Just for the record. Snow sucks. Job hunting sucks. Being poor sucks. ….Sucks.
Just for the record. Snow sucks. Job hunting sucks. Being poor sucks. ….Sucks.
We’re suddenly back for good in Colorado. Ryan’s job is both a blessing and a curse. I must now set up every room in our condo, update my resume, find a job, cook, clean, and start from square one. Again.
Worried about money, which has quickly become my least favorite thing ever invented in the history of mankind, and it will forever be.
Hating the snow. As it is my second least favorite thing.
And all in all in a grumpy mood.
I should be happy. I should be thrilled. Instead I am brooding and frustrated.
I am moody and honestly upset about this move more and more every day that goes by without an income. Again. Always again I am the one who has to start over, redo resume, relentlessly and feverishly find a job, and smile when I hear NO over and over. Ration my dwindling bank account even though I am flirting with the red line.
I am over moving. Moving sucks.
Scarves are my Power Pocket.
I would wear a scarf every day if I could, perhaps it’s an emotional crutch, or maybe it is just comforting..knowing I’m wrapped up in something warm, something totally surrounding me. They’re fashionable and important, when it’s windy, my hair doesn’t get all messed up, my ears stay warm, and I feel okay.
I had a dream last night I was pregnant (*I’m not so calm down) But in the dream, I could take off my belly and hold it up to the light like a sort of see-through water balloon and see the baby grow. Some other lady was having twins, and they were in her boobs, and she could take them off like a scarf and see them too, it was weird.
There’s really nothing else to say. I watched a new Bollywood movie today, Chennai Express. Shah Rukh Khan was in it, and he woke up on a boat and was like, “What is this, Life of Pi?” and I cracked up. Then he kicked the goons butts and saved the girl and then the credits dance montage was a rap song. I pick up more Hindi each day. More Spanish. More Arabic even. One day I’ll be fluent in lots of languages. Which will be a good thing so when I go to different places for my little non profit project, I can talk with the people. And I’ll feel like my Power Pocket scarf will not be necessary, because I’ll be surrounded by amazing people, children and cultures.
What about a Dream Recording Device? You could put the earbuds in, like those for an iPod, and it would connect to the device on your bedside table and the DRD would record your REM time, and, like a movie, be able to capture your dreams so when you woke up, you could replay them. Because some people can’t remember their dreams. And they deserve those memories.
What about a pocket that you could put all your power into and throughout the day, pull out just a little bit to help you feel stronger or more brave, or more necessary. it could be velcro so it could latch onto any shirt, skirt or dress. And you’d never be without it. You’d never feel small or worthless. As long as you had your Power Pocket.
I’m drinking tea. It’s late, according to my geriatric ticker. Ryan is away on business, and I am folded up in mountains of blankets to hide form the snow that is currently falling. And offending.
I had a dream a few nights ago, that I ditched my phone, sold my car, and moved to India. For being a place I’ve never been to, it has this unworldly hold on my spirit. Like I’ve known Punjab, or Hyderabad. New Delhi is a familiar friend. A pen pal I’ve never met. India has always been like that for me. I’ve dreamed of little Mowgli fetching water with me as a little girl, with tigers sleeping in the lazy sun. I got older and fell in love with the women’s clothes, of the architecture. I imagine the rickshaws and the Ganges river. Of busy streets bustling with noise and color-vibrant saris with scarves gracefully covering the ladies as they make their way to the market. Children with eyes deeper than sound. Sikh men with turbans. Romance in the old stone temples, with monkeys pick pocketing stupid tourists. I dream of it. As if I knew it.
And this is how I’ve lost out to me. Wasting time and efforts in dreaming of stupid ideas and of far off places. When I should be working on how I can help the children in my community, I long for the ones far off in other countries. And the guilt I feel for that confession burdens me every day, heavier, crumpled under the weight that I’ll never be able to help any of them because I can’t get out of my stupid girl head long enough to try.
And it’s raining, cold raining.
And work was frustrating.
But I’m home now and Ryan made dinner…
Okay, here’s the thing. I avoid. I’m an avoider. I don’t like admitting I need help or have a problem, I would just rather it not exist. I would make for a great WASP. I don’t like drama, I don’t do well with stress, and I really really hate the unknown. So I’ve avoided writing anything really personal here, on my personal blog, because why air that sort of thing? Right? So, why I feel compelled to admit what I’m about to, is absurd. But. I can’t avoid it anymore. It’s all National Geographic and real, and…unavoidable.
