relationships

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People in Review

People who are different, live a different way, are usually people misunderstood.
Misunderstood by the uninformed.

The uninformed feel they need to do something.
Anything.
To help the misunderstood see the light.
Whatever the light is.
To change their way.
To live.
Normally.
Like the uninformed do.

Yet, if the uninformed were to take a step.
To become informed.
The misunderstood would no longer be misunderstood, but rather interesting.
In a unique way.
A different way.
A good way.

In turn, maybe the world will live in harmony.

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Maybe.

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fifteen divided by five equals three

THREE FIVE-SENTENCE NANO-FICTION STORIES
(A challenge I was given 3 years ago that, obviously, I overlooked, or something)
Write three separate and unrelated stories, each consisting of exactly five sentences.



¹

“Stop!” she yelled. Silence. Everyone froze. The boy she was referring to smirked. But he quickly wiped that cockiness off his face when her seething eyes pierced the humor right out of him.

²

A man and a woman chatted. Lively conversation filled the air with happiness. The aroma of a home-cooked meal danced around the house. An opened front door filled with their children. Laughter followed and stayed for the weekend.

³

Ready. Or not. Here I write. Spilling my vulnerable soul. Into the hearts of humanity.

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How to Raise Well-Adjusted, Independent Children

All you’ve got to do is:

  • Uplift them
  • Tell them they are smart, beautiful, funny, worthy, helpful, friendly
  • Provide unconditional love
  • Listen to them, with an open mind, open heart
  • Avoid overbearing demands
  • Be honest, trustworthy, respectful, available, excited, non-judgmental, protective 
  • Keep promises
  • Smile when they walk in, support them, trust them, praise them 
  • Be a friend, but parent first
  • Hang out with them, enjoy unexpected moments,
  • Turn up the tunes, dance in the car
  • Don’t punish, simply advise, understand, and relate
  • Ask questions, maintain interest
  • Let them live their own life, not yours
  • Say I love you, not just ‘love you’
  • Be enthusiastic, energetic, open
  • Embrace them, hold their hands, kiss and hug them
  • Cherish them

    And when their confidence soars, keep them grounded by instilling a sense of humbleness

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Cry Baby, Cry

Anyone watching Jane the Virgin, on the CW? You’ve got to if you’re not. So funny! So soap opera-y. All kinds of twists and turns. Great cast. Great storyline. Fun watch.

One scene that stood out this morning, while watching a recording of this past Monday’s show (S2|E9 “Chapter Thirty-One) is how Jane (the main character played by Gina Rodriguez) deals with her baby waking up at all hours of the night, crying.

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What a blast to the past! Elizabeth was my baby-in-training. Without much thought, just lots of common sense, when Liz arrived to that point when she cried during the night, was no longer a ‘newborn’, rather she was around the 9 month mark, I knew I had to break her of the potential bad habit of wailing unnecessarily and me running to her, attending to her every whim. Hence, the “Let her cry.” situation started, no matter Rudy’s apprehension.

During the show’s episode, Jane spends lots of time reading up on material explaining the value of gentle, soothing ways to help babies sleep through the night, which disrupts everyone else’s sleep, and irritates Grandma, the character I most identify with. She tells Jane to just let Mateo (the baby) cry. Jane thinks that’s a mean, selfish remedy.

Back in my new-parenting days, my adorable, bright smiling Elizabeth was beginning to recognize and understand (as I am sure we are all attuned to, even at such a young age) routines, our daily happenings and what happens when. So, for me, 7:30 pm was the prime time to put her down to sleep for the night. Beforehand she ate (her delicious jarred baby food, a warmed bottle of milk) and had a soothing bath. I swathed her in comfortable cotton baby wear, gently laid her in her crib, kissed her goodnight, told her how much I loved her, then walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. (Note: Rudy was part of this routine, though there was a long span of time he was working the graveyard shift, therefore Elizabeth’s sleep routine was almost solely my own).

Anyway, five minutes later she began to cry. In my heart-of-hearts I knew I was doing the right thing by leaving her to cry herself to sleep (plus, a doctor once told me that Elizabeth was strengthening her lungs with all the hollering she did, which I considered a healthy bonus). Knee-deep into the routine was when Rudy experienced the crying for the first time (because of a night off from work). He’d sit outside her bedroom door and feel for her. He’d shed tears, and say things like “Just let me hold her for a minute.” but I knew I had to be firm, not really because of the crying but because I was trying to establish a routine for Liz.

