tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69120065965834328052024-02-06T21:51:46.364-08:00Dagny's DichotomyDagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-5268462229466859872011-10-20T17:37:00.000-07:002011-10-20T17:38:39.475-07:00The Illusion of SafetyI miss the ignorant bliss of my childhood.<br />
<br />
I used to think my parents could save me from anything. Nothing could hurt me as long as they were around. A nightmare was forgotten by slipping under their bed covers. The danger lurking in the alleyways of dark, secluded streets was chased away by clutching the hand that held you.<br />
<br />
The other day I was walking down one of those streets alone when I realized that there is no such thing as real protection. It doesn't matter who I'm with - my parents, my husband, my older brother - because life is unpredictable. Nothing can save you if it decides to suddenly throw you into a bad situation.<br />
<br />
I think about walking down a similar street in the future, holding the hand of my own child. They will put all their trust in me, as I did with my own parents. And I wonder if I'll feel like a fraud, because they will honestly believe that they are safe with me, when all I can do is try my best to protect them. And sometimes, in the worst of cases, your best is not enough.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, the illusion of safety is more important for a child than harsh reality. Some kids have lost the illusion too soon, and face harsh reality every day, but those are the unlucky ones.<br />
<br />
As for us adults, we lost the illusion a long time ago. Our eyes have been opened, the veil has been lifted. We know what's out there now, so we compensate for our loss by purchasing alarm systems, taking self-defense classes, and being aware of our surroundings. We can't think about it every moment of every day, or we'd go insane. But on some nights, we get a reminder, and that's when we'll pick up the pace just to reach the "safety" of our home.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-62130081080456374282011-08-21T19:43:00.000-07:002011-08-31T15:16:17.592-07:00Back to the BasicsDay in and day out, we go to work, come home, eat, shower, sleep, and then repeat. The monotony of life is enough to drive anybody insane. We work so hard to have the things we want: to provide food, clothing, and shelter for ourselves and our families. But depending on the person, the sum of all these necessities varies greatly. What if you could give it all up? Would you? Could you?<br />
<br />
<br />
When our necessities become more like commodities, we’re succumbing to our inner need to please ourselves and others. For example, we need a refrigerator; it’s a necessity in our homes. But it quickly becomes a commodity when we have to have the ice-maker, the stainless steel, and the temperature regulator for separate compartments on the inside. Do we really need that? No, but we like it, it’s convenient, it looks nice, and so we want it. And if we can afford it, why not? <br />
<br />
But sometimes I dream of living a simpler life. Sure, I wouldn’t be able to afford really nice things, but I could work fewer hours at a regular Joe’s job, and really enjoy life, instead of feeling like I’m slaving it away. <br />
<br />
I posted a blog about a year and a half ago <a href="http://dagnysdichotomy.blogspot.com/2010_02_01_archive.html">(The Self-Indulgent Life)</a> about a co-worker at Barnes and Noble who was in his mid to late thirties and had no plans to ever leave the job or aspired to anything greater. This was difficult for me to understand at the time because I was a college kid with many aspirations. I asked him why he wanted to do this, and he responded that he didn’t have to worry about work outside of work, and that it left him time to work on his poetry. I was confused back then, and at the time of that particular post, I still didn’t think it was a way of life I would enjoy, but now I’m starting to wonder if maybe he had the right idea all along.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure what has changed in me, but now I wish to relax. And yet I can’t relax. I’m living the majority of my life only half-awake, with my energy level at just 50%. I can’t enjoy my time off because instead of going out and doing the things I love to do, I find myself home, a regular couch potato, just trying to recover from the stress of the week. <br />
<br />
Maybe this is just a temporary quarter-life crisis I’m going through, but I think that I could live the simple life now- without the commodities. I want to go back to the basics and live the life of an eternal college student: working a job, not a career, pursuing a passion, living each day at a full energy level, and feeling excitement for whatever unknown adventures lie ahead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-60281535709637491442011-06-28T20:32:00.000-07:002011-06-28T20:42:38.588-07:00You Down With No PP?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eleven years ago, I was sitting in the office of a Planned Parenthood, filling out the New Patient information form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">No, I wasn’t pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was there for 2 reasons: affordability and anonymity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Unable to tell my mother that I’d already started having sex, I certainly couldn’t tell her that I wanted to make a gynecology appointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just wanted to get everything checked out. You know, make sure it was all in working order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finally had a car, which allowed me to lie about my whereabouts much more easily, and this was the first spot on my list.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Before filling out the form, I scanned it for one specific question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Can we contact you by phone or mail?</i> I exhaled in relief as I checked the box that said “NO”.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Many girls have shared my experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t tell my mom that I’d given it up a year ago at only 17.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be no heart-to-heart talk, no question and answer session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only accusing glares, punishment, and the threat of being thrown out if I got pregnant. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Being a freshman in college, I only had a part-time job, so I had no benefits, and not much money to pay for my regular doctor to see me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides the anonymity factor, I had also heard that Planned Parenthood charged on a sliding scale, based on my income.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember how much I ended up paying for my visit, but it wasn’t much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Since I had this experience, Planned Parenthood has always held a special place in my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was there for me when I needed it, at a time when I knew that I was all alone in taking responsibility for my own reproductive health.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Unfortunately, Planned Parenthood doesn’t evoke that same fuzzy feeling in others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, it’s seen as a place where the devil’s work is taking place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They hear the name, and automatically think: abortion clinic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In reality, abortion is only <a href="http://www.plannedparenthood.org/about-us/who-we-are/planned-parenthood-glance-5552.htm"><span style="color: purple;">3% of the services that Planned Parenthood provides.</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">State legislators are trying to stop funding for Planned Parenthood, an act that will affect millions of women and families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As of right now, Indiana, Kansas, North Carolina, and Wisconsin have already blocked funding, with more states on the way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It’s very upsetting to me when people try to shut down something good, only because of one service that they disagree with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t consider anything else but their own beliefs of what’s right and what’s wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Four words people need to live by: To each his own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People should follow the same advice I give my preschoolers when I’ve had enough of their tattle tailing: Don’t worry about what your friends are doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just worry about yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as you’re doing the right thing, (or in this case, what you believe is right), then that’s all that matters.