Posted on by Anelemc

Those who lost property…

Hurricane Sandy made a brief visit to New York and left behind in its havoc, a disabled hundred plus year old subway system and caused commuter woes of the most aggravating kind. Quality of life abruptly turned inside out by disruption in services taken for granted: gasoline, electricity and hot running water. Property damage was extensive and left those who lost property in a stupor.

New Jersey, the point of entry for the hurricane suffered enormous, irreplaceable and non-repairable damage.  The governor expressed profound sympathy for the people of his home state and demonstrated his despondent reaction to the destruction of amusement parks and boardwalks he frequented with his children during summer months.

Those who lost property…

I watched endless interviews of those who lost property on broadcast news.  Monetary value was not the sole basis for the despair. In other words, the financial worth of the property does not measure or compare to the sentimental attachment. Old family photos, videos of weddings and graduations, handwritten love letters, for example, are unique and fragile records of a memory stamped in time.

Wenger Swiss Army knife, opened.
Wenger Swiss Army knife, opened. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Pictures of the first communion, a recording of Jody’s piano recital, John’s first grade artwork framed in Grandma Jean’s antique frames are not ‘do over’ events. Gone is Gone and replaceable items such as: a washing machine (wedding gift from Uncle Bob given two days before his passing) or an engagement ring (passed down through generations and accidently left on the dresser drawer during the evacuation) hold memories of the giver not of the objects.

My brother recently came to visit. The World Trade Center Memorial was a stop on our ‘sight-seeing sights for free’ tour.  Security was uber tight and a Swiss Army knife tucked away in my bag set off alarms of the most-loudest kind. I was mortified as agents swarmed around me and reluctantly gave my knife to one who placed it in the ‘Claim department’.

Throughout the walking tour I was uneasy. A precious item I’ve held unto for almost thirty years was in a dark compartment in an unknown place. The knife holds sentimental value although it has seen better days. The red casing dropped off long ago. Of course, it is easily replaceable-tons of new ones on Amazon.com.

BUT…

The knife once belonged to a person, who once belonged to me, who once belonged to mí corazon (my heart) and who passed the knife unto me when he got a new and bigger one and eventually, figuratively and literally the same was done to me.

At the end of viewing the site I rushed, brother in tow to the pick-up area and joined the long line of men waiting to retrieve their pocketknives and yes, I was the only dame. This snippet of my life cannot compare to the lives of those who lost property due to Hurricane Sandy’s uninvited stop. Broadcast news continues to show images of tears and a longing to return to life before Sandy when their property was within reach, attainable and cherished.

I will have those who lost property in my prayers for quite some time.

Posted on by Anelemc

Chasing my shadow…again

A five month hiatus of laziness, too much wine, humid days and a host of other excuses too ridiculous to write, sabotaged my jogging career. Months of adhering to the Couch to 5k turned into months of undoing the thirty minutes of sweat, tears and jogging accomplished.

Gone are the:
The bask-in-glory feeling when time goals were achieved
The graduation to Asics running shoes with Superfeet insoles
Rising early, putting in the time and feeling physical and mentally great all day

 Obliterated are the:
The sweat-wicking clothing purchased at Target
The running bras which took two hours of trying on to find the perfect fit
The Garmin GPS model of two years ago

I turned off the motivation switch.
It happened just like that. No questions asked. The switch done turned off and broke.

Dormant, I existed, until a 180-degree change of perspective on why I jog turned the switch back on. Instead of jogging to lose weight and berating mí alma when the weight refuses to leave the comfort of my stomach and hips, I now jog to eat. The more I run, the more I eat.  The less I run, the more I eat (still working on that thought pattern). Weight loss no longer controls the motivation switch; eating does. What better way to get through to a person who eats too much?

Of course jogging to eat requires food portion control supplemented with other forms of exercise. If I choose to eat a large piece of Junior’s cheesecake I will need to burn off the calories consumed. Caloric wise, a slice is approximately 543 which, translates to jogging for about one to two hours plus an elliptical workout with calisthenics and weight lifting.

