids aren't going, I can't go as the 2nd wife as George would never buy they are polygamists, and I can't go as the assistant, because even though this is L.A. they would never. 

To be continued...

Indiana Johansson and the Apartment of Doom

 

Yesterday I had to call a few churches in Argentina to try to track down all of the records of the sacraments I've had in the Catholic Church.

One of the churches I contacted was the one where I had my first confirmation.  No matter how hard I've tried, I remember nothing about my confirmation, except that I was excited over the fact that we could pick new names for ourselves if we wanted to.  Oh, and that I picked my mom's best friend to be my Godmother. 

Picking a childhood friend of my mother's seemed like a sure thing at the time.  Someone who had always been close to my mom, someone who had always "been there" for her, someone my mother was thrilled about.  Unfortunately, and because I was merely a child, I never suspected this woman had a lover in the U.S. (she was married). 

This man turned out to be my future step-father, making it so my mother and her friend never spoke again.  Too bad, as this woman was keeping all of our family history in the form of photographs, and an "alleged" fire in her home burned them all to non-existence, thus erasing whatever little memories I had of my life until age 15.  The one I remember the most is a photo of my dad and I kissing, which is my greatest loss. 

Going back to the phone call I made, I couldn't believe how excited I got when the lady in the Church's office found my records.  Since it was an event I had no memory of, it felt so strange.  I kept repeating my name and asking her if she was looking at the same name I was saying.  All I could think was "I was there, in that place and time!".

I have not a single clue why that thought was/is so prominent, but it does give more fuel to the notion I've had lately to go back to Argentina to do some exploring.  There is so much I don't remember, and I dream of being places I used to frequent.  I really would like to go to our old apartment, to see how it feels now that I've grown in length.  How much smaller it will seem?  But mostly, is it still as intimidating as it is in my dreams?

G

Dancing with the loons

 

I love the nightlife, I got to Boogie, on the disco 'round...

 

I haven't been dancing in so long I've probably forgotten how.  I don't know if I mentioned this before, but I LOVE to dance.  I dance until I sweat and all my makeup comes off.  It's really lovely...

 

But regardless of how I look, because by then everyone is drunk already, I really, truly love to dance.  If there is music I have to move, I can't sit still. 

 

Yet I don't know why dancing is restricted to nightclubs only.  I think there should be dancing everywhere.  Or a lot of places.  Like if you went to eat lunch somewhere and you had to either wait for a table, or while you wait for your food, you could go and dance in a special area.  There should definitely be a dance area in any type of doctor's office, as that's where the waiting could be eternal, right?  What about in hospitals?  If the noise is bothersome, then they should allow people to bring their iPods and dance away, which would be a hoot, because everyone would be dancing to a different tune.  And that would be fun.  Especially for those in the mental ward.

 

G

A horribly bitchy post

 

Our last night in Colorado we went out with a group of friends for dinner. 

 

Fortunately for me, I was next to this guy who seemingly spins around his own orbit.  Not only that, but he used the "quote" fingers so much I was on the verge of a panic attack.  Nobody could talk about anything without him having been there/done that and told all about it, having a better story (ok, kind of like me), but the dinner went down to a basic silence where everyone else just shut up and let him talk.  Yes, I shut up too.

 

Never mind the fact that this guy watched the whole "Dancing with the stars" series (he excitedly told the table who had actually won the the whole thing) and that he ate bull testicles without knowing,   Actually, he did find out after trying the first one, but then kept on eating them and complaining. 

 

I don't know, a square in a hole?  I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I found him so annoying, yet he's probably the one guy who would jump in a lake if I was drowning.  And to save me, not to push my head under, which would then leave me indebted to him for life and I would learn to like him and have to defend him the rest of my days to those other shallow people like me.

 

Ah, the complexities of us.  It's not life that's complicated.  Life is easy, you are born, grow, and then die.  We complicate it in between just so we have something to do.  I mean, if this guy hadn't annoyed me so much, I would have one less entry on my journal...

 

G

It's over... I think

 

I think I broke up with George Clooney.