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">If you want to get involved, check out this website: http://www.plannedparenthoodaction.org/</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-86445007075246110632011-04-13T17:16:00.001-07:002011-04-13T17:17:02.836-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 8 (Silent Night)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I just walked my dog, but the minute I stepped outside, everything felt suddenly surreal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s <time hour="20" minute="0">8pm</time>, but the sky is lavender purple, the color it gets right before it snows, but…there’s no snow in the forecast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s foggy out, and the air is cool, moist, still smelling of freshly fallen rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds are chirping away like it’s 6 in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I walk down the street and back again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody is out, no cars on the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where is everyone?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The only sounds I hear are my own footsteps, my dog’s paws tentatively tapping on the pavement, and his tags jingling on his collar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are they doing up so late? Are they as confused as I am by the strangeness of this night?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I get back to the front of my house and find the culprit: one loudly chirping bird sitting high on a wire, stirring up all the other birds in the neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What could he be saying?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I climb the front stairs, and my dog and I stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems we are both wondering about that bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, it gives one last chirp and flies away.</div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-1006240006941266602011-04-12T16:57:00.000-07:002011-04-12T17:15:12.983-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 7 (The Coffee Shop)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Almost every morning I get to Port Authority and choose from one of two spots that sell little cups of cereal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Generally, I avoid the coffee shop on the first floor because it can get really loud in there, and I’m not talking about the music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you go in one morning before <time hour="8" minute="0">8am</time>, I warn you: there is a group of coworkers/regular customers that meet there and take over the whole place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time one of them walks in, there are loud greetings to be had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not a big place, and there aren’t many tables, so this group takes up a lot of space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This “Cheers”-like atmosphere can get kind of annoying, especially because the minute you walk in there you start feeling like an outsider real quick.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Today I went in because they didn’t have any Frosted Flakes at the other place, and to my surprise, the main guy (there’s always a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">main</i> guy) said “Good morning” to me with a nod of his head and a big smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said “Good morning” back, with a small smile, and went over to the counter to get my cereal, a bit disconcerted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I paid, the main guy said loudly to me “Frosted Flakes, huh?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Yeah,” I replied sheepishly, turning back around.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“That cereal’s sweet!” he said. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I turned my head a little towards him. “Yeah, I need a little something in the morning.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I walked over to get my milk, and then sat down at one of the few empty tables. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Wow, Frosted Flakes! I haven’t had that in a long time! That must be delicious!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Yeah, it is,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Like, the milk gets really sweet, right?” He was trying very hard, and I didn’t understand why. The other men at his table were looking at me now, watching me eat my cereal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just wanted to eat my breakfast in peace. I’m not used to this kind of attention!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Finally, the guy stopped and went back to his own conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was just sleepy, and hungry!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, this is <city><place>New York City</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friendliness doesn’t exactly run rampant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must not be originally from here…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Anyhow, I must admit that it felt sort of nice to be acknowledged as one of the “regulars” in the place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe now it won’t feel so weird to walk in there and sit down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at what expense?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will I ever get to eat my Frosted Flakes in peace again?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I have been accepted into his secret club. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I just don’t know if I want the membership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-8892424350605020162011-04-11T19:34:00.000-07:002011-04-11T19:34:01.071-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 6 (The Wish)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Last year, a 10 year old boy who lived in my building was talking to his friend as I was getting home from work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t paying attention to their conversation, but as the lobby door closed behind me, I heard: <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, not like it will happen, but I wished for world peace.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I haven’t been able to get this phrase out of my mind since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s sad that this boy already knows that his world will never be at peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That at such a young age, he already knows that there’s no way we can all “just get along”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, it’s beautiful because it’s so innocent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if it was a birthday wish, a wish upon a star, or a wish on a wishbone, but he used one of his precious wishes to ask for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep down, it’s something he hopes is still possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-78872359470226644972011-04-09T20:39:00.001-07:002011-04-09T20:39:51.329-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 5 (UNO)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I love getting the Wild card in an <stockticker>UNO</stockticker> game, and I love what it represents: a complete change, only for my benefit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re the best! There should be <stockticker>UNO</stockticker> cards that I can use in real life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">If I decide to make a major change in my life, I’ll throw down a Wild card, and no one can do a thing about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I feel like I need a do-over, I’ll just pull out a Reverse card, and no one will notice how I messed up the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if I don’t feel like doing something at the moment, all I have to do is put down a Skip card and get back to it later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-73660838423089333472011-04-08T18:32:00.001-07:002011-04-08T18:33:34.932-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 4 (Friend)My dearest friend:<br />
I think you've chosen me,<br />
Not for my personality,<br />
But for my ever-listening ear<br />
That never fails when you are near.<br />
I only hope that someday you<br />
Will give me the same pleasure too,<br />
For friendship cannot be one-sided.<br />
