Search this site

I recently went to see the broadway musical DIRTY DANCING and I was less than impressed, which is disappointing because I was really looking forward to this particular show. I should have just stayed home in my pjs, glass of wine in hand, cat in lap, and watched the original movie, at least then I would have been privy to good singing, good acting, and great dancing, none of which was the case for what I saw Saturday night. First of all I wouldn't even classify this production as a musical for only two actors sang and it wasn’t even for the entirety of the show. Sometimes they played what sounded to be radio music, which was a bit confusing and unnecessary when you have real singers and real musicians on stage at the ready. But if you disregard the lack of musical prowess and rely solely on the acting, the troupe dually failed in this aspect as well. I couldn’t tell if it was bad writing (this is me trying to give the actors a small amount of grace) or if it was their overall timing, but everything just felt too slow, too drawn out and there was no chemistry….between anyone. Johnny and Penny certainly didn’t have it. They are supposed to be so lost in their own dancing that their perspective worlds disappear, or at least that is what it always seemed to me. However, in this case the actors looked like they were more concerned with the actual dance steps, which left their emotion somewhere between Do You Love Me and (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life, if they even had it at all. Johnny and Baby for sure didn’t have it. Johnny was good enough looking, don’t get me wrong, but he did not claim the stage and thus the audience. There were moments when I forgot that he was even on stage. And Baby had no real progression as a character, not to mention her dancing abilities besides being at first terrible, then not completely terrible, and finally a bit better than terrible. I felt like the audience was collectively just waiting for the last dance scene and the famous lift, which Baby even made appear awkward. But besides all of that. The movie to me is so much more than just a love story. Baby, for perhaps the first time, begins to see beyond her own ideals and the sheltered world she thought she once knew grows a bit dirtier, a bit darker. In contrast, Johnny's perspective about the world also changes, but it becomes a brighter for him. Baby makes Johnny see that the world can be a trusting place and he realizes he is in fact more than who he thought he once was. The musical missed all of this. The plot was stripped bare of any deeper meaning and a cheesy love story was the only thing that was left to be exposed. This offends me actually. The writers and producers think so little of their audiences' intelligence that they tried to blind us with the occassional movie one liners and dance numbers in hopes that we would forget the actual meaning behind the story. It’s not exactly even a love story if you think about it, not the typical kind anyway, but rather, it’s about finding acceptance in others and not judging people for how they look or where they come from. We all have a story to be told, but so many times we are worried about the judgement, the ridicule that we stick to who we know, what we know, instead of exploring something that could make us a better person in the end. Johnny would never have left a dead end job and Baby would have continued to live her sheltered little life without a thought for how some people suffer. But together these two characters abandoned their previous notions, opened themselves up to each other, and became better people for it. A lesson that we all can and should learn. But I warn you, the musical will not provide you with such incites, so instead of putting on your best formal attire, stay home, pop in the DVD (for nostalgic purposes) and get swept away with Swayze's vulnerability and Grey's fortitude.

I thought a lot this week about the sides of a personality. How on one hand you may be calm in the face of certain kinds of people, friends, and then a maniac emerges around others who perhaps know you best. You may not want to admit the different sides of a personality that you like or dislike; it may be even embarrassing to admit the anxieties, the depression, the hidden psychosis’ to others because people do judge. Even if they say they don’t, we all do, some are just more blatant about it than others. My parents visited this weekend. My husband’s parents also visited. I felt like two sides of a person who are forced to meet in the middle in one form or the other and then there is my husband who seemingly knows all of me having to watch the collision like it’s one of those wrecks on the side of the road where you know you shouldn’t stare but it’s pretty impossible not to. I'm a certain way around my parents, although I do try hard to be myself, and maybe I alert them to snippets of the person who I am today, but it’s only the highlighted reel I’m afraid. I want to be the dutiful daughter, the type A person that I was in high school, that hates to disappoint everyone, although I’m really not any of those people….not anymore anyway. Do you ever look at a relationship and remember when it was a something but now because of time and maturity and time (did I already mention time) things have changed and you really don't think you know that person anymore even if they share parts of you that you like or maybe don’t but they are you in a sense but not you at the same time? Growing up is weird. It’s like you live in different versions of the person that maybe you eventually will become and you hope whoever that person is you like, but what if you don’t at the end of the day? What if you like the version of you that was 20 years ago? The person that had ideals, had a vision, had a dream? What do you do when the dream dies because reality is dark and close and not at all what you thought it would, should, could be? Do you shrivel up like a prune? (I heard a comedian once say that he likes raisins because they have actually been through something and now I can’t look at the plum family the same way). There are times when I know that I have to engage with people in large or even small groups and I dilligently choose the metaphorical hat to wear for the chosen occasion. It’s like I’m not just picking out my outfit for the night, but the person that I will allow this particular group of people to see for the time being. Then there are other times when I’m sullen. I revert into my own self and refuse to give any of it away because it’s not deserved, won’t be respected or even enjoyed. Please tell me I’m not the only one who thinks about such things? I’m not the only one who struggles with giving themselves away to people that won’t understand what is given in the first place. There is no worse feeling than trying to