tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36933003023842310852024-03-13T11:48:13.097-07:00xoxo Daryaxoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-32287946130382677322018-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:002018-08-29T07:43:06.059-07:00A 700-lb Gorilla<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I "surfed" Huntington Beach's River Jetty this morning and in all honesty it felt like I hucked a 700-pound gorilla off my back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I prefer the Seapoint's Jetty at Bolsa Chica. Do not even ask me why... Because nearly all the ugly stuff that has happened to me since I decided to get back on a board after 20-some-odd years has happened at Seapoint—my broken ribs and collapsed lung; bent and fractured fingers; multiple stingray shankings and slicings; concussions; split lips and black eyes. Yet, when asked my preference, I continue to beg the Caveman to load-up the boards and get in the car and drive up PCH and find parking and unload the whole shit-and-caboodle and hoof it all over the jetty's bridge. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the really ridiculous part is all I really need to do is put my own board and my own ass on my own bike, and ride it all about a mile to the Huntington Beach side of the River Jetty. <i>I am so ridiculous</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But see, the River Jetty has some scary-serious surfers; guys that surf with no leashes or practice 360s on top of the waves like they were Snoopy riding his doghouse roof. And real surfer girls who walk the nose and paddle on their knees like they were born on a board. And I am intimidated</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">—</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I feel like there ain’t no place for a 55-yo lady grom in the line-up. Especially, a lady grom who is unwilling to paddle-up and take her rightful place in that line-up. And the thing about taking your place in the line-up is you gotta believe you belong—NO! You gotta believe you deserve to belong in that line-up—and I never seem to be in that head space. Yes, the Caveman is my downfield block and he paddles interference for me and he’ll snap anybody in half that looks at me sideways, but he also makes me take my own place and call my own wave, and he is long done pushing my fat ass into those same waves. I gotta be paddling for me, myself and I if I want anything that resembles a wave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He also reminded me today in a very impatient manner when my whining fully ramped-up how “goddamn patient I have been with YOU and YOUR anxieties, Darya...” and he said “Darya” like my parents meant to spell it with 4 letters but goofed that up, as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the end, I did it; I surfed River Jetty. It was not pretty but it got done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, suck it, River Jetty. The River Jetty, just like San Onofre State Beach are officially off my spreadsheet of anxiety-making shit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because if nothing else, I ain't no quitter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">xoxo Darya</span></div>
xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-86270724925043593102018-01-21T23:59:00.000-08:002018-12-05T06:40:52.092-08:00Happy Birthday, DaddyI know, I know, <i>I know</i>... it has been about a million years since I sat my seat down in my chair and put some words together and posted it here at my little bloggity blog. <i>Shameful almost... </i>But, I am not going to into a great big long song and dance about where I have been or what I have been doing all this time--there will be posts enough for that. What I <b><i>do </i></b>want to share with you is that today is my father's 78th birthday--or I should really say, today would have been Daddy's 78th birthday had he not died of stage IV distal esophageal cancer not even 30 days after the Hero and his Babydoll said their vows in front of all the very most important people in their lives <i>EXCEPT my mother and father--my heart was thrilling and trilling and breaking into a million pieces all at the same time</i>.<br />
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Tougher days to come, to be sure.<br />
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In honor of my father's birthday, and because I know he would be so proud of the Hero. And I only single out the Hero because my mother asked him to do the eulogy. And in all fairness, they shared the common bond and brotherhood of being firefighters, and we had lived with my parents for quite some time before the next grandson fell from heaven. So, when he stood up in that log-church on the day of my father's memorial, the Hero gave a eulogy deeply woven of both the personal and the professional.<br />
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If you were there that day to see the Hero in his dress uniform to read his eulogy in that small non-denominational country log-church my father and mother helped raise funds for, help build with their own hands, protect from outside ravages and administrate from the inside all on the side of a mountain in Utah, consider yourself supremely lucky because it is not often the Hero splits himself wide open and bears that much of his heart.<br />
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A large part of me views that as the measure of a man, not so much by the buckets of tears he can cry, but by his ability to walk up an ambo and stand tall at a pulpit and ask for a moment to dry his eyes and gather his thoughts and speak loudly enough for everyone to hear his voice crack and see his tears spill and feel his heart ache; still, as stoically as possible, tell his personal heartfelt truth held deep within himself and round it off with...<br />
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Well, I don't want to spoil the ending ; ) <i>read on...</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Eulogy </span></b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">- T</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">he Hero</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My grandfather, Don to most friends, Dee to his immediate family, although my grandmother was NEVER allowed to call him that, and Grandpa to my three cousins and myself was born in Elmira, New York.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At age 13, Grandpa's family moved from upstate New York to California.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My grandpa attended and graduated from Arroyo High School in El Monte, California. It was there that my grandmother, asked my grandfather out on a date--she was 14 and he was 17-years old. Grandma was offered Grandpa's name as an option for an upcoming Sadie Hawkin's Dance because she had been told he thought she was cute. Grandma obtained his phone number than she was voice-to-voice with the boy--man--who would become the love of her life.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A love affair that would last nearly 60 years.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Because my grandfather had suffered a significant back injury playing football his senior year, and also being the last surviving male in his family, he was ineligible and excluded from the draft and military service. Even though he did not serve, it is only fitting we should sit here today memorializing my grandfather on Veteran's Day as he had such a huge respect for all men and women of military service.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On a light drizzly day in September 1961, my grandfather married my grandmother and he went to work for Southern California Edison. Soon after in 1962, their first daughter, Darya was born and my grandpa pursued his lifelong career goal of becoming a Los Angeles County Sheriff's Deputy. Again, soon after in 1965, there would be another daughter, my aunt.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And life was good for a very long time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As an avid outdoorsman and hunter, and because a good job waited at the end of a long highway, Grandpa moved his family from Southern California to a small town in Utah called, Alpine. He built his home on a beautiful plot of land that looked out onto Mount Timpanogos in Utah's Wasatch Mountain Range, and there he was able to hunt and fish and shoot. And as fate often comes into play, the time spent many years ago learning how to dove and grouse and quail hunt was put to good use. His first year deer hunting he shot a trophy-worthy buck that I looked at as a young boy, and I have heard stories of the vegetable garden Grandma hand-troweled and planted from seed so they could feed their family in that last lean Utah year.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There was a move back to California and that buck hung on the wall in the dining room in Fountain Valley for many years. But, by 2006 Grandpa had moved with Grandma up to the log cabin on the side of a mountain of their dreams.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There were many, MANY, repairs done to that cabin and it went from a log cabin to a beautiful log home and finally it fulfilled their shared dream of retirement.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For 11 years, while Grandpa worked on that cabin, he became embedded in the community of Duck Creek Village helping to physically build the church we sit in today. He also became a volunteer fireman retiring as Deputy Chief of the Cedar Mountain Fire Protection District.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And as a personal aside, I would just like to thank all the men and women of the CMFPD family. You truly gave my grandfather some of the happiest and most fulfilling years of his life. Thank you.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Only as recently as July, did Grandpa and Grandma decide to "move off the mountain". </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", sans-serif;">Unfortunately, my grandfather, did not know one healthy day in his new home. What he did know was the immense friendship and unwavering respect and companionship of his "mountain friends" and family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Today, I believe he knows that his friends adored and respected him; that his daughters loved him like only daughters can; he showed his 3 grandsons, including myself what it is to be a man's man. And his 1 and only grand-daughter knows what it is to be loved by a man that hung the moon just for her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Thank you.</span></span><br />
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xoxo Darya<br />
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<i>PS - The strength and maturity and guidance the Hero extended to my mother, my sister and myself throughout this entire ordeal was extraordinary and beyond gratifying and amazing. He helped us to allow Momma the luxury to love on Daddy in those last few hours, while Sister and I did the "heavy lifting". Clearly, this is a debt I will spend a lifetime repaying to my own son and his wife.</i><br />
