goodbye

All good things must come to an end.

I believe that time has come for this blog.

It started out I needed it.

I needed 'you', the reader I didn't know.

I needed support from those who have walked the same path as I.

I needed to see my counter go up, up, up, every day from readers I don't know from here to Russia, in hopes that they would show me how to love myself and be proud of who I am.

I needed so much love.

I believe I've found that love, for myself.

I've fought through the tears of those in an entire 'community' who intentionally hurt me.

I've fought through the tears of losing my butch.

I've fought the good fight with anorexia and depression, and I still continue to give my chemical imbalance a work out, only now it's with a machete instead of boxing gloves.

Still, none of that changes the fact that I've needed a life change to change me.

Oh, how I got it.

It's time to move forward.

It's time to finish writing those novels I started.

Maybe on the balcony with my morning coffee as I look out at the white noise.

It's time to get up in the morning and turn on my programs to compose music just like I did before the motorcycle accident.

Which is really why we are here.

To have a life beyond the suffering I was dealt from my bitch of a back.

I'm almost at the 5 year mark of healing from that disaster.

My Living Day Anniversary.

It can't heal my brain injury and subsequent memory fail and loss of balance, but I can strive for the life I once led.

As a different person.

I have changed.

We all change.

We all grow, if we try.

I grew.

It's time to put that growth to music now that I have the ability, with the help of loving tropical heat, to sit to do so.

I'm not saying I won't return.

Of course I need my soapbox every once in a while.

My opinions are strong and I lead them with conviction, regardless of how many people try to silence me.

Perhaps it's time to start a wave here?

Power to women?

Power to those with cancer and chronic pain who are denied the simple, ethical relief from that hell I know so well.

To not give local anesthesia to a child who needs stitches in his head is barbaric.

I've suffered 4 months of pain of a torn ankle ligament without meds.

Perhaps I need to make some pain relief in the form of cookies to help those who need it.

There's a lot in this country that could use a voice.

I may keep my voice for here.

Or, I may just knowingly live with the 'rules', then break them.

I don't know.

What I do know, is it's time to step away from my morning ritual of blogging.

I'm not saying goodbye to 'you'.

I'm just saying it' time to start that New Life List.

i am the only 'sign' i need

your choice

I take every opportunity I can to practise my piano technique.

My left hand is not like it was before the motorcycle accident.

It's slow.

It's confused.

It's like it just won't communicate with me.

There's some kind of divide between my left hand and my injured brain.

So, while I'm waiting for class to start, I quietly, secretly, practise my technique.

Nobody want to hear that.

Right?

Well, except for the children.

It's all cool to them.

They like to watch my fingers move across the keyboard in tandem.

They try to emulate me in the upper register, mockingly playing notes at random, hands flying off the piano just like Liberace.

Then one little boy was alone with me.

He's our drummer.

The only drummer.

When there's a performance, he's the man.

He plays with every group, perfecting his chops.

He's pretty enthralled by the piano and I'm pretty mesmerized at his almost perfect timing on the drums at such a young age.

Still, we all want more.

He asked me if I could teach him, 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'.

Only, in he asked me in Spanish.

I had no idea what he was talking about, so he sang the song and I instantly lit up.

"Of course I can teach you this song!"

He placed his miniature hands on the piano and I started to really look at this child.

He has scars on his face, and I can only imagine it's from a rock throwing incident, or 10.

The children love to throw rocks in anger here.

Then looking at the skin on his arms, I noticed more.

His perfect little body was marred with many tiny scars, removing the beautiful dark sheen from his skin that from a distance, seems utterly perfect.

It reminded me of The Thug.

So many scars with so many memories.

But there was one scar I just couldn't keep my eyes off.

Intentional.

On his right hand.

The letter 'B' carved in, never to leave his existence.

5 lines in a fierce formation to create the letter that his name begins with.

I tried to take notice to see if possibly he's left handed, and branding could have been done by himself.

It's possible.

He started by playing the piano with his left hand, so instinct may have said that's the dominant.

But still.

I couldn't imagine this child etching his skin so deep that he has a forever reminder of the first letter in his name.

Such a sweet soul.

But we all have scars, don't we?

His demeanor speaks of so much happiness, but all the children here do.

Including the little tyke in the village who can barely speak, yet he's been taught how to ask for 5 pesos.

Happy child.

He makes me smile when I see his eyes light up upon seeing me.

No matter what, we all have the ability to be happy with our lives.

It's our choice.

i consciously choose love above all else

lord help me.

Yay!

The internet is back on!

But now I can't remember what I was going to write about.

I had my thoughts all ready for an entire blog-o-rama monologue for you.

No idea now.

The other day, I was watching Jon Stewart and his guest was writer David Mitchell, who helped facilitate someone with autism write about what it's like to live with the disability.

He can't hold a conversation with someone, but he can communicate by typing quite well.

I immediately was reminded of my ICBC case when the lawyer said, "You so eloquently write in your blog every day.  You're trying to say that you have brain injury?"

It's so hard for people to understand my lack of memory.

Just a few days ago, Papi spoke about his drivers licence that he had renewed in Vancouver.

I said, "It came that fast?!?"

He sighed and replied, "Yes, and you've said the same thing twice now.  That it came so fast."

All I can do is giggle and accept that this is my brain now.

Now, I'll remember, and then move on to something else that I have no idea I asked about prior.

Or said prior.

Or did prior.

It's a crap shoot as to what I'll actually remember.

I have selective memory, only I don't get to choose what it is I remember.

Get stressed or over-tired?  I lose even more.

Yesterday's Spanish lesson was a gong show.  I couldn't even remember words I'd learned in Canada 4 months before we came here.

But I remember them today.

Papi thinks I use it a lot to my advantage.

That I just say I don't remember things.

Then I get stressed out about him saying that and I forget even more.

"How can you forget something so important?!?!?" I hear on a frequent basis.

Selective memory loss.

I feel like a bouncy orb in a pinball machine.

I just bounce from thought to thought, yet here, in my blog, I am able to stay focused on the topic most of the time.

At times, I fall off topic and start another one, realizing I've digressed after reading what I was already writing about and get back on track.

Yes.  I can write much better than I can remember, and generally, it takes me a good hour to write this short page, because as I read back what I've written, it triggers memories of other points I wanted to say.

But dammit if I can remember what I was going to write about.  Maybe the fact that my body is turning into a great whale from lying around all day?

I can't even tell you what I see in the mirror every day, and today we have to go meet with a bunch of expats for a DR1 Forum meet up.

I feel like crap.

I don't want to go meet people looking so horrible.  Then there's the fear of seeing the creep again.

My hair?  Maybe I was going to write about how my hair looks like a fire hazard on my head, or that I have found a hair dresser and now I just have to get the funds to pay for that cut.

Or maybe that I'm losing my mind because I'm not playing music?

Who knows what the hell I was going to write about.

All I know is, I wrote a blog today.

Good enough for me.

Oh fuck.  I just remembered and now I finished the blog.

OK.

I'll make a draft to write about the guy who attacked the tourist outside on our beach, tomorrow.

Fucking hell.

i have non-stop daily determination to reach my healthy weight

Beautiful

The dogs slept through the ENTIRE night!

As in snoring, dreaming of chasing cane toads, and letting out the stinkiest farts, due to the hotdog nibs I've been giving them for training rewards.

