Long Time No Blog!

     A lot has happened since the last time I sought solace in the release of my thoughts here. My life is completely different. I'm completely different. To say that I'm not who or where I thought I would be today is an understatement. In 2012 I lost my marriage to Chew Toy, and my reproductive system in one fell swoop. I won't get into the gory details, but suffice to say, I'm glad I made the decision not to blog during that time. The circumstances leading to our breakup and my precarious health were too difficult and personal to share with the world. Looking back now I think I would have said things I would have regretted, and that would have irrevocably hurt us both. But time has helped tremendously and I am happy to say with complete honesty that Chew Toy and I have come to be great friends, and I believe we will always have a healthy love for each other.

     Chew Toy, if anyone remembers, is the nickname I gave my ex-husband after a he suffered a dog attack. The giant holes in his thigh healed nicely and he even fought to save the dog from being put down. Both attacker and atackee are doing well, thank you very much.

    I have since left the state of Florida for the crisp, cold air of the North. I now call Northwestern Pennsylvania my home. I love it here. I missed the changing seasons and looking forward to Fall fashions. Yes, I even missed the snow. And let me just say, my hair looks fantastic! No more crazy humidity! Did I mention how much I DON'T miss alligators or snakes falling out of trees?! For serious!

     In other news, I am working as an Interpreter and am still performing. I have a new love in my life who I will refer to as "Mister."  Not in the creepy The Color Purple "Mister" way, but in an affectionate, non threatening way. Ok, if anyone has any suggestions for a new nickname, I'm open to it! He's fantastic and we're two peas in a pod, for sure. I'm super happy :D

     The most important lesson I have learned since I was last here is that Change Is Good, and Fear of Change should be faced no matter how scary it can be. How else will we know what we're made of? I was starting my life over with almost nothing - and I was in my 40s. Trust me when I say that fear was a constant, but I had to make that change or risk losing myself to misery. I have no regrets.

     It's good to be me again.
   

Recognizing the Feminist Within

The word "Feminist" usually conjures images of icons like Sojourner Truth and Gloria Steinem, and rightly so. Without these women and the countless others who fought so hard, and those who continue to fight, where would we be today? We'd be in 1950. We'd have no voice. We would be without freedom. That's what it boils down to; the freedom to be a productive human being in the capacity of your choice; the freedom to choose to be a reproductive human being. That's it. Male or female, that's what we all want. Does that make us all Feminists?

I never considered myself to be a Feminist. I actually had to think about it when someone called me one recently. I suppose I didn't think about it because I'm a Humanist, but the recent "War on Women" has me rethinking a few things. I think back to the first moment I became a Feminist. Of course, I didn't know it then. I just knew that something wasn't right. It was the first time I said out loud, "That's not fair!"

I was in Catholic school and all of us prepubescent girls were taken to the cold, musky basement far away from the boys to be shown a film about menstruation and reproduction. God forbid boys learned about it, too. Seriously. God forbade it. The film was a cartoon which was stopped every so often by Sister Knuckle Rapper to tell us, "The reason it hurts is because you're all sinners because you were born female." She smiled when she said it.

That moment changed me forever. I started to look at things in a different way. It wasn't like the time I tried to pee over the fence in the backyard like my brother when I was four. It was a lot less hilarious and didn't involve yellow shoe laces. It was serious business. It was the business of equality. I started to see unfairness everywhere. I saw it at home, in magazines, on television, the radio. I've been fighting against it ever since without even realizing it. It's become second nature. I don't carry signs, I don't belong to organizations, I just try to live free.

I have no children. That has always been my choice. I'm not complaining about paying taxes to fund public schools for other people's children, or for people with lots of kids to get medicaid, WIC, etc. I'm not complaining that paying a tax for contraception is a hell of a lot cheaper. I'm complaining that there are people who are complaining about the wrong thing. Uninformed people at that. People who want to stick a wand up my vagina should I choose an abortion after being raped. People who know nothing about the human body or medicine making rules about what I do with my body.

I now see time going backwards. People trying to take away that way of life that I have taken for granted. Do we have to take to the streets again to regain the simple freedom of choosing when and if we reproduce? States passing bills that keep women from access to that basic freedom. Contraception is Freedom.

Yes. I'm willing to take to the streets to maintain that freedom. Yes. I'm a Feminist.

