Football. They were arguing about American football. Cleveland Browns, to be exact.
Football. They were arguing about American football. Cleveland Browns, to be exact.
The cherry seawater might actually be killing me.
I know I said earlier I thought it was the safest bet, but my body is not appreciating the ingredients. Lately my body is cramping and my body’s waste water is reflecting signs of toxicity.
So, all things apothecary from my mother will now be treated with suspicion.
I guess it was worth the attempt of not getting sick, as well as keeping my father from being exposed to anything. I now have data to back up my general suspicions regarding my mom’s medical opinions.
One might challenge my conclusion, stating I cannot be sure the drink is causing my body’s reaction.
Well, one might be correct. Except the only thing changed in my diet was the elixir, and after one day of flushing with water I feel better. Not exactly scientific, but enough to support my already existing bias of resistance.
And it’s not like my body is a computer system, with data points collecting for me to query or analyze with any resounding conclusion. Data points would make debating about food beliefs easier, but I can’t really be sure the data wouldn’t be manipulated and changed to support any argument anyway.
As much as people try to convince me that data is immutable, cannot be changed, and thus entirely trustworthy, I will always disagree. Because data is not understood in it’s raw form, requiring human touch for meaning. And human touch is subjective, fallible, and inclined to support its own biases.
Before I jumped off a cliff, quitting Corporate America, I had been miserable in my job. Well, not entirely, let’s be honest. The structure and premise of my job was a boring enterprise, and entirely unsuited for my way of thinking.
As in the case of medium, lean-and-mean, companies I came in at one position and was allowed to grow and develop as far and as fast as I could prove myself. To a point. What started as an experiment for me, hey let’s give this a try and see where we go, became a several year process of educating myself, researching, trial-and-error, and ultimately ending up in a management position.
Of Human Resources.
Now tell me what is the image you have when you think HR Manager? Yup, me too. And totally not me in personality.
Maintaining things makes me want to scream. Files? Forget about it. Setting standard processes, and making sure they are followed? Be a damn adult already.
I don’t mean to offend anyone who enjoys it. We all have our strengths. HR Operations is not mine.
The early years were awesome, in that I charted my own course and was self-teaching in all possible categories. I learned there are some areas of HR I find interesting, namely those involving psychology or creativity (I know, die of shock) and I was reinforced in the areas that just totally suck.
During that period the company was making me an amazing cocktail of free reign potential, and I was drinking what they were selling.
But as with all things made up to be too good to be true, this potion created a toxicity in me that was impacting my very essence. I was settled into HR operations, with very little respect or acknowledgment regarding what I brought to the table.
It happens. The pat her on her head isn’t she cute, but she doesn’t really know business and isn’t she so young.
Forget I was responsible for a multi-million dollar department with a global company in my previous experience. Not bitter. Really.
Instead I fell into a pit of despair and ohmagad is this what my life is becoming mentality. I struggled daily with working in a corporate environment, which was never a goal in my non-existent plan, doing things I couldn’t stand. The toxicity was building in my body, and soon my life would be affected irreversibly.
Then things got really busy. Like implementing a new system while integrating three acquisitions busy. And for the first time in my life, I found myself more on the IT side of things, assisting with two systems and understanding large picture theories and how things would fit together.
I enjoyed myself. Despite the stress and exhaustion. And since I was intimately familiar with the systems, it was natural progression to begin data analysis for my boss.
So when things settled back down, and I was back to managing the crap (again no offense), I started looking elsewhere. Thinking maybe data analytics would be something I could really sink my teeth into.
Why not propose a new position at my current company? Because despite the explosion in revenue, it was still a lean and mean shop. A friend was working her way into the Business Analyst position, and the two separate positions were not needed.
And… despite having my boss’ full support, it was still a pat her on her head isn’t she cute she doesn’t really understand business environment. I would never be more than what I had clawed my way to being. And long periods of exposure to the potion caused a toxicity level my body couldn’t flush without full quarantine.
Several interviews and a few companies later, I came upon what I thought would be my mecca of jobs.
A company recently moved their global headquarters to Denver, and they were staffing up, creating new positions, and were rumored to be an amazing place to work.
The position read as my ideal scenario, and when I interviewed in person I could almost believe the rumors were true. The company was a case study for Organizational Psychology everywhere. The sense of support for the company was cult-like, palpable as soon as I walked in the door.
I made it pretty far in the interview process, and almost convinced myself I would have been happy there. I was sipping their tonic.
