tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19414405086691888112024-02-02T14:01:36.690-08:00Coelha ThoughtsWelcome to my crazy, Portuguese/American life...Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.comBlogger221125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-90514378826173661132022-05-29T13:25:00.003-07:002022-05-29T13:26:51.696-07:00Published 7/27/2021 N&I <p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px;">Nina & I </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 29px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nina is the quiet and shy girl that sits in front of me at school. She is the biggest and tallest kid in class, and I am the smallest and shortest. I sometimes have to wave my arms and shout to get my teacher's attention, which always gets me into trouble. Nina just sits there and says nothing until the teacher calls her name. I’m so short most everyone thinks I am still in kindergarten, and it makes me scream! When Nina gets teased about her size, she just walks away and cries. </p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nina always seems to be alone and never plays with others on the playground. She spends recess under the canopy outside, painting colorful drawings on an easel. I can see her from the top of the monkey bars. She paints the prettiest flowers, butterflies, and rainbows! I like watching her paint because it is the only time I see her smile. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sometimes I get mad at Nina. I don't even think she knows I sit behind her in class. No matter how many times I call her name, she won’t turn around and talk to me! All I see are her long ponytails tied in ribbons on the back of her head. When I want to pull her hair, I kick her chair instead.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Lisa!” Our teacher, Miss Maxwell, shouts out to me, “Stop kicking Nina’s chair this instant!” </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I stop kicking Nina’s chair and apologize, but I still don't think it's fair! It makes me angry when I get in trouble. Why can’t she understand that all I want to do is, be her friend? </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nina and I take the bus home from school everyday. When I get on the bus, she turns her head and stares out the window. I sit right behind her and kick her seat until the bus driver tells me to stop. I switch seats right across from Nina before my stop. When she notices me sitting there, I stick out my tongue. She wrinkled her nose and turned away. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">For days afterward, I purposively found a seat near Nina on the bus. Each day I would stare at her and then stick out my tongue. One day, I noticed Nina wasn't sitting on the bus. When I got off on my stop, I saw mom waiting for me at our front door. She was not happy! Mom had just got off the phone with Miss Maxwell, and I was in trouble again! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Why are you sticking out your tongue on the bus?” </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I didn’t know how to answer. I know sticking my tongue at Nina was wrong, but I only did it because I thought she didn't like me. I didn't realize it was making her afraid!</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“How are you going to fix this problem?” Mom asked. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to be friends with Nina, but how was I if she won’t speak to me? </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My mom suggested that I write a list of everything I knew about Nina. Although my list was very short, it did give me some ideas! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 29px;"> </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The very next day, I went to school wearing red shorts, a yellow shirt, a green jacket, an orange scarf, and purple and blue polka-dotted knee socks. I looked crazy, like a walking rainbow! Everyone laughed when they saw me come to class, but I didn’t mind because I heard Nina giggle. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Instead of playing on the monkey bars, I went down to the canopy where Nina was and painted butterflies. When I was finished, my butterflies looked more like flying pigs, but when Nina saw them, it made her laugh.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 29px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Later that day, before getting off the bus, I left a note on the empty seat next to Nina. On the note I had drawn a flower and a smiley face with the words: "I’m sorry! Can we be friends?"<span style="font-size: 32px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I walked home, I saw Nina's face staring back at me from the bus window as it passed me by. I wondered what Nina was thinking. Would Nina reply, or had she already ripped my note into hundred pieces? </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The next day was a Saturday, so I was busy playing in my room when I heard my mom call out to me: </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Lisa, there is someone here to see you!”</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 29px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I wondered who it was, so I excitedly ran out to see! I couldn't believe who I saw standing there! Hiding behind her mom, grinning back at me, was Nina! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Lisa," my mother asked, "can you show Nina your room while her mother and I get to know each other?” </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Happily, I went over to Nina, took her hand, and led her to my room. I showed her my dolls, video games, and books; I even introduced her to my annoying little brother, James. Nina just sat there, at the end of my bed, looking amazed at the drawings of flying pigs on my bedroom wall.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Does your mom really let you draw on the walls?" Nina asked.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Doesn't yours?" I answered back.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"No!" laughed Nina. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I took out my crayons and paper and handed them over to her. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Can you show me how to draw a butterfly?” I asked. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Only if you show me how to swing on the monkey bars.” Nina giggled. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Ever since that day, Nina and I learned how to be the best of friends! The more we got to know each other, the more we discovered how alike we really were.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">For example, Nina isn't as quiet as most people think. In fact, she can scream much louder than me! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 29px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">During recess, you can find us together on the playground. My butterfly paintings look much better now, and Nina can climb the monkey bars even faster than me! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nina is a friend who sits in front of me in class. Some wonder how we can be such good friends and still be so different. Although we may look and act differently, our differences only make our friendship more fun and exciting! We don’t get loud or cry anymore for being different. Nina and I just walk away holding each other's hands and smile! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Started as poem:</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p>Nina and I </p><p>Nina is a girl I always see</p><p>Sitting at the desk in front of me</p><p>She keeps her hair up in a braid</p><p>Always looking a bit afraid</p><p>She is big, and she is tall</p><p>I am short and very small</p><p>Others tease her for her size</p><p>She laughs back at them until she cries</p><p>Her eyes are brown, and mine are green</p><p>She is quiet, and she is shy</p><p>I am loud and like to scream! </p><p>I spy while I swing on the monkey bars</p><p>As she paints the planet Mars </p><p>I watch her and sit awhile </p><p>Because it is the only time I see her smile </p><p>Why can't she see me sitting there?</p><p>She turns her head away each time I stare</p><p>I kick her chair and call out her name</p><p>But she just sits there just the same </p><p>"Lisa, Lisa, lower your voice," Teacher Brown calls out</p><p>There is no need for you to shout!</p><p>I am told to apologize.</p><p>But all I see are Nina's sad eyes </p><p>How can I make her understand?</p><p>That all I want to be is her friend?</p><p>On the bus on my way home </p><p>Nina looks out the window all alone</p><p>I look at her, hoping to see </p><p>Nina looking back at me </p><p>She turns to me when I call her name </p><p>I stick out my tongue, and then a grin</p><p>Nina sadly turns away </p><p>And I don't know what to say</p><p>Nina is sad </p><p>And I feel bad </p><p>Lisa, Lisa, my mom calls to me</p><p>There is a problem we must discuss!</p><p>Teacher Brown is on the phone</p><p>Why can't you leave Nina alone? </p><p>Nina's mom is in distress!</p><p>Why are you sticking out your tongue on the bus? </p><p>I didn't know how to answer or what to say</p><p>I only know I could not stop acting that way</p><p>Every day since that day, I must confess</p><p>I stuck my tongue at her on the bus </p><p>I just did not realize or know </p><p>How it made Nina feel so low</p><p>One day there was a knock on the door</p><p>"Lisa, Lisa," my mom tells me, "there is someone here for you to see."</p><p>To my surprise, standing there </p><p>Was Nina with her long brown hair</p><p>I listen to my mother explain and say,</p><p>"Nina has come to play</p><p>Now go show Nina what you like to do and see </p><p>While her mother and I enjoy our tea." </p><p>I take Nina's hand and lead her on her way</p><p>To books, toys, favorite dolls, and video games</p><p>And my little brother, we call James </p><p>It isn't long until I see </p><p>Nina smiling next to me</p><p>I'm sorry that I made you cry</p><p>I'm sorry that I seemed so mean </p><p>I just didn't know why or how </p><p>But I can see that you see me now</p><p>Nina Nina is a girl I always see</p><p>Sitting in the chair alongside me</p><p>No matter what they may say</p><p>We will laugh and play the day away</p><p>We are more alike than what they know</p><p>Hand in hand, side by side, we go</p><p>Nina and I</p><p>Our friendship will forever grow</p><p>Others tease her for her size.</p><p>I only see a friend with big brown eyes. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-18113727719712369822019-11-06T11:50:00.000-08:002019-11-06T11:50:00.894-08:00A Call From Jesus<article style="box-sizing: inherit;"><div style="box-sizing: inherit;">
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February, 1999</div>
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It had been a horrible week. Money was tight, my ex-husband was threatening to leave the state and pay “what he wanted” for child support, and bills were not getting paid. To make matters worse, my phone was not working! Calls were coming in, but the ringer was not working, and I wasn’t able to make calls either.</div>
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I had been dealing with a broken phone since that Monday, and according to the phone company, my phone line could not be repaired until the following week. I had been checking my messages each morning at work. I don’t know exactly why I even bothered checking my messages because most of them were left from creditors inquiring when I would be submitting payment on my late bills. The calls only reminded me of my money troubles and by the end of the workday, it all left me feeling just more depressed and overwhelmed.</div>
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By Wednesday night, I was feeling completely defeated. It already was feeling like a long week, and I just needed to escape! A nice, long hot bath seemed like the perfect refuge. The kids had just finished dinner and were watching one of their favorite TV shows, so I headed to the bathroom for some much needed alone time.</div>
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Once in the tub, I found myself just sitting there, watching the running hot water fill up around me. I felt both exhausted and numb, hoping that a bath would make me feel better. My bathtub was always a place where I could unwind away from the kids; where I could think clearly and even cry if I needed to.</div>
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As I sat there, the worries of the day and all my money woes and stress from my recent divorce seemed to engulf me, and it wasn’t long until the tears came pouring down. The events from the past few months left me feeling completely hopeless, and I wondered how I let things get that bad. I wasn’t still in control of my life, and it bothered me. I remembered how hard it was to build the courage within myself to leave an abusive and unhealthy marriage and to start a new life for myself and my two children, but I still had not found the stability I had desperately needed.</div>
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I found myself praying to God in th<mark class="sn sm jk" style="background-color: rgba(12, 242, 150, 0.498039); box-sizing: inherit; color: currentcolor; cursor: pointer;">at</mark> tub. I prayed out loud to him. I needed some answers because I felt powerless. I needed help because I doubted myself. “Take it, take all of it!” I heard myself saying out loud. I was done! I found myself offering all my worries and doubts to God, and by the time I got out of that tub, I felt a usual feeling resolve that things would get better. I wasn’t sure if the good cry in that tub was enough for me to clear my mind, or whether it was the feeling that my prayers were being heard, I only know that by the time I left the bathroom, I felt accomplished.</div>
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The water was getting cold, and my son had been knocking on my door. I looked at the digital clock in my bedroom and it was only 6:50 pm. I decided to make it an early night and got into my pajamas. I spent the rest of my evening with the kids on the couch, laughing and watching T.V. until we all fell asleep. I woke up on the couch later with my son and daughter’s legs and arms strewn around and on top of me. I helped them both to bed and kissed them goodnight.</div>
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The morning came, and soon enough, I was back at my desk at work the next day. I turned to my phone and dialed my home number to check for my messages. I was a little surprised to find only one message on my voicemail. I listened to it, and then replayed it over and over again, not believing what I was hearing.</div>
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The caller did not say who he was. If it was a telemarketer or a bill collector, he didn’t say. At 6:45 pm, this stranger left this message on my phone:</div>
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“Good evening Julie. God bless you, and remember Jesus loves you.”</div>