talk to someone, attempt an engagement that you are forcing, but trying nonetheless, and witness the glaze crust over their eyes as their brain turns away from who you are, what you want to share and give and be. Unfortunately, it really has nothing to do with you. People are going through their own shit and whatever it is you were sharing probably wasn’t or isn’t relevant to their lives and thus not relevant to the little bit of brain power that is needed for their engagement to be intact. It just hurts when you open yourself up in such a way and then are forced to be pushed down to the size of an ant. But people are people and are all pretty selfish at the end of the day. Sometimes I find it better to escape into the confines of my own head because at least in there I have a kind of understanding. Maybe that’s why animals were created. To allow us a living thing that will love all the parts of us, even when it becomes morphed into something that may be unrecognizable for the people that knew you once upon a time. Reader, if you find this all to be confusing or maybe relatable or maybe it’s frustration that burns a hole deep within your belly, know that you are not the only one. Because life has a tendency to be all of those things, rolled together and sprinkled with brightly colored, or maybe even it's dully colored, aspects of who you are today and the future person you are one day going to become.

I don’t understand when there are moments in my life where I can in fact easily talk to people. Like actually approach someone or a bunch of someones and hold a conversation, be engaging, and then walk away without obsessing about what could have, would have, should have been. And then there are those other moments when a dark cloud hangs directly above my head and it prevents me from doing all the above. I feel like an Eeyore in those moments during one particular episode I remember well. Do you remember the one I'm talking about? It was his birthday and he thought no one remembered, which he was partially correct in the assumption. The entire episode he trudged along with a small storm cloud raining above his head until he was celebrated, after Winnie the Pooh realized his mistake, and then his entire attitude changed for that particular moment. I feel this way most days and I don’t know why. Do I need to be celebrated to boost the confidence that I lack and then I can actually step out of my shell and bloom again? I went to yoga this week. And I have been going to this studio for quite some time, so I have gotten to know quite a few people there, even spent time outside of the yoga studio with said people, but on this particular evening I was hoping I wouldn’t in fact see anyone I did know. The week has not been a kind one to me, my emotions have not been kind, my consciousness has not been kind, so being alone, attempting poses under a guise of invisibility really did seem like something that was much needed. As soon as I stepped into the studio my gaze fell upon a young, beautiful girl who was lying on her mat. Her hair was slicked and pulled into a flawlessly high position. Her skin was clear and her stomach was flat. She turned and looked at me as I entered. Her perfect lips curled into something ugly and I could see as her eyes looked me up and down that I was being judged. If the dictionary ever needs an example of someone giving someone else the stink eye, they need only to take her picture in this moment. I hurriedly if not awkwardly looked away from her glare, picked out a yoga block, forgot to grab a towel in my haste, but didn't want to dare go back to the supplies, which were scary close to her and her looks. I then scanned the studio for a free place to sit and recognized a girl I went to a pool party with a month ago, and actually had coffee (with several other people) as well. Should I say hello? I thought. I probably should, actually I know I should but for the life of me I couldn’t think of her name. Was it Terry, or Marissa, or Amy or Clare? I landed on Clare and was 95 percent sure that I was correct. I’m embarrassed to say I'm even friends with her on IG, but names have never been my strong suit. They fly out of my head as quickly as they inhabit it. I walked over, prepared to tap her on the shoulder, give a slight wave, and then my part would be over. I did my due diligence; she wouldn’t then report to the other yogis that I know how unfriendly I was, but then, I thought, would she expect more of a conversation and what would that entail? Would I be the one who would have to carry the subject matter forward to other topics? And what if I couldn't think of anything else to say? What then? I began to mull this all over in my mind and promptly chickened out and laid my matt diagonally behind hers. Great, was my next thought. She will surely see me at some point in the class. Why didn’t I move to the opposite side of the room? I asked myself. Because I didn’t want to be near that stink eyed girl, I did know that much, but then why didn’t I move further back? My thoughts spun, my heart raced, and then class began, although all I could think about was the conversation that was most likely to take place after and what I would need to add to it. Class eventually did end. “Hello beautiful,” she said with a wave. “Hi,” I awkwardly waved back. “How has your week been going?” My words ran together, begging, needing to be let out of the prison that my mind had held them in for the last hour, but it did do the trick. We did have a conversation and I’m sure it wasn’t as awkward as the one that I saw taking place in my mind. I quickly left the studio, once the talking was over, trying my best to get out of there before she could catch up with me and then I would be forced to begin again. Sometimes people talk to me and all I can think about is how the conversation is going to end. Am I going to be the one who has the last word or is it going to awkwardly fizzle out? The whole ordeal actually wasn’t an ordeal at all; it was pleasant; she was pleasant. Someone that I could see myself being friends with; a really cool person, so why did I have anxiety about the whole thing? Was it because my confidence was at an all time low? Or was I intimidated by her? Or was it the stink eyed girl that got into my head and made me feel like something was wrong with me? It’s probably little bits of all of those things, mixed together, put into a package, and then forced into my mind in the form of anxiety. I will tell you this much, dear reader, if you see someone that you know and they don’t say hi to you, please don’t take it personally. They may just be going through something, lost inside their own mind for the moment, and I will tell you, from experience, that is not always the best place to be, so be kind. Maybe shoot them a wave of your own and calling them beautiful always helps.

