Once upon a time en Mexico

Passengers of flight 022507, Lunes was a day that was everything I thought it would be, and ended with a night cap that I in no way ever imagined. Monday was Umi's grand opening, a night of free food and drinks and the who's who of Terre Haute, and me showing off a tremendous amount of my lower half as speaker of the house. I gave a speech that I was proud of, two successful television interviews, and mingled like it was my job, which, actually, it was. Mi hermano was my plus-one, and he and I proceeded to consume a decent amount of cerveza, y vino, y sake, and by the time 11 P.M. rolled around, we were bottle popped. I was having a blast, doing everything that I do best, 1. Drinking, 2. Talking, 3. Being leggy, and 4. Playing attention whore. I was getting hit on izquierda y derecha, and of course, I loved it, I was so in the zone it was redic. And then, just like that, it all eventually went south, totally que paso'ed out of control. The guy that I mentioned in my very first post, who te amo's me more than as it turns out I'm mylower halfrns en Mexioico ther, the floodgates yet again, I break down over the most trivial shit. stay taht nstead. endure actually comfortable with, decided he wasn't all that content to accept me telling him that we should just be amigos, that a forever-after was not going to happen, would be muy dificil. As I'm honest to a fault, but do like to maintain some level of privacy en my vida, all I can say is that I have not felt so uncomfortable and slightly frightened around a guy as I did that night, as having shit kicked around me and not being able to leave an area right at the moment I fucking feel like it isn't a combination that is conducive to overall feelings of happiness and well-being. And the worst parts of the entire situation is that when all was said and done, a perfect evening had been spoiled, and I had lost a person (in some respects) that I have been close to since my first day working this particular job. This was a perfect PSA for people saying you shouldn't "flirt where you eat" in this particular case at least, but we all know that it's hard not to, especially when for starters, you're a flirt, and secondly, you're around someone so many horas each week. And especially when that person previous to the night in question was one of the sweetest, most genuine individuals you had ever encountered. Por que M., por que??? However, despite the slightly tragic turn that our most special evening at work took, I can still present a 60-40 on it, as there were so many high points before the nuttiness of late, that I will still always view it as a success…unless I find that he and I are never able to return to our initial form one day, and even then, life goes on.

1. Good- I got to wear black, 4 inch heels, drink on the clock, and showcase my stems. You do the math on how this formula might equate a happy Han.
   
2. Good- The aforementioned formula netted me a copious amount of compliments and potential dates, which, as a divorcee, is fabulous, because as it turns out, I hate paying for shit when I don't have to. Thanks boys.
   
3. Bad- I was so canned by the end of the nite and hyped up over the emotional insanity that went down that I smashed a tall Asahi in front of a handful of people, which, regardless of how inebriated I get, I hate looking like sloppy Sally.
   
4. Good- I paid to have my hair done pre-celebration (vain? Umm, yeah, of course) and it looked terrific. Gracias Hair Express.
   
5. Good- I made my three English professors in attendance proud by not screwing up any pronunciations of our language during my speech, toast, and t.v. spots. Oh yeah, I am an articulate, wordsmith of a bitch if I've ever known one.
   
6. Bad- I think my reign as Mexican princess is over. Not that they don't wanna go halves on a bebe with me anymore, but because now I'm just a hot, but upsetting juera.
   
7. Bad- I missed my 8 am Shakespeare class the next morning for the millionth time and I honestly think I'm going to have to drop it this tumultuous semester.
   
8. Good/Push- Random line that I heard over the course of the nite that is making the good category b/c it made me laugh, but merits a push too b/c I'm sure the female in question wouldn't find it so damn graciosa. One guy to his friend, "So, is your wife competent?" ---Me to self ("what the fuck does that even mean?")
   
9. Bad-I karaoked to "It's Tearing up my Heart," by NSync. Really Han, really? Wow. Yep, that happened.
   
10. Good- I think I got out of some legal shit and met the person that is gonna help me hook up a summer internship with the Colts. Sweeeeet.
    

