Extended Vacation

It'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.

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.

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.

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?

 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.

I think it's time to cut the cord.

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.

Snap, 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.

 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.

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.

 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.

BUT…

If you choose to test me, wind me up, and stretch me out like and old, worn rubber band,  I will eventually SNAP!

Take advantage of my dedication, loyalty and trust, and I will CRACKLE!

Punish for me for doing my job too well, and I will POP!

What was that sound?

I think someone just shot himself in the foot.

Lady 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

VaVa's

When 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Where'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.

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?

We may never know.  It really isn't that important.  Sadly.

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.

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.

Do You Really Want To Know.....

Well, you think you KNOW someone...

People change as they get older.  SHOCKER...

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?

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.  

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...

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.)

 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.

Thank you.  It's 3 a.m. and I can't sleep, so none of this is going to make sense!!!

My Criminal Past

I still remember throwing that plastic baby doll through the half open window onto the back seat of my dad’s car.  Actually, it seems like only yesterday.  It was a day in my life that I could honestly say  I did the most brazen thing of my childhood.   I committed a theft!   It wasn’t  one of those  accidental thefts,  it was premeditated. 

It started when I saw this particular baby doll amid the other doll displays at the TG&Y.  It was a rubber plastic baby doll, wearing only a diaper, and a plastic bottle rubber banded around it’s wrist.  It had a cute little pink mouth, matching painted checks, blue eyes, and long black eyelashes.  I had to have it, but my mother thought otherwise.   According to my mother, I already had enough dolls that were much nicer.

At the age of 5, I already had feelings of entitlement.  I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t have it.  My sister had one, and she never let me play with it.  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.  I knew what I was going to do was wrong, but I did it anyway.  As soon as I saw I was alone in the toy department, I reached for the doll, and tucked it away inside my sweater.  I remember walking swiftly down the aisles towards the front entrance.  I was nervous, and afraid, but there was no turning back.  I avoided all eye contact.  I quickly walked past the cashier, and I was out the front door , and on my way towards the car.  I remember looking  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.    

I don’t remember whether I waited there with my dad and stolen “baby”,  or if I went back into the store.  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.  I only remember how my cover was blown on the way home.  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.  Silence had been broken, and the car was full of mad hysteria!  My mother was  upset,  and my father was even more upset with me.  I was guilt stricken.  I knew what I did was wrong, but at that moment the instant gratification of having something I truly wanted was fulfilled.   Although my father had threatened to drive back to the TG&Y for my confession to this crime, he never did.  However, by the time I got home, I honestly didn’t really want the doll anymore.

I never really played with the doll, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t like playing with it.  It just brought back anxiety and the guilt of that day.  Each time I entered the TG&Y I wondered if anyone had seen my crime.  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.  However, I was never tempted to steal again.  I was living with enough guilt.  

It is almost amazing that I still remember this particular incident, and to this day, I never stole anything from a store again, intentionally.  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.  Oops.  Okay, I may be a criminal.  I confess….