We are in Austin, Texas this weekend. We go every year at this time primarily for their annual musical festival and every year I look forward to it, rain or shine, although this weekend I fear is going to be on the rainer side of things. But don't worry (not that I assumed you were) it will not deter us from having a good time. There has only been one year that we arrived by plane, every other year we have made the little over seven hour drive. We used to stop in Dallas as a kind of half way mark (although it’s really like two thirds of the way thing), but we soon realized that Austin traffic mid morning is not anything that should be experienced for anyone, so we now drive straight through or rather my husband drives and I play DJ between a plethora of naps and trying to make sure he is fed. We tried to reverse these roles one year and it was only too obvious after five minutes of watching me white knuckle my way through Dallas, almost getting hit, cussed at or somewhere in between and G not being able to decide on food and then once food place was agreed upon having to navigate the online menu and the myriad of options to be had proved to be too overwhelming, that our original roles should stay entact for all future driving endeavors. I actually don’t mind the drive. It causes interesting conversations to take place out loud and inside my own head. Let’s start with an out loud one first. Why is it that when someone shows a weakness it is commonly, if not crudely, lamented that they are a pussy? I asked this question and then proceeded to make my argument. The vagina is actually one of the strongest body parts. It cleans itself, it can expand to allow another human child into the world and then it can shrink back to its somewhat original self. So why is it the word many people, mostly men of course, use to describe someone’s weakness. Wouldn’t the better term be balls or testicals , which really are a pretty useless member. They just hang in space without a thought to contributing much to anything. But no. If someone says or does something that is particularly bold or courageous they are said to be ballsy. What the actual fuck? But again our society has been shaped in a male dominated world; women more often then not being pushed into second class citizenship status, so it does make a king of sense to reduce one of the strongest things about females to a weakness. The gas lighting that occurs even in today’s modern language is quite astounding. A thought that I had inside my own head: I recently saw a social media influencer say that she doesn’t read and the last book she read was probably Dr. Seuss, which I feel is pretty unprobable. She probably said it to be funny, but when did not reading become something that we brag about? Wouldn’t it instead be something that you shouldn’t admit because if you do you are admitting to your own ignorance. I was on a plane once and the flight attendant was telling people to put their luggage in the overhead console like you would a library book on a shelf. One of the people in line snickered and then quite loudly exclaimed, “Do people even go to the library anymore?” I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of libraries, books, or reading, although I fear it was probably all of the above. Is this what our society has become? I can’t help but ask myself. We make fun of readers now? We laugh at being ignorant like it’s some sort of something that should be idiolized? I don’t know what is going to become of our world, but I probably won’t be here to truly witness it’s downfall and that is more than fine with me. For now I will be more than happy to trip around Austin, listening to music, and living a life primarily in my own head because at least at that point the thoughts make sense.

