Thursday, July 22, 2010

Things I did not expect that I would need to learn, and other excerpts from my journal

Once upon a time I thought I knew stuff. Please note, that time is not now. As with all fairy tales, reality eventually sets in and you realize that a place where three bears live is not where it would be pleasant to nap, prince or no prince, you shouldn't lose a shoe no matter how late you are, presents from strangers are not good, and that they probably recycled Michael Jackson. It has long been the case that I have not said everything that popped into my head- largely because people find my running commentary tedious and in part due to the fact that no one would ever be able to start laughing. Perhaps this is a bit vain for me to say but it is generally true. At one point in my life I thought I should write a blog with the running commentary of random thoughts that pop into my head in the course of a day. This is the second installment of wisdom from my journal and is dedicated to all those things that I never expected I would have to learn in my adult life.



Things you write in your journal may be erased but are never forgotten.


Dreaming is for sleeping.


"Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved." -Shakespeare


Part of being mature is realizing that you don't always have to be.




You should not create standards so strict that no one can live up to them, especially yourself.




Never lie to a child because they never forget it.




"It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live." -Jean Valjean, Les Miserables




Attempting to not be silly usually makes you more so.




Never do anything out of anger.


Don't live the present for the future or the past.


If you cannot laugh at a stressful situation, someone else will find it hilarious.


Good-byes are not forever.


The only one who takes joy in human sorrow is he who is never joyful


"Human beings, not human doings." If that makes sense no explanation is necessary, and if it doesn't, no explanation is possible.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Why I moved to Texas

I realize how much this post title could be likened to a third grade report on what I did this summer (which is more truthful than I originally realize) but it is what I was thinking and so it stays. I admit that up until I was ten I had little to no interest in Texas other than it was a place I had never been, but a year later it was the place that I desired to be more than anywhere else. You see, a lot can happen in a year and my entire life changed that particular year. I met my best friend, Bernadette, at a wedding in California. At the time she lived in Michigan but shortly after our first meeting she moved to Texas. In addition to this, my favorite aunt and godmother got married and moved to, you guessed it, Texas. Now this may or may not make sense (as I am fairly certain I rarely make sense in general) but although these were both good reasons to move to Texas in the first place, they were not the reason.

The reason was much simpler/complicated than that. About half a year before either of them moved down South my family visited the corner of Texas closest to California. At this point in my life I hated road trips (usually because without fail I got to sit next to the kid who would vomit five minutes into the five hour drive where there was nowhere to get off, thus once again proving Murphy's Law). This particular road trip proved to be about the same, except when we got wherever it was that we were going, and stopped, it was legitimately cold outside. As I may have previously mentioned, I grew up in Southern California, about ten minutes from Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm, and the beach. This may explain why the experience of actually being cold, outside, and nowhere near a walk in freezer, stuck with me. To add icing to the cake, it snowed the next morning. I had seen snow a few times in my life but it never stayed long and I had never seen it fall before; I don't think I even knew it could do that. Again, city girl. It was on that enchanted morning, when I was running around with my brothers, trying to gather enough snow to make a snow ball or catch a snowflake on our tongues (and then sitting their in confusion when it melted), I fell in love with Texas. When we left a few hours later I was very sad... and then I threw up. Keep in mind that this was Christmas Eve, and we were staying the night at my Tio John and Tia Leslie's house... in Phoenix... and all our clothes were packed and dirty. Through some act of God my Tia had gotten me clothes for Christmas which I took as a sign that I was not supposed to be miserable and that I would return to Texas someday.

Last summer I kept my promise to myself and moved out here and established residency. And then it hit me- the magnitude of what my moving to Texas would mean- no beach, no mountains, limited family, few tourists, and NO Disneyland!!!! I think it was the last point that had the biggest impact on me. Although I miss my family and laughing at tourists... they both visit me here.... Disneyland does not, but that is another blog post for another time.

Sometime after moving here a well meaning man asked me what were the differences between California and Texas. I was too polite to tell him there but I instantly started making an excel format in my head. For brevity's sake I did not include that list here and instead shortened it.

In California...

...the Mexicans will speak to you in Spanish.

...words are pronounced correctly (I spent a month trying to find "Gwad-a-loop" Street in Austin. Turns out it is spelt "Guadalupe.")

