young adults

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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.

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The Plumber

Years ago we had some issues with our plumbing, and because we didn’t have any specific company that we worked with that’d come our house, I simply looked in the yellow pages, found a local service, and phoned them. Whereby a young guy and his dad came over, fixed the problem, and have foreversince been the guys who are at the ready to fix our backed-up pipes.

This weekend, after almost three years of happy water flow, the Jones’ (to protect the innocent, names have been changed) were called and John, the dad, came by as soon as he had an open time frame. Friendly guy. Talkative. And interested in how our family was doing.

“How is everyone? How’re the kids?” he asked Rudy, while shoving a camera into the main pipeline.

“Kids are good, thanks. Every day is a new start, to begin again. You return home at the end of the day hopefully with everything intact…,” he commented. Then added, “…everyone’s fine, thanks for asking.”

John’s son Joe was the usual plumber that came by. A young man, working alongside his dad, learning how to work and run the family business. He always showed up with a smile, a readiness, polite conversation, and the determination to leave our home in better shape than before he showed up.

“How’s Joe?” Rudy asked.

“He’s fine, thanks.”

“Is he still working the business with you?” he wondered. “I haven’t seen him around town lately.”

John lowered his head. He didn’t say anything. Rudy wasn’t sure but he thought he saw John wipe away a tear. He pondered if he should say anything, or just wait.

“No,” John started. “About a year and a half ago, Joe went with some friends to a bar and somehow ended up in a fight. He was repeatedly kicked in the head, leaving him, to this day, with brain damage. He’s unable to work, or do most things on his own.”

Rudy was speechless. An image of Joe’s blue eyes and friendly face zoomed across his mind. He lowered his head, feeling John’s pain.

“I’m so sorry,” he managed to say.

His heart hurt, felt heavy when he realized how his previous statement is so true, that every day is a new start… with the hope of returning home at the end of the day.

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Relationships

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Back when I met Rudy, in the early 80’s, it was simply a happenstance. A moment in time where we both were in the same place, at the same time. Nothing planned, just what many may define as meant to be. And to confirm that belief, all I can say is that we met at a tupperware party. Generally, a party for women. Women who’d sit around, socialize, and admire all the sturdy plastic food-saver containers.

At that point in my life, I was still living at home and had no need for such well-made items but I did want to hang out with my good friend who was the invitee to the party. Rudy, on the other hand, and a friend, were asked by the friend’s sister if they’d like to go to a party. Just that, a party. Not, you know, Par-tay! But he misunderstood. “Sure,” Rudy said, imagining all the crazy-dance-like-there’s-no-tomorrow-let’s-have-another-drink fun that’d be happening.

And, the rest is history, so says just about everyone.

Flash forward to 2016.

A conversation ensued with my son, him claiming it’s so difficult to meet anyone, anywhere.

“Not so,” I responded.

“Oh, Mom, I know, I know, you and Dad have the story of the century. You met, you dated, fell in love, married… blah, blah, blah.”

“I’m just saying that it does happen as simple as that.”

“Not these days. That’s why people are always searching on sites for dating, looking for compatibility and companionship because it isn’t simple.”

Sigh.

Later, I noticed his focus was solely on his phone. He laughed, said things like “Holy Shit!”, and seemed to be texting, whoever.

And it dawned on me, right then and there. The reason this new generation is having such a hard time meeting each other is that their faces are always in their phones. I see it all the time, everywhere. Two friends sitting next to each other, texting instead of talking. A girl not realizing a guy is smiling at her, a guy who could have been her future mate. Two people, on vacation, not truly enjoying the view because they’re searching for the perfect picture to share with their followers. Because, you know, a picture is worth a thousand words. And a conversation is well, just that, a conversation.

All I’ve got to say about relationship building is Drop the phone, people, Drop the phone.

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Watch This. Listen, too.

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I seriously love to people-watch. I am enthralled with the social aspect of human nature.

Every avenue of relationships pique my interest. I am oh-so curious how people, all kinds of people, everywhere, all over the place, in various situations react to this, that, and the other.