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I did not recognize the man’s voice. He didn’t have an accent of any kind. I heard a muffled, background noise, but again no name or affiliation to any company. I only knew that I had never received a call like this from any telemarketer or bill collector before. I played the message over again in disbelief until I suddenly realized the time of the call. 6:45 pm would have been the same time I had finished my bath! As soon as I made that connection, I burst out laughing until I was in tears!</div>
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It wasn’t long until some of my co-workers circled around wondering what was going on with me. I was normally a very quiet person, who usually kept to herself. I explained to a few of them what had happened, and although they thought it was unbelievably strange, nice and even a little funny, most were a little skeptical of it being some sort of “divine intervention”. It didn’t matter to me if it was just some crazy coincidence, but to this day I refer the incident as my call from “Jesus”.</div>
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Of course, it could have been ANYONE who could have left that message on my phone. It could have been a guy named Joe trying to sell me a newspaper subscription or someone asking why my credit card bill was late. It really didn’t matter to me what he was selling or what his real name was. His call still meant the world to me. As I look back on that day, I still feel grateful. That message left on my phone was truly a message of hope that I desperately needed to hear during that time of my life.</div>
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The next day I got another call. My coworker, Glenda called me up and left another message. I heard, a pretend, deep sultry voice that said: “Hi Julie baby, this is Elvis, and I love you too.”</div>
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Jesus and Elvis in one week?! Wow, was I a lucky girl!<a class="bh bi bj bk bl bm bn bo bp bq br bs bt bu bv bw" href="https://medium.com/p/e0e64d95d63b/responses/show?source=follow_footer--------------------------follow_footer-" rel="noopener" style="border: inherit; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); color: inherit; fill: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span class="ji jj jk" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.760784); cursor: pointer; opacity: 1;"></span></a></div>
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Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-73921004204930485322019-11-06T11:44:00.000-08:002019-11-06T11:44:58.559-08:00Not An Ordinary Day At the Mall.<article class="meteredContent" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: medium-content-sans-serif-font, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif;"><div style="box-sizing: inherit;">
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True story, as told by a friend:</div>
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Sarah was headed for the mall in search of some peace of mind. Things were just getting too much, and she had to get out of the rut she felt she was in, and the loneliness was driving her insane. She grabbed her keys and threw them in her purse. The book she had promised herself that she was going to finish reading was sitting there on her nightstand and she impulsively threw it in her purse along with her keys. Taking a book to a shopping mall sounded a little crazy, but it didn’t matter to her at this point. Sarah had spent most of her week alone at home near the phone, and her apartment just was too empty! Sarah had the need to be around other people. She applied another coat of black cherry lipstick before heading out the door, slamming the door recklessly behind her.</div>
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It was a busy day at the mall for a Thursday, but Sarah surprisingly found a great parking spot in front of her favorite store. She exited her car and made a mad dash across the parking lot to the department store door, where a bearded man oddly seemed to be waiting for her, holding the door open. She thanked the kind man and went immediately towards the women’s shoes.</div>
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“Hello, Miss, can I help you find that shoe in your size?”</div>
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The young woman’s question startled Sarah so much that she almost dropped the beautiful leopard 3-inch pump she was holding. She had been eyeing the pair of open-toe sandals for a while now, but they were still not on sale. She still couldn’t justify paying $150 for a pair. Sarah turned to the salesgirl , and shook her head.</div>
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“Not today, but thank you.”</div>
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After a stroll through the sale rack of shoes, she didn’t find anything that held her interest, so she ventured off until she found herself in the women’s wear department going through the sale rack of dresses.</div>
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“Hello, can I help you anything today?” called out an older sales lady from her register.</div>
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“Just looking,” Sarah responded.</div>
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Sarah went on looking at each dress hanging there on the rack, searching for something appealing to the eye with little success, thinking to herself how odd it was to have already been asked by two completely different salespeople if she had needed help. Normally she would be in and out of the store, with little notice, almost feeling invisible, but today it seemed that all eyes were on her from the moment the man had stopped to hold the door for her into the store. She questioned herself and wondered what was different. Was it what she was wearing? Certainly, her blue jeans and red sweater didn’t scream out, a lady with incredible amounts of money to spend, but more like, single mom looking for a good sale.</div>
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Sarah moved from one rack of clothes to yet to another, leaving her just less impressed. Every piece of clothing seemed to look just as mediocre as the next, and the whole experience was proving to be fruitless. Perhaps going to the mall today wasn’t the best idea, she said to herself. Retail therapy seemed to always help her get out of a rut when she felt blue, but today she just wasn’t feeling it. She just wasn’t finding what she was looking for and doubted if she really knew what she trying to find in the first place. Her eyes soon were diverted to the exit of the store. The large glass windows that spilled into a busy food court seemed welcoming enough and the thought of a pretzel and a diet Coke sounded much more appealing than anything else around her.</div>
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Thank God I brought my book, Sarah said to herself as she juggled her pretzel and Coke from the pretzel shop. She spied a nice, empty couch near the center of the mall. At last, she could sit down somewhere, eat her pretzel and finally finish that book!</div>
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Despite the noise, she still managed to read a few chapters and finish her pretzel peacefully without interruption. Sarah looked up from her book to take a good look around her. She saw the children shouting from the play area, and the people at the tables in the food court, conversing and laughing amongst themselves. It was then that she noticed three individuals standing there near the burger place. Their backs were turned, and they were talking to each other, but seemed quite out of place. It was an older black gentleman in what looked like a very outdated dark suit, with two middle-aged looking white women standing near the burger place, empty-handed without a shopping bag or purse on their arms, looking seemingly lost or in search of someone.</div>
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Sarah then went back to her book, realizing minutes later that she had been reading the same paragraph at least three times. Her concentration was lost, and her eyes were beginning to feel tired. Feeling annoyed, Sarah put down her book to put it away in her purse, when she sensed someone standing near her. Looking up from her purse, she found the very same three odd-looking people she had noticed before standing now directly in front of her.</div>
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“Hello, good afternoon ma’m,” the older man said, looking down at Sarah, “Can I have a hug?”</div>
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The first thing Sarah noticed was the older man’s very old brown polyester suit, and the man’s toothy smile. The two women standing on either side of him were also smiling, both wearing flowered printed dresses. One woman had reading glasses sitting on the end of her nose, with her hair in a braid, and the other woman had curly hair, and with long bangs that fell white above her eyes.</div>
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Normally, Sarah would have felt compelled to immediately say no to man, or even get up and get away from these people altogether, but today Sarah felt strangely different. An unexplainable rush of warmth of compassion from these three people, and this man in particular, as she felt herself get up from the couch to give the stranger in the brown suit a hug.</div>
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“May I also have a hug?”</div>
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One of the other women, the one with curly hair standing next to the old man, extended her arms to Sarah. Sarah turned to the woman and embraced her as well.</div>
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Immediately afterward, the older man spoke to Sarah saying:</div>
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“I want you to know that everything is going to be alright.”</div>
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Sarah at that moment felt as though she had been in the middle of a dream. Of course, nothing about what had just happened seemed normal. She had never been asked for an embrace from strangers before in such a manner, nor had she ever experienced a feeling quite like this from anyone. Their embraces felt warm, deliberate, and sincere. For a moment this very odd meeting felt as though she had just been reunited with loved ones, rather than strangers.</div>
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Feeling somewhat embarrassed and confused, Sarah nodded at the old man, and quietly said thank you. She then quickly turned her back to the three as she nervously gathered her belongings to leave. She really didn’t know what to say more to the three, or what she should do, but remembered to turn back to at least say goodbye, but when she did they were no longer there standing in front of her. She proceeded to look all around to see where they had vanished. Had they sat down at a table at the food court or had they headed to another store? Sarah wondered to herself how they had walked away so quickly. They seemed to have left as quickly as they had appeared to her; almost as if they had disappeared in thin air.</div>
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Feeling still stunned from her strange encounter, Sarah quickly got herself away from the food court, making a mad dash to the nearest exit. She made her way through the department store that she had been in earlier, rushing past the racks of clothing, and shoes to the entrance door. There was no one holding the door for her this time, nor did anyone seem to notice Sarah. She was suddenly back being invisible, sprinting through the exit, rushing across the street, and into the parking lot. Sarah pulled out the keys and quickly got inside of her car where she spent the next 10 minutes behind the steering wheel sobbing.</div>
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Sarah finally found what she had been shopping for.</div>
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Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-37636886548992583442019-11-06T11:35:00.000-08:002019-11-06T11:35:09.240-08:00Too Ugly<article class="meteredContent" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><div style="box-sizing: inherit;">
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A few years back I was asked to help out with my 20th-year high school reunion. Having never really moved away from my hometown, word must have got out that I would possibly be of some help in finding some of the “lost alumni” missing from the registry list.</div>
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I got a call from the former student body president and homecoming queen of our graduating class. Let’s call her, Jessica. I first met Jessica in the 6th grade. She had just moved into a new school district and basically did not know anyone. She was a pretty girl, with long dark curly hair, and blue eyes; the kind of girl you would assume one day belonging to a more popular crowd, but until then, she sat next to me on the bench waiting for her turn at four square and tetherball. In between games, we would talk to each other, and I would listen to her complain about how bored she was and how she missed her friends at her old school. She wanted to be liked and didn’t understand why she wasn’t yet accepted by the popular kids. Eventually, as predicted, the “popular kids” whisked her away from her spot next to me on the bench. After that, we really didn’t talk to each other until many years later.</div>
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“Julie, it’s been so long!” Jessica exclaimed over the phone, “I’m so glad you are willing to help me with this project!”</div>
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The phone call suddenly sparked a newly kindled relationship, and we found ourselves in constant contact for weeks with each other. Jessica’s husband had set up an impressive contact list that we both could access and work from. Right off the bat, I was able to locate a number of people from the lost alumni list. Some had never left town, and a few were sadly already deceased.</div>
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I did not mention or ask Jessica as to why I hadn’t been notified of any past reunions. My name was clearly not on the “lost alumni” list, yet I didn’t remember ever being invited to the 5th or even 10th-year reunion. Apparently, the former student body of a graduating class takes turns in the organizing of each reunion. Jessica was the only person of the student body that actually saw my name and remembered me, and it was the only reason why I said that I would help her.</div>
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I was not really much involved in many social extracurricular activities in high school, nor would I’ve considered myself as anyone remotely popular. I hung out with only a small circle of friends (mostly girls) with whom I had relatively kept in touch with only a few random notes on social media, or a yearly Christmas card. In high school, we were considered good students who belonged to the Girls Honor Society and jazz band. We went to the football games, talked about our crushes, and some of us went to dances and we did other normal teenage things, but for the most part, we sat on the sidelines waiting for our four years of high school be to be done and over with. Some of us yearned to start college, while I and others just wanted to get out of there.</div>
