Metaphor or Irony...or Both?

And in one final act of defiance....2010 irritated me at the last possible moment!  2010 looked me square in the face and said, "Fudge you, Patricia!"  Oh yeah....as I said on Facebook...."2010....good riddance to bad luggage!" (Gilmore-ism, of course!)  Literally....

In the words of my dear friend, Jace'...."What had happened wuzzzzzzzz.....".......I left my house at roughly 8.15pm.  As I backed my car out of the garage I noticed both my blue recyclable and brown waste bins were snuggled comfortably in their place of honor; just outside the garage.  I thought to myself, "Damn...I forgot to put the waste bin out today.  It is full!  I am going to have to wait one more week!  Oh well.  Nothing I can do about it now."  

Upon my return at roughly 10.45pm....aforementioned brown waste bin is GONE!  Yes...the city issued brown waste receptacle is mysteriously missing and my blue recyclable bin is slightly askance, sad and missing a few of it's contents.  

Now, it has NOT at all been lost on me that things have recently gone missing from one, if not both, of those receptacles.  For instance, I threw out a set of (circa early 1980's) plastic mini blinds that had squatted in the garage since I purchased this place 8 years ago.  They sat poised to be hauled off to the land fill (I can't possibly compost EVERYTHING) for a few days.  Then....they were mysteriously missing.  

I understand if there are people who NEED my STUFF.  They can have it.  I have no issue with them ransacking my waste bins for things that are of value to them.  Come talk to me, ASK ME, I will say, "Yes...undoubtedly."  And...knowing me I would probably invite them in for cookies and coffee and say, "Look around....anything else you need?"  

It is an entirely different story when you STEAL MY CITY ISSUED TRASH BIN!  Now...I am inconvenienced.  First of all, I have to call "the city" and request a new bin.  Who KNOWS how long that will take.  Second, what the hell am I suppose to do with the trash that collects in the "por mientras?"  (The mean time!)  Shall I beg my neighbors to allow me to borrow their bins?  How embarrassing!  I don't want to burden them with my garbage...which is mostly disgusting pet refuse because I try to compost/recycle most everything else.

If you NEED my STUFF...take it.  But call "the city" for your own trash bin!  There is only so much "giving" one person can do before they (Patricia Vela) just become pissed and resentful!  I realize this is small....in the grander scheme of life who really cares about a trash bin.  That isn't the point.  It is NO LONGER the point.  The theme of 2011 is: love, laughter and adventure.  Oh....and NO MORE DOORMAT-ISH-NESS for one Patricia Vela.  I am going to use the voice I was given, open my mouth, and tell people (politely) just how I feel.  Of course...I can't exactly chastise my trash thieves....because I don't really know who they are.  But this...this is MY forum!

Here's the irony.....all that was in the bin was old cat litter and a piece of old luggage that my cats had vomited on!  As I said....2010....good riddance to bad luggage!  And really, "2010....fudge you!"  

Today starts a new day, a new year and a new pledge to "really living".....any seeds of ill will shall fall on barren ground.  Happy New Year dear friends!  Look for the new, improved, Patricia Vela 3.0 and remind her (gently) when she is falling back on her old ways.  "I'm (not necessarily) mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it (foolishness of others) anymore!"  

I gotta keep you on your toes.  When you think I'll zig, I'll zag and then when you think I am gonna zag...I DO zag just to mess you up for the next time I might zig. -Lorelai

A solution would have been birth control.  Too late, move on. -Jess

I don't need you to be "sorry!"  I need you to be "there!" -Lorelai

I'm Gonna Rant a Little Bit

There are several themes that recur in my dreams.  These symbols, as I like to consider them, have haunted my dreams since my childhood.  One prominent symbol is a plane crash.  (I like to attribute all these symbols to anxiety and/or perceived loss of control....my dream life is wicked and consistent as day turns to night.)  I am not paralyzed by the idea of flying; but it certainly does conjure up a serious amount of trepidation.  However, I refuse to allow the fear ground me (pun clearly intended).

So, here's the thing.  If you want to "full body scan" me....go right ahead.  And "full body scan" the guy in front of me and the lady behind me.  I do not care if you see my "internal parts."  I do not even care if you analyze my "internal parts" or laugh about my "internal parts" with your co-workers in the "remote viewing room."  I will tell you all about my "internal parts" and the surprises you may or may not find floatin' around in there.  Do what you have to....just make sure I am safe.  The image, from what I can tell, is rather cloudy and non-descript.  I certainly don't think it is any image that anyone might get their kicks from viewing.  Hell....you can sell a picture of my "non-descript," "cloudy," "unrecognizable" body parts to some seedy internet guy....I don't care.  Why do I not care....because ultimately I know I am "safe" on that airplane AND you can't recognize me in that photo to save your life.  So...scan away.  And people need to find something "real" to focus on.  There...that's my rant!  And yes...I WILL be body scanned in less that 5 days.  And guess what...I don't even care!  I feel much better now.....

Listen, you pin head.  You should be kissing the ground she walks on.  Why that sweet girl lets you within a hundred miles of her is beyond me; but she does.  You are the luckiest man on the planet to have a girl like that looking after you, caring about you.  And if you say so much as one unkind word to her, I will personally break every bone in your body.  You got me? -Luke

Kirk: It's unorthodox.

