Blog, I Had a Dream

This is my dream from last night:

The fingers of my left hand are drumming the air. I notice and think, "Oh, my God, my hand is moving." I run to this sick sad looking little boy wearing a blue t-shirt. I tell him, "Look," while I move my left hand around. I tell him, "You're going to be okay, you need to give your body time." I repeat this to him a couple of times more. And then I run (no weak left leg either) looking for my family. While I'm looking I keep talking to my brain, telling it, "You rock, you found the way to you arm, you found the way to your arrm." I find my daughter but she doesn't seem to grasp the miracle it is that my "stroked" hand is fine again. So I keep running. I find my mother, I show her my hand. She comes toward me and gives me a hug. The bittersweetness of this is that right behind her is my daddy and in that same position, they give me a crushing hug. It's here that I start sobbing when I'm telling Husband about my dream, because my daddy has been dead for 28 years.

So we're convinced that I need to do exactly what I told the sad little boy to do, give my body time to find the way to its left extremities once again.

May God bless this dream, may the signs be His to comfort me in my impatience.

Amen,

Margarita

Payday

Up for air.

Breathe, Margarita.

Yo Blog!

I'm down, down down. I hate the recession and how it has finally caught up with me. It makes me feel so poor and desperate. And my salary shouldn't allow for me to have thoughts of poverty. And the fact that I'm still alive, in spite of the 08 stroke, shouldn't allow for thoughts of despair. But there you are that it that I do have them.

I'm to the point thatt I'm thinking I should work on presenting myself as a business case and submitting it to a philanthropist, and see if this old broad is worthy of a his/her help. I offer no dividends just a grateful heart.

The sad thing is that I had to pull out my little girl fprom her dance classes on Saturday. And she loves dance sooo much. But, that's $165 a month we won't have to pay anymore, and that is no small amount for us in this dreary climate.

At this point I'm even holding back from buying my reading group book for October. I practically can have breakast and lunch at work one day with $15. Can you imagine, me, the book lover, cannot afford a book! How the hell did that happen?

I know that in the white world it ain't pretty to talk about money, whether you have it or not, but that ain't me. If called on it, I could make a long list of my money pressures. I'm pretty sure half a mill will suffice, but in my case I would probably need 30 years to pay that reasonable amount of money. And that would be my whole worth by the time i'm seventy.

Pitiful isn't it?

Bill, Melinda where are you?

Sadly for now,



Margarita

Querido blog:

Es 29 de septiembre y mi hija tiene gripe; pero no la gripe nuestra de todos los días. Todo parece indicar que tiene la H1N1 o gripe porcina. Ayer tuve que recogerla de la escuela como a las dos y media porque tenía fiebre de 102.5 grados. La llevé con su pediatra y después de dos horas y una consulta veloz con el siempre buena onda Dr. Hidalgo, le hicieron la prueba y salió positiva.

En fin, mi hija se toma su Tamiflu y hoy amaneció mejor y en compañía de los esmeros de su papi que se quedó con ella en casa. Mañana me toca a mí para que el padre vuelva a su rutina laboral.

Yo me juro y me perjuro que no habré de enfermarme, que mi cuerpo sabrá resistir este maldito virus pero, la neta, como que empiezo a sospechar que voy a caer pese a mi rebeldía. Hidalgo prácticamente lo dio por hecho por mi situación del accidente cerebrovascular y que quedé muy propensa a todas estas cosas.

Pero yo me enojo y digo que por mi voluntad ni madres que me enfermo, si por ello es, yo estaré siempre sana, fuerte y rica.

He dicho. Publíquese.

Margarita

Querido blog otra vez:

Es la tercera vez que te escribo esto; los otros dos intentos se han perdido en internet. Sob!

Te contaba de un comité que formé que llamo mi Cortejo Celestial o CC y que está conformado por los espíritus luminosos de mis muertos más queridos: mi papi, por supuesto; las dos viejitas bajo cuyo encargo estuve por algunos años de mi infancia y con quienes fui mala y cruel una vez salida yo de sus cuidados: mi Ita y su hija Lupita; mi nobilísima y linda tía Olivia; dos maestros de prepa que dejaron huella en mí: Silvia Moyado y Gilberto Becerra, ambos de Matemáticas; mi querida amiga Ana María que el año pasado perdiera la guerra contra el cáncer y mi suegra que no conocí pero que imagino amorosa, Consuelo.