This is what I have decided.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-17157906472316426252011-04-07T14:21:00.000-07:002011-04-07T14:21:23.645-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 3 (I regress)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m heading to a networking event today. I was excited for a while, but now that it's here, I don't feel like going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I just don’t want to be a leader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It's something I continually work on. It seems I'll always be a work in progress. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>My default response is to follow – stay back and watch the extroverts do their thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep to the shadows where it’s safe and nobody can judge me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are days when I get to work and feel like: Can’t someone else run the class today?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Give ME directions, not the other way around!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I like to think that I’m getting better at speaking up and saying what’s on my mind, but on days like this my stomach starts doing that topsy-turvy thing, and I know I’ve regressed back to square one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a shame…</span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-34480661095190882082011-04-06T19:25:00.000-07:002011-04-06T19:25:21.574-07:00Stream of Consciousness:Day 2 (When the eyes of a stranger are upon you...)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Don’t look a crazy person in the eyes because they might just look back at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why is that so scary?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do we avoid eye contact with strangers? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Eye contact is special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a reason why it’s one of the first things you try to teach a child with autism: it establishes a connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When someone looks you in the eyes, you suddenly exist to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are acknowledged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why I avoid eye contact with a crazy person: I don’t want them to be aware of me!</div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Some people, like myself, are uncomfortable making a connection with a stranger, unless there is an attraction there (and even then I get shy and look away).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whenever I see an attractive man, I’m not satisfied until I see his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watch and wait to see if he’ll look my way, just to catch a glimpse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What am I looking to find there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps a sneakpeek into his soul.</span>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-87082791304888840132011-04-05T18:03:00.000-07:002011-04-13T17:15:53.283-07:00Stream of Consciousness: Day 1<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The trek to my job is long and painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I get there, my back hurts and I feel exhausted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to wake up so early.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Being a preschool teacher is no joke. You have to be ON, all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no moment where you can step back and sit at your desk and take a breather. If you do that, one of your children will get hurt, or they’ll get bored and start creating chaos. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have a desk, anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">A thirty minute lunch time doesn’t cut it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time you finish eating, there’s only ten minutes left to your break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just enough time to check an email on the one s-l-o-o-o-w computer in our tiny break room, squeezed behind a coworker who’s trying to eat HER lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I feel like there has to be more to life than this constant struggle to wake up and get to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to invent a teacher robot that can teach for me, while I sit at home and control the robot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, just like the military is making those robots to go fight in the wars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, if they can do it, why can’t I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-2503850916430370032011-04-05T17:56:00.000-07:002011-04-05T18:15:19.881-07:00The Dance Lesson: Part 2 of 2<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">For four years, I kept my vow of never dancing again, but as I got older, the pressure to dance increased as I was invited to more and more parties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the sake of my social life, I gave up my vow and asked a cousin of mine for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With much patience, he taught me the basic steps of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">salsa</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">merengue</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="color: black;">Armed with my primitive dancing skills, I attended my friend’s 16<sup>th</sup> birthday party. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in my usual spot: sitting on the edge of the sofa, moving slightly to the beat of the music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was admiring two couples dancing in front of me when a good-looking, muscular guy with short brown hair caught my eye from across the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiled and I smiled back, recognizing him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Anthony, the 17-year old heart-throb I had met a few weeks ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walked over with confident strides, extending his hand toward me, the universal invitation to dance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I took his hand and stood up, attempting to look nonchalant. We found an empty spot on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I looked up to meet his eyes… and instead saw the top of his head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My height was the bane of my existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually the tallest girl in the room, I stood out amongst my vertically-challenged friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew Anthony was shorter than me, but I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of being this close to him, and it didn’t help that I was wearing heels.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Whoa!” he said, his eyebrows lifting in cool surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a self-conscious smile, I backed up so that I could actually see his face.</span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We began to dance: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one, two, one, two, one, two.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to focus on my steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had never danced with a guy who wasn’t related to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was suddenly hypersensitive to everything – the feel of his hand on my waist, how large and hard his shoulder was underneath my own hand, how our feet were moving in unison.</span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Relax,” he said in Spanish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re stiff.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He massaged my waist a little with his fingers, not realizing that his touch would have the opposite effect on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to do as he said and breathed deeply, inhaling the enticing scent of his cologne.</span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the song ended, he lowered his arm but didn’t let go of my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seemed to be waiting for the next song to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t long before the music started up again, but I savored every second that his fingers were gently holding mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned his dark chocolate eyes toward me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you want to keep dancing?” he asked.</span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I nodded, and for the next two hours, he was my dance partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried hard to loosen up as he taught me the steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried hard not to look like a fool.