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

tumour titty

So, it's good news.

It's benign.

But I still have a titty tumour.

Not cool.

The doc was really good.

He got right in there, pushing around Mr. Lumpy, pinching, squishing, demanding it move one way or the next.

I was wiggling my toes while I twinged in pain, as Papi watched, wondering why I was worming about.

Doc said right away that there doesn't look like a problem, but sent me for a sonograph and mammogram to be sure.

That was when I learned more about tumours.

The woman who was doing the work was great.  She showed me WHY I don't have to worry.

She pointed me the screen and told me, "If there was a problem, it would look like different tissue here."

I said, "But you can feel it!  Right?!"

"Yes, I can definitely feel it, but it's a breast fibroid and is not something to worry about."

"So," I asked with hesitation, "does that mean Mr. Lumpy just hangs out forever? And if it grows and I look like I have a 3rd breast, I just have to live with it?"

She laughed, "Well, sometimes, they remove it."

Ok.  When is this magical 'sometime'?  I want Mr. Lumpy gone.

He hurts.  He makes my nipple itchy.  He is starting to show and I'll have to pad the other boob to make it match if he keeps growing, which he seems to be doing.

Then there was the mammogram commander.

She wasn't so nice, nor did she have any patience for a gringa with limited Spanish.

She flipped my boobs around, slapping them onto the mammogram plate, pushed me with force when I didn't understand her mumbling, fast, Spanish requisitions.

There was no making this woman like me, and definitely, I would let her push me around the way she wanted, because she was scary.

No matter.

The way she pushed my boob into the automatic pancake machine, I knew they'd see something if there was something to see.

I thought she was trying to get my armpit in there as well.

I couldn't run out of there fast enough.

I go back tomorrow for results, but don't have to see her.

Phew!

Papi and I will be up before the sun once more for a 4 hour drive to hear confirmation of what they already told me.

They were very nice.

I have no more fear.

Just a little bit of unrest at the fact that I have a titty tumour.

It's definitely hereditary.

My g'ma had 10 of them removed.

10?!?!

Is this what I have to look forward to?

Mr. Lumpy's offspring taking residence in my udders on a regular basis?!?!

I'm not impressed.

I suppose I'll be padding my bra in a few months.

Unless of course, I get one on the other side.

That would even things out a bit.

i love and respect myself

all hail the boob!

Sunday Sillies.

I had SUCH a nice visit with my Jersey Girl neighbour.

Can't really say she's just a Jersey Girl, because she's lived all over the world.

She also had a half sibling that she didn't know about until adulthood, only she got to find her missing piece.

We both agreed that you never know if I will find my big brother.  Life has ways of surprising us when we least expect.

Like the surprise that she offered me yesterday.

You see, I have been heartbroken that I can't have my piano here.

I have to find a new home for it.

It's been my baby for so many years, but it needs a home and it can't be here in the Dominican Republic, or it will be ruined within mere months.

However, the Jersey Girl has a special room with special temperature that she keeps the door closed to keep all the ocean air out.

It's for her baby grand piano.

She can't play anymore, as age has inundated her with arthritis that people get tend to get as they get older.

She asked me to please come play it, because it needs to be played.

I understand this.

I need my piano to go to a home where it will be played as well.

But the fact that 3 doors down on the beach there is a piano just waiting for me to play it was amazing.

There are only 5 pianos on the island.

The chances that one of them is in my hood is incredible!!!

Looks like I'll be practising in no time.

When Papi goes back to Canada to visit G'ma in August, I'll have him bring a ton of my music.

He'll grumble about it.

But whatever.

My foot is down.

I have a piano to play.

I also have a baby to play with.

They joke a lot about just giving me our godson.

It's hard to tell if they're serious or not, because Our Fave's Mom seems so indifferent to the child.

I urged her to feed the Little Angel by breast, not formula.

I've learned from an advocate that this is what they do to women here.

They convince them that their cervix and canal are too small, and that they need a C-Section.

They convince them that their babies are better off with formula, because the child's stomach needs to have 'better' food.

It's horrible.

I tried to persuade her with the benefits of how a mother's milk will give the Little Angel all the antibodies he needs to build his immune, but with my lack of Spanish, all I could really say was how important it is to their health.

I also tried to put a positive twist on it, "And it's a free meal!  No money necessary!"

I told her that in Canada, they're on the boob right away.

Today, the Little Angel wouldn't take the bottle, but as soon as Our Fave's Mom gave him the boob, he started eating right away.

Intuitively, he knows what's best.

Chemicals or natural milk?

A child is all intuition.

I have much more information to give Our Fave's Mom about the benefits.  I'll start googling the words and make my sentences to help her understand.

I'll do my best.

She deserves to give the Little Angel health.

wonderful things unfold before me

Gratitude Day 5/10
1. I am grateful for fresh vegetables from local vendors.
2. I am grateful for the world's most comfortable bed to ease my back.
3. I am grateful for the opportunity to play a piano here on the island.
4. I am grateful our washing machine did another load, even though it's been a month since the last time it let me.
5. I am grateful for electricity.
6. I am grateful for the support of friends.
7. I am grateful to feel loved.
8. I am grateful 2/3 of our roof renos are almost done.
9. I am grateful for clean healthy water.
10. I am grateful to have hope in this world.

family.

What a day!

What a hospital.

Oh man.

You're there to heal and hold a fresh little baby that has just come into this world who needs all the help he can get with his fledgling immune system, and the bathrooms don't have toilet paper to wipe your ass, nor do they have soap to clean your hands while you're drip drying.

Seriously.

Then you're going to hold a little bundle of love who just breathed air for the first time.

Of course, I did it anyway, for as long as my bitch of a back would allow.

Which was just long enough to fall in love.

What a sweet little soul.

To Our Fave's Mom, it was nothing, as she's had 2 others before.

She giggled at our silliness with the little bean.

As did everyone else who thought us ridiculous.