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<i>Well done, Son, well done <3</i><br />
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<i>xoxo D</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-92012442029062953802016-07-04T06:43:00.003-07:002016-07-06T16:41:58.135-07:00Making It To The Line-UpI am laying here waiting for the sun to come up so that we can try and go surfing, again. I write, "try", because a whole lot of planets and stars and tides and moons and traffic and parking spaces and temperatures and conditions have to align for me to be able to unload my board and get in the water and have a good time. It happened yesterday. And it happened Father's Day weekend camping at San Onofre State Beach--SanO.<br />
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I made it into the line-up yesterday. And at SanO.<br />
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AND I saw a shark to boot.<br />
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But that is not the point of my story.<br />
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Yesterday, the water looked inky and ferocious and big and like there was a lot of power in those waves, and then, when we got in, it was like a dream for me: There was time for me to think and to turn and to shoot and to stand; not too much to ride, but that was okay, too. And I was knocked off my board and I was sent into an actual somersault in the shorebreak--sand is still shaking out of my hair. I could hear my laughter in my own ears.<br />
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SanO was a whole 'nother story.<br />
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I was nervous, man. I had a brand new board, and the last time I "surfed" there, I was hurt so badly I did not touch the water for another 20 years--NO, like, I NEVER set a foot in the water long after the broken nose and the split skull and the loose teeth and the concussion were healed. The Caveman and the Hero and Papa Fig were there; they can testify.<br />
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I was up early Father's Day morning by about 4:00am, washing my face and brushing my teeth and Papa Fig and the Wedding Singer were up right after me. The Caveman and Baby Fig were still asleep. Normally, the boys go to the cliffs and take a look at the waves before we all load up and make the walk down Trail 6 with board bags and lunches and whatnot.<br />
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Papa Fig and the Wedding Singer were getting ready to go down to the cliff, and I was sitting on the bench drinking my tea thinking THEY will go take a look and I will pack the lunch and I said, "Do you want me to wake-up the Caveman?" And Papa Fig said the best thing he could have said in just about my whole lifetime, "Naw, just come on, Dweez. Let's go take a look." In all the nearly 30 years I have known Papa Fig, he has called me that; in all the nearly 20-some-odd years we have spent Father's Day at SanO, that was the first time I have seen the morning sets from the cliffs.<br />
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Man, it took all I had not to girl-it-up by bawling.<br />
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Andlemmetellyou, that was like making it to the line-up, right there.<br />
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I will tell you about the shark another day. Mostly, because I still cannot believe it happened. More importantly, I feel very special that I got to see something that huge and incredible up close. And there will be people that will not believe me and they will feel compelled to harsh my good feelings and make fun of me and just generally ruin it. Fuck that shit. I am owning this for as long as I want right now.<br />
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For today, all this lady grom wants to do is throw down on her belly and paddle and paddle and make it to the line-up and then maybe see a wave that will not crush her skull and turn her board around (quickly!!!) and paddle to the left (hard hard hard!!!) and get up (quickly!!!) and ride, just ride! And without going all Spicoli, I just wanna get stoked. That is all. Just once, well, now I am getting greedy.<br />
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I wanna get stoked...A LOT!<br />
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Happy 4th of July, my friends; be safe and sane!<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-39328498440924492742016-04-12T15:51:00.000-07:002016-07-04T07:08:46.398-07:00My Silly StuffI freely admit that I do a lot of goofy shit. I never do any REAL damage or harm <i>except for that one iPad by the pool at Talk to Me Johnny's and his Unicorn's, but for the sake of argument let's just agree that I am a Schleprock and where I go things get broken</i>. But I would certainly rather die than hurt anybody.<br />
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I am talking more along the lines of opening the freezer and finding my bra. And I have trouble paying bills on time and I forget how to get to my work and my hair salon and my nearest Ikea, as well as two of my dearest friends' houses, so I have it all in my GPS because I will lose my way.<br />
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That kinda stuff.<br />
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I just cannot rely on myself. Except for when it comes to two things:<br />
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No. 1, I always know what time it is even without looking at a watch or a clock--seriously, I am always within 20 minutes of whatever time it is; whenever it is; wherever I happen to be at the time. I am supremely aware of my relationship to the personal space and time I am occupying on the planet, just not how I got there!<br />
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And, No. 2, I always know where my keys are at--oh, I may have to dig through my purse <i>a lot</i> to find them, but they are always there and if they are not in there, they are in the ignition. Period.<br />
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But <i>damnitalltohell</i>, I have gone and lost my entire set of keys.<br />
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And I am beside myself with grief and worry and sorrow. I am bereft. Dr. Headshrinker calls these words depressiogenic. Words that lead to overly negative thoughts. <i>A mental quagmire that I have worked hard this last year to climb out of and rinse off of me</i>. Basically, they make me sad.<br />
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Yes, yes<i>, yes, </i>I know. It can all be replaced; it is ALL just stuff. Just my keys. But that is not the point.<br />
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Because on that key ring was THE original house key the Caveman placed in my hand the day we closed escrow and moved into the nightmare that became our forever home 20 years ago this Thanksgiving. He actually carried me over the threshold holding a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and a canister of salt--for luck and abundance! Because we needed a lot of luck <i>and an abundance of money</i>! And although, we do not eat bread, I still have that canister of salt. And that home.<br />
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But, I do not have that stuff; <b>that</b> key.<br />
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Also on that key ring was THE original key to my 1969 Porsche 912. The key was handed to me by the son of the original owner along with the original dealer's key fob <i>luckily, the leather broke a little while ago on that fob so it sits in my vintage jewelry box</i>.<br />
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I bought my beautiful little red dream car with my very own money. I bought it with the Caveman's ever-present assistance and the severance pay I received from my forever job that only lasted 15 years. That job is gone, but I built my own little business so no one could ever fire me again, <i>excuse me, "remove redundancy in the workplace"</i>. I am still here and stronger than ever.<br />
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But, I do not have that stuff; <b>that </b>key.<br />
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Just stuff. So, silly. My silly stuff, but my head is swollen from bawling over losing my silly stuff; <b>those </b>keys.<br />
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In another lifetime, I walked away from all my stuff <i>that is how I know I can call it stuff</i>. When I left Sgt. Airborne, I simply packed-up my personal stuff and picked-up my baby Hero and walked out the front door leaving all our stuff behind. I mailed that ring of keys back to Sgt. Airborne from the safety of my parents home amidst their stuff, and I let him deal with all our stuff as I <i>put my parent's house key on my new keyring</i>.<br />
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I try not to think of that household full of that life. But when I do, I remember that when I REALLY let that stuff go and I had no stuff, there was nothing more for anyone to take from me ever again. And the stuff I DID possess was my love and integrity and my purpose and my child and the safety of 3500 miles.<br />
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In some ways, I already know the key to a meaningful life: That all a person's very most important stuff does not fit into a pocket nor a purse.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-31123436085515395552016-02-15T08:04:00.002-08:002016-02-17T20:57:21.707-08:00Less & More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was in the middle of a pre-Lenten lifestyle purge brought about by so many factors, I cannot eeeeven begin to enumerate<i> much less begin to understand myself</i>, so the idea of putting one clothing item each day for the 40 days of Lent into a large bag and donating the whole shit-and-caboodle dovetails nicely into my overall goal of less AND more, <i>and let's be honest, it gets me closer to that "capsule wardrobe" I keep prattling on about</i>.<br />
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Less crap; less stuff; less negativity; less gossip; less bullshit food & nonsense drink; less excuse-laden energy; less caffeine (really, no caffeine); less pop (again, really, no pop); less angry slamming of cupboards & doors; less judgement; less offensive language, <i>oh, there's a toughie</i>; less standing around with my thumb up my ass; less crying into my pillow and stomping the ground; less annoying emails and chatty texts; simply less bitching.<br />
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And instead, more quality of life; more good food and clink-clink drink with loving supportive people; more stepping forward & giving a hug & stroking a friend's hair to say I care; more texts to check-up on friends (one gal pal plays mother hen to ME & has taught me this unabashedly & I am grateful); more laughing; more squatting, lunging and lifting <i>especially my own ass, as in, off-the-ground, as in, just one GD pull-up</i>; more strength (in all manner of the definition); more barbell work & more determination; more grace.<br />
