Did you know it's National Poetry Month? Well I didn't and I don't write poetry because I can't rhyme and when I write non rhyming poetry it looks so silly to me, but nonetheless, this is what's on my mind and since it's on my mind, I figured I'd write a poem about it. Here goes:

Every time I announce to my family that I am going to poop,

I do it so they will get the hint to leave me alone. 

Instead, each child hears “come talk to your mother,”

and as they rush towards me, I hear a moan

from my stomach. A rumbling, a growl, a thunder

I want to hear your stories, I do, but if I do so now it’s going to be a blunder

Please, children, let me take a shit in peace,

how that will be, I’ll just continue to wonder....

I wrote this on March 19, 2012, but the lovely inter workings of the world wide web would not let me post it. This is yet another attempt to post. 

As I was brushing my hair today, I realized that I really do have the “old lady ball haircut” that my daughter told me I was gonna have to get because I’m getting older. At least now it’s more stylish, and not permed, and I still have more dark brown than white hairs. As I was curling it, I thought of my 78 year old grandma and wondered if she was going to be at home today, then remembered that she goes to old lady yoga in the mornings, where they sit on a chair reaching their arms as high as they can and lifting their legs six inches off the floor. It’s a tough job, I’m so proud of her.

I spent the day at my mother’s house. 

I came here because my internet at home isn’t working. How dare it not work when it knows that it is my lifeline in all I do. I needed my mom’s wi-fi and she has a huge dining room table. What better place to pull out all my work, my laptop, my cup of coffee, and a mountain Dew and make myself at home.  

Once you open the living room door at my mother's house where my grandmother lives, or maybe it’s my grandmother's home where my mother lives, you have a direct view into my grandmothers bedroom when her door is open. I had just called and there was no answer, so I did not expect to see my grams laying on her bed. I always try to be kind of loud when I come in because she scares easily, and unfortunately I’m always the one who scares her. I usually yell out, “hola abuela” since, as a native Spanish speaker, she helped me with my Spanish classes and she’s the only person in the whole world that I’m not afraid to speak Spanish to. Today I walked in and she did not budge. I slammed the door and there was no movement, her beautiful bare brown feet were sticking out of the bottom of her blue blanket. They were swollen but that could be normal. Please, grams, move. Was it because the Mexican television show she was watching was blaring loudly and she did not hear me? Maybe she was sleeping soundly after a hard, early morning yoga workout. Please abuela, move. I don't care how good you're sleeping, wake up from your wonderful nap so that I do not have to walk into your room and find you without life. Fear gripped my heart. I stood in terror as I tried to tell myself what steps to take. I cleared my throat, I opened and shut the door again, I stomped really hard, and finally she sat up.

Relief.

She looked at me, not being able to see who it was, and then I yelled, “hola abuela, como esta?” She said, “Hi Manda! How are you?” That voice has never sounded so smooth and comforting. I walked into her room and covered her cold feet, hugged her, and told her my plans to work. She kept the show blaring and went back to sleep. I’ve never been so relieved. 

My mother has a huge round dining room table. It belonged to my grandparents and I remember as a kid digging my fork into the top of it. Even now, the wood seems soft to me and I often fight the urge to make four fork holes where I sit. There have been many plans to get it refinished, but as beautiful as it would look, I think I’d miss all the scratches and marks from 30 plus years of use. My grandmother sits a few chairs over and I watch as her beautiful old, wrinkled, brown fingers nimbly maneuver thread and cloth, sewing an extension onto her bed sheets. She calls them “shits” because of her accent. She’s using a sewing machine that I’m sure was from my mom’s hippy days, and she tells me, “this is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” concerning the sewing machine and its’ brown woodgrain contact paper covered cover. 

I have no point, other than I love watching the sharpness of my grandmother, the skills she possesses even through her aches and pains of old age, her perseverance despite the loneliness of having her husband long passed on, and her sharp wit. Just the other day I was explaining the concept of music piracy, bit torrents, and file sharing, when my mother said to my grandmother, “So mom, if someone gets music for you, does that make you a pirate?” My grandmother, sharp as a needle, immediately replied with, “no, no, we’re sharing, not stealing. I’m no pirate” 

She’s awesome.

Lessons from the great state of Texas

This past week I was honored to be the Maid, well, the Matron of Honor in a wedding in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. My wonderful friend finally got hitched to a fabulous man after a horrible 15+ year relationship with a complete douche cock who treated her like shit. She and I were roommates in bible college when we were both 18 and here we are now, 13 years later. She’s been trying to get married for that entire time while I’ve been married, divorced, remarried, and (almost) re-divorced, if thats even a word. This wedding was a beautiful reminder of the power of love and faith in the hope that there are genuinely nice guys out there for all you single ladies.  