I'm burnt out. I don’t know if it’s life or that time in my career (if I can really call it that), but I’m having a hard time really seeing the point. I feel like I’m in a hamster wheel. I’m waiting for retirement because that's when my life can actually begin. I don’t know how I got here is a thought I so often have. I'm in education, if you don't already know, and it's a career that I never loved and that never really loved me back. I watch as others are excited about things that don’t elicit much reaction from me and instead I’m stuck wondering if something is in fact wrong or maybe I’m in some kind of simulated limbo and if I can only find the key I will be released and can actually live again. The weekends save me. They are packed full of adventures and I feel like I can finally breath into life. Writing has been a witness to this as well although there are times I don’t really see a point in doing that as well. I remember once sitting around with a group of people I didn’t know all that well and they were talking about perspective careers. I was listening like I mostly do, not wanting to add or take away from the conversation that was being had until I found myself muttering that I regretted my chosen career path, probably my biggest regret actually. “Don’t ever say that.” I looked up to the face of the person sitting across from me who had obviously heard what I had said because his gaze was fixed on my face and he had such a look of derision plastered upon his features that I almost thought he couldn’t possibly be talking to me, but he was. I began to nod like he was of course right in his assumption of my stumbled upoin words. And he was right in a way I suppose. He was the type of person that thinks highly of the person they are. He was attractive I suppose in that dark haired, right out of college so I know more than you, kind of way. Maybe that's what gave him the confidence. Afterwards when I was processing the conversation I found myself getting angry and then even angrier at his pretention. How dare this man judge me? How dare he tell me how to feel? He doesn’t know the person who I am or have been. I should have stuck up for myself; put him in a place between belitterment and cynicism. Because he was wrong and it’s okay if I want to wallow in my regret. I’m not passionate about educatng today's youth; probably because I really don’t see the point of much of it, especially when parents have ceased to parent, the government is overgoverning, and all it ever makes me want to do is disappear into a book, a pencil, maybe some paper, and a beach in the background. I don’t want to be part of such a fraudulent system, but now I feel like it’s entirely too late. My coworker runs around putting up bulletin boards, planning crafts, talking with students and teachers and I just sit. I hate crafts and most of the time I hate people so how did I fall into such a vocation? I like to read; I like to research; but nowadays education is not about that at all. I feel like I should have gone to clowning school instead of any real college because everything these days has to look bright and shiny. We can’t just tell kids about an amazing book, we have to dress it up, juggle it around in a locked box or a computer app for anyone to give a shit. When did it all get to be so backwards? I have an inkling of course. The new age of media has made everyone’s attention span the width of a gnat. Entertainment is synonymous with education for if a student is not entertained they aren’t engaged and if they aren’t engaged they refuse to learn so please by all means be entertaining. I have four years left, after this one, and some days, some weeks, some months I don’t think I can do it for that much longer. Can I quietly bide my time for those years and just hope that I remain healthy enough so that I can actually start living when I don’t have to report to a place day in day out, hour in hour out, minute in minute out. So, I will continue to sit I suppose and wait. I will continue to get up, workout, shower, get ready, drive, and fake smile my way to the finish line and hope that the end will be the actual beginning of something.

My husband's favorite band is Guns and Roses and he has been a die hard fan of said band sent I met him over 10 years ago. Now, when I say fan I mean someone who has all the things: autographed pictures, guitar picks, plethora of shirts, and videos, lots and lots of videos. In contrast, my favorite band is the Dave Matthews Band and they have maintained their number one status in my eyes ever since I saw them in concert in what feels like a different person ago. I was in my early 20s and it was my very first concert and I was hooked from that moment forward. I have listened to all of their albums; analyzed, compared each record with the last. Was heart broken when their saxophone player LeRoi died in an ATV accident in 2018, was shocked when their violinist Boyd Tinsley was allegedly found to have engaged in very bad behavior in which resulted in him getting kicked out of the band in 2018. I have even gotten mildly offended when I come across someone who not only doesn't share my love for them, but abhors them and I find that I am defending their music like I in fact work for them or something and maybe I do because where would they be without their fans. For me, each of their concerts fly by with one hit after another; ones that I scream sing to; ones that fill my heart with a kind of joy that only old, but happy memories can produce once resurfaced. I’ve talked to other people who have different bands, different artists that are their ride or die. It doesn’t matter how popular or even unpopular the artist/band has become throughout the years, their loyalty has stayed true. I suppose not everyone has that love for one particular artist and the music that they produce. When every time you hear them it is like reconnecting with an old friend. You find that no matter where you are in your life, they know who you are and you feel the same way because their lyrics were taken directly from your heart and that by some source of fate makes them your people. This all made me think about what that says about us? Because I like Dave Matthews Band what stereotype does that conjure in your mind? My husband being a GnR fan makes him what exactly? If you are a Swiftie what does that say about you? I don’t love all artists, some I even have some mild disdain for, but I respect them for the feelings that they elicit in each one of their fans. The very real emotions that we have are not as unique as we think, especially at the time, and these artists allow us to realize that whatever it is we are feeling, we are not alone; our feelings however big we may think they are at the time, others have felt, have thought at some point. It somehow makes us feel not entirely alone in the world and maybe that is why music was created in the first place. There really is something, someone for everybody, whether you fall in love with the lyrics first, the beat of the drums, or the shredding of the guitar, music can speak right to your soul and if you find that musical artist that is the just right one for you, it’s almost like finding a soul mate; finding your person; someone who really gets who you are, has seen what you have been through and says that’s ok because it has made you the person who you are today.