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And, more kindness, and especially more mercy towards myself, because I have learned you cannot give away that with which you do not possess.<br />
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All this I know to be true regardless of what part of the liturgical calendar we happen to be celebrating <i>or loathing depending on your point of view</i>.<br />
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Maybe THIS really is <b>my </b>new year. Maybe I have beat my wings to exhaustion and it is time to break free and just change already--<i>criminy</i>!<br />
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Maybe... <br />
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Hell, I don't know.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-52738071374192313552016-02-07T11:50:00.005-08:002016-04-12T14:44:37.628-07:00So Pissed About to Be Pissed-Off<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>---WARNING---</i><br />
<i> Put the kids to bed or avert your eyes or change the channel because this is gonna be a straight -up old-fashioned Dennis Miller mother fuckin' rant directed like a heat-seeking missile at the lady driving the white paper-plated BMW XB from Universal City Century West BMW from last Tuesday morning.</i></div>
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Dear Lady in The White BMW:<br />
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I will not divulge your race nor your ethnicity because it is immaterial--you were a shitty selfish self-centered self-absorbed "driver" who was either talking on your phone via the speaker that is hand-held that special and somehow significant 8" from your right ear, you know, <b>that </b>magical 8" that somehow transforms any regular cell phone into a completely and totally hands-free model even though it is still in your hands! OR you were being advised of directions via Siri or Mapquest or Google or <i>whatfuckingever</i>.<br />
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Regardless, the results were the same.<br />
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You do not even possess the sense God gave a goose to realize that while you were riding gangsta-lean-style in the No. 1 lane of the Northbound 405 Freeway at the 710 Freeway at 6:50 am Tuesday morning all the while stopping, starting, talking, listening, <i>and I am only assuming here</i>, looking for your off ramp when you slammed on your brakes because that looked like your off-ramp you had just passed only to realize, <i>whoopsie hehehehe</i>, that it was indeed NOT your off-ramp and then there was squealing tires and the sound of cars colliding not once, but TWICE! Two car crashes for the price of one--well, honestly, who does not love a bargain in LA and besides, there is hardly any traffic or confusion heading LA-way that time of day!<br />
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You dumb cunt.<br />
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And believe me, I am so unhappy and disappointed in myself for having allowed you to get to me in a manner that has reduced me to the level of THAT word. But, bravo, you did it *applauding slowly*.<br />
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And please, do not lecture me on the proper following distance when driving the freeway. There is no proper following distance from a driver like you unless it is with you in your garage; car parked and me and everyone else driving the exact opposite direction at the exact opposite time.<br />
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Even Mr. Boston Red Sox Man with the No Fat Chicks bumpersticker, who felt the need to insert himself and his vehicle in the mere one-and-a-half-car-length's distance that I had between me and you, had the good sense to get the hell out of your way when he had to slam-on his brakes <b><i>so hard</i></b> that he pitched <b><i>so far</i></b> forward his back wheels left our precious planet Earth, you know, the place I'd like to stay for at least a couple more years, as if you could care.<br />
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Maybe it is your first language; maybe it is not--I really do not care, but I feel it is only remotely germane to my post to point out that you spoke English clearly enough to understand and obtain a California State driver's license on that oh-so-fate-filled day. But it takes more than that to be a good driver in California.<br />
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Oh, yes, it does. In spite of what the rest of the country thinks of us, moving en masse every single day the 40+ miles into LA City proper and points past when we are all already dealing with multi-sized trucks and rigs; motorcycles that are nearly the size of cars that need only a moonroof and two doors and are unlawfully lane splitting and illegally moving at three-times the flow of traffic is no easy feat.<br />
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It is people like you: Vapid, stupid, self-absorbed and poorly prepared drivers that will continue to provoke the stereotype of the head-up-their-ass-California-driver we possess.<br />
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And I resent the hell out of that.<br />
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You, my dear, are a moving menace. You might as well have been drunk or a suicide bomber for the havoc you caused and the danger you imposed on the rest of us. And yes, I was the one that honked at you and motioned for you to "hang it up and fucking drive," and that was after the second collision behind ME because of your self-absorbed and selfish driving behavior!<br />
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I sincerely hope someday you have a child and they are subjected to exactly what I had to endure today. Because you scared the hell out of me. I have friends and family that pick-up and put back together the damage you unwittingly and unknowingly, or perhaps even uncaringly, perpetrated as you drove along happily and clearly without conscience on our state's already overburdened freeway system believing, I can only imagine, that the laws do not apply to you.<br />
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God be with you, because you are going to need it at some point as I believe that God protects the weak of mind, In light of your bizarre and unbelievably disrespectful and completely irrational driving behavior, you will probably live alone with the cockroaches.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-68063554427623390972016-01-21T07:32:00.002-08:002018-12-05T06:32:18.219-08:00Happy Birthday Daddy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The family that I was born into is a hearty, humble Pennsylvania-Dutch, Protestant people as opposed to the first-generation Mexican-Catholic, if-you-ain't-flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-you-ain't-really-living kinda family brouhaha I converted and married into, and to a large extent have come to overwhelm my family's presence. It happens; the squeaky wheel gets the oil and the quiet one keeps rolling along putting in the miles and carrying the load.</div>
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There is a humility and piousness that comes from "my" people--ever been to Amish country. Yeah, there you have it. We are law-abiding; tax paying; ears pinned back; never ask for help; assholes and elbows; never let'em see you sweat; never drunk driving; in by 10pm kinda people. </div>
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We do not wail nor lament; we get ulcers and have irritable bowels. And we never ever call undue attention to ourselves or our family name. So, personal blogs where one family member ::two thumbs up pointing at my big 'ol head:: dishes on a whole bunch of personal crap, spills the beans about her less-than-picture-perfect life and complains A LOT on a wide variety of subjects on the world wide web is in clear violation of two of the more-than-most basic of all the basic family tenets: privacy and modesty.</div>
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Anyhoo, with all that being said, and without further embarrassment or immodesty to my family, I will simply say, Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you for a whole bunch of reasons and these are my top-10 in descending order <i>'cause I cannot for the life of me figure out how to reverse the numbered bullet point numbers</i>.</div>
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Thank you most of all:</div>
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<li>For never letting me just "have" anything, but for giving me everything I ever needed to be a success.</li>
<li>For never letting me twist in the wind.</li>
<li>For never spanking, hitting or raising your hand to me. In the end, this more than anything helped me to say, "No more!" and to become the woman I am today.</li>
<li>For allowing me a place to come home to when I had no home.</li>
<li>For secretly hanging the moon just for me.</li>
<li>For looking most like you, when everyone thinks I look most like Momma.</li>
<li>For going to Father's Night at the Hero's pre-school and accepting his childish Father's Day trinkets.</li>
<li>For instilling in me your puritan work ethic that helped me to find the man with the same work ethic who would help me raise my son to require that same work ethic of himself. </li>
<li>For never letting me feel that when you and Momma had two girls that that was anything less than having the six boys that I know you <i>thought </i>you really wanted.</li>
<li>For walking me down the aisle twice but for never really once letting go and giving me away.</li>
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<i>xoxo Darya</i></div>
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-62117205713454500352015-12-26T01:10:00.000-08:002016-03-08T05:15:04.468-08:00A Day Late & A Boy ShortBecause someone thought enough of me and the friendship we shared a very long time ago, he made the effort to look me up and reach out to me and we began our friendship all over again.<br />
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This meant a lot to me and it made me want to find someone else very special to me.<br />
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In early January 2016, I went to Facebook to look-up a friend from junior high only to find that he had died unexpectedly. My school-age friend had died on, 9/11/15, from a goddamn heart attack and a lifetime of undiagnosed heart disease while chalking the local soccer fields as the regional AYSO commissioner. That beautiful, smart, funny and oh-so-athletically fit young man died alone working for others. I was crushed and heartbroken that I had missed him for forever by such a small amount of time.</div>
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<i>Meanwhile...</i></div>
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After 32 years of working at the same plumbing and piping company, the Caveman secured a new position at a different shop where he met a mutual friend of mine from that same junior high school and with whom the Caveman had played football in high school. </div>
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<i>Anyhoo</i>, this new old friend and I talked and texted and I told him of the news of our shared friend's death and the upcoming memorial service which was being held the day after Christmas <i>on what would have been his 53rd birthday</i>. </div>