The family has taken us in, and I believe I have found the DR Family we have been searching for.

Including the gangster brother who scares the hell out of me now that he knows where we live.

But at least, I won't be alone for those three months Papi was talking about.

He was indeed having a grief breakdown.

You know the one if you've had it.

You're not only grieving, you're experiencing every bad thing that ever happened to you in your life along with the pain of loss.

Well, Papi isn't going back to Canada to stay with G'ma for 3 months.

He was just having 'a moment' of weakness.

I won't be alone for all that time, but I would have done it to make Papi happy.

We do know that G'ma is in the best care she could have.

She is surrounded by other family and friends.

She is taken care of with her Alzheimer's better than we could do.

She is where SHE wants to be, near her church people who mean the world to her.

We have asked her to come with us, but she didn't want to.

So, there in Canada, with the BEST care, she stays.

Best care, with toilet paper, and soap to wash her hands.

Best care, with people who know how to care for her condition.

Good thing she's not here.

She would not have survived the heat first of all.

Second, she would have a fit about all the repairs she would have to live with.

Third, we wouldn't be able to have the dogs to protect us, because they would knock her down.

She wouldn't be able to handle Papi firing off a gun every night, just because he enjoys it.

You know that story?  The boy who cried wolf?

I fear that people will get too used to my dingbat husband firing off a gun and not come to help when they hear the real thing.

Well, at least the gangster brother will know we have it.

Today, we will have a full house, because all the repairs we needed yesterday couldn't be done, because we had to be there to bring the new life into this world.

Not to mention, I also have a visitor.

Another dog lover from down the beach.

Her New York accent is very thick, and I love it!  We're going to share coffee along with some papaya straight from my tree.

I don't know where we're going to sit, as there is no deck to sit on right now, but I have a visitor.

And workers.

So, I best go get that veggie garden watered before all hell breaks loose.

Day begins ..........

NOW!

i let go of all lies i tell myself

Gratitude List Day 4/10
1. I am grateful to be a godparent a 2nd time over.
2. I am grateful to be accepted into a family here in the Dominican Republic.
3. I am grateful to have experienced a brand new life yesterday.
4. I am grateful Papi is feeling so much better.
5. I am grateful I am feeling so much better.
6. I am grateful Papi heard Psycho Kitty tell him that he's happy and doing well.
7. I am grateful for papaya straight from my tree.
8. I am grateful to be making friends.
9. I am grateful for my angels supporting me.
10. I am grateful for friends back home, who help me through the hard times.  You know who you are.

we all fall down ...

It was Papi's turn last night.

The pain of feeling he 'left G'ma behind' is taking it's toll.

Things like this usually happen when we grieve.

Grief tends to bring everything else boiling to the surface, granting us two options: 1) scrape the scum from atop, or 2) stir it back in and eat the filth once more.

I feel very grateful that I'm able to have a visit from the deceased Fuzzy Family member when they go.

It immediately releases my pain to see them so happy.

However, Papi doesn't have that luxury.

So he grieves.

True to any active addict/alcoholic, he needs to escape.

I have to make a choice; either live with him drinking alcohol and possibly killing himself, or live with him taking clonazepam and speaking with the junkie drawl.

I choose clonazepam.

At least he doesn't pass out into oblivion like when he's drinking.

Regardless, at this point in his life, he needs escape.

We decided that he would go home early to be with G'ma.

He was supposed to go for 10 days in August, but the need is too strong right now.

We're going to book his ticket as soon as we are able to so, I suppose in May.

I will be alone for a while.

A few months perhaps.

I have Our Fave's Mom and her security guard husband, the Housemaid, the Dominican Daddy and a couple of neighbours to watch over me, not to mention a handful of men whom I could call and they'd be here in a second to help.

They always tell me they would be here if anything happened.  Just call.

I have 2 guns, a machete and a bat.

I also have 2 dogs that would fight to the death to protect me.

3 more that would just run around barking.

Oh, who am I kidding.  Sir Bark-A-Lot would bite them.  I've seen him give a groomer a split lip worthy of stitches, because the dude wouldn't listen to us when we said, "Please muzzle him, he bites."

"Oh, no, that's ok," he laughed, looking at the small creature that couldn't possibly do any damage.

OK.

So, I have 3 that would fight.

I guess the Pathetic Puppy would get in there too.  She loves me.

And I suppose the Jake-a-Like would do his best.

Anyway, I'm going to be alone.

I'm going to have to ask people to take their holiday here.  Please come visit me if you can afford it?  Please come be my other human in the house.

I'll lend you a gun.

The big one.

I like the 9 mm.  She's the one I can handle and I'm not afraid to use her.

Papi might be gone for about 3 months.

He's worried about me.

I just want him to be ok.

I will do anything to have him well again, and if this helps ease his guilt, so be it.

I would do anything to see him the way he was before the motorcycle accident.

It changed both of us.

I guess I can't ask him to be the same person, just the same as I will never be that girl I was prior, but I can ask the angels to help him be well emotionally.

That's really all I want.

I would sacrifice all to have that for him.

All.

Including being alone in a dangerous country.

i stand firmly in my powerful, positive self-esteem

Gratitude List Day 2/10
1. I am grateful Papi is looking for a solution to relieve his guilt.
2. I am grateful I have people physically around me who would protect me.
3. I am grateful for the friends back home who support me, even when I fall.
4. I am grateful for Prozac.
5. I am grateful to wake to the world's best coffee every morning.
6. I am grateful to be feeling more like myself, and stronger.
7. I am grateful for the angels helping me when I need it.
8. I am grateful for the gift Our Fave's Mom gave us.  They have nothing, yet they gave us a gift to show their appreciation of us.
9. I am grateful to be living in a climate that eases my physical pain.
10. I am grateful I have things to be grateful for.

more time

The angels really do have a sense of humour.

And cats really do have 9 lives.

I asked the angels to tell Psycho Kitty that he would be free from pain.