A friend sent me an Instagram post this week that laid out the type of workout you may or may not enjoy, but probably do anyway, and what that actually has to say about your overall personality. I’ve had moments in my life where I have gravitated towards a particular type of exercise and my personality has in fact reflected my need for that activity. I used to be an avid runner and still do like to run from time to time, although now it’s more of a run/walk situation then an I’m training for a race sort of thing. If you are a runner you're probably running away from one problem or another or so the IG post claimed. I actually couldn't agree more. I found running in a particularly difficult time in my life. I was about to go through a divorce, I had changed jobs, I needed to quite literally run away from some or all of those streesors. Not really that I could, but in those early morning hours when it was just me, whatever musical anthem I had blasting my ear drums away, and the pavement, my mind was allowed the reprieve that it needed to disappear for awhile. I don't feel the need to do all of that running that my 32 year old self was prone to do. Maybe it’s because I’m in a better, more matured existence, or maybe it’s that I’m just tired of hitting the pavement for hours upon hours, or maybe it’s because my mind is in a better place, so something with a different focus is what is needed. Thus, the practice of yoga has been my thing. Now I have been a yogi on and off for years, but currently I have placed more of a focus on it becomming an actual practice. It’s not surprising that the post reads that yogis are anxious but bendy people, for that really does describe me the older that I have become, however the whole bendy thing is a work in progress. Why is it that now that I’m in my 40s I have a plethora of new illnesses, new aches, pains, just things in general that keeps me up at night worried that at any moment I’m going to fall victim to some new disease. And don’t even get me started on the tightened vice that painfully squeezes aroung my heart when I think about the fact that my youth is something that I can barely even remember and have I actually done anything that I set out to do when the world seemed to be so much more carefree and loveable. I also enjoy pilates, but do not necessarily agree that I am a control freak with good posture. Although I have looked around the pilates studio a few times and would agree that that is perhaps a very accurate description for the majority of people that make up that space. I do spinning as well, but it's in the comforts of my own home. Thank goodness for Peloton and the ability to choose instructors that do not yell at me because I really can’t take the criticism. Weightlifting is a chore I force myself to do at least four times a week, not because the activity is something that I particularly enjoy, but because I know it is good for my bones, especially the older I have become. And for the record, I do not agree that I am in a committed relationship with a mirror. Half the time I hate what I see and will actually face away from said mirror and other times I think I don't look that bad in whatever workout set I have chosen to wear. I don’t know what is different between the times when I like what I see and when I don’t. I am the same person all of those times, but my brain has a way of manipulating my thoughts into hating some, or most (depending on the day) parts of me. I have included the Instagram post for your viewing pleasure and you can pick out your chosen extracurricular exercise and see if it is in fact accurate to your overall personality. Please comment a yay or nay with the exercise that you enjoy participating in and if the description is in fact accurate to you.

I grew up with a father who had OCD tendencies or rather was definitely on the spectrum, but it was the 90s and you just dealt with your mental illness the best that you knew how, which was really not at all. He once had a dentist tell him to stop brushing his teeth so hard because he had literally brushed the enamel off of them. He would clean kitchen utensils, plates, so meticulously that he would break or crack them. So, yes, OCD was quite possibly a prevalent enigma in his life. And I have tendencies too, believe me I do, although if you looked at me, the state of my house, my overall personality, you would have your doubts. I decided quite a long time ago that I choose to not let a compulsion control my overall life. I’ve struggled with regimentation before and I do feel better when I follow a schedule, one that is preferably printed and placed on the refrigerator to be checked off with a smile and a happy sigh of relieved accomplishment. But it does do something to my mind, my overall well being. It’s a rabbit hole that is slippery and quite lonely when the bottom is reached and I find that all that I really have when it is all said and done is my schedule, albeit a lovely one. I thought about this as I was getting ready for our friends who are visiting from Southern California. The rooms in my house have been speaking to me, begging to be straightened, perhaps even organized. And all I could do was stare down the mess. Everything is clean, mind you just a bit unkept. Once upon a time I did care, perhaps too much, but as I’ve gotten older it takes so much brain power to do all of that caring. Or maybe it’s the fact that I know what it takes when the caring takes control and I don't like that version of myself. I want to be a swaying wild daisy and not a prickly cactus. I still have rules that I follow, they usually have to do with food and drink and exercise of course. But even when those self regulated rules are broken I don’t spiral as much as I used to. I now try to shrug my shoulders and move on with my day and not let the brokenness of said rule affect how I see and picture myself. Maybe that’s growth? Maybe that’s adulthood and all of its tired energy? Or maybe it’s the fact that I do recognize a negative tendency and have gone to great lengths to remedy the situation? Or maybe it’s that I’ve realized how short this life is for us humans and I don’t want to waste a precious second of it worrying about something that has so little consequence to so many. I really do hope our California friends do not mind a cluttered household. I made sure that they have clean sheets and clean towels of course. And besides, I would hope that they are coming to visit because of the company and not the accommodations that are offered. I really do believe the latter is at play. I am sure we will share in laughs and tequila, lots and lots of tequila, and after awhile the disorder will not be so important if order is what is indeed important for what will be remembered is the stories and the smiles and all the good times.

