Buttercup

As a 41 year-old woman, I am remembering myself as the 24 year-old who moved to San Diego seventeen years ago today. It feels oddly like remembering someone who is deceased. I feel only vaguely like the passionate and hopeful girl that I once was, venturing out into the city, trying new things, and meeting new people.

I was hungry for life and eager for its lessons.

Having been back in New Mexico for four months now, I often remember people who've passed through my life and events that made me feel alive, whether good or bad. I do this as though I'm investigating, looking for the key to my passion for life.

One person I'm remembering today is Martin Juarez.  I inadvertently met him through JT (from a previous post).  JT and I were tapering off our interests in one another and he'd been drinking every night with his Navy buddies.  Martin was JT's new and temporary roommate in the barracks, just before he got out of the Navy.  I would call JT's room (using his calling card) and Martin answered the phone most of the time while JT was drinking away.  He was from the city close to my hometown.  Well, since we had geography in common, we easily found many things to talk about.

We talked several times a week for hours at a time, and it wasn't very long before we started finishing each other's sentences.  He would also ask me what I was thinking, and could tell me what random thoughts were going through my mind.  We talked about our childhoods, and I was very aware of painful parts of his past that bothered him still.  I told him how I was feeling "trapped" in this town and always wanted to live in California.  I really wanted to go to San Francisco, but Martin had told me so much about San Diego, that I decided that was the place for me.  He was the only person to encourage me, while others told me I would fail and end up coming home with my tail between my legs.  I remember him telling me, "You can do it, Buttercup".  We had a bond and intimacy that was not sexually based, and I anxiously awaited our next phone call.

When Martin finally got out of the Navy and moved back to his hometown, I met him a few times there, but only for brief moments. One, I was engaged and two, the friend I went clubbing with got a little jealous of the attention I was getting, and wasn't very nice to Martin.

We continued to speak on the phone, our feelings for each other getting stronger, and Martin asked me to break up with my fiancee to be with him.  I didn't and couldn't for various reasons.   It wasn't long before Martin met someone and our calls tapered off, too.

I don't think it had been quite a year that I'd not spoken to Martin, but he frequently came to my mind.  I did not realize then that my "gift" of  having premonitions about death was manifesting itself.

Since my parents were from the same city Martin lived in, we got the city's paper every Sunday.  One Sunday in late September, 1993, I was going through the obituaries and was horrified to see the name "Martin J., 26".  I called the funeral home listed in the paper and gave a description of Martin to her.  She sadly confirmed that it was my friend.

I sent his mother, Ana, a letter of condolence, telling her how I knew Martin and how very sorry I was for his death.  I will only say that the circumstances were horrible, and Martin had committed suicide.  At her invitation, my Mother and I went to visit Ana, a very kind woman in her early sixties.  As my Mom and Ana were speaking, my Mom told her that Martin looked familiar.  We then found a strange coincidence:  Martin's uncle, Leo worked with my Mom at the same hospital long ago, where she was a nurse and he was an oxygen therapist.  Mom said he was very good looking, and had asked her out a few times, but she refused to get involved with someone she worked with.  Well, it turned out that Martin's Uncle Leo had gotten into his own trouble that got him put away for a very long time.

Meeting Ana was very therapeutic for Ana and I, but I was anguished.  I could not attend his funeral, nor could I show my sadness in front of my ex-fiancee.  I cried everyday for months.  I don't remember going through a more difficult time in my life.  Finally, in May of 1994, I placed a calendar on the kitchen table, closed my eyes, and put the tip of my pen down,  It landed on September 24, the day after Martin's first year anniversary - the day I would leave for San Diego.  For me, it was a sign that Martin was by my side.

I've never forgotten Martin, but I anguished over him for a very long time, I had to put the memories aside, except for occasionally, when I allow myself to remember his voice and words.  I continue to pray for him, but his suicide remains with me. 