My very best cousin and partner in crime, Danielle, went to the Lone Star State with me. It was an adventure that I will never forget. Together we laughed at one another’s stupid jokes, ate bologna sandwiches in the car, and made memories while all the while I was learning valuable life lessons: 

Lesson 1. I cuss too much, but I’m not sure if I care

On day one, the groom-to-be picked me up at the airport. It was my first time meeting him and we had a lively conversation about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. We met up with the bride-to-be and together we ran wedding related errands until the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. I was surrounded by cheerful well-mannered Christian people and although I am usually cheerful, occasionally well-mannered, but not too Christian, I hadn't realized until then how much I use “oh my God” and other possibly offensive subtle remarks. My frustration lied in the fact that I hadn’t talked shit or been sarcastic to anyone all.day.long. I quickly shot a text to my brother telling him about my dilemma and he replied with, “Sorry, I wish I had something vulgar to send you.” Damn. I was having withdrawal symptoms. I need snarky remarks and fast comebacks in conversation. I need to laugh and make fun of others at their own expense, I need to feel the release of an f-bomb now and then. By the time Danielle got to town the next day, the pressure of being a well behaved woman had built up so much within myself that it caused a powerful force of verbal fucking diarrhea to spew from my mouth. Every dirty four-letter expletive that I’ve ever known was included into conversation. Hell, I even threw in a few euphemisms that I never use, like piss-foot and nuckin’ futs. It was a huge relief until I had to code switch during the wedding preparations. So what if I slipped and said, “shit” in front of the pastor’s wife once or four times. I caught myself, and I vowed to say it a little less, or at least a little more quiet the next time. So what if the music playing from my computer while we were getting ready referenced tea baggin’, I heard it, switched it to a love song, and then quit being the DJ because I don’t have any “nice” music on iTunes. Finally, after a few more f-bombs, I just excused myself out of the room. Overall, I think I did a very nice job of keeping my usual rants and raves to a brand new low, and I made up some new euphemisms. 

Lesson 2. Pack Pepto

Maybe it was traveling and drinking Texan water. Maybe it was the wine, or the long islands or the ale that was freely pouring from the fellas at the Crown Import convention until the break of dawn. It could have been the Taco Bell, or the lack of hydration, the horrible hangover with no sleep and thick Texan air, but now and forever more, I will pack some pink stuff...and Tums... and baking soda... and ginger. That is all. Oh, and extra strength Tylenol. 

Lesson 3. Splurge on a pedicure even if you’re wearing closed toe heels - but do it for you. 

The bride gave the bridesmaids flip-flops that were the same orange color as our dresses. Mine were in the car and I was running around decorating the event center, making ridiculous last minute wedding decisions so the bride didn't have to be bothered with them, and keeping the groom calm and collected, while all the other girls were getting beautiful. I had just started my hair when the bride announced that everyone was to put their flip flops right now to take a feet picture. Crash and burn. For real? Not only do I hate my feet, but I didn’t have the time to get a pedicure. Why didn't you let us know in advance? I figured I’d save some money since I was wearing closed toe heels anyway, plus my tosies were painted and only a little bit chipped, so who cares, right? Wrong. When I announced that mine were in the car (Danielle’s sick ass ran out to get them, bless her heart) and that I didn’t get a pedi, someone had the nerve to say in her most snobby voice, “Well you are in a wedding, aren’t you?” 

*record screeching noise* 

The room got quiet and everyone stared at me. In my head, I told her off. In my head I got ghetto and punched her in the throat. In my head, I walked out of the wedding. I chose instead to do none of those things. I stared at her, making eye contact and I walked into the bathroom where I stood there for a minute and got my bearings. I was pissed. Here I was, running around making sure that the wedding went off beautifully. Here I was, having spent way too much on travel costs and little things that come up. Here I was, doing things without even a simple thank you, and yet here I am, getting bitched at because my toes were painted red? Whooooo-saw... So what did I do? I put on my orange fucking flip-flops, stuck my ugly feet into the picture, walked out, and continued to make the wedding fucking amazing. And I never got a "thank you."