They obliged.

However, this didn't mean it was time for our little love to leave our arms.

I am sure grateful I wasn't specific about HOW I wanted him to be free from pain.

If I was clear-cut about what I was asking for, he wouldn't be with us today.

With tears streaming down my face, and Papi looking like he was trying to be invisible, we dragged our feet into the vet's office.

Remember how I was saying he still looks like Psycho Kitty from the eyes up?

Dr. Bob told us he has a few more days in him.

His eyes are bright.

He's eating.

Albeit, he IS on his way out.

So, now it's time for us to do hospice work.

He gave us enough medicine to get him through the weekend, buying us a little more time for goodbye.

What it was fixing us with, was an opportunity to allow him to leave with dignity.

The medicine is to make him comfortable, and ease the pain, but mostly to allow him to be himself and enjoy his last days how HE would like it.

It worked.

He slept on the bed ALL night!!!

This morning, he did his famous forehead bumps!!!

He was also being himself, trying to bite my glasses off my face.

This has always been his favourite pastime; trying to steal my glasses.

He used to do it with G'ma's hearing aid while she slept.

It was always fun to do the hearing aid search at 7 a.m. under beds and couches after that little bugger had played with it all night.

We even saw him try to clean himself.

To no avail, but he tried.

Last night, we cut off all the blood encrusted in his fur from his chest and neck, and feces that were stuck to his tail.

He looks absolutely ridiculous, but cleaner.

It must feel better than being so dirty.

Cats like to be clean.

Waking up to find our Psycho Kitty being himself was really quite beautiful.

The angels did answer my plea.

He is not suffering and we get to see our little friend off how he would want to go; loving us to his last day, instead of hiding under the bed whimpering.

My greatest wish has been that he would go when HE decides.

I just couldn't handle to see him suffering.

It was too much to bear.

Maybe, now he could just go in his sleep, peacefully.

Maybe I could be specific and ask the angels for this?

I'll tell you though, I'm sure grateful I get to see him acting the way he normally would, even if he is a bit smelly and there's blood and drool everywhere.

At least his spirit is here.

He is Psycho Kitty.

He has decided that he gets to live his last days as slow as he pleases, being true to Dominican Time.

We get to enjoy it.

my thoughts are my reality and i'm thinking of a bright new day

nowhere to hide ...

I feel a little speechless, but I'm sure that will end once I start to type a few words.

Before the motorcycle accident, I would use music to hide from the problems of my world.

I don't have my music system set up yet.  I still need a few pieces.  There are so many other priorities that get attention first, that neither of us gets to play.  It's all work.

Today we deal with the electrician, carpenter, car mechanic, the person for rocks, and the security system people.  Those are just the things that I have to buzz around and watch people do.

Then there's the dogs who need serious training, Papi needing to put handles on all the doors and finish putting our security cameras through the concrete walls, and somewhere in there, I try to make a healthy meal to counter attack being in a constant sweat from running up and down stairs, and in and out of the yard all day long.

This is a typical day.

There's a reason we're both feeling stress.  This is how it has been since the day we arrived.  As soon as one thing is done, another zaps us of our energy.

After all of the above is finished, then we need to get all new shutters for our house, because the sea air has completely destroyed what is currently here, then after that is completed, we need a new roof for the house and carport.

It may seem like that is all someone else's job, but it's not really.  We are in need of constant communication with people, and mostly that's my job, because I'm the one who speaks Spanish.

So, when I look at how Papi had difficulty dealing with the stress of it all, the guilt of leaving G'ma behind and just wanting to escape reality, I can understand the 'why'.

One thing I can't understand, is people who have NEVER been in Papi's situation of leaving behind G'ma, judging him.

If they knew how much love and how many years of care he put into helping her, and just how much work it is dealing with someone with Alzheimer's, they'd shut their trap and tell Papi it is indeed time to live his life.

They add to his already debilitating guilt when they say, "How can you leave her?" making Papi feel even worse.

To all of you who would judge: walk a fucking mile in my love's shoes and you'll see.  Until then, shut your fucking traps.  She's in a care facility that cares for her WELL beyond what we could ever do for her.

We thought of kidnapping her and bringing her here, but she doesn't want to be here.  She wants to be with her church people.  So there she stays.

Anyway, yesterday seemed as though things may be getting better.

I trusted that he wasn't going to drink, but only because there was no more alcohol in the house.

We keep beer here for the workers.  Their eyes light up at the end of the day when we pass them a can.

My love got that generosity from his G'pa.  Workers get a beer at the end of their day, in a small effort to say, "Thank you," beyond the paycheck.

So, alcohol is in the house, but it's just not a good idea right now.  Papi is in a weak place.

Yesterday, the last can was distributed, and our car was taken away by the mechanic to complete the repairs.

So, I guess to be fair, it wasn't really trust that had me relaxed yesterday, it was more like we were stranded and there was no mischief for him to get into.

But still, I felt lighter yesterday.

I still can't help but think the best and feel that Papi is serious when he says he 'doesn't want to be another Whitney Houston' dying by being drunk and drowning in the pool.

Since the last few days, I look at that pool and all I can see is my love, bobbing around in the floaty seat in the middle of the night, passed out with a beer cradled on his stomach.

It will take a while for that image to get out of my head.  The pool looks like the enemy right now.

That is of course, with the exception of when The Donkey goes in for a dip.

She walks right in, heads out to the middle, paddles around for a while with a massive smile on her face, then returns and sits on the top stair to chill.

Right now, it's HER pool.  I like it.  It takes away from the bad memory I see every day.

Maybe one day, there won't be any more workers in my yard, and I can enjoy the pool and make better memories for myself.

However, for right now, I look at that floaty seat and think how close I was to the possibility of losing mi esposo to alcoholism.

That disease will get you one way or another.

There is no escape.

I wish I could make some music to take myself away.

Far, far away.

i believe in my ability to unlock the way and set myself free

I'm a fucking wreck.

