Essential…no longer Associate :)

“I don’t see the bin for Flowering Chives” I asked Julie.

“You can place them in the Chives-local produce bin”, she responded from across the aisle.

I’m working temporary at the Food Coop stocking produce.

During normal times, the coop requires 3hrs of monthly volunteer shifts

and my shift was placing organic labels on the produce

in the basement, with a talkative crew.

But…

due to the Corona, all shifts have been suspended and most members have been hired to work for…

minimum wage.           101010428_714861959248941_178266032119480320_n

Now I hold the title of “Essential Worker” instead of “Training Associate”

severed by my resignation after three years at an org

with glass ceilings

stained with smudge marks

by those who tried to break through.

My choice. My body. My decision.

Julie is the supervisor for Produce at the food coop.

She is meticulous as I will never be.

I lack the energy to be meticulous in just about anything.

“I can’t believe it’s eight o’clock and the shelves aren’t stocked!!”

“We’ll get there Julie”, I said from atop a small stool stocking

the flowering chives

and secretly thinking,

How the hell do you cook flowering chives?’

“When you’re done with the chives could you stock the nettles? Just be careful when you’re bagging them.

They have thorns and it burns if it pierces the skin.”

“What do you do with nettles?”

“Well you can make tea from the leaves and you can boil the leaves and put into food”, Julie said.

“Why in the world would you cook with an herb that attacks you?”, I responded.

Sure enough…

I got pricked by a nettle at the wrist which led to a burning sensation.

“I got pricked!”.

“It will go away in 10 minutes”.

And…

it did, just as Julie said.

Four hours of my six hour shift was spent with Julie.

Stocking some melons and peppers, but mostly herbs.

I learnt more about herbs than was necessary

and…

Julie’s meticulousness found its way

into my hands.

I started arranging the bins to look attractive

neat…

inviting to the eyes and to the touch.

I became present in the task before me instead of daydreaming the day away

planning for what would happen when I was done

when I got home

walked the dog and

prepared my lunch.

For those four hours working at the coop

I was in the now.

 

Once or…one time only.

Once,

I dated a Boy who loved me and whom I loved.

This sensitive Boy was a poet who composed songs with fragile words on a guitar.

I,

was the girl who recorded black and white visuals of everyday life on an Olympus camera.

Alas,

the Boy needed care in ways which depleted my heavily guarded plethora of emotions.

Drained,

the guard broke, and I left, taking my reserve with me.

The Boy,

recovered, found strength in his songs with fragile words on guitar and now tours all around the states.

His followers,

follow him in awe of the songs with fragile words on guitar.

Once,

I dated a boy who looked like Sting.

This boy,

was an aspiring editor who cut through slices of life with no remorse.

I,

was the girl who recorded black and white visuals of everyday life on a Nikon F3.

I,

married the boy who didn’t love me but loved what I offered in terms of him moving ahead.

Sycophant,         Image result for sycophants

is what a co-worker once called him.

I,

did not know what the word meant and looked it up in hardcover bound dictionary.

Sycophant,

suited him well for he used people for his own benefit.

The Boy,

who composed songs with fragile words on guitar was far more truer to himself.

He,

reached for the stars when they were out of reach and grasped a bunch that paved the way for his travels.

I,

self-sacrificed my recorded black and white visuals of life on a Horseman 4×5. For no one said I was good enough and I was not true to myself.

The boy,

moved on, to a sycophants’ ultimate dream of scoring one who had connections that would propel his self to a lucrative outcome.

Pity the boy could never relied on his own strength and worth.

Que Sera, Sera…or, What the Bejesus Just Happened?!!!!!

Four days in a week turned out to be four days of

Stress, Drama and Conflict.

The results of my reacting to situations instead of choosing not to react.

Stress, Drama and Conflict

greeted me when the New Year kicked in along with some outright, down home-grown rudeness from others bent on hurting those crossing their paths.

I chose not to react.

A lovely staycation week from a toxic place of employment followed.

And, it was peaceful.

Until I returned, one week later.