It's grotesque how one commits suicide to leave their misery, yet the people they abandon so abruptly, are left with miserable regrets the rest of our lives.

Goodbye...

The past week has been hell.

I lost Sammy last Thursday, April 14. It went too fast, and we're never prepared for death. 

On Tuesday the 12th I woke up and Sammy was very weak and lethargic. I called the vet's office at 7:30 am and told them I was dropping him off for immediate treatment and observation and made an appointment for that evening, since the vets did not arrive until 11 a.m. and I'd gotten only about 3 hours of sleep.

That afternoon, I was told that Sammy was very sick and dehydrated, and his RBC's were very low. Sammy was kept overnight for tests, treatment, and observation. I spoke to two vets between Tuesday and Wednesday. He either had an enlarged heart or a mass near his heart and he had anemia. They wanted to test more to find out about the mass, but I declined and asked to take him home with medicines. I took him home on Wednesday evening. He ate very little, and remained very weak. The next morning I gave him an IV and he briefly seemed to bounce back and hop around, but he refused to eat anymore. I tried force feeding, but he clamped his mouth shut and the food came right back out of his mouth. The fluids from the IV accumulated under his skin and he was so cold, no matter how much I bundled him.

Thursday afternoon, I placed Sammy on my chest, gently positioning his body. I then covered him in a fleece jacket and held him tight, petting his head the way he liked. I felt his little heart beat against mine, and he looked at me with so much love and trust - a moment I will never forget. I told Sammy that I love him and I need him to try because I wasn't ready to lose him. I would do anything to make him better.

I tried approximately 4 more times to feed him. I gave him medicine. I held him. I know he was trying because he would get up - but just for a moment and then had to lie down. He was so weak he tipped over on his side and I had to lie him on his belly and positioned his paws and front legs. I thought maybe if I put him in his cage, he'll go potty (because he hadn't, and I thought he was holding it for me) and maybe eat. I also needed to lie down; I was so tired. I still feel horrible that I left him in his cage for 4 hours. Finally, around 8 or 9 pm, I wrapped him in my fleece jacket again and put him in bed with me under the covers.

I realized Sammy had been trying for me, but his little body wasn't able to stand, let alone hop around. I told him that I love him and it's okay to go. I told him about Daniella, and how happy she would be to meet and hold him, and I told him about the bunnies before him: Gunny, LaLa, LuLu, and Stu, and how he will meet them, too, and play with them until I came Home and all of them will be in my arms again. I told Sammy what a good baby he was, and thanked him for being an important part of my life and I will never, never forget him.

Around 10:30, he began going into spasms. The moment had arrived. I called my parents and my friends Doris and Harlowe and asked them to pray for Sammy and for God to take him quickly. I then laid my hands on Sammy and prayed for him, and gently spoke to him, encouraging him to go. The spasms subsided and his breathing became slower and slower. My baby left as I spoke to him...

I wrapped him like a baby in a towel that I'd had him wrapped in before. I gently placed him in his pink and black carrier, which I placed on top of his cage, and went to bed in tears.

I don't remember much about the next day, or that entire weekend. I do remember taking him to the vet's office the next day to drop him off for cremation.  I was given a few minutes alone with him before they took him.  I took him out of his carrier; I had wrapped him in a towel like a baby the night before.  I held him and was relieved he did not have rigor mortis. His eyes were open and not glazed over.  He looked alive. I held him and prayed for him. I held him and cried. I sat in that room with him in my arms, petting his head the way he had liked, kissing his cheek. Even though he was dead, he was with me, and I did not want to let him go.  I said my goodbye and left the vet's office, devastated.

It's been a tough week. Going to bed is tough because he used to sleep with me, and we had a system. I let him hop around the bed for about 15 minutes to half an hour. When I sat in bed, he sat next to my pillow and waited. As soon as I lay down, he put his paws and head on my shoulder so I could pet him, and when he was ready, he burrowed his head under the covers. That was my cue to lift the covers, where he lay next to me so I could pet him more until we both fell asleep.