Here's your weekly YouTube show:

Yesterday, a Blogger Friend asked me why I'd need a vacation, if i live in a house on the beach with a pool.

I didn't even have the energy to tell him how much work this was, but I tried.  How could I explain to someone that this is not easy?

Everyone out there believes we've moved to paradise, because we believed we moved to paradise.

We didn't.  We moved to a gorgeous view and wonderful weather that heals my wounds, but it's more work than I've ever experienced in my life.

More work than I had before, and healing from, my motorcycle accident.  More work than Papi has ever experienced as well.

We try to convince each other that it will get better.  He reminds me that my Eternal Friend told me to give it three months.

Supposedly, it will calm down after that.  I feel like it will never end.

It is part of the reason Papi drank.  Again.

I found him on a floaty in the pool, beer in hand.  I screamed his name but he didn't hear, because he was too drunk.

I pulled his floaty to the front where I could pull him out, then smacked him in the face until he woke up from his drunken stooper.  I then convinced his drunk ass to get out of the pool before he killed himself.

I tried to get online to book a ticket home, but there was not enough money in my bank account, so I asked him to book it for me from the credit we had in his JetBlue account.

He said he wouldn't.  Right.  Then if you aren't going to help me leave, we're going to talk.

Every single time he started to doze off in bed, I sprayed his face with the spray bottle intended for disciplining the animals.

"Stop it!!!!  Why do you keep doing this?!?!" he begged.

"Because, if I'm going to be awake, crying and miserable all fucking night so are you.  Then you're going to tell me why you think it's ok for me to possibly find my husband dead in the pool?  I'm not sticking around to watch you die.  You can be alone to do that."

But he was dozing during my monologue again.  So I sprayed.  "Stop it!!!  I'm awake!!!  Why do you have to keep spraying me?!?!?!"

"Because I feel like hitting you, and this is the only other option."

"Well, why don't you hit me then if it will make you feel better!"

"It wouldn't make me feel better, that's why I'm spraying you," as I sprayed him again.

That must have woken him up enough to talk.  He cried violent tears from the guilt leaving the G'ma alone in a home with Alzheimer's, and how tired he is from everything we have to do here.

Between the guilt and the exhaustion, he's wanting to escape reality.

I get it.  I would love to as well.  Reality is, nothing comes for free.

There is no paradise without a cost.  Our cost is a stress level every minute of every day, that is beyond belief.

It is waking up every day to work that doesn't quit until we actually sleep.  Even then there's work to do, because when you hear a gun shot in the middle of the night, Papi is up stalking the grounds with our gun, and I'm chasing after him to see what's going on.

Nothing is free.  Even our relationship.

He has vowed to start going to the only AA meeting there is here, and I've decided to find the spouses of these folks and start an Al-Anon meeting, or perhaps some reasonable facsimile thereof.

We all know how I feel about the 'g*d' word in these rooms, but still, I need it.

I'm crazy with running around, sniffing him to see if he has drank again, checking the garbage for ber cans, hearing him open doors and running out to find out where he's going (because obviously he's going to go to Cabarete and drink again, not let the dogs out to pee, right??!?!), begging him not to drink when he's up past my bedtime.

Seriously.  I'm a fucking wreck, but I can't leave the relationship yet.

He has promised to work, not that you can EVER trust an alcoholic's word.  Not ever.  I'm just going to have to have some faith that he does want this relationship to continue like he says.

Trust comes with time and every time he rolls his eyes at the evidence of my paranoia of him drinking again, I tell him to cut it out, because his drinking the reason I'm in this position of hyper-triggered P.T.S.D.

I see every ex who has harmed my trust and faith, I see my father who cared more for his addiction than he did for his children, I see no good endings.

I don't believe in good endings with addiction, because I haven't experienced any, and losing the greatest relationship I've ever had makes me feel like life isn't worth anything.

So, I stay, and I work, hoping that he will too, in every other corner of our lives.

We need a vacation.

i must know what awaits me at the end of this rope, so i do not give up

Papi is a thug.

Of course, when we see someone we love, we see them in a much different light than those who don't know them.

To most people, I seem like the sweetest, most innocent person around.

I've got them all fooled.

Well, there was Papi, coming back from doing something while I was patiently waiting in the car, ...

... sorry, no details because my brain isn't giving them to me ...

... and I saw what some people see.

Thug.

He's put on a few pounds in the last year, which is great!

Not that he was too thin or anything, but it means that his body on the whole is finally healing from C Difficile.

... ah for fucks sakes!!! ... i JUST spilled coffee on one of my last 'un-spilled' white tees i own ... aaaarrrrgggghhhh!!!! ...

He couldn't keep anything in his gut for more than 20 minutes it seemed, but now he's keeping it in and eating like a madman!

I'm so happy that he's put on weight.

Papi, not so much.

As for me, I'm not impressed that the pain killers I've been on have given me a dose of the 'pharmaceutical poof'!

Anyway, I digress.

So, there he was coming out of the cat clients house, ...

... ooooh!  i knew if i didn't think about it, it would come!! ...

... and I saw it.

Thug.

Tattooed from knuckle to neck, hair cut of a marine and a nice dinner shirt that is at least a size too small for him.

If I didn't know him, I may look at him from a different perspective.

Instead I just giggled and realized that nobody is going to mess with him.

We were at Xmas lunch with the 97 year old, Alzheimer's afflicted G'ma, and her 98 year old, dementia stricken sister didn't recognize Papi.

They kept saying who he was.

As in 'was'.

Old school.

Old name, old pronoun etc., because it's the only way she could remember this person in front of her.

Poor old fart kept saying, "No!  That man!  I'm talking about HIM!" as she'd point at Papi again.

I'm sure she wasn't impressed that some asshole brought a thug to lunch!

Papi would never be mistaken for a female now.

When I was making his Xmas present video, I saw him before the male transformation.

These are two completely different individuals.