 

I was reading some stuff online and...  wait.  I need to back up.  A friend of mine told me a story about this awful woman and how she hooked up w/George which made it more awful because she was so awful and well... George seemingly doesn't discriminate a whole lot.

 

Ok, so back to my reading.  Being non-discriminate is usually a wonderful thing. But in this case, when you read that GC (allegedly) boinked Roseanne Barr (way back when) in addition to Ms. Awful, you realize that sometimes some people shouldn't have taken the seat on that bus to begin with.  Not at the beginning of the ride, not now, not later.

 

Following all this trash that now clouded my brain (which is an excellent way to escape the reality of Evil Step Brother) I went to sleep.

 

That night a George dream came again.  But this time it was horrible.  He had like 3 or 4 strippers there and although I don't even remember what was going on, I was clearly not as happy as I had been in previous George dreams.  At one point he said something completely inappropriate in front of my daughter, and the whole thing culminated with me screaming at him at the doorway (I was leaving).  I called him a sweaty, greasy-faced drunk that was nothing but a bore who just sat around drinking for fun and I left.

 

He hasn't visited me since.  Regardless, I'm staying away from any of the smut articles that claim he's gay.  I just don't really want to have that dream...

G

And NO I'm not a drama queen

THIS WAS WRITTEN ON FEB. 27TH

Today we left Colorado to go back to L.A.

 

I was pissed off.  This time because although our plan had been to pack everything up yesterday, get up this morning, have a last day of skiing w/the kids, and then jumping in the van to leave in our under-ski-clothes (very comfy) for the 14 hour drive.

 

But no.  Just as we get up (I knew it) my husband decided we should probably NOT ski and just leave (as usual).  Since I got my first pair of great ski boots only yesterday, I was soooo looking forward to using them for longer than just a couple of runs which were ruined by my low blood pressure (another day's story).

 

I was all kinds of pissed off.  Stomped around, huffed, puffed, grunted, stomped some more and reduced all communication to one syllable sentences.  Pissed.

 

We checked out, returned the rentals, dropped off some things, bought something to cover up the bags, and then decided to quickly get a sandwich while waiting to meet our friend Marty to say thank you and goodbye.

 

We sat down and Marty showed up.  Among other things, he brought up the fact that it was a beautiful day of skiing (of course) so my cranium just cracked in half and fire shot up to the sky (reference to Bill Cosby?).  Of course all were subjected to my sad story which, according to me, borderlined on some sort of spousal mental/emotional abuse and which Marty had to agree with me on.  Obviously.

 

By the grace of Love and God and all wonderful things in the world, the conversation changed to a different topic, fortunately for my husband.  One which at some point prompted my husband to respond to Marty's "you're a lucky guy to have her" by saying something like "she's definitely the one thing in my life I've been lucky with".  It took sooo much for me not to jump on his lap and kiss him until he couldn't breathe, or to cry, or both.

 

Those moments are funny, the ones that make you fall in love all over again.  I see why I'm with him, why we're married and why I couldn't live without him.  He is not what I had previously envisioned  for a husband (I wanted a brunette, or at least a tall one), but then again, I've never been right.

 

Andso right it is.  My family as it stands now is the most perfect thing I couldn't even have imagined, because it's real.  There is so much love, so much richness in the rapport we have when we're together.  It's what's in between when we're standing face to face that is impenetrable, direct and infinite.

 

Tonight I feel so incredibly fortunate.  If I never say this again, allow me for once to say that I have found the source and the taste of happiness.  It is small and hard to find because it's so obvious, like looking for your glasses when they're on top of your head.  Like craving to touch something soft, when our own skin is right there.  It's finding warmth within your own breath.  Loving what I have, having what I love, what I always wanted.  Love.

 

Ultimately, that's what we all want, right?

G

"Do the, do the, do the do do do" - Frankie Smith

Gimme a "HO" if you got your funky bus fare...

The funk of the day has exhausted me.  After my mom told me the ugliness stemming from the Greasy Dough Boy I started to walk back to the hotel from a great day of skiing.  I just couldn't see myself enjoying the rest of the day, and it was only around 2 pm...