I love you, Sammy. Another piece of my heart is gone, and you took a large piece. I can't wait to hold and kiss you again. I know you're in Heaven and now you're my angel - you and Daniella both.

Grief-stricken

I asked my brother-in-law to take this picture of my sister's hand on mine on July 4, 2009, just hours before she passed. Her scent lingered on my hand for an entire day after this...

I was was watching a show today on the History Channel about the Kennedys. It is said that Bobby never got over his brother, John's death. I get that. I understand, because I feel it, too.

It's been a year, 7 months, and 16 days since Daniella left. The void is unbearable sometimes - - often. I don't let myself cry often, but the tears are there, waiting to erupt at any moment. A song could trigger the tears, or it could be looking at her picture as I sit here. She's got the most beautiful smile that I will never see again. I have Papa Bear on a shelf right by me. Sometimes I hold him and he still smells like her after all this time, and I find myself hugging him close as if it were my sister. I touch the fabric of his suit and think that her microscopic atoms still linger and that is the closest I could get to her anymore.

There was a period in my life that I did not cry. I could go for 10-12 months without crying and then all my stress, disappointments, and heartaches would pile up and I would allow myself to cry just once, as long as I needed to. Now, I can't really stop them. I find myself crying when I see something cheerful on TV. Cheerful, not sad. The sad stuff - songs, commercials, movies, anything - are a given.

This is a period of my life that I cry without warning. I cry because I am angry. I may go days or weeks filled with rage. Perhaps the rage stems from immediate events, but I think because I am so engulfed in my grief, and my natural response to sadness is to get angry. I am more comfortable with anger than sadness. If I cry, I look and feel weak. If I get angry, I am fierce, no one will come near me, and therefore I will have no reason to be sad again. It physically hurts to cry. My throat tightens, my head fills with pressure, and my heart hurts.

Looking back, Mom's reaction to tears was "I'll give you something to cry about." Yeah, to many it's funny, but I was being conditioned to repress. Dad was pretty much the same, except he got angry if we showed any anger. That resulted in horrible yelling that sometimes turned into a few smacks. No, I am not angry at my parents. Kids don't come with instructions and God knows I would probably have succomed to beating my kid if I'd had one, than to impose some rational punishment. I am looking back and tracing my loathing of tears, and how anger and rage seem to empower me.

Is my current state of rage directed at someone or an event, or is my grief so intense right now that I am enraged as a means of self-preservation?

Wistful

It's been cold and rainy the past few days and nights, which generally gives me the blues. I can't seem to find the right thing to get me out of it, either. Back in the day, I got dolled up, put on my coat and went out dancing.

I hate not being able to do that anymore. Hate it.

Now, I am not one to sulk and feel sorry for myself. In fact, my emotional lows generally result in me taking action of some kind. But if I am able to do what I love to do and do well, how do I take positive action, when action in itself is my issue?

I was watching a dance competition on one of the spanish stations today, and was critical of the women dancing Salsa. I never learned or attempted to learn how to be lifted over a guy's head or how to lean all the way back to floor level with my partner only holding onto the back of my neck (imagine the Limbo), but I knew how to "style", like "threading the needle" which simply is raising your arm up after being turned, or doing flutter steps when doing the Cha Cha. The best thing was knowing I had the ass for Salsa dancing. I didn't move my shoulders around, because Salsa is not about that unless there is a particular move you're doing, but it's all about the hips moving side to side, sticking  your butt out when you step back, arching the back when your partner moves you forward, moving the hips in a circular motion, bending your right leg to slightly lift your heel before bringing the other leg forward. Salsa and merengue are very erotic and provacative dances. I glared submissively at my partner (if I found him attractive) and once in a while I danced Merengue with that a sexy man who knew how to put his knee between my leg and move his pelvis against my hip and I could feel his "enthusiasm". I liked when my partner would turn me halfway and his arms would wrap around my upper abdomen and he leaned me back against him, or at the end of the song, he would dip me back and give me an upward twirl back up to my feet. Dancing was the safest sex of all!