Lucky for me I didn’t get the position. Instead, life events led me to a different path. One where there is no potion and my stress level is lowest it’s been in years. My body has flushed the toxicity from my system, and I am moving forward with my complete brain rather than creating scenarios where I can be happy with only my left hemisphere working.
Of course, it may be true that I am mixing and consuming my own libation in my current endeavor of writing. Though, since it’s my potion, I’m unlikely to view any of the symptoms as toxic.
The last few days Vivian has been sick. Okay, more than a few days. Six days to be exact.
Though I am not using this as an excuse of not writing. Even though I want to.
Rather, the sickness brought all activity to a halt. Namely because she was horrible coughing, mucous oozing every where, sick. And as normal with toddlers, she was hard to contain which means germs were hard to contain.
In the best possible manner, I isolated her and me from the remaining individual in the house. I knew I was collateral damage, but it had to be stopped.
Which meant I slept on the couch near her room. Or tried to sleep. It didn’t work any of the nights I did it.
The first night was the worst.
Anyone who has an infant can tell you stories of sleeping upright while the little being in your arms attempts to breath and cough without much muscle memory to assist. If you are lucky, you own a recliner or a bed with lots of pillows. If you aren’t, sofas are the next best thing.
It was one of those nights. Vivian woke up every hour, crying and uncomfortable. Resorting to what I knew, I propped both of us up on the sofa so I could adjust and pat her as needed.
Unfortunately, Vivian is no longer 15 lbs and under 2′. She is now close to 40 lbs and more than twice my length.
Which resulted in zero snooze time for myself, my arms falling asleep due to being at odd angles while I watched my phone or tried to doze.
Several friends asked about taking Vivian to the doctor. Meh. I knew we were in day one of full symptom explosion. If night two offered zero relief, then I would consider the doctor. As I see it, Vivian’s system was doing what it is designed to do.
If we happened to get into Vivian’s doctor, he would have said meh it will be okay, it’s just a cold, here’s a flu shot for the family. No thanks.
Given the time of day, it would be an urgent care clinic which would have probably prescribed something unnecessary because I would be the upset mom who just needs something for her baby to sleep. And here’s a flu shot for the family. No thanks.
Before anyone gets in arms that I neglected my child, her fever responded to basic ibuprofen and her breathing was not labored while sleeping propped up. Please shush.
My system is another matter entirely. Namely, I am older, have more breakdown in my biology, and apparently did not develop the immune system needed to deal with petri dish explosions toddlers heap upon household heads.
Of course, getting sick was not an option for me. We are traveling to my father’s house tomorrow, in celebration of the wondrous gluttony that is a national holiday. My system needed to be the best it’s ever been.
For anyone who has travelled ill, you understand the plight. No amount of medication will ever assist when trapped in a tin can of recycled air. Of course, fellow passengers become no fans of yours either.
Secondly, my father has slid into, for a lack of better terms, elderly living. While I admit I do not age in my mind, it’s hard to deny the aging of a parent when you see them once every couple of months.
Exposing my father to anything will not do, not at all.
Lucky for me, my mother was there for the rescue. Of course, I should use quotes for lucky but I’m going to leave voice creation up to you.
Let’s lay down the background. At least once a month my mom sends me anti-vaccine information, usually surrounded with the-man-is-spending-money-hiding-this-from-you propaganda.
Everyone makes their own educated (or not so educated) decisions. I lean slightly in favor of science, so Vivian has already had her full course. However, each parent makes their own decisions.
My mother is a firm believer in supplements, organics, and has limited her diet to very little because of leaky gut syndrome (learned about online) and thyroid issues. She also enjoys her wine and eats out frequently.
I am not criticizing my mom, I have my own things to be sure. However, the above is important for the following.
My mom offered to pick up something for me, and I requested Vitamin C. In fervor my mother brought over an entire apothecary of oils, potions, feet reflexology, and other things to bombard my system.
The first item, a potion that tastes of cherry juice and seaweed and looks like sediment from the bottom of the ocean. I read the ingredients, mostly B-complex Vitamins. Okay, not going to kill me, it will give me energy after sleepless nights.
The oils I treated with more suspicion. Especially the one to go on my feet. Full transparency, didn’t do that one.
So while Vivian’s body does it’s thing, assisted by ibuprofen and quiet time (which is nearly impossible with a toddler, no matter how bad they are feeling), my body was assisted by ibuprofen, Vitamin C and B complex, and… cherry flavored seawater.
As of right now, Vivian is on the last legs of expulsion. I am fighting the good fight. Towards the end of the day my head hurts and my throat aches slightly, but no mucous or coughing, making contagions easier to contain.