End of a Romance

The last typewriter factory in the world closed its doors. It almost feels like the end of a romance. I remember my little Smith Corona in middle school. I used to love the feel of keys underneath my fingers and the smell of the ribbon. Pressing the keys to flip up the type bar and hearing that chick! chick! chick! ding! was downright Chopin-esque. It somehow made me feel closer to my words. As much as I love my computer and its access to the world, I still miss my little blue typewriter.

Bonding Over Underpants

Everyone else was going for the Barbi and Wonder Woman Underoos, but I knew better. I was holding out for the elusive 1977 Jessica Drew alter ego Spider-Woman. I knew it was there somewhere at UnderooCom 2010. I searched and I searched. From The A-Team to Yoda I stuck my hands in more underpants that day than most people do in a life time. And then - like a holy grail shining at the end of a quest - there it was! I heard a choir singing. Birds were chirping and circling happily. A few more steps... I found them! The magic underpants! (not to be confused with Mormon underpants) Spider-Woman in all of her Underoo glory! I stretched out a hand towards the holy of holies. It was like slow motion. Just when I was about to grab those Underoos...... another hand crashed into mine! How could this be??? They were meant to be mine! This can't be happening! I looked to see the owner of that intrusive hand and there she was. A. The Dream Shatterer J. We stared at each other for what seemed like a lifetime. She was taller than me, yeah, who isn't? Ain't no big. I'm spry. I set my feet in a Clint Eastwood stance and put my hand at the snatch ready. We looked each other in the eyes. I was short, therefore closer to the table haha! And just when I was ready to make my move, the sales guy said, "Hey, dorks! We have two! Sheesh all the freaks come out to these conventions." Deeeeeflated. We grabbed our respective magic Underoos, looked at each other, giggled like the dorks we were and headed towards the Slurpee counter. My tongue turned blue, hers, purple. We've been besties ever since :D

One Night in an Italian Hostel

A few weeks ago I went to a free concert in the park with a friend. There was a very good local cover band playing great songs from Kansas, Styx and spicing it up with some James Brown. At one point they fell into a neat rendition of Led Zeppelin's Stairway To Heaven. For a moment I was transported back to 1989. It was 3 a.m. and I was in an hostel in Livorno, Italy with my Army unit dealing with some jet lag. A group of us sat in the common area doing what musicians do best at 3 a.m. - have an impromptu jam session while drinking some house wine. We had a couple of guitars out, some drum sticks on a wooden table. I was singing. After a while we were joined by the Italians on the night staff, some Dutch and German backpackers and a couple from then Yugoslavia who had just arrived. I was tasked to learned some Italian before the tour to MC our concerts. I wish I would have foreseen a UN delegation over a bottle of wine in the middle of the night! Some of the backpackers knew a little English. Mostly they just listened to us and we exchanged lots of warm, tired smiles and blankets on the tattered, old couch.

Someone started playing Stairway To Heaven on the guitar and I began singing. A few words into the song I realized that everyone was singing along. Everyone. Here I was sitting in an Italian Hostel in the middle of the night with a bunch of strangers from all over the world who I could hardly communicate with, singing a perfect rendition of Stairway To Heaven. Needless to say, lots of wine was shared that night. Everyone made an effort to get to know one another. The Dutch were backpacking through Europe for the adventure. The Germans took a year off of college to see the world. The young couple from Yugoslavia... yeah I think about them every once in a while. They were in love. He was supposed to join the military when they got back. They were scared to death. I often wonder about their fate. A year after that trip the Yugoslav Wars broke out. There's been a lot of suffering. Still is. I hope they made it.

For one night, a group of strangers from all over the world spoke the same language - the language of music. I can't explain the immensity of what we shared, but I carry the feeling with me still.

LUCAAAAAAS!!!

I don't support you in this, George! Not one bit! The Empire Strikes Back is perfect the way it is! You're gonna make me go to the theater anyway in a stupid old Star Wars T-shirt, aren't you? Just to be able to see Star Wars on the big screen again and share it with people who (gasp!) have never seen the original movies, aren't you? And just in case you're thinking about it, LEAVE THE INDIANA JONES MOVIES ALONE! You're a whore! I punch yo face! Call Steven Spielberg and tell him to make E.T. in 3d! That would be cool. But leave Star Wars alone!

I wish I could quit you...