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And we went to that friend's memorial service and we cried and we laughed and we paid our respects to the widow and met his three beautiful daughters and told them who we were and we even had a picture of The Boys as they were when they had won their junior high intramural basketball championship. And my new old friend made a very generous donation on behalf of our dear friend. Then we went to my house and talked and laughed and cried for the next 12 hours. </div>
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And, because the universe has an immense capacity for irony, I recognized a friend of our's at that memorial service that the Caveman and I have known for over 30 years--a friend that the Caveman has worked and surfed with since they were both 20-years-old--and that friend and his wife have been friends with my old friend for more than 20 years!</div>
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So, basically, I had a friend who knew my friend and I never knew it!<br />
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<i>Whisky Tango Foxtrot!?!</i></div>
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I can honestly say that my young school-aged heart loved him; I would never say that he was my boyfriend; we never kissed, we barely ever even danced together and we lived at opposite ends of the City of Huntington Beach. </div>
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What he did <b>do </b>for me was teach me that which was immeasurable.<br />
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He taught me how to play hotbox in Over-The-Line; how to do a real lay-up and to shoot from the outside because I was not very tall compared to the other girls in basketball; how to hit the ball to the in-field holes because I was not strong enough to hit into the outfield; how to accept a soccer pass with my non-dominant left foot and stay in my lane and still be a leading striker, and he worked tirelessly to teach me what a screen pass was, <i>which to this day I still really do not understand. Sorry, Butch</i>. </div>
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In the last year of junior high, our girls basketball team did not have a coach--no teacher stepped forward to help us. This young man did. He trained and coached and yelled and hollered and stomped on the sidelines. </div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3dwfUwHIQqw/Vt4HygkJeOI/AAAAAAAAA-I/mkl8vlbvAoY/s1600/Boys%2Bof%2BOka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3dwfUwHIQqw/Vt4HygkJeOI/AAAAAAAAA-I/mkl8vlbvAoY/s320/Boys%2Bof%2BOka.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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For about a year or so after I moved away to a small Utah town and attended a three-grade high school that was a 1/3 the size of one grade of one of the four(!) Huntington Beach high schools, we wrote to one another. I still have those letters. I have no letters of Sgt. Airborne's so that gives you an idea of his place in my heart. </div>
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He was my hero. </div>
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A big part of my sweet innocent junior high school girl heart broke that day in early 2016; another huge part is sooo beyond grateful for finding my new old friend whom I have known since 5th grade.<br />
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The moral to the story is this, people: If your heart is so inclined, DO NOT WAIT. Call, text, holler or howl, but get in touch, NOW; otherwise, you may end up missing that friend and he was right there the whole damn time.</div>
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I am on a mission to find one, <i>maybe two</i>, of the three other boys in this picture from 1977... Wish me luck! Because I really do not want to make a habit of finding friends after they have left this earth.</div>
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<i>xoxo Darya</i></div>
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-48311995903400896102015-07-04T12:12:00.000-07:002015-08-28T06:34:50.808-07:00Just Look Up<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QMqfscdwoic/VcyL7WSZy1I/AAAAAAAAA7k/s8BIytOBPQM/s1600/IMG_5449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QMqfscdwoic/VcyL7WSZy1I/AAAAAAAAA7k/s8BIytOBPQM/s200/IMG_5449.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have to admit I did not look down at Facebook or Instagram or Periscope or social media much at all this 4th of July weekend. I was really too busy having a good time to "document and share" it all. I know that is the exact opposite way to think when you are trying to grow your little bloggity blog... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">Even after showing the top of my new boobs <i>in a dress, I guess, I decided to call my nightie that one night</i> with a mysterious "tattoo" appearing after an out-of-control house party on July 3rd complete with suspicious and lethal Jungle Juice and the Caveman's delicious, yet totally poisonous Mai Tais; red, white and blue Jell-o shots; dancing in a living room to a DJ <i>and to be honest I am not entirely sure I have ever really seen their furniture, so as far as I am concerned they may ALWAYS live their life to a DJ pumping sound</i>; roasting a pig on a pole all day long and then serving it with</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">King's Hawaiian rolls & the best pig sauce EVER known to man.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">getting up </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the next morning</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and biking the Huntington Beach boardwalk to watch the oldest continuously running 4th of July parade in America from a front row table </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">on the parade route </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">at Avila's, a favorite Mexican restaurant, and then biking back home to take care of the MIL and her little doggie; finally landing at our dear friend's house for a party where I ate even more pig when I ate the wild boar Talk to Me Johnnie tracked, killed and ultimately smoked in the Big Green Egg and then where I stripped down and dove into a gorgeous new pool </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">where I swear steam came off my shoulders as I went in the drink...</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Note to self: I owe </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Talk to Me Johnnie and his Unicorn </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>an iPad because I am a Schleprock and where I go, shit gets broken. ALWAYS.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was good. It was all good, people. It was good to just look </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">up--it was good to NOT have great WIFI service and to just put my big ol' iPhone in my bike basket. The MIL was home alone all weekend with her little Yorkie and he was insane with the fireworks. So....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">By the end of the 4th, I was stick-a-fork-in-me-done, but happily so. It was all really good. I hope it was all really good for you and that you looked up and not just for the fireworks, if they are even allowed near you. <i>I do not think our California brush could even take a hot ash, right now!</i></span><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tsPM969fblQ/VcyL4ujb44I/AAAAAAAAA7c/JfhAC83_WW8/s1600/IMG_5505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tsPM969fblQ/VcyL4ujb44I/AAAAAAAAA7c/JfhAC83_WW8/s200/IMG_5505.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, and the best part: B</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">y looking up, the Caveman saw that a pair of mourning doves had </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">made their nest just outside our back door in the top of a tree that was his father's.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Early in the morning I can hear the male's cooing and lovemaking and the winged whistle she makes when she's flushed out of the tree </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">which I reeeeally try not to do to her, but it is pretty clear that she hates me</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am not gonna lecture anyone on the evils of social media, because I am not a hypocrite. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I love social media. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It has served me well. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It has brought me out of myself; I have made new and very special friends; I have cultivated my tribe; I have said important and tough stuff; I have pushed the limits of my own ability to make friends, and I have even had two friends ask to be friends with me again, which means more to me than they could ever possibly know. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Anyhoo, we just did what was best for us this holiday weekend and look how we got blessed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If I get a chance and I don't bother her too much, I will see if she laid her second egg! And if we are lucky, and they like their home </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the same pair</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">may come back after everything is said and done and start all over again and make a new family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Isn't that nice; finding a nice home and beginning a family all over again. <i>Hmmm sounds a little familiar, huh...</i><br /><br />Happy 4th of July, my friends!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><br /><i>xoxo Darya</i></span></div>
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-14495467514711980552015-05-30T01:59:00.001-07:002015-05-30T01:59:15.651-07:00A Migraine The truth of the matter is I have been A Migraine sufferer since before I was sent off to kindergarten. Which is a good thing, or so they tell me. It means nothing had suddenly begun growing inside the little area where my pea-brain exists when at 35-years-of-age life became absolutely unbearable.<br />
<br />
I do not remember life without A Migraine. They were called, "Darya's Nervous Headaches." And more-often-than-not, A Migraine came on if I was especially excited about something like a slumber party or a looked-forward to field trip to some place special <i>or even one of my own weddings</i>.<br />
<br />
And do not even get me started about how my menstrual cycle and then menopause figured into the whole shit-and-caboodle because I KNOW it did, but I NEVER<b> </b>could get a handle on THAT.<br />
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In fourth grade we visited the Starkist Tuna Processing plant in Long Beach--rode the train and everything. Some kids brought Their Motion Sickness and they got good seats up front by the driver. I brought A Migraine. I did not get a special seat or even a special bag to throw-up in. I spent the entire day doing recon for ladies rooms into which to wretch my guts. I got yelled at twice for getting out of my seat while the train was moving. I only recently remembered this and recanted it to the Caveman, who just shook his head.<br />