</span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I knew it, it was </span><time hour="23" minute="30"><span style="color: black;">11:30pm</span></time><span style="color: black;">, and my parents were outside waiting to pick me up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bunch of people had just arrived and the party seemed to be getting started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t matter that my friend's parents were present as chaperones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was fifteen and had to be home at a decent hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With a wistful smile, I said goodbye to Anthony, kissing him on the cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rushed to get my coat, trying to be discreet about the fact that I was leaving early.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I walked out the door, I glanced over my shoulder and saw him with a couple of giggling girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt a stab of envy as I hurried to my parent’s car and the noise of the party faded behind me. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="Normal1" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It took many more parties until I was finally able to relax and enjoy the music completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dancing skills developed slowly over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each dance experience contributed to my growing confidence, melting my insecurities away, and I seized every opportunity I could to practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To Anthony, it was just another dance that he most likely doesn’t even remember, but that night signified the end of my greatest fear and the beginning of a life-long passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-50241889031176764832011-03-14T20:07:00.000-07:002011-03-18T16:47:16.307-07:00The Dance Contest, Part I of 2<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one would ever guess that I’m a maniac on the dance floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the music starts, my body can’t seem to control itself, and my eyes search frantically for a potential dance partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once located, I creep casually up to my prey and ask him to dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most men are flattered by my boldness, while most women are horrified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I wasn’t always so bold.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> F</span></span>rom the time I was a young girl, I wanted to learn how to dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would constantly bug my older brother to teach me how to dance to the House music he blasted on the stereo in his room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would try every once in a while, but would give up after a few minutes. I was hopeless.<span style="color: black;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One afternoon, I attended my best friend’s 11<sup>th</sup> birthday party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and I had become friends in Kindergarten, but after that I was put in a Gifted and Talented class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of this, I didn’t know any of the girls at her birthday party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t seem to matter, though, because we were having a nice time, shrieking and giggling loudly as preteen girls tend to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until someone suggested we have a dance contest.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah! Let’s do it! A dance contest!” the girls shouted excitedly, clapping their hands and jumping about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to join in the excitement, but was become increasingly nervous as the girls put on MTV and positioned themselves in various lounging poses on the surrounding sofas: some leaning against the wall standing on the seat cushions, others lying upside down with their feet in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat down on the edge of one of the sofas, trying to hide my anxiety.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The birthday girl went first, expertly moving her body in the same way as the girl in the music video.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all cheered and clapped for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the song was over, she sat down and the next girl shouted “My turn!” and stood up. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I suddenly missed my own group of friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would probably have started pointing fingers at each other saying “No, you go! No, you! No, I’m going last!” which would eventually lead to the dance contest never happening at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not this group of girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They knew how to dance and were proud of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rest of the girls did pretty much the same moves as the birthday girl had done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, it was my turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the last one to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By this time, the T.V. had been turned off and a cassette was playing the music.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The girls started cheering me on before I even stood up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come on!” You can do it!” My best friend gave me a little shove.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, okay, but I don’t really know how,” was my disclaimer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood up and they pressed the Play button on the stereo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried not to look at them as I began moving my body awkwardly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly, I stared at the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah!” the girls shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Move it!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I moved my arms around, trying to keep up with the beat as the stereo blasted “I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The girls cheered for me. “Whoooo! You go girl!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I started feeling a little more confident, and I began moving my feet the way I’d watched my brother do it so many times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girls started chanting, “Go Cindy! Go Cindy! Go! Go! Go Cindy!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked up and saw that they were smiling widely at me and dancing along on the sofas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was ecstatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They actually liked my dancing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the end of the song, I felt pretty good about myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next day I was on the phone with my best friend, discussing the party. “I really liked the dance contest,” I said. “Your friends are good dancers. And so are you.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We practice all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just have to pay attention to the music videos.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m glad they liked my dancing though.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh...yeah,” my friend said distantly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” I asked, slightly alarmed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh no, it’s nothing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come on. Tell me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” she began, hesitating. “You know how my friends were cheering for you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well… they weren’t really cheering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were laughing at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were making fun of you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh.” I felt my face turn red.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I told them to stop, and that I wouldn’t be friends with them anymore if they did it again,” she added quickly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh…well…who cares? I don’t care.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,” she said. “They’re stupid anyway.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yeah, they’re stupid,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I couldn’t help feeling like I had been the stupid one all along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ended the conversation quickly, then hung up and cried in shame.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"> At that moment, I vowed never to dance in public again.</span></div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-68647320468378982052011-02-25T18:27:00.000-08:002011-02-25T18:27:19.306-08:00Until next time...I can't stand the sight of you. Your very presence annoys me. I'm sorry, but I just don't want another reminder of how careless I've become. And I don't want, can't take, one more thing to worry about. <br />