A Sister's Heartbreak

A few weeks ago I received a phone call in the middle of the night from my sister. Through giant sobs she managed to say, "...he didn't make it... I can't believe I lost my husband... I love him so much..." I sat in disbelief as I listened to her try to explain. My heart broke for her. She asked me to call our father and brother and give them the news. I could barely compose myself, but somehow I managed to pull myself together and do what she asked. I woke my husband to tell him what had happened. He comforted me until I convinced him to go back to bed. Then I spent the rest of the night watching him sleep. As I write this, my tears simply will not stop falling. I will hear the pain in my sister's voice for as long as I live.

My brother in law was only 47. He had a history of heart problems, but it wasn't his heart that had failed. We believe it was an aneurysm. An autopsy wasn't performed because he was a donor. He saved a few lives that night. He and my beautiful sister have a 10 year old son.

I flew up to be with my sister on the first flight I could get. When I walked into the house and saw her as she turned the corner into the front hall, no words were necessary. Her eyes said it all. I put my arms around her and held her for what seemed like an hour. Her body felt small and fragile as it heaved with sobs. The grief was too heavy for her. I took some of that grief and cried for her, for him, for their son, until she finally found her breath. Some hours later my brother arrived, and the three of us were together for the first time in a few years. We had planned to do something in the summer. This was not what we had in mind.

By the time I reached 28 years of age, my sister and I had already lost the most important women in our lives. Our female mentors, our mother, my godmother and our great aunt, and both grandmothers had been our guides through the feminine labyrinth that life places before all women. I called upon the strength of those wise women for the sake of my sister, for myself. I had never needed it more.

Night time was horrid. She would cover herself in his coat and try to sleep. Every hour or so I would hear her cry and I would just hold her or take her hand. This went on for days. I couldn't leave her side. Wherever she went I would follow her like a shadow and make sure I was there to hold her up or shoo people away. When I would feel inadequate, it was my 10 year old nephew who held his mother up with the strength of Theseus. Her pain was his boulder to lift. My little hero.

There was no funeral for my brother in law. Instead, my sister chose to have a Celebration of Life party. I'm so glad she did. It was beautiful. When we walked in we were greeted with the most unexpected surprise - EVER. A group of women stood at the entrance. I looked at their faces and could not believe my eyes. We had grown up in a small Connecticut town on a street with kids who were our playmates and dear friends. I hadn't seen them in years. And there they were, all grown up, waiting to share this moment with us. I was at a loss for words.

After a loving goodbye to my brother in law, we went back to the house. All of our dear friends and relatives joined us and we spent the evening telling stories and filling the house with laughter and tears. My cousin and I slipped out to get some much needed tequila, cause we're cool like that. We toasted to the memory of the man who gave my sister love, happiness and a beautiful son. I looked around me and realized that surrounding my sister was an entire generation of women. Our cousins, friends and sister in law stood with me and enveloped her with the love and strength of all of the women who came before us. In my mind I saw my mother give a loving nod and a smile. I realized at that moment that she would make it through this.

That same week there was a storm in the North East that left entire towns under water. Just about everyone we knew had damage. My sister's basement flooded and we spent two days bailing out water. It wasn't what I had in mind, but at least it was a distraction.

Here's what that hell of a distraction looked like: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2HZJSWXA5Q&feature=PlayList&p=EBB31E6E96DB6737&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=15

I decided to stay with my sister as long as I could and help her through dreaded quiet that would descend upon her life after everyone else went home. Her bedroom transformed from a place of subtle romance to a dark and dreary cave. She decided to change everything from the curtains and bed sheets to the arrangement of the furniture. We shopped, had lunch in odd places, bonded over silliness. Her darkness was lifting enough that she decided to go back to work. I stopped by with one of my cousins to give her some support while well meaning clients gave her their sympathies. It was tough, but she made it through her first day back, and through the devastating news that Ricky Martin came out in public as a gay man.

As much as I wanted to stay with her, I decided it was time for me to go home. Leaving her was heart wrenching. I'm grateful to the friend who accompanied her home from the airport.