Xoxo to all, and to all a good nite.

loyalty

Passengers on flight 022507, I wanted to get this particular subject off my small-B sized chest (and only that size because I'm about vente pounds overweight) yesterday when I found out about it, but my 'net connection prevented me from doing so. Marvin Harrison, Colts wide receiver, numero 88 whom I have loved since day one, asked ayer for a release from the squad, following 13 seasons. I am devastated to say the least, and not only because of the tramp stamp that I had irrevocably placed on me when I was 20 years old contains a Colts logo alongside my two otro favorite teams, the Yankees, and the Pacers, but also because I expected him, always humble and unassuming, to finish out his career with us, and yes, I say us, because I am just as important an element to the team as a fan as Peyton Manning is. I imagine this is what it feels like for a guy to be kicked in his balls. I understand that he hadn't been as prominent in his role on the field the past couple seasons as years past, and I know that he has had all that legal bullshit que paso'ing lately for him shooting or not shooting some guy outside a car wash. But honestly Marvin, this is really, really low. You are the equivalent of Reggie Miller to the Pacers and nobody had to endure him jumping ship in his final season. I felt almost compelled yesterday to burn my baby Gap sized Harrison jersey, but decided I would tuck it away instead. Even though he lacks heart in leaving the city that loved him, I don't have the corazon to incinerate the memories that I have of him fielding catches over the decades from Manning and Harbaugh and the rest. I had my first sports cry when I was ten years old, at the hands of Chris Webber's "I don't have a time-out but I'm going to call one anyway" during March Madness with Michigan, and I wasn't even a fan. And yet, as I attempt to process this, I can't squeeze out a tear, and I think it's not so much a result of a lack of care, but simply because I'm pumped dry by the pain of this 25^th year in general. But I won't kid myself, even when I think it'd be borderline impossible to open the floodgates yet again, I break down over the most trivial shit. However, I haven't the fuerte to dwell on this for another minuto. But because I have never been an individual to not recognize a person's contributions to something, to this I say—Marv, thank you for your years of greatness at the receiving position, for snagging balls that looked impossibly out of reach, running slants like none another, for making my 12 year old heart connect to you and stay that way, as it probably always will, regardless of where you sign a bigger final year contract, even though it will feel slightly bitter and annoyed. I salute you Marvin Harrison, because it's only your loyalty where I find issue, not your proficiency, never your skill.

Blame it on the alcohol

Passengers, it's your captain speaking for the second tiempo today and the headline is self-explanatory. Blame it on the goose, got me feeling loose. Blame it on patron, got me in the zone. Blame it on the al-al-al-al-al-alcohol, rinse and repeat. I didn't get anything, literally anything, accomplished this week and although my first line indicates that I'm pinning the guilt of a "wasted" weekend on high-end tequila and the like, all I have to do is find the closest mirror to see the real problema. I made it ten days without drinking before falling back into bed with my guiltiest pleasure, and now I am facing the toughest week ever to make up desperate ground at escuela, and I'm not certain that even seven straight all-nighters could remedy the quagmire I've created for myself. I am working 5 shifts this week in addition to my school load, have my first piano lesson, and hope to start running again, treating my body like I did up until I totally started to lose it in late August, like it was a machine that needed routine maintenance and oil changes and not just a casing for my sad insides, something to abuse and run down and punish. Tomorrow is a huge day at work, our open house, and I'm basically the "voice" of Umi. Alc will be freely-flowing and the atmosphere easy and I wonder just how much I will succumb to downing. I so badly just want to quit this vice, for me. Which brings me to today's 60-40, spanning the entire weekend.

 

1. Good- I spent a lot of quality time with friends and fam this past few days. I did lunches, and dinners, and a casino trip, and even an 80^th birthday fiesta for one of my best friend's grandpa. A party in which we started an "F-bomb" tally. So appropriate if you think about it. Or not…
   
2. Good- The Texan whom I was worried about b/c he went all MIA on me communication-wise for a couple days finally answered my phone calls, told me he'd been sick and was lo siento for ducking out on me, and said "I love you," which, from him, breaks down all my defenses.
   
3. Bad- I'm not sure what the Texan and I are even trying to do, trying to be, if anything, as just because we thought it couldn't be coincidence that we have managed to keep feelings intact and stay in touch across the U.S. and for over five years, me chalking up a failed marriage, and he a broken engagement in the duration, maybe that's still not enough reason to pursue this. Could I actually even do a long-distance relationship and for how long? Honestly, I can't even answer that right now.
   
4. Good- The Hellion and I sat 2^nd row at church this morning. A service in which my pastor dad kept it gangster as always, referring to Oprah and Ellen D. as "witch prophetesses" and saying "I don't give a 'D'" as in damn. Sometimes I'm convinced he drops acid before services, but I love he and Jesus ambose, so I keep going, sporadically at least.
   