...we have real beaches with real waves.

...the streets have the same name at the beginning, middle, and end and for the most part they all go in a straight line. This brings me to

...the streets are a giant grid so if you miss a turn you go to the next road and make the turn there and then make a left to get back on the road you missed.

...the drivers usually go the speed limit and they usually drive on the road. It is very unusual to see either of these laws broken.

...the street signs are illuminated and big enough for you to see before you pass them.

...there is never three streets with almost identical names within a mile.

...people do not visibly cringe when they hear where you are from if it is not in Texas.

...there is a Disneyland.

...there are wineries.

...it is called a "freeway" cause it is free.

...you do not have to parallel park on your driving test.

...there are the most beautiful sunsets, bar none.

and my absolute favorite... in California we do not have road signs that say to obey the road signs.

After drafting this list it occurred to me that it would be dreadfully unfair to only suggest what Texas is lacking. Therefore I compose the following as well.

In Texas...

...people help each other out without reason and with nothing to gain (last year there was a very nice man who helped me push my broken truck to the side of the road after my breaks stopped working and I could not get it out of traffic. And there was another man this week who helped me get my lawnmower to work after it decided to hate me.)

...people are insulted if you do not ask them for help when you need it.

...it is not common sport to pick on the tourists.

...everyone is very welcoming.

...they have this great invention called "tex-mex"

...there are wide open spaces without people outside of the desert and you can see the sunrise uninhibited by buildings.

...they sell sushi in the supermarket.

...they have wildflowers EVERYWHERE!!!!

...I can wear my cowboy boots without looking weird.

...they have the most beautiful blue skies (except when it is raining, but hey, then it's raining!!!)

...they have seasons.

...there are three Catholic Churches within fifteen minutes of my house and not one of them has an impossible to spell/pronounce name.

...rain is not considered severe weather conditions.

...(this one is from Bronwyn) they have cowboys.

...you cannot kill an opossum (okay, I'm not thrilled about that one).

And my favorite part about Texas... Texans have cute little accents.

Although I strongly suspect Texans have such bad roadsigns so you have to stop and talk to them, and get sucked into their way of life, I admit the place is growing on me. Someday I might get used to the fact that the street names change four times in a seven minute drive, and the my neighbor gets offended if I do not ask her for help, and that everywhere I go there seems to be a strange white pickup that is always helping me out. Ah well, I'm willing to chalk that last one up to divine intervention... cause ya know, God blessed Texas. ;)

Talking to the cheshire cat, blue shoes, and following the yellow brick road

Since I actually started this blog much later than I actually wrote the first post, I feel it slightly necessary to update the world on what I've been doing. On May 8th I graduated from college. On May 10th I traveled back to California to see my parents and to celebrate, among other things, their youngest two children being confirmed, their next youngest son graduating from High School, their second oldest son being halfway through college, their two eldest graduating from college, their eldest son bringing home his girlfriend for the first time ever, and their 25th wedding anniversary. Needless to say, this was very exciting. Privately I celebrated nine months without major ER incidents involving my mother and a very scary time in our lives when she had two strokes within two weeks last August and September.


After the celebrating ended I got in a pickup filled with everything I owned (minus a few books) and went on a road trip across Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and the greater part of Texas before winding up in Austin again. Accompanying me on this road trip (or perhaps escorting me out of the state for their own sanity) were the Bosslady (my Mama), my eldest brother, and his girlfriend. This made for many bad jokes and long, long awkward moments. I arrived in Austin on a Wednesday. When we crossed into Texas highway patrol checked our car (I suspect for any invading Mexicans. Little did they know that there were two in the front seat, i.e. my brother and my self, but apparently we don't look it. Blue eyes and rosy cheeks will do that to ya.) The nice patrol man asked us how long we were staying in Texas and what was in the back of the truck. My clever bosslady informed him that we would be there a week or so (which was true of everyone else in the car, neglecting the fact that I was moving to Austin) and that the back of the pickup was entirely filled with clothes. He narrowed his eyes and said, "the back is entirely filled with clothes?" My bosslady didn't say anything by way of explanation but hooked her thumb back and pointed to me. He turned to look at me and laughed; apparently I look like a girl who would have enough clothes to fill up a pickup for a one week trip.