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The only social run-ins with others other than my friends, outside of high school consisted of only rare and random encounters in grocery stores, or lines at banks, church, or other public places, and most of these interactions involved nothing more than an obligatory nod of recognition if anything. I lived in a relatively small town and graduated high school with the same people who I started kindergarten with. There were a few people that I knew of that worked in the same large county building as I did, and there were others who would appear at my window to pay a traffic ticket. I would read about some of them in the local newspaper or hear about them on the news. If anyone died, I would eventually hear about it by word of mouth. I knew of them, and for the most part, who knows if they knew of me.</div>
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As the weeks past, Jessica and I were getting close to the date of the reunion with only a few people left on the list waiting to be found. We found other classmates to volunteer with other arrangements for the reunion, and everything seemed to be progressing well. One afternoon Jessica called me with what she called, “exciting news”.</div>
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“I just got off the phone with Derek Dubeck,” Jessica joyfully tells me, “Remember him, Julie? We had a really good conversation.”</div>
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Derek Dubeck; of course, I remembered him. How could anyone not remember that guy? He was one of the most popular kids in school, and I couldn’t stand him; I actually loathed his memory.</div>
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Of course, Jessica was taken back by my lack of enthusiasm in regards to her phone call with Derek. I guess she was confused as to why I wasn’t more excited. Of course, I doubted that she had anything bad to say about the guy. Why would she? Derek was the most popular boy in elementary and middle school, and in high school, he was an all-star athlete, handsome and intelligent, and part of the homecoming court. He may have been Jessica’s escort at homecoming, but to me, he was a part of a childhood memory that I couldn’t shake off. She had no idea how I considered Derek of being nothing but a bully.</div>
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I recounted to Jessica about an afternoon back in the 6th grade. I was part of a group of classmates working on some kind of project, and Derek was chosen as the “leader” of our group. I don’t remember what the project was about and what exactly I was doing, but I was working on something quietly on my own while listening to Derek and some others in the group who were talking.</div>
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Derek was having a discussion with a few other boys and the conversation had nothing to do with the project but rather about girls in our class. Derek apparently had very strong feelings of who were pretty and those who weren’t. When you hear the most popular boy in the 6th-grade rate your looks in front of others, and goes on to label you as “not pretty enough” you just don’t forget hearing that conversation.</div>
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“Well, we all know that Julie won’t get married,” Derek exclaimed, “She is too fat and ugly for anyone to want to marry her.”</div>
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I remember clearly, at that moment when my 12-year-old self just wanted to disappear. I was sitting there at a table only feet away from Derek when he announced this to everyone. His cruelty towards me didn’t seem to phase him a bit, and he said it out loud in front of me as if I was invisible. I was left sitting there alone the remainder of the time until the bell rang, red-faced, holding back tears, looking down at the paper I had been writing on, pretending to have not heard a word of what Derek said. I was embarrassed and afraid to say anything that would bring more attention to myself, so I sat there in silence. No one sitting near me said a word in my defense, nor did they bother to speak to me.</div>
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Why I chose to tell Jessica this story, I really don’t know. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel sorry for me. Maybe it was because I wanted to show her another side of her “long lost friend” or maybe I felt it was about time to give my 12-year-old self a voice after all these years.</div>
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After a moment of silence on the other end of the line, Jessica responded.</div>
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“Julie, that is just horrible,” Jessica carried on the phone, “I’m really sorry to hear that Derek was so mean to you. I had no idea he was that way! You should really talk to him and tell him how he made you feel!”</div>
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I laughed out loud at Jessica’s response and went on to tell her that I doubted if he even remembered me. I had seen him a number of times around the workplace because he was an attorney, and I knew people who had worked with him, and I had seen him at a number of Christmas parties in which there were no indications from him that he knew the slightest idea of who I was. I even went out of my way to throw him a dirty look or two, but only the women he had on his arm ever saw me do this, and I’m sure I left them wondering. Even after a few drinks, did I have have the nerve to walk up to him and tell him what he had said to me, and if he did remember who I was, I really didn’t want him to give him the satisfaction knowing that his words still apparently effected me after all those years.</div>
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“You know Julie,” Jessica responded, “the funny thing is, Derek never got married. He told me that he regrets never finding the right girl to spend his life with, and he really seemed sincere about that.”</div>
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Jessica and I then spoke a laughed about the irony of it all for a moment, until our conversation soon went back to the subject of the reunion and it’s ongoing preparations. I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t get a little satisfaction on knowing that Derek, the “foxiest” boy in the 6th grade had yet to find his “beautiful” wife. He seemed to have everything going for him. Even with the great career, intelligence and looks he was still “missing” something. Interestingly enough, he somehow still managed to build a boulder of self-esteem issues and insecurities which I chose to carry and endure for the most part of my young life. How can one opinion of a 12-year-old boy be so destructive? Why did I allow that to happen and why did it still upset me?</div>
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When I look back, I remember the other men that have walked in and out of my life with the same destructive pattern. I married my first real boyfriend at the age of 19. I was in love, but apparently didn’t know what I was doing, nor did I know the man that I married very well. My first love turned out to be an abusive man, both mentally, verbally and sometimes turned physical. Anything that went wrong in the relationship was always my fault. No matter, what I said, or did, in his eyes, it seemed I was never “good enough”. I found myself hiding and covering his behavior from friends and loved ones, always believing that I was at fault for every outburst of his Dr. Jekel/Dr. Hyde behavior.</div>
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In the words of my ex-husband, I would be “beautiful” if I could only “lose 20 pounds”. However, when I did lose the weight, it only caused more speculations as to why I was bettering myself, and I was immediately accused of cheating on him. Of course, I wasn’t the one cheating and after going to marriage counseling (which was the greatest decision of my life, even if it meant going alone), it was discovered that he had been meeting a multitude of other women via the internet.</div>
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Once the ex-husband became the ex-husband, I remained single for a year before I started dating again. I never really dated anyone before my first husband who I had been married to for 12 long years, so nothing really prepared me for what I was stepping into. Still, with that being said, living single proved to be a true gift to me. I learned my worth, and how to forgive myself for staying in an unhealthy marriage for so long. Along with the guilt of exposing my own two young children to all of the madness, there is a lot a self-forgiving that needed to be done. I also had to learn acceptance of who I was. I needed to truly love and accept the person I was before I could find anyone else. Fortunately, from the dark fathom sea of “available fish” out there, I got lucky and eventually met someone who loved me for who I was.</div>
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Perhaps all this 6th-grade drama should now be considered as only water under the bridge. It may be time to forgive that 12-year-old boy bully. Today, his picture came up on my “People I May Know” feed on Facebook. As I look through his social media feed on his Facebook page, I find mostly just photos of his dog. As a dog lover myself, how can I hold a grudge on anyone who loves his dog? Not only do I have a dog, but I also have a loving husband, great kids, and even a beautiful grandchild. I’m sure grown-up Derek has had his own successes and loves to be thankful for, and who am I to determine or question what he deserves in life? I’m no longer that 12-year-old girl who is looking for his approval, and there is no room in my life for resentment towards him or anyone else. But, yes-karma can be a bitch, and ugly, but life is beautiful.</div>
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Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-90035426125788661292018-06-24T19:07:00.001-07:002018-06-24T19:07:26.789-07:00Kite String 2<div style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(68, 68, 68); color: #444444; font-family: Oxygen, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 0.75em;">
Kite String--take 2</div>
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I found some kite string in my drawer the other day. It lay there neatly on it’s stick, never been used. I do not remember how it got there, but I’m guessing it was put there as an afterthought with good intentions to be used one day.</div>
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It belonged to my son’s kite; the kite that had been sitting in the corner of his bedroom inside a jacket of plastic, waiting for it’s maiden flight across the sky. Oh how we had vowed to take it out one day, ever since his 10th birthday, but there it sat in the corner of his room, gathering four years of layered dust.</div>
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It was a beautiful kite; a green fancy dragon type with brilliant colors of yellow and red, almost too beautiful to be torn in flight. I first had thought it would look best just hanging from my son’s ceiling at the corner of his room-but that never unfortunately ever happened either.</div>
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Last summer I came across it when we sold our home. I was quickly reminded of its presence again while packing up my son’s room. It was still sitting there, untouched and unused and unloved. A deep sense of regret and guilt came over me. The thought of it being left there, after so many years, forgotten, embarrassed me. I regretted not taking it out with my son and I shamefully packed it away with the rest of his belongings, vowing to myself that it would see the light of day sooner than later.</div>
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Now, almost nine months later, it now sits in the trunk of my car, among the dozens of empty reusable grocery bags and beach bag supplies. It’s sail is torn, and it’s frame broken from negligent abuse. Why I ask myself? Sure, kites may not be as popular as they once were; there are so many other toys out there nowadays. My son even has a frisbee that plays music. But still, the kite string was left in my kitchen drawer for a reason. I always had good intentions for us to fly it one day; perhaps it was because I wanted to relive a childhood memory of simpler days; of riding bikes until the streetlights came on, or memories of building forts in the canyon across the street; collecting wild flowers and fire flies in old jelly jars. Where have those days gone? Trapped in kitchen drawers with good intentions.</div>
Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-81788804991089828972018-06-15T19:21:00.001-07:002018-06-24T19:05:53.667-07:00Kite String<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(68, 68, 68); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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Kite String</div>
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My childhood summers were spent near the ocean at windy beaches with rainbow buckets, shovels, and countless plastic kites purchased with birthday money at the local TG&Y. My plastic kite certainly wasn't the strongest or the fanciest; it was only your run of the mill triangular kites decorated in the shape of butterflies with only a string for a tail. I made it my own by adding plastic bows and leftover hair ribbon. It was cheaply made, but it was strong enough to last at least one day at the beach.</div>
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“All you need is some kite string, and a good wind,” my father would say.</div>
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I fondly remember days with my father, and carefully holding the kite's frame high above my head, waiting for his signal. He would stand there in front of me at a distance, waiting for the first gust of wind. </div>
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“Let go!”</div>
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I joyfully released my kite into the wind, and marveled as It steadily rose above me; it’s tail of ribbons looming wildly above my head. I watched my father as he skillfully maneuvered the line with his hands; releasing the line slowly with his fingers. His small steps backward would send the kite higher into the sky. </div>
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“Okay, Julie. Take it now.”</div>
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My father then motioned for me to take hold of the spool of kite string. I was unsure of myself, and my father seemed to sense my insecurities. I wasn’t the most coordinated child, and there was a history of many ill-fated flights from the past, but a sense of determination soon took over me. </div>
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“Just keep it steady. If the pitch starts falling, just run a little, but keep it against the wind,” my father warned.</div>
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I nodded to my father, as I took a tight grip to the kite string. </div>