Because of his heart condition, my brother in law was not able to get medical insurance. And now the hospital bills are arriving. Now my sister is left with one income, a son, a mortgage and thousands of dollars in medical bills. I have decided to help her by putting on a benefit. For the first time in my life as a performer I will use my voice to help my sister. She has only asked me for one thing: to record her favorite song for her. I wasn't sure how I was going to do it. Then a few days ago I met with a wonderful pianist who has agreed to help me with this project. It may seem like a simple thing to him, but I don't think I'll ever be able to express to him how much his generosity means to me.

Today my sister told me that she felt more positive about life. Because of his condition, they always knew they were living on borrowed time, and they lived every day as if it were the last. As much as she misses her husband, she is grateful for the time she had with him. I don't think I can ask for more than that.

Political Flashback

The day after the inauguration I had a really sobering experience. I have a small vending business that I had contracted out that year to a construction site and was lending a hand that day. In the frenzy that was lunchtime I ran into a friend. I was so excited to see him because we had spent the entire presidential campaign season comparing notes and discussing the numbers and just hoping. When I saw him my first reaction was to hug him and jump up and down like a kid seeing a friend after summer vacation in the school yard. When he saw me his eyes lit up and his face showed what can only be described as glee - for a second. Immediately that face turned to fear. He put his hands in a "stop" gesture and looked around as if he were about to get caught doing something wrong. I was alarmed, to say the least. I said, "Hey! What's up?!" He said, "Can you believe it? But we gotta keep it on the down low, cause, you know, there's a lot of pissed off dudes out here and I don't want any trouble!" I took a good look around. There was rather large group of really angry looking white guys and all the black and brown guys looked like they were handling explosives. That's when I noticed how disturbingly quiet it was out there. I don't want to know what might have happened if ebony and ivory started hugging and celebrating in the middle of all that tension. Ever since that day I've been wishing for the President's safety.

Last night's passing of the HCR Bill jarred me back violently to that day on the construction site. Not that it hasn't been an entire year of obvious racial upheaval in politics, and if you don't see that all of this crap being thrown about isn't mostly racially motivated, look again. The lack of respect for this President is unheard of. Even when Bush and Cheney were wiping their asses with the Constitution, there was still a modicum of respect for the Office of the President of the United States. While Bush was "misunderestimating" his command of the English language, not a single person ever had the gall to stand up and hurl slurs in at him during a speech to Congress.

I am so grateful to have friends of so many different cultural backgrounds. We embrace our differences and celebrate them. We learn from and support each other and enjoy the culture that we have created together. Too bad a lot of our leaders can't do the same.

Dumbassism

Every once in a while I come face to face with a form of racism that's like a benign tumor. It's painful and annoying, but not life threatening. You want to pop it like a giant zit, but it just isn't that easy. This racism comes mostly from those who either don’t know any better, or those who have a sense of entitlement that apparently comes with their skin color. Let's just call it Dumbassism.

For the past three years I have been judging vocal contests in town. What I like about these contests is that they’re an opportunity to introduce people to different types of music. This is important to me because I consider music to be the one language we all can share. What I have found is that most participants come out of this not only having improved themselves vocally, but also having acquired a new appreciation for music. Much like the American Idol format, this is done by having the participants learn a song from a different genre every week. It challenges people to sing things they never thought they could sing.

This week the genre was R&B. Everyone knows what R&B is, right? Wrong. Wrong as wrong can be. More wrong than a spam daiquiri. More wrong than a poopcicle. More wrong than Ray Comfort’s relationship with bananas. Here are a few shudder worthy examples of questions I was asked:

· Does R&B stand for Rap & Boy Bands?

· Is it true that Michael Jackson invented R&B?

· I don’t know any R&B. Can I just sing some Whitney Houston?

I’d go on, but it’s too painful. The people who asked me these questions honestly did not know what R&B was, just like they don’t know who Beethoven is. I took the opportunity to give a music history lesson, and to my great surprise, found that most people knew more than they thought they knew. They just didn’t know they knew. Well, now they know – ya know?

I suppose what surprised me the most was the fact that the people running the contest, who are professional DJs, knew even less about R&B than the contestants did. And to my dismay, did nothing to learn about it. How can one be a DJ and not know about different genres of music? How can they not want to learn? I have been working along side these people for three years now and until last night, I had no idea they thought this way. I tried to shrug off the thought because how could I be friends with them and not realize this until now? I was left with a feeling that, sadly, I knew all too well.