It took about two weeks, maybe two and a half, for Elizabeth to realize her crying wasn’t getting her the attention she desired so that when, one night, I followed the same routine I always did she watched me walk out of the room, heard me close the door, and fell asleep.

Allowing her to fall asleep on her own, without me spending time rocking her, holding her, feeding her at all hours of the night, in the long run benefitted all of us, but mostly Elizabeth. As she grew older, bedtime was just that. Bedtime. She never challenged us. She knew 7:30 pm was the end of her day and as she got older and the time changed to 8:00, then 9:00, then 10:00. And she accepted each time frame. And overall, in the end, Elizabeth loved bedtime, going to sleep after a long day of play, school, or whatever.

Jane’s grandma has it right, in my opinion. Just let Mateo cry himself to sleep. The benefits out-way anything else.

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Men and their Penises

Girbaud_Color_Look_BookA penis is a penis is a penis.

So you’d think.

But apparently not.

Not when it comes (no pun intended, seriously, I’m being serious here) to length and girth.

I happened upon a documentary on Netflix™ called UnHung Hero about a guy named Patrick Moote whose marriage proposal was turned down by his girlfriend because his junk is too small.

Which led him on a journey, throughout parts of the United States and across the world, exploring what size means to different people, different cultures, different industries.

The overriding sentiment is that it’s not the size that matters, it’s the person. Women tend to agree; they are more impressed with a man’s skills than the size of his knob.

As we all know.

Right?

Right.

But still, men will be men.

It seems they continue to discover their worth amongst other bejeweled men while ⇑manning-up⇑ in the locker room.

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My Person

Let me tell you about Rudy.

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♥

I’ve spent more than half my life with him.

Thirty years, one month, one day, seven hours and 40 minutes ago he took my hand in marriage.

He’s faithfully trekked this earth with me, through all the woo-hoo! ups and the tumbling downs.

♥

He cooks,

cleans,

and

launders.

♥

He smiles,

gently embraces me,

and has learned the value of patience.

♥

He works hard,

thinks through his actions,

and

achieves personal success.

♥

Most importantly,

he wears Levis.

(read the importance of jeans here)

♥

Rudy.

Is the one.

Always has been.

Always will be.

♥

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#teamYOLANDA

yolanda-foster-768Just as many people must also do, I indulge in the Housewives Franchise, my favorite being the Beverly Hills women. It’s so intriguing to watch these uber-rich people interact, watch the drama that goes down, and the gossip that flows, just like the wine they all drink. And, hey, I’ve always wanted to be a fly on the wall. Or something of the sort. You know, watching without being seen.

Yolanda Foster is one of the BH housewives that lives a life of luxury. Extravagantly. Owning this, that, and those. Financially, life is splendid.

But, aside from all that, she is so down-to-earth, so loving with others, and so caring. She has a deep respect for the value of her relationships, especially with her mother and her children. For her, life is nothing without being surrounded by those she loves.

And even though Yolanda is dealing with Lyme disease, even though her sickness and energy level challenges her daily, she manages to inspire others. “While the majority of my career has relied on my aesthetics and how I look, I worked hard at keeping a spiritual connection with what was most important, what is inside me. Perhaps it’s for that reason that I am not struggling with this new normal. I understand now that my soul is my power, not perfection or my ego. I continue to teach this to my children, despite their glamorous careers. If we can maintain our core values, the exteriors take second place and become a gift, a source of gratitude”. (RHOBH, Yolanda’s blog post, 1/26/16)

My hope for Yolanda is that she conquers her disease and continues to leave her footprints along the shores of the Pacific. While at the same time feel at home, no matter where she is.

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daphne

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Quiet, reflective, attentive, and a person of few words define me. Which, I believe, has impacted my interest in both the social and psychological aspects of human nature.

I like being quiet. You see, I learn quite a bit when I turn off my voice and tune in my ears.

I’m reflective, thriving on what I see around me, applying what is helpful, learning from mistakes (sometimes my own, but mostly made by others) and deflect from what might diminish the powers my soul.