So off you go, fingernails. See you in a few weeks. Maybe by then I'll have the time and the money to treat you the way you deserve. (CLIP CLIP!)Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-82796142597576795542011-02-22T18:43:00.000-08:002011-02-22T18:43:28.852-08:00The Confrontation<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">As soon as she walked through the front door, I told her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i>?” My mother’s eyes bulged wildly. “Where is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“In the kitchen,” I responded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She rushed past me to see if this abomination was really true.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ay!”</i> I heard her exclaim a few seconds later, a sound mixed with both disbelief at what I’d done, and surrender at what stood before her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Who could resist my new puggle puppy’s soulful gaze and sweet demeanor?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His soft fawn fur, which wrinkled at the top of his little head? His tiny floppy ears? <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkovHx9v0u5MHb2YVfNjil2ya9Byih6C1vNFy_jj_m6dpsWXdnjAkTPVEsqlFE1ji1s-qQcWw-ruZiSz1M-ZkkwVHtDV-0w38jxl59cJANEzW_YL92pwAimrIfNRZBDlyEjcIhAabIls/s1600/Shakes+puppy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkovHx9v0u5MHb2YVfNjil2ya9Byih6C1vNFy_jj_m6dpsWXdnjAkTPVEsqlFE1ji1s-qQcWw-ruZiSz1M-ZkkwVHtDV-0w38jxl59cJANEzW_YL92pwAimrIfNRZBDlyEjcIhAabIls/s320/Shakes+puppy.bmp" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad, apparently, could.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That night, he sat in his usual chair at the head of our 6-seater dinner table, his eyes giving me a deadly stare over the top of his intertwined fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was in the kitchen, taking her time preparing his food, wisely staying out of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why did you buy a dog, Cindy? You know that I don’t like dogs,” he said in his piercingly steady voice. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood directly across from him at the opposite end of the table, close to the open doorway leading to the kitchen, just in case I needed a quick escape route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The front door was about fifteen feet behind me, but it was closed and locked, not suitable for my purposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ve always wanted a dog,” I began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You bought me a dog for my 15<sup>th</sup> birthday, so why can’t I have one now?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And what happened with that dog? Do you remember?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You couldn’t take care of him, and we had to give him away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You and mom took the fun out of it! You wanted me to keep him in the kitchen the whole time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t even play with him in my room!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my hand on the chair in front of me and focused on keeping my tone and volume in check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father did not respond well to attitudes or yelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Besides, that was 7 years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m more responsible now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He shook his head slightly, several times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Get that dog out of here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want dogs in my house.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This, I knew from years of experience, was his final answer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I took a deep breath, having prepared for this very moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well then, that’s fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I’ll have to take my dog and move out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My father was silent, the lights from the chandelier hanging above the table creating shadows over his tense face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So you’re just going to leave?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where will you go?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll have to look for an apartment that accepts dogs, I guess.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He continued to sit there, thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother made noise with her pots and pans in the kitchen to hide her eavesdropping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brass clock on the wall next to me ticked away the seconds loudly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in my room, a puppy whined and scratched at the closed door.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally, my father spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What I don’t like is that you’re forcing me to accept this dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You didn’t even ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You bought it while we were on vacation, and now you’re forcing me to accept this dog, or else you’ll leave the house.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” I said, stepping back and leaning my hips on the back of the dark leather loveseat behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m saying that since you won’t let the dog stay, and I don’t want to give him up, my only option is to move out with the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to go, but you leave me no choice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept my eyes down as I said this, watching my foot play with the edge of the area rug that divides the dining room from the living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prepared myself for yet another one of his long silences.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” my father said matter-of-factly, after about two minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t stop you from leaving.” He finally lowered his hands from in front of his face, elbows still on the table, placing one arm on either side of his placemat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood there for a few more seconds, and then shrugged my shoulders slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Okay,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turned in slow motion and walked out, passed my open-mouthed mother in the kitchen, and went back to the puppy waiting impatiently in my room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-2794101618176945012011-01-31T10:30:00.000-08:002011-01-31T10:30:46.825-08:00Being Latino articlesSo I've branched out and am now a contributing writer for Being Latino Online Magazine. For anyone interested, here are the links to my articles:<br />
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<a href="http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/mamitis-and-marriage/#more-11638">http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/mamitis-and-marriage/#more-11638</a> <br />
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<a href="http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/25/latinos-sending-their-own-back-home/">http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/25/latinos-sending-their-own-back-home/</a><br />
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More to come....!Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-901794397757791832010-12-28T18:09:00.001-08:002010-12-28T18:11:05.831-08:00Spare CentsStanding tall and very still on a staircase platform underground, her sign read “SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT.” <br />
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My hurried steps slowed down slightly as I took in her plea, written horizontally on a lined page of a spiral-bound notebook. Every day I pass countless people on the street, in the subway stations or on the subways themselves, singing their hearts out, playing an instrument, or just rattling their paper cup – all for some spare change. The less talented ones carry large wordy signs explaining their plights, much too long for rushing commuters to read through it all. Some have signs with only the words “PLEASE HELP” written on them. Usually in capital letters, their messages shout loudly at us, while the authors themselves sit or stand in silence. Still others forego the sign entirely and simply rely on their tattered clothing to speak for them. But this woman’s sign was different. <br />