I like to dig deep into what is happening, simply by watching. Watching. Watching. Watching. And listening. Trying to decipher what is really going on. Deep. Down. Below. The. Surface.

I wonder, quite often, what would I do without people. People all around. People adding a dimension to my life that deepens my feelings toward the world at large.

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Be True to Yourself

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I get it, I do. In this day and age, in order to be considered cool, you need to be hip with what’s going on around you, and even more so, follow the trends out there. Whatever they are.

Just be careful, though, that the outside appearance you possess doesn’t interfere with your inner true self. The uniqueness you possess. The confidence you behold. The curiosity you cause.

Always maintain who you truly are. An original you. Possessing a demeanor that’s very personal, and uniquely yours. Living your life, finding your dreams, and feeling your happiness.

Recently, I listened to someone talk about how original they are, how no one is like them. Later, I logged onto Instagram™ only to be bombarded by photos depicting the same originality, claiming that no one is like them (either). They all looked the same. So cool. So hip. So like the latest trend.

Well, I can only hope that they each think, and feel, as individuals, true in their own thoughts, pursuing a life as individual as they are.

Yet.

It is what it is. I understand. We all want to fit in. Know what’s what. Participate in life, similarly to everyone else. Feel part of the crowd.

Be careful, though, because that’s where your true self can get lost. Lost in the crowd. You are no longer unique, but rather you’ve become just like everyone.

Unless. You uphold the value of Be True to Yourself. Then. That’s when. You will truly feel fulfilled.

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#instyle

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERAHave you ever wondered where you get your sense of style from and why you choose to dress the way you do? As of today, after reading a piece – Women & Clothes. Discuss. – in September’s issue of Glamour, I found myself considering my own personal style.

Suddenly my thoughts raced back in time.

In my mind’s image, I see four young kids. Me, the only girl, and three of my brothers, two older and one younger, looking like quadruplets. Each of us had some version of long, blond hair, angular faces and blue eyes. But the best part of that image is that the four of us were wearing blue jeans and white t-shirts.

As that youthful tomboy, I wasn’t thinking about style. I just wanted something to wear that was functional while I crawled in the dirt, navigating my way through nature-made tunnels in the local park. Or, when, on hot summer days, I’d drop down onto my hands and knees, dirtying my clothes, when inspecting trapdoor spiders.

Without realizing it then or for many years thereafter, it was those no-nonsense blue jean days that had determined the way I choose to dress.

When I became a mom and started dressing Liz, my daughter, I began incorporating the concept of layering cotton shirts and blouses, not only for her, but for myself also, giving our outfits a more creative look. While she was dressed up in layers of colorful concoctions mixed with her personal style of pretty headbands and interesting necklaces, I preferred, and still do, simple layering of two or three different pieces of clothing over my jeans. Different colors. Different prints. As Liz grew, adapting her own style, she too maintained the layered look, only she preferred to add a touch of interest by using unique accessories and standout stylish shoes.

The clothing I wear, the clothing we all wear, tells our story. Mine is that I am a simple person, a person who lives one day at a time, not taking anything for granted, instead living, as best as I can, a positive, carefree, no-nonsense life style.

And so it is, today, the here and now, that when asked where I get my style from, not only does it come from my youth, being a tomboy, from the simplistic look of jeans and a t-shirt, but I also look to Liz, who has perfected a style that I adore, a style that is all the rage, a style I will continue to wear regardless of a season’s must-do, or don’t.

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tea and toast

IMG_4756When I was younger, I remember whenever I didn’t feel well, was sick in bed without the want to get up, with the blankets wrapped tightly around my sore noggin, and generally lacking the desire to eat, my mom, and sometimes my sister, would offer me a cup of hot tea and some buttered toast to soothe and nourish my aches and pains.

I loved those moments. Well, yeah, sans the sick part, of course, but everything about the love that came with the tea and toast. A gesture that held an abundance of meaning. One that I carried with me throughout my days, held onto to it, knowing that some day I’d get the chance to Pay It Forward.