The following Friday I was in a dress rehearsal for my nearesbest friend's wedding (hey that would make a great movie title.) Saturday I went to her older brother's Ordination to the priesthood. This event can only be described as "oodles and oodles of fun" from the very back of the Church where I watched while chasing around two small children, neither of whom were too keen on the idea of holding still except when they fell asleep- one in my arms and the other in the Bosslady's.

Sunday was the wedding day, dawning bright and beautiful. Several exciting things happened that morning (which I will forever be trying to forget so that I may not be disillusioned if/when I get married someday) and can only be summed up with the word "chaos." At the wedding itself (where I knew almost no one, excepting the bride, the groom, and their immediate family members) I started talking to the groom's best friend who boasted that he knew even fewer people than myself. I admit upon first meeting him at the dress rehearsal (two days before) the only thing I could think was "blue shoes... hmmm." After that I tried my best to talk to him again and eventually I managed to find something of interest to say. I'm afraid what I came up with wasn't that entertaining, but he didn't seem to mind. For the first time in my life I was greatful for all the times I have been to the emergency room because apparently they knew him by first name there too. Shortly after that, after the groom's best friend disapeared for a minute, a very drunken relative of the bride began to hit on one of the other bridesmaids and myself. At this point I decided it best to drive home rather than pick on the poor drunken cousin (I'm not a very nice person when I'm annoyed).

My drive home was punctuated by the excitement that I realized I was almost out gas, alone, on a back country road in Texas, wearing heels that did not fit, and a floor length bridemaid gown. I don't think I even had a scrunchi to tie my hair up with. So like any independent minded, problem solving, truck driving, feminist would, I called my uncle. He managed to reassure me that there was enough gas in the truck to get home and that if I didn't, I was close enough by then that he would come get me and rescue me. Ladies and gentlemen, be ye ever so humble, or ever so bold, you wil never surpass my affection for this man at that precise moment. I made it, btw.

The next morning, bright and early, my Mother headed back to California (and I haven't seen her since) but before she left she took a little piece of my heart and left me a large chunk of my sanity. With a deep breath of fresh air after my month of travel and excitement I decided that the best use of my newfound freedom would be to go back to bed; no one disagreed. And that, dear children, was the beginning of my permanent life in Texas.

I do not know what God was thinking but I intended to spend my first few months in Texas getting used to Texas with the comfort and aid of my family. This was complicated by the fact that they all jumped ship and left for Ukraine five weeks ago. Upon their arrival I will live with my godmother, her lovely husband, my favorite uncle, Jim, the cat, and their beautiful five children, three of whom I will meet for the first time on Monday. I would expand on that except that's a story for another blog. ;)

Since living here I have spent five weeks living with the cat- Jim. For a while he was my only companion and so I had many a conversation with him. What is worse is after I while I began to understand what his various cat responses meant. A long meow is that he wants me to stop whatever it is I'm doing that is bothering him. A pat on the arm mean she wants to be petted. A pat on the leg means he wants to be held. Rubbing up against my computer means he wants me to get off my computer. A short yowl means he wants to know if anyone is there. I called out to him yesterday after that and someone was over and he told me I was nuts. I am perfectly aware of this btw so it is unnecessary to tell me this. I ALREADY KNOW!!!!!!!! Sometimes I feel like Alice and that I've wandered into Wonderland but the frightful thing is- I'm not convinced that Texas is not Wonderland... where are those dodobirds? Oh yes- the Aggies.

Now that I've explained the cheshire cat and the blue shoes I think it's time to explain the yellow brick road before I forget. My grandfather once told me that he believed all Catholics were marching. We were all marching towards the kingdom of heaven. Some carried others and some lead others. Some fell away and died and new ones were brought in, but we were all marching. I feel that on this march towards God I was lead here. I'm trying to follow this grace filled path that I dare to call a road because I know others have gone before me. It may not be yellow because I've never actually dared to look back, but I do believe I'm following it- and He wants me here right now.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

The bee

I have always considered myself a person inclined towards nature. Now, I don't know how much a girl who grew up in the suburbs of LA (and was in double digits before she realized there were places in the world where people didn't have house next to house next to house outside of the ocean) could ever really be a nature person. Then again, I did grow up with my nose constantly stuck in books (and if there is anything my parents did right, it was supplying us with vast numbers of books) from Tell Me Why to National Geographic. I bemoaned (loudly) the loss of our enormous trees that my Mother had removed to keep the wildlife from having a place to hide in our yard. I was the first one to stick my nose in my Mother's rosebushes and discover that a spider would climb on me. I wasn't the first one to cry for hours because I didn't get to see the mouse that was killed in the mousetrap, but you now understand the kind of house I grew up in.