Lesson 4. When booking a hotel online, check the neighborhood

The hotel I had booked for my last two night of stay was in Dallas. It wasn’t an expensive luxury hotel, but it wasn’t the Bed Bug Mo-Mo either. A popular chain hotel should be trusted, right? Danielle and I checked in after the wedding and like usual we were joking and laughing and giving the 18 year old fresh faced hotel employee a hard time. He stared at us as though we were the most beautiful women he’d ever seen...with a dumb smile on his face. I assumed that he was just a young buck and not used to two attractive women being genuinely cool with him. We decided to find something to eat before taking our stuff to the room. As we drove around, we saw no restaurants. We saw no grocery stores. We decided to buy sandwich stuff from a gas station. This part of Dallas was not a ghost town, but the only people around were men... Everywhere. Driving, at the gas station, walking, hanging out, sitting in cars parked in semi-obscure places...alone. None of the 5 gas stations we stopped at had lunch meat, but we were stared at, glared at, oogled, by every man around. Did we miss the sign that said, “No Women Allowed” or the one that said, "Now Entering the Twilight Zone?”

Danielle and I grew up in the hood, we know when things are just strange, but this shit was just freaky. As we drove around we saw a strip club, then another, and another, then a gentleman’s club or four, and a very shady swingers club buried behind a brick wall. To each their own, but it was then that we knew the reason we were getting the eagle eye, and even followed, was because they thought we were a pair of strippers/hookers/hoes looking for a good time (and maybe 20-25 bucks?). When the only other female we saw, who was a 50 year old bum, started to chase our car, we knew shit around there was crazy. Long story short, we ended up sleeping in the hotel that night, watching the adventures of hookers in the backseat of cars from the window, fought to get a refund on the following nights’ stay, and high-tailed it outta there. 

Lesson 5. When there’s nothing to do, go to Barnes and Noble

It rained the entire time down there. Rain. rain. rain. rain. rain. It was ugly and on the last day there was nothing to do. We went to the mall but everyone in the state had the same idea. What to do? Thank baby Jesus for putting a Barnes and Noble in front of our face! Together, Danielle and I discussed our love of books, reading, screenplays, tattoos, race, feminism, and how sexy Kat Von D is. When needing to waste time, B&N is the place to be...just stick to your budget. 

Lesson 6. Rent a teeny tiny car

Coming from a place where the SUV is God, I was kinda embarrassed to be cruising the teeny tiny Chevy Aveo. But hey, it was cheap, and when we only had to pump gas one time, and 40 bucks filled the tank, shoooooot...economy cars it is from here on out! 

Lesson 7. There’s nothing like traveling with your best friend

No matter how sarcasm deprived, how tired, how hungover, how bloated, how snotty, how poor, how rainy, how scared, or how ready to go home you are, there is nothing like traveling with your best friend. Although on a number of occasions I said that the GPS lady on my phone was my bestie, Danielle, you are way cooler than her. She may have directed me to where I needed to go in Texas, but you direct me to where I need to go in life. Even though you spit beer all over my pants in front of people and used me to keep yourself warm, you are the person in life who truly “gets” me. You’re my roll-dog and I will love you forever. I am strong because of you.

Looking for My Reflection

Days like today, in which I had everything to do yet nothing in particular that I wanted to attend to, make me ride the roller coaster of emotion. I am strong, I am weak, I am dependent on others yet I am independent. I can make my own decisions to be the bad girl of fun and chance that lives within my heart and rises up occasionally, or I can be the good girl of reason and logic that I usually operate in. In a strange form of awakening, I am realizing that pain often dictates the daily decisions that I make. Patricia Williams, in her essay “On Being the Object of Property” writes:

There are moments in my life when I feel as though a part of me is missing. There are days when I feel so invisible that I can’t remember what day of the week it is, when I feel so manipulated that I can’t remember my own name, when I feel so lost and angry that I can’t speak a civil word to the people who love me best. These are the times when I catch sight of my reflection in store windows and am surprised to see a whole person looking back. (1988)

I know that other women feel like I do, but I didn’t know that anyone could ever describe exactly how I can feel at times. For me, the pain comes from many aspects of life. Be it childhood, adolescence, my first marriage, the divorce, the fear of not being able to provide for my hurting children, religion, the future, not adequately meeting up to the expectations of others, my second marriage, my family, my future. All of this propels me into the whirlwind of life and as I spin I’m formed like a lump of clay on a potters wheel. Some days I am strong and on the top of my game, powerful, educated, happy. I know where I’m going, how to get there and I am unstoppable. On other days, the pain drives me to operate out of the portion of my brain labeled “I don’t give a fuck.” On those days I am even more powerful, more educated, and fierce. The pain of life is numbed by independence and a kick ass attitude. Operating out of that frame of mind can be dangerous if I don’t keep myself bridled. I like those days. Sometimes the whirlwind kicks me into a mode that is the worst for me. It is a place of complacency and fear. I do nothing, I say nothing, and I am nothing. I loathe that woman. She is lazy and too caring and loves too much. She is a weak woman that to me represents poor women everywhere who are codependent and stuck in the shit of life. 