Simple to calculate and not so simple to execute but if my goal is to jog to eat, calories must be sacrificed in order to make room for food intake of the most cautious kind.  Caution in the foods that come through my mouth meaning salads, vegetables-things that grow in dirt-less consumption of carbs, especially wheat.

My jogging label as a self-proclaim, bona fide, “penguin” has not changed.  I still waddle proudly during a jog but my pace has changed.  Instead of a pace “akin to a penguin’s walk, having one too many krill on a good day”, my pace is now akin to a penguin’s run towards one too many krill on a good day,  on a plate, a mile away.

Off to jog!  

Posted on by Anelemc · 1 Comment

My Space…

I ride the NYC subways.

Not by choice, by necessity and a bit of convenience.

Personal space is hard to stake out and defend during rush hour ride in a NYC train because…

I have serious issues with personal space especially when it is invaded by humans or objects, not dogs or cats but definitely waterbugs!

My personal space is an invisible fortress equipped with an imaginary psychological alarm system installed along the diameter. It sounds off when someone or something (pocketbook, backpack, umbrella, shopping bag or unruly child) crosses over.

When that happens, feelings of suffocation and entrapment follow. Every muscle in my body tenses with pain. Relief appears when space is restored to my personal, for as the room to breathe grows, muscles unwind and relax.

Yes, I can walk the two miles to work. Quite often, I do, weather permitting but time constraints, pouring rain and slushy snow can redirect my walking to the train.  I’d rather drive my car but parking is non-existent or expensive at the parking lots where I work. I’d rather ride a bike but I’m afraid of riding with cars who don’t like driving with bikes.

Yes, the imaginary psychological alarm system works great alerting me to those or things I’d rather not have near me. Unfortunately, the system does not physically prevent those or things I’d rather not have near me from being near me.

I don’t have the space problem outside on the streets because…

Walking on the sidewalks of the city within large crowds presents no threat to my personal space. My invisible fortress becomes pliable, shifting shape and thickness, folding in, bulging out. The imaginary psychological alarm is LOW or at times turned OFF. Body is in motion, weaving in and out, dodging a bike, bumping slightly into a pedestrian (and not saying I’m sorry), steps bouncing as fresh air circumvents the body and kindles mí alma.

At home amongst my clutter and neglected Spinet my psychological alarm lies disabled, plugged into my brain recharging for the next day usage.

Posted on by Anelemc

They Come Up Sometimes…

I entered the world at 11:48pm on January 11, wailing like a banshee within the sterile fluorescent lit delivery room at the now defunct Brooklyn Jewish Hospital. What triggered the wailing? Was it the forced expulsion from my warm human swim tank home of nine months or exploding hunger pangs stimulated by the first nasal draw of air?

My rejection of breast milk confirmed the forced expulsion as the incentive for the wail. Food and I were not initially destined to bond so easily. I wanted nothing to do with it and only succumbed to the formula bottle after hours of belly rub coaxing.

Mom’s strict pregnancy diet resulted in low pregnancy weight gain for her and I assumed in some way I as a fetus was affected. My eating habits were cemented in the womb. I emerged into the world with an eating disorder while mom quickly dropped to her pre-pregnancy weight of 125 lbs.

I refused to eat during the formative years of 1-7 and inherited the middle name of “fussy eater”.  Processed food  gained favour with my taste buds in time but Lipton Tea with Pep milk (condense milk in a can) and spoonfulls of Domino sugar became my staple. Lipton tea in the morning, in the afternoon, but not before bed for the sugar and caffeine highs by then had run their course and no sense refueling while the Sandman cometh.   

Mom could not get me to eat.