Fe Fi Fo Fum, well I'll be darned here it comes, the Double Dutch Bus is on the street

So as I was walking to the shuttle bus, lugging my rental skis and stomping in the rental boots that were finally the right size, I envisioned myself back at the hotel:  just sitting there, feeling sad and hurt and full of hate and no punching bag to take it out on.  Then I figured I would get depressed and lost on some mindless computer game, or movie, or gossip magazine crap. 

you'd better get off the curb, move your feet

"Fuck it, fuck him", I thought, "I won't let the Dough Boy ruin my day", so I turned right around and stomped back up to the mountain, with my red, runny nose, tired legs and aching feet.  Yet I was on a mission, and come hell or high water my day was about to change. 

Let me tell you what I say when I'm dealing with the funky sidewalk
Let me show you how to walk when I gotta do my funky walk
Let me tell you what I say when I'm dealing with the funky sidewalk
I say...

 sssssssss-sugar...

actually, no.  I asked the girl at the Starbuc counter to put Splenda in the cup before they made my cappuccino, otherwise it sticks to the foam and doesn't dissolve right.  But I called my husband and told him all about my new attitude and he came down and joined me for some well-deserved caffeinated quality time.  What a man.

Put on your skates don't forget your rope
Cause I know I'm gonna see you
At my Double Dutch Show

I didn't ski anymore, but we did sit and enjoy just being there.  We picked up the kids from ski school and while their dad took them to the big bouncy thingy I went back to the hotel to pickup our skates.  Our ice skates.  Little one decided (after what seems like an hour you spend putting on the skates tightly enough) that it was too cold.  So back on the bus I was, but this time sharing my iPod with my daughter.

Come on, get on my Double Dutch Bus (The Double Dutch Bus!!)

I know she's not as passionate about my music, but fortunately when I got back my husband showed me he's as passionate about my family as I am.  It was one of the most beautiful gifts he's ever given me, how disgusted/horrified/angry he was at the situation my parents are facing.  So much so he called my mom and they had a good talk.

 Let me hear you say do that
(Do that)
Let me hear you say Do that again
(Do that again)

I escaped for a little while to the City Market to get some more ruby red grapefruits that I'm so incredibly addicted to, among other things.  I then got a sweet card for my husband, one he deserved along with all my love.

It's in the small things we find the greatest treasures.  In a phone call, in a reaction, and in so many things that many people will never know (think Dough Boy).  To know my husband loves my mom so much, to know we've been on this road for such a long time and we finally seem to be "getting there", where we genuinely react to each other from the heart, and the reaction is a good one, and one that is well understood - no longer much room for miscommunication.

On my way back from the market Double Dutch came on my iPod, and it seemed both completely irrelevant and totally well-suited for this day all at once.

Funk it.

Fuck it.

G.

There *has* to be a speciall sort of hell...

 Oh, how I hate days like this...

I assume not many of you know my family situation, but my mom has been married and living with my step-dad for 25 years.  

And then it gets ugly, as it has been ugly for over a year.  

My step-brother is suing to have my step-dad declared incompetent and take over all of his finances.  He has many times said he'd have him declared incompetent and put him away.  He is very greedy and has been harassing my parents. 

Here are some of the wonderful things he's done so far:  

- He has sent fax after fax to anyone in the family to make outrageous claims,

- fired my brother (who was working for the company my step-dad owns),

- changed the ownership of my parent's house from their names to a company's (my step-dad changed it back),

-canceled my step-dad's doctor's appointments so they wouldn't give him the medicine he needs for the dementia he is suffering from, 

- told my parent's realtor not to help them find a new house,

- has been going to the old house they lived in and stealing art and furniture (he has a key and no one is living there).   

My mom got a restraining order against him, but it was revoked when the court asked my step-dad (who, remember, is suffering from dementia) if he wanted to see his "children", of course he said yes.  