And after all this, there are some things that just have to be faced.
No matter how good a solution was a few years ago, you have to take in account different environmental factors. You can’t prop up a toddler and expect to doze.
Suspicion of western medicine might be a genetic trait. I have to watch this, as I know for a fact I do not want to end up on the other side of that pendulum. Why nature and not nurture? My inherent nature is to reject most things that are my mother’s traits.
That discussion is way too long and for another time.
Nighttime without stimulus can do odd things to a mind. Insomnia has taught me this already, but taking care of a sick child provides a different environment for the mind.
My Twitter feed took an interesting turn those nights.
I was haunted.
Losing my mind, sleep deprivation, fainting spells, neurons firing odd, neuropathy in the extremities, hearing things, straight up losing my mind. I was going blind in one eye, which happened once during pregnancy due to blood flow but not before or after, and my tinnitus was so severe I felt like I was standing under major power lines at all times.
Medical science had little to offer me. Given an MRI, came back clean. Awesome, except still didn’t know what was wrong.
My grandmother-in-law said I brought back something from Panama, though it started before going. Abuelita (Ita, as Vivian calls her) is old school Native American/Spanish, but damned if Vivian didn’t suddenly have a new imaginary friend.
So less than six months after purchasing and moving into a house, I was ready to walk. Didn’t care if we lost on it, I needed out.
It wasn’t just about my mental state. Though my mental state could have been self-created due to my complete discomfort and extreme stress at work.
For the entire time I had lived in Denver, I hadn’t lived further than a 15 block radius. And I loved where we were. Five minutes from downtown, readily available public transit, walk to parks and the longer I was there the more markets and shops were available.
My mom thought I was crrrraaaazzzzyyyyy.
At least when I was renting on the North side of the main street, I was near a synagogue and the Hasidic community kept it pretty low key.
I move eight blocks away, the other side of the main street, and suddenly I am in the barrio. Cholos working on their cars and having “yard sales” of football jerseys several times a week. Rottweilers behind fences, and a hybrid church having services at 2 am. The kicker for my mom was Denver Housing Authority located not even a block away.
I was good with it.
Two reasons why. First, I lived in the neighborhood for years and witnessed changes. Lightrail was going in just a couple blocks south, opening the entire corridor to young, educated, well paid individuals who work downtown.
Sucky thing about public transit. It goes in to help those who do not have transportation. However, the result is to push those same individuals further out of the urban area where there is no public transit as the section of town becomes gentrified by professionals wanting to live near downtown.
At least in Denver. Read a study on it, and watched it happen in real life. Unintended consequences of ideological intent.
But from my perspective, first home purchase needed to be a financial investment. I was heavily laden with student loans and both of us worked for a big box retailer not making much more than poverty. We bought in where we could afford, with me seeing all the signs of having a decent return within five years.
In case you were wondering, and even if you weren’t, I was reared by two very left brained business and accountant minded individuals. Financial brains are apparently genetic. Or nurture. But that is a different discussion.
Second, the house was my ideal, albeit a slight compromise due to being half a duplex. A 1923 Craftsman bungalow with all the original details intact, like bookcases around the coal fireplace and trim around windows and doors, plus a finished basement with a lowered floor as a modern living room.
Living there was a labor of love, redoing the kitchen and making the house a work of art. And yes, I had our return in less than my goal of 5 years.
The neighborhood started turning early. For about 8 months I watched the neighborhood, the investors come through, the sales prices. And in true me fashion, I said out of the blue it’s time to sell.
So we sold. In a sellers market.
Which was great except when it came time to buy. Our agent wasn’t great, she let me lead, which wasn’t smart because I was emotional about being homeless with a toddler and I was leaving a home I designed and loved and couldn’t afford the same neighborhood any longer and….
So we ended up on the other side of town. Still in the city of Denver, not in urban Denver. Me and suburbs, no bueno.
Should have known the first night I wouldn’t make it. It was too damn quiet. Like seriously, quiet! And we weren’t even in a good part of the suburbs, because there is always the part of me that sees potential and refuses to pay top in an already awesome neighborhood when I can live in a not awesome neighborhood and get more for my money.
Plus people who live in ideal neighborhoods are not my ideal neighbors. They are pretentious and ridiculous and bore me beyond tears.
In fact, a running joke with my previous co-workers is I like my neighborhoods rough. I never had any problems, all the violence in my life came from people I knew.
Beyond not being able to see the skyline, and having to drive 20 minutes to downtown, and living in an area where the oldest house was 1950’s ranch, and having to drive the industrial corridor, and… I missed my old neighborhood.