Do you know how I KNOW they slept the ENTIRE night?

Because I didn't.

Not a wink.

Full on fucking insomnia.

It may be a double coffee day.

I'm not good at having naps in the day then trying to sleep at night.

It has never worked for me.

But what could I do?

Those little pills Dr. Bob gave me knocked me out.

And they really worked.

My ankle is very close to being deflated and boney once more.

Anyway, all night long, I had the pleasure of running a song through my head that I worked on all day yesterday.

You know the song.

There's no way you wouldn't, unless you live in a time warp bubble of some kind.

Christina Aguilera's 'Beautiful'.

I'm trying to find as many positive, inspirational songs for the kids as possible, because the songs they choose are just about sex.

This whole country is all about sex.

As much as they are songs I am drawn to as well, with their contagiously characteristic beats of the Dominican Republic, I can't have them singing that for people from other countries when it's time to perform.

I know it's culture here, but I just can't chance that there's a Canadian predator in the audience who speaks Spanish, getting off because my little innocent children are singing suggestive lyrics.

So, I am translating 'Beautiful' into Spanish.

The translation was already online, but not the pentameter.

I've had to go through every single syllable and beat, to try to figure out the placement of each word.

I'll tell you, my brain has not had this much stimuli since the motorcycle accident, and that includes rewiring from brain injury.

It's so good for me.

Like, REALLY good.

Except for the obsession part.

Before the accident, I would have sheer infatuation with whichever song I was working on.

It was just part of my everyday breathing, that reverence.

Before the accident, I felt emotion with music and would frequently cry when a song I was working on moved me in the right way.

Yesterday, while working out the piano part for the song, that grace returned.

I was singing the English lyrics to get my singing/playing coordination down for the Spanish parts, when all of a sudden, I felt my heart being overtaken with elation.

The instrumentation, the melody, the words, they all came together to give me that feeling of the real reason I make music.

It actually happened.

I wiped the tears of joy away, thanking the angels for that moment.

I've been working towards that feeling since the accident.

I honestly thought I was broken.

I accepted that I would never feel like that again.

I felt I would just fake it for the rest of my life, but the real thing happened.

I spent 4.5 years rehabbing my body and mind from the accident.

Now it's time to rehab my musicianship.

And it is something beautiful.

Beautiful.

i fully approve of who i am, even as i get better

i have a racist dog

I thought my week off would be relaxing.

So far, I'm more exhausted than when I was working.

I didn't even have a moment to write yesterday.

Furthermore, I now need to add having a few catnaps into the mix.

Remember those little pills the vet gave me for the dog bite on my hand this week?

I had some left over.

They came in hand-y ...

... i know ... so cheesy, eh ...

... as I've sprained my ankle, while trying to MANUALLY open the 'automatic' garage door.

We put up a higher wall to keep those damn dogs out of the garage, but it didn't work.

They just get up on top, emulating the goats I've always wanted.

Anyway, as I was pushing that enormous, heavy, wood garage door closed, I fell off that damn wall and sprained my ankle.

Oh, my lack of balance.  Thank you brain injury.

I tried to just tell myself I'm being a wimp about it, ignoring it, and going on with my meagre time I seem to have.

I guess that was a really bad thing to do.

It swelled up and was MORE than enraged with me.

Guess I chose the wrong day to go limping around Puerto Plata to shop with Housemaid.

We stopped to for lunch at a Chinese Dominican restaurant, and as I ate my chicken fried rice, I noticed my ankle was a little more swollen for my liking, so I took one of the pills Dr. Bob had given me.

The drive home was quite chancy.

I thought I'd fall asleep a few times, and I envied the boys in the back who were in a Chinese Dominican restaurant, fried chicken and french fry coma.

None-the-less, when I got home I passed out on the couch from taking the pill while we were out.

Then I heard it.

If you've ever had a water cooler, you'll know the sound.

That 'glug, glug, glug' it makes as you press the lever to get your coveted, cold, clean water.

Oh, I heard it, and looked over to see Pathetic Puppy pushing the lever to help herself to water.

The bowl water just isn't good enough for her.

No, she watched and learned.

I noticed that every single time I was getting myself water, she was right by my side.

Oh, but yes, she was studying.

Now she can help herself to her own cold, clean water, whenever she pleases.

No more sharing spit with those others, who are OBVIOUSLY less than her.

No, she is her own dog, and she is not like 'them'.

She will drink from the fountain of humans!

I knew she was a smart girl, because she's the one who figures out how to piss me off the most.

I never imagined she was capable to study and learn from me.

As soon as this ankle is finished with it's hissy fit, I'm going to do some special training with her.

I think she needs a little bit more than a 'sit' and 'down'.

Even though she won't do them for me.

I can read her thoughts as I ask her to do my bidding, "That's what those other Dominican dogs do!  I'm so much better than them!"

She's so racist.

Speaking of 'sit', The Thug is at least now allowing me to force him into a sit, whereas before, he would starfish and I couldn't even make him budge.

He's still attacking Pathetic Puppy, but I'm getting better at pulling him off by the neck.

Even with a sprained ankle.

i am healthy, healed, and whole

i'm back!

your sunday sillies ...

Hallelujah I am healed!

Well, mostly.  Enough to type anyway.  I'll try playing piano today.

Just bumping it on something brings great pain, but the swelling is down.

When we brought in Old Ghost Face to see Dr. Bob, because of the fight, he saw that I was wounded as well.

He gave me some anti-inflammatory pain meds and they REALLY helped!

Sad news is, The Thug has attacked Old Ghost Face once more, then attacked Pathetic Puppy.

I'm trying to get that damn dog obedience trained, but he's a wee bit thick in the head.

Or perhaps, with all his abuse he endured, he has a little bit of brain injury from being hit in the head too much.

He's very sweet most of the time, it's just he gets a little over excited with the 'play' and he reverts back to his old days of fighting.

He didn't attack long enough to take a chunk out of Pathetic Puppy, though.  Forget about grabbing his collar.  This time, I grabbed the fur at the back of his neck and lifted him off the ground.

I tried leaving The Thug out with Dominican Daddy, while he was The Guard for the night.

I felt too guilty to do that to this sensitive dog.  I had to bring him in.

Oh, why do we have a guard?

Papi has left me all alone for a few weeks.  He's gone back to Vancouver to see g'ma and tidy up some of our loose ends.

It's really creepy being here all alone sometimes.

Then other times, I'm so damn busy that I don't have time to fret.

I thought I would get a lot of sleep while Papi was gone, because he makes a lot of noise in the night while he's on his graveyard shift.

But I realized now that it's not really him making the noise that wakes me up.

It's those damn dogs.  They have a 3 a.m. pee clock.

However, when I get up at 3 a.m., some dog, or rather, shall I say dogS, as in plural, have already relieved themselves on the floor.

How nice it is to mop up piss and pick up shit in the middle of the night.

I'm sure Dominican Daddy gets a kick out of me coming out all bleary eyed, frog voiced, saying, begging, "Go pee."

Of course, why would they?  They don't need to.  They already did.  All over the fucking floor.

Puppies.  Big puppies.

It's a bit much for one person to handle all day every day.

I know Papi is busy with a lot of work in Vancouver.