This piece of shit is trying to kill my parents with the stress he is causing them.  The trial is on March 9th, and today my mom received a document from the State of Florida, Department of Children and Families because she's been named as the alleged perpetrator of Abuse, Neglect, or Exploitation in a case involving my step-dad.  This meeting is set for the 8th, the day before the trial.  They have been married for 25 years and for those who've met my mom, you know this is completely outrageous, she takes care of him, gives him his meds, keeps him on track and loves him with all her heart.  

I am about to explode.  I have so much hurt and anger in my heart it's unbelievable.  I truly think this piece of scum is trying to make my parents either have a stroke or nervous breakdown from the stress, and at ages 83 and 76, they are just not as strong as they once were...  

I might have to take a trip to Florida just so my mom won't be alone during the trial, although she doesn't want me to come.  I hate feeling like my hands are tied when I would love to wrap them around this scumbag's neck.  He really, truly wants to destroy my parents, and I fear that if the court gives him all the financial power, their life would be hell, and I don't want the end of their lives to be so incredibly ugly.  

Anyway, that's all really.  I just had to vent.  I am sad that I can't "rise above it", that I can't get over the hatred I feel, the want to physically/emotionally/mentally hurt this person, as he is the one who's planting all these seeds of hatred in our hearts.  I want to be forgiving, understanding, but at the moment I just want to put on a pair of steel-toe workboots and stomp on his fat face.  He is the evil twin of the Pillsbury Doughboy, the one with the greasy face, in case you need some sort of visual reference...  

My husband and I don't think it will end after the trial, no matter the outcome, this evil piece of slime will continue to make them miserable, so as wrong as it may seem, there has to be a special sort of hell for him.  

Thanks for reading,
Gabriela

NOT working and a crazy day

By the way... we're in Colorado skiing.

I can feel the medicine's effects starting to dwindle...  I will probably have to go up on the dosage.  Or maybe it's the thin mountain air. 

Yesterday I was skiing with our daughter.  I got to catch a nano-second glimpse of her going off the trail and down the side of the mountain.  What a horrible thing I never want to see again.  I could hear her screaming for me and all I could think of was that she was just rolling on down the mountain...  I kept screaming to let her know I was coming to get her, but she wouldn't stop screaming.  Of course I popped my skis off and tried to run to her (impossible to do in ski boots).

When I got there (fortunately there was a woman stopped trying to help her with a ski pole) I saw that although she wasn't easily reachable, she wasn't as far down as her screaming led me to think (YES she was scared, but she can be a bit of a drama queen -- I wonder where she gets it?).  So I jumped down to her to pull her out, undid her skis and had her walk back up the mountain on my body, pushed her booty up until she could stretch her arms up for 2 people (someone else showed up) to pull her up.  I sent her skis up and then tried to climb out myself.  It was very hard to do, as I kept sinking into the snow.  I did have to get help from the woman (God bless her!) and the man who showed up later (and him too!) or I would have had a lot of snow packed inside my clothing...

Oh, and that's not all, before that ordeal I found a boy on the mountain who had lost his dad.  He was crying so hard, yet didn't stop anyone to ask for help, just kept standing there looking up the hill as if he was waiting on someone.  Fortunately I stopped to ask him a question (he *had* been there a very long time) and when he answered I saw he was crying and had been for a while.  I called his mom and had to leave a message and Murphy's law, she called me back right when I was trying to hoist our daughter out of the mess she was in, all tangled up in her skis, snow and a tree.

Oh, and even before that, sometime between finding the boy and the downhill adventure, I was coming down this little trail, but because I didn't notice this small little, but high enough jump, I lost control.  Not only did I lose it, but I ran smack into a woman who fell pretty hard by the edge of the mountain, her cell phone flying into the snow...  Funny enough, it was the same woman who later stopped to help my baby...

I know, it all sounds crazy, but it's late, I am dying to go to bed and I have reallllly bad pains in my stomach.  Ok, so I have gas and I'm going off to fart.

Which reminds me, dinner tonight was fabulous (have the African Black Ruff, trust me you won't mind all the farting afterwards, just make sure you sleep with someone who really loves you).

G

Oh, and curling is just NOT a sport.  Snowball fighting is more of a sport that curling.