Breakfast was the biggest battle, as I abhorred the usual milk and corn flake cereal unless it was loaded with mounds of white sugar. Occasionally, Frosted Flakes would appear on the table-I guess my Domino consumption turned into an expensive habit. I won on ‘Food Wars’ on a continuous basis until Mom started to think.

“Elenita, turn off the TV and eat your cereal.”

“Where’s the sugar?”

“We don’t have any left.”

“I can’t eat it then.”

“Bubie, come here I have something very important to tell you. You’re old enough to know this and it’s important to know.”

“Sure mommy, what is it? Did J***y do something again? I saw her do it. She did it on purpose too.”

“Oh no Elenita, this is about the worms.”

“In the backyard?”

“No, in the stomach.”

“What?!!!!”

“Little one, did you know worms live in your stomach?”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Did you ever wonder why your stomach growls? It’s the worms!  And when your stomach growls they are telling you they are hungry.”

“Mommy, is that true?”

“Oh yes. And you know what happens if you don’t feed them?”

“No, what happens?”

“Well if you don’t feed them they will crawl up your stomach to your throat and choke you!”

My eating disorder miraculously disappeared.

Food was no longer a problem. Forget refined sugar. I ate my Kellogg’s corn flakes and milk without it. I was ‘food reborn’.

In time my food taste became refined. Chef Boyardee, Spam, Vienna sausages, pizza, hot dogs, bologna, went into my mouth while broccoli, spinach, lettuce, peas and just about any vegetable that grew in dirt, went behind the apartment’s steam radiators. Going to the bathroom with a mouthful of food to spit into the toilet was so cliché and easily sabotaged by an older sibling’s squealing. Disposing of unwanted food behind the radiators was my dirty little secret, my statement of protest, which worked well, until the rotten decomposed ordour summoned all of Brooklyn’s roaches to dinner which led to mom’s discovery.

To say Mom was amused would be inappropriate. She was perplexed and unsure what the crime warranted in terms of punishment. The brown belt on the legs would have been severe. While thinking through her options, she sought relief by informing everyone in the immediate family of my crimes against vegetables. Of course, she didn’t realize the family’s laughter and ridicule for a month would be sufficient punishment in itself.

Eventually the need to punish faded as did my dirty little secret as the memory of the food behind the radiator became a constant source of laughter especially around Thanksgiving.

 

 

Posted on by Anelemc

“You talk too much…”

You talk too much, you worry me to death.
You talk too much, you even worry my pet.
You just talk, talk too much.
—Joe Jones

You know who they are and avoid them whenever possible but most times, AVOIDANCE IS FUTILE. Imagine having one as a colleague who must be worked with in order to close that lucrative deal. Or worse yet, you live with one and the connection cannot be easily severed and frankly, you can’t complain about this because you knew about the talking too much beforehand.

A person who talks too much is self-absorbed and fixated upon expressing thoughts and viewpoints, listening only to their voices. At times their words are harmless fluffs of letters and vowels. Other times, their words, especially the words which begin with capital letters are fueled by hate, feed off unhealthy gossip and revel in criticisms of the MOST NASTY KIND. Attempting to get a word or two in is impossible because a person who talks too much has an overwhelming amount of words to expel. Overdosing on one’s own words is possible although I have yet to witness it.

After a hardy session in the company of a person who talks too much, when my ears are finally free and able to breathe, compassion sets in. I realize loneliness instigates the need to be heard. To be lonely and not heard is emotional damage. I make a thought promise to give more of my listening ears next time, knowing in truth, I will avoid that person at all costs. And I should know better.

As a KID, I was a person who talked too much.

Refusing to subscribe to the ‘children should be seen not heard’ train of thought, my mouth rambled on producing coherent and incoherent words which flowed from morning to night. Only sleep afforded my mouth rest. My demand to be heard was carried out regardless of feedback or television volume turned high.