I think we are both working very hard, except his life isn't being surrounded by masses of children ringing the doorbell to bring me more plants as a thank you for lessons.

Masses of children interrupting me as I edit or practise, asking if they can have their turn in the pool at the Hector-Brown Amusement Park.

Masses of children screaming my name as I quickly shut the doors, hide in the designated music area and unplug the doorbell.

The other day someone was ringing the doorbell that I had unplugged.

When that didn't work, he yelled my name for an hour.

When I saw him later, I told him that I can't hear him when I'm practising and that the doorbell is broken.

I think the doorbell will conveniently be broken every Sunday.

Maybe I'll put a sign on it.

'Go away!', but nicely.  Still.  Go away.

As much as it's hard to be alone without Papi here, even if it's just to stare at him while he sleeping off the Graveyard Coma, still, I want to be left alone.

Lord knows I don't have time for children while chasing around 5 hairy mongrels and trying to convince the 6th that she really, really needs to go out to pee some time.

Old Ghost Face is a bit afraid to go anywhere near The Thug now, and holds it in.

It's only been 2 days.  I want Papi back now.

He really needs to take over the puppy graveyard shift so I can sleep.

i embrace the peace and quiet of the night

a full plate

sunday sillies...

I need to manage my time a little better.

Papi will tell you this is an understatement.

This actually has nothing to do with my brain injury.

I've been like this forever, but still, WITH a brain injury, it makes things really tough.

I forget what I'm supposed to do all the time and then at the last minute, I'm scrambling to get things done.

Then I'm stressed.

Then I'm a nightmare to be around.

I stressed myself out so bad that I didn't sleep all night Friday and couldn't teach the kids on Saturday.

I got Papi to put a 'no class today, Andréa is sick, sorry!' sign on the garage.

Sick is one way of putting it.

When I'm in that state of not being able to sleep from anxiety, 'sick' doesn't come close to describing it.

Then I spent all day yesterday frantically editing the YouTube show, and today, my panic is to get a song prepared for the kids at Dream Project tomorrow.

That one was sprung on me yesterday by MusicMan.

I'm not really responsible for that procrastination.

When a musician asks me to prep something, I never say no.

I just pull my hair out all day trying to show the world I'm good enough.

I feel like I'm always hanging by a thread.

I've always felt that way.

I see other musicians carry on with their jobs and I never see them sweat.

Mind you, they don't see me sweat.

I do that alone.

Then I show up and try to act like I'm a pro.

Perhaps that's what everyone else does too?

I don't know.

All I know is, today's mayhem will be learning the Marc Anthony song, 'Vivir Mi Vida' on the piano.

Thank g*d I know all the lyrics and the main themes of the song from teaching The Garage Band for the past month.

Phew!

At least I have a leg up on that one.

But the other night, I realized, I'm supposed to be having fun here.

This morning, someone asked me if I could teach them bass.

I actually said, "Not until September."

Me!

I admitted I was too busy!

I'm proud of myself.

However, it does have a lot to do with Papi.

He repeatedly tells me what he's learned from other expats; that here, you have to choose one thing a day.  You can't possibly do more than that in this country.

It's true.

I'm learning.

I'm here to enjoy my life, not be stressed!!

Alas, off I go to fret over a song for the kids tomorrow.

My only thing today.

Of course, that is other than washing my hair, toasting my coffee, cutting up the pineapple before it rots, doing the dishes, paying attention to the dogs, and more.

What's Papi doing?

His one thing a day.

Sleeping.

i do well in all my assignments and i love learning

haggard.

I have so much to talk about, but somehow, I don't remember what I was going to tell you.

I do remember one item; tomorrow is the first day teaching the village children's choir.

I better have songs for them to sing, don't'cha think?  I haven't even started to prepare!!!

I've been a 'tad' busy, between Mr. Lumpy, driving to Santo Domingo, volunteering with Dream Project and everything it takes to be prepared for the above.

I'm exhausted, the dishes are piling up and the dogs are being neglected.

We haven't had the Housemaid in for a week, because we haven't been around for her allotted time.

Today is the first day in almost a week that I get to blog with my coffee.

These days, it's about running out the door with travel mug in hand, and waking up on the go while that coffee gets into my system on the road.

Showering?  Ain't nobody got time for dat!

I'm sure the locals are having lots to talk about with the stinky tattooed gringa they gossip about.

I'm pretty happy that the accident occurred 45 minutes away from here.

People in Nagua don't know us and I don't have to bow my head in shame in my own area.

Somehow, I have to look presentable for the children's concert today.

Those little beans at Dream Project are going to perform for a jazz band today.

I look forward to seeing the jazz band, as well as seeing them play for the pros.

The MusicMan is well connected and I'm very happy I've been able to be his assistant for the past few weeks.

The day before, I realized my Spanish has so far to go.

Sometimes, when I'm so tired that I can't even be bothered to shower, I just don't have the energy to study, or for that matter, REMEMBER Spanish.

Yesterday, I had a tough time at the school, and I had a tough time in my Spanish lesson last night.

Thinking that hard is difficult with limited energy!

Well, I might as well tell you about my corn.

I planted some seeds along the wall at the very front of the yard against the wall.

I didn't realized they're like banana trees, in that they're typically like a weed.

You plant in one area, and they spread out.

I have corn popping up in various areas of the yard!

I was wondering why Dominican Daddy wasn't plucking them from the ground, until I realized that they look identical to the other ones I planted.

I hope corn looks pretty, because they're invading our yard and it seems that they'll be spread out in no time.

But I know it wasn't corn I wanted to talk to you about.

Here I am, almost done my blog, and I still don't know what it was I was going to tell you.  It couldn't have been that exciting or I would have remembered right?

Wrong.

My poor injured brain has selective memory when I'm tired or stressed.  I could forget the most important of items.

I'm sure I'll remember later, when I'm in the middle of trying to understand someone's Spanish shpeel and have no idea what they just said, because I was daydreaming about some event of days past.

It will be another moment of me cocking my head, raising an eyebrow with a pained face, saying, "Que?"  That's my go to now for everything.

I was so happy to be able to get up and blog with coffee, thinking it would be a lovely writing session today, then I just sat here staring out at the ocean, watching and listening to waves crash, stunned.

If it weren't for the coffee, eggs, toast and lime infused water I was stuffing down my yak, that bewildered gaze probably would have been accompanied by me drooling all over the dogs that jump on my lap the moment I sit down at this table to write.

Ever have a donkey on your lap?

The Donkey honestly believes she's little.

Anyway, maybe tomorrow will be a little more informative and I'll remember the news I was going to share.

Until then, all you get is puppies, corn and one haggard femme.

i feel good about myself and the lessons i learn from life

gee ... haven't had a hater in a while ...

Dear most recent commentator on my disclaimer:

You signed it from 'someone I did wrong to'.

I'm sorry, but you'll have to be more specific.  There are many who feel this way.

They're mostly people I don't agree with, and am not afraid to be verbal about it.

I'm thinking, you are either one of two most recent people I've pissed off:

a) A person who condones pedophilia and NMBLA that I informed I couldn't be your 'friend' because of it. (Oh, btw, do I need to alert the authorities about you?  Are you a predator raping children too, because they 'like it'?)

or

b) A person I couldn't be friends with anymore, because you felt I did 'nothing for you' and that your view is I am a racist, selfish asshole for not going broke and giving you everything I worked for.