I remember well being about eight-years-old when a lizard was sunbathing in the crack of our window and mother picked him up thinking he was a toy (that was the other thing we had in excess). My Father came rushing in to be her hero and every kid in the house was at his side to, uh, er, help him catch it. Eventually, despite our best efforts to aid him, he managed to catch it and we were all given the opportunity to see what he had in the box. He was, in short, beautiful. Granted I'm sure my reaction was less vocal at that age. I think that this was the inspiration I needed for my later in life adventures. My Mother was against wildlife living within the confines of her house but wanted us to know all about what we were missing.

The first time we went up to the Sierra Nevadas I was in awe of the beauty surrounding me and the next time we went up we took our Golden Retriever and I took him on long lazy walks through the trees and backways. It, by far, is my favorite place in the world and if I miss nothing else about California, I miss the mountains. This inspired my frequent use of walking whenever I was stressed, a habit I keep to today. There is nothing better than a long walk to put life in perspective. When I was a teenager I used to wake up at 5 in the morning to go on long walks with my dog. I still think this is the best part of the day because the day was perfect and no one had a chance to touch it yet... just me. No one had ruined it and no one had decided what it would be. The best way to start a day was to go walking and clear my head. The best mornings were when it rained and there was dew on everything; it was like the entire world had taken a bath and I was the first to see it clean.

The first year I went to college the best day of the school year was when a baby gecko (about the size of a quarter in length) hid in our room and I rescued him from my roommate who was going to kill him for touching her Dr. Pepper. I caught him (my first catch EVER!) and dragged him all over campus showing him to everyone who wanted to see him and watching the reactions of everyone who didn't. Ah, it was a good day- except for the minor detail that I was forever branded as "she who catches things." I admit there are worse ways of establishing popularity, and every time something got in that shouldn't be, I got a frantic phone call and got to play hooky from my homework to go rescue some damsel, but I found it entertaining to say the least, that I, Miss wouldn't know real nature if it smacked her in the face, was everyone's "go-to-girl."

I was even more the reckless heroine the next year when I caught a snake that some girls were playing with which turned out to be a pygmy rattlesnake. He was as lovely as the gecko and far more interesting because of his lack of appendages and his decided affection towards me, embracing me with his body wrapped around my wrist and forearm. I could tell, he really liked me. One of the freshmen wanted to hold him, and I let him and for some strange reason I was surprised when my beautiful snake opened his mouth and tried to bite him... with his fangs. It was at this point that I did a face-palm and started looking for my Biology major roommate to figure out what he was. She took one look at him, pulled out her book of local wildlife, diagnosed him the tragic fate of being a pygmy rattler (and a baby at that, which are more dangerous because they have not learned to control their poison), and called security. Security gave me the horrible news that he would have to be killed and promised to make it quick. I cried (and I rarely cried after my first six weeks of college) and promised my mother I would never play with a snake again without knowing what kind it was.

Now that I live in Texas where the roaches are big enough to carry your luggage I find I am a bit more hesitant to play with the bugs that I don't recognize, but I'm still the one who catches lizards and takes them outside so they'll survive. I ran out of the house with my camera to take a picture of a beautiful flying beatle with a notchy, horn head and long elegant legs. I still stop whatever I'm doing to watch the birds and squirrels outside on the fence. I even have a garden now complete with wild opposums who eat my berries (I named the mama oppossum Henry before I realized she was a girl).
In short, I am a nature girl and love all things outdoors. I go out of my way to keep things alive that Darwin's theory should've claimed long ago and I still cry whenever I see a wounded bird. I put out food for the feral cat and I will slow down every time there is a "warning, animals frequent this road" sign. Oh yes, I am a nature girl- so I want you to completely understand how I felt when I was stung by a bee yesterday (first time ever) and was happy that the little bugger died after he fell to the ground and my lawnmower ran over him. Oh yes, I am a nature girl.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

A rite of passage

This week my baby sister celebrated her Quincetta (pronounced kin-son-nyet-uh). This is a big deal to us Mexi-mutts but considering how many people this week asked me if that meant she was sixteen I feel I should elaborate.