One thing that you know is I’ve wanted kids forever. But lately, something’s changed. Shifted. Uncomfortably so. Maybe it’s my last job in the preschool, and now seeing parenting in the ER. Maybe it’s the stupid crap stupid teens write on Tumblr and how some people out there don’t know that the Eiffel Tower is in France let alone what it looks like. I don’t want kids. Not now. I am turned off by other peoples’ kids and their stupidity. And it breaks my heart to admit this. Because, I love kids. Part of my little quiet heart always will, but dammit, get your shit together people or so help me. Teach your kids. Read to them, be with them. Don’t let the TV or the video games do the teaching. You’ve had the amazing chance to create life, and you’re wasting it. I hate people like this. These kids your ignoring will inherit our future, and you’re lack of concern or love is blowing it for them.
Love your damn kids. Or crazy bitches like me will rant at you.
And this brings me to the really, REALLY personal part that I am struggling with and avoiding….
For two years I’ve had abnormal PAPs. Yeah, I am admitting this and not brushing it under the proverbial rug anymore.
I’ve got CIN stage II HPV, on my fussy bitchy little cervix. I’ve had cells frozen and soon I’ll either have a coning procedure or a laser LEEP thingy. To get rid of more cells on my stupid lame cervix. Because of all this, I’ve had abnormal periods. Woo Hoo girly talk. Any gentlemen reading this should cover your eyes or leave, just leave…now.
I’ve had a period every two weeks for six months. Until the the honeymoon. And then, I went a whole month without a period. So, obviously I was either pregnant or dying. Those are always my go to options. Because heaven forbid, it come at this rationally.
I got scared. I dreaded both options. I dreaded the idea of being pregnant, of creating a life, with the possibility of blowing it. And ruining some little person’s chance at a happy life with all my hang ups and insecurities. My lack of finances and how we move all the time, I did not want to be a mom. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like that. Luckily,
Ha. I know what you’re thinking,
When we went to Jamaica, I was profoundly moved by the juxtaposition of poverty and wealth. Huge mansions with rooms inside rooms inside thousands of luxurious square feet, right across the street from a family of six in a house no bigger than a shed. Made with particle board and sheet metal.
There are places like it all over the world. Whole countries worse off. Most of Africa, parts of Asia, and even here, right here in this oh so amazing country, America.
13.5 million children live below the poverty line in the US today. And we don’t talk about it. Teen pregnancies, and kids having to grow up faster than they should to take care of younger siblings….And it took a trip across the grand US, two planes there and two planes back, over the ocean and over Cuba for me to open my eyes. For me to actually see. For me to realize I can afford, in small ways, to help.
I’m not smart enough to administer medicine, or patient enough to grow organic food, but I can shop. And I can give love, and we all know I love kids. So, it only came naturally. I figured, why can’t I help give kids a shot at a decent childhood? A chance at hope, a small glimmer. A way for kids to let their imaginations soar, and feel loved, feel needed…for them to feel noticed.
So that’s what I am working on. Expanding myself. Having faith that I can make a difference in maybe one kids life, and let it be known that I tried. To give back, to our kids, to give them hope for a future, since it’s theirs’ anyway.
I remember feeling so ugly in the fifth grade because I didn’t have “cool clothes.” I got made fun of for my clothes, for always being in my head. I still played with toys and I read all the time, but I really did have a perfect childhood. I didn’t have to grow up so fast. I was told each day I was loved, through words and attention, with toys and praise. Not all kids get dinner each night, I get that. Nutrition, education and medicine are far more important, and right now, I can give none of that. But I can help them have good childhoods. And one day I’ll partner with a food organization or a medical facility. But for now, I am giving kids books, and toys and new “cool kid” clothes. And love. Every box I send, I vow to fill it with love.
Because every single child deserves hope. Ever single child deserves to know they are loved and important. And I am making it my personal life mission to tell them how much I love them.
Because children who thrive with love and affection, who have books to read to let their imaginations grow, with toys to love and play with, in clothes that fit and feel good, children who have basic kid things, grow up to be better people. It’s scientifically proven. And telling kids we love them with small gifts is a small start, but it’s a start none the less.
Today I spent 50 bucks, that’s all. (*it was a gift card) And I got amazing things for boys and girls. Long sleeved shirts, toys, and books. And I’ll find kids who need them, and I’ll give them these small things, to let them know. There’s at least one person in this world who is talking about it, who is giving love so kids can soar.
Keep coming back, I’ll have wedding photos for you to oogle over soon.