I’m looking at myself and realizing that my life is similar to a toddler learning to walk. I take a few steps, realize they are safe, and so I run. I run free and wild with no restraints. I start to skip and jump, then find myself with my nose on the cement. Like that child I’m in shock, I cry, and I look for comfort. Does it mean that I’ll never fall again? Of course not, but it does slow me down, and I remind myself to be a little more careful. 

On a Journey

Journie is the name of my youngest. When I found out that I was pregnant with her, I was 12 weeks along, going through the most difficult time of my life; a divorce from a man who had never treated me well and stolen my self-worth. I had lost my home, all my belongings, and hadn’t worked in 5 years. It was me and the two kids living in my mom’s basement when I went to the doctor to find out why I was having stomach problems. Congrats! You’re about to bring another child into this mess of a life you’re living! 

Through the pain I received advice that has become my mantra every time life tries to choke me. She said, “Everyone lives life on their own journey, its not always good, but the destination is what matters.” As long as I’m moving, I’m doing something. Focusing on the journey as well as the destination is my goal. 

We travel through life with all of its ups and downs, when it seems there are more downs than ups its important to keep the journey in mind. For me, learning to look back and see where I’ve been empowers me to move on towards the destination. This year has been tough; I’ve moved three times, been a mother to other children whose mothers don’t deserve that wonderful title, faced the struggles and blessings of a new marriage, quit a fabulous job that I loved to finish school, and continuously tried to find the parts of me that need to be changed. I’m grateful for the successes, but I’m grateful for the ordinary moments too. Good luck on your journey! 

P.S. My Journie is soon to be 5 and she is the feistiest kid of the bunch. She has the mentality of a 5 year old, but the humor of a 16 year old. Sometimes I look at her and remind myself what her name means to me, and then I snap out of it and go back to dealing with her silliness. I love you, Journie Lynn.

Come What May...I Will Love Them

My foot and my sisters' now have a matching "Come what may"

Seasons may change winter to spring

My life has seemed like a series of seasons; fabulous to good, good to bad, bad to worse, horrible to miraculous, and everything in between. I’ve been through things that others will never comprehend while at the same time I’ve been sheltered from things that I can’t begin to imagine. This is life, I guess. 

I love you until the end of time

My mother raised some awesome kids. Life has given us some lemons, but we have all learned the ability to make some kick ass lemonade. Throughout life, rocks of hurt, stones of mistakes, and boulders of guilt are thrown at us and it is painful. They leave bruises, cuts and scars, however we have two choices; we can either allow those stones to bury and kill us, or we can take them and build our life with them. It is hard labor to build with these heavy rocks of hurt and regret and it would be far easier to give up and be buried by them. It's always easier to give up, but I am not the giving up type. 

I realized this years ago when my husband at the time was strung out on some kind of drug (I later realized it was heroin, meth, and pain killers) and ditched our two kids and myself. I had no clue what I was going to do, I was a stay at home mother and he was in charge of the finances. devastation. I found out that none of the bills had been paid and he had lost our home. devastation. How could have I been so stupid to have allowed that. What hurt the most was each time my super handsome two year old son with a voice as deep as a man would say, “daddy left us because I’m bad.” That memory still makes me teary-eyed. 

I was in a depression for a long, long time. My mother and my sister carried me through that time, and when I found out that I was three months pregnant with my youngest, it was those two women who reminded me to build. 

Come what may, come what may

I will love you until my dying day

Although that is not nearly a crumb of the shit that I went through with that douche bag, that was over 5 years ago. My momma, sister, and brother comforted me through it and reminded me of what a kick-ass woman I was, and was still to be. 


Because I have been supported by my brother, sister, and mother, it saddens me beyond understanding when I cannot comfort them the way that they have comforted me. My sister is stationed 500 miles away from me, and while I know that is fairly close, knowing that she is hurting inside makes the distance seem infinite. My brother is in prison for a stupid mistake that he made when he was only 14 years old, and I hurt because I cannot comfort him when I know he is stressed out. My mother lives 10 minutes driving time from me and although I try to be her shoulder to cry on when she is worried for her adult kids, she unknowingly comforts my every worry with each conversation. 

(That last sentence isn’t entirely true: sometimes she doesn’t comfort me at all on the phone. Especially when our conversation goes like this:

Mom calling

Me: “Hello?”