I love them both.

I still miss my old butch and those perfect Butch Tits every now and then, but right now, I'm just impressed that I'm married to a thug.

I love thugs.

We all know they're just soft teddy bears who would cry at the drop of a hat, don't we?

i am the perfect weight for 'me'

what's xmas without an ER visit?

So, while I was lying in emergency last night, I came up with a poem for y'all:

'Twas the night before Xmas
and all through the house
all the creatures were stirring,
including the mouse (aka: Sir Bark-a-Lot).

Papi dropped me off
to the ER with care
and all I could think was,
"How bad is my hair?!?"

The nurse gave me drugs
to help ease the pain,
and Papi and I were amazed
that we were here again.

The drugs didn't help,
but at least I felt better,
but damn!  I was cold
as I eyed up my sweater.

I'll go for their cat scan
to check out my head,
but it's just so damn painful
I wish I were dead.

Had me a bit of a migraine from hell.

I guess my pain killers have run their course and my pain had to go somewhere, so up it went to my head.

They pumped me up with morphine, gave me a cat scan to make sure there was no tumour, and sent me on my way.

Merry Xmas, you get a Pain Med Party.

Today, I'm not staggering all over the place and my eyes are open half way, so I'm doing a hell of a lot better than I was 24 hours ago.

So, for your Xmas pleasure, I made a video for Papi.

You are entitled to see it.

I threw in a few of my tunes as well, so you may want to have your speakers on.

Or not.  Hehehe.  Just don't tell me that.

No need in breaking my heart, eh?

I hope this day finds you all well.

i fill this day with hope and fill it with joy

our dead dog's urn.

Can you recognize what this is?

And no, it's not just ANY Xmas decorations.

It's a fancy decorated walker.

G'ma is going to be the most popular old fart in the home.

Seriously!  All those other blue hairs only have decorations on their door.  But our G'ma?

She has a rockin' walker!

Her reaction to her fancy walker?  "You two do such nice things for me."

Melt my heart much?!?!

Papi got in the way, so the Papirazzi was there tonight as well.

Gotta love a pic of Papi's ass!

Anyway.

We had gone out earlier with her to the Old Spaghetti Factory for Papi's birthday dinner.

It's kinda an annual thing.  Always on his birthday.

He loves it there!

Well, this time, we brought along G'ma and a very, very special guest.

It was his first visit to a restaurant.

Ever.

Yup.

We sat with our dead dog's urn at the dinner table.

G'ma didn't like it much, "Why are you doing that?  You do such strange things," she said as she shook her head.

I'm sure the li'l lady who helped us will be talking about that one for a while.

After the dinner and decorations were done, Papi and I broke into the old house's yard ...

... wasn't so hard ... it was open ... but i felt badass as i was the lookout in the lane! ...

... and sprinkled The Golden's ashes there in his favourite places in the yard, then went up to his most admired, roll in the mud park and sprinkled it all along the path we'd take.

It was fun for all!

Dead dog and decorated walker included.

i am my own unique self - special, creative and wonderful

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

psycho kitty.

Phew!  That feels a little better.

We got to talk about a little more of how each of us are feeling, plus got to have a less stressful day.

Much better.  Back on track.

I suppose it was just the finality of everything getting settled, meaning it's time to prepare for the next step, which is really quite scary.

The fear won't stop us from following our dream we've been preparing for for years, we just need to communicate more.

I've never had such great communication in my life that is outlined by the worst communication.  I don't know how to explain it, but it's odd.

We both take our turns at being the loon in the house.

Problem is, since the beginning of The Great DR Purge, the sale of the house, g'ma being put into the home, The Uncle helping us out, moving to Our Closet and preparing for our trial, we both took our turns at being the crazy one at the same time.

That's no good.

We usually swap, therefore, the one is able to calm the other down.

But when we're BOTH wacked?  No good.

Anyway, speaking of wacked, I've been trying to give the cats less and less Rescue Remedy in hopes that maybe they'll just be sane.

Wrong.  The Tom Cat Operetta is back in full swing.

I contacted a TV show, where they come in to see your psycho kitty and try to get them to be calm and stable.

It's appropriately called Psycho Kitty.

They loved the idea of filming our demented fuzzballs.  Who wouldn't?

A close loss of an eye, screaming cats and great wads of fur being torn from their bodies makes for good drama. 

Especially when they're trapped in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

She said of all the applicants who wrote in, we were the first they called, because it sounded 'so funny'.

I sent them pics of all of us, including me holding my gun to show how desperate I am for harmony in the home.

The good part about the show is the free cat behaviourist who comes to help you and your critters.

It's kinda like The Dog Whisperer, only it's for psycho kitties.

When the Rescue Remedy worked, it was great, but I think leaving them on so much medicine for so long is not good for their tiny fuzzy bodies.

Mind you, that's better than blood and guts flying everywhere.

This kitty filming adventure will be a month after we've actually bought a home in the Dominican Republic!!!

We were instructed to go on line and choose a few to see, so we gave her our top 10, then gave her another 25 that we were interested in.

She said, "Well, that's quite a few.  Perhaps you could choose only 3 for the first day."

I think we need a reality show to follow us around there too.

Mind you, we won't need the publicity, considering the cats are going to make us super duper famous!  Don't you think?

People will swarm us and ask for autographs saying, "Hey!  You're the people who have psycho kitties!!"

We'll be more famous than The Beibs!

The whole, entire world will know us for our psychotic cats, screaming femme armed with water bottles, and a tranny with the Rescue Remedy chasing them around to get the goods in their ears.

Ok.  Maybe that's just a bit silly.

I can't even imagine how many people would tune in to a show called Psycho Kitty.

Well, I know I would, but I'm crazy that way.

everything is going to be alright

terror > excitement

The fighting!  Good god people!  We have never bickered like this in our entire 4.5 years together.

Having heard from a few people confirming that a move to another country is extremely stressful, it seems that Papi and I are right on track with the in home clashing.