Bueno, con ellos hablo y doy por hecho que me acompañan, les pido que vigilen y cuiden mis pasos para no caerme más; les hago encargos inverosímiles y que en el colmo yo veo súper factibles, como esperar un par de millones de dolarucos de un tal Tom Cruise (por qué no; él los tiene y probablemente le sobren y a mí me hacen falta); les pido que me den una señal de su presencia cercana , que muevan por ejemplo uno de estos dos clips que tengo aquí en el escritorio.

En fin, les digo que ya sé que allí están pero que no jueguen con mis miedos de mexicana tercermundista.

Y que los quiero mucho.

Margarita

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

It's a good day. Full summer still, but I ache for the fall.

Yesterday I was so pleasantly surprised to see that Kathleen Kent (author of the novel "The Heretic's Daughter") responded to an e-mail I sent her to tell her I bought her book on Sunday. I also tell her about my interest to translate books into Spanish (my dream job). Anyway, she was so gracious and made my day. Thank you, Kathleen.

So now, my friend Laura and I have a reading club of 2 and our September book is...yeah, The Heretic's Daughter.

Bye, Blog.
M

Si tuviera 50 minutos

Okey, me queda claro que no hay quien lea esto, que para ello se requiere de más esfuerzo y sobre todo de más conocimientos técnicos que lamentablemente yo soy muy perezosa para aprender.

Pero será que yo misma quisiera oír mi voz, encontrarme conmigo misma, leerme y saber que aquí estoy. Quizá esto reemplace la necesidad de terapia, porque puede uno lanzarse aquí los 50 minutos de la sesión y hablar de uno y tal vez, si alguien participara con comentarios, pudieran verse como intervenciones teapeúticas... tal vez...

botellita al mar, pues.

Margarita

Es un nuevo día, yey

Bueno, me asomo hoy porque seguramente en mi cerebro todos los elemento quimicos --sean endorfinas, serotonina or whatever-- están mejor balanceados que antier.

Hoy estoy tranquila, trabajando con gusto, agradecida y bendecida por estar viva. No quiero dejar ni vestigios de mi actitud negativa anterior. Borrón y cuenta nueva, puesnn. Que lo sepa el universo.

Sea la paz.

Sea la salud.

Sea la vida.

Margarita

Estoy de terapia..

Hoy estoy encabronada. Qué rico soltarme una mala palabra por este medio, uno tan cortés, tan “corporativo”. Lo peor del asunto es que ni sé por qué. Me siento toda atufada y desquerida, la que les vale madres a los demás.

Claro, mi inteligencia natural, que, amigos, no es poca, me dice que esto es falso y lo entiendo y acepto, pero tons, qué chingaos hago con este enojo in crescendo, con estas ganas de romper algo, de rayársela a alguien, de hacer trizas, añicos, de hacer mierda algo.

Estoy destructiva y necesita de mimos y cariñitos, así sean fingidos. Hoy sí no me siento joven.

Margarita

You're expecting WHAAT?

"What do you mean? I have to see you fall and help you walk? I knew you were going to be in a wheel chair for some time , but I never expected the cane to be long-term. Give me a break! You're my mommy, you're supposed to do for me and not I for you. At least not right now, I'm only 10! I was very scared Friday when I saw you fall to your knees and it was just you and me, and all these strangers had to intervene and help you get up and sit you down while you were shaking and all clammy. And then you had your little emotional meltdown at the mall, and you were expecting me to WHAT? Hug and comfort you? I was still trying to adjust to my realization that you cant' do it all, like before, that you are weak, and come undone easily. You want me to name feelings? How about fear, dissapointment, anger? It's a good thing I'm not 2, but 10. What would you have done then, if you had had your stroke eight years ago when I was just a toddler? What would you have expected of me then?"

These are things I think my daughter thinks when I have my occasional falls.

Let's move on and have a great week!
Margarita

Here I am

And well, here I am. I have tons of stuff I've written in Spanish and that mentally I've been organizing in sections for "when I do my blog." Now, I realize that will take time. Oh well! Isn't that the story of our lives?

Time. time.

This brings me to my definition of being rich or wealthy. The day that I don't have to sell 40 weekly hours of my life and still maintain a comfortable lifestyle and claim my time as mine and mine alone. That, to me, is wealth. This is when you can call me rich.

Who knows. If and when I get there, what if I just waste my most precious resource being a slob an d a good for nothing. Oh, the horror!

Ah, the blessings of a J-O-B

Margarita