Granted, I was annoying but my motivation for talking too much was the result of abrupt life changes: parents’ separation, siblings marrying and/or moving out, and cousins moving to Jersey. These changes left empty slots on my social calendar. Social verbal exchange was greatly reduced-in other words, no one to hang around with or annoy. No one to spy on to later retell the events to another with acute attention to details while munching on a bag of Wise potato chips.

As an ADULT, I do not talk much (I don’t) and maybe that is the reason I attract persons who talk too much.

Posted on by Anelemc

“Sorry seems to be the hardest word…”

1. feeling regret, compunction, sympathy, pity, etc.: to be sorry to leave one’s friends; to be sorry for a remark; to be sorry for someone in trouble.

2. regrettable or deplorable; unfortunate; tragic: a sorry situation; to come to a sorry end.

3. sorrowful, grieved, or sad: Was she sorry when her brother died?

4. associated with sorrow; suggestive of grief or suffering; melancholy; dismal.

5. wretched, poor, useless, or pitiful: a sorry horse.

What does it mean to feel  Sorry, to say you are Sorry or to write you are Sorry?

 If I say I’m Sorry do I admit guilt, admit I’ve done wrong? Am I trying to correct a grave mistake or pacify hysteria? Does it matter if Sorry is said immediately or two years later?

Sorry is said for loss, for someone else’s loss or when a physical or verbal slight is unleashed. I bump into someone accidently, I say sorry. I bump into someone on purpose, I don’t.  I feel sorry for abused and/or neglected animals. I do not feel sorry for those who did the abuse and/or neglect.

When I say I am Sorry, it seems as if redemption takes hold, the negative vibe releases and closure is complete. When Sorry is said to me, I forgive automatically (at least I convince myself I do) even though the residue of the slight lingers.

Sorry can be complex or simple.  One may have to repeat it several times for its effect to take place while others undo the damage in one take. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry too.” Did you say sorry because you meant it? Or out of an automatic response like in “I love you- I love you too.

How about the “I’m not sorry” which opens up a new level of writing possibilities filled with vengeance and strife, great for a blog piece but not one I care to venture into-well just a sample.

 ‘Yes I ate the last piece of cake and I’m not sorry because you ate the last piece of sausage I was saving for breakfast and in order to feel better about that offense for which you have yet to apologize, I in turn, ate the last piece of velvet cake specially ordered with organic ingredients,  from,  Dean and Deluca. ‘   

 

Posted on by Anelemc · 3 Comments

Because They Can, can…

Every morning and especially on garbage pickup days Those who can, can.
Those who can are the can and bottle collectors who roam and forage through the recycle trash in the ‘hood’ in search of the 5 cent deposit payoffs.

Those who can are young, old, Black, Hispanic, Asian, White, women, men and women with children in tow pitching in. At times, it seems as if part time and full time working shifts are in place, for those who can are usually seen at the same time every day.

Those who can push shopping carts with plastic bags draped to the sides, others carry large bags in a variety of colours strapped to their shoulders and some just use the pockets in their clothing. I smile and say Good Morning to the ones I know. I yank up the blinds at my window to reprimand those who I do not know because they left the lid off our garbage recycle can after raking through and getting the 5-cent deposit payoffs.

I use to view Those who can as outcasts in society akin to Those who feed birds, unable to navigate through societal demands or culture.  They were the people who had to support their escapism by way of drugs, alcohol or in the case of Those who feed birds through birdseed.

Due to my unemployment at the time and in need of running shoes, I decided to try my hand at being a Those who can. A relative who lived in the basement was a heavy beer drinker and partied on the weekends in the basement with other heavy beer drinkers. By the end of Sunday, the “garbage recycle can runneth over” with the discarded 5 cent deposit payoffs.

*AN IDEA *

Collect all the cans from the relative after the weekend before he throws them out then go to the local supermarket to retrieve my five cents of payoffs. Two hundred 5-cent deposit payoffs equals $100 crispy brand new dollars-viola or vola!-new pair of running shoes!