Sounds of trains and freeways, ghetto birds (a.k.a. police helicopters), and yes there were guns. Though it was usually a shotgun in the air during a party.
We did find some suspicious bones in the back yard when planting a garden. The area had a much rougher past than when we lived there. No questions, no answers, leave the past where it lies.
But the new neighborhood was different. Eerily quiet, with cameras on the streets watching everything, a sense of something about to break at any minute. And gun violence, like drive by shooting at houses gun violence.
Guns in themselves don’t bother me, but it was sense of fear and apprehension. People were violent in both neighborhoods, but in the second neighborhood people were afraid of authority as much as anyone else.
In our old neighborhood, make eye contact, be friendly, don’t get in their business and they don’t get in yours.
So regardless the physical insanity descending upon me, I needed to move. And we did. Like I said, we couldn’t afford our old neighborhood so we moved a bit north. Oddly enough, closer to downtown and in an even more ideal house.
My kind of neighborhood. Still rough, definitely not an easy past, though changing quickly. Haven’t heard the ghetto birds as much, and only shotguns were on 4th of July. Unfortunately a lot of the neighbors are already insufferable, but I don’t exactly take cookies to every door so who cares.
No strange medical symptoms, never found out what was wrong, and Vivian is back to her hands and feet being her imaginary friends.
I’m going to pretend that’s normal until told otherwise.
The other night we went out to eat at a carnivorous-centric restaurant.
Though there seems to be one of these restaurants popping up on every corner in our neighborhood (eyes roll), this one is particularly close to my heart. It’s true their food is a-fing-mazing, but that’s not the reason for my passion.
What is particularly interesting to me is the name. The restaurant, as mentioned, is meat focused with a full view curing room and tip to tail philosophy. And is named after George Orwell’s revolution inciting pig in Animal Farm.
The irony cannot be missed.
Eh, maybe it can, but not by me.
As I mentioned, these types of restaurants are all over the urban core of Denver. Part of the whole movement back towards artisan living, with best examples found in cities like Portland, Seattle, and Denver where hipsters with too much money wander around gentrifying the city while loudly staking claim on better ways to live.
Not saying I don’t benefit. My property value goes up, though new neighbors tend to be individuals I would rather not deal with, and we have some pretty good restaurant options.
Restaurant options being by far the best of the whole scenario.
As we were sitting at the restaurant the other night, amusing ourselves at the pretentiousness of the staff, our waitress asked how we enjoyed the charcuterie board. Definitely one of the best we’ve had, and she then hesitantly explained where each piece was located on the animal.
We were amused at her concern. Vivian already knows hamburger comes from a cow, just as she has gotten eggs from chickens and then cooked them. No break in the chain in our household.
Though totally get her concern. Most people are not as familiar with their food and would rather just eat than know. We eased her by explaining our experience with a pig’s head. Well, not mine, though I was witness.
A friend and her new husband had just returned from their honeymoon trip, and we decided to take them out to a new restaurant we had discovered maybe two months earlier.
Keep in mind when I say new, I mean new to us. I’m pretty sure the restaurant had been there for several years before, but I hadn’t been in that part of the city since it was warehouses and a coffee shop that had only coffee and books. That’s right, no food, no wine, no beer, just coffee and books.
The coffee shop tried adding a wine bar as the area improved, and sadly went out of business about two years ago. Rent was too high. Different demographics.
This restaurant, similar to Old Major, sourced full animals and changed the menu based on what part was being butchered at that time. Lucky us, we were there on the night they reached the head.
Now my friend was newly pregnant and still queasy from the blessing that is hormonal shifts and morning sickness of early pregnancy. Or in her case, all pregnancy. Though I believe this has gotten better with each subsequent child.
Side note, pregnancy suited me incredibly well. I was sick a total of two times and felt pretty amazing even in my brain. Motherhood is an entirely different story. Ten months versus a lifetime? I will not be having another child, stop asking.
That night was a decent night for her stomach, thankfully, because the two men of the table decided to share half a pig’s head.
She and I both opted for the vegetarian platter. Ya, I get it. But I’m not a super carnivore and sometimes meat is just not for me. And for her, sometimes meat is not best for stomachs not inclined to keep anything down. Or at least, it sucks on it’s way back up so best not to chance it.
So instead of eating we had entertainment as two men sat across from each other and discussed which parts each was going to eat. All in all, it wasn’t bad. Until they reached the eyeball.
