Mexican, but white and uptight.

My girlfriend was supposed to meet me at the park today, but called to say she'd be an hour or two late. Like I could last for two hours at the park with a two year old, waiting for her. This isn't even one of my moronic friends. It's one of the good ones.

But she and her husband are always on Latin time, and it makes me nuts. When we make plans, they always get waylaid by one of them or one of their family members. I organized her baby shower, and almost had to be restrained when her guests showed up two hours late, with the food they were supposed to be preparing, or when her brother, who was manning the grill, decided he couldn't cook without cedar chips and sent her, the pregnant guest of honor, to Home Depot for an hour and a half. With her guests standing around. And she went.

Me, I organize my day around my commitments. Because that's how it's done. I prepared healthy and varied snacks, woke my kid up early from her nap, and got in the car. La, la, la, look at me, I'm organized.

If anyone can make me feel even more white and uptight, it's my Mexican grandmother. I am uber-organized in her vicinity. I have clipboards and lists and pie charts. Her idea of planning a family vacation is "Get in the car".

The other day, she tells me that she told my younger cousin that if he did well in school, she would "take him to Miami". A) I don't live in Miami. B) When were you going to tell me.

I'm not casual about houseguests. I would love to think of myself as laid back, but I'm not. I need coordinated towels, neutral shampoo (not too fruity, not too generic), fresh fruit, stacks of pressed linens, 3,000 pillows, and a fully stocked freezer. I used to run a boutique hotel. My family could care less about this crap. I seem to be missing that gene.

I wish it didn't bother me that my girlfriend can't show up on time, but it does. It makes me want to say no when she calls next week, but then I think that perhaps my Burberry headband is a little too tight.

Ay.

Ho-o-o-o-o-ot pockets.....

For the past month, I've been working on a report.

It's a gigantic presentation highlighting projects at work, and it's in PowerPoint (trembling hand unconciously massages gun trigger) and it's 150 pages long, and I hate it. It was the most ridiculously time-sucking brain-hemorrhaging project I've ever worked on and today...

I finished it.

I didn't even proofread it. I just pushed it away from my body like it was on fire and covered in poo.

I've also had a bunch of doctor appointments lately, trying to catch up on those two years that I had no medical insurance because the company I worked for fired me for needing surgery while four months pregnant. (I was going to hyperlink "the company I worked for" to the HR Director's email address, but today I am feeling benevolent). So to avoid using any sick or vacation time, I've been working through lunch to make up for any time out of the office for medical appointments. I haven't had a lunch break in two weeks, and next week isn't looking good, either. And I work seven days a week.

I thought I was doing ok, but T. demanded today that I start taking lunch breaks.

Apparently, while glued to my computer for nine consecutive hours, I have a tendency to sing the Hot Pockets theme song. Which is "Hot Pockets", and nothing more. Over and over and over and over.

I'm going to go stick my head in the microwave. Hot pocket....

Have the lambs stopped screaming, Clarice?

Every day, at 5:45am, I get up and go to work in an airport.

Most of the time, it's tolerable.

Lately, I've been working seven days a week, as the Kid's dad is neither paying child support nor contributing towards her daycare expenses, and suffice it to say, I'm a little irritable.

Most people try to be nice. Some people are just assholes. Some people glare at me when they ask where the end of the line is and I say, "Straight down, and to the right". Like "where's the end of the line" was a bright question.

If I have to repeat myself three times, I am going to talk to you like you're the dumbest person on the earth on the third attempt. See my open hand pointing straight ahead? Now, see the people all standing one in front of the other, looking in this direction and waiting? We call that a line. The first person standing there looking at me is not the end. The end of the line would be where you keep walking until you run out of people facing me. Now that we've been here for seven minutes discussing the ramifications of "Straight down and to the right", 30 people trying to walk in the door with luggage and wheelchairs have come to a grinding halt behind you and it's going to be my toes that get run over when they try to show their frustration by huffing and pushing past me, not yours. If you'd like me to take off my shoe and show you the bruises, I'd be more than happy to.

You start barking at me as soon as you walk up to me, and the face is closed.

If the word "f*****g" comes out of your mouth as soon as you approach me, as in "This f*****g line", or "f*****g airport", or "the f*****g guy outside told me to wait here", the face is closed. I cannot see you. Do your best to move along.

Do not stick your finger in my chest.

Do not start yelling at me because I'm the seventh person you've talked to. I take no responsibility for the first six.