5. Bad- The bestie and I, although in attendance, were both feeling completely rough from our late nite activities and I'm certain I smelled like I had been job-shadowing a chain smoker.
   
6. Bad- I lost 50 bucks at the "boat" on Friday night and we returned home at 8:30 AM on Saturday and I had to go to work at 10:30 that morning.
   
7. Good- We weren't busy enough to cause me to keel over, I made my lost dinero back, and I only tasted throw-up in my mouth once following an errant burp.
   
8. Good- I feel like my face isn't breaking out as much, even though my stress level has stayed the same or increased.
   
9. Bad- I'm days away from throwing up my monthly red flag and that in itself is going to break me out all over again.
   
10. Good-I'll be starting a new week in less than seven horas and with new weeks come new chances to produce and succeed and find opportunities in places you didn't even know existed. Even when down, I am eternally hopeful.
    

Xoxo to todos, and to siempre a good noche.

A labor day to forget…R.I.P. Tut.

Passengers aboard flight 022107, I present you this first post as a substitute for yesterday's void, an unfortunate result of lack of sleep and a faulty internet connection at mi casa. The story that I am about to relay has not been fabricated in any way, and if anything at all, it is a less dramatic version of the truth of the situation, as I don't think any amount of palabras, even written in ALL CAPS could convey properly just how loca my mom acted in her story's role. I bring this story up in the first place because it was brought to my remembrance today during lunch after church with my kid sib and the Hellion, and the re-telling of it created so much laughter that I ceased breathing for a few seconds and sib jarred two cups of café so violently that our entire table was eventually covered in liquid basura. Gracias hermana.

 

My unfortunate tale took place circa Labor Day weekend when I was in my mid-teens, and occurred during a week-long period when my padre was out of the country on a mission trip to South America. I should have known to expect some semblance of a tragedy brewing in his absence, as mom always says so optimistically when he leaves "The devil always attacks this family when your dad is gone." Muy bien. Muy bien. Particpants in the day's events: Mom (Asian and overdramatic), Kid Sib (just old enough to understand the words that were coming out of ma's mouth later but too young to comprehend the sheer gravity of the actual situation), Brother, whom I will refer to as Jeckyl henceforth due to his bi-polar tendencies, and Moi. Let me preface the telling of the actual day's events that I have never been an animal person—hate when cats rub up against my leg, only swerve to avoid squirrels, but barely, never ever will kiss or hold a pet and tend to stiff arm them upon approach, and have a gag reflex that kicks in instinctively when I see people driving around with a dog in their cars, especially when the mutt has its head poking out of the half-rolled down window, ears flapping and tongue wagging. Puke. My disdain for animals is so strong that I read a Cosmo article recently about the extremely caliente actor Chris Evans (Fantastic Four's only redeeming quality) and how a must for him in a female is the acceptance of a dog sleeping in their bed with them. He instantly lost 50 hot points. With that said, I must let it be known that there has been one animal over the course of my 25 years that was able to garner my attention and a subsequent piece of my corazon, and his name was Tut.

 

Tut was a small dog, a blend of some sort with a spot surrounding one eye, similar to the RCA versions, who loved to run and leap, and a possessed a swagger that even penetrated my bitchy animal-despising exterior into the heart of me, as if he was constantly saying "I'm cute, play with me, be with me, love me," and actually causing people to buy into the idea. He was the Obama of the animal world, and for the record, I voted Republican. And for the record, spare me your liberal bullshit. But that's a totally different post…I'm not certain what possessed my dad to name him Tut, but as absolutely random stupidity is the foundation for any of the names he and kid sib (the only pro-animals in our family of cinco) have chosen for our various pets, I shouldn't have been surprised. Exhibit 'A': Our current outside beagle is named, get this, Jasper Blue Graysier Roosevelt or some nutty shit like that. Explains a lot actually. So Tut, who I loved, on one of the fated days of my dad's exit out of Indiana, passed away. After our attempts to piece together the events that led up to his death later on in the day, this is what we assume que paso'ed. Tut had been ignorantly chained to the swing on our porch, (I'm blaming my Asian mom here), and had a relatively short leash he was hooked up to. Something, (I'm blaming one of the devilish perros in our neighborhood), came into our yard and got his attention and whipped him into a frenzy in which he ended up a little too close to the edge of the porch and slipped off. The chain he was hooked up to despite the bit of slack that the porch swing would have provided was not long enough to place his feet on the ground and the poor little sonofabitch ended up literally hanging from his own personal gallows. And he had done nothing wrong. Pobrecito. I will not dwell on these morbid details any longer, but needed to set the stage and tone for the events that would follow, in which my Oscar-deserving madre would go on to scar my sibs and I for life based on her portrayal of Filipino gone wild with grief over little dead dog. I'm not sure why she even freaked out so much, I thought they ate dogs in her homeland and that the prospect of a lifeless canine would whet her appetite, and not invoke nut-job amounts of sobbing. All three of us kids were for some reason that morning asleep all together in she and dad's water bed, and I will never for the life or therapy of me, forget being startled awake that day by her shrieking like a banshee, as if she had just watched one of us kids or dad being beheaded. "TUT'S DEADDDDDDDDDDDDDD, TUT'S DEADDDDDDDDDDDDDDD" she shouted over and over and over, wailing like it was an African funeral ritual, and all three of us hadn't just been sound asleep and weren't overall pretty young and impressionable. It was already disorienting enough to be startled awake for any reason, and this took the fucking chocolate cake. I still have never forgotten the literal pitch of her screams and crying.