I didn't ever, even for a second, think I'd be feeling like this.

I thought it would be all puppies, rainbows and thrills of an amusement ride.

Nope.  If I'm going to be honest, which I usually am, I'm fucking terrified.

We are stepping so far out of our comfort zone that we don't even recognize each other anymore.

Last night, the panic attack I had over filling out forms was wildly unmanageable.  My disoriented brain couldn't even figure out how to start filling them in and I thought I didn't have the right ones.

That left me feeling like I had tried so hard to get the right forms, yet even with that, I failed.

As someone who tries so hard, but seems to blunder a lot since my accident, I feel like I can't to anything properly anymore.

I feel useless and that my best is no longer good enough.

I feel like there's nothing I can do correctly, because I get confused and disoriented, never mind the fact that I can't last as long as other people due to my never ending 'imaginary pain'.

I almost fell into the throws of an eating disorder, thinking of how I could lose a few pounds to feel better, as if somehow, fading away would make it all disappear like my shrinking muscles.

Well, the panic attack was so bad, I had to beg my love to come help me get past it, where lately, I've learned how to do it on my own.

He was a little perturbed about it, because there he was, working on MY forms, because I was too anxious about it, and then I'm asking him double time for help with my panic attack.

He feels everything is on him, because he has to help me, the g'ma, and deal with The Uncle adding more fuel to the fire by giving him more reasons to be afraid of what we're about to do, rather than just be thrilled.

He's really under so much pressure, and he said to me, "I'm about 5 cm away from losing it."

Oh, how I hear you my love.  I'm right there with you.

I need to find a way to be more supportive to my love, so that these rowdy moments of the same fucking argument stop their cycle.

I need to find a way to do more with this fucking bitch of a back, so that my love doesn't feel so much is on him, and him alone.

I need to, because our relationship has never been like this and it scares me.

It makes me fear that with all the stress between us, that a new dynamic will be set up and we'll lose the love.

I know that I'm just placing old, horrid relationships on ours.

Papi is nothing like those other assholes I dated.

He's just a sensitive soul who is reacting to the stresses of this move, and a little resentful that so much is on his back, and less is on mine.

Some people may be horribly envious of our move, and I'm sure the haters don't think we deserve this, but damn, if any of those people really knew how hard this is and how much stress is upon us, they wouldn't be so envious.

I've never had such a strange array of emotions all at the same time.

My stomach flutters with excitement, my head pounds with stress. my tears fall with frustration and my bitch of a back is on turbo seize, because I'm holding all of it in.

Papi didn't even know I'm afraid, because to him, I gave off an air of peace.

That's nice and all, that I give off an illusion of 'everything will be fine', because I've worked so hard all my life to believe that.

However, it's not good when someone thinks you're indifferent about the whole experience.

I do believe, even right now as I'm shaking, nauseas, irrational and in utter fear, that 'everything will be fine'.

We're moving to the Dominican Republic and I'm fucking terrified, and excited.

i deserve to succeed

I'm baaa-aaack!

There they were, with my entire blog printed out.

... hey ... thanks for the page hits ... you just helped me move up the google-sphere ...

I wasn't about to print it out.  That's too much waste on printer ink and trees.  However, I did go through and jot down notes.

After they brought out the MASSIVE binder with all my blogs highlighted, we took a break, and my lawyer discretely asked me, "Do you really enjoy writing your blog?"

I told him, "What I get out of it is that every time I write, I find someone who has felt the same.  It makes me feel less alone in the world, especially because I have readers from here to Russia."

His response was accompanied by shaking of his head, "Putting all that stuff out there about yourself.  I just couldn't do it."

No, but you're not me.  I am a different bird from a different cookie cutter.

Anyway, it's all over.

No more people following me with cameras down the corridor of the SeaBus, or slow moving cars stalking me with their silly tinted windows.

... you weren't very covert ... but did you like my fancy outfit i was wearing?  i looked pretty while i limped down the street ...

No more fucking appointments with people who hurt me by poking and prodding.

No more psych evaluations telling me I'm nuts.  I already know.  I don't need confirmation.

No more forms to fill out, which consequently means no more family doctor swearing at me.

Oh, wait, that's wrong.  I still need to fill forms out for disability.  I'll bring my doc flowers for the past and bring her more when the rest is done.

Anyway, it's wonderful that that part of my journey is done and we settled in enough comfort that we don't have to go to trial.

Instead of trial, we're getting ready to get the hell out of this city, which grows colder every day, causing my bitch of a back to seize all the more.

We're now on the 2nd phase of The Great DR Purge.

We almost have all our finances in order, so the next steps are waiting to see if The Golden is going to make it.

He's on some good drugs now!  I think we may be able to bring him!!

We also have to wait for my braces to get off.  That's another couple of months.  Ugh.  Let's go teeth!  Paradise awaits!

Then there's the 97 year old G'ma.  We're not quite ready to leave her yet.

So, the steps are in place and once they're all walked through, we go.

The relief of knowing there's a light at the end of the tunnel is amazingly revitalizing.

The thought that I'll be in the warm, where I feel less pain is exhilarating.

That brilliant glowing light burns brighter and brighter with every day that passes.

Soon, very soon, I will be in less pain and I will begin my life the way it is intended.

I will do more than lie around on pain killers waiting for the ouch to leave.

I will take this bitch of a back to the ocean and heal it.

Every day, floating on the salt water that heals my afflictions.

Every day, walking in the sun, for more than the 4 blocks I can do here in the city of brrrrrrr.

Every day, eating fresh foods that we grow on our own, straight from the veggie garden.

Every beautiful, gorgeous, living day.

And now, I have to go move my poor piano into storage.  She has to sit there until my baby sister comes back in a year to rescue her.

My gorgeous piano.  It will be one of the things I miss about being here in the cold and pain.

And my friends.  I'm starting to feel the sadness there already.

Oh man!  I still want to be able to find my brother before I go too!