One day Rudy and I met. A month or so later we were dating, in a very serious way. Within weeks, he was uncharacteristically ill. He had called me to say he wouldn’t be able to go out that evening. I told him I’d be right over. I found him stretched out on the couch he shared with his roommates. His dark-skinned cheeks were blushing from a fever. And he had no energy to move. I watered down a wash cloth with cold water, folded it onto his forehead, cooled him down.

And then. I made him a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast.

He didn’t drink or eat my offerings, only because he really just wanted to sleep. And sleep he did. I waited until he woke again then made a fresh cup of tea and a new slice of buttered toast. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice sounding hoarse.

Years later, when I was feeling out-of-sorts, Rudy walked into the bedroom, bringing in a cup of tea and buttered toast. “Paying it Forward,” he smiled.

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Immigrant

IMG_5573Rudy was nineteen years old when he left Honduras and came to the United States for the first time. His dad had died a few years before and though he had no real reason to leave his homeland, and especially his mom, he knew the time had come for him to be proactive about his own future. Conversations began with a sister of his who was living in Shreveport, Louisiana, and very much willing to greet Rudy with open arms. Thus began the process of applying for a Passport and a Visa, which would allow him to travel out of the country. A month or so later, before boarding his flight, mom and son embraced, each feeling the weight of a heavy heart.

The Visa, stamped into his Passport, would expire four years from the issue date. But, within the four years he was only able to travel back and forth to the states in six month intervals. Meaning, he could not stay in the United States for the total duration of those four years, but rather use the Passport and Visa as traveling documents. After about five and a half months of living in Shreveport, Rudy decided he wanted to visit some friends in California for a few weeks, before heading back to Honduras. His sister helped him apply for an extension on his Visa, which would allow him to continue his travels until he heard back from them, either yes or no. Aside from filling out paperwork, Rudy was asked to send a copy of both his Passport and Visa and the original Immigrant Declaration declaring he was legally allowed to travel. All good, but also worrisome. Rudy was worried that without the mandatory Declaration to speak for him, if for some reason someone questioned him, he wouldn’t know how to explain himself. You see, his English skills were basic, at best.

Not to be deterred, Rudy boarded a greyhound bus bound for Orange County, California. At the immigrant checkpoint in El Paso, Texas, an authority figure walked up and down the aisle asking random people for some type of documentation. Passports, Licenses, ID’s and such. Two guys were taken off the bus, never to return. After that, the man-in-charge waved the driver on. Rudy felt relief, figured he’d make it through, no problem. Little did he know, he still had San Clemente’s checkpoint to conquer. But, because he wasn’t aware of what was going to happen, he slept sweetly.

“Excuse me, Sir?” he heard a voice say, loudly, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Sí,” Rudy answered nervously. He was asked to show his documents. He gulped, cast his eyes down towards his lap. Not because he was doing anything wrong or illegal, but because he was trying to figure out how to explain why he didn’t have his Immigrant Declaration paper. Rudy’s speech stumbled. Hand signals and basic words were how he communicated. But this didn’t help as he tried to explain himself to the officer. So, the authority figure waved his hand in a follow-me motion. Outside, in a small tollbooth-like office, a Spanish-speaking translator listened as Rudy told him about the extension for his Visa. There was no computer to check the validity of his story nor were there cell phones to make a quick call. But, maybe it was Rudy’s demeanor and honest tone, because the official cleared everything, believed he was in the process of extending his Visa, and wished him “Good Luck” in Southern California.

Shortly after he arrived to my birthplace, Rudy and I met, and began to have serious feelings for each other. Soon after that he got a call from his sister stating she had received an answer to his request for an extension. “They denied it,” she told him. And then, Rudy told me the truth. That he was no longer legal in the United States. Not surprisingly, I honestly didn’t care. In my opinion, in those early days, I felt immediately that Rudy was an honest and loyal person. And I completely trusted him when he told me I meant a lot to him. And, anyway, at that point, it was the romance that meant everything.