 

Either way, we all groggily stumbled outside to the scene of the crime, and as if it weren't already heinous enough that mom woke us in the manner that she did, she took her solid parenting skills to the next level of desensitivity in the fact that before we went to view Tut, she had failed to even take his semi-rigid lifeless little body off the chain. Dear God mom. Dear God. We all proceeded to jump into the grief hole she had dug earlier, and I didn't actually stop crying until later that night. It was during that moment standing outside looking bleary-eyed at him that I vowed inwardly that I would never, in a million years, give any part of my heart to another animal, that no cat, dog, fish, or penguin would ever hurt me like Tut had in his death. I proceeded not only to lose my only beloved that day, but also a bit of my faith, as after a family friend of ours buried him in a small plot under a tree in our backyard, I and kid sib ventured out the site, and sat cross-legged in front of the fresh dirt. I don't know what possessed me to do what came next, maybe it was a lifetime of three church services a week and seeing my dad pray for the sick, or the fact that I knew my heart was broken and dad's would be too upon return, but I decided I would lay hands on the earth in front of me and pray that if God loved us that he would raise Tut from the dead. I am dead freaking serious with this, I sobbed and begged and pleaded the blood of Jesus over the Devil that I was convinced had killed Tut, and plea bargained with Dios that if he would give him life again and bring him out of the grave like Lazarus, that I would change my life, and trust me here people, I was tame at that age, didn't really do anything bad at all, so maybe that's why he didn't answer my prayer, b/c the bargain sucked, I could probably promise him a life change now and bring anyone back to vida. I don't know what I would have done if God actually did cause my dog to come poking up out the ground and bounding into my arms, but as kid sib said today as we rehashed this tale, "Sib, I had so much faith that your prayer was going to work too. It was so real. But if Tut would have come back to life, I would have never been the same; we would have ended up in Africa as missionaries because I would have been so touched." So God, there was your chance to get me to evangelize for always, right out under the tree at home.

 

On a sidenote, I was woke up unexpectedly again in my 19^th year by my roomie at the time, the Hellion, who startled me yet again with crying, this time involving thousands of tadpoles she had attempted earlier to save out of our backyard pool, only to kill them later by putting them in an empty bucket that had chemical residue left in it, unbeknownst to her. This incident is memorable, but didn't do anything to me other than get me out of bed and make me feel like I lost about a half an hour of my life that I would never be able to get back. Love you anyway B.

 

I'll be back in a few. I'm off to dinner with some friends. Xoxo to all, and to all a good nite.

Losing, but not lost

Passengers, you have the geniuses that comprise Coldplay to thank for tonite's headline. "I may be losing, but I'm not lost…" I heard it, and I can't think of a better summation for my life at this current hour. I feel as if I am paddling furiously to get to a shore that always gets further away instead of closer most of the time, and yet I know I have potential for greatness tucked deep away in me, covered by years of accumulated failures and heartbreaks and screw-ups and bad choices. And yet, although it may take much more tiempo than I believe I can actually stomach, I pray each nite to get it right, to be strong when I'm normally weak, to stop using the "I just don't have any common sense" crutch to explain my fucked up thought process. I can liken my life right now to a morning after under-aged campfire, littered with busch light cans and the air reeking of smoke and bad decisions. However, despite the regret-filled, vomit-speckled atmosphere, there is a still a bit of a fire smoldering under all the ash, and in that fuego pequeno is where I find myself. With just the right breath of air I could ignite at any time, or a little douse of some sort of accelerant, but if there is one thing I am learning in the hardest way each dia, it's that it isn't luck that starts a fire, because luck doesn't exist. Luck is when a lot of leg work meets the right opportunity, not the result of a random whim or erratic behavior.