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I felt the strong and steady pull of the line instantly, and happily watched as my butterfly kite continued to lift up above me. It was exciting to know I was in full control, and I could feel my confidence rise with the kite as it continued to drive steadily up into the sky. My kite was also getting a lot of attention. Younger children were now standing near me, and even strangers had stopped to look up and admire it cutting through the clouds.</div>
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“Roll the line a little.”</div>
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Hesitantly I began to roll my spool of line; a little to the left, and then to the right. The motion soon sends my kite down immediately, loosing it’s pitch and out of control into a turbulent looking frenzy!</div>
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“Run, Julie run!” my father calls out excitedly.</div>
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I take the spool of line and take off running, kicking sand, my butterfly kite flying out of control somewhere behind me. </div>
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"You did it, Julie, you did it!"</div>
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I hear my father's voice behind me, and turn around still running, only to see my butterfly kite now dancing; with ribbons and bows flowing gracefully against a cloudy summer sky.</div>
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Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-34043977222397999552017-11-16T13:54:00.001-08:002017-11-18T10:34:30.536-08:00Rain Ramblings...and nothing more. It's raining cats and dogs and elephants outside. It is keeping me from doing the things I had planned to do this morning, such as walk the dog, and do my grocery shopping. Instead I'm here waiting to leave the house when I go pick up Nicholas from school. Max is none to happy either. I've caught him sitting at the door watching the rain. He is feeling restless, and we have already played "chase" a few times already. This rain, is tempting me to finish more Christmas shopping but the only thing that is stopping is me, is the fact I don't know what to buy my children. They have given me little to go on so far. <br />
<br />
I've done two days of writing, and today, I am looking for some more inspiration. I may have to come back to this later today to finish. <br />
<br />
Okay, I never came back yesterday to finish. So, let this count as my 3rd and 4th day of writing. <br />
<br />
I have to get back to Linda, but at this point, it's been such a long time, I feel like I need to go back and read what I had previously written, without getting the urge of rewriting and editing everything again. That is my problem. I write, go back, edit, go back, and I'm stuck there forever. Oh well. It's a price I have to pay---time and energy. Now that I'm not moving my home in boxes I can put my energy in that. <br />
<br />
I'm currently sitting here at the kitchen table with a shower cap on my head because I'm dying my hair. I have 45 minutes until I have to wash this stuff out, so I have no excuse to not do my writing right now. I've been thinking about my character, for the last few days, and thinking of different scenarios in my head. I'm not quite sure how it's going to end, because there is still a lot to think about. <br />
<br />
Questions in my head are: Who is Linda? Well, she is a bit of myself and other people I've known through the years? What problems in life is she faced with: Learning how to live for herself for one. Learning how not to follow the dreams of others. Learning about her own dreams. Not settling for the safe route all the time. Learning to let go. Problems that other characters face, should intermingle that. It's all about life decisions; creating your own destiny. Dorothy didn't know quite sure where she was going, but she was told to follow the yellow brick road to find her answer. Alice, on the other hand just fell down a rabbit hole. Linda in a way is thrown in a situation she cannot control-just like the tornado that threw her house on the wicked witch. The taxi driver is Linda's witch, and Francisco in a way is the Cheshire cat/Glinda the good witch. There is no scare crow, or tin man, or lion, but there is a little dog, and there are the voices, and dreams, and spirits. <br />
<br />
Linda has two choices for her destination: The hospital or the airport. The hospital is a place she is unsure of the outcome. The airport will take her away-but not necessarily back where she came from. The taxi cab is there waiting, intermittently at every corner, like death. Poor Linda.<br />
<br />
And then there are the characters? Will I have Helio and David duke it out for her? The doctor has a lot to prove with her under her care, but David does too. Not quite sure what Tilly and shoot, I forgot her cousin's name already. Not good, Julie... Looks like I have to do a re-read. Oh well, it's either that or wash the kitchen floor, which is it going to be? The kitchen floor will just get dirty again.<br />
<br />
Okay, about the rain. Well it rained quite a bit a few days ago, but it has stopped. Yesterday was quite beautiful, and so is today. There is no rain in sight for today or tomorrow. The sun is shining through the window, hitting my shower capped head. Please sun, help me cover those annoying resistant greys at my temples! I have 10 more minutes until I can shower this mess off my head! <br />
<br />
I'm wondering if I should change the title of this entry from "Rain" to something else. It really isn't the subject anymore, but to what I ask? Perhaps I should change it to something like, "Julie Just Rambling Away" or "Julie Ramblings", or just NOTES. ?? Hmm.... Je ne sais pas, mon ami. Nao sei.... and WHY does this not auto-correct when I write in French, but it does when I write in Portuguese? That is so fricken annoying. Okay, "fricken" isn't a word either, but really... Well, look at that, I have to head to the shower now. <br />
<br />
Have a wonderful Saturday. Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-66440057505366955212017-11-15T10:04:00.004-08:002017-11-15T10:12:31.365-08:00Stressed Hands & HairI finally took a day to fix my nails last week- just a gel manicure (already chipped of course). I found a nice and almost empty salon, that gradually got crowded very quickly after I arrived. There was one younger woman who they were just finishing up on, and so I had no wait time. It was nice for a change to no wait. Minutes after I sat down, two older women came in accompanied by their small white dog, and then another woman with extremely long orange, Halloween inspired nails took a seat next to me. <br />
<br />
"I'm going to change my Halloween Jack-o-Latern painted nails into turkeys!" she exclaimed. <br />
<br />
That's nice, I thought. I got my nails painted a very dark purple. I don't think the manicurist much liked my color choice, but I never was one to paint my nails in season too much. I have also never had the desire to apply girly rhinestones or turkey faces on my nails. <br />
<br />
Usually I kind of squirm in my seat if the person doing my nails starts massaging my hands and arms, and neck and shoulders, but today I didn't mind. It really felt good. She did it before I got my nails done, not afterwards which I thought was a little odd. She also had to ask me to "relax my fingers" which I apparently have a very hard time with. <br />
<br />
How does one relax their fingers? Do have overly intense hands? Is it because I've typed most of my life? Are my fingers just too heavy. What can I do to relax my fingers? Do I need to imagine my fingers floating on the surface of a pool? Or do I need to picture them running through the sand on a sunlit beach in some exotic island, or imagine them going through the hair of some handsome celebrity? I have no idea how to relax my fingers, and the more I think about it at the salon, the more tense I get. I invite all suggestions on this subject.<br />
<br />
Well, after paying for my tense, stubby nails, I left the salon and noticed a hair place nearby. I needed a trim because I was noticing that my hair was getting tangly at the ends, and I just needed to cut those split ends, so I decided to just drop in for a $15 haircut. <br />
<br />
I wasn't expecting anything but a quick trim, but the girl who did the deed turned into my personal hair specialist. I wasn't looking for one, but I got the advice anyway. After she proceeds to comb my hair (which is still wet from this morning's wash) she asks me,<br />
<br />
"Have you been stressed lately?"<br />
<br />
I tell her about my recent move, and she smiles and nods her head and proceeds to tell me that it is showing in my hair. Your hair is damaged, she says. She goes on to tell me how her hair has been breaking because of her recent move and that half her hair fell out. Lovely. That makes me feel so much better. Not. I appreciated her candid conversation but at the same time, what she said just made me feel even more stressed. <br />
<br />
"If I were you, I would consider a good chop after the holidays."<br />
<br />
What?! A good chop?! I asked her what she mean't by a good chop. She takes the hand mirror and shows me where the cut should be, and she is pointing to the area just below my neck. Uhh... I don't think so lady! I nod my head, and say nothing, but inside I'm screaming saying no f'ing way! I simply don't do short hair. I tried it in my 20's per suggestion of the first husband, and I hated it and vowed never to do it again.<br />
<br />
Now, lately I've been looking at my hair more closely wondering if my hair is in such bad shape. I asked my husband, "Does my hair look bad?" He laughed and said, "No, it's beautiful!" and it was followed by a kiss on my forehead. But of course he is going to say that. Do I really expect him to say, "Gee, Julie, it looks terrible?" Of course not. He likes my hair long, just like I do.<br />
<br />
So now I'm trying to be more cautious of my hair, and finding myself doing what I hear never to do: looking up stuff in the internet, and of course I'm reading the worse case scenarios of hair loss and damage due to stress, and how it could be signs of diabetes. Lovely. No, not feeling stressed at all at the moment, thanks to the unsolicited advice and a $15 haircut. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-64743702394836419582017-11-14T09:17:00.002-08:002017-11-14T18:37:05.205-08:00Move 2017<br />
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I've been putting my writing on temporary "hold" since the move in August/September and it's time to get back and start writing again. The class I was attending did help me with my writing to an extent. But now, I just have to devote at least 20 minutes to writing each day. <br />
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Twenty minutes is really nothing. Once I start writing a hour goes by very quickly. I just have to get my motor running again. I just can't leave Linda in a coma for the rest of her life, can I? <br />
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No Linda must get out of her coma, and life needs to resume back to normal. If you are reading this your probably have no idea what I'm talking about. It's okay. Linda is a fictional character, and she is fine for the moment at least. I just have to get back to writing and save her.<br />
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As for my normal, this new house is finally becoming to feel more comfortable. It is no longer just a space that belonged to someone else. It is becoming OUR space. I cannot even start to explain what a whirlwind the past few months have been. If you were to tell me that I would be living in a house like this in Santa Cruz County a year ago, I would have have never believed it. Sure, this time last year, Rich was already showing me different real estate listings on his little iPad, but I would have never guessed it would eventually really happen. <br />
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"Hey, honey, look at this one," Rich would say happily getting out of his very comfortable easy chair to show me another listing while I typed away at the kitchen table. <br />
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"Yes, that looks nice," I would respond, all the while thinking to myself how his mindset had changed since we first bought our home in San Jose 14 years ago. Rich had seemed to love living San Jose so much.<br />
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"There's no place like San Jose," he would say, over and over again, "I'm not moving, no reason to move from here." <br />
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Rich's job was there, and Matthew lived close to there, before he eventually came to move in with us. Yes, I had a commute to work, but it was a reverse commute, and my kids were not ready to change schools. Nicholas was a baby, and my mother watched him in Santa Cruz while I worked-it all made sense. When my older kids realized that living in a different city other than the one you lived in wasn't "fun", they eventually went to school near the house, and so did Nicholas. My job hours decreased to only 30 hours (as I had requested) and things were just fine, until that schedule was taken away, and I simply just retired early from that "place" I worked for 26 years.<br />
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At first the thought of moving back to Santa Cruz County sounded great. Being back "home" would be wonderful because it was where I was from. I could actually never get lost there. I missed the smell of the ocean, and the people. San Jose was big. It had big stores, big buildings, and long streets that lasted an eternity, usually filled with strangers. My children seemed to almost automatically assimilate well in their new city, no matter how much they had protested on the move there in the beginning. They embraced their new town, and went to school and eventually found new friends. They loved their teachers, and made good relationships, and found jobs, and grew to know San Jose very well. I on the other hand was torn between San Jose and Santa Cruz, usually driving over the hill either to work, or making visits to my mother. I made a handful of friends and drove with with the help of my GPS and still got lost most of the time. <br />
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My home in San Jose was a start of so many good things; fourteen years of ups and downs-mostly ups with our growing family. There were a few squabbles with the kids, and some heartaches with combining our families, but for the most part the house was built with a lot of great memories. How was I going to be able to leave that now and start somewhere else? I had never lived in a house for so long with my children. Not only were there memories there, there was a lot of investment money wise including the custom pool we put it, the new floors, our newly remodeled kitchen. Ok, it wasn't necessarily a model home, but it was a very nice, and comfortable one. <br />