It's very bittersweet for me to listen to Salsa, or any Tropical music because the music reminds my body what it's supposed to do. I hope I am not in denial, but when I listen to Salsa the passion of the music makes me cry because I can't wait to dance again. I cry because I can't just stand up and do it, and I refuse to accept that I won't be able to ever again.

Endings

After speaking to my counselor, I started thinking about JT and my previous post. I had told her about my rage and how I wanted to just end the friendship. She told me, "Why? It seems he cares for you, and I don't think he tried to hurt you, he just doesn't know any other way."

I thought about this all the way home and discovered something ugly about myself. I am selfish, self-centered, and made this whole thing about ME. Not once did I think about how my giving up on him must have hurt, not to mention my scathing words when I was angry. Looking back, I have always waited for others to fail me in what they promise or vow to me, and I think I may subconsciously do or say things to sabotage my relationships.

I can only think that the roots of my "failure guaranteed" mentality stems from this: In 6th Grade I asked my Dad if I could join Band and play the clarinet. His response was, "I'm going to get you that clarinet, but stick with it. I don't want to put this money into it, and then you end up quitting." I got the clarinet, but I only played that year.

I've always wondered and have asked myself, exactly how much can an eleven year-old try to do and quit to have received that response? It has always been in the back of my mind. As a forty year old woman, however, I can list numerous goals left unaccomplished.

So I apologized to JT for all the mean things I said, for my selfishness, and even for the things that I failed on as well. It's a two-way street, afterall. I don't know what the future holds, but I do know that I am not going to wait on him and hope we end up together. I love JT, and I want him in my life as my friend. More than anything, I hope and pray his circumstances improve. I know he's trying, and I will remain by his side and encourage him.

As if coming to terms that something I wanted had to end, someone it had ended with already abruptly came in from left field - and it was most unwelcomed.

"Eric" (not his real name) and I met in 2009 and dated very briefly - about four months. I really liked him a lot, but quite frankly was horribly confused by his words. It seemed he wanted more, but would pull back and remind me we were friends. Ultimately, just when we were getting closer, a failed intimate encounter put everything to a screeching halt. No, I wasn't a bitch about it. Gravity was his enemy and when I tried to smooth it over the next day by telling him that I liked just being with him, he lashed out and told me I had invaded his space for the night, he had been unable to sleep, and was very uncomfortable. Ouch!  I didn't talk to him after that.

Fast forward four months. I got an email from "Eric" and we talked on the phone for a few minutes. Over the next few weeks, we were able to get past what had gone down (no pun intended) and work on our friendship again. At first, everything was really good. I was able to talk to him and he was a source of comfort when I had breakdowns over my sister. We talked politics, about our families, and we prayed together. He went with me to see my Neurologist and he helped me with various things I needed to do, or places I needed to go. He was there when I was involved in the accident I was in that I describe in my post entitled, "Zemblanity".

Yes, I was in love with him, or so I thought. Looking back, I believe I had mistaken my gratitude for love.

It again came to an abrupt end very shortly after JT had contacted me, but the two were unrelated. My circumstances had changed completely in the previous months, and I became bored with my life. Even times with Eric seemed to always be the same. He liked going out in the evenings, and we only went to about four different places. Having gone through a bad marriage and divorce years ago, he was emotionally scarred and seemed to have fears that I just didn't get. His thoughts seemed unconventional. For example, he constantly hounded me about not wearing lotions and perfumes in order to avoid toxins from entering my pores. He removed a single strand of small seashells hanging from my rear view mirror because it would "obstruct" my view. We never went down to San Diego because he feared the hazard of driving on the freeway. He was excruciatingly fearful and his safety precautions were borderline paranoia.

