Inspiration on Her Arm

It was my cousin's daughter's first birthday and I wanted to make something special. When you're skilled at so many crafting areas, it makes it rather difficult to decide what to do. Christine joined me and my girls roaming the craft store isles. After more than half an hour of searching I'd gotten as far as picking out an unpainted rocking horse. With the horse tucked under my arm, the rest of my party might've felt a pang of relief, thinking that at last, they might make it out of the store. To their dismay, I hunkered down on the paint isle.

I knew if I waited long enough, inspiration would come to me, though I had no idea it was going to be tattooed on a pregnant woman's arm. "That's it! I think I should do it Ed Hardy style. Colors, what colors?" I asked, Christine and I both eying the pregnant woman's Ed Hardy shoes. The excitement must've been palpible. The woman's husband smiled and held up his phone, "Wanna search the web for pictures so you know what colors you want to use?"

I love unexpected projects, especially when they are so much fun.

Toilet Trouble

Though my husband has no trouble dissecting laptops, computers, or printers, he has trouble working up any enthusiasm for plumbing repairs. After a visit to urgent care this morning, he was diagnosed with a monster sinus infection. I don’t doubt that he’s ill, but you have to admit that with the broken toilet downstairs, the timing is a little suspicious.

“I think I’ll do some work in the yard,” I said after returning from the pharmacy with all three of his prescriptions.
“I think you should fix the toilet,” he said.
I gave him the ‘you’ve-got-to-be kidding’ look, but the truth of the matter was…if my family was going to have a working toilet, it was up to me. I tried to muster up some pioneer spirit, which was rather difficult being that my ancestors were California Indians and had the good sense do their “business” behind a tree. After watching an 8-minute how-to video on You Tube, I announced that I didn’t have the right tools.
“Well you have the bucket anyway,” he said, then fell asleep, leaving me to figure what to do.

After two trips to Home Depot, a lot of swearing, and a huge wet mess, I managed to turn the water off, get the toilet off the ground, remove the tube of medication that had caused the blockage that the snake couldn’t get to, and then scrape off the old wax seal. In the back of my head I remembered the plumber from the video warning me about the dangers of methane gas but I had bigger worries. After crawling on my hands and knees through dirty flood water, I had the sneaky suspicion I had fecal matter in my hair. BTW those aren't tears, I'm just a little unhappy about the connector coming loose and spraying me in the face.

The floor is ruined and the toilet now has a rocking chair quality that I don’t remember it having before. Tomorrow is another day though. Another You Tube video, another trip to Home Depot, another attempt to attach the wax seal.

You've got to be kidding!

It takes a lot to make me run. I usually pick up some speed on the way to the bathroom after drinking a large soda and getting stuck in traffic. I also move incredibly fast when confronted with a snake, the dessert buffet, or one of my kids crying.

Despite my sprinter status, it looks like I'm in for a good run...or walk at least. My sister-at-heart, Christine, emailed me to see if I wanted to come join her for camping and a 10k. Once upon a time Christine and I actually had time to hang out and eat, watch movies, and check out yard sales. With those days behind us I'm willing to do almost anything for some sista time, even if it means running.

So what if I just found out I have a "slight" case of Scoliosis, or that my whooping cough is expected to last until ten days before the run. I'm not the least bit worried about going the distance. Just like my debut into physical therapy I find myself wondering, "What the hell am I going to wear?!" A little tank top and those flimsy shorts? You've got to be kidding!

Gloria De Guzman - The Jump Rope Queen

The air in Our Lady of Perpetual Hope was so thick it stuck to my lungs like syrup. Even with all the flowers, sweat, and perfume, all I could smell was sorrow. The tiny little church was packed with pubescent boys and girls, each of us perspiring in our best clothes as we prepared to say good-bye to one of our own.

The pews had long disappeared under a sea of mourners crowding together to fill any available space. Cranky babies and toddlers were passed from lap to lap like small ships unable to find a comfortable harbor. The endless chain of mourners was even more uneasy. Wet faced girls cried openly and even the toughest of the Cholo boys wiped at swollen eyes. We stood with bodies pressed so tight, we practically moved as one, slowly pushing our way down the isle. We crept toward the terrible mountain of flowers, stuffed animals, and balloons, each of us searching for the coffin, afraid to see what was left of the mutilated girl inside.

Gloria De Guzman looked like a bride on a bed of white satin, strangely prettier and more perfect than she had been in life. Someone whispered that the elaborate gown, trimmed with flowers and pearls, was the same dress she'd worn to her first communion just months before. "Ay Dios mio. Ay Dios mio." I knew if I turned my head I'd find Gloria's mom seated in the front row. She'd been our lunch lady for so many years I recognized her voice as it rose above the others. "Ay Dios mio. Ay Dios mio."

Gloria's death was so sharp and clear that the memory of the living girl was now just a shadow. The pictures across the alter told the story of a girl with shiny black braids and a gap toothed grin, but what I wanted to see were her knees. Scraped and scabby with knee socks that never stayed in place, Gloria De Guzman had been the Jump Rope Queen all through elementary school. It didn't matter that she was thirteen now, thirteen for always. I pulled the jump rope out of my pocket, making sure the note was still attached.

It'd been three years since Gloria De Guzman, the Jump Rope Queen, had been taken by the streets, the same streets separating me from June. Pistol was right. It was a crappy plan. The sun was down and the gangs were out, but June was in trouble. What else could I do?

His World in a Tee

Last week the physical therapist looked at my shoes with distress. My lovely lime green sneakers matched my top, but they were slip-ons. Committed to fixing my back, for this week at least, I took the plunge and bought a pair of boring sneakers complete with backs. Now I just need to work on the wardrobe. All the baggy shirts I own have been gifts from my brother Travis. Being in the Army, he's brought us shirts from bases from Germany, to Iraq, and now Afghanistan. He actually gets them for my husband, but as soon as my brother's leave is over I always steal them away, in some weird way to keep my baby brother near me.

"My" t-shirt collection is very pro-ARMY, pro-GUNs, and pro-freedom, ideas that until Travis enlisted, really didn't have much meaning. Still, I find myself reluctant to wear such angry, kick-ass shirts in public unless I'm in the mood to keep people away or even make them mad...which does happen. But then there's the occasional vet that has to come and check me out., or worse, ask about my loved one and make me all weepy. I have to guess that Travis would find the Twilight Zone worthy conversations I have with these guys are very entertaining. Thanks to him, despite my anti-NRA affiliations, I like to shoot and I'm pretty impressive behind a gun. "I like the 45," I tell the veteran, "But there's definitely something satisfying at hitting the target 10 for 10 at 300 yards with a sniper rifle."

If you know anything about my brother, you know that he has a sense of humor and he likes to piss people off. He has no idea how his shirts help me stay in touch, a little amused, a touch angry, and always with the keen appreciation for the young man I rarely see enough of.