Or you're less recent:

c) Someone who's been holding resentment for way too long.  Perhaps some therapy would help you stop obsessing over me?  But hey!  It's sure nice to know you think about me so much.

OK!  Let's get to the note shall we?  I'd like to say thanks for the advice on our well water.

Yup!  I'm completely aware we're living in filth, hence the fresh water well is almost finished.  We are fortunate that we didn't actually get a parasite.  We're both feeling much better now.  It was just a virus.  But thank you for your concern!

As for living in shit water, it's better than living with the shit that your head is swimming in right now.

At least I can wash it mine off with my water from my reverse osmosis machine.

Oh, and also, the advice on a raised veggie garden!  Thank you so very much, but I already have the model for my raised garden underway, but that info would have really helped me had I not.

Now, to say we have everything is a bit silly and exaggerating a tad.

We don't have everything, but dude next door?

Now, HE has everything.  Wowee you should see his place!  Acreage and a place for horses!  You'd hate him for sure!

Ours?  Well, it's what they call 'shabby chic'.  Papi and I are very fortunate that we could afford to buy it with inheritance Papi received and money I got from my accident.  It's a bit of a fixer upper, so we got it at a good price.  One day it will be worth a lot!

But, we don't have everything.

Maybe we have more than you, and that pisses you off, but with some hard work and a little good karma, I'm sure you'll get to where you need to be as well.

And of course I know we live in a developing country!  It's the only way we could afford to buy something, silly!  I'm finding really good people in this country.  Not all of them are out to harm us.  I've learned something I'm going to pass on:  it's not fair to generalize.

I thought I'd also let you know that we have a Colt .45 in case someone does try to murder us.  It really is nice to hear your concern for us, though.

Now, let's address the 'stupid girl' comment.

Fortunately for me, when I was undergoing all my testing after brain injury, I learned that my IQ is well above normal.

That's probably why I'm such a nutbar.  Hey!  Maybe that's your problem too!

So, perhaps what you're confusing for 'stupidity' is my issues with coherence and memory?  I do have troubles there.  These things happen after you fly through the air at 50 km/hr and land on your head.

However, you'll have to adjust your wording a little bit.

Maybe you could get a thesaurus?  They have lots of other words that would work for you.  Besides, 'stupid' is so boring.  I'm far from boring.

The last thing I want to address is the fact that I change names.

Of course I do!  I don't want to get sued!

And writing about people that piss me off?

That's why I have a blog in the first place!  To get things off my chest.

Kinda like I'm doing now.

So, if you'd like to continue calling me names, that's really ok by me.

Not sure if you've read my blog the last few years, but I have many haters, and none of their words or intimidation have stopped me yet.

Oh!

One more thing!

Fuck off.

all false messages about me are now dissolved in total grace

some hope and no grope

Well, we chose to call the vet and ask if he does house calls.

Poor Psycho Kitty was just too sick to bring in a hot car with 8 people.

He doesn't do house calls, but he told us what to buy at the pharmacy.

The vet could hear in my voice that I was close to despair.  He told me not to give up hope.  That there may be one more medicine that will help.

I've been calling on my angels like never before for Psycho Kitty.  So have a lot of my lovely friends.  I need him to stay for a while.

I know it's selfish, but I just wanted him to have a fun life.  He needs to enjoy this.

He actually looks like he's feeling a little better today.

By the sound of him talking, it seems he has more energy.

His head doesn't feel as hot and there's not as much blood coming out of his mouth.

Off we went and we were lucky that the ride there we got a bus.  No lap sitting.

Not to mention, now that we know the actual cost, it's so much nicer to give them correct change and they seem to know that we're not fools any more.

After filing out of the cab, we were walking through town to the pharmacy, quite sad and stressed about the state of Psycho Kitty.

We waded through tourists with bright shiny faces who looked around at the wares with awe.  You could see the looks in their eyes, "Ooh!  Look!  I need that!"

All we did was keep our heads down and carry on forth to our destination.

Then, true to Papi's incredible nature, he made me laugh harder than I had in days.

He looked at the tourists, then looked at me and said, "This is the worst vacation I've ever been on."

The joke was only for us.

Nobody else would get it.

Nope.  Not a vacation.

Our new life.

We wouldn't have time to work, I promise you.  I wanted a goat.  There is no time for that either.  I'll just find a local to buy their milk off of.

Then there was another moment of silliness when we stopped at the taco stand to have a snack.

We looked at all the people cramming in and out of the 'bus' or 'taxi' and Papi said, "Can you imagine commuting every day like that?"

I snorted at Papi, "We DO!"

Seriously.

Every day we cram in to the cab like clowns and get to our destination.

We DO commute like that.

Papi wouldn't step foot on a bus in Vancouver, like the West Side Prince he was, yet here we are sitting on laps and being humbled for it.

I would never be so close to strange men, but here I am, carrying my money in my bra and keeping close tabs on Papi's stun gun, just in case I may need it for an overzealous local, who make think my blonde hair and blues eyes are an invitation to a free grope.

All I can say is, I'm so damn grateful I went to Spanish classes before we got here.

As much as I don't remember very quickly, and need lots of repetition, I'm really beginning to be able to at least communicate in little short sentences.

But it's enough to make my head hurt.

Every day, the focusing and thinking as hard as I can gives me a headache.  I suppose I'm wiring new routes and eventually, I'll be better than I was before I got here, and who knows, maybe I'll heal from most of my brain injury and give me some memory skills!

... wishful thinking eh? ...

Today's task is to get the plumber/electrician to look at our well and oven.

We're pretty sure that we're showering in sewage water.

Something smells and there's a leak outside that shouldn't be happening.  All our water is brown, except for my handy dandy water from the reverse osmosis machine I brought.

Papi laughed at me and told me I was ridiculous, but who's laughing now as I drink water right from the machine's tap, without getting sick!

i remember what i learn and when i forget, the words come to me quickly

bossy boots in da house!

The pool is being filled with river water!

By tomorrow we should be swimming.  I was hoping for today, as I kinda put my back out yesterday and I'm in a little need of some exercise, pain free floating and fresh blood to pump into the spasm.

I forgot we have a walkway with a step now and I went down jarring my bloody back.

Of course it was because I was distracted.

This damn injured brain can't do two things at once, or there's trouble, and its balance is so horrific that I'm a permadrunk.

I was distracted because was angry about the Housemaid meddling in our business again and telling the workers what we wanted, when we have told her, and them, 20 times what we've wanted.

She wants to keep more of the money she wrangled from us.

Nope.  You steal that amount of money, you're giving us what we paid for.

But she kept on telling the workers, "No door.  Just a concrete wall."

Right.  We just moved to paradise on the ocean to look at a fucking concrete wall.

I don't think so.  We're having our wooden slats in front so that we can still look at the ocean, and that is the last word.

I had to get stern with her and tell her she is not in charge, that she works for me and that if she's going to talk about this, she talks about it with me and nobody else.

Then I had to remind her of our contract of what we agreed upon, and that we WILL be getting what we agreed on.  Period.

This exchange of hardheaded communication was while Papi was yelling at the entire neighbourhood.

You see, we came home from a quick shopping excursion to practically all our neighbours having a party in our yard.