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We (Rich and I) started seeing houses for sale in May, and it began as a very lackluster experience for both of us. Rich and I would look over the area, and like, it, but the homes inside were nothing "special". It lacked what we had in San Jose. There was just nothing that really made us say to ourselves, "Wow, I could really see us living here." until we we walked through the house that we eventually live in now. I remember seeing this house for the first time, thinking to myself, "this is all that we need", but disbelieving at the same time that we would ever be able to purchase such a great place. The smell of the redwoods surrounding the house and the peacefulness of the area got me at first, and then it was the kitchen and the bedrooms, and of course the enormous tub in the master bathroom that I've always wanted but never managed to get. But for the price they were asking, dear God, I really didn't believe it, but there was always a hope.<br />
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Well, we weren't going to lose anything by not trying. Our real estate agent Amber didn't even seem to think they would accept our bid, and I believe it shocked her more than it did us when we eventually signed the papers for this home. They accepted our bid, and we signed the papers on 8/2/17, leaving us with only 14 days to sell our house in San Jose. August 2nd. Not my favorite day of the year because it happened to be the anniversary of my father's death. Rich came home with even more news that day; the daughter of his former employer who had recently passed away came to Rich's office that day saying that she wanted to give him all of her father's former customers. It all seemed a big weird coincidence, because I was not expecting any good news to come on that particular day, but it was almost a sign from above telling us to "go for it". <br />
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We had 14 days though. Rich and I had planned a weekend away to Half Moon Bay at a very beautiful golf resort months ago, and although the trip took our minds off of what was going on for a little bit, we were both feeling nervous and anxious. We spent the few days questioning ourselves, and asking "what if's". What were we going to do if we couldn't sell our house? Would we lose the house in Scotts Valley? Should we try and look for a new house, or wait a few years to sell, and look again later? Bill our real estate agent seemed to think that we had nothing to worry about, and that we could sell our house within the 14 days. We already had an open house that Sunday, so we rushed back early to San Jose for our first Open House. I quickly cleaned and vacuumed to make the house as pretty as possible, and there it began. Open House where strangers were going to begin walking through our home; it all hit me at once quickly. Damn, this is really happening. We got our first bid 5 days later. <br />
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The days proceeding were days of much contemplation of sitting in my jacuzzi, thinking of how much I wanted to move, and how much I didn't. It was really happening. It was time to think of gathering moving boxes and actually pack. How were we going to manage to do that in 14 days? Matt was getting married in DC in September, and if all went as planned we would have to move everything the week we would be coming home. It seemed impossible, and Rich seemed a little irritated each time he saw me pack another box up. <br />
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"You know it is a little early to do that." <br />
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It wasn't. My mind had already been set that it was going to happen, and the last thing I needed was for anyone to tell me that it might not. I was already driving Nicholas over the hill to Scotts Valley each morning for school. This was going to happen; no matter how long it took for the buyers of our home to sign the papers. Our agent was getting nervous that things were not being signed on time on the other end. I was getting nervous, Rich was getting nervous, Mary our neighbor was getting nervous about the people moving in. Were they going to take care of the lawn as well as we did? Would they love our house just as much as we do/did. With each box I taped up and boxed, I was already slowly starting to disassociate myself from the house. I was packing, and I was going to continue to pack. Rich seemed to just think everything would pack itself. No worries though because I proved him wrong very quickly. <br />
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After a mix of happy but stressful "before wedding" and "after wedding" situations, which I will not go into now, we got back from our whirlwind 4 day trip to DC to arrive home with a two day window. We arrived home on a Tuesday evening, and we had to be out and in our new house on Thursday. Hello! I saw the first look of urgency in Rich's face. Yes, it was actually happening. A white moving truck was in our driveway with 6 or 7 men and they were there to move my house to another home. From the looks of them, I would have never guessed how strong these guys were; despite their size they were holding 100 lbs on their shoulders. My house of 14 years was moved in a matter of only hours. On Thursday night we found ourselves sleeping in another home in our bed, and we awoke to the sound of woodland creatures. They were sounds that I had never heard of since my girl scout days of long ago from camping outside. I heard owls, hawks, and sounds of squabbling squirrels; all seemingly calling out to me, as if they were saying, "hello, lady, welcome to the forest..." <br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-85402795684151430252017-02-28T08:41:00.002-08:002017-02-28T08:42:57.567-08:00Early Morning Phone Calls<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting" style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">
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Is dealing with insurance companies a pain for everyone, or have I been cursed? I was on the phone yesterday with my new dental insurance for a solid hour--luckily the problem was resolved to my favor at the end...BUT it was for something that shouldn't have been an issue in the first place! Grrr...<br />
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I just got a follow up call from "Kyle" (at 8:04 am-gee thanks) who informed me that m six month waiting period was "waived". Thank you, Kyle, but that six month waiting period should have never been there in the first place! I had dental insurance before-I've had it for years! Thankfully I still had Rich's email with all the information from the previous policy..otherwise I'd be tearing up drawers and cabinets. I just can't believe how unknowledgeable these customer service agents really are.<br />
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Why am I writing this in a blog?<br />
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Well I could easily just write this in a post on FB but I don't think anyone particularly wants to hear about my insurance struggles. I seriously doubt anyone is going to read this post either, (most of my followers are not on Blogger anymore, at least I don' think so anyway. Please leave a comment if you happen to be. <br />
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I should be writing free style at least 20 minutes a day just to get me back in the writing mindset, and I really do miss writing daily on a blog. Which brings me to another subject--my writing class! It resumes this Thursday at 9 am, and I have a publishing class right after. I was reminded by this morning, at 8:02 am by my teacher with a quick call this morning. Gee, that was nice of her to call to remind me. I'm sure she called to remind everyone, I hope. The majority of the class or retired senior citizens, perhaps that's why she called, and not because I missed a class, and then there was a "break" last week for President's Day.<br />
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So...that's two phone calls, and it's not even 8:30 am yet. I'm predicting that another call will be coming in shortly--probably from mother. I sure hope her cough medicine is ready for pick up. Because I would really hate to call the Safeway pharmacy again, and her doctor nurses. I called them twice yesterday for this codeine syrup that is supposedly "addictive". Why on Earth would a doctor prescribe this medicine if it was so highly addictive in the first place is beyond me, but why it's such a problem is another. My mother hasn't asked for a refill in over 2 years-doesn't sound like she has a problem with it, does it?<br />
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If it's not the cough medicine, my mother may be calling about the new oven she wants to buy at Sears. Sale ends today. She had 28 days in February, but today would be the day she would want to buy an oven. If I do have to drive down to Santa Cruz I'll make sure to leave off a plate of malasadas for her, although I don't think it's the best thing for an 80 something woman who has diabetes should consume. May be I'll only bring a few--no need to give the ants around her house another excuse for a visit.<br />
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Right now I'll just relax at my computer until the next phone call erupts. I'm perfectly content sitting hear with my little dog on my lap.<br />
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Well, I think I'll return and work on my novel now. Yes, my novel. I'm finally getting serious with my writing. It was a nice visit back to Blogger-and I will be back.<br />
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Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-86347211869276153782016-08-01T11:19:00.001-07:002016-08-06T09:15:13.531-07:00Linda Vista Moved To Private<br />
I have FINALLY moved the rough draft writings of Linda Vista to a private blog! Changing it to private is something I've been wanting to do for quite some time, but of course, I had put it off for weeks; seriously, months.<br />
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The thought of having it out in public, NAKED has started to bother me for a number of reasons, and by scanning over just some of the entries (I have about 21 so far) I have noticed already that there is A LOT of things that need to be edited and changed. It's NOT READY to be shown to the world just yet--even if the audience is pretty nonexistent at this point. <br />
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So...if you are looking for more adventures of Linda...you shall have to wait. Julie needs to get her act together in the time being and really commit herself to this writing project. Things have to get serious on her part. Don't worry--Linda Vista is STILL in the works... <br />
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Game on!! <br />
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:) Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-22048390264730538702014-10-24T22:30:00.003-07:002014-10-27T10:27:41.828-07:00A Visit From A British Soldier; Vila Nova, Terceira<br />
This entry is dedicated to my aunt, Aida Adelaide, my mother's sister who happens to celebrate a birthday this month. This evening at dinner, my mother told me the following story about when the British military was stationed on the island. The story was brought on about the real butter I had on the table, and the invention of margarine of all things. The history of margarine, sparked a memory in my mother, and although I've heard the story may be once or twice before, tonight I listened a little more carefully. It is a touching story, I hope you enjoy it. Happy Birthday Tia Aidinha!!<br />
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During WW II, in 1943 the Royal Air Force was stationed on the island of Terceira, Azores. <br />
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My mother who was a child back then, still remembers their presence on the island. She remembers that although it was a scary time, the British military brought a positive presence, and she felt safe knowing that some of them were stationed in her village. She had heard stories of Hitler and the war, the rationing, and the military war planes noisily flying overhead her island. Her father had even instructed her and her sister where to hide if Hitler and the Germans were to come to the island. It was a scary and uncertain time, but every now and then, there would be a British solider who would walk down the street, or drive by in a military vehicle. The vehicle would stop and soldiers come out and would often say hello to the children. They would greet my mother and her friends with lollipops and candy bars. Their little faces had no doubt reminded them of possibly their own children, or younger brothers and sisters who were waiting for their return back home. <br />
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On one occasion, as my mother made her way to her uncle's home, a large military vehicle carrying a cannon came driving towards her. My mother remembers being so frightened she stopped frozen on the street in fear. The driver must have noticed her reaction. The vehicle stopped, and out of the vehicle stood a tall young man, with light blue eyes and a broad smile on his face. He presented my mother with the biggest chocolate bar out of his front pocket. It was the biggest candy bar she had ever seen in her life! She joyfully took the candy bar, and ran home to show her parents. Unfortunately to her dismay, she had to share it with her younger sister. <br />
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There were a number of soldiers that were stationed up the street from her uncle's home in Vila Nova, Terceira, and they would often come down the street in the early evenings to socialize at a small cafe/cantina near her uncle's home. They would gather there to drink and to play cards and converse among themselves, and try to communicate with the other men from the village. As the evenings progressed, their voices and laughter would progress to get louder, and sometimes, on occasion, a few proved to drink a little too much. At those times, the soldiers' laughter would soon turn into tears as their conversations turned to their loved ones waiting in England, fellow soldiers, and the stories and struggles of the war. Although most of the people who lived in the village did not understand their words, their emotions and expressions of sorrow and "saudade"needed no translation. <br />
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On one particular day, my grandfather was out and about carrying my aunt in his arms. My grandfather noticed a soldier stopping on the street to admire the little toddler. She may have been only 3 or 4 years old at the time. My aunt had light hair, with blue eyes and the vision of her apparently touched him deeply. My grandfather felt a little weary with his stares, but after a short time the soldier came up to him, with tears in his eyes, explaining to my grandfather how much his daughter reminded him of his own. A few days later, the soldier came up to my grandfather, and asked if there was any possibly way he could see my aunt one night as she lay sleeping. <br />