If you knew how little I actually earned to try and make your visit to the airport as painless as possible, or how much tequila I have to drink to get your voices out of my head when I get home on a Sunday, my 28th day in a row, you might, just might, take a deep breath, smile, and say, "Perhaps you could help me?".

My two-year old says "please" and "thank you". Try it. You'll be amazed at the results.

I'm going to go spend some time with my kid and try to get all of your voices and faces out of my head.

Focusing on the good

Thank you for this day.

Thank you for the Kid.

Thank you for her smile and her laughter.

Thank you for the roof over our heads and the sun shining outside.

Thank you for free trial memberships.

Thank you for long walks and a little red wagon.

Thank you for beautiful friends.

Thank you for people that smile back.

Thank you for comfortable shoes.

Thank you for a paycheck.

Thank you for three perfect Roma tomatoes.

Thank you for our health.

Thank you for everything.

An avocado, light jackets, and dirty feet

Four days and twelve loads of pukey/poopy laundry later, and the Kid is feeling better.

I had an avocado for dinner.

I am fully aware that an avocado is about 325 calories and 31 grams of fat. It also didn't require cooking, doesn't contain flour, and I could squeeze some lemon and salt on it and eat it with a spoon. Which was pretty much all the energy I was willing to throw towards dinner this evening.

It was cool out this evening. Weather.com says it's 73F/23C, but it feels cooler. There's a breeze. The Kid and I went for a walk, and we had light jackets on.

(That's right, we had jackets on, ok?)

I pulled her around the neighborhood in her little red wagon, while she sang "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf" to me. Then she decided to pull her wagon. When she got stuck on a rock, I reached for the wagon, but she held up a hand and she said "I got it". Silly kid. Then, when I bent over to tie her shoe, she gently rubbed my back with one hand. I love her.

I think the weather was as close to perfect as you can get.

The boss is having one-to-one meetings with everyone in the division to ensure we, the Borg, share his formula for success.

He came over to my desk today and asked if I was "ready for my ass-kicking". Then he kicked the back of my chair. Without looking up, I asked, "So, are we done?"

I eventually found out that I don't need to have this meeting, because he says I've been a "good girl, apart from this part-time schedule" I've been working lately.

Meaning, he's appreciated me coming in on the weekends, and taking work home, and following up on email at 10 o'clock at night, but just in a very crappy way, and wanted to address, in a jovial manner, the fact that I missed two days this week because the Kid was sick.

I'm sitting here with the windows open, watching the cats wrestle. The kitchen is clean, there are clean clothes for tomorrow, and I'm going to go put my semi-clean feet up.

I can't get to work, no matter how I try

For the 878,935th time this year, the Kid is sick.

She has a stomach virus, and both ends are involved. I have six loads of laundry piled up by the front door, and that's just the stuff I couldn't get to.

I had two training classes scheduled this week. One was "Dealing with Difficult and Angry People", which I could have used after getting stuck in the middle of an angry passenger riot in the terminal on Sunday (the Sheriff's office had to get involved), and "Destressing Yourself at Work", which I needed after getting to work at 7:30 this morning to do Payroll before going to class, and trying to drop the Kid off at daycare, only to have her start throwing up in the parking lot. I missed both classes, and now I'm stressed and unable to deal with people angrier than me. Luckily, there aren't any.

I'm out of sick days.

No one breathe on me.

Connections

When most Hispanic people approach me, they look at me for a few seconds, and then in accented English, quietly ask, "You speak Spanish?".

Today the Kid and I went to the supermarket, and the cashier was helping the customer in front of me. She turned to look at me, and she looked just like my Aunt Martha, my biological mother's sister, who currently lives in New Mexico. The cashier was speaking English to the customer, but without pausing, said to me, warmly, "Hola. Cómo está?", as if we had met before. With a rush, I immediately felt a pang for my Mexican family. She continued in Spanish as she rang up my things. "Plastic bags ok? Did you find everything you needed?" "Sí gracias, sí gracias", I answered.

Martha is 8 years older than me, and feels like a sister. We can lay on her bed together and talk about everything, and I just have so much love for her.

I called Martha from the parking lot and told her about the cashier and she laughed. "Now you can go see me", she said. Then she asked how my parents were, and told me to tell them she had a dream about them yesterday.

"What did you dream?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know", she said. I was just thinking about you all day, and when I slept, they were in my dream. Tell them I said hi and I love them. They did such a good job with you".

The cashier reminded me of Martha with her immediate warmth and the comfort of her Spanish words. Now Martha was doing it again, just unabashedly sending out love to the parents that raised me, that she had met in person once, but had such a strong connection with. They love her too.