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And, unlike Sgt.Airborne and spousal abuse, A Migraine was inescapable.<br />
<br />
I have spent an entire lifetime with one eye open on the look out for A Migraine. I have lived a life of hyper-vigilance. I have also had to be productive and take care of a kid and a home and a couple of husbands, as well as make a living and get an education and basically become and be an adult.<br />
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But, along the way to becoming and being an adult, when I was just a little girl, there were no calls home from the school sick room because Darya's head hurt or she threw-up in the trashcan on the kindergarten playground.<br />
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Nope.<br />
<br />
Those were just the things that happened when I had A Migraine and that is what I had to deal with in order to deal with A Migraine--perhaps that sounds cruel, but that part of me just learned to deal early.<br />
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At some level, I am grateful, because it has made me tough. I could handle it. Teachers, parents, friends, coaches--nobody ever really knew when I had A Migraine. Honestly, <b>I know</b> that I can handle anything because I have handled A Migraine and I know of no greater pain.<br />
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In my world, anyway: Childbirth; broken ribs; a collapsed lung; a busted nose and split skull; knocked down in the surf or knocked out in a rear-end collision; 7 busted ankles--3 in casts--6 armpit to wrist casts status post two surgeries each, and now a broken back with bona fide left hip bursitis <i>who even knew that shit REALLY still existed outside of the Beverly Hillbillies' cement pond.</i><br />
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ALL my pain is measured by the yardstick of A Migraine.<br />
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And when A Migraine comes. It comes with a vengeance. Like, a Viking-styled vengeance. With axes and swinging balls on the end of chains and huge machete-like axes and burning and raping and pillaging--it is just on the inside of my head where no one else can bear witness--<i>where </i><i>only </i><i>I can feel the carnage</i>.<br />
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Even if I went to bed at the correct time and did not oversleep and I was not too hungry or too tired and I did not sleep too much. Even if I did not eat any cheese or yeast or MSG or fermented <i>whatfuckingever </i>or white wine or red wine or red meat or sleep too little for that matter, and I had slept on a lavendar aromatherapy pillow--<i>or not</i>--because sometimes just the smell of something--<i>anything</i>--makes A Migraine worse, <i>oh, God, so much worse.</i><br />
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YET, on the morning of the first day of a very-well planned vacation I have been known to wake up at 4:00am sweaty and nauseous with diarrhea and feeling like I will pee and crap and barf all at the same time. I am not entirely sure which is gonna happen first, but it is all gonna happen,<i> </i>oh for sure it is <b>all </b>going down or coming up, whichever the case may be.<br />
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Generally, it s the vomiting that wins out. It is what makes me grab the sink or the trashcan or the pretty little bin that holds the extra toilet paper and heave. And heave like I have never heaved before, and, like, every 20 minutes, heaving almost like a seizure and hard enough to make me think that I may have actually broken something in my back--I know I have broken blood vessels in my chest and and across my cheeks and in my eyes--<i>they call it petechiae</i>.<br />
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And in those quiet moments in between the throw-up seizures, my mind wanders and I think,<br />
<br />
"Maybe I am having a stroke?"<br />
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Because I was on The Pill a million years ago for a combined lifetime total of, like, seven months, and, well, dumbass, you <b>did </b>smoke for all those years, and also because the pain really is <b>THAT</b> bad and I am afraid I may die from the pain, and my mind wanders even further and I try to remember if anyone has ever died from pain besides my favorite grandmother's brother who actually blew his head off his shoulders with a gun because the pain was so intense and undeniable and inescapable from A Migraine, and then I am even more afraid that I will <b>NOT </b>die from the pain <i>and because I only like guns for one thing and it is not blowing my own head off</i>; then it <b>ALL </b>starts all over again.<br />
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In the meantime, mind you, I have been breathing mindfully, and massaging and accupressuring appropriately and reciting my mantra and praying my rosary and generally doing whatever I know to do to get the pain and panic to subside.<br />
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I take my "rescue medicine"--my Imitrex <i>or Maxalt or Amerge or Zomig or Relpax or Axert--</i>then, there is even more excruciating pain for a bit, and then, if I am a very, very lucky girl, I fall asleep.<br />
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I am rescued.<br />
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I sleep it off for just a a little while because now I am late <b><i>for everything </i></b>and my adrenaline is really pumping, and I am in a neurological fog or haze or web and my legs ache oddly and my fingers are not really attached to my hands, but I will take that over A Migraine any day of the week.<br />
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I walk around kinda hollow and kittenish--<i>a wind could knock me over</i>. I am a ghost of myself and my head hurts from hurting. As the day wears on, I am both grateful and going through the motions dreaming of the moment when I can lay my head back down on my pillow and recoup the lost hours brought to me via A Migraine.<br />
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But it never adds up; I never really regain those lost hours. <i>I even swear it has taken years off of my life.</i><br />
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And people look at me oddly, like, how bad can that "headache " really be--<i>and they make actual little bunny ear air quotes</i> <i>around the word headache</i>--that you cannot get this work done or take that test or load this trailer or go to that market and those groceries and ice or <i>whatfuckinever </i>else you were supposed to do until A Migraine decided to explode the contents of your own brain inside your very own skull.<br />
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And here's the thing, there is nothing on the outside to show anyone exactly what it looks like on the inside of me when A Migraine war is raging.<br />
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It is horrible. You would turn away in terror if you only saw what I feel.<br />
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If you know me at all, you have heard me say, that I would birth a hundred babies if I never had to have A Migraine. I would make a deal with the devil. I really do not believe anyone that has experienced A Migraine would say I was being overdramatic when I make that statement unless of course they also had a horrendous labor and delivery, which is entirely possible, but it certainly makes my point even more poignant if you ask me.<br />
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It is the yardstick by which I measure every kind of pain or hurt or owie, internally and externally and emotionally and intellectually and physically. Even when I had two fractured ribs and a completely collapsed lung, I just kept asking myself, "Is this as bad as A Migraine?"<br />
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Even when I thought my teeth were knocked out of my head and floating in the whitewash and I knew my nose was busted and separated from my skull and my lip was split or my head was slammed into the front windshield and then back into the seat, which left me lying flat and staring right into the cold flat black wide-opened dead looking eyes of my four-year-old Hero.<br />
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And I kept answering myself, "No. All this sure as hell hurts, and I do not like it and I cannot breathe and I think my Hero is dead and I wish it would end and aren't we there yet, but I am not thinking about ending my own life at this very minute, so, no. No, it is not as bad as A Migraine." Well, okay then, no need to call the paramedics--<i>epic fail on my part as we all later learned.</i><br />
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Truth be told, I sustained surgical menopause before the age of 40 and it really did nothing to lower the number nor the intensity of A Migraine. More is the pity; some women get relief that way. Not me. It has been only recently, like, within the last 18 months that I have been taking a daily prophylactic angiotensin medication that has taken me from approximately 15-30 migraines a month to 2 migraines within the previous 18 months. If you have something to say about drugs at this point, I ask out of respect to me that you keep it to yourself because I have tried it all: ART, accupressure, accupuncture, tapping, praying, a mantra and mala that I use to this day; self-hypnosis; and an entire host of dietary and lifestyle changes that have been good but never really did much to alleviate the frequency nor the intensity of A Migraine.<br />
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In the end, it was the drugs. Simple. Easy. Old. Safe. Drugs.<br />
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More than just about anything--more than Sgt. Airborne; more than the love of the Caveman; more than the birth of the Hero and the care I give to the MIL, A Migraine has been that sentinel experience; that one constant, that has literally shaped who I am.<br />