 

I will light this mundo up one day like a reckless, unapologetic California wildfire and you will all watch me burn. But don't get it twisted, I mean stay aflame. I don't mean burn out.

 

And now, as I'm half an hour away from getting a change of venue for a noche & heading to e-ville with baby bro and the boys, without further adieu…the 60-40.

1. Bad- Clay City boy's b-ball team couldn't make the most of their many opportunities to knock off northview for the first time in boy's varsity hooping history in clay county, but good effort regardless.
   
2. Good- I rocked a dress to the game that hugged in the right places, concealed in the lackluster, and sealed the deal on some free dinners if I want them on down the road. See, I told you a good closet is an investment.
   
3. Good- Even though I've seen my "When I grow up" list since kid-dom go absolutely kicking and screaming down the drain, I am still a dreamer. I am moved on the daily by the smallest things in life, a beautiful picture, an ill dance routine on AbDc, song lyrics, the hand of someone I love on the small of back, a swished 3-pointer at the buzzer.
   
4. Bad- The boy that has had me tripped out on and off the past five years, the Texan, hasn't called me back or returned my texts since 2 nights ago, when I missed his call at 4 A.M. and he sounded like he was crying on it. I have no clue what that even indicates.
   
5. Good- Part of me is irritated that he's gone MIA, but the majority of me is solid no matter. Too many really cute, more than adequate boys to pass my time. At my disposal. And so many more that I haven't even met yet.
   
6. Bad- I am going to be redic amounts of tired when I roll into sushi central at 10:30 in the morning.
   
7. Good- My job is the absolute truth and so are my co-workers and so I'll get into the swing of things pretty quickly. Especially if I can get my hands on a tall soy vanilla latte with whip before I get in there.
   
8. Bad- I took the night off work to catch up on homework and honestly didn't get jack shit done.
   
9. Good- I enjoyed every second that I spent just attempting to re-charge my batteries.
   
10. Good- Everything's not lost.
    

Xoxo to all, and to all a good-nite.

 

In through the nose, out through the mouth

Passengers of flight 022007, your captain is speaking a little earlier on in the day than usual because of an unusually high volume of tarea to do over the next three dias, which has avalanched upon me because of the fact that I took a week off school and had been procrastinating well before that. I am about to try and see if I can get a cover at work tonite, even though I adore my job and know I'm losing a triple digit shift, b/c if I don't, I might as well just yank out of school for the remainder of this semester. I chose today's title because the actions are known to scientifically slow one's heart rate down if he/she is under duress or stress, but as much as I keep doing it, I might as well be trying the pant-blow technique of pregnancy because either way, it's not freaking working. My life is jacked up right now because my heart hurts, not because its racing, and my stress level is up because I'm the queen of dragging my feet and letting my emotions manipulate my day's to-do lists, and so, like always, as the master of my own destiny (or disaster as it so currently seems), this is all my fault. Disculpame. I hope to be the largest nerd over the next three days and just eat some adrl's and hope that I crank out copious amounts of reading and work and really nothing else. All of this will be in efforts to return to my normal life routine on Monday at 8 A.M., ready to actually start cranking out productivity again like I know I'm capable of—attending classes and staying on top of my work, running, going to church @ least once a week, being an A-list server @ my job, and finding a place to pencil in my friends, who are of paramount importance in me maintaining my overall well-being. Next week I finally get to start piano lessons as well (my first one falling yesterday, not so great timing-wise) and I just might give in to this zumba craze that's sweeping all of the mundo, or at least has all of the Filipino nation in Terre Haute, Indiana dancing around like former President Imelda Marcos got yet another pair of shoes. But as siempre, we will just have to wait and see what I actually do, in contrast to what I say or want to do.

Random thought of the morning: How did Anoop not make the top 12 of A.Idol? Ugh.

I am foregoing my 60-40 for the moment because I need to get on some Shakespeare and various other bullshit and crank out a couple papers before mid-afternoon, and so I will post it later this evening, when hopefully, cross your fingers, I just might have done 6 positive things on the day that I could actually write about, because I know already that I won't have to wrack my brain later too hard to figure out at least 4 things that I screwed up. At least I'm consistent with some things.