Last year, Martha's daughter Karla came to visit with her cousin Alejandra, and my parents fell in love with both of them as well. I think they felt a little parental towards Karla.

The connections we can form in life just amaze me.

this is my wordcloud. Thanks, Pam. :)

Stace, please note the middle line, "love loves margaritas mary".

When is it ok to go?

I've been thinking about leaving Florida since I got here. This was never meant to be home, it was just a temporary break after 9/11. I never thought I would get pregnant and wind up a financially strapped single mother, living in Florida. Well, slap my ass and stick a plastic flamingo in front of the trailer, look what happened.

My parents have always been ok with me finding my own way. I moved to Denmark when I was in my very early 20's, and I think they were really too shocked to put up much of a fight. Or perhaps I just wasn't listening, because when you're 22, things should stay as they are for a while, and you should be able to leap without looking. They moved to Florida, I moved to Manhattan and never called regularly. One weekend I was sucking down cocktails in Stockholm, the next I was sipping Tropico in San Juan.

Eventually, I knew they would get older, but I figured my imaginary attorney/physician husband and I would fly down regularly and have nice visits. Someday, my mother would wind up living with us, and I would strap on my beer hat and take long walks when she chastised my fabric softener and scented candle overusage.

My perspective and my expectations shifted drastically when I plummeted into my new tax bracket, baby at the hip. The past two years have opened my eyes to the harsh reality of single motherhood in the United States.

I have a County job, and am earning my lowest wage in fifteen years, but had to take the job for the stability and benefits. I am $2,000 above what the State considers low income, but my rent is half my paycheck. County pay is nowhere near living wage for the area. I pay $600 per month for daycare so I can go to work so I can pay for daycare so I can go to work. I have a boss that berates me for the extra sick days I have to take when the Kid gets sick. (I just keep telling myself that in two years, I'll have to struggle to remember his name. It's "Asshole".) This Florida thing just isn't working out for me.

My parents have been great. They take the Kid when I'm sick, or when she gets sent home sick and I can't leave work. They've been taking her twice a week so I could get to the gym, and they help out when school is closed for yet another holiday (the school celebrates so many holidays, that I wonder how helpful to working parents they really are). They take her when I can't take it anymore and am ready to stick my head in the microwave and click "Start". They are ready to lend me hundreds at a minute's notice when I realize my rent check is about to bounce. When I went into labor at 2am and the Kid's dad could not be found, they were there. The Kid claps and screams with joy when she sees them.

I'm thinking about leaving south Florida and moving back to Europe. I really think we could be happy, but I worry about my own selfishness in wanting to be happy at my parents' expense. When my biological family gave me up, these people took me as their own, and gave me everything. Do I have the right to go?

My head is spinning, and I'm wondering if I ever really could win the Lotto.

The running buddy

The Kid started running this weekend, but only because she had to.

I am so absolutely tired of being chained to the house. It's not that we can't leave, it's just that there's so little time, and by the time I get someplace, I feel guilty that she just spent so much time in the car, strapped to the car seat in the back by herself.

My parents bought her a little red wagon for Christmakkuh, and when I pull her down the street, she sits very regally, with her chin in the air. I used to do the same thing. It's so freaky, especially as an adopted daughter, seeing this duplicate of yourself.

There's a development being built behind our block (south Florida, construction, wow) but there's only been an oval road and some PVC pipes stuck in the ground for the longest time. There's also a small wooden bridge and a stagnant, algae-choked pond that I'm sure will be very lovely some day, but that makes me want to sneak over at night and pour in bleach, before I spend the hellish months covered in mosquitoes.

The other evening, the Kid and I took the little wagon and meandered down the road, and into the development site. Normally, I don't go there after sundown, but I just felt like I needed to run. Even if just for a short burst. With all the adrenaline inside me, I felt very safe against attackers.

There's a small gazebo in the middle of the oval, and she likes to sit in there, so I tried to park her in the center. With no success. I've been going to the gym twice a week now for two weeks, and leaving her with my parents, and she is completely resisting the change. I've also picked up two extra 4-hour shifts at the airport on the weekends. My once sweet, placid, gummy child now refuses to nap, and will only fall asleep in her crib after a full 20 - 30 minutes of blood-curdling screaming. My mommy instinct tells me she is rejecting sleep for more mommy time, but I gave her two solid years of servitude. I no longer have functioning muscles. Plus, we're broke. Things just have to be this way.