By this time we'd been dating for about 7 months and it seemed like things were well. Deep down, however, I was bored, but pushed it aside and blamed myself for it. I WAS SETTLING. Well, one night as he's driving me home, he tells me the story of a song (hell if I can remember the title or artist) about a man who needs to tell a woman that he's been dating that he sees no future for them. Blah, blah, blah. It wasn't hard to put together. I asked him if he felt that way, why he'd bothered to say "I love you to me". His response was that he loves all his friends. I don't think he was quite expecting so much dialogue about it, and what the jist of the conversation was that he had become "disenchanted" with me, bored (that made two of us), and he did not want to enter a relationship, as it would take his time from his parents, kids, (ALL of whom were out of state) and future grandchildren.

But - - he thought we should remain intimate!! Are you fucking kidding me?? I think I saw him about four more times and I made it very clear the intimacy was over. The very last time I saw him, he essentially verbally castrated himself, telling me he did not have a need for sex. That was the last straw. Not only was I no longer moved to indulge in carnal activity with him, I felt some disgust at his words.

My assessment of him is that he has a Savior Complex, trying to fix others and refusing to see what is wrong with him, which leads me to Narcissism, as he does not acknowledge any wrong that he says or does. He is a kind man, but beneath that is someone who has been damaged to the point of being emotionally unavailable. Damaged to the point that he has psychologically castrated himself.

Back to the recent contact I received from "Eric". He had read my last post about JT and made some assumptions and condescending remarks. Reading his email, it was very obvious he was attempting to incite a reaction. I responded with sharp words telling Eric that he'd made assumptions based only on scraps of information I gave on my blog. I gave him my assessment of him, and told him that while I cannot stop him from reading my blog, he is not to contact me any further. His response? He was trying to joke with me and I had responded negatively. No apology, of course. Narcissistic, judgmental, passive agressive, and out of my life.

Does my previous post look like something to joke about? If we have not communicated with one another in eight months, isn't it clear we're not friends?
If you're reading this, "Eric", for clarification, we are no longer friends.

Goodnight. Medusa out!

JT

I am going through some rage right now. A lot of negative feelings that Holly Golightly in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" referred to as the Mean Reds, with a twist of anger. I call it Mean Magenta. I am angry, sad, scared. When I feel this way, I go into a rage. How do I deal with that rage? Medusa appears. She has a sharp tongue and is capable of destruction with words.

Someone I met years ago came back into my life in May 2010. We talked daily, and I fell in love with him. He is a gentleman, is sensitive to others' feelings. He is kind, unselfish, intelligent, and has had some great experiences that I like to listen to. However, I ignored all the warning signs. I thought my love would help him.

I was so wrong. He told me he loved me, wants to marry me, be with me wherever that may be. He even offered to help me relocate to be near my parents. What he did not tell me is that he doesn't have a clue how to do it. He doesn't have the resources, and his health will not permit it. I've tried to encourage him, but he continues to drink. Yes, it's only on the weekends when he works at the club, but he drinks enough for his speech to slur. I have insisted he stop,and he has - twice. However, instead of saying I'm sorry, now he tells me it wouldn't be like that if he was with me. He chose a career of a "professional partier" essentially, and it has taken a huge toll on his health and finances.

I paid for his airfare to visit me, as a loan. I have received one $25 payment in 3 months, and only because I kept insisting on a payment. It looks like I will have to continue to ask for payments, but I am considering writing it off - and him. I know he has had some rough times, but couldn't he send a $5 - - WITHOUT ME HAVING TO ASK? The week that was here was wonderful, but now, I feel ripped off. The memories aren't so great anymore.

If he doesn't even TRY to pay me back, why would I want to live with him, much less marry him?

I'm tired of the apologies after he gets drunk. I am disgusted knowing he's been drinking. I don't know how someone can decide to give up on himself and then expect a woman to have the faith in him that he doesn't have for himself. You have to love yourself first before you can love another.