It did not work out that way…

After collecting gazillions of 5-cent deposit payoffs from the relative and dumping them into 55-gallon trash bags, packed in my car no less, I drove to the local supermarket and stood in line at the return machine. I was overly dressed with clean clothes compared to the others who stood in line and I wore makeup with lipstick to boot. Finally, it was my turn. I unloaded a can from the bag and slid it through the slot.

ERROR MESSAGE-THE ITEM WAS NOT PURCHASED AT THIS LOCATION

WoW.

Numerous cans attempted kicked back the same message. A Those who can next in line advised me to go the Walgreens a mile over and try their machine. I guess it was obvious from my reaction at the rejection notice that I was an inexperienced Those who can who had no plan B.

I jumped in my car and drove to the Walgreens.

ERROR MESSAGE-THE ITEM WAS NOT PURCHASED AT THIS LOCATION

WoWsa.

*AN IDEA*

On my way to the Queens Center Mall, stop in at a nearby supermarket.

ERROR MESSAGE-THE ITEM WAS NOT PURCHASED AT THIS LOCATION

Okay, enough with the error messages.  I tried six other places until I realized the cans had to be returned to the place of purchases.  Needless to say, the beers that were once in the cans were purchased at various beer outlets. No return machines there.

I returned home, bags of cans in tow and into the garbage recycle bin they went.

The next day, the bin was empty. Those who can completed their rounds. The job does not stop at the local supermarket but begins with the back and forth travel to numerous places, returning cans and bottles.

Those who can, have my respect. I was not able to accomplish what they do on a day-to-day basis-heck I did not even make five cents. I had a car, did not go door-to-door collecting cans and had 55-gallon trash bags at my disposal. Those who can, work hard.  I gave up.

Eventually, I purchased my ASICS running shoes but felt no satisfaction at acquiring them through borrowed money.

 

 

Posted on by Anelemc · 2 Comments

Depression hurts…

“Suicide thoughts?”
No. If I commit suicide I’ll have nothing to be depressed about anymore.

“Problems eating or regurgitating food?
No. Food and I have a mad love relationship. Everyday I’m busy trying to consume as much as I can-why go through the trouble of trying to get rid of it?

“Feeling of hopelessness and despair?”
Yes. The world at times has attempted to suffocate me.

“Isolation?”
Oh yes, well I have dogs. I choose alone!

“Loss of interest in activities?”
Well…yeah, gaining xx amount of pounds does not encourage me to get out in the park and roller blade in a tank top and shorts anytime soon.

Based on my answers to a series of screening questions, I was diagnosed with depression. My primary care doctor officially and medically placed me in the mild zone of the depression spectrum-not the high or the low but the mild-whatever that means-kidding, I know what it means.

Depression hurts…

It paralyzes mí alma (soul) and drives mí cuerpo (body) into a catatonic state. It is intimidating as it towers over me and devours my ability to self-control. It can also be possessive and demanding as no others are allowed to compete with its hold.

If my depression lasts a day, I can pull through by way of engagement with what I love to do-writing, reading and playing piano. If it stays around longer, I shut down, become lethargic and hide within the comforts of myself.

Depression is frustrating because I have yet to figure out how long it plans to hang out in the fog within my being. But, it does have a way of announcing its arrival which is not by a horse drawn golden chariot or sitting atop a billowy grey cloud. A trigger is what my depression needs in order to arrive and it’s always dressed in its finest.

Examples of some of my Triggers:

1. Aggravation from work
2. Tobias or Pi Patel sick with something
3. Weight
4. Bad ride on the subway
5. Clothes not fitting because of the weight
6. Things not going according to plan
7. Ignored or having my ideas not taken seriously
8. Detangling my hair
…This can go on but it stops here.

My triggers are not a consequence of the situations themselves but my reaction to the situations which in turn brings on the depression.    