"El Hijo De La Novia"

What do you do when a movie leaves you wanting more, wanting to travel down to Argentina, meet the family (especially Juan Carlos!) and spend your days at "Lollobrigida's", taking in the scents, the sounds, the red wine...  

I am so melancholic, but after seeing one of the best movies ever, I am the better for it.   And although at times (during my 2nd viewing of it) it seemed to slow down (but again, only during my *second* time seeing it - a day after the 1st time) I am haunted, pensive and want to reach down deep inside myself and write.  

But that's the problem... I can't think of a thing I could write about that would even come close to the grand explosion of an emotional volcano I feel brewing inside. 

How to tap into that?   

This is where I will sign off and write on my own, in private. 

We'll see what comes out.  

G

35,000 names for baby

I used to have the book of the above title and loaned it to someone who never brought it back, which is too bad because I need it.  No, it's not what you think.

I love my new laptop so much, I'm thinking of naming it.  But first I have to figure out if it's a male or a female...  I think it's a she.  Has to be. 

Because it's a brilliant, smart, multitasker that can handle anything I need it to do.  And all I have to do is understand it. 

G

Arrested Relationship

Last night, just after the poker game was done and everyone had gone home, I sat on the couch and turned to my Tivo.  And what I had been waiting for for the past eternally long few weeks was there: a new episode of "Arrested Development".  Not only was it a new one, it was the last one.

I selected this "episode" to get the info on it (savor every moment) and quickly realized that it was actually a 2 HOUR long show.  It was divided into 4 episodes but... our Tivo had only recorded 38 minutes of it.

Although I know my husband didn't do anything wrong when he put back the receiver, the Tivo box and the dvd/vcr thing back into their place in order to make room for my party, something went wrong and the units overheated, so the recorder stopped 38 minutes into "Arrested."

Now, it's sad.  It's just so sad.  I have been with my husband for almost 14 years, through hell and high water as some of you know.  We have had horrible fights, wonderful sex, terrible tempers, we've been apart, we've had 2 children, 2 miscarriages, heartbreaks, and after 14 years, there is nothing so far that has destroyed our relationship.  We are the equivalent of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger".

Yet...  

I could have single-handedly and in a matter of seconds reduced him to mere crumbs on our hardwood floor when I realized what had happened.  I was fine until he seemed upset with me for being upset over the devastating loss of my show.  I tried to think of the birth of our children, our wedding, all of that, yet I was living in one of those bad beer commercials where the guy leaves the girl because she drank his beer.  And Arrested Development was my beer.

My beer and the dealbreaker.  I started having one of those conversations in my head where rational me tries to convince irrational me that I love him, that we have a history together, that AD is just a TV show.  But it is a TV show that for some reason won't show again.  I tried to find it at a later hour/date but nothing.  NOTHING.

Off to find a lawyer,

G

Daynal

I just realized that "jour" in French (yes, because my daughter is now learning the language) means "day". 

So I'm sitting in front of my computer again, writing on my daynal, and although I'm not quite sure what I'm going to write about I know I'll go somewhere because I just damn well feel like writing.  So I go.

Last night I had another poker game, but this time it was for the moms of my daughter's class.  As always, the game was fun, but the alcohol-infused conversations were more so.  I laughed whatever little ass I had off a few times, but especially when in a thick French accent one of the moms looked at our dealer/instructor and said "you know, Michael, I kill men".  Maybe you had to be there, but it was just too hilarious to not re-relate it.

On other news, I GOT A NEW COMPUTER.  I have finally found the perfect computer.  I love it, I'm attached to it, I want to marry it.  It is so small, the screen is almost 9" but it flips around to become a tablet.  You can write on it like a notepad, and the screen is also touch-activated, so I'm in heaven.  I literally wake up because I'm looking forward to using it.  Ahh...  spring is in the air...!  Better yet, my 1 degree of George Clooney put a photo of George and my friend on my desktop and surprised me with it.  What actually really surprised me is how awfully gross GC looks in it, but it was taken at 3 in the morning and well... I'm not perfectly beautiful all the time either, believe it or not.