Everyone was hanging out on our deck, sitting in our furniture, hanging out pool side, and kids and dogs were running around the yard.

I have to keep telling the kids to stay away from the pool to set up the ground 'rules', because I'm not being responsible for a drowning accident on my property.

But this was ridiculous.

So, Papi lost it after hearing that the Housemaid was trying to talk to someone in Spanish saying something contrary to what we agreed on.

He yelled at everyone, "If your'e not working get the hell out!  This is our damn home!  This is not a public park!  Go on!  Get the hell out!"

Oh, they didn't understand what he was saying literally, they just knew they should leave, NOW!

From that point forth, the kids stayed on the perimeter and just looked in.

It was then that the Pool Man's wife said, "You're a strong man now.  Now everyone will respect you. You won't have any troubles anymore."

The funniest part was, everyone just went on like nothing happened.

I know that in Canada, if Papi yelled like that, there would be much hostility, glaring of eyes, exchanges of hurtful words and perhaps even a fist fight.

Like I learned from my Spanish teacher back home, it's the way people communicate here.

You fling your arms about and puff yourself up, speaking louder than the one before you, and it's just the way it has to be if you want someone to listen to you.

I have to say, I was a little taken aback, because I'd never seen Papi that angry!

But then, I've never seen myself be so strict with someone who is trying to take advantage of us either.

When the Housemaid and I were finished communicating, I found a place in myself that was stronger than I'd ever seen.

I say that I have to teach the Housemaid how to clean, because from living in a shack her whole life, she doesn't really know what North American clean means.

But honestly, she's training us how to be firm, and the nicest part was, there was no disrespect involved.  It was just hard-nosed heart.

This morning when I let the puppies out to pee, ...

... not that they needed to, the floor was covered in puppy art for me this morning ...

... the workers just waved like they do every morning with a smile.

And you know what?  There were no kids running around our yard.

We're closer to the peace of Casa Paraíso we came for.

That light at the end of the tunnel is shining very brightly as I watch the last of the river water getting poured into our pool, and that damn wooden door is finally getting put up so that I can let the dogs run free.

Shine bright, light.

I can see you now.

i feel good about the way i do my job

self-loathing.

Sometimes, my emotions get too difficult to bear.

Sometimes, I can't handle it.

Sometimes, I really don't like myself.

Sometimes, it would be easier just to die than not have to deal with my feelings, because they're just so big they're hard to overrule.

I've fucked up so much in the past little while and last night was the worst one, because Papi was so angry with me.

I can't multi-task since my brain injury.

I can't retain anything in a conversation if my attention is on something else.  I need to focus on focusing if you want me to know important information, and when I'm stressed, it gets even worse.

When I'm stressed I can get lost in the city I was born in.  When I get stressed, I only get the first words and if I'm lucky, the last words of instructions.

We moved here for a better life, and I'm so grateful I have so much less pain, but all the sun in the world is never going to fix my injured brain.

I feel stupid and worthless.

I was already angry with myself for all my errors, and this emotion was made more challenging because I didn't get the full story from what Papi was needing me to understand.

I didn't hear everything he said.  I heard, "Here is money for the plumber."

I didn't hear the rest of the monologue, which was that he didn't actually know how much it would cost,  and to ask the man.

I was busy cooking, so I couldn't listen very well, not to mention, I was upset with myself for not checking the jar pasta sauce properly in the fridge and used up the next jar.  It was supposed to be for Papi, the plumber and I, but Papi had to go out to buy more and driving at night here is not very safe.

He put the crumpled wad of bills in my pocket as I cooked and ventured out to the store in fear of every minute the sun was setting.

I didn't hear anything Papi said past the money for the plumber is in my pocket, and even if I did hear it, I didn't remember.

I gave the guy the whole fucking roll of bills.  It was beyond the amount Papi meant me to give.

Papi was so mad at me that I couldn't handle the energy that was exuding from him.  I felt I had to go hide in the guest bedroom alone.

My alone place.

We can't be in the same bed right now, because the master bed hurts my back too much and cripples me.

We can't sleep in the guest bed together because there isn't enough room for the 2 of us and dogs, even if they are small.

Alone I cried self-loathing tears.

I hate myself sometimes and wish I could just be my normal self again instead of telling myself I'm a moron.

These are those times that I feel it would just be easier to die.

I'm hurting from people attacking us online.

I'm hurting from a lack of trust in our space.

I'm hurting from being in survival mode and needing to protect ourselves from so many people.

I am sure this will get better.  I believe it will when there aren't 30 strange men in my yard watching my every move.

I am sure once we don't have every child in the neighbourhood trying to play with our puppies and asking for food and money, we'll feel it's our home.

I am sure once we don't have a security guard begging for more money every night after we give him his earnings for his job, we'll feel less guilty for protecting ourselves.

I told the house maid that everyone thinks that just because we're white that we have a lot of money, but that it is not true.

I informed her that all our money is now taken from the wall, the pool and Mr. Extortion and we're living off credit cards.

I'm hoping she gets the picture.  It seemed like she did.

This morning, I'm feeling a little less on the suicidal side, but I'm pretty depressed.

This week's online attack of Papi and I, combined with exhaustion, begging from so many people, being taken by those we thought we could trust and the frustration of never have a functioning brain like I did before the motorcycle accident have taken their toll.

I am sure, once I can get back on my food plan, exercise in the pool and do my yoga, my body will compliment my brain and I will feel better.

i am intelligent

now.

Ooooooh, there's a cranky cranky Papi in da hous!!!!

To mi esposo, there are a lot of things that are urgent, but I just don't see anything more 'urgent' than the  importance of sleep.

But that's just me.

Papi is a different breed, and it gets done.

NOW!!

I don't get things done on time, because if I'm in need of sleep from the 'duh' of pain meds, I can't function.

So, I give in to my body's needs and sleep.

Papi?

While his eyes are crossing from exhaustion, he will get it done.

He speaks politely during phone business, and then I get the dirty looks from hell.

From hell I tell you.  With his demon horns poking out, tongue forked, pustules popping out in an instant on his face and skin turning red, I realize I'd better stop telling him how tired he looks.

I'm surprised there isn't green pea soup projectile tossed in my direction, and it's all because I suggest to him to go to bed.

Right now, instead of going to bed, his tired bones are dragging garbage outside.

Relax Papi!!!  I will do it!!

Later ...

Not Papi.

NOW!!!!

Damn.  He hasn't come back for a while.  I'm wondering if he just passed out en route up the stairs.  I fear I'll find him snoring in the stairwell.

Wait!!  He's back, and looking through the dog paraphernalia bag, because it's important for him to do it NOW!!!!!!

Since being donned with a brain injury, when there's too much to do, I freeze.

I lie in the La-Z-Boy and think of everything that needs to be done, then get anxiety from head to toe and think, "I'll do it later."

Later ...

Well, there's not much 'later' left here folks.

The good part is, because Papi gets things done NOW!!!!!!!!, I usually hop to it and follow suit.

He's a good motivator.

Not to mention, he makes things more manageable, so that when I see things I CAN do, they're not shrouded in chaos, and that makes it seem much less overwhelming.

Overwhelming.  The theme of the month.

Papi and I differ in our overwhelmed states.  He goes super freaky in a frantic, go-getter kinda way, and rips around getting things done.

I freeze.