At the end of the evening the DJs were making a list of awards for the finale and asked my opinion. The first thing I did was correct a horrible grammar error before it made it to the engraver. I explained the mistake and was told, “I can’t believe a Puerto Rican is correcting MY English. I mean someone who speaks Spanish is correcting ME.” I’ll give you a moment to digest this, because it took me a moment as well………3, 2, 1. “Yes. I speak two languages fluently. I can communicate effectively in two others. You, however, can barely speak one.”

What angers me most is the fact that for them it was a normal reaction. They had no problem referring to me as a lesser human being simply because that’s how they’re used to thinking and they don’t see anything wrong with that. I can only conclude that the reason they didn’t bother to learn anything about R&B was racism. I would love for someone to prove me wrong.

I'm at a loss. I can usually tell within five minutes of meeting someone if they're an asshole or not. These are people who I welcomed into my home, people who my husband and I have helped time and again without reservation. How is it that all of a sudden my ethnicity is a problem? If my leg worked better I'd kick myself.

Ah... Wait. "I'm having one of those things.... A headache with pictures!"(Phillip J. Fry) Of course. Sigh.... As long as I'm giving critiques to other people, everything is honky dory. The second I criticize or correct them, yes.... that's it. Nice. I must have a weakness somewhere in my defense shields. I'll get right on that.

Not that this is my first foray into Dumbassism. I have spent my whole life dealing with it. From dumbass childhood school mates to teachers who discouraged me from furthering my education because, “Puerto Rican girls end up pregnant anyway. Why bother applying to a university?” to grown up bit... uh... women my own age who upon learning that I am Hispanic ask me to clean their homes. I have an education. I gave 21 years of my life to the military. I help people whenever possible. But it doesn’t matter what I have accomplished in my life. I am three of the hardest things to be in this country: a woman of color, a person with a disability, and an Atheist. I am so sick of this shit! Look, racist assholes, learn to play with others! Dumbasses!

The most important thing that I am is a Human Being. This is what we all are. Why is it so hard to look at people and see the Humanity? Why do we constantly have to treat people as if they have less value than others? I feel like I’m walking in mud. I’m incensed. There’s only one week left in this contest. I’m going to see it through, but unless minds are somehow opened, I don’t think I’ll be judging the next one.

Also, I discovered that certain vitamins make you poop different colors. J

Like Mother, Like Daughter, Turns Out...

Last year my father had heart surgery. It was pretty grim. And I was, for the most part, alone taking care of him. See, I don't have children so everyone assumes I have to do everything, because only people with children have responsibilities. I have a husband, own a small business and teach private voice and brass instruments classes, but none of that counts if you don't have kids. Not that I minded taking care of my father. I'll do what it takes. The only person in my family who has ever made me feel loved just for who I am as a person, even when we bicker, is my dad. But after so many days straight of not sleeping or eating I was starting to get pretty cranky. If my dad's cousin hadn't stepped in and relieved me a couple of nights I would have gone completely nuts.

I have a rather large family. My father is the youngest of 8 children. So when my dad needed a third transfusion I figured they would step up. Boy, was I wrong. Before the surgery my cousin and his wife and I gave blood, but that was used quickly. There wasn't enough for a third transfusion. I called my aunt and asked her for help. She said she would call her church for donors. I waited and waited and no one came. So I called an Army friend for help and exactly thirty minutes later there was a person hooked up to a bag donating for my father, then a couple more, then they took more from me since I was the "Emergency Direct Donor". See, in Puerto Rico,I found out, whenever you go in for a surgery you have to bring donors to replace the blood that you are using because there is a huge shortage of blood. Luckily I have the same blood type as my father.

Crisis averted and two days later I returned to my father's room from getting some coffee and found a group of people from the church gathered around his bed. There was my aunt with a bunch of strangers holding bibles. My father looked at me with pleading eyes and clenched teeth. He was not happy and neither was I. They couldn't give blood or help me out with a little bit of a break, but they're here to pray? In Puerto Rico hospitals you also have to be there 24/7 to make sure your loved one gets the right medication and a freaking bath due to the serious shortage of nurses. Not to mention look out for well meaning morons who show up with food you're not supposed to give a diabetic, like dad's roommate's wife. All of this was going through my head as the preacher lady opened her mouth to spew her verbal vomit. That was it. I lost it. And all of a sudden, in front of my father, family members and a bunch of unwelcome strangers - I came out. Talk about a show stopper.