Oh, and just as with every other night there is alcohol involved, I have a headache.

G

Wrecked

I am watching Flight 93 and literally shaking...  I'm so nerve-wrecked I don't think I'll sleep tonight.  My heart is racing. 

This is the reason my mom tells me I shouldn't watch the news.  I get way too involved where I feel the emotions of others so real and so strongly...  it's very toxic.

I think the pain of losing someone is intense no matter what, how or when.  Then I realized that quite a few of these people actually got a chance to say goodbye to their loved ones...  but what kind of torture would it be to be speaking to someone in the present knowing that it will be the last time and their death is imminent??  I can feel the desperation of trying to stop time, stop the world from turning, to avoid whatever it is that is going to happen...

Wait, now they can't find the plane after it crashed???

Jeez... I'm getting a headache... 

G

On the Supermodel and the Superdruggie

From AOL News on Kate Moss' ex Pete Doherty:

"Doherty appeared at the same court a week ago and admitted possessing heroin, crack cocaine, morphine and marijuana. He was freed on bail."

What??  What about amphetamines... or ecstacy?  Prescription drugs, even??

I could imagine being there as he gets busted and witness the boy pulling out all kinds of baggies and shit out of his pockets.  I can also imagine standing there 10 minutes later and him still pulling shit out of his pockets.

How ridiculous.  I thought people were addicted one drug at a time.  But what the heck, he wants to get there, and he wants to get there fast. 

That makes Kate Moss a good influence on him. 

All things considered, she was only doing coke...

G

The happy (and complete) doody

I just got done with a very short discussion with my son:

Him:  "Mommy, why is my doody not like the other boys or daddy?" (he means uncircumsized)

Me:  "Baby, your doody is like your daddy's... his is the same"

Him:  "No... Why isn't it like other boys?"

Me:  "Why, do you want it to be like other boys?  Because yours is like daddy's."

Him: "Yes, I want it to be like the other boys..."

Me:  "It can be done, if you want to.  But first let me show you how it's done"

 

...and that ended the conversation.

Feeling mean today...

I'm in a shit mood.  Today I feel just plain mean.  

While it may have something to do with the fact that I hit a car this morning because I was running late, but really, truly, do trash trucks have to take up the entire street?   

So to get my mean kicks/kinks worked out of me, I went to another blog:  http://www.idontlikeyouinthatway.com/ where I was able to evilly laugh my blues away at stupid people who crave way too much attention.  

As always I like to be helpful, so here are my recommendations from said blog:  

Read the bit about Jaime Foxx/Eva Longoria,

then the one on the new/canceled show The Book of Daniel ("But damn, the writers laid it on a bit thick didn't they? I'm surprised they didn't make the family dog a pre-op transsexual serial killer, or the grandmother a cannibal with lung cancer.")  Too funny.

____________________________________________________________  

Warning:  If you go to the blog, do not click on the Kevin Federline-Spears video, or you'll be playing that "PopoZao" crap in your head all day long.  Consider yourself warned.
_______________________________________________________________

On Jennifer Lopez possibly being pregnant:   "And if she really is having a baby, why in the hell would you want to reproduce with Marc Anthony? I may be picky, but I never thought Skeletor was all that attractive, even for a cartoon. "    

 

Ok, so now go read it.   

G

Six Degrees

(The "mood" drop down menu on the AOL Journals is definitely very limiting...)

  And now for some more "Hollywoodness"...

A few years back a friend of mine told me she thought George Clooney was hot.  I pointed out how wrong she was because for one, he liked Anna Nicole Smith, two, he seemed kind of cocky and three everyone was into him.  Too much.

Then I watched ER.  It must have been his character's rapport with children that got me and I was hooked.  Right on the wagon with everyone else.  And how I hate being like everyone else...

But one day, a guy in our racing team had made contact with someone in the Anthony Edwards' camp and the "Cure Autism Now" charity he is/was/whatever involved with.  That was my entry into the game Six Degrees of Separation.  I knew (or more like it my husband knew) someone who knew someone who was working for/with Anthony Edwards who worked with George Clooney on ER.  At a sudden 5th degree, LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!