That also doesn't do good things for the guilt factor.  Oh, I'm good at giving myself guilt at the best of times.

It's a different story when it's attached to not doing something that needs to be done because I'm anxious.

The guilt is a battle in my head.

"Just go do it."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?  What else are you doing right now?"

"I'm just too anxious."

"But if you did it then you wouldn't feel guilty anymore."

"But I'm frozen."

"Well, if you just get up and do it, then you won't have anxiety anymore."

"You don't really get it do you?  Fuck off!!"

I'll do it later ...

It's always nice to think that the grass is greener on the other side.

I wish I had a bit of Papi's NOW!!!!!!!!!!ness, and energy.

Ya know?

i let go of my fears and worries that drain my energy of no good in return

i love you to the pit of my bowels

I've begun a positive relationship with my migraine.

At day 14, I may as well make peace with it, so I'm pretending that I like it.

Hey!  It's cool to walk around with my eyes half slit and bloodshot!  I look like I'm an active alcoholic again!

Now, I get to have the look whilst being sober.

I'll fool everyone as the old ladies 'tsk tsk' me for being a louse in broad daylight.

They'll especially enjoy the staggering that accompanies my swollen brain.

It's a bit akin to when I first had my brain injury.

People will just think I'm drunk and clear the sidewalk as I wobble on by.

Ooh, I'll get lots of dirty looks while I resemble someone passing out from last night's bender.

The morphine will help on that end.

Involuntary naps.

Maybe I'll just look like I'm on heroin as I'm nodding off on the bus, or in today's case, the SeaBus.

Morphine, heroin, same diff.  Both are meager attempts at blocking the suffering.

Both will be equally as difficult when it comes to withdrawal.  Oh, how I look forward to that.

For today, I'm going to pretend my anguished head is really just normal and carry on with business as usual.

It's my Thursday Lunch day with my mother, and later, on I've made plans to see my Eternal Friend.

I've canceled on every plan over the past 2 weeks, except for family on Xmas and our special dinner with my baby sister, husband and kids.

My family are used to seeing me in this state, considering they were there for me during the brain injury.

However, today, I've decided to push through the feeling of my brain trying to seep through my skull.  It's not too much different than the roots of a tree breaking through a sidewalk.

I'll just put my sunglasses on and turn my headphones up as high as my poor little spasm brain can take.

Tune in and tune out.

This change in attitude came from my massage session last night.

He made it feel like it's ok to be in this much agony.  "Sometimes, it's better to acknowledge the pain, rather than will it away."

So, today, I'm going to acknowledge it.

I'm going to cake on the makeup to hide my pale face, and slather on the eyeliner to give my eyes the illusion that they're actually open.

I'll wear soft soled shoes so that as I walk, the 'thud-thud-thud' of my steps won't echo in my head.

I know there's no point in praying to get better.  I might as well pray to win the lottery.

Praying is really quite useless, unless it's for a change in our thinking, then it becomes a change in our brain mechanism that switches to another route.

We have the ability to think stronger and more positive, if we wish to.

So, today, I'm going to think positive as I embrace my migraine.

Dear migraine,

I think you're absolutely wonderful and I cherish your presence.  I hope you stick around until my dying days so that I never have to feel like I did 2 weeks ago.  

Being pain free is really over-rated and I'm glad you've come to show me this, and show me that light and sound are the enemy.  I was living a lie before you came along.

I'm grateful for your existence in my head, and that you make me feel like my brain is 10x it's normal size.  I get to pretend that it's because I'm so smart that there's no more room left in my skull, so my noodle is pushing it's way through the bone.

Thank you for being a part of my life.

Please don't ever leave me.

Signed,

Andréa, your love slave

There.

How's that?

there is a great reason that this is unfolding before me now

don't mess with the femme.

And in other news, I've decided to wean off the pain meds early.  I'm pretty sure they are the culprit of this never ending migraine.

Yeah, it's a toss up.  A debilitating migraine from the pills, or back pain without them.  Which would you choose?

My choice is to take the pain relief out of my body to stop the migraine, and I'm really hurting.  I've dealt with back pain for 4 years, so I'm used to it.  I'm not used to the migraine, so fuck it.

Yesterday, my pain was so bad that I gave Papi a 'wee bit' of a hard time.

I dragged him out of bed to get some of my shopping done.  Of course, I don't have a license, so when I need to do my major run around, I need my chauffeur.

However, my dearest love is healing from a sinus infection from overworking himself.

... i've already given him the 'i told'ja so' treatment, so don't worry ...

I dragged him out anyway.  He didn't look as pale as he did the last few days, so the fresh air would do him good.

There we were at the mall, and he decided that as long as he was already here, he'd get some well needed shoes.

I was done with getting what I needed.  I was also cooked from walking.  My bitch of a back was killing me, and my was head pounding, so I took a seat.

Did I mention we were outside?

I was holding his old shoes in the new shoe box for him.  They made a good chin rest for my throbbing head.

Then the time came where I really had enough of my bitch of a back screaming at me for sitting and wanted Papi here NOW!

Only I waited, and waited.  Then I waited some more until I was fed up and in so much pain, my devil horns were sticking out of my head.

I tried to go walk to find him, so I could get the keys to the car.  No point having keys to a car you can't drive, right?!?!?!

Well, I got a few yards and realized even the weight of the box of old shoes was too much for my back to carry.

I dropped them.  Right then and there beside a garbage can, and they gave a loud 'THUD'.

Two rather tall, black men with an American drawl, were a wee bit concerned, "Hey girl!  What's going on?  What happened?"

In full, short, white girl attitude I flipped my hand and told them, "I'm not carrying his fucking shoes no more!"

They didn't know they were old, stinky, beaten ones.

They just thought I was a little firecracker who had enough of whatever my man did, and my man was going to pay for whatever it was he did wrong.

Once for dissing his little lady, and twice for having to buy the shoes a second time because someone would have stolen them by the time we got back to them.

The laughter I heard behind me was so awesome that I wanted so bad to turn around.

My back would prevent me of this.  I already knew that, so I didn't bother looking to join in with my honky girl giggles.

Not to mention, I didn't have an iota of giggle in me.

I just carried on and gave a wave of my hand and off I went to find Papi.  The Limping Lesbian, complete with sour face.

Every human that had ever felt back pain was giving me the look of, "Oh you poor, poor soul."

I looked in a couple of stores, then decided I was about to cry from the pain and couldn't walk any further, lest I would just have to walk back that same amount to get back to the car.

As I turned back to walk to the car, I heard my sweet love call my name.

Oh, poor Papi.

When I turned around, I must have looked like Medusa, because he almost froze in his tracks.  "Are you mad at me?"  Oh, I was hopping and let him have it.

Leave your femme waiting in the cold with a limp and no car keys?  Oh, you'll get it all right.

My sweet love really didn't know how much pain I was in, but when I am to that point, not even a sighting of Mother Teresa would bring back an ounce of positivity to my spiraling negative state.

Once I was in recline mode in our car, I apologized to mi esposo for dumping his box of old shoes, which also had his new belt, only my fucked up memory from brain injury declined me of this information.

That's when I said to myself, "3 weeks.  In 3 weeks I won't be in this pain."

That's when the anxiety of just how little time we have left here set in, and here I sit, a wee bit scared.