Although I've been calling myself an Atheist for over twelve years, I've been one since the day all the nuns in my Catholic school took all the girls to the basement of the building to explain to us all about the menstrual cycle we were going to have when he hit puberty, and how it was our punishment for being born sinful girls, and how there would be pain because of Eve and yada, yada, yada. I was like - are you fucking kidding me? Except for flushing bananas down the toilet, I hadn't done anything sinful! I had a lot of questions. And when no one would answer me I took it upon myself to read the bible and my brother's biology book to try to understand what was going on. It was the best thing I could have done. Aesop's Fables made more sense. This was no punishment. This was nature. Not that it still didn't suck, it just made me feel better that it wasn't inflicted upon me by some angry, woman hating, invisible man. But I digress.

The filter between my brain and mouth was broken. Before I knew it, I heard myself saying something like, "You couldn't pray and give blood at the same time? Don't do us any favors with your useless prayers now!", and ended with something like, "If your Jesus actually existed, he probably would have given some of that blood he's always leaving all over perfectly good linen!" My cousin's wife grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out to the hall. I told her, "They have thirty seconds to leave that room."

It's a year later now and after a painful recovery and lots of disillusionment, my dad now lives with me in Florida. I'm so relieved to have him with me. No more worrying about his health from afar, no more emergency trips. I also realize that this is an opportunity to learn more about my mother. The other day my father made a comment that pinched my heart. He said, "There's a lot about your mother that you don't know." Well that's the understatement of the year. There wasn't exactly an outpouring of family information thrown about when I was a kid. My mother in particular had very little to say about her family. Everything was always so secretive. My mother succumbed to brain cancer when I was only 28. And between school and the military I had spent all of my adult life away from home. When she passed I felt like I never got a chance to know her. Not really. I missed out on the opportunity to do things with her as an adult myself, the benefit of her experience as a woman and her views on life in general. There's not a void, there's a black hole.

I look a lot like my mother. I have her facial expressions and her sense of humor. When she died it was hard for my father to be around me at first. I don't blame him. But it sure was hard on me. To this day I can't even be around some family members without them staring at me. Freaks...

Dad told me a story about my mother sneaking a bunch of "For Sale" and "For Junk" signs on his cousin's crappy cars. I couldn't believe it - I had pulled the same prank on a drummer friend of mine who drives a really crappy car. He told me, "You are more like your mother than you know. She was an Atheist, too." My jaw dropped. "Yeah, she never believe in any of that. The only reason you kids were put in a Catholic school was because the nurse at the public school you were in wanted to have you admitted to a hospital for Palor, because you had white skin and red hair and since you were Puerto Rican, you were supposed to be black."

I remember that day clear as a bell. I was sent, along with my older sister, to the school nurse for a required exam. I remember she was looking at our paperwork and had quite the confused look on her face. She kept pulling at my copper hair, looking at it closely and pinching my skin. Then she would open my sister's green eyes really wide and flash a light in them, then back to my hair. So annoying. Finally she picked up the phone and called my mother. A few seconds later I distinctly remember hearing my mother yell, "What?!" I could hear her yelling into the phone from the other side of the nurse's room. She sounded even more pissed than that time she found the doll head I tried to flush down the toilet. (yeah yeah I used to flush all kinds of shit) The nurse turned pale, even for a "white" lady, and looked like she was going to puke. My sister and I looked at each other and figured someone in the room was in a lot of trouble, and thank goodness it wasn't either one of us. Then next thing we know, I swear, my mother showed up in a fairy godmother *POOF!*. My mother was as white as me with the same green eyes my sister had, and there she stood yelling at this woman who kept getting smaller with every word. I learned a few words that day: Ignorant, Racist and Bitch. We were then pulled out of school.

My mother was an Atheist who never came out, not even to us. When I asked my father why she never talked about it, he said she thought everyone had to figure things out for themselves. Then I asked him what he thought, he said "I'm not a fan of religion."

I miss my mother. Having my dad here sharing his memories of her gives her back to me in a way. So I guess I have them both. Thinking back I realize that I grew up in a home that was filled with all kinds of music, books, games, we recreated lots of things from different cultures like miniature pyramids, and discussed different mythologies. They gave me the tools I needed in order to become a thoughtful, reasonable person. Boy were they sneaky rents.