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<i>Dafuq!</i> How freaking sad is that.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-8058960175414377882015-05-26T07:22:00.003-07:002016-02-17T21:23:57.145-08:00The Coffee and The Flag<center>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Like most mornings, I am already pissed off about something before the sun comes up--I say this metaphorically of course because we all know that I am not usually up before the sun or even really before Good Morning (</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Insert Your Hometown Crappy Morning Show Here</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">) is long over; however, since the Caveman now has a 5:00am start time in LA and his alarm goes off at 3:15am <i>or who the hell really knows when its all just a blur to me</i>. Be that as it may, m</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">y contribution to this morning ritual is to be awake enough to turn on the coffee pot. Yes. After being coffee-and caffeine-free since 1996, </span><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">we now </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">need </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">caffeine</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">And, yes... I, actually get out of bed, comb my hair and brush my teeth <i>or at least swish around some Colgate something-or-other-mouthwash</i> and ((((TURN ON THE COFFEE POT)))).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Then, I sit perched on the edge of the barstool that really only me and the cats sit on while the Caveman packs his lunch and </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b><i>I </i></b></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">make small talk. You know, so he does not feel lonely and so he is forced out of his own mindful reverie to listen to me prattle on about stuff, like, "Oh, look at Johhny Kitty! He looks just like a loaf of bread when he puts his paws and tail just like that. <i style="font-weight: normal;">LOOK</i>!" Or I talk about so-and-so and what-and-what, and mostly he just nods probably wishing I was still in bed <i>where nothing is really coming <b>out</b> of my mouth ifyouknowwhatImean ::wink wink::. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">That all being said, that has very little to do with why I am spitting mad this morning. And at the risk of turning this into a confessional I will tell you: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I left the flag hanging outside all night long. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">God, I know. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">I know.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Great care goes into our flag. It is not an exceptionally expensive flag nor is it an especially high-flying flag, so to speak. We simply hang it straight down--no pole; no dedicated light; no nothing, just our genuine love of that flag. That is where it has resided on appropriate flag days since we moved into this house--nearly 20 years now. We had another flag, but we actually wore it out, and the flag we have now is the flag that was in the meager belongings of the Caveman's father's found after he passed away</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">While the Caveman's father never served in the U.S. armed forces, he was an immigrant to the United States, and like most immigrants, he was exceptionally proud of the American flag and his legal citizenship, which when we did the math was greater than the time he spent living solely in Mexico. He was proud of both his birth country and heritage and his language, as well as his legal immigrant status in a state that has such a tenuous </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">relationship with her i</span>llegal <span style="font-family: inherit;">immigrants. </span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">So, this is the flag we fly. Evidently, even at night...even when I have to stand in the planter in the sprinklers in my pajamas to take the flag down before the sun comes up or my neighbor who works mids as a longshoreman catches me lurking in front of our house. <i>Ugh...</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Regardless, once the flag comes down, I do a simple folding maneuver that I learned in another lifetime and that I have done for years and that results in the flag looking reasonably proper by most standards, <i>I mean, I ain't no Eagle Scout or a Sergeant Major so don't bust my balls, I am doing my very best for a real OC housewife</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to do it correctly. And I want you to do it correctly. Because it is very important, and it is the most obvious and surest way for us to show our support to our troops and their families for their sacrifice whether we agree with the politics of how they got to where they are deployed or placed or God-forbid interred. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Evidently, the most important thing is that in the end, there is no red showing and there are four stars pointing upward across the bottom. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the real way you fold a flag. Make yourself a cup of coffee and get busy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It will look so nice when you pull it out and hang it up on the Fourth of July!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>xoxo Darya</i></span></span></div>
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How to fold the Flag</h2>
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<b>Step 1</b></center>
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To properly fold the Flag, begin by holding it waist-high with another person so that its surface is parallel to the ground.<br />
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Fold the lower half of the stripe section lengthwise <b>over</b> the field of stars, holding the bottom and top edges securely.<br />
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Fold the flag <b>again</b> lengthwise with the blue field on the <b>outside</b>.<br />
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<b>Step 4</b></center>
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Make a triangular fold by bringing the striped corner of the folded edge to meet the open (top) edge of the flag.<br />
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<b>Step 5</b></center>
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Turn the outer (end) point inward, parallel to the open edge, to form a second triangle.</div>
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<b>Step 6</b></center>
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The triangular folding is continued until the entire length of the flag is folded in this manner.</div>
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<b>Step 7</b></center>
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When the flag is completely folded, only a triangular blue field of stars should be visible.</div>
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-38022472149476628962015-05-12T05:27:00.000-07:002015-05-12T05:29:30.102-07:00Confusing the Problem With The Issue<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Everybody's got their problems</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Ain't no new news here</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm the same old trouble </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">You've been having for years</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Don't confuse the problem</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">With the issue,girl</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It's perfectly clear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Just a human desire </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">To have you come near.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">"Crumblin' Down" John Mellencamp </span><br />
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In an effort to motivate myself to write, this is what I wrote on my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/xoxodarya">XOXO Darya Fan Page</a>:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Note to self: Learn to write a simple post on my blog..."</span> </div>
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<i>Well, hell. Problem solved</i>.<br />
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And in a friend's infinite kindness, she commented back to me in a very encouraging manner. And because I just cannot leave well enough alone and accept love and kindness and wisdom when it is offered, I felt compelled to fire back in my usual fashion, which included a greater than healthy dose of self-deprecating humor, a big fat excuse wrapped in a dismissive attitude and then deep-fried in a smart-assed tone.<br />
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<i>Take that, friend</i>.</div>
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Now, I feel even more trapped and stuck then I did before I made my little Facebook dispatch, which in all honesty was meant to deploy and un-stick and re-motivate me and just basically get me<i> </i>writing again. In all honesty, and this may not sound like much, but to me it sounds like when a bird flies into your window and scares the hell out of you and makes you feel like the thing that holds you close and safe and secure may be knocked down by something as light and as small and as wayward as a bird, and through all of that I have found that I really enjoy writing for my little bloggity blog!<i> And then I heard the big Hallelujah, like, the one you hear at Easter</i>.<br />
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The problem here is I have what I believe to be a full-blown case of acute on chronic literary constipation. Or maybe the common term is writer's block, like most things in life, I am self-taught so maybe I just do not know so much about what gets caught in a writer's craw and what gets it going again. <i>I especially like how I referred to myself as a writer--that made me laugh out loud. Good one, D, good one</i>.<br />
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However, all this huffing and puffing about getting writing again has enabled me to realize that I do this big weird controll-y "thing", and I do it when I see Dr. Headshrinker, and I do it when I write a blog post, and I do it in my marriage. And I know this to be true because I put it on the spreadsheet and I took it to Dr. Headshrinker for discussion and he said, "Yep. You sure do" and that was just between getting in the door and getting sat down on the couch.<br />
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Like most bad life habits, it can often be traced to early family life. We had a saying in my home that went something like this: "Darya, if you have not taken the aspirin, you are not allowed to complain about the headache."<br />
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Clearly, I took this missive and ran with it into adulthood as, "Suffer in silence with your stupid personality altering and blindingly terrifying problem until you, and YOU ALONE have come up with a solution. FOR. FOREVER. AND EVER." </div>
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Not until I have come up with some sort of solution or rationalization or justification for "the problem" do I engage Dr. Headshrinker or the Caveman or whomever. And by "engage", I mean discuss the shit out of "the problem" until everyone including the people who love me unconditionally and/or are paid to hear about "the problem" are sick to death of me and "the problem".<br />
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In some ways, I think this is good. For one thing, it makes me appear like I am always in deep and thoughtful repose, which makes me at least look smarter than I am; although, it may also make me look older and probably even more constipated for real-sy; however, on the upside, all that needless "thinking"' burns a lot of calories, which helps me to stay naturally slim without the benefit of that pesky methamphetamine addiction <i>because my skin is bad enough and I am deathly afraid of meth-mouth, so ultimately I really ain't about that kinda life</i>.<br />