I love you, but the disappointment, disillusion, and disgust has turned to rage. I feel like Medusa when I think of you, and sometimes when I talk to you.

William

The picture above is from my first grade class. I am

the little girl in the red turtleneck, and William de Herrera,

one of my best friends then, is on my left.

 I don't know if it still is, but back in my day, it was not "normal" for boys and girls to be friends and play at recess together. Yet, one of my best friends was William de Herrera. William, Michael, Vivian, and I often played together at recess, and even had nicknames for each other: Big Mouth, Blabber Mouth, Motor Mouth, and Jabberjaw. The names were always interchangeable; it just depended on who called it first.

There were shrubs against the back wall of Yucca Elementary where Vivian and I would take refuge behind one, and William and Michael would shield themselves behind another. Each one of us was either Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marine Corps, but would fight against each other in pairs of boys vs. girls. For example, Army/Air Force vs. Navy/Marine Corps. We would use the branches of the shrubs as machine guns and make the sound effects of blasting guns and bombs. It never failed, vanity would prevail in the midst of war, and either Vivian or I would scream out, "Hold your fire! I need lipstick!", at which time Vivian and I took time to primp for battle.

William and I attended church at Immaculate Conception and were enrolled in the same First Holy Communion class. We got ticket stubs as points for attendance or some kind of reward, and they were redeemable at the end of the year, when the annual bazaar was held. I remember William and I walking around and looking at the tables to see what we could "buy" with our tickets. William was so sweet, he gave me some of his so I would have enough for a purchase.

I remember his voice, and how sweet he was. If I would have had a brother, William would have been him. We never fought, and I remember him looking out for me. I have always wondered whatever happened to him, and always thought to seek him out to see what we each remember about those days or one another. I am fairly certain William remembered me, and I'm sure fondly.

I have let the tears flow today, and probably will for a couple of days. On the bright side, when it's my turn to go, and I get to the other side, there are some wonderful people that will be there waiting for me. I expect one bad ass party!

William de Herrera

July 27, 1970 to November 2, 2006

Sammy

I had quite a bit of a scare with Sammy (my Angora Mini Lop bunny) last week.

About 2 weeks ago, Sammy's appetite slowed down, and he was sleeping more. Since there was a sudden drop in temperature, and bunnies do slow down during the winter, I thought that's what it was. However, when I noticed on Friday night (Dec. 3) that he had not eaten his pellets, I put fresh apples and cabbage in his cage. He ate, but his feces were black and small - not a good sign.

I took Sammy to his vet on Monday night, and Dr. Gallerstein thought he might be in pain or have the beginning of GI Stasis, a deadly and extemely painful shutdown of their digestive tract. He gave Sammy a prescription and told me to count the feces. I was really, really worried, but with medication and a box of fresh hay, Sammy is now doing very well. He is constantly eating (and pooping), and he seems more alert and happy. It took about 2 days for me to see results, and I made about 6 calls in that time. I was a panicked Mommy!

The very first rabbit I ever had was named Stu. I had bought him for an ex-boyfriend after we'd been playing with him in a pet store, and as we were leaving he stood up as if to ask, "Hey, where y'all going?". Long story short, I found out that this ex had been spanking Stu for no reason, so I took him home with me immediately. Stu loved me so much, when I would pick him up he'd put his paws on my chin and kiss me. Bunnies are not normally so affectionate. Unfortunately, I did not know anything about rabbits. Stu got GI Stasis and died in three days, in agony. I vowed it will never happen again.

Years later, I find Sammy, my Angora Minilop, at a tack and feed store that allows people to drop off their pets and livestock for adoption. It's June, North Inland San Diego when it's hot and dry. I see this strawberry blonde furball in the back of a hutch, trying to escape the sunlight that was inches and minutes (as the sunlight passed) from hitting him directly with no shade. I felt so bad for him, I adopted him. As soon as we got in my car, I put him on the passenger seat, but he hopped over and sat in my lap all the way home. That night, I placed him next to my pillow, and he sat there the entire night.