Reflections on 9/11

I thought about writing about my experiences during and after the attack on 9/11, but honestly, I just can't do it. What I can say is that after 9/11, well, I just never felt the same in my uniform.

To my fellow soldiers in the Pentagon who didn't make it, it was a cowardly attack and as soldiers you did not deserve to die this way. No one did. Not in New York - not in Pennsylvania.

To my fellow soldiers and friends who went to Iraq, Afghanistan and Saudi Arabia, I hope that what little I was able to do Stateside was at least enough to provide some relief for you and help make you safer.

To my fellow soldiers and friends who didn't make it back - I thank you, I love you, I miss you.

To my Primo-Hermano Colo, I can't tell you how happy I was to hear your voice and know that you were safe after so many months without communication. I'm so happy you finally came home last month!

The last time I played TAPS in uniform was for the son of a friend who was killed in Iraq. That was the day I decided never to do it again for family or friends. It was even harder than playing TAPS for my uncle. It's the hardest thing I've ever done as a musician. I think if everyone in the world had a chance to do it and share that moment with the grieving family, we'd all be a little nicer to each other.

It's eight years later and we still can't figure out how to live together in this world. We can't even figure out how to live together as Americans. Maybe one day we'll figure out that kindness is the greatest weapon against "evil". That education is the greatest weapon against suffering. And that loving humanity isn't a bad thing.

One day.

Thank You For Your Service

Before my official retirement from the military I had an interview with the HR office. All of my paperwork should have been up to date, but considering that the same documents were submitted three times and lost three times, I showed up with copies. To my surprise, everything was there. All of my retirement points were accounted for, and that's what I cared most about. I had already gone through my documentation with my Unit Administrator, so I didn't see a need to have a meeting with HRO. The person interviewing me, who we'll call Sgt Rivera, cause that's her name, and who was about seven months pregnant, had called me to her office because of my beneficiary papers. I changed them when I married a few years earlier to make my husband the primary beneficiary, and my father and nephew alternates. She insisted that I update it to add my children before my retirement date. The following is the conversation that ensued as clearly as I can remember, which is very clear because that bitch pissed me off so much I couldn't forget if I wanted to:

"I don't have any children to add."

"You don't have children?"

"No, I don't have children. Does my cat count?"

"No. But you ARE going to have children, aren't you?"

"Uh, no. I'm NOT going to have children."

She somehow managed to shrink her mouth into a pucker tighter than my cat's ass and elongate her face to look like my pissy 6th grade teacher, Miss Lynch. She got pretty darned snooty at this point and I was getting visions of turning her desk over in a fit of rage, but I didn't, because it occurred to me that my shit was tight, and hers wasn't, and that made me happy.

"But you HAVE to have children!"

"I don't HAVE to have anything!"

"You get married to have children. If you didn't want any children, why did you bother to get married?"

Now normally when confronted with a total asshole of a human being, I try to find ways of dealing with that person which will somehow end in peace, not pieces. But she was pushing it. I noticed a picture of her and her husband and three kids on her desk. And another on the way? I thought that maybe she was hormonal or having a bad day, but obviously, this was a thought out plan brought about by the assumption that every woman is supposed to pop out babies, cause that's our primary function. Well, fuck that! Wasn't she popping them out enough for the both of us? My husband and I were incredibly happy with our life and we wanted to keep it that way.

"I got married because I love my husband, not because I wanted to have children. Never in my entire life do I even remember wanting to have children. And besides having some physical issues that I won't get into, why should I do something I don't feel naturally inclined to do?"

"You'd feel differently if you had a child."

"No, you'd feel differently if I had a child."

"Well, that's your decision."

"Exactly. My decision and absolutely none of your business. Let me ask you something. Were you trained to be this rude? Or did you get the job for your natural ability? Because as far as I know, in the 21 years that I have served, Self Righteous Bullshit wasn't a requirement to wear the uniform. So if the inappropriate judgemental portion of this interview is over, I'd like to get on with my retirement. "