<br />
Like a subliminal message seeping into my brain, I couldn’t dismiss it like all the others. My conscience quickly caught the play on words. She wasn’t just asking me to spare some cents. She was asking me to spare some sense. <br />
<br />
This woman could see right through me. I’ve grown numb to her sorry situation, and those of every homeless person in New York City. I have become senseless. I might as well be an inanimate object for all I’ve done to help them, which is nothing. <br />
<br />
Most of the time, I keep my eyes averted. Looking them in the eye would acknowledge their existence. Constant reminders that life isn’t fair, their presence can sometimes exasperate me. I want to blame them for being there, when their only offense is having burst the egocentric bubble in which I live. “How could you let yourself get to this point?” I accuse them silently. And by doing this, I am able to turn my head and keep going, quickly sweeping that lingering guilt under my mental rug. But her defensiveness shocked me, and prevented me from executing my default response.<br />
<br />
Clearly, her choice of words was no accident. <br />
<br />
She chose not to speak in generalities. “NOBODY’S PERFECT” would have worked just fine. Instead, she made it personal, and in a trick gun maneuver, she took my pointed finger and turned it right back at me: <br />
<br />
SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT. (Don’t think this couldn’t happen to you. Just because you walk on by with your shiny black briefcase and your spit-polished shoes, and I’m standing here in my thread-bare cardigan and worn-out sneakers, doesn’t make you better than me. I’ve made some wrong choices, but you have, too. Bad things have happened to me, like they can happen to anyone. So don’t judge me just yet, because the only difference between you and me is that I’m here, and you’re there.) <br />
<br />
Her original message was brief, but it was enough. With just six words, she slapped my face and turned it in the direction of my fears. I couldn’t even try to defend myself. I knew I deserved it.<br />
<br />
The sharp sting of her words stayed with me as I continued to walk up the stairs and into the street, where I eventually encountered another homeless person. I read his sign (HELP. NEED MONEY FOR FOOD) as I walked by. “I want to believe you,” I said to myself. <br />
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A familiar voice echoed in my head. “It’s best if you don’t give them any money because most of them will just use it to buy more drugs and liquor. You won’t really be helping them.” My mother trained me from an early age not to trust these people.<br />
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“But how can you be sure?” I now asked my mother, and myself, in my head. “And isn’t it worth it, to spare some cents, just in case their story really is true?” <br />
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I think it is.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-69528745730032907952010-12-01T19:19:00.001-08:002010-12-01T19:20:37.946-08:00My FatherI won’t deny that I used to be daddy’s little girl. I loved to play with him, accompany him on his errands, go with him to the ice cream store for a special treat. He usually gave me what I wanted, at least until I reached my teenage years. That’s when all of his Yes’s turned to No’s. <br />
<br />
As the head of the family, my father’s word has always been final. He manages to silence a room with his resounding “No” which seems to echo off the walls. My father seldom raises his voice, so when he does, we listen.<br />
<br />
It took me a long time to realize that my father is the more reasonable parent. Unlike my mother, he doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of his decisions. He’s willing to hear you out, but it takes a mighty solid argument to change his mind. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been able to accomplish this feat.<br />
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Disciplined, a man of routine, he wakes up every morning at 6:30am, showers, and is out the door by 8 ‘o’ clock on the dot. He eats his lunch at exactly noon, and his dinner must be on the table by 6pm every night, with the television set to the news channel. <br />
<br />
He lives by these self-imposed rules that are set in stone, and this method works for him, but his rigidity inhibits him in other ways. For instance, he is allowed to take up to three weeks of vacation a year. For whatever reason, he has chosen his vacation time to be either the last three weeks of July, or the first three weeks of August, or some combination of the two. If some type of long-distance event were to come up during any other time of the year, you can be sure he will not be in attendance. Planning a long weekend is not a possibility. In fact, part of the reason I didn’t have a destination wedding was because I knew he wouldn’t come if it wasn’t during one of those three weeks in the summer, and we wanted to get married in the spring. <br />
<br />
Despite his quirks, I can never complain about him not being a constant presence in my life. I cannot say that his patience is never-ending, but I can say he is the most responsible person I’ve ever met. I was never in need of anything. There was always food on the table, always a place to call home. He fulfilled his duty as a father, his label switching from playmate to provider as I got older. Even now, our relationship consists of greetings, questions asked and answered, and occasional disclosures about my daily life. Our silences are never uncomfortable. That’s just the way it is with us. <br />
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Ever since I moved out over a year ago, his role as provider doesn’t apply anymore. Our relationship is about to change yet again.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-23017331440561634022010-08-30T15:44:00.000-07:002010-08-30T15:44:41.008-07:00Flirting From the InsideIt’s a warm sunny afternoon in 1996. We are wasting time before heading home in our rolled-up Catholic school skirts. I am an awkward flagpole at 13, with my oversized glasses, braces, and messy black hair. My friend Erica is cute and petite, with her Jennifer Aniston haircut, dyed light brown, with dimples, and growing into her new body quite nicely. <br />
<br />
“Watch,” she instructs, as she walks next to me on the sidewalk. She sways her budding hips with confidence, and stares at a thirty-something man who is about to walk by us in the other direction. She catches his eye, and then she smiles. It wasn’t just any smile. It was like she had a secret that she was sure he wanted to know. At first the guy looked uncomfortable, but to my surprise, he started smiling back. Then she giggled and looked away as he passed by us. <br />
<br />
“Wow!” I said. “How’d you do that?”<br />
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“It’s easy!” she said. “You should try it sometime.” <br />
<br />
There was no way I was going to embarrass myself by trying that stunt. I was pretty sure I’d get nothing but a weird look in return. But I was amazed at how simple she made it seem. <br />
<br />
This was just one of many times she tried to teach me the art of flirting. She encouraged me to get close to a guy I liked and make conversation with him. Once I had him in my clutches, she told me to smile and laugh at his jokes, act impressed by whatever he had to say. I would read all the “10 Ways to Get His Attention!” articles in seventeen magazine (number 5: Wear dangly earrings!). But to this day, I don’t think I ever mastered it. <br />
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I never managed to catch a man’s eye from across the room and have him approach me because he just had to talk to me. I never felt the confidence that Erica already had at such a young age. However, almost every guy I ever dated, including my husband, was my friend first, and I managed to win him over with personality alone. Once I’m in my comfort zone, I can pull out my own bag of tricks (i.e. humor, intelligence), and they don’t include flipping my hair over my shoulder. That’s how introverts work: from the inside.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-84531404457287729692010-08-20T20:32:00.000-07:002010-08-20T20:36:41.606-07:00The "Ground Zero Mosque"A seemingly endless procession of Muslim men and women are walking out of what will soon be the new mosque only a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. People holding signs have been standing outside the doors all week – supporters of the mosque, not protestors as I’d originally thought. One sign reads: America Supports All Faiths. <br />
<br />
News reporters and their cameramen record the event. One of them is interviewing a Muslim woman who has just stepped out of the building. What’s going on? I’m not exactly sure. I’m just one of the many passersby who stopped to see what was going on as I was on my way to work this afternoon.<br />