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In most ways, it is just not very productive and this probably more than anything leads to me looking older and more confused than my actual years<i>. </i>Seriously, I do not possess the kind of discernment that allows me the luxury of willy-nilly imaginary "problem solving". I mean, for chrissake, who do I think I am--I do not possess a PhD nor a PsyD nor an MD nor even a <i>whatfucking</i><i>ever</i><i>D</i>. It is like I feel obligated to do all of our jobs--like I am not pulling my weight or I am not being insightful or astute or intelligent enough.</div>
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Unfortunately, if you follow this little diatribe to its most plausible and obvious conclusion, that leaves this post with no ending, which also leaves me very uncomfortable; however, I have indeed written something which makes me substantially less keyboard constipated.<br />
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So, there's that. And that is a good thing because I sure do love my little bloggity blog.<br />
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I think we all may just have to suffer through a few more of these hopelessly meandering-styled posts for me to find my way back on track.<br />
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My apologies in advance.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i> </div>
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-40319585197986786932015-02-25T00:11:00.002-08:002015-02-25T21:04:41.825-08:00Perfect From The Bottom to the Top<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was 1989 and my hair was short; my thoughts were long.<br />
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I had already flown three-quarters of the way across the continental US to get away from an abusive marriage; I had already sat through bankruptcy court and then divorce court. Three days after I left that husband in Clarksville I met my next husband in Huntington Beach.<br />
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Such is life; there is no moratorium on misery. You grab on to happiness when it is there.<br />
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And so it was that I had a great job with medical benefits; I was thin; I was athletic; I was a decent mom, not great, but definitely unobjectionable; my son was healthy and in Montessori daycare; I had a great guy. The car accident that nearly took our lives that same year had happened; the lawsuit was almost settled; the acute injuries were gone and the chronic injuries had not yet begun.<br />
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My life compared to just three years earlier was so good; so much better. Yet, my spirit; my physical body and my mind did not match. It sounds so vapid; so stale and innocuous.<br />
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I wanted bigger boobs.<br />
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Here's the deal: When I became pregnant with the Hero, the first clue I had even before I knew I was pregnant, and before I took a pregnancy test, <i>a mini-chemistry set, really; one of those old-fashioned early home pregnancy tests with an actual beaker that you had to set in a holder and wait a whole lifetime's worth of 10 minutes before you looked for the solid ring upside down in the ridiculous l</i><i>ittle </i><i>mirror </i><i>provided </i>and before the hyperemesis and the 12-pound weight loss and before the 19-pound pregnancy weight gain, was how quickly and absolutely beautifully large and full and gorgeous my breasts had become--my body was perfection.<br />
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I was shaped like a perfect hourglass.<br />
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Now, because a couple of the men in my life also read this blog and I don't want their heads' to explode, I will simply say that my breasts did not stay that way and there was quite a bit of "volume loss" to say the very least<i> and the absolute most</i>. So, with the help of a very generous ride-or-die who lent me $3600, I was able to procure for myself a very safe and very straight-forward breast augmentation over the 1989 Fourth of July weekend. It was all very simple and civil.<br />
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And if you knew me before, you knew that then because I never hid a moment of it. I never tried to make it appear as if that was the way I had been all along; that was not <i>is not </i>my MO.<br />
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Fast-forward to my surfing accident of last October with the interventional radiologist ready to place the tube into my chest that would allow me to breathe and with me half in and half out of the CT tube and tapping the signature line of the Consent to Treat Form informing me that although I had to have the chest tube to breathe my implant could be ruptured in the process among a litany of other horrendous and inquisitional-like atrocities, but BT-dubs, no worries, the implant was already ruptured ::continuing to tap line:: I signed and then I was able to breathe and I immediately started to worry about that implant.<br />
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And I have continued to worry. Well, worry no more as worry has turned to action because it has become obvious--let's just say <b style="font-style: italic;">it REALLY has became obvious </b>and holy shit summer is coming!<br />
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And because I have a really hard time operating in ambiguity, I feel compelled to tell my friends and the ones that I love and the girls I see every day at my gym and at work what needs to be done and how it will be done and why it will be done because in the back of my mind and the front of my heart I do not want another woman to feel less-than or ashamed about how she feels about her body or how she may want to change it.<br />
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That is if she is so inclined--if not, well, she is perfect from her bottom to her top.<br />
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I am telling you all this tonight because tomorrow morning at 6:00am I am going to my original 1989 plastic surgeon for, "bilateral open breast capsulotomoties, revision augmentiation with silicone gel implants and bilateral vertical mastopexies" to correct my 25-year-old Dow Corning silicone gel implant situation.<br />
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Basically, a boob job.<br />
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That's all. No ambiguity; no pretense; no pretext or charade. Just me needing to make my outsides match my insides. <b><i>It </i></b>really is that simple. <b><i>I </i></b>really am that simple.<br />
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And other than that one thing, I am perfect from my bottom to my top.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<i>PS - The attached picture is from my cousins wedding in 1987. That beautiful blue brocade Victoria Secret strapless dress is taken-in approximately three inches on each side of the bust. After surgery in 1989, I had the alterations removed altogether, and I proudly rocked that number until it literally fell off of my body in rags. For the record that was the only item in my closet that needed to be "adjusted" postoperatively further confirming to me that my outsides did indeed fit my insides.</i><br />
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<i>xoxo D</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-59105201658554368732014-12-26T00:05:00.000-08:002016-01-04T04:33:44.485-08:00A Letter to My Son<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Happy Birthday, Son!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I like you so much!<br /><br />That may not sound like much, but 31-years ago that was very important to this young mom. And when this young mom's water broke at 12:05am on December 26th after being in the hospital for 3 weeks with pre-term labor and placenta previa, and her baby was not due to make his appearance until early February, things were a little, shall we say, tense.<br /><br />But long before that, each night when I would lay my head down on my pillow or when stopped at stoplights or while hurling up and right back out of me whatever little bit of food I could get down, I would pray, "Please, Lord, just let me LIKE this child."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It may seem odd or cold or even I-don't-know-what, but I knew I would LOVE my child; I knew I would care for my baby and be there for "him" and be the best mom I could be for "him". (As a side note, I was totally convinced I was having a Sweetheart, so imagine my surprise when </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dr. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lady </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Army Captain</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> said, "It's a Hero." and he was whisked away to the NICU without a a name or even a peek, but thats a whole 'nother story...). I just <b><i>really </i></b>needed to be assured that I would LIKE my baby. It was all very simple, yet so complicated and important.<br /><br />Because I ALWAYS knew I would love my baby; the life growing inside of me; even before I knew him as the Hero, I knew I loved him. Without question, I loved my Hero.<br /><br />I just did not always know that I would LIKE him. And that was so important to me.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mp9cH2jVUU8/VLLcYxck9BI/AAAAAAAAA1k/v3QmHV2Ihjc/s1600/1167960_532170186851261_1702815891_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mp9cH2jVUU8/VLLcYxck9BI/AAAAAAAAA1k/v3QmHV2Ihjc/s1600/1167960_532170186851261_1702815891_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> This Christmas night, standing on the porch </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with my arms around the Caveman and waving goodbye to the Hero and his Babydoll, after an amazing day spent with friends who we consider our family <i>simply because family has precious little to do with blood to our little family</i>; I realized how very much I like this man I call my son. And I just wanted to thank God out loud for answering that young mom-to-be's prayers.<br /><br />Happy birthday, Son! I love you with all my heart, and more importantly, I like you, too!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>xoxo Darya</i></span><br />
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-12425444360523981272014-12-01T00:12:00.000-08:002015-01-28T11:14:21.425-08:00The 24th Year is Not For ShinyI have never really considered it an inconvenient coincidence, but more a happy happenstance that my wedding anniversary follows on the heels of the Thanksgiving holiday.<br />
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Clearly, it keeps me mindful and grateful. And I have a lot to be thankful for--an awful lot.<br />
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I have had the chance to be exquisitely reminded lately of fresh shiny pretty beginnings. As the saying goes, "I was on my way to conquer the world and then I saw something shiny and pretty..."<br />