One day, as we were driving to my brother’s house down south, Rudy noticed the very familiar San Clemente checkpoint. He stared at those officers scanning cars, looking for people entering California illegally. He swallowed hard, just as I realized I had made the mistake of thinking my brother lived further north of the checkpoint. Rudy spent most of the visit taming his nervous ticks. But, luck was on his (our) side. He now jokes that it was my blond hair and my cute ’67 yellow Volkswagen Bug that allowed us to sail right through the span of immigration officers, without a second thought. We married about a year and a half later, not because getting him an Alien Resident card was our priority, which was a definite plus, but because we knew we were meant to spend our lives together.

Seven years ago, after we had been married for twenty-one years, with the encouragement of myself and our children, Rudy finally became a US citizen.

 

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I’m an Introvert.

IMG_5263There’s an article going around on Facebook, you know the kind that always have a number in the title, like this one, 23 Signs You’re Secretly An Introvert by Carolyn Gregoire | The Huffington Post.

Well now, I zoomed right in, only to confirm what I already knew. I’m an introvert. And it’s no secret, unless of course you don’t know me, then well, maybe it is a secret, by default.

The article basically explains to the reader how to spot an introvert, that they aren’t always so obvious, and it even goes on to say how an introvert may not know they are indeed introverted. So here I sit, wondering, How is it that someone who’s shy, or withdrawn, or engaging with an inner hidden feeling of anxiety due to socializing, doesn’t know they are an introvert? I am guessing here, that the first ones to read such an article do so because it relates to them. Meaning, an introvert reads this article because it’s fun to read what they already know. Everyone enjoys things that pertain to them, personally. Right?

I’ve known forever, or at least as long as I began socializing, that I am an introvert. In my younger years, I was very uncomfortable with the prospect of being in situations with groups of people. Rather than engaging, I stood back worrying what everyone else was thinking and anxious about joining in. But as the years have passed, and though I still consider myself drawn-in, I socialize, hold conversations, and am overall content around others. Yet, rather than trying to be a person I’m not, someone others would probably feel more comfortable around, I have embraced my listening skills, rather than trying to overuse my voice. I now understand it’s okay to speak when I feel like it, rather than talking because others expect me to.

As a child, almost all my teachers told my parents I was too quiet, that I needed to participate more (that’s probably when I began to feel I wasn’t as awesome as everyone else seemed to be). And because of that, as a teacher of young kids, I never tell a student he or she needs to ‘come out of their shell’. They will discover their own voice, in their own time.

I remember being invited to a birthday party when I was about 10 years old. It was a sleep over, my first. And even though it should have been an exciting time, it actually brought out a tremendous amount of anxiety. Having to socialize and talk nonstop, tell secrets and giggle, was way too difficult for me. I never wanted to participate in that kind of gathering again. And I don’t think I ever did. Now, take me back to that time, but with the grown-up me, the person who now understands who I am, what I have to offer. I would have made the most of being an emotionally in-tune person. Also, time and again, it seems so many people are striving for what I, and many introverts, possess. Simply, quiet calmness. Someone who is balanced. A person who can interact with others when deemed necessary, even if it’s not always easy, but who is also comfortable being alone.

I suppose the article is simply bringing an introverts traits into the limelight, to our attention, so that we – well, not me – can be sure to understand the personalities of the quiet, or not so quiet, ones; the obvious introverts and the hidden kind, and make sure they are not overlooked but rather included, graciously.

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28 years of….. Life.

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As Rudy and I celebrate our 28th wedding anniversary, I begin to reflect.

There was a tupperware party, a yellow VW Bug, and a kiss.

A phone call, Magic Mountain, holding hands, and a smooch.

Followed by a major make-out session.

Weekly phone calls.

Dates.

Youthful days.

Walking and talking inside the lobby of the Anaheim Hilton.

The love letter.

The hug.

The one bedroom apartment.

Commitment.

Engagement.

Vows.

A daughter.

Diapers.

Breasts.

And bottles.

An education.

Sleepless nights.

Graveyard shift.

A son.

A scratched nose.

Family photo.

A credential.

Another son.

The return of pinned cloth on a dry bottom.

More sleepless nights.

Exhausting days.

Arguing.

Crying.

Laughing.

Holding hands.

Talking.

Consoling.

Bonding.

Growing.

Aging.

Enjoying.

Altogether, loving.