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Police cars line the street. There is a tension in the air, like everyone is waiting for something to happen. Besides the occasional driver shouting obscenities at the crowd, though, everything seems to be under control for the moment. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, I am transported back in time, feeling like I’m an onlooker in one of those black and white clips you might have seen in history class of when the first African-Americans are escorted out of school during the time of desegregation. We stand there. We watch. We wait. <br />
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After a few minutes I leave, not wanting to be late. However, I am left with that tense feeling, and I think about the mosque and all those people who just walked out of the building. How must they be feeling? <br />
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I can understand why people are against the mosque being built so close to where the World Trade Center buildings were. The events of 9/11 are still fresh in our minds, like a wound that reopens whenever one really thinks about it, especially for the families of the victims, and especially now that the anniversary is rolling around again. However, even these families are not all crying out in one united force in opposition to the mosque. Even they are divided on this subject.<br />
<br />
Some people are outraged. Some people are scared. They believe terrorists will use this mosque as a type of headquarters to plan their next attack. But are we talking about terrorists, or are we talking about Muslims? We must remember that not every Muslim is a terrorist. Some Muslims really do just want to go to a mosque in order to practice their faith.<br />
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That being said, it must also be noted that Feisal Abdul Rauf could have decided to build a mosque anywhere in the city. So why, of all places, is he deciding to place it there? He had to have known that there would be controversy due to the location.<br />
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Despite the fact that this can be considered a very distasteful business move, we mustn’t forget that America was built on the premise of freedom. We may not always like what people say or do, but it’s still their right to do it. I don’t know why this specific location was chosen, but arguing about whether it’s right or wrong is a moot point. He bought the property fair and square, and he has the right to do what he wants with it. We don’t have to like it, but we’re going to have to accept it because that is what tolerance is all about. <br />
<br />
The emotional reaction to the building of this mosque is exactly that: emotional. I’m not denying those emotions. People have expressed their views, both negative and positive, as is their right. However, in this touchy situation, we need to think with our heads instead of our hearts to realize that by opposing this mosque we may end up looking hypocritical, as well as inviting even more animosity from the Muslim community.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-55863341545753032382010-08-20T06:40:00.000-07:002010-08-20T06:40:27.546-07:00Drink Play F@#k: A short book reviewI did a double take as I passed by this book at the bookstore. No, it wasn’t the immensely popular “Eat, Pray, Love”, but it sure looked a lot like it. If I hadn’t taken a closer look, it would’ve fooled me!<br />
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I immediately took a picture and sent it to my friend. I figured she wouldn’t be the only one to appreciate the irony, so I’ve decided to share it with you all as well.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/images/drink-play-fk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/images/drink-play-fk.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I couldn’t help it. I bought the book “Drink Play F@#k” by Andrew Gottlieb. I had to know what this guy’s story was. Unfortunately, unlike “Eat Pray Love”, this tale is purely a fabrication. However, that doesn’t mean the book isn’t entertaining. Written by a comedian, it was overall an enjoyable read. Think ‘David Sedaris meets Elizabeth Gilbert’, and this book would be the end result.<br />
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The story begins with the protagonist’s wife divorcing him and promptly moving in with another man. Heartbroken, he sets off on a year long adventure where he decides to drink, play, and f@#k in Ireland, Las Vegas, and Thailand, respectively. Let’s just say he is trying to find himself as only a guy can.<br />
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With this type of scenario, I was expecting stories teeming with vulgar descriptions of one-night stands and ridiculous shows of masculinity, but I was pleasantly surprised. This Bob Sullivan character, as fictitious as he may be, is not such a bad guy after all. His story is amusing, and there are even a couple of lessons to be learned along the way. Anyone else care to give him a chance?Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-78496288810078675562010-08-11T18:54:00.000-07:002010-08-11T19:03:27.538-07:00The Case of the Endangered Angry White ManThousands of people have hailed Steve Slater as a hero. He’s the guy who did what so many of us wish we could do: curse out our customers, our bosses, basically anyone at work that treats us badly or disrespects us. When I first heard this story I admit that I felt a momentary surge of inspiration. He had me completely on his side until I saw his face as he walked out of jail. <br />
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“Wipe that smirk off your face!” I scolded him, as I watched him on television. After hearing how he had been treated by the passengers, how his mom was dying of cancer, how he was a recovering alcoholic, and how he momentarily lost his cool, as any one of us could, I expected to see some humility. Maybe even a smidgen of regret, but not this arrogant cockiness. <br />
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I suppose I imagined that, like any one of us, his euphoria would start to wear off as soon as he realized he was out of a job in these unfortunate economic times. Like any one of us, he might look back, analyze what he had done, and come to the conclusion that perhaps he did overreact, even if these passengers did deserve it. His own mother admits that he had a “small meltdown”. However, unlike any one of us, he now has a countrywide fan base that continues to grow. All this attention has clearly gone to his head. <br />
<br />
However, the circumstances for his overnight fame were in his favor. I now pose this question to you: Would so many people be hailing this man and his impulsive actions if he were any race other than white? I highly doubt that thousands of people across America would be buying and wearing t-shirts that say “Free Pedro” or “Free Tyrone”. Not to mention the fact that we should all be praising Allah that this man was not an Arab, or else we would all be crying “Terrorist!”.<br />
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Most of us find this type of thinking difficult to admit as the truth. We all like to think of ourselves as perfect people who see each other as equals in every way, but unfortunately stereotypes do exist and we need to recognize them. If Steve were a black or Latino man, he probably would not be portrayed as a hero in all the newspapers. He might not be receiving as much publicity because “as we all know” minority men have a bad temper. Didn’t you know? That’s not news! But a white person losing his cool in such an extravagant way? That’s unheard of! Quick, make sure he makes the front page!<br />
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I can understand why he has quickly become the next American idol. He has appealed to the masses, the working class. Many of us know what it’s like to have to swallow your pride and smile in the face of a self-righteous customer in a country where the customer is always right. On August 10th, as America watched, read, or listened to the news, we all lived vicariously through his tirade. But let’s face it. If Steve were a woman, most of us would be blaming it on PMS.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-81966432874113680592010-06-23T21:12:00.000-07:002010-06-23T21:12:51.152-07:00Dealing with the HomelessI always feel uncomfortable whenever a homeless person approaches. My first inclination is to give them money, but it’s hard to do so when I don’t know if I will be feeding their vice or feeding their stomach. Some people give them food, and then they get mad because they want money. This upsets me because I feel like if they were really hungry and homeless, they would appreciate any food they could get. I always wanted to try giving food, but never had any on me when they approached. Until…<br />