I always find it amazing how people who are pregnant assume that they should be treated like holy vessels doing the world the great favor of overpopulating the planet. A week before this conversation I was walking with my dad in the city. We were passing in front of the Hard Rock Cafe and the music was so loud that you could feel it on the sidewalk and through your feet. At that very moment a car pulled up in front of us and a door was thrown open. Out hopped a woman with a baby, a toddler and a magically opening stroller right in our way. It was all so fast that my dad, who has problems with sudden stops and turns thanks to a stroke, almost fell over. I imagine that the look on my face did not convey it's usual cheerful glow. I held on to my dad and stared her down. There she stood in front of me with her Diagon Alley stroller, ready to take children into the city's loudest restaurant and she had the nerve to look at us as if we were the ones in HER way. So I stood there and waited for her to get out of OUR way. Finally she moved and as I was guiding my dad away she said, "It's obvious you don't have children!". Oh no she di-int. I turned around and walked right up to her and said in the lowest most controlled voice I could muster, "No, I don't have children, but if I did, I wouldn't use them as road blocks and I certainly wouldn't take them to a loud and crowded adult place like this. If I owned this business I would ban people like you for the sake of the children whose hearing you put in jeopardy, and for the sake of the customers who come here to eat, drink and listen to Hard Rock, not miserable children screaming because their parents are assholes who care more about themselves than their children's well being. Have a nice day." She was stunned, needless to say, so my work there was done. She was lucky that my dad didn't fall. I honestly don't know what I would have done. But I digress.

Sgt Rivera closed my folder and said that my paperwork was complete. She didn't look at me, she didn't wish me a happy retirement, she didn't thank me for my years of service. It didn't matter how many medals, awards or citations I had. My accomplishments and dedication to my country meant nothing. I was a selfish human being because I chose not to have children. I got up, gathered my things and walked out.

There's a big difference between being a smart ass and being rude. I love being a smart ass. Probably because I can't help it, and it's usually in good fun. I don't like being rude. As a matter of fact, I'm totally against rudeness. It makes me crazy to have to defend myself as a result of other people's rudeness. I hope I never do anything that would force other people to flip out as a result of my rudeness. And I wish there was some kind of procreation law that said people had to pass certain requirements in order to procreate - like not be assholes or stupid. And if you insist on wanting a big family, you should be required to adopt kids who need a family. That's the kind of family I'd like to see on TLC.

I love my cat.

I vs. Me / Between you and me

One of my biggest pet peeves is the improper use of "I" and "me" and "between you and me". It's especially annoying when used incorrectly by people who I know aren't dummies.

I vs. Me:

Simply put, "I" is a pronoun that must be the subject of a verb. "Me" is a pronoun that must be the object of the verb.

I is the first person singular subject pronoun, which means that it refers to the person performing the action of a verb.

David and I went to the store.

Me is an object pronoun, which means that it refers to the person that the action of a verb is being done to, or to which a preposition refers.

He told Judy and me to have a nice day.

The easiest way to decipher the two is to remove the other noun from the sentence and see if it still makes sense:

Incorrect	Correct
Me went to the store.	I went to the store.
David and me went to the store. (Sound silly? Yes - and cavemannish.)	David and I went to the store.

Incorrect	Correct
He told I to have a nice day.	He told me to have a nice day.
He told Judy and I to have a nice day. (Sounds silly and, I have to say, pretentious and douchebaggy.)	He told Judy and me to have a nice day.

Incorrect	Correct
She brought I a drink.	She brought me a drink.
She brought Tom and I a drink.	She brought Tom and me a drink.

or reverse:

Incorrect	Correct
She brought a drink to I.	She brought a drink to me.
She brought and a drink to Tom and I. (Again, pretentious sounding.)	She brought a drink to Tom and me.

Between you and me:

Between is a preposition like with, to and from. A preposition must be followed by an indirect object pronoun. Me is an indirect object pronoun, and I is a subject pronoun. Therefore, between has to be followed by me, not I.

Incorrect	Correct
He went with I.	He went with me.
He gave it to I.	He gave it to me.
It's a gift from I.	It's a gift from me.
The teacher wants to talk to you and I.	The teacher wants to talk to you and me.
The issue is between you and I.	The issue is between you and me.

Still confused about I or me? If I was doing something, I would use I. If I was doing something with someone else, I would use I. If something was happening to me, I would use me. If it was happening to someone else and me, I would use me.

Still confused about between? It's ALWAYS "between you and me", Never "between you and I". That's the rule.

Ow. My brain...

Sources:

The Blue Book of Grammar and Punctuation by Jane Straus and Mignon Fogart

The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language by Rodney D. Huddleston and Geoffrey K. Pullum