So much to do.

every day is a new day to start fresh

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

What's In a Name?

When Papi was looking for a name that he felt suited him better than the Über Femme name he was given at birth, we searched high and low!

The funniest part was where I discovered his name.

I was rewiring my brain after the head injury from the motorcycle accident, with a game on Luminosity.

They had people in a café and I had to remember their names and orders. 

It was pretty cool and I recommend it for everyone!  Not just those of us who landed on their head after being tossed 15 ft. going 50km on a motorcycle.

Anyway, I came across a name I thought would be perfect for mi esposo and he liked it too, and blammo!  A new name was given.

We didn't look into what or where this name would have come from, instead, Papi just went with it.

Well yesterday, a lovely friend of ours posted THIS on Papi's Facebook wall and linked me in.  It's a priceless account of people who have mi esposo's name.

So, let's dissect this shall we?

1. Drive a Jeep, Volkswagon, BMW, Mercedes, Lexus, or Land Rover.

Papi WANTS a Land Rover.  But such is the life of a champagne tongue on a beer budget.  He gets an Xterra.

2. Own a house costing at least 1 mil. 

Does this include part ownership with The Uncle and the G'ma?  Then yup.  It fits.

3. Listen to Dave Matthews or some jam band. 

Nope.  Sorry.  He never has, and besides, I swayed my love's tastes into redneck country music.

4. Be able to drive over 60mph on 10 foot wide roads. 

Did you read yesterday?  Yes.  100%.

5. Have Mexicans do landscaping.

Well, I've never come out and asked if our gardener is Canadian or not, because I don't care.  Maybe I should have asked him to show proof of citizenship when he last did our yard?  Would it be ok if he was from Spain?

And furthermore, do Dominican people count?  We'll have gardeners to help get us started when we actually get to live our dream, but it really doesn't matter what nationality these fine folks are.  There may be someone there from Germany who can do the deed!

Whatever.  We'll have landscapers no matter what colour they are.  As long as they can barter and teach me something new.

6. Drink excessively or do some form of drugs.

Do I really need to rehash those 2 weeks?

Anyway, I found it very interesting to read all of this and only have one that we could say 'no' to.

You'd think with all the similarities that he had that he should have been given that name from the get go!

However, having been born with female parts, his mom gave him a frilly female name.

It has never really suited him.  Just like when someone saw my love in a picture with breasts and said that they didn't suit Papi either.

But this name is more than just a name now!  It was like it found US!

I had to check out my first name.

Once, I googled my maiden name and found a dog doing nasty things to a lady.  That was a bit traumatizing.

None-the-less, in the Urban Dictionary, there are many new ways to think of words we come across every day, not to mention, names.

Here's mine:

A gorgeous lady that one of a kind, the most rare female on the face of the earth; the kind that every guy dreams about. She is confident, honest, loyal, protective of what she has, strong, artistic, beautiful inside and out, excellent lover. A tower of strength for those she cares for, the rock to her family. She is a person you can depend on, just don't go too far in crossing lines with her or those she loves. Or else you better run and get out of her way...because she will come out and get you.

Ooooooh!  I like it!

i am loveable

Papi and His House.

I'm not sure if I told you the Papi and his house story.

Well, my love has never moved.

Ok.  Once.  For a girlfriend.  However, he didn't really move, he just kinda moved in and left everything he owned at this here crib.

Really, that's more like a 6 month sleep over.

Anyway, mi esposo was born in this castle, and every other relationship he's had has moved in here with him, the G'ma & G'pa and the Fuzzy Family.

You see, at the ripe age of the double digit 10, my love's mother passed away from cancer.

It was at that point that G'ma and G'pa took care of the orphan, as Papi's father was not in the picture.

That's a long story that one.  No time to go there.  Having said that, my love is now 'sorta' in contact with his bio-father.

Never-the-less, Papi was an orphan at the age of 10.

That meant he wasn't moving out of this dwelling.  He was now staying put until it was time for him to leave the nest.

Yeah.  He flew for 6 months, then he was back.

It was shortly after that, that his G'pa got sick and Papi was a helper to take care of him.

Once G'pa passed away, he was here to help with G'ma, as G'ma didn't have a license anymore and needed the support.

Here he stayed. 

Then I came.

I said, "Ok.  Listen.  I vowed I would never live in a basement again, so I'm giving G'ma a few years of us taking care of her, then I have to move out of the black hole."

4 years and one Dungeon Syndrome later, here we are.

So, Papi has never moved.

It's pretty funny and a little hard for me to believe.  I've moved more times than I can even count anymore.

I could count them before the motorcycle accident, but now, well, it's sorta a blur of being a transient and considering it 'normal'.

Prior to this crash pad, the longest stability I ever had was from kindergarten to grade 5.

I'm a professional mover.

Nothing really stresses me out about moving, and I feel like this is my department.

My poor Papi has no idea what to do first.

Not to mention, he doesn't get the concept of a small space, because he's lived in quite the amazingly generous abode for his whole life.

He really believes that our full length leather couch is going to fit into Our Closet (aka temporary home #3) of 454 sq. ft.

He also believes that both his gargantuan televisions are going to fit.

Yeah, maybe in the tub!

One thing he hopped to quickly was getting our TV and internet set up in the new address PRONTO!!!!!!

He knew to do that.

But seriously.  He's never moved.

Have you ever heard of anything such as this?

Is it just me who thinks it's the craziest story I've ever heard?  Is it just because I moved SO MUCH that MY reality is all relative and I think it's nuts?

Maybe my life is the one that's a bit like a feral gypsy, but I can't help but think it's so bizarre that this is Papi's first move.

Yesterday, I just taught him about a change of address.

He thought it was a great idea, until he found out how much it costs.

Oh, it's a brave new world my love!

i have inner resources

grow papi, grow

Oh how I'm reveling in the goodness that is my Dominican style coffee.