I parked her in the center of the gazebo, and tried to run in a circle around her, where she could see me, but she would have none of it. I ran back. She was running after me and crying, with snot dripping down her lip. I let her borrow my sleeve, and then put her in the wagon. We ran about 4 feet, before she started yelling, "WALK! WALK!", and began to climb out. 'Kay. She toddled for a few seconds, and then beelined to a small rock, which she intently examined.

"Sorry, Button. You can either run, or you can ride in the wagon. You want to run?"

And she yelled, "RUN!" (how can you not love this exuberance?) and started to run with me. Plus, she also yells "AAAAHH" while she runs, which is fun. She's pretty quick. I tried running backwards in front of her, and we kept tempo for a minute, but then she wanted to try that too, and that didn't work out so well.

Eventually, she ran with me, for a few minutes. It was incredible for someone who's only two feet tall, 30 lbs., and who didn't exist back in 2003. It wasn't Chariots of Fire, but I felt better and she was laughing her head off. I kept telling her how proud I was of her, and she was beaming. And she slept like a ROCK.

New Year's Day I took her to a park across the street from where we used to live in Plantation. It's fenced in, and she likes the playground. There's a plastic rock wall to climb on up to this monstrous slide, and I held my breath while she climbed up for the first time, and then slid down the giant slide. I clapped furiously, and then began breathing again. The Kid kept climbing up those plastic rocks. The other children playing around her were 2 - 3 years older, and they were all together, laughing and squealing. Suddenly, they took off running. The Kid took one look at them, and started running after them, laughing, but she couldn't keep up.

For just an instant, I saw this look of unbridled joy on her face, just to be one of a group of running children, like wild horses in a herd. There was no landscape, no voices, just the children around her, and running like her legs were unstoppable. She was just happy.

I love this child to pieces.

Jesus loves my hair like this

So I'm flipping through the channels, and I'm perplexed. Why are tele-evangelists so weird-looking?

Tele: they're on television.

Evangelist: they do God's PR.

If you were doing God's PR on television, wouldn't you want to look a little more... natural?

Perhaps the way God intended?

Maybelline was not God's doing. I don't care what anyone says. Making Pat Robertson look exactly like Yoda, well, who's to say.

I just don't understand how alien hair became a criteria. Or what significance it has.

I'm just askin'.

When 900 years you reach, look as good, you will not.

-- Yoda

You scream "My plane is leaving", I say "Cavity Search"

I am now officially working seven days a week at the airport. It's like child support, without all that pesky idle weekend time.

For the most part, it's been fun. People are grateful when you're standing at the front of the security checkpoint and you smile, or say "Have a nice flight". They usually respond "You too!", then smack themselves in the head.

Things I've learned:
Teach your child how to say "Good morning" as a response. I can't stand it when you say "Good morning" to someone under 18, and they smirk at you blankly, like "I'm not an adult and I don't have to be having this conversation". Yes you freaking do, snotnose.

GET TO THE AIRPORT EARLY. Jesus Christ.

Don't fly up on anyone at the Security Checkpoint yelling about how you only have 5 minutes to catch your flight. No one cares. Get up earlier. I did. Speak softly and politely. You'll be amazed at the results.

A large bottle of liquor is not a carry-on. You bring it, I drink it. 3.4 fluid ounces or less, 1-quart plastic bag, 1 per person. Please refer to the giant sign next to my head that reads "3.4 fluid ounces or less, 1-quart plastic bag, 1 per person". "What if it's 5 ounces?" should not be your next question.

Don't complain to me about how the airport is built, how the design is poor, or how you have to wait for your luggage. It's actually a decent airport. Plus, I didn't tell you to travel with your mother-in-law, and it wasn't me in your bathroom this morning, taking two hours to get ready. I didn't misplace your tickets, I didn't pack your suitcases, and your comb-over is definately not my fault. So shut it.

When I tell you you need to pick up your dog, do so. It's a long line, and no one wants your dog's anus in their baby's face. Don't come at me with "But it's a support dog". Really. Your chihuahua is a support dog. Please show me some service this rodent can provide. I'll wait. A trick, even. How about "Sit"?

New Yorkers do not travel well. I stand and watch them stride out of the concourse like they are half-expecting paparazzi to be waiting.

Kick that runway walk down a notch, darlin', I'm still too sleepy to fully appreciate you.

Then when they show up again to get on their returning flight, they show up at 8am, eager to get back to civilization, but without the necessary caffeine and Vicodan it must take to get them to be human again. I smile and say "Good morning", they glare and ignore me. Because I'm making them wait on a LINE.

Uh-oh. Weh-wenh!