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My grandfather was so touched by the soldier's sincere words, he felt he had an obligation as a father to help. That evening he came home and told my grandmother what had happened. Although my grandmother was hesitant about it, she soon found herself touched by the story of the soldier and she readily agreed to help. The next evening, my grandmother purposely put the best crocheted linens on the bed, and dressed her youngest daughter in her best night gown. My aunt Aida had no idea what was going on, and quickly fell asleep. While she lay there sleeping, my grandmother carefully combed her light hair to the side, and pinned a pretty pink ribbon. <br />
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My mother remembers this day like it was yesterday, and recalled how confused she felt. She did not understand why a British soldier was coming by to see her sister. Would he bring her more chocolate? Did he want to steal her baby sister away? Nervously she waited until the soldier finally arrived at the door. My grandfather opened the door, and quietly led him into the house, to where my mom and her mother stood, near the bed where my aunt lay peacefully sleeping. He carried no chocolates in his pockets, but the expression on his face, brought tears to my grandmother's eyes.<br />
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The soldier stood there above the bed for a little while. He smiled at the little girl, as he mumbled a few words in English to himself. He knelt down, and stroked her check carefully with his finger, and then arose from the bed, smiled again, and mumbled a few words in English once more, wiping a tear off of his own cheek. The soldier then quietly left the house in silence and a few muffled words, perhaps trying to communicate to my grandparents his thank you. My grandparents followed him out the door, and watched him make his way on the road, sympathetically. The soldier then turned around to them, and waved a goodbye to my mother at the window. <br />
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My mother wondered if the British soldier would ever return to visit them again, but he never did. Years later another soldier would come, during another war, and from a different country. That American soldier would later be my father.<br />
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Below you can see a movie on You Tube from 1943, when England set military base in Terceira. The video does not say which island they were occupied on--just "The Azores".<br />
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<a href="http://<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/BV972JOzp_g" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/BV972JOzp_g" width="420"></iframe></a><br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-27787378134677806312014-10-10T17:24:00.003-07:002014-10-10T17:28:19.991-07:00I Don't Miss ItIt's been about 3 months since I resigned from working at my former place of employment, and I must say, I'm finally adjusting to it. Frankly, I can't believe it's been already over 3 months! It seems like a month at most! I've been keeping myself so busy, and time is just flying by.<br />
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The first month out of work was strange. I felt like I was just taking a long vacation from the office. I was still getting questions from work via email. I still had email access to my former employment. People were actually requesting me to run CII reports, or change cases, and I would respond telling them I no longer worked there. Yes, I didn't work there anymore! Why are you asking me this? Because of this, it all seemed unreal to me. I still felt "connected" to the office in a weird, ghostly way. Of course I had mixed feelings about it. I wanted to be there for the person I had trained before I left, but at the same time, I felt angry. I felt like I was still being taken advantage of by my employer, and I wasn't being paid for my time regardless. <br />
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When the second month came around, I asked to be taken off the email, and I requested not to be contacted again. I felt a little badly for the new person, but the cord had to be broken. This was all too ridiculous. At this point this had to end! I confess that I missed checking the email. The connection I had to a place I had invested over 26+ years of employment was now gone. It was bittersweet, but, it was finally over. <br />
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By the end of the 2nd month, I finally met up with a friend from work. I've worked with this particular friend since she first starting working for the county, about 24 years. She is one of the very few friends from work that has not yet retired since I started working there. Naturally, I do miss not seeing her every day at work. We would share our frustrations of the work place during the week, while walking around the office by the river. I missed our walks and friendship. We decided to meet up for another walk. <br />
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I purposefully suggested that we have a walk near the ocean. It was a beautiful September day, and it was a perfect excuse not to walk around the river, near the office. I have no desire to "bump" into any supervisor or any member of management on a walk. I guess I'm still angry, and I believe I do have a reason for feeling that way. I was not in the mood for nice, fake small talk to anyone of those idiots. She luckily agreed to a walk near the ocean, which I was very grateful, especially when I drove into the office parking lot I felt a knot in my stomach. Ugg. I was very grateful that she was already waiting outside. <br />
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We had a nice, informative walk. The sky was beautiful, and the surfers were out in the ocean, and people were walking their dogs and enjoying the day. My friend told me of all the happenings and going ons around the office since I had made my "surprise" departure. Apparently, the office hasn't fallen apart yet since, but they are weeks and weeks behind in work. The girl I had trained my position was moved to a different office and doing other work. She in turn trained a new person, whom apparently was a transfer from another department, who was taking a lot of vacation time off, so the work was even more behind, and she really didn't know what the hell she was doing, but she was slowly accomplishing it. Other parts of "my former job duties" had been reimbursed to aids, and other people who were none to happy. My former supervisor asked my friend, to ask me if I was willing to come in a few days to "catch up". I laughed. I guess my former supervisor was too embarrassed to call me personally. I hope she doesn't call. I relayed to my friend to tell her I thought that was very funny. <br />
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We walked back to my car, and I dropped off my friend at the parking lot at my former work place. I cannot tell you how happy I felt to actually drive out of there one more time. I probably will go back again because of my friend, but the thought of walking inside that building makes my stomach ache. I like my "new work place" a lot better. It's home. <br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-35860485395231955492014-09-30T20:25:00.000-07:002014-09-30T20:25:17.859-07:00Just putting it out there...Although I publish most of what I write on here, there have been some recent entries that I have chosen not to share on social media, namely, Facebook.<br />
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I'm not sure of who actually subscribes to this blog, if any. (I've noticed that most of the people that I have followed in the past, have not been submitting entries. For some bloggers it has been literally years.) So this may be seen by only a few or a dozen people. It really doesn't matter. Because of the sensitive and personal material, I'm not sharing publicly for a number of reasons, that I will not disclose, but at the same time, I'm not going to make any excuses for not expressing myself on my blog. <br />
<br />
The last thing I want to do is humiliate or offend anyone. I'm writing entries for myself; no one else. <br />
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Take it or leave it… Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-55545518308484432412014-09-30T20:14:00.002-07:002014-09-30T20:14:34.083-07:00Flat TireOn some days, I just feel flat. I feel deflated, and light-headed. It as if someone just let out all the air out of me, and I'm just beyond tired. I've been feeling this way for the past few days, and I think my body is really just trying to fight off a cold. <br />
<br />
I think my car is too. <br />
<br />
There is nothing more aggravating than driving around town, doing errands when you see that signal on your dashboard telling you that you have a tire that is losing air pressure. Lovely. The first thing I immediately picture in my mind is being stuck on the side of the road, unable to go to all the places I need to be. Luckily I made it home, and had enough air pressure to finish what I was doing and safely park my car in my garage. I know how you feel, dear Bleu. (Yes, I named my car Bleu, because it's the color blue.)<br />
<br />
Poor Bleu has been working overtime. Sure he isn't driving over Hwy 17 as much as he was now that I'm not working, but boy, he has been busy. I've taken him to San Francisco, and a not very pleasant trip to Oakland quite recently. I don't know my way around the city very well, and poor Bleu has been honked at a few times, and been scared trying to follow instructions around the scary streets of Oakland. So, fortunately, Bleu lost tire pressure a mile from home, and not on Telegraph Hill Rd---for this I'm very grateful indeed. <br />
<br />
I've only have had experienced that scenario once before, years and years ago, (knock on wood) with two young children in a car full of groceries, on the side of the road with a flat, with no cell phone. A nice woman on the road stopped in front of me, on the side of the highway, and let me use her phone. I was so grateful, but embarrassed. I tried to quietly explain to the husband (ex) at home my unfortunate dilemma. He was none too happy he had to leave and come to my rescue. He was having far too much fun in front of the computer screen, chatting with some woman on Portuguese Chat. <br />
<br />
It was on that day, driving back home, I realized (again-I had been in denial for years) that I had a much bigger problem than just a flat tire. Sure, the husband (ex) eventually showed up, changed the tire, and put on the spare, (cursing under his breath the whole entire time) but that was just a band aid to a much bigger problem. After a tearful drive home, the groceries were put away. The kids were fed, and I watched them hoping they would be too young to remember what a terrible afternoon it had been. I could overhear him laughing again in front of the computer screen. Things were back to "normal". Normally dysfunctional. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the best way to take off a band aid is to do it quickly. It is so much worse than pulling it off slowly. It had to happen eventually. I was losing air and I was suffocating. Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-8389068766864566102014-09-08T19:22:00.001-07:002014-09-08T19:25:49.250-07:00Voices Unheard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
one bruised arm<br />
one black eye<br />
one more walk into the door<br />
broken dishes on the floor<br />
i tried to hide<br />
and i lied<br />
but honey there isn't enough Cover Girl in the world<br />
that can cover<br />
this or shut the voices<br />
inside<br />
<br />
another bruised arm<br />
another black eye<br />
another excuse<br />
not to run<br />
push it away that glass of red wine<br />
cleaning off the stain<br />
from my face<br />
broken pieces strewn across<br />
leave without a trace<br />
hide the evidence<br />
<br />
one loud shrill<br />
one loud crash<br />
one little girl holding a suitcase<br />
i'm shouting down the hall<br />
loading up the car<br />
and my soul<br />
with what is left<br />
what was always there<br />
left unkept and silent<br />
far too many years<br />
<br />
open up the box<br />
open up the book<br />
let the moths fly out<br />
I lost the ring<br />
I buried it<br />
I burnt it<br />
with the letters and denial<br />
let the voices attest<br />
My Lady you have heard me<br />
how I prayed and cried<br />
I tried until<br />
the door finally swung open<br />
and the lights inside<br />
sang with loud voices<br />
I could not deny<br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-80271869682513509002014-09-07T10:11:00.000-07:002014-09-07T10:41:28.568-07:00Things That Chirp In The Night...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Awhile ago, my mother called me at work with a problem.<br />
<br />
"Julie, I have a problem. There is a sound in my house, and I haven't been able to sleep the last two days."<br />
<br />
"What kind of sound?"<br />
<br />
My mother went on to explain that it sounded like a cricket, but she wasn't sure, because the "grilos (crickets) in Terceira (Azores) sounded different." I joked with her and pointed out, that all crickets "spoke" the same language of course, but my mother didn't think it was funny at least. She wasn't able to sleep and she was exhausted.<br />
<br />
She tried everything. She looked all over the house looking for this "bicho" (bug) but was not successful. She checked the windows, the door ways, the vents in the heater, and the attic. She turned on the vacuum cleaner some nights hoping to scare off the little critter, but with little success. According to her, it would stop for a few minutes, and as soon as she put the vacuum away, it would start again. The sound proceeded to taunt her throughout the evening. Even with the pillow over her head, did not prevent the sound from keeping her awake. She was always afraid that she would awake with a cricket next to her pillow. It was driving her crazy, and praying on her rosary was the only thing she could do to help her sleep a few hours. <br />
<br />
I went over to her house that day to check it out, and honestly, I heard nothing. She told me, "It only comes out at night, right when I fall asleep. It knows." <br />
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Lovely. Was my mother going completely crazy? "It knows." I questioned my mother's sanity for a moment, and wondered if I should just spend the night to hear this "cricket" for myself. I continued to reassure her that it was probably just a cricket, and it couldn't hurt her, but that really didn't ease her concern. She was afraid it was something else, perhaps "something more dangerous." She went on to say that she would ask my older brother to check it out, because in her words, it was more of a job for "a man" and I let go the responsibility cheerfully. In the meantime, she would continue to sleep with a flashlight and her "nervous pills" close by along with her white crackers, and 7UP.<br />
<br />
A few nights later, my dog, Max started to bark for no known reason. It was then I heard a sound coming from the hallway. It was a small little beep sound. Hmm..I wondered, what could that be? I thought it might be one of the older kids who just got home, or my youngest was still awake and playing a video game. I got up from bed to investigate. <br />
<br />