Then this person in the team actually met Anthony Edwards.  Wow.  I was now at a 4th degree.  Suddenly, I found out I already knew someone who was friends with Mr. Edwards and all too soon I was on the 3rd degree.

Even sooner than that I attended a party and Anthony Edwards was there.  When my turn came to meet him and move up to the 2nd degree, I made an ass of myself and confessed to him how badly I felt by being plagued by some very vivid dreams about GC, as if I was betraying my husband.  Then my fast moving game came to a halt:  George and "Tony" were not exactly the best of friends at the time (I figured this out right after the "George Clooney is an asshole" comment Mr. Edwards made)...  Bugger. 

Did that mean I had to go back a degree? 

 Damnit.  Back to 3rd and no real leads... 

Then we moved to L.A.  My friend Robin (who used to live in Indy) heard me talk about my obsession and told me how she sees GC on occasion, as he frequents the restaurant she works at.  Slowly moving back up to second, I again started to feel back in the game.  "Someday I am to meetGeorge Clooney."

Months passed and like with everything else, out of sight (no pun intended?) out of mind.  I would even see him on TV and really not think much of him anymore, as it seemed I was moving onto something else...  not sure (cough) what, but (cough) something (co-Julia Roberts-ugh ) un-Clooney.  And I was back to 3rd, really...

Enter my daughter to the rescue.  She started attending a French school with a friend and I entered into more Hollywoodness.  A little boy from her class whose father is a fairly well-known TV actor has a crush on her.  And then, lo and behold, she befriended a little girl whose parents are very good friends with...

GEORGE fucking CLOONEY.

Really good friends.  As in go-over-to-his-house-to-watch-the-Superbowl good friends. So I pickup my game piece and happily move two degrees.

I AM NOW OFFICIALLY ON THE FIRST DEGREE.

And back on the game, mostly because I now believe that George is actually trying to meet me, how else could we explain this??

Goodnight. 

G

 

PS:  For those who are fans of Tobias Funke, I found the ultimate website:  http://www.never-nude.com/

It was bound to happen...

So I'm living proof that you can't live in L.A. and not get sucked into the whole celebrity/hollywood/movie thing...

Since I got an iPod Video for Christmas, I decided to download movies into it so I can get caught up with everything I missed since having children, therefore joining the legions of people living here whose speech is peppered with references to movies past.  I will never be completely "in" as there are also references to many TV shows that I have no idea about, but such is life...

Regardless of my past ignorance, there are current shows I MUST see.  "Arrested Development" I can't live without.  "Scrubs" is a couple favorite, followed by (not in the same league) "Everybody Hates Chris" and "My Name Is Earl". 

Then there are the ones I watch just so I have something to criticize.

Project Runway comes to mind really fast.  And now for my own bit of Hollywoodness I think I found Angelina Jolie's real brother right there on Bravo.  Everytime I watch this show this guy reminds me so much of her...  Which might explain why she safely made out with another guy a few years ago, claiming it was her brother.  But who really cares...  Oh no, one more thing:  I was talking to someone about why I'm not crazy about the new Ms. Pitt and this other person was defending her.  I decided to listen when she said "Angelina Jolie had a really hard childhood".  Waiting to hear some sad story that would make me re-think my probably ill-perception of her, I was attentive.  Here is what I heard:  "Oh, she had a really bad childhood.  I mean, her father was off accepting awards for his movies, while she lived in some... some shit-hole apartment in..."

At that point I was expecting something truly bad, such as "drug-infested building" or "a dilapidated shanty town" or even a brothel...  but no. 

"...some shit-hole apartment in BEVERLY HILLS"

Involuntarily, I spat out "are there shit-holes in Beverly Hills???" 

Hardly.

So while my hat's off to Ms. soon-to-be-Pitt for adopting those 2 children, I still hope that their lives will be as blessed as possible, which doesn't always come in a pretty package. 

And that they'll understand that "slumming" and "Beverly Hills" never belong in the same sentence.

Thank you to Wendy in California for getting me off my writing ass...