I find if I look someone in the eyes when they are telling me a story, a secret, a worry, or any other type of human emotion, my attention rewards me with a meaningful relationship. Whether it be for a moment, or a life time.

A person of few words doesn’t mean one has nothing to say, rather, for me, it’s that what words, what I’m trying to say, needs to be worthy of revealing because I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone, except to myself.

Me. A quiet, reflective, attentive person. Interested in human nature. Especially my own.

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Jeans

When I was a kid, a little girl, I was surrounded by 9 boys and another girl. My siblings. There are so many things about being raised in a family full of boys that, I believe, crafted the way I think, feel, see the world,

and dress.

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You see, I prefer to wear jeans and t-shirts, anything boy-like, which frankly, I believe stems from diving into a pile of clothing laid out in an unorganized way on the floor. The California cool, laid-back pile of garb was an offer, a gift, or (what my mind didn’t consider until years later), most likely charity from an aunt who may have assumed my parents needed help in outfitting us kids.

Interestingly, and another thing I didn’t consider back in the ’70s, was that the casual wear was made to fit the boys, not us (two) girls. And, I’m guessing here, but I don’t think my sister was interested.

Me?

Heck yeah!

For real.

I sure didn’t care that they didn’t fit correctly.

I was in love.

I was only 10 or so, and anything new, and wearable worked for me, regardless of who those pants and shirts were meant for. Sign me up. I wanted a piece of the action. I had to have at least one pair of those Levi’s and one Hanes crew-neck. So, I saw the pile of blue and white as a free-for-all,

and in I dove.

Somewhere, there is a picture of me, sitting on a long metal bench, squeezed in with three of my brothers, our hair long, blond, and straight. So hippie-looking. Especially with the bell-bottom jeans and the plain ‘ol white t-shirts.

I’ve never given up on that style

and you can only imagine my joy when the world caught up with my thinking (and better yet, added stretch! to the garment) and began buying piles of jeans to wear whenever, wherever, however.

All. The. Time.

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I Am PRO-quiet house.

IMG_1926One afternoon, while feeling the crowding of loud voices shedding from my ears, noise from the activity of an ordinary day in the classroom, and just as I was halfway down the hallway, heading towards my bedroom to change into my loose-fitting sweats and an oversized hoodie, mentally prepping myself for some quiet time and smut TV,

my son rips open his bedroom door, so forcefully that I could hear the whoosh! of wind, and he states,

“Our house is so boring. It’s so quiet!” He said it as if quietness is a bad thing. I leaned against the linen closet door and as patiently as I could I said,

“Well. If you worked all day in a classroom, with very energetic ten year olds, you too would not think a quiet house was boring. Instead, you would relish the quiet. Dream about quiet. Anticipate quiet. And you would never ever call your house boring.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can see that. From your perspective, anyway.” And he didn’t complain again.

Not until another afternoon. Months later.

“I get it, you work with kids and need downtime from all the activity happening throughout your day. But, man, when I am at my friends, and I mean all the different people’s homes I’ve been in, and spend the night, the parents never, and I mean nev-er, tell us to be quiet. The parents go to bed earlier, like you, and we play games, watch TV, talk. All with the volume pumped up.  And no one says a word. No on tells us to be quiet,” my son rambles on.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” I say, without apology.  “Geez, seriously, I’m not sure why the parents wouldn’t want you guys to quiet down at a certain time, but me, no way, I need my rest. I need quiet. I need my sanity. Seriously.”

I’m trying to wrap my head around the concept of kids having control of the home, but my son doesn’t seem to see it that way.

“I’m just saying, I don’t know anyone, and I mean any-one, that has rules about quieting down,” he added, seemingly just as confused, but on a different level.

“Well, when I was growing up,” I reminisced , “whichever house I was at, I don’t think we even were told to be quiet, we just were. For me, that’s the norm.”

I didn’t say it, but maybe the problem is that today’s parents, while trying to be cool, to fit in with their children, and to be their friend, are making the mistake of also believing that it’s okay for kids to Rule-the-Roost.

A few weeks, maybe months later, my son walks into the house, after a weekend spent with his friends.

“Ah, this is my sanctuary,” he said, without much thought. “I love going to my room, closing myself in.”

Go figure, is what I didn’t say.