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Recently, two sets of our good couple-friends have become engaged. They are going to begin their lives together. Their possibilities are endless. Their beginnings are so full of fun and passion, and life in general just seems so shiny. I have no other word for it. Shiny.<br />
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But, it only takes someone at their beginning to remind you that you are at your middle or at the very least not at your beginning,<i> and in all honesty, I don't think I can live through another one of my own<b> </b>beginnings. </i><br />
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I took a walk in the shore water this morning <i>after I took the Caveman's mother to get blood drawn, and then to her chair yoga class at the senior center but before I dropped-off signed house refinance papers and then sat down to do 12-good hour's worth of work in 5-short hour's worth of daylight,</i> and I thought of the ways in which the coupling of two people can beget a family either by marriage or by adoption or by birth, and also how simply that delicate coupling can be undone by someone's leaving either by death or by divorce or by the slamming of a door.<br />
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And then some shine wears off.<br />
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This year counting courtship and engagement and marriage, the Caveman and I have been together for nearly 30 years. As of today, 24 years of that time has been spent in wedded bliss. Pure shiny bliss--no joke. But a 24th wedding anniversary is kinda like being 20-years-old: still not quite a teenager, but not able to buy and enjoy a decent alcoholic beverage, either.<br />
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You are putting in the time <i>and getting some patina</i>; you are waiting to celebrate the shiny 25th.<br />
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We are a little tired and beat-up this anniversary, and once or twice this year we have been a little beat down--not quite so shiny. But, oh, <i>Christalmighty, </i>Caveman<i>, </i>you sure do make me happy.<br />
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Happy, shiny 24th wedding anniversary!<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-24362330924848884462014-11-29T11:53:00.001-08:002014-12-02T16:45:14.889-08:00Never Step to GodI am a good girl and you never hear me say things like, "Oh, that's it! What more can God to do me?" Or, "God just doesn't love me!" Or, "Why does God hate me so much?"<br />
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I never step to God.<br />
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Truth be told, I live an incredibly blessed life of love and freedom and hard work and good fun and loads of friends. More importantly, I do not believe in a vengeful God. I believe in a loving and gracious and benevolent God. I do not even like writing those letters next to one another to form those words to make that sentence. But <i>lemmetellyou, </i>it has been one hell of a couple of years, and just when I think I have rounded the month and kinda sorta started to get ahead of the curve something else has happened, either by my own hand or by fate's, and then <b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WHAM!</span></b><br />
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Hopefully, the last straw came with my mid-October four-day hospital stay brought about by my little surfing accident, which left me with two fractured ribs that punctured my left lung and slowly deflated it until I had no lung with which to breathe--better known as an acute pneumothorax from trauma. <i>I am not even going to go into what it did to my 25-year-old Dow Corning silicone breast implant. Anyhoo...</i><br />
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I have posted a few pics and made a couple oblique mentions on my <a href="http://instagram.com/xoxoxdarya">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/xoxodarya">FB Fan Page</a> but I really have not been burning up my feeds like you would expect me to do if some kook had come from the outside and ran <b>my </b>kookie ass over and kept surfing right on by. That is because it was an accident of the greatest proportion--an accident distilled from the purest most authentic and unadulterated force majeure--it was an accident done to me by my own Caveman.<br />
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Yes, I know. <i>I know</i>.<br />
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I saw it all in his eyes and across his face. I heard it all in his voice. I felt it in his touch as he unzipped my wetsuit and peeled it off my shoulder. And it all made me instantly not want to bawl or howl or make a scene or be fussed over or anything that would make his pain or guilt or concern any more acute.<br />
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It was a Sunday morning spent surfing. It was pure perfection. We were coming in, and I ended my wave at the bottom of his wave hidden in his whitewater purely by accident--mainly because it is nature and you cannot always guarantee that where you go down is where you will come back up. When I did come up, I saw him; he did not see me; I even saw him looking for me. I even willed him to see me, but that plan did not work so well; I quickly moved to plan B, which was to cover my head and dive as deep as I could. I saw his board go over me, and I thought for an instant that he had cleared me. Then, there was the solid <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>THUNK</b></span> of the fin of his board hitting my back and dragging across to my arm; I heard my own scream under the water and then I had no air, I mean really,<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>(((I HAD NO AIR))) </b></span>and I could hear the crinkling and bubbling of the air in me and I could feel my ribs moving at my back.<br />
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When I came to the surface and the whitewater had cleared and he finally saw me, the Caveman was at the shorebreak yelling if that was me that he had hit and if I was okay and "to get on my board and come here <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>right now</b></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">!</span>" I was saying yes and yes and yes. I am a little embarrassed to say that I secretly wished the Caveman could reach across the water and just pluck me out and save me, <i>you know, like he does on any given day</i>.<br />
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Meanwhile, in my head, I was going through my own private checklist against panic and pain: <i>Darya, you cannot even touch bottom! You cannot breathe! Fuck, this hurts! Calm your ass down. Just put your arm over the other arm and swim; pull on your leash; swim; pull; swim; pull. Grab your board. Get up on your board. Oh, thank God, there's a wave. Just ride it in. Get out of the water. Quickly! Untie your leash. Get away from your board! Yes, yes, yes, I am okay. I just need to take a knee--like a football player or a wrestler or a whatever. No, I am okay. Just let me catch my breath. No, I can walk. </i><br />
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We walked down the beach to our stuff. He took another peek at my back to be sure nothing in me was not poking out of me and we looked at the three-inch gash in my wetsuit. While he loaded up, I rinsed off at the showers <i>thank God I did because that was to be my only shower for the next four days. </i>We walked very silently and very quickly, as quickly as I humanly could.<br />
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And in my head I just kept the loop going<i>: Darya, just walk down the beach. Darya, carry the board overhead, it's easier to breathe that way. Bag the boards. Stow your crap. Just keep walking. Walk over the sand. Walk over the bridge. O</i><i>ne foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Stop and rinse off at the showers.</i> <i>Walk to the car. </i><i>No. I can carry my own board. Yes, I am okay. No, just let me catch my breath. Really, I am okay. ::smiling, kinda:: </i><br />
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But I just kept getting weaker. When I forfeited brunch and my usual Mexican coffee AND I asked to go to the ER, the Caveman knew, well, he just knew it was a big deal because no.1: I spend enough time in hospitals and no. 2: I do not like to part with my money, especially to our healthcare system.<br />
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To make matters all the worse, the Caveman had to endure watching me abide a four-hour ER wait-time before I even got to get in a bed or get seen by a physician or get my one intramuscular shot of totally ineffective pain medicine or get my chest x-ray. All that was nothing. The Caveman still had to do the hardest thing of all: He had to leave my side and make the hard phone calls to Daddy and Sister and <i>oh, God</i> to the Hero.<br />
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It would be another two hours before I was placed into the CT tube so that the chest tube could be placed into me. All in all, it had been nearly eight hours before I could breathe again.<br />
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Oh, well. I am strong. <i>I am Dutch</i>. I can take it.<br />
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It really does not matter. I took it.<br />
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Now that I am home, and I am back at work and the gym and needing to be 110%, but really feeling only about 70% things have really piled onto my shoulders, and I am beginning to keep count and keep score and the column that is against me is getting longer than the column that is for me. Just like the debit column is getting way shorter than the credit column or the other way around--I always forget which column is coming in and which column is going out. Maybe that's why I am always in so much trouble. <i>Hmmm...that's a poser, whad'ya think</i>...<br />
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But, yes, yes, yes, I am okay. Just let me catch my breath.<i> It has become my mantra it seems</i>.<br />
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And maybe all I really need is to get in the water and get fully stoked just once. <i>Just once</i>. <br />
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Really, I am okay. Just let me catch my breath. Because honestly, what am I going to do? Step to God. <i>Hmmm...no.</i><br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-22460434160977182522014-11-14T21:00:00.001-08:002014-11-14T22:28:56.289-08:00I, The JurorI am stunned and somewhat ashamed to be sitting in the Superior Court of California County of Orange juror selection room listening to all the bitching and kvetching and bellyaching going on.<br />
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<i>Honest to God...</i><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bptH8w_UgUY/VGa9NPXgZTI/AAAAAAAAAzc/_w8mEa2vQr8/s1600/Super%2BCourt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bptH8w_UgUY/VGa9NPXgZTI/AAAAAAAAAzc/_w8mEa2vQr8/s320/