Mom: “Hi baby, what are you doing?”

Me: “I’m taking a nap, I’ve been so exhausted”

Mom: “Oh, thats good. Did I tell you that I painted the pump outside red? Well I did, and I did yardwork...blah blah blah..and bought a rug...blah...blah..blah”

You get the point. Those conversations don’t comfort me. I just feel bad when I finally have to tell her that I’m letting her go because I’m trying to take a nap)(btw mom, since I have a feeling you may read this, I still love you, I'm just teasing your silliness)

Back to a positive-lovey-dovey-appreciating-my-family-post

And there's no mountain too high no river too wide

Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side

Storm clouds may gather and stars may collide

But I love you until the end of time

The past couple of weeks have been hard for the people I love most. Each one of us are dealing with major issues like medical stuff, job changing stuff, school stuff, financial stuff, and parole stuff. When one of us goes through something we all go through it with one another because we want the best. 

I told my mom the other day, “The next few weeks are going to be hard for all of us. We are all dealing with the daily craziness in our lives, and that is just the surface. I know that under our daily stress is a simmering pot of emotions. This brewing stew is made up of fear, regret, and sorrow, flavored with a bit of hope, all for Armando (my brother). I've been an emotional wreck the past couple of weeks. I blame it on the changes in work, school, and these damn birth control pills, but I know it's just the fear that I carry of Mondo being hurt again. I want to protect him, I want to hold him and shield him from the boulders that life throws his way, but I know that I can't, and then I just remember that he has a wonderful mom who taught him to use those stones to continue to build his life.” And I meant it. I love these people. 

Come what may, come what may 

I will love you until my dying day

Oh come what may, come what may 

I will love you 

To Valerie, my baby sister with no kids. Make a wise choice.

This is from Scary Mommy. Posted 6.13.2011

Motherhood is…

I read this confession before falling asleep last night:

“I really, truly, honestly wish someone–ANYONE–would have told me what it was really like having kids. Before I had them.”

Well. it may be too late for that person, but for all you yet- to-be-mothers out there who reallywant to know what it’s like, I’m going to do my very best to describe motherhood for you.

Here goes.

Motherhood is middle of the night wake up calls for a glass of water or a fan or a light or a blanket or a bear or a kiss or a band-aid.

Motherhood is making lunch after lunch after lunch after lunch only to find the healthy contents stuffed behind a car-seat.

Motherhood is all of your spending money.

Motherhood is not remembering what it’s like to get a full night’s sleep.

Motherhood is siblings bickering over who can look out of which window and who started it and who you love the most even though you love all of them the same but at the moment you don’t like any of them in the least.

Motherhood is wiping more poop than you ever thought you’d see in your life.

Motherhood is a car so filthy that you are embarrassed to let your own husband see it.

Motherhood is hearing the word “why” at least a hundred times a day and most of the time, not having an answer.

Motherhood is knowing, just from the touch of a forehead, almost exactly what your child’s temperature is.

Motherhood is stretch marks dominating your belly and feet a full size larger than before and sad, deflated boobs.

Motherhood is finally appreciating your own mother.

Motherhood is fantasizing over reaching the bottom of the laundry pile, knowing full well that it’s never going to happen.

Motherhood is singing all the words to your kids favorite songs even though they annoy the hell out of you.

Motherhood is never feeling at peace unless all of your children are with you, under your own roof.

Motherhood is always feeling mildly sick but never being able to wallow in your own misery.

Motherhood is never peeing or showering in peace.

Motherhood is using your sleeves to wipe runny noses and your spit to clean dirty faces.

Motherhood is being able to identify just who is coming down the stairs based solely on the thudding of their feet above you.

Motherhood is not even wanting to say “I told you so” even though you did, countless times.

Motherhood is when, just as you want to curl up into a ball of pure exhaustion and desperation, one of your children suddenly farts or burps or does something spontaneously funny. It’s the moment when you dissolve into a hysterical fit of laughter; the kind that you haven’t had since you and your seventh grade BFF were caught passing notes about which boy in your class you’d most want to be stuck in a closet with. It’s the moment you pause and look at your children, all piled on your bed, breathless and rosy cheeked, and think that the only things that really matter in the world are right there in front of you. They are yours, and they are worth every sacrifice and sleepless night.

And then, it’s the moment, two seconds later, when one of them will accidentally kick the other one on the arm and the other will bite in retaliation and you will wish, for the hundredth time that day, that you could just rewind time and savor that peace and joy for more than an instant.

Rinse and repeat a million times. That’s what motherhood is to me.

What is it to you?