I’m pretty adventurous when it comes to food. I will try everything at least once, especially when traveling. Almost everything. After watching them try to cut out the eyeball, slice the eyeball, and then decide who was going to have the cornea… ya, I’m good. Eyeball is not something I need to try.
Dialogue on our side of the table while this was going on? Reminded us of biology class in high school. Fetal pigs and eyeballs. Apparently separating ourselves into some form of intellectual query rather than having any sense of empathy for the animal. Or feeling the gag reflex thinking about the texture touching their tongues.
Did you know your cornea has the same texture as a wax ball?
Ya, I know. Probably a useless fact. I could have gone a lifetime not seeing a half chewed cornea come back out on the plate.
And of course, at the same time the pig was being eaten we were being sent text memes of a dead raccoon on the side of the road with a get well balloon tied to it. All in all, an entirely barbaric evening surrounded by decadence of a pricey restaurant in downtown Denver.
We still see those friends from time to time, mostly holidays and birthday parties. They have three sons now, and of course Vivian is front and center of my life. Restaurants of most sorts, particularly overpriced tip to tail restaurants, are few and far between.
Except when I scrounge enough from the change jar or short us on groceries to visit my favorite restaurant of irony.
I need a waterproof laptop. Or at least a tablet with keyboard. Nothing fancy, just something for the shower.
If you have any suggestions, let me know. Tired of my ideas sliding down the drain, forever lost to me.
I haven’t written for a few days. Okay, a week. And this isn’t due to lack of ideas. I have no less than 3 drafts sitting, waiting to be published.
Rather, it’s a lack of voice. Well, lack of voice I want.
The 3 drafts that shall not be published are very essay in orientation. I start with my normal story telling, but I end up in a how-to or advice essay. Sophisticated language, resources, the whole shebang.
Which would be fine, if that’s what I wanted this to be about. However, as we all know, there is a plethora of authors talking about how to write, how to be published, how to blah blah blah. I have nothing to offer that hasn’t already been sent to the ether of mass language collecting on the internet.
Rather, I prefer to use this medium as a skill development, word experiment, and sometimes just plain cathartic, tool. When I am in essay mode, I’m pretty far from experiment and cathartic.
I lose my story telling voice.
It speaks to where my mind is when I start writing. Whether I am available to vulnerability, or if I am trying desperately to wrap my consciousness in intellect where things make sense, people are puzzles to be solved from afar, and drama and trauma are things to be studied from a distance.
In essence, a very distant and safe place. Yet this is not the place from which my best stories are told.
This medium has developed a creative non-fiction voice where I can reflect my wit (though debatable depending on who’s reading) and my sense of things. Above all else, I can combine words and phrases, build in story-long metaphors, and create a world for readers.
And for the last week that voice has been absent.
So as any skilled writer would do, when something is not working you have step back and take a look at where the words are in relation to your world. What formulas and equations were working, and what styles are not.
Having hit a brick wall in creativity, exhausted from my mind being pulled in various directions and a lack of sleep, I defaulted to what comes easiest. Which is essay.
But reading my own essay writing is dry and boring. I enjoy writing essays, I adore researching and finding more information, but I think that form is better suited for those who have a natural voice for it. Rather than merely a voice from years of practice.
In reviewing the posts where I feel I have done the best, I see writing I enjoy the most and receive the best feedback is writing laced with memories, humor, and a little shock and awe at the end.
The last piece purely due to my inability to tie up a story.
I can end almost any type of writing, except stories. Goes back to my whole-life-doesn’t-end philosophy so … flash fiction and personal realizations through creative non-fiction are my go-to. With a tendency to drop a bomb out of thin air like I quit my job.
This voice fits me. I have fun when writing it. I don’t bore myself to tears and just stop writing mid post.
Unlike the several drafts that sit waiting for me to hit publish, which I won’t do. If you could see the number of drafts sitting out in no man’s land of my previous website, you would understand the regular struggle I have with holding voice.
However, this being said, I realize I cannot let my unpublished items sit in an internet landfill, never decomposing. To push myself, I will revisit and edit for voice, which in itself is a skill I need to work on developing.
In fact, I’m pretty bored with this post too. It might be I let it sit too long. It might be I’m just tired. Regardless, time to wrap it up.
On a completely different note, I am collaborating with poetry again. Jumped right into the deep end with us co-writing a sestina. A form based poem, it’s long and can get complicated.
Here are the first six lines of what will be a total of 39 lines:
People speak of losing time/as if time were a commodity to be lost/an item dropped from a pocket/or shoved amongst gathering clutter/an object traded or bought/passed down through generations.