It is often a discussion I have that evolves slowly but surely into an argument with various women I know that a Quincetta is just a Mexican sweet sixteen and should be considered as much. Out of curiosity when writing this article I looked up Quincetta in wikipedia and the closest thing I found was the word "quintet". (I think I might have to do something about this later.) I am surprised how many people have strong feelings about a ritual that is not contained within their culture. I fail to see why it matters to anyone who never had a quincetta or knew anyone who did? Then again, perhaps I miss the obvious.


I am proud to say that when I was younger I had my Quincetta and someday, God willing, my daughters will too, but now I know I am getting ahead of myself as I'm sure most of you are not familiar with this term. A Quincetta is a Mexican ritual in which a girl upon her fifteenth birthday (or as soon afterwards as can be managed) reaffirms her vows of baptism, within a Mass, dedicates her life to Mary, and is for the first time considered an adult. Rather than being an anglo Sweet Sixteen party (aside from being too early) it would probably be more closely related to a Jewish Bar Mitzvah, except only girls have them. It is very beautiful and, I think, very important for young girls to celebrate though I don't always agree with what it has evolved into.


To put it in perspective, when I turned fifteen I had a very simple Mass, wore a very simple dress, and rededicated myself to God and to Mary. I remember it very well. I did not have the pomp that is normally associated with Quincetta's now, but that's because simplicity is what I wanted. That being said, I have no problem with other people having the pomp and expense that is generally encouraged with such things. My cousins had that kind of Quincetta and I enjoyed them very much.


To be fair there are some bad things to be said about Quincettas and it would be unfair of me to ignore those critiques. My parents had a friend who also happened to be a priest in Los Angeles who claimed that most girls who had Quincettas, did not have big weddings. I think this is entirely due to the fact that most modern day Quincettas cost as much as the average wedding. However, this is not necessarily true. My cousin Sulema (told you I was Mexican), had a big Quincetta when she was fifteen and had a wedding when she got married. It must also be noted though that her wedding was no as extravagant as her Quincetta.


A man recently asked me how Mexican you have to be in order to have Quincetta. I'm not sure if he was questioning the fact that I am only half Mexican. I cannot claim to be an expert on such things but the answer I gave him was that it is a matter of culture. If you are raised with it then it seems only natural to have one. If you are not familiar with them then I would argue that you have no right to dissaprove.



Friday, July 16, 2010

How did I end up here?

It's not where you are going but how you get there. I can say this, coming from a long line of restless spirits who were either gifted or plagued by the wanderlust. My father's father was born in Mexico and though the only son of a wealthy politician, he decided he much prefered the life of a wanderer to ever staying in one place. This wandering spirit caused him to jump countries at least twenty times illegally, causing him to be sent home via La Migra. My father was the result of my grandfather's marriage to a lovely woman, Consuelo, whom he got along with the best when they were not in the same country, let alone the same house. They were from different backgrounds, her being a poor butcher's daughter living in a tiny town whose only attraction was a local Church, blessed with the shrine of Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos.

My Aubuelo's wandering spirit was halted when he was in an automobile accident in Los Angeles County. As soon as she was able my Aubelita arranged to travel to his side in California, along with her three small children. My Father says that he remembers the journey well because he was squished into a bus seat with his mother, his brother, and his sister when a kindly duo of American sailors decided to have him sit with them. He talked with them all the way North; they, knowing not a word of Spanish and he, knowing no English.

After nursing her husband back to health, my grandparents decided to stay in Los Angeles and they worked as migrant workers, putting their youngest son, my father through seminary. The year he was supposed to take vows to be a transitional deacon (a requirement before becoming a diocesan Catholic priest) he decided to take a year off from seminary to make sure he was being called to that life, after all, he'd been in seminary for ten years by that point, starting as a teenager. Lucky for me, he decided it was not his true calling and shortly after that year of discernment ended he was working at a Catholic camp for handicapped children when my very mexican father met another camp counselor. My father claims that he does not believe in love at first sight but he and she got to talking... and talking... and talking... and talked right through dinner. Sr. Christine, whom I am forever indebted to, reccomended that he take her out for dinner... on a date.