For my grand return, Papi and I didn't get to have much quality time, considering the whole afternoon was spent at the casino with the old fart celebrating her 97 golden years.

She can't even remember how to push the buttons on the machine, but she only lost $40 which is better than I can say for Papi and I.

I don't really get the addiction to gambling.  I could go out and hand someone $20 and they'd smile.

Yet, when I watch that little bill slink or slither into a machine, it just disappears, somewhat like Java the Mutt would eat the treats I'd give him.

There's no joy as we watch the $20.00 nonchalantly dissolve into 5 cents.  How can someone get addicted to throwing away money like that?!?!

Oh, but they were there, and we saw them.

My favourite was the one who, every time we'd finish our $20 spree on a machine, would briskly glide in to our seats right after us.  She must've thought that we were lucky.

Maybe with my hair up and fluffed out on top of my head I looked like a lucky bingo troll?

Then we watched her whispering to each other, "If she wins I'll be really fucking pissed."

She lost as well, but onward she went to the next $20 to throw in again, thinking that this would be the winning round.

Then, when we got home, Papi decided to inform me that he has finally healed in his 'man zone' from C. difficile and is indeed again, packing.

Packing as in a Plastic Penis, the grand PeeCock.

Packing as in it's time to start putting out the seat wipes again.

Which reminds me of what I found fascinating about hanging out with the dudes from Gender Odyssey.  I was enthralled at how they mentored the younger, newly arriving dudes.

I had wished that Papi was there, because he would have appreciated the conversations.  I mean, I know he reads a lot about trans issues, and he's very verbal ...

... understatement ... ahem ...

... when it comes to getting people talking about things on his Facebook wall, but he really would have enjoyed listening to how these guys advised others.

"You have to figure out what kinda guy you want to be.  Then you have to study their walk, their clothes, their gestures.  It's about making that decision, then eventually growing into the part."

I suppose we all do that to a degree, we just don't honestly think about it.

Human behaviour can be learned, and we can become anyone we put our minds to.  We can be happy if we choose to be, by simply following the steps a happy person would take.

I studied the harshest, meanest people around me for quite a long stint in my life.  I wanted to come across as strong, because I felt so weak, meek, and had the self esteem of a gnat.

So, I learned how to act the part of a rock goddess, to entice the world to listen to my music.  It worked, but when I'd step off stage to find people wanting to shake my hand to say, "That was so awesome!" in my post performance procession line, fans would be confused.

They thought they'd meet that girl that was on that stage, but once I took a step off that platform, I was no longer the rock goddess.  What I found was, people were let down that I was actually shy and sweet.

People were attracted to that girl up there.  Hell!  So was I!  Why do you think I chose her?

Well, she left the day my head hit the ground after flying 15 feet through the air at 50km.

I can't hold that bass and rock out since the motorcycle accident, but more so, the whack to the head changed me.

It's taken me a bit, but I've figured out how to be who I am now, and I don't need to study who to be next.

I don't need to emulate someone new.

No, now I get to settle in to my new life, and serenely allow time to help Papi grow into his.

people like me

home = heart

Anyway, back to regular biz.  I'm preparing to go home today!

I'll be leaving temporary home #2 to go to temporary home #1, to prepare for our move to temporary home #3; our closet of 454 square feet.

With 5 animals.

Regardless of where I go, I go home to Papi.

I don't get to see him much when I'm home anyhow, because I'm usually watching him sleep the Graveyard Coma.

That's fine by me, because when he's sleeping he can't deny that I'm always right.

Or drink.

... hehehe ...

Tried another anonymous meeting yesterday.  Guess what the fucking topic was?

Faith.  Yup.

Of course I got asked to share, and again, I told them, "I have utter faith in myself, not in your god, but somehow coming to these rooms kept me sober, so I'm going with it."

I spoke for the struggling alcoholic who approached me afterward to say, "I'm so glad you said that.  Can I have your number so I can talk about how I feel about this?  There's not too many people who understand."

Oh, I understand.  Still, the most important part of her calling me will not be about all that zealot bullshit, it will be about how we get a wonderful life because we don't drink.

I guess it's imperative because that's where all this keyed up chaos started 2 weeks ago.

I have great gratitude for being sober.

So do the people who still cross the street when they see me, because all they can remember is what a nutbar I was on the bottle.

Now that Papi has mightily worked through his 2 weeks, I get to go home, however, not before we take the G'ma out for her annual gambling birthday celebration.

The old fart is now 97!  97 man!

Not that it matters that we'll be celebrating her day, considering she's been 'neglected and thrown into a home so that everyone can take her house away from her'.

... oh the gramma drama ...

Back on track.

I'm leaving my temporary roommate, Java the Mutt and my Eternal Friend who has been so gracious in providing me space and comfort for 2 weeks.

I leave this peaceful, hotelesque, accessible condo, complete with a full body soaker tub.  I leave this for cats who are trying to kill each other.

And Papi.  Home.

I'm actually really good with transition and being transient, since I've been doing it from a young age, but goddam I have to tell you that living out of a suitcase fucking sucks.

Especially when you only have 3 skirts to choose from!!!  Good god it's been hard to be a femme these 2 weeks!!

I've never liked that, unless I'm somewhere beautiful and tropical.  Then I'll do anything to stay.

But here we are in the city that gets about 9 days of true summer, and today, it looks like winter's back again, so all those mother fuckers who complained those 9 days can gloat now because they have their fucking nasty weather again.

Whatever.  I'm going home.

Home is anywhere our hearts feel whole, peaceful and part of a family, no matter what that family looks like.

Papi and I could live in a grass hut for all I care, and I would call it home, because it's with Papi.

And 2 cats that are trying to kill each other, not to mention the other 3 critters who have to live with the furry fury.

Oh!  And my Dominican style coffee, my morning ritual, my awesome ionized water and my greens.

I've eaten enough junk food and carbs to get me through the apocalypse.

i share my feelings with others and they accept me