Stress, Drama and Conflict

greeted me as I passed through the entrance door of the place called work.

And continued to linger around like Pig Pen’s dust and dirt.Pigpen

Two weeks later I started out on a birthday escapepation (escape + vacation) journey to another State.

But…

Stress, Drama and Conflict

 had no intention of leaving me alone.

On the MTA to the Amtrak station, I was shoved by an Emotional Disturbed Person on the #2 train heading to Penn Station.

Why?

Well, my backpack was rubbing against him and I, the little gnat in his scheme of the world was crushable.

Stress, Drama and Conflict

followed me as I exited the train at Penn Station and made me way through the throngs of people locked in their New York Minute rushing to whatever destinations meant to reach.

As I made my way to the Amtrak station with tears streaming down my face with no Kleenex, my intent was to leave all this behind, as it was my birthday weekend, with much to look forward to.

No,

Stress, Drama and Conflict

came along for the ride as the train rolled out with me sitting in the ‘Quiet Car’. They say, “You can’t take it with you…” but I did, as the mofo (mother f***er) hid away in the side pocket of my cheap Amazon roll along luggage.

Stress, Drama and Conflict…
Stress, Drama and Conflict…
Stress, Drama and Conflictimages

was January’s contribution to my birth month.

My birthday escapation (escape + vacation) was not what, it intended to be, but rather a hard knock into what truly is and my avoidance at seeing what was in front of me.

Stress, Drama and Conflict.

A necessary part of life that counterbalances all the good feely great days in between. When everything groovy, smoothy and loveable falls into balance. A euphoric high, bliss for hours on end. images-1

Until…

the time arrives welcoming,

Stress, Drama and Conflict.

 

**Photos courtesy of the WWW

 

“I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round”…or Boredom is a b…h.

This week…
I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to experience each day as most were not.

This week…
Has not been the greatest, in terms of my living through each day.

This week…
Was filled with drama, angst and all bad things I’d like to drink away which one knows doesn’t work.  Once the drunken haze dissapates, reality kicks in big time and not always on the butt.

This week…
Should I break it down? I guess.

Work
At times it can be a mindless job with no mental or creative stimulation. At times the work reminds me of an assembly line production with an oversize stamp freshly dipped in a way too small ink pad primed to stamp ‘accept’ or ‘reject’ on a pale beige Staples office envelope. (ok bit of exaggeration on the assembly line thingy)
Work
Is where I go to make the Benjamins.
Working 35 hours at a place filled with drama, angst and all bad things or how about having my mind on autopilot reciting Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy. As paperwork piles up only to realize on the 3rd round of chanting— I AM the monkeys!

Work
It can be a job where your strengths and creativity are appreciated and used to the best of your potential. It can also be a job where your strengths and creativity are stifled, squashed and thrown out the back door.-oh well.

Work
If you don’t own your own business, you are subject to the rules of others, sought of living the life of a peasant on a lord’s land (the lord being your boss and the land, well that depends where you work).

Work 
Is all the wonderful stuff that makes most of those who work only working for a the Benjamins at the end of the day.

*John Lennon 

 

Not sure where this came from but worth the read:
A father before he died said to his son: “This is a watch your grandfather gave me, and it is more than 100 years old. But before I give it to you, go to the watch shop on the first street, and tell him I want to sell it, and see how much he offers you”.  He went, and then came back to his father, and said, “the watchmaker offered 5 dollars because it’s old”. He said to his son: “go to the coffee shop”. He went and then came back and said: “He offered $5 father”.  “Go to the museum and show the watch”. He went then came back and said to his father “They offered me a million dollars for this piece”. The father said: “I wanted to let you know that the right place values you in the right way. Don’t find yourself in the wrong place and get angry if you are not valued. 

Those that know your value are those who appreciate you, don’t stay in a place where nobody sees your value”.

 

 


—images from the WWW

 

Running…

Running reminds me of mom

As I’d leave for a training run she would open her door on the first floor and say, “Remember to trot!”.

I’m not sure if the term’trot’ felt more secure than her visioning me running. Trotting is safe, running, well… we won’t go there.