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<em>Incident #1: A few months ago, I saw a homeless man panhandling at the light rail station. I was coming back from my bridal shower at work, lugging tons of leftover food. I heard him say to someone “Do you have any money so I can eat tonight?” When he passed by me, I said “Excuse me, I have food. Do you want some?” He asked me what it was. </em><em><br />
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<em>“Fish,” I told him. “Do you like fish? It’s pretty good.” </em><em><br />
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<em>“Yes, that would be great.” He took the fish, which was wrapped in aluminum foil, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you so much. I’ll eat this tonight.” And he walked away. </em><em><br />
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<em>That filled me with a sudden sense of peace, feeling happy that I had helped someone survive through one more day in this cruel world.</em><br />
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I always wonder what happened to people for them to end up homeless and on the street. Did they go bankrupt and lose everything? Are they drug addicts or alcoholics who refuse to get help? Horrible as it sounds, sometimes it’s hard to remember that they are still people with real lives and families… <br />
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<em>Incident #2: My husband was driving us home one night after dinner. He was about to switch lanes near a traffic light, when we almost ran over a homeless woman who had been standing on one of the white lines separating the lanes, asking for money. We didn’t see her because she had been blocked from view by a truck. I gasped as we swerved around her. She yelled as we passed her, angry, but then I got angry too. </em><br />
<em>“What is she getting mad at us for? She shouldn’t even be standing there!” </em><br />
<em>My husband shrugged as we stopped at the light. I looked in the rearview mirror. </em><br />
<em>“Oh man, I think she’s coming. Why is she coming? If she says something, I’m gonna tell her she shouldn’t even be standing in the middle of the road like that if she doesn’t want to get run over.” </em><br />
<em>I was looking at my husband in anger and disbelief, when just then he looked out my window and said “Sorry!” I spun around to look, but the woman had already walked away. </em><br />
<em>“Why did you say sorry? It wasn’t our fault we didn’t see her. And she’s not even supposed to be there!” </em><br />
<em>My husband said “Oh, but that’s not right. Where else is she supposed to go?” </em><br />
<em>And then I felt pretty bad.</em> <br />
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It’s interesting how one person can have so many different faces, some of them kind, and some of them quite ugly. Which face do YOU usually wear?Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-16079029874530588682010-06-21T11:41:00.000-07:002010-06-21T11:42:07.610-07:00Facing DeathAt what point in your life do you stop saving for your future and start saving for your funeral?<br />
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I recently went to a friend’s grandmother’s wake. Sitting next to my grieving friend, I looked around, trying to find something to comment on, for I never have any idea what to say to people in these situations. My eyes rested on the various flower arrangements that decorated the spaces next to the coffin.<br />
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“Those flower arrangements are beautiful,” I said. “Do you know who sent them all?”<br />
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“No, nobody sent them,” my friend sniffed, and shook her head slowly. “My grandmother preordered them.”<br />
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“She preordered them?” At first, I was dumbfounded, but then I remembered that she had died of cancer, so she must have known approximately how much longer she had to live.<br />
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“Yes,” my friend answered. “She ordered them when Richy was 3. She said she didn’t want anything cheap, so she ordered everything herself.”<br />
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Hmm. If Richy was 14 now, that was about 11 years ago, and I don’t think she was diagnosed with cancer that long ago. She must have been around 83 years old when she ordered the flowers. I didn’t even know you could do that. Would you pay for the flowers and then just leave the delivery date open?<br />
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I imagine that when you reach a certain age, you have to face your mortality right in the eye and just start making plans. Some people make these kinds of plans even earlier, because they have children and want to settle things before it’s too late or in case something ever happens to them. The plans I’m used to hearing about usually concern writing up a last will and testament, but I suppose that funeral arrangements are made as well, if the person has reached a certain age and is realistic about his or her life expectancy. <br />
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So when do you say “Okay, I’ve lived my life and I have everything I’ll ever need until I die, so I’m going to start saving for my funeral.” I don’t know if many people have the courage to do this. I think it takes some courage to entertain the notion that your days on this earth are almost up, and then to take it into your own hands to save for and plan your own funeral.<br />
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As for myself, I kind of like this idea of having it all paid for and prearranged – not so much because I’m interested in having it done “my way”, but because I do know one thing for sure: funerals can be expensive. I wouldn’t want my death to be a burden on my family. It’s smart, and economical. <br />
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It’s also tough. I don’t know if I could do it. However, if I do decide to do it, I wouldn’t begin anytime soon. I think it would be a bit morbid to start saving for that right now. Especially when there’s still so much I want to save for, like buying a house. <br />
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If I do this, I’m going to do it right. My plan will be to start when I turn 50 years old, when I’m still working. That gives me more than ten years to save up. A little at a time, of course. There’s no hurry!Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6912006596583432805.post-91011224162565595002010-06-14T15:02:00.000-07:002010-06-14T15:04:04.361-07:00Having To Prove MyselfMy husband wants us to move to England. He has wanted this for a while, and it looks like it may become a reality. I have mixed feelings about this. On one hand, the small part of me that likes adventure and a change of scenery is embracing the opportunity. On the other hand, the larger part of me that fears whatever is new and unknown is running the other way, screaming. <br />
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If I were 21 again, fresh out of college, this decision would be much easier. I would travel to another country to live and work there, no problem! In fact, it’s something I regret not having done. However, at 28, I’ve invested time and hard work into my life and career. I don’t want to start at the bottom again. <br />
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Also, there is one other thing. Over the years, I have had to prove myself to people on three counts: because of my young age, because I am a minority, and because I am a woman. I’ve had to do this in everyday life, but mostly in the workplace. Moving to another country means that I would have to prove myself all over again not only on these three aspects of myself, but also as an American.<br />
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I don’t know what people in England think about Americans, whether they love us or hate us, but either way, the minute I open my mouth, people will see that I am American and judge me for it. They will see it all: my youth, my skin, my sex, and my birth country, all rolled into one neat little package, ready to be ripped to shreds. <br />
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Ok, maybe I’m overreacting a little. Perhaps I am making this into a bigger deal than it has to be. I’m putting too much pressure on myself. This is probably just that part of myself that is running scared and is putting all these crazy ideas into my head. But my nerves have to materialize in some shape or form, right? <br />
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What am I so scared of? I have faced many people who have passed judgment on me, and I have succeeded, regardless of what they thought of me. And who cares what they think anyway? I just need to stay focused, and face the challenges this move may bring my way one at a time.Dagny32http://www.blogger.com/profile/16417018656652049022noreply@blogger.com2