Xoxo to all, and to all a lovely day. Had to reconstruct my normal sign-off. Doesn't flow as well. Have a good one regardless.

Into paradise...may the angels...lead you

Passengers aboard Flight 021907, today one of the great was laid to rest, and in this case, it was my Grams, finalizing an exhausting past 6 days. I cried less than I had thought I might, and remembered more names in the receiving line than I had thought I might as well. But these two positive points aside, I know the real gravity of what took place today has yet to hit me, will find me a semana from now, or four and a half months, or years into the future when I birth my first child and she isn't there to see her great-grandchild, something she had always hoped for, which her eldest granddaughter had not produced for her, and myself in my whack job of an almost three year marriage had basically refused to do, as the prospect of a few things kept me from wanting to mother... 1.) The potential that I could (even though the chance was slim to none, just watch the south park episode on gingers) produce a red-headed baby, 2.) The potential of gaining weight that would take who knows how long or what type of surgical procedure to remove, 3.) The potential that it is a serious possibility that when I have a child that I could literally sleep through his/her cries, and 4.) I'm still selfish and immature. There you have it, sorry Grams. But it is with thoughts such as these, that I realize, that it isn't in death (or at least the point one draws his/her final breath) that a person is truly lost on those who live, but much further down the road, in jagged pieces, like during birthdays, and holidays, and the moments when I finally succeed and want to call her and can't. I will miss her more than now at these times, and have to sit Indian-style in front of a piece of rock and babble aimlessly about finally graduating from college, or being in love again, or getting my life right with God, fists crushing inadequate flowers that will either blow away or be run over by the crazy graveyard groundskeeper, these are the moments that will jar me, not so much today. But regardless, today's services were tremendous, it was standing room only, the room so full of love one could drown in it. And so, in honor of the enormity of today, I dedicate tonite's 60-40 to this am/afternoon's proceedings.

1. Good- I did sing, for Grams, with no music, as heartfelt a rendition of "His Eye is on the Sparrow" that I could muster, although my nose was clogged and my intestines were so curled up within me that I wanted to vomit.
2. Good- A crazy guy (who I'm convinced was a funeral crasher) started the visitation's receiving line off right when he walked by my sister and I and shook my hand stating "Your GRANDFATHER was a great person." I kept my composure for literally five seconds and then turned to my right toward my brother and absolutely lost it.
3. Bad- Even though we were in a tent at the graveside with some lame ass excuse for a space heater in it, the cold air from outside still penetrated the tarp and caused my first 3 toes on each foot (my fault partially because I wore peep-toe stilettos and a pencil skirt) to start to hurt so bad I had to do deep breathing/meditation exercises when my dad was speaking, like "Ohhhhhmmmm, you're in Turks and Caicos....Ohhhhhmmmmm, the summer sun is washing over you like a hot pocket."
4. Good- My friends Z and the Pilot as referenced yesterday came to show their support of me at the visitation.
5. Bad- Red, the ex, got muyyyy enojado because the Pilot (who he referred to as Clive Owen) gave me a best friend extended hug that he felt was questionable. But Red, honestly? Even though we have the best divorce of all time, we're still divorced. Remember that.
6. Bad- I went up to touch Gram's casket at the graveside and between my shoe choice and the spongy ground I almost face planted into it as I got thrown forward, and because I didn't want to turn around to see if anybody saw me, I tried to make it seem like I just might have planned the trip, and kinda laid my arm out in front of me and whispered a bunch of stuff to her. Muy loca.
7. Good- I managed to channel Audrey Hepburn for today's que pasoings, huge sunglasses, Burberry scarf, pencil skirt and button down, 4-in heels, and black trench. Dress, dressing is a habit, get like me.
8. Good- A random, sort-of estranged family member of mine referenced my blog in the receiving line, saying she knew Grams was proud of me despite my insecurities in my first post. How did she even know? Dear Lord.
9. Bad/Push- At the food get-together after the burial, someone made a macaroni dish that tasted like cheese going in initially, but had the finish of a slightly burnt pancake with a hint of maple syrup. And I have like 4 people that will vouch for this. And I kept eating it.
10. Good- Daddy delivered the message at his own mom's funeral and I was amazed by his composure and stamina up there. There you go Grams, be proud, b/c your son, my father, is a great, great man.

Signing off out of physical and emotional exhaustion. Xoxo to all, and to all a good nite.