Unfortunately, I am not as graceful as a penguin or as fast as Usain Bolt.

In comparison to penguins, their trotting is far more graceful than mine.

In comparison to running, well, I’m definitely not him.

I think I’ll just stick with ME. Running, trotting, with mom’s memories and encouragement tucked inside my heart.

People hurt…

People hurt and continue to hurt with their words and actions.

I hurt and continue to hurt people with my words and actions. 

Can’t speak for others but my hurt is usually a reaction of feeling powerless to events dealing with cultural ignorance or bullying-you know, those who feel privileged using rude actions and words because of belonging to the majority rule.   

I’d like to think I hurt people less than they hurt me because when people hurt me it really hurts because I allowed them access to my vulnerabilities and thoughts. Of course, I should know better at selecting whom to share with and whom not to. Because all it usually takes is one ignorant comment to set me off.

Well…

Sometimes, that’s what happens.

(Not as severe and there may be a be a tad of exaggeration with the gif)

I once believed in transparency for it eliminates lying. Lying has a way of accumulating more lies which in time is impossible to keep track of what was said in the first place. Transparency is well…transparency,  except when it’s used against you to file a formal complaint based on a one time reaction during a heated diversity discussion in which you mention something that another found offensive and antisemitic. 

Does that person even know what happened in Rwanda when one race was exterminated without the gas chambers while the world turned its backs on the killings because well…black lives truly don’t matter except amongst our own which is adapting the black lives don’t matter and killing their own because society says its ok to do so. 

My ongoing battle with race and trying to find my place in its many levels of acceptance, bigotry, entitlement and so on, is so done. I’m okay with who and what I am, as, I am my father and mother’s daughter who fought an incredible economic and social battle to make sure, me…yes me would be taken care of-emotionally, identity and financially wise.

GOD bless my parents who created, nurtured (though at the time I didn’t think so) and prepared me for life in a country that disrespects POC’s and is intent on making our lives a miserable road to hoe.

My hoe is sharpened and hangng in my left hand. As I say to those who try to stomp me down, “Don’t Fuck With Me!”

Time waits for no one…or, Mom is 100% right.

Time waits for no one…

Procrastination and I were once best buds. We’d hold hands preventing me from moving one step forward, relishing in the here and now and not getting what needs to be done, done. I’d bitched to mom about the consequence of not getting it done and she’d sing song, “Time waits for no one. It passes you by and it goes on forever like the sun in the sky”. Annoyed with her singing I would repeat the song and insert the “sun in the sky” with “a bird in the sky”. Mom replied with, “Birds don’t fly forever” and we would lapse into back and forth retorts ending with hysterical laughter.

Faith move mountains…

“My second interview with them, do you think I’ll get it?”, me to mom.

“Que será, será…”, mom to me.

“What!?, me to mom.

“Faith move mountains”, mom to me.

“You mean Faith moves mountains”, me to mom.

“No. Faith move mountains”, mom to me.

***Me-throws eyes up to the sky while leaving the room

Elenita or Boobie

Almost everyone in this family has a nickname.

Judy

Nina

Peggy

Bobby

Dinero

Tub of Lard

Aggie

Fatee

I’ll…

No nickname.

Just plain ole Elena from most in the family and those ‘most’ not even pronouncing it correctly. (Thank you, my uncle, for naming me after Tia Peggy’s middle name!). 

But…

Not mom, my mom. 

I was “Elenita” and most especially when she was so happy with me, “Boobie”. 

Boobie, to me, means love, a mother’s love, unique and so only bestowed to the child mom truly loves, her undisclosed favourite. 

Yes.

I am/was my mom’s favourite and no shame in that.

Not all have a blessed mom for whatever reasons and, 

You know what?…

That’s more than okay as you don’t need a maternal figure to get that special feeling or nickname from: some fathers, friends, uncles, aunts, cousins-relationships period- that make you feel so special, unique and loved for who you are.

If there is no one for you, I will be that someone for you!!!! 

(As being alone right now with no mom or support from family, I know, cannot always be so good).

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