Frozen, to be exact.

the anger does not reflect who i am

chemo cat & cake

G*d I love peanut butter on toast.  It's gotta be the best treat out there.  I sometimes go to bed anticipating my morning glory, peanut butter celebration.

Just had to share that.

Don't worry.  This is not a blog about peanut butter toast.

Nor will it be a blog about complaining of how little sleep I've been getting this week, yet last night was the first night I slept all the way through without drugs to help me.

I will also spare you the details about how I'm suffering through the weather erupting my bitch of a back.

So what's left to talk about?

Cat's on harnesses and Papi's birthday.

Let's start with Papi's birthday.

Every year, I buy him his favourite cake.  Of course, it's very difficult for me to keep in mind which is the flavour he likes, because it's only once a year I buy it for him.  My brain injury does not do me justice in the memory department.

There I was staring at Safeway cake, ...

... just fyi, it's the only one he ever asked for ... i would never buy him this by choice ...

... trying to recall which vanilla cake he prefers.  Is it the one with the filling of vanilla icing?  Or the one with custard filling?

I banked on the custard, because he has such strange taste buds.

Only one problem; there were no 'single' slices of the vanilla custard cake.

Only one thing left to do!  Buy a whole cake!  Yeah!

I proudly took the bus with his cake, with onlooking passengers drooling at the sight of a flat of sugar.  I prayed my brain injury didn't give me balance issues, as I limped with the weight of the package.

I waited patiently until Papi slept off the Graveyard Coma, and, "Happy birthday!" I screamed at him while he was still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Oh, I got the right cake!  I was so pleased.

Alas, there was one 'wee' issue.  I forgot that last year, he asked me not to buy him the cake anymore because his tastebuds have changed since starting on hormones.  He doesn't eat sweets anymore.

Well, I hope the ladies at his job enjoy it.

Let's move on to cats in harnesses.

We have to train them to be on harnesses so that we can bring them outside for their piddling.  This is how they'll be traveling on planes.

Pee breaks on leashes.

Well, I got the harnesses on the cats, but the cats were not impressed, to say the least.  I can't tell you how many bite marks I'm nursing, but I did it.

Now picture this: Cats walking with their belly so low to the ground you'd think they were hover cats with legs 1/4 the size of a normal feline.

It was odd to witness our cats not moving from one spot for hours at a time.

Oh!  But when they did move, it was in reverse, as they were trying to back out of the nylon, pseudo straight jackets they were in.

Then there was Psycho Kitty.  He was so distraught with the prospect that he started to lick his fur off his body.

He already has a kitty version of male pattern baldness from the stress of being trapped in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft with The Bastard Prince.

Now?  His loss of hair has extended all the way to losing some of his tail fur.

Good thing we never made it onto Psycho Kitty TV.  This hair issue just won't do for his national debut.  He would need a toupée.

Normally, he's such a pretty kitty with all that long grey fur.  However, he now resembles a cat on chemotherapy.

I figure he'll look really good with a shaved lion cut.

Silver miniature lion!  A rare breed.

So there ya go.  Papi's birthday and cats on harnesses.

Aren't you glad you stopped by?

everything i do turns into success

my, what big balls you have, papi!

Oh, the mischief Papi gets into!  Only this time, he's a hero.

I've told you about The Beast, right?  She, who rendered me homeless with a 'packing party', changing the locks so that I returned 'home' from a 16 hour shift to being 'homeless'?

Her hideous behaviour is no less loathsome than the people who stood on the balcony, barfing out their obscene loyalty to The Beast.  They were looking down at me snickering as if to say, "Ha ha!  Na-na n'na-na!  We fucked you up, bitch!"

Who does that?  Who has that kind of evil in them that they would think this is OK?

Oh yeah!  Right!  The kind that have so much hideous hatred, that they would laugh at my misfortune of being in a wheelchair after the brain injury from my motorcycle accident.

That's who.

Anyway, Papi and I saw one of them at a store today.

Wait!  I have to back up before I tell you the punchline of this story.  Oh, let's see if I can do this in a short version.

The reason The Beast dumped me, was because she was getting back together with her ex-girlfriend.  That's why she made me homeless; to make room for the new relationship.

Now, I feel so sorry for this woman getting caught in the web of The Beast.  She didn't know what she was getting into!

Anyway, they got married after I sued The Beast, and now, the Sweet Ex is now suing her as well!

Oh, but wait!  It gets better!

I've become very close friends with this Sweet Ex.  She is one of the most loving friends I have.  We're so very similar, but then, that makes sense, ya know?  Predators only go after a certain 'type' they know they can abuse.

OK.  I hope I've set up the scene for you.  Let's get back to one of the Balcony Barfers we saw in the store today.

This one tried so very hard not to 'notice' me.  Oh, come on!  Everyone was staring at me because of my ridiculous leg warmers I was wearing.  That and I had my hair out and proud.  I looked like a walking cartoon of a full on femme.

I was most definitely seen and was most definitely avoided.

Papi said to me, "I feel like I need to say you deserve an apology."

I texted the Sweet Ex to giggle with her about the Balcony Barfer experience, and she said, "Oh, Papi should do it!"

We didn't expect it, but as they neared around the corner, Papi did it.

I couldn't believe it!

He just spurted it out like he knew the Balcony Barfer, "You should be ashamed of yourself and for how you all treated her!"

"Excuse me?" was all that could come out of the Balcony Barfer's mouth.

Papi continued, "You should apologize for what you did."

Unfortunately, the Baclony Barfer hasn't grown enough to apologize.  All I got was a shake of the head combined with an, 'Oh, come on!"

Nope.

I still don't get an apology.  I probably never will.  This clique will stand by their actions as they terrorize the Sweet Ex as well.

Some people can never admit they've been an ass.  If I get an apology, I'm usually more than happy to give someone the benefit of the doubt, because I know how much of an ass I've been in my life and I'm the first to admit it.

Of course, I had to call the Sweet Ex and tell her that Papi is our fearless lion!  We had such a playful time bobbing in Papi's wake!  Nobody ever stands up to these people.  Somehow, to the weak, they're admirable?

Hell no!

Admirable is my hero husband, calling out one of the Balcony Barfers for what they are: a shame.

Indeed, that male transformation is complete.

Papi has big balls.

i forgive every person who has undermined my self-esteem

no lectures. please.

I can dream can't I?

I can dream that one day, one FINE day, they'll make a wheat free bread option that isn't so dense, that Papi will actually eat it.

I'm fine with it, but then when I was a drinker, I used to drink thick beer.  Mind you, I would drink any beer, or wine, or hard stuff all in one shot.

Whatever you had to offer, I was in.  And yes, I'm still grateful I'm clean 'n sober.

Wait!  I got off track and it wasn't even about my hair!

Anyway, off I went to the bakery, to look for wheat free bread for myself.  Not for Papi.  My dream hasn't come true for him yet.

I got to the yellow and brown sign, and in I went to look for my kamut bread.

The young lady tried to tell me, "I don't think we make that here."  I was positive they did and that maybe she was nippin' at a few brew herself.

I let it go eventually, and went to the front to see what kind of wheat free, dairy free, processed sugar free, quick goodies they had to offer.

... today i found out she was right ... it was from a totally different bakery with the same damn colours! way to fool the brain injured femme bitches!  aaarrrggghhh!!!  get your own damn colours for chrissakes! ... end rant ...