To be clear I did not want to go to a concert on a Tuesday, which surprisingly is very unlike me. I’m always up for a good time, especially when it's during the week. It breaks up the monotony, gives me something to look forward to when I’m facing the uphill battle to Friday. But my husband was looking forward to this particular band, although I had never heard of them before. They are called Jesse and Joy, a Mexican pop duo that was formed in 2005. They are a brother and sister team, released five studio albums and have even won an American Grammy for Best Latin Pop Album, as well as six Latin Grammy Awards in a variety of different categories. I really shouldn’t have been all that surprised when we arrived at the concert venue, right when the doors opened, and there was already a line of people waiting to get inside. And I shouldn’t have been surprised when my husband rushed us to the front to wait 40 minutes before the time the concert was set to start. And I really really shouldn’t have been surprised when the concert began at least 30 minutes from the time it was supposed to. But, I was nonetheless. My feet hurt, my legs were stiff, and I wasn’t looking forward to standing for the next two hours (when you include waiting time it was really three) when I didn’t even know one song. But the music eventually seeped into my consciousness like it so often does. (Something else I really shouldn’t have been surprised about). Mariachis were even brought to the forefront and I found myself singing along to some of those classic Mexican tunes that I did know (thanks to my husband’s family for keeping Mexican traditions alive) and when Joy began to sing Viva Mexico I found that my eyes began to actually tear up. You could blame it on the hormones of course or the fact that I was tired, but I felt a bond begin to form amongst the crowd as I stood watching, the only white person in a sea of Latinos. Everyone knew the words to songs that seemed as familiar to them as that favorite Christmss dish. Does Americans have such a thing, I couldn’t help but to think. Is there something that brings us together in such a way as this? The bond that I was feeling amongst the crowd was indeed palpable. You may say the crowd bonded together because they consisted of either first, second, third, or even fourth generation immigrants and when you grow up in a country that has let you in, but still has people in it that treat you like you are less than, you will be brought together by people who sound like you, look like you, speak like you. But, I have felt this bond amongst Mexicans before and I wasn’t even in the United States when I did. When you travel to Mexico you are met with a happy group of people who want to share their ethnicity, their culture, with a stranger. You just have to give them the time to do it. I soon forgot about my aching feet, my stiff legs, and got swept away in the joy that this music was bringing to everyone around me. My head began to move along to the music, my hips began to sway (as much as a white girls can anyway) and I found myself singing along to words I didn’t know, lyrics that I couldn’t tell you what they mean, but the melody, the harmonies, the chorus was speaking to me. And isn’t that what really good music is supposed to do at the end of the day? Unite us in some way or the other, some form or the other? It’s probably why I like it so much. Jesse and Joy did their job if their goal was to unite the crowd, if their goal was to entertain, and I will be listening to them again and again. Probably singing in my car to words that I still really don’t know, lyrics that I still couldn’t tell you what they mean, but the music tells its own story if you listen to the strum of the guitar, the beat of the drum, and the heart of the singer’s voice.

I’ve never been anyone’s first choice and if you have kept up with this blog, you should know that about me by now. Maybe it’s my own fault, preferring to stick to the shadowed corners, rather than the blinding brightness of the spotlight. But can I let you in on a little secret dear reader? I’ve secretly always wanted to be the center of attention. I maintain a hard prickly exterior so that I protect myself from disappointment when I'm not chosen first or second or third or even fourth, maybe fifth or sixth if I'm competing against a group total of twelve. I promise this post isn't about me, even though the introduction would speak to the contrary. This blog is actually dedicated to my dear black cat Edgar. The cat that didn’t want me (I know shocking) to begin with, the cat that I transplanted four times, much to his chagrin and a resentment that has been building over the years, but hasn't boiled over, yet. I found Edgar as a half starved kitten outside of a beauty salon. I had just gone through a divorce and needed a friend. So, there he was, licking his paws and placidly looking as content as a stray kitten possibly could. I bent down and made the kissy faces, the kissy sounds. He wasn't amused and instead stared me down as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I guess it wasn’t meant to be, I thought at the time, for I have never been one to push myself onto anyone. I proceeded to enter the salon, mentioning the kitten to my stylist. She told me that he had been hanging around for the last few days. “He’s not very friendly,” I stated. And then I looked out the window. A little girl, probably no older than eight, was standing, arms held lovingly around the cat that wouldn't give me the time of a day only a moment ago. I guess he wasn't the feral, obtuse animal that I thought him to be. They say that you never find a cat, but rather they will find you and that’s how it always should be. I didn’t heed that advice of course for I took Edgar home with me and to the vet the next day (he had worms and proceeded to shart around my house all night until he got on some good medication). He did eventually warm up to me, although we had our fair share of growing pains. I think his favorite place to live was this little farm house that I was renting. The place had a rotted out tree stump in the front yard. Edgar would sit on it each morning as if it was his throne and take his daily bowel movement. He even made friends with a chipmunk and I had the privilege of seeing them play together more than a few times. No, he wasn’t torturing the small animal; the chipmunk would jump up on the front porch and wait for him. I felt like I was living a Sleeping Beauty like fairy tale. This is Edgar, enjoying the sunshine in one of his favorite spots and where he and the chipmunk would meet for their playdates. But then I had to move again, and then again several months after that, across states no less. Edgar, as you can