I decided to name him Sammy after Sam Kennison, the comedian, since my bunny had the same color hair and seemed to have an attitude. He didn't like for me to kiss him. I got nipped on the cheek and lip a few times because he did not approve of my affection. If he hid under or behind furniture, I would use a plastic hanger to scare him out. Instead, he would growl and box the hanger! I thought rabbits were prey...

Months later, Sammy started to go through puberty. I found out what it was the hard way: he was marking me as basically his bitch, by spraying me with urine. I got really tired and pissed of having to clean up, and change my clothes and bedding almost every day. Finally, one day after spraying me, I'd had enough. I got up, yelled at him, and grabbed him by the ears with my right hand. He lunged forward and bit into my left forearm. I had to pull him away, tearing my flesh, because he would not let go. Everyone told me to either take him to the Humane Society or release him out in the desert, where he would surely die.

Remembering his first day with me and how he got close to me immediately, but had defensive mannerisms, I thought there may be underlying reasons for his behavior. I think at some time, he was probably very loved, but maybe someone in his household turned out to be mean to him. So, I had a talk with him. I said, "Sammy, I am the only one who will take care of you. If I don't, you're dead. I love you, and I'm sorry for upsetting you and disrespecting you. Now, you need to respect me. Stop peeing on me and 'marking' me. I'm Mama, not your Girl. Be a good boy and this will work out." He never marked me again, and he only nipped my lip one more time.

It was 2005 when I adopted Sammy. I was very mobile and used to take him out for car rides on the weekends and the park now and then. He knew me when I was at my best, and when I'd gotten worse, and I fell in my room one day, he was scared for me. He ran into his cage, ran in circles, and hopped onto the top shelf of his cage as if to see if I was okay. When I had him neutered and picked him up, I cried and babied him. There was a fire in San Diego in 2007. Since I lived very close to the danger zone, I lined my car seat with blankets, set up food, water, and a makeshift litter box. I took him to work with me every day and left the windows open, checking on him on my breaks and lunch.

In 2009, I found a lump the size of a pea on his chin. He had an absess and it turned out to be in his right cheek as well. He needed surgery, and my poor Sammy had his cheek shaved, and got an inch-long incision in his cheek. I gave him medicine twice a day. When he didn't eat, I force-fed him using a huge syringe and powdered pellets with warm water. I gave him IV's so he would not get dehydrated, and I put him in bed with me at night for comfort.

I am not a hug-a-bunny activist, pardon the pun. I am not a vegetarian, nor a vegan, and I do not belong to or support PETA. I love animals. Our furry companions can't speak to us, but we learn to communicate with each other. Sammy has been in my life through some good times and bad. When I get good news, I pick him up and hold him, as I do, when I am sad. He doesn't hold grudges. He trusts me. I laugh at the things he does. Sammy is my fur angel. I love him and he knows it. I know that when he puts his head on my shoulder and chatters his teeth in contentment, he loves me too!

Tacones

Tacones is Spanish for high heels.  Yes, I could have titled this post "High Heels", but saying it in Spanish sounds sexy.  Say "tacones" as you look in the mirror.  It looks like you're saying something naughty.  That's how I feel when I wear mine...

I will be getting ready to go out in a little while and it just occurred to me, that while I know exactly what I'm going to wear, the shoes will be difficult to decide on.

I have at least 40 pairs of shoes, but only about 8 that I can wear. I no longer wear heels more than an inch and a half tall, and they have to either have an ankle strap, or have a strap that goes across the arch of my foot, so it doesn't accidentally slip off.