My reactions to the above situations:

1a. Inability to think coherently and reacting emotionally
2a. Stress and the unknown leading to loss of control
3a. Emotional eating
4a. People who don’t know the proper usage of “excuse me” and “I’m sorry” especially when my toe is smashed by a stiletto heel
5a. What the hell am I going to wear now?
6a. Why me? I know. Because I am so stupid!
7a. I guess I truly am stupid
8a. I hate my hair, I hate myself
…This can go on but it stops here.

This was depression before Wellbutrin.

Now, depression with Wellbutrin does not hurt as much.

***Wellbutrin effects are different for everyone. What worked for me, may not work for you. Talk to your health care provider for more information.

Posted on by Anelemc

re·spect

re·spect

noun

1.esteem for or a sense of the worth or excellence of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality or ability: I have great respect for her judgment.
2.deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or someone or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgment: respect for a suspect’s right to counsel; to show respect for the flag; respect for the elderly.
3. the condition of being esteemed or honored: to be held in respect.

Respect is a funky word usually associated with emotional outward feelings of admiration, glory or submission. One does not need to be liked to be respected. Respect earns respect, higher salaries, faster promotions, an office with a view and a personal assistant, home cooked meals and an occasional lick from a dog.

But, when it is slow to acknowledge, or omitted at a time when it is most important, lack of Respect can be the catalyst of horrific wars.

Respect is fickle and fleeting as are the people we encounter. Those who love you at first may demand your head in the gallows thirty seconds later. If you don’t respect me, I’m not going to respect you or I’ll pretend to respect you if I get that office, without the view but with the personal assistant.

I have yet to figure out Respect’s presence in the workplace. There is definitely a grey area and most likely the few who deserve it are obscure by the ones who definitely don’t.  Good acting skills are required in order to spend eight hours of our day in co-existence with people we’d never socialize with outside of work. Of course having a semi-private office with a door and lock helps tremendously with the figuring out.

There was a time back in the day when Respect was earned. Hard work, diligence, attention to detail, not sweating the small stuff was enough to get just about anybody a little respect. But Respect under the lull of fluorescent lights, claustrophobic cubicles wedged amongst Xeroxes and fax machines, has changed.  The dynamics of Respect is lost within the caustic vapors of the Xerox toner cartridges.

It is emotionally difficult to respect co-workers from hell especially those in need of a serious exorcism.  How do you exude admiration, adoration, and submissive behaviour from being in the company of greatness, towards someone you’d rather kick? How fast can I run under a desk when my lack of Respect towards a co-worker, has been outted by my facial expression of disgust and eye rolling at their ghetto way of talking?

There is no employee manual on the usage of Respect nor are we at birth infused with the Respect juju.
A slight given is a slight taken. You step on my suede shoes, I’ll step on yours.

Our world would be such a nice place to hang out in if Respect was held in the same esteem as a Play Station console.

Posted on by Anelemc · 3 Comments

“I want a golden goose and I want it NOW!”

I want a one-bedroom apartment with a fireplace, indoor parking garage, a pool and a backyard.

I want to live in a neighbourhood where the only sounds I hear at night are crickets.

I want a grand piano and no, not a Steinway but a Bosendorfer.

I want to win Mega Millions and not the $2 prize but the bunch of millions prize.

I want to lose allot of weight in two weeks’ time.

I want new clothes to compliment the weight loss I lost in two weeks’ time.

I want a female pit bull.

I want to name my female pit bull- Ms Piti Bee or maybe Ms Piti Me.

I want a house in the country, in a gated community, in case Jason Voorhees tries to contact me.

I want the entire Fall 2012 Mulberry bag collection.

I want a road bike.

I want to ride my road bike in the country, near my country home, in the gated community.

I want a Life Alert button so if I fall someone will eventually come to get me up.

I want someone to live with me so I won’t need the Life Alert button.

I want and I want and only get what I need and sometimes what is desperately needed but for now I will daydream of living in Veruca Salt’s world.