At first, I didn't know what it was or where it was coming from. I checked the bedrooms, and all the kids were home and asleep. I just happened to look up, when I heard the sound, and saw a green light coming from the the fire alarm detector. Of course, Max was following me through the house and helping with my "investigation" barking nonstop each time the thing beeped, which alerted my husband, who proceeded to take it down from the ceiling. <br />
<br />
My husband reassured me that it was probably a dying battery that was setting it off, but of course we checked the house for smoke, and fortunately didn't find any. It was after we went back to bed I realized that the beeping sound could be the same chirping sound that was keeping my mother up all night for the last week. <br />
<br />
The next day I called my mother and asked her how she slept last night. She told me that my brother did not find where the sound was coming from and she had another sleepless night. I told her about what happened to us the night before, and she didn't seem to believe, it was coming from her fire alarm, but was hopeful that it was.<br />
<br />
"Ah Julie, nao e possivel….mas vem ca e ver!"<br />
<br />
In other words, Julie it's not possible, but come and see!<br />
<br />
I drove over to investigate. The last thing I wanted was my mother climbing on a chair and trying to take the alarm down by herself, and break a hip. When I arrived, my mother followed me into the hallway near the kitchen where her alarm was on the ceiling. She already had the chair sitting directly underneath the alarm. I got there just in time. <br />
<br />
"It's not making any noise now!" my mother explained. "It only comes out at night!"<br />
<br />
I got on the chair and twisted the alarm off and pressed the button. <br />
<br />
"BEEP"<br />
<br />
I looked down at my mother. <br />
<br />
"Is that the sound you have been hearing?" <br />
<br />
My mother crossed herself and smiled. I proceeded to pop in a new battery in the alarm, and twisted it back into the ceiling.<br />
<br />
It was kind of strange that the batteries in my own fire alarm happened to get weak the same time my mother's, but somethings in life are just unexplainable. Operation "cricket" was successful and my mother finally enjoyed a restful sleep, and was able to put away the vacuum cleaner and flashlight, and that is all that mattered.<br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-66281664949266954782014-07-24T18:20:00.000-07:002014-07-24T18:20:00.450-07:00Bye, Bye….. I took the link of my former employer's email off my computer. It was book marked, but I deleted it. It's gone. Now I won't be tempted to check the email to answer more questions. <br />
<br />
The questions haven't stopped, but they are getting less involved, so I think it's going to be okay. (Why should I care---I'm angry with myself for caring so much.) Hopefully now they will get the hint and know I'm not available. They will probably resort to calling me on the phone. I have vowed to myself not to answer their calls. (Thank God for call screening.) I haven't been an employee for the last 2 weeks, and I'm not getting paid for this. It's really not suitable for me to be available to them now. I wrote a fricken manual people…read it!<br />
<br />
You can ring my bell, but I'm not picking up.<br />
<br />
I also quit selling Avon.<br />
<br />
I'm on a quitting spree. Avon is robbing me blind, and I'm their best customer. After announcing my termination from being an Avon lady, I've gotten two calls. One from Avon in Pasadena--from a very annoying person who was being very overly concerned with my welfare, and wanted to know "why I was quitting, because I was doing so well.." I was doing so well? Really? In what way? Paying for all the mistakes and overcharges for the products I bought? Oh please. They wouldn't let me return products, nor did they do price adjustments for me. I was making no money whatsoever-Avon was---so of course they are "sorry to see me go". Then I got a very annoying call from a woman named Jennifer who works from the local office. I've never met Jennifer, and I'm sure she is a very nice person, but I will not miss her annoying emails. She would send an email almost every day, and if I was late for a campaign, I would get phone calls. She called me this time with a not so very chirpy voice, wondering who I was going to refer my customers. Gee, lady, I can count all my customers in one hand. No one is going to die because they can't order their mascara from me this month. <br />
<br />
Ding Dong…this Avon lady is done.<br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-86647620278818846702014-07-20T16:55:00.001-07:002014-07-20T17:09:44.687-07:00Extended VacationIt's been a week since my last day at work, and how does it feel? Basically, it feels like I've been on vacation for a week. <br />
<br />
It's been a busy week. Last Monday I took my mother to a doctor's appointment, to lunch, and I took my son to the beach. On Tuesday I went grocery shopping, and went swimming with my son. On Wednesday, we went to an amusement park. On Thursday there were more errands and afterwards, we went swimming. On Friday, we went to the zoo and met up with some family relatives in San Francisco. On Saturday, we stayed home, went swimming. In the evening we celebrated my husband's birthday. <br />
<br />
Today I stayed home recovering from a little accident I had in the parking lot from the night before. Without disclosing too much information, and without risking me sound really stupid, I wasn't paying attention, (neither was my husband) and we left the parking lot without thinking. I swear--I did not see the "arm" come down on my head when exiting the lot. No, there was no alcohol involved in that unfortunate accident. Yes, I have a very small bump on my head. <br />
<br />
I had to remind myself what day it was today. I'm afraid the days are just melting into the next right now, which actually is a good thing. I'm on vacation mode, and the next week ahead has already been planned with more exciting and fun events. After all, it IS summer vacation, right?<br />
<br />
I won't be going to work tomorrow, or the next day…or the next. But that doesn't necessarily mean that I won't get an email or two from work. My former employer has not taken me off the mailing list so I still have access. I'm guessing they are prolonging my access so the person I trained to do my job can email me with more questions. True, I'd rather answer an email than answer the phone, but at the same time, I'd rather not have either. <br />
<br />
I think it's time to cut the cord. <br />
<br />
I'm not getting paid to answer any questions. I really don't want to invest any more time to "that place", but there is a little tinge of curiosity that lingers. How is this person going to know how to do my job, and do it correctly? I shouldn't even care, but at the same time, I feel like I'm leaving "my baby" since I basically had to "learn" my job as I went for years, without anyone to ask questions to. No one there exactly knows what my job entailed, and no one cared to. After all, it was a clerical position. Who wants to know what I do? No one. Perhaps management will now have to investigate. I should have taken all the manuals I typed up and threw them all in the river. It isn't the new person's fault, so she is not the one to blame, but at the same time, it certainly isn't my problem; not anymore. <br />
<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-8017040287903857382014-06-29T10:24:00.000-07:002014-06-29T10:24:46.524-07:00Snap, Crackle….POP!I'm not the kind of person that just "quits" at anything. No matter how predictable the storyline is, I have to finish reading the book, even though I know there is no happy ending. I will be the last person in the stands until the game is over, and the one at the stage at the end of the concert. Forever hopeful, I'm the person who is always waiting or expecting a miracle. Sometimes I get what I'm waiting for, but most times I don't.<br />
<br />
I always hear, if you don't expect much in life, you'll never be disappointed. Life would be so much easier if I followed that rule. I'm just your everyday, happy go lucky, positive person. If I do well, and do my job correctly, I will be noticed and rewarded. I will win friends, and earn their respect. I'm a "people pleasing" kind of gal.<br />
<br />
My father used to always say this phrase, "You are only helping yourself." I often wonder what the meaning was behind that saying. It puzzled me as a child, and I still don't understand it today. I know he was trying to inspire me in some way or offer some wise advice. Was it not to please others before yourself? I'm not sure, and I can't ask him now.<br />
<br />
I put in 110% into my work everyday. I leave my office with a clean desk each night knowing that I've worked an honest day. Anyone who knows me, will tell you how rarely I say the word "no". I'm a dedicated, loyal and can be trusted to work both well alone and with others. It is who I am, and how I was raised to be. I guess this can all be interpreted to some people as being a fool, a sign of weakness, and to others, I am someone to be taken advantage of. I can accept that.<br />
<br />
BUT…<br />
<br />
If you choose to test me, wind me up, and stretch me out like and old, worn rubber band, I will eventually SNAP! <br />
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Take advantage of my dedication, loyalty and trust, and I will CRACKLE!<br />
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Punish for me for doing my job too well, and I will POP!<br />
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What was that sound? <br />
<br />
I think someone just shot himself in the foot.<br />
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<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-64759114654771243782014-06-14T21:18:00.002-07:002014-06-14T21:32:44.408-07:00Lady Jams I have a new office. It's great--mostly because it's nice, new and quiet, and away from most of the activity upstairs. This all means I don't have to over hear conversations involving clients, (which depress me) smelly people and burnt popcorn from the microwave. It also means that on many occasions, I have the entire office to myself--right near the front door, near my car, next to the exit, and across from the bathroom. Oh, and I also have my own window! It's pretty perfect and I cannot complain. <br />
<br />
Well today was one of those glorious days! I had the whole office to myself! Hurray! It was all nice and dandy at first, but after a few hours of working in silence, it became a little too quiet. I reached for my radio. Unfortunately, my crappy old, radio does not get good reception in the building, so I only had one radio station option. It was the radio station from the university, and it was the morning segment of "Lady Jams". Lovely. I was listening to a combination of tunes sung by only women artists including, Doris Day, Aretha Franklin, Mariah Carey and Cher. It was entertaining, but at the same time I was glad none of my co-workers upstairs came down to hear what I was listening to; it was a strange and bizarre combination of music from the early 1940's to the early 90's. The student DJ sounded like she was high on something. <br />
<br />
After a few hours of "Lady Jams", my radio reception became all together nonexistent. There is no good explanation of why this happens in this building. Radio station reception in this building always seems to get "interrupted" along with the heat and cooling system. I'm either freezing cold, or burning, with good radio reception, or none at all. (I'm pretty sure this building is haunted-but that is another story I will have to write about at another time.) In haste, I continued to search for another station, but came up empty. <br />
<br />
I then remembered the cassette tape. Yes, my radio has a cassette player--it's that old. This cassette tape had been in this radio un-played for years. I was unsure if it even worked anymore. It was a tape I had made from some of my all time favorite tunes. We are talking about music from the 90's, early 2000's when I still recorded music on tapes. There I was newly, separated/divorced, with nothing better to do. I was suddenly re-living my lonely teenage years. I was recording sad songs on cassette tapes on lonely Saturday nights, singing along to them in a dark living room. <br />
<br />
Yes, those days were hard. Sometimes, back then the only thing that helped was listening, and making my own "Lady Jams". These "jams" included a little of Alanis Morrisette, Sheryl Crowe and some Natalie Imbruglia, to name just a few. They were all songs I could relate to at the time, involving cheating husbands, and jaded love. As I hit the play button, those years came to live again. Their words full of memories of melodies flooded the office and through my mind. Paula Cole was on there singing, "Me". It was like opening a lost and forgotten treasure chest to my past. <br />
<br />
I went on to the piles of files on my desk, listening and remembering. I chuckled to myself, and I was surprised that I still new the words. It's really interesting looking back on those days. The songs that I recorded at the time reflected where my life was at that moment. My life back then was so much different than what it was today. Sure it was sad, and scary back then, but it was also an exciting time of my life. I was finally "free" from an unhealthy relationship. I was in control now; no more excuses, no more hiding. I was on my own for the first time since I was 19 years old. Everything was different. I was ready for life to start over again at the age of 31.<br />
<br />
Happily, it did start over, but sometimes all I need is a few songs on my "Lady Jams" play list to remind myself where I was, and appreciate that life is good now. I grew up, and I'm not going back, but I can still remember.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-7793220099139165732014-03-30T13:59:00.000-07:002014-03-31T19:30:57.942-07:00VaVa'sWhen I was younger, one of my favorite things to do was go to my VaVa's (grandmother's) house. It has been years since I've been there, to that pink house, lined with pink roses on Escalona Drive, and even though I will never hear, that distinctive door bell ring again, I can still remember that low toned "ding dong" that echoed throughout that house and the memories that it held inside.<br />
<br />
I remember playing with the steel heater near the front door, the old stuffed animals she kept in the closet, and the sight of the decorative living room ceiling with the large turquoise couch, the matching chairs, and the pink rocker, and the easy chair, that my VaVa would sit in, the fireplace, with my father's military army picture, behind my Uncle Johnny's, and my aunt's graduation pictures from college sitting on top of the mantle. The console T.V. and the large ocean oil painting my Tia Edalina had painted above the couch. The dining room, decorated by various works of art in crayon by the cousins, was adjacent with the kitchen, with the pull out wood board that VaVa would knead her sweet bread on, and that red plastic cookie jar that was always filled of those Stella Dora cookies. I also remember seeing those white plastic canisters from Linda Vista market with the liver. VaVa Costa loved cookies and liver and onions.<br />
<br />