Lorelai: That's because I'm not orthodox.  I am a liberal with a touch of reform and a smidgen of zippity pow.

Who wants to win some amazing, amazing, amazing prizes?  You do!  I know!  Here's how this works....you (generously and graciously) give me 10 dollars and I will hand you one of these:

Can't read it?  Let me enlarge the text for you....

Help support the mission of The Children's Bereavement Center of South Texas by purchasing one, two, five, twenty, one hundred, two hundred raffle tickets.  Call me or email me and we will make the arrangements.  Oh...and don't forget to ask your friends!  

I Can't Sleep

It is 4am and I am wide awake. This entire night has been disastrous! I was exhausted after a day at work and a decent work out at the gym. Around 9pm I settled into bed poised for blissful slumber. Instead, I found myself still awake at 11.30 mentally prying, hurling myself to sleep, to no avail. A friend called and asked, "Why can't you sleep?" I said, "Because I can't turn my brain off!" (That is ALWAYS the reason I can't sleep!) Further prompted, I was asked, "What are you thinking about?" The first thing out of my mouth was, "I am mad at Bill O'Reilly tonight." My friend chuckled. (Aunt Alfie-You can probably stop reading right about here!) Then I tried to think of other things on my mind, and wouldn't you know it, my mind went blank at that moment.

O'Reilly ruffled my feathers tonight (O'Reilly 1, Vela 0) by ranting on and on about Jennifer Aniston's new film, The Switch, in which her character chooses to become pregnant by artificial insemination through the use of a sperm donor. From what I can gather, she is a single gal, mid to late thirties, and wants the gift of motherhood so she (wait for it O'Reilly....gasp) MAKES HER OWN, VERY HARD DECISION, to become pregnant.

Given that it is 4am and I am a bit lazy and hazy with "the words" right now I am not going to articulate all the OBVIOUS points why Bill O'Reilly (just an over paid man with a really good parking space) has upset the WRONG woman in her mid-thirties this evening. Instead...I offer you a well articulated opinion I found on NPR's Facebook page as I rifled through Facebook at 4 in the morning!

Our conversation this week about children born through artificial insemination was very close to home for me.

I’m one of the tens of thousands of women who became a mother using a sperm donor.

With the high range of estimates finding that 60,000 American kids are born through donor conception each year – representing less than 2 percent of all births - I had hoped it was still too rare to draw the kind of Fox News debate that rages around issues like gay marriage. And so I’ve watched this issue become a hot topic in the culture wars with dread.

But that didn’t stop me from reading “My Daddy’s Name is Donor,” the report compiled by our guest Elizabeth Marquardt and her organization. It’s crucial for me to have the best possible understanding of the situation I’ve brought my innocent child into, so when it was first released, I spent hours reading every word, checking every number, studying every comment. And it confirmed that bearing and raising kids this way would be tough. But it also confirmed on every measure of dysfunction, a majority of these children turned out just fine.

As a consequence, I’m not sure why there are so many grave predictions for families like mine. And I reject the idea that most mothers conceive this way because they’re ignoring the difficulties. When I decided to have a child using artificial insemination, I knew I would have to find a way to deal with all those old fashioned folks who believe that a happy marriage provides the best home for raising children. That was especially tricky, because I was - and am - one of those people. I know what kind of challenges children face in single-parent homes. I was raised in one.

But I also know that being married when your child is born is no guarantee of a stable, two-parent home forever. Before I decided on artificial insemination, I pictured my alternatives: going on a mad hunt for husband with a one-item agenda and a stop-watch; or trying to convert a friend into a baby-daddy, a life-time partnership with no rules, blueprints or history of success. And even if that search panned out, I saw a 50/50 chance of ending up in the exact circumstances that faced my mother and so many other single and divorced moms: raising a child with a ghost dad.

For me – and for so many other kids I knew whose fathers weren’t around - what did the most damage was the emotional whiplash of having your dad there one day, and gone the next. On your 5^th birthday, he’d swoop in for a weekend of ballgames, movies, gifts and pizza, and then do nothing for your 6^th, a card for your 7^th, a gift for the 8^th, and back to nothing for the 9th. The suspense injects a little bit of poison into every celebration, every milestone, and every holiday.

If on one of those occasions, my mother had handed me a folder and said, “Listen, the reason your father didn’t show up is that - before you were born or even conceived - he signed this piece of paper agreeing to have no contact with me or with you until you turned eighteen,” that would’ve been better than what I had. And even with those issues, my mother provided a good home and raised my brother and me to be good and decent people.

I have faith I can do the same.

As an African-American child of a single mother, I’ve been hearing about the inevitable failure of my family and everyone in it for years. And thanks to endless web of relationships, I’ve gotten a front row seat to dysfunction that can develop despite the best of circumstances, and success that can grow, even under the worst.

Given what I know, I believe I can give my child a life worth living. And if I can do that, I don’t think it’s the government’s – or the culture warrior’s - business to tell me I can’t. http://www.npr.org/blogs/tellmemore/