My favorite type of shoe has always been ankle straps pumps. They look so demure, yet something about them is incredibly sexy. Perhaps it's the strap, which suggests bondage. I have two pairs that I always wore Salsa dancing because I knew no matter how fast I was turned, the shoe was not going to slip off. The ones I used more were blood-red patent leather, and they attracted a lot of attention, and being the attention whore that I was, I lavished in it.

Heels are better than any chemical that can be ingested or applied, in my opinion. A woman can instantly go from 5'4" to 5'8". You can wear jeans and sneakers and go from kinda frumpy to vavoom with a pair of heels. The walk is transformed gloriously. The legs and back feel longer, the shoulders are squared, and the head is held up. You then walk one leg in front of the other. This makes the hips swing side to side. Wear a low-cut, snug sweater and a pencil skirt, and you are now a vixen. This is the part of my life I miss so much.

I still dress well, wear my make-up, and my hair is nicely coiffed. What I do not have is the heels and the walk that made me the Diva.

I still have those Nine West ankle straps, some silver heeled stilettos that look like sexy biker sandals, black patent-leather Coach maryjanes, others I refuse to do away with. Someday, I will build a showcase of my shoes.   I have great memories tied to them.

So I'm off. Time to get dolled up - just for a couple of errands...

Reminiscing

I've been thinking of my sister an awful lot lately. I mean, I think of her everyday, but she's in my subconscious. She's recently been in the forefront of my mind.

One thing that has been bothering me is that I have forgotten a lot of things in my life. I remember the jist of the event, but not so much the details. Similarly, I cannot remember as much about Daniella as I would love to.

I have so many regrets. I wish this and that, but I will not torture myself with those thoughts. Things were as they were, and not solely of my own volition.

I do have more to be grateful for when it comes to Daniella. I remember us being little and playing cars, school, Barbies, and going outside to play with the neighborhood kids. We liked the same movies. I remember when we were little, Mom and Dad would take us to watch the typical kiddie movies: Snow White, Cinderella, etc. First, it was great because Mom would make burritos and bring candy and sodas, so we had a feast during the movie. It never failed, though. After the movie, as other kids were being escorted out by their parents, my sister and I were sitting there crying and being comforted by out parents. Not because the movie was sad, but because it was OVER!! I have never heard anyone else tell such a pathetic reaction to a movie.

We thought it was cool how some twins have a unique capability of devising a secret language. No we weren't twins, but my sister and I loved going to stores and pretending to have a secret language. We had nonsensical "conversations" which included questions and laughing. I don't even know if people listened to us. I just remember we had fun doing it.

I've been going through counseling ever since Daniella left, but my grief and devastation is not significantly lower. I have her pictures and her beloved Papa Bear in my room, and they make me smile, but I always have this lump in my throat. My sister and I had not been getting along for the previous 5 or 6 years, but thankfully, had made peace with each other. I told her that I love her and didn't want our parents' funerals to be the next time I saw her, and that I don't want to argue with her anymore. My brother-in-law told me she was happy about that. I am, too, but I expected us to be getting closer during this very time period.

One thing that really hurts is that someone she was close to most of her life, and I had become close to as well, is no longer part of my life. There was an incident that resulted in this person verbally assaulting me, making false accusations against me that were so very hateful. Unfortunately, I was in a situation that because of my lack of mobility and other circumstances, I had to shut up. I am still very enraged over this, but I know I need to eventually forgive this person so that God can do His justice. 

My counselor tells me I am doing well with my grief. I suppose I am. I have not given up on my life or my dreams. I think I have done well in being there even more for my parents. I even want to do more now to make my Sister proud of me. My Faith is strong, so I know someday she will greet me and give me a big hug. For now, I want to live my life in the most positive way so that I will see her after my final hour and the other people I have loved in my life.

Until then, I will hold on to the memories.  Memories of us hearing a child fall at church and using our fingers to count the first scream.  Memories of me trying to teach her to dance, and listening to her Pink Panther laugh.  I was blessed to have had her in my life, and she will always be a part of it, always in my heart.