About half a century before this meeting there was another family gifted with the wanderlust. By the time the great depression hit America my great grandfather had made and lost a fortune five times. Being German by birth, with a German accent, and a German name, and the post war United States being of a particular mindset that did not favor Germans, he decided to move his family out west shortly after the birth of his youngest daughter. On her birth certificate he and his wife gave her the name of Baby Laubach and eventually called her Marilyn. Once in California they opened a bakery, specializing in donuts and other baked goods made daily. They also had a bakery route, driving around in the wee hours of the morning delivering fresh baked goods. My grandmother used to tell me that they delivered to such estimable people as Walter and Cordelia Knott and Walt Disney but that the highlight of her morning was when he father let her eat the broken cookies.

Later my grandmother Marilyn married and moved to Las Vegas... before it was Las Vegas. I never met my grandfather but from what I can tell, they were happy together. My Mother says she prayed as a little girl that her life would never be boring, and sadly, she got her wish. A tragedy ended their lives together with his death after eleven years of marriage; my mother was ten and had three younger brothers. From there they moved all over the country for four years and then settled down back in California where my mother's grandparents were. There my grandmother remarried the most wonderful man and his four children and together they had two more children, causing my mother's family to be referred to as the Brady Bunch plus some. This also explained the twenty-year age difference between my mother and my youngest aunt.

My mother eventually went to college and afterwards decided to become a nun. She was living in a convent, though not yet a postulant (the first step towards becoming a nun) when shewas encouraged to work at the camp for handicapped kids. There she met my Father who quickly changed her mind. After they were married and within their first year of marriage they lost my father's father, their first daughter, and had the doctor who delivered my first sister tell my mother that she would never have a baby she could keep. It was a very difficult first year together but they stayed together and eventually had four wonderful children and one spectacular one, along with "adopting" at least five more wonderful ones.

All these wandering spirits being noted it should be no surprise whatsoever that I ended up leaving California as soon as I graduated from college. I say it is how you get there, not where you are going that matters. That being said it is equally as important to know where you come from. My Mother always says that I was the first daughter she got to keep and only the second of her children. I like to think this means I defied some kind of curse, but then again, I do have a younger sister, so maybe not. My Father always told us that because we were raised in both the Mexican culture as well as our Mother's German and American heritage we had been given the best of both worlds. It took me a long time to realize that this was not limited to celebrating Saint Nicholas's Day, Christmas, and Epiphany as equally important, gift giving days. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here, but perhaps the more accurate title of this blog would be "How I ended up here." This is my background- I pray it gives some explanation as to why I am the person that I am.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Hellen: A place to start

A month and a half ago I graduated with my first degree. I say my first because my mother keeps on saying this because she believes I am not done with school yet. I am not yet in a position to disagree with this statement so I must defer to her wisdom as, unlike me, I suspect she might have acquired some. My graduation from college has catapulted me into the final transition from child to adult. My recent move to Texas has severed the last of the apron strings and though I don't count myself "on my own" yet, I do feel I am at last superglued into the world of the adults.
At the ripe old age of twenty-one I feel that I have very little wisdom to share with the world that would truly benefit anyone. That being said, I do believe that it is those that are not heard enough that have the most important thing to say. In my, albeit, short life, I have learned many things: among the most important I have learned that perspective is invaulable, given enough time you will regret whatever you do or not do, it's not where you're going but what you do to get there, humans desire love, acceptance, and companionship, in that order, there is no price tag on truly perfect moments, God is unwaveringly with us through it all- whether I want Him to be or not, and that no ammount of channel surfing will make the Patriots win the Super bowl.

When my Mother was a little girl she prayed that God would make her life interesting because she never wanted to be bored. I remember her telling me this as a small child after one of my many visits to the Emergency Room. In my folly, I prayed for the same thing because there is nothing worse than being bored at the age of four. I do not know whether I was wise or unwise then but I do recall that Hellen Keller once said that "Life is either one grand adventure, or nothing." Well, my life has been an adventure thus far... here's hoping nothing changes.