The small hallway of the house would lead to my grandmother's bedroom, the pink and blue tiled bathroom, the bigger room with the twin beds that used to be my aunt's room, and the room in the back that Uncle Johnny slept in that was usually kept shut. I remember walking into my grandmother's room which was always immaculately kept. Her dresser was always filled and decorated with various perfume bottles that never looked like they were ever opened, along little jewelry box trinkets. This image has always been with me, and my bedroom dresser today looks a lot like hers, and yes I still have those same perfume bottles of emeraud. <br />
<br />
The hallway that lead to the bedrooms had a little shelf of various knickknacks, and below it was a black phone on a little table and sit bench. Vava's phone was a party line phone, and sometimes, I would pick up the phone and hear the neighbors speaking to one another. They would hear the phone click and sometimes say, "Oh, that must be one of the Costa grandchildren on the other line…" I would quickly hang up afterwards, but sometimes they wouldn't hear the click, and sit there and I would hear about sale at the market or the dinner party someone was throwing, and try not to laugh. <br />
<br />
My favorite room however, was the twin bedroom room for it was filled of what I thought was lost treasure. The room had an old fashioned Singer sewing machine in the corner of the room, and always a baby crib at the corner for the baby cousins that would visit. The closet was filled of my aunt's old Catholic High School year books-which were interesting to look at. Everyone looked so much older, and all the teachers were very stern looking nuns. There were also boxes and boxes of black and white portraits pictures of long lost relatives wearing funny hats, and my aunt's old hoop 1950 hoop skirts. I could spend hours looking through that closet. The twin room was almost as interesting as the garage.<br />
<br />
The garage was another place I would to look and explore; filled with rusty old tools that were left untouched for years since the passing of my VaVo (grandfather) who I never met. I would sometimes imagine, when playing there, that he was there, as I touched his old tools, and looked into his old steel tool boxes. I would clang and make noise to pretend to play "mechanic" with big, old wrenches. The neighbor across the street rented some of the space and stored boxes in it, which included boxes of old Playboy magazines. How scandalous that was! Who knew the dad across the street that we saw in church every Sunday read and looked at that. Interesting. I don't think he thought we Costa grandchildren would find it, but it was discovered by most of us-of course we never dared to tell anyone. It did leave us to wonder if his wife knew. How scandalous. I don't think VaVa Costa knew. She would not have approved!<br />
<br />
My grandmother's backyard was filled with bushes of hydrangea flowers, that grew along the entire fence line, lawn and on the other side there was a vine that sometimes produced the most sweetest of black grapes. Her next door neighbor had an instructional swimming pool, and I would often look through the holes of the fence to see the whimsical float toys surrounding the pool, and the smell of the chlorine sifted through. <br />
<br />
The most interesting part of the backyard however was the door that lead to underneath the house. There was enough crawl space there to walk around, and that is where my VaVa, who loved to garden, kept some of her garden tools, along with other boxes of books. It was also another storage area, and that is where my parents kept my brother Edwin's car. It was one of those cars you could actually could sit in and kick with your feet---like a Fred Flintstone car. I never dared to go near it not because I thought it was haunted or covered with spider webs, but more because it was too special. I would look at it only from a distance, and try to envision a brother I only knew from old black and white photographs, drive it down the sidewalk.<br />
<br />
After weekend dinners, which usually included ham and Lawrence Welk T.V. programs, I remember pleading with my parents to spend the night. If my VaVa was feeling well, they would always say yes. They would pick me up the next morning, after a breakfast of eggs and bacon. I remember saying goodbye to them as they drove away at the window above the steel heater. I would later settle into one of the twin beds, and after a goodnight kiss from my VaVa I would close my eyes and listen to her pray on her rosary in Portuguese. Hearing VaVa's repetitive prayers coming out of her bedroom, down the hallway gave me comfort and always lulled me quickly to sleep. Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-23743190143549973942014-02-04T18:51:00.001-08:002014-02-04T19:31:34.618-08:00Where's My Egg McMuffin?A receptionist tells her boss that she is going out for a morning break to get something to eat around the corner. The boss is hungry too, so hands her a $5 bill to get something for himself. That was at around 10 am. A few hours later, the boss is still sitting there at the reception desk taking calls, with his stomach grumbling with hunger. No egg mc muffin, and no receptionist. Without any explanation to why, at the end of the day it becomes quite apparent that the receptionist was not coming back. Days pass, and weeks, still no word of the missing receptionist. <br />
<br />
Was she abducted by aliens, kidnapped, or may be she got picked up on a warrant? No one knows. I really shouldn't assume, she just took the money and made a run for it. From what? To what? <br />
<br />
We may never know. It really isn't that important. Sadly. <br />
<br />
I often wonder to myself (more than usual, the past few years) what would happen if I just left my job. Of course, I wouldn't leave with my boss' money promising to return with an egg mc muffin. No matter how tempting it would be, I wouldn't do it that way. I would do the right thing and give my two weeks notice. I'm pretty predictable and responsible that way. If I just picked up and left people would say, "Gee, that is so out of character of Julie to just leave like that. She must be going through a mid-life crisis, or may be she dropped dead." There would be some confusion, and people would talk about me for a few weeks, may be a few months, but eventually they would just stick another poor soul at my desk, and life would go on. <br />
<br />
Sadly, no matter how much you think you are irreplaceable at work, you really are. Work goes on, just like life. The office won't stop without you. You can get an egg mc muffin at almost any street corner. Don't wait for the receptionist. Go get it yourself. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-91780834549588721972013-10-22T03:09:00.002-07:002013-10-22T10:05:09.613-07:00Do You Really Want To Know..... Well, you think you KNOW someone...<br />
<br />
People change as they get older. SHOCKER... <br />
<br />
I'm finding this true with people from my past, especially with childhood friends. In all fairness, I sincerely doubt I knew them well enough. When do people really truly know themselves? <br />
<br />
There was one girl, a childhood friend that could do no wrong. My parents would use her as an example of good behavior. Roxanne (not her real name) could do no wrong. Roxanne was always at church every Sunday, and unlike myself, wore a smile because she sincerely wanted to be there. She always did well in school, and was always on her best behavior. Yes, I did resent her perfection. We all slip once in awhile though.... No we aren't made to be perfect; that would not be fair. <br />
<br />
Then there was Pedro, (not his real name) who was the boy next door. He was a good boy, handsome, funny; but may be too good. His dad called my mom one afternoon, and asked if he could call me on the phone. A real, good, old-fashioned, Portuguese-American boy, who spoke not a word of Portuguese. He didn't even know how to pronounce his first or last name the correct way, but he he knew how to be a gentleman. His hair was perfect, and his preppy clothes were always neatly pressed, may be a little too well... <br />
<br />
All I have to say is, watch out for the quiet ones. Later in life they may explode with loud bangs of unexpected behavior and become what you may consider unruly. Well Roxanne and Pedro did surprise me, and a lot of other people. It doesn't matter what they did-I'm not going to explain it here. Good for them. Perfection is over rated. We are human and we are made to make mistakes. (Yes I got that line from a Human League song if you are wondering why that sounds so familiar, but of course you wouldn't know that if you aren't a kid from the 80's.)<br />
<br />
I realize that I may be considered as one of the "quiet ones". If I do anything out of character, just know, I tend to release my energy (restrained good girl sense) in little spurts at times, and these little episodes may lead to disappointment or unexpected gratitude. I'm here to keep life interesting, if not for you, may be just for myself. When we get older "appearances" don't seem to matter much. However, please do restrain me if you think it necessary. <br />
<br />
Thank you. It's 3 a.m. and I can't sleep, so none of this is going to make sense!!! Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941440508669188811.post-36480898110016893192013-10-07T14:15:00.001-07:002013-10-07T15:27:27.174-07:00My Criminal Past<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I still remember throwing that plastic baby doll through the
half open window onto the back seat of my dad’s car. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, it seems like only yesterday. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a day in my life that I could honestly say
I did the most brazen thing of my childhood. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
committed a theft! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>one of those <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>accidental thefts, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it was premeditated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It started when I
saw this particular baby doll amid the other doll displays at the
TG&Y.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rubber plastic baby
doll, wearing only a diaper, and a plastic bottle rubber banded around it’s
wrist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had a cute little pink mouth,
matching painted checks, blue eyes, and long black eyelashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to have it, but my mother thought
otherwise. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> According to my mother, I already had enough dolls that were much nicer.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the age of 5, I already had feelings of entitlement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister had one, and she never let me play
with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of this, I thought I
should have one, and I was going to make it happen, even if I had to commit a
crime to get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew what I was going
to do was wrong, but I did it anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
soon as I saw I was alone in the toy department, I reached for the doll, and
tucked it away inside my sweater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
remember walking swiftly down the aisles towards the front entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was nervous, and afraid, but there was no
turning back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I avoided all eye
contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly walked past the
cashier, and I was out the front door , and on my way towards the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember looking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>both ways before grabbing for the doll under
my sweater, and tossing it through the window, miraculously unnoticed by my
father who was sitting in the front seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t remember whether I waited there with my dad and
stolen “baby”, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or if I went back into
the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The store sold fabric, and my
mother had a tendency of spending way too much time shopping for zippers, or
buttons or mounds of polyester.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only remember
how my cover was blown on the way home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mother looked at me sitting in the backseat with the doll, and burst
out shouting in Portuguese and broken English how I must have stolen that doll
I was holding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silence had been broken,
and the car was full of mad hysteria!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
mother was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>upset, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and my father was even more upset with
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was guilt stricken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew what I did was wrong, but at that
moment the instant gratification of having something I truly wanted was fulfilled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although my father had threatened to drive
back to the TG&Y for my confession to this crime, he never did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, by the time I got home, I honestly
didn’t really want the doll anymore. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I never really played with the doll, and to tell you the
truth, I didn’t like playing with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
just brought back anxiety and the guilt of that day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each time I entered the TG&Y I wondered if
anyone had seen my crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought everyone
knew, and one day I’d be taken to jail, although it never stopped me from going
back to the doll section, or the paper doll section of the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I was never tempted to steal
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was living with enough guilt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is almost amazing that I still remember this particular
incident, and to this day, I never stole anything from a store again,
intentionally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, there was that time
as a teen that I was looking at belts, and accidently walked out of a store
holding one, and there was that one time I was looking at earrings with my
daughter, and noticed that one pair of hoops was hanging on the button of my shirt
when I got into my car, and let me not forget the one afternoon, I was walking
my cart in the parking lot at Target, when I realized that the cashier forgot
to ring up that box of dishes that I found on clearance...but other than that…ooh,
and the boob tape I was holding for my cousin for her wedding dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Okay, I may be a criminal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
confess…. </span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
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Coelha :Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15029098296256641854noreply@blogger.com0