only imagine was not pleased with my moving decisions and showed me in more ways than one. You are never supposed to introduce a cat to the outside world until they have been in the same location for at least three months, or at least that's what the internet says, but Edgar hated the indoors, and I hated to clean out his litter box, so I let him navigate the back yard thinking that we had moved so much and he has always come back to me in each and every new location, so I really thought this situation wouldn’t be any different. I was wrong of course. Edgar didn’t just disappear, he disappeared for two whole months and then to top it off, some unknown neighbor found his collar and put it in our mailbox. "He's dead,” I cried to my husband. That is the only explanation for someone doing such a thing without a call or note of explanation. But he wasn’t dead; he actually was living his best life down the street and around the corner, in the gutter. That's right, the gutter proved to be a better home than the hell hole I had moved him too, or at least that's what I thought he would have said if he knew English. It took a few tears, a few embarrassing drive by yelling his name at the top of my lungs sessions, and one mistaken identity cat capture, before I found him, lured him back to me with cans of tuna and G standing behind him with a pillow case at the ready. Edgar was perfectly fine, if you were wondering He had lost a few pounds, was pristinely clean and well groomed. Smelled a little bit like a bed of roses which confused me. He's better now, at least I think so, for he has started coming around more often. He likes to observe the neighborhood from his perch on top of our fence. We are safer knowing that he is protecting us or gathering the neighborhood gossip, none of which he shares with me. For all of his gruff exterior he has a heart of gold; he will appear whenever you need him and when the situation is the most dire. (i.e. when G’s dog died several years ago, Edgar laid by his feet until what he felt was the appropriate amount of time, two point three minutes if you were wondering). It's only taken him eleven years to finally become comfortable with me, with his family (one bougie Mexican cat, one lazy dog, and one surprised husband that has discovered he now has a farm to keep up with.) But a part of me still believes, especially when his aggressive meows are directed at me and only me each morning, that he wants me to know that I did take him away from that little girl, who was his first choice, and his poop stump, which was his second.

“Have you ever heard of the 5 AM power hour?” The beautiful red haired actress asked. She did that thing with her mouth where you could tell she wanted to smile, but was trying to hold it all back. She was sitting primly on the couch, legs crossed to one side. A television host was opposite. The host was sitting a bit too close for complete comfort, but her fans had grown quite used to her closeness and had even found it to be somewhat endearing at this point. “No I haven’t,” the host exclaimed. You could tell that she was more than a bit intrigued. “You begin at 5 AM,” the actress began. “You do 20 minutes of a light workout, then 20 minutes of journaling or meditation and then 20 minutes of learning a new skill.” “And what skill are you learning?” “Statistics,” the actress proudly exclaimed before hurriedly continuing. “The thought is that you dedicate 20 minutes to your body, 20 minutes to your mind and by that time you are so focused on the next 20 minutes that the skill learning willl be locked into your mind.” I myself had never heard of such a challenge. I’ve heard of Mark Whalberg’s five AM club where he has posted one video after another of him grunting and moaning, lifting and pushing, for the entirety of that hour and I must admit his way of getting the workout done and over is more of my speed. I used to wake up at 4:30 AM, meet my running partner at 5 AM, go for a five to six mile run before then heading to the gym to grunt and moan, lift and push, but the challenge that the actress was talking about seemed altogether different, more gentlier to the body, the mind, but still a challenge nonetheless. As school begins for me yet again, for the 21st year no less, I need something to take the disgruntlement out of my heart, my mind. It’s hard to believe that I have been in this industry for so long, especially when I still feel like that newbie teacher. I still regret falling into this path I will have you know; I still expect more from students, from their parents, although now things don’t bother me quite like they used to. But in my experience, educators as a whole are wound a bit too tight, meanwhile I have turned into - I very much don’t care about any of this because it doesn’t really matter at the end of the day - type of person. It’s not like we are curing cancer and I doubt, with how the American education system is going, passing kids along, pretending that their scores are improving when in all actuality the test has just been dumbed down beyond all recognition, cancer is going to be cured by this current generation of students, but maybe I'm wrong. I sometimes think I should start wearing a clown costume, learn how to juggle or swallow swords so that I can entertain instead of educate because that’s what the students want and by all means if the students want it, we must provide it. Needless to say, I am needing something that would quiet the negative whisperings when I get to school because teachers are not only wound too tight, they are also full of complaints. So, I have decided to embark on this 5 AM power hour, although I have to wake up around 4:30 to actually begin at 5. This is my second week actually and I’m really quite proud of myself. It has caused me to pause a bit more. Take things slower in the morning although it’s really at an ungodly hour, but I have always been a morning person so it doesn’t bother me all that much. Journaling is perhaps the hardest component. Writing for 20 minutes makes you have to dig deeper into your thoughts and force them out, but once my journal is closed I really do feel much better. Almost like my feelings are trapped between the pages of my journal and are forced to stay there like they have been put in some sort of word time out. Setting the mood helps. I light a candle, make some tea, and pretend for a moment that I’m a brilliant writer, who is reclusive, lives on top of an introverted hill, estranged from all of society. I don’t know how long I will continue with this whole power hour thing, maybe I will report back, maybe I won’t, but for now I’m enjoying the challenge and do feel powerful for accomplishing so much before the sun can even kiss the sky.