When she heard 'dairy free', off she went on a vegan tangent about how cows should really only be giving milk to their babies.

I had a flashback of another vegan friend who gave me the same lecture, back when I was putting cream and honey in my coffee.

That of course was back when I was clueless as to why I kept getting sinus infections.  I soon found out that it was the dairy.  It was a sad day when I had to let go of my Havarti cheese.

G*d, I'm really out to lunch on this staying on track thing today!

Ok.  Back on track.

So, the old vegan friend told me that milk was for the cows' babies and honey was not for our consumption.

Yeah?

So then, try telling the birds in the park that our cars are meant for driving, and not for using to their advantage.

You know?  They fly up with a clam shell, then drop it on the road as the cars drive by, in hopes that our cars will crush the shell and they can get to the goodies!

As much as I can't have dairy because of allergies, I really don't appreciate being lectured to about veganism.

I appreciate that vegans can be vegans.  If I could, honestly, I would.

However, my food allergies don't allow me the pretend meats, turkeys and chickens vegans can consume, because they're made with wheat.  My sugar imbalances don't allow me to chow down on grains (aka: carbs) all day long.  I'm only permitted a cup a day, or I'll be passing out all over the place.

I was vegetarian for 13 years and I was always sickly.  Not to mention, because of the fact that I was anorexic at a younger age, I was delayed in the muscular growth I needed to build muscles around my knees to hold my knee caps in place.

I tried every vegetarian, food combination option I could, but nothing was going to build my muscles until I ate the meat.

As soon as I started to eat meat, my physio, doctor and boxing trainer all jumped up for joy!  I would finally get the right foods for me into my body.

Next, every single person I knew started to tell me I was looking so healthy!  I couldn't tell them I started to eat meat, because I was so embarrassed that I had let go of my vegetarianism.  I was so humiliated that all my politics of eating had to be ignored.

Of course, to be fair to myself, I now only eat meats that are properly treated when they're alive.  No cooped up chickens, or animals who have been shot up with every hormone and antibiotic known to us.  Not to mention, eating foods they should never be eating, just to give us foods that feel good for our spoiled rotten taste buds.

My body needs proper protein, or I'll get anemic, and my body won't function properly.  Especially now that I'm still bloody well healing from that fucking motorcycle accident 4 years ago.

So, I don't need some snotty little brat to make me feel guilty about eating the foods I need to be healthy here on planet earth.

It's survival of the fittest bitches!

Now, pass me the organic, grain fed steak, with a side of wheat free toast.

i think before i eat

Goodbye.

Today is the official day where Papi has to say goodbye to the house.

I can't imagine how he feels, because I've been so transient all my life.  It seems I'm constantly saying goodbye and starting anew.

I really don't know what it's like to have that kind of stability torn from me, but I can say, that even as I think about the home I was in with my love, g'ma and all the critters, that my tummy ripples a bit with loss.

I suppose it's because I have to say goodbye the home my love created for me and it's the longest I've ever lived somewhere.

Papi, you showed me love I've never experienced before in that house.  It's so sad to say goodbye to that, even if we have amazing dreams for the future.

I can't imagine how it feels to leave the castle you were born in, not to mention the never ending memory of loss of your mother at the tender age of 10.  I'm sure that's more than a flutter of sadness.

Somehow though, I know that the spirit of your mother, Mr. Moustache, g'pa, and all the other critters I never got to meet, including the hamster buried under the cherry tree in the back yard, are all coming with us to the Dominican Republic.

I feel them with us even in Our Closet.  I swear to god I see movement out of the corner of my eye in this space.  Maybe there's another spirit, but I swear it's Mr. Moustache jumping from desk to chair occasionally.

I sense them, and I know it's because they love you so much, they would follow you anywhere you go.  So would I.

Goodbye, house.

Goodbye to all your growth that brought you to this point, Papi!

Goodbye to everything you learned from your elders.

Goodbye to the tangible feeling of cool doorknobs on your hands and a solid oak floor beneath your feet.

Goodbye to the water everywhere no matter how hard we tried to keep things dry.

Goodbye to the flowers you lovingly planted for our wedding.

Goodbye to the memories of everyone, including the Mariachi band who helped celebrate our lives coming together as one, the wedding cake on the floor, and the silver hearts that we found in the carport and house right up to the last sweep we did on Monday.

Goodbye to the birds, who trusted us enough to eat from our bird feeders, allowing us to witness their beautiful life every day.

Goodbye to our bedroom, which we had to build our kingsize bed into, taking up the entire room.  We didn't care.  It was a true bedroom.

Goodbye to the carport g'pa lovingly built with his own two, hard working hands.

Goodbye to the freezing pipes we had to use a blow dryer on in the winter.

Goodbye to the ceilings so low, that when my brain injured body couldn't walk, the ceilings were my cane.

Goodbye to the oak trees that line the streets, giving us gifts of acorns, falling leaves like confetti, and sap that you have to chisel off your car.

Goodbye to all the house modifications you made, which gave you practise for the home of our future.

Our first home together now has to leave, and our second home together is a proud moment of the first step to moving on.

Our third is the charm, and hopefully, we get to live there until we're grey and wrinkled from the loving, healing sun.

'goodbye' is an opportunity for a beautiful memory

please be specific.

When we ALL said, "It won't fit," we weren't very specific.

Seriously.  You have to be specific.

My love is used to his prize possessions, one being his couch, the other being his TV.

The TV isn't here yet, but shortly, it's gazillion inches of screen will be right up front, literally in our faces.

The couch is here though, and like I said, we weren't precise.  We should have said, "It's not going to fit, because it's going to stick out the side of the wall and into the hall and that's just wrong."

I had already expressed my fear of this, stating that I wasn't too keen on my usual, 'bounce off the walls like a pinball' mornings.

My brain injury still has me wonky in the morning.  So, imagine staggering around like a drunk first thing to go make my coffee.

Once, I torn a knee ligament tripping over a couch.

I didn't want that to happen again, but my love wants his couch and considering the fact that he moved practically everything alone on this move, I suppose he can have his couch any damn place he pleases.

The Mrs. likes it, because she can see everything in Our Closet from this spot. 

The Golden could care less, as long as he can fit through to get his attention.

 

Anyway, the couch is in and all it means is we have a little bit of a bottleneck leading into our living room/kitchen/office.

Oh, there should also be a 'slash dining room' as well.

Our dining room is pretty much anywhere we place our little wooden TV trays.

Which we'll use while we watch Papi's gargantuan TV from.

But hey!

He also fit in his La-Z-Boy.  Can you see it in the upper right corner there?

It's good thing it's here, because he's having a case of the Pit of Doom.  This whole journey has been a bit rough for him.

G'ma in the care facility with Alzheimer's, moving from his home he's been in since birth, his old one eyed Golden showing his age and having troubles getting up the stairs, fighting to keep his sanity after a very recent relapse, and the stress from moving for the first time.

Papi is in the Pit of Doom and those demons are nipping at his heels.

Still, his couch and La-Z-Boy are here and that's all that matters.

You know the most exciting part?  We can watch his colossal TV from the bathroom!

No more missing a show because of a piddle emergency!  Good thing.  I wouldn't want to boogie as fast as I can down the hall and trip on a couch.

home is where the heart is