My serotonin levels have decreased the older I have become. I’m not saying that I’m not happy, because I am, very, but I can’t remember the last time I was giddy, screaming at the top of my lungs, heart elated, so full of happy energy that once erupted I found I was forced to run around in circles like some sort of rabid dog. Before I get into the why in all of that, I want to tell you about one of those core childhood memories that I visit from time to time on those days when I feel like my happiness level is just doing the bare minimum. I was probably in elementary school at the time, it was the summer. My dad knew one of the managers at the Quality Inn down the road and would often call him or her, I really couldn’t tell you for sure, to see if my sister and I and him ofcourse could use their pool to swim. My mother rarely if ever went with us. Probably because the embarrassment of such a thing if we were ever found out was just too much for her to handle and besides that, she has always been a rule follower and honestly she didn’t altogether believe my dad when he said he talked to his manager friend. My sister and I would wait with baited breath as my dad was on the phone. “Girls, we can go swimming,” he would say and then we were screaming, much to the chagrin of my mother, and running, much to the happiness of my father, before falling into a heap on the floor, legs kicking in the air, happy at our great fortune. My dad really knew such influential people, I thought. And as a kid, someone that could get you a visit to a pool, in the summer, in the middle of the day, on a random Tuesday, was on the same level as the president of the United States. My mom would roll her eyes and shake her head at our antics. Looking back on it now she was probably just as happy as we were because she got the house to herself, devoid of kids, devoid of husband, for two hours at least. I was thinking about all of this the other day and it struck me that I don’t know when I have ever been as happy as that very moment. I’ve been blissful (my wedding day), excited (any trip we embark on, especially if the ocean is involved) but to that level? I can’t remember the last time. Why is that? I can’t help but to wonder. Is it childhood that gives us that open eyed innocent excitement about such small pleasures in life and by the time adulthood overtakes our mind, our body, we are just too tired to feel much of anything at all? And then my next thought…do kids today get that excited about anything, especially the older ones? Will going to a hotel swimming pool down the road to play mermaids and Olympic quality underwater somersaults elicit such outspoken excitement as my sister and I displayed back then? I think the short answer is unfortunately no and social media is probably to blame in all of that. I didn’t know that other kids my age were jetting off to island adventures or cruises or safaris or even had their own swimming pool in their own backyard. I really don’t even remember being bothered enough to think about such a thing, but social media has forced unnecessary information upon us. Today you know what the kid in California or Europe or Idaho or even next door is doing before their parent’s do. I think that sets the bar too high for our youth. Forcing them to play the comparison game, forcing them to believe in a normalcy that is not real. Why would you get excited for something when everyone is telling you what to like and do, be and seem. It really is quite sad when you think about it. I sometimes crave the time in my life where that level of excitement existed for me. Although it would probably look strange if every time my husband told me we were going on a trip I began screaming in that shrill sort of way that all kids do, and begin to run at my highest speed before falling on the floor in a kicking heap. Although he probably would love it. I will never know if my dad really knew a manager at that Quality Inn, although I suspect that he did for a time. But I also suspect, knowing my father, that he snuck us into that particular pool, long after that manager retired or moved positions. We never did get kicked out and I don't remember worrying all that much about that particular possibility because I was too busy showing off my mermaid skills and dreaming about the time when underwater somersaults would become a real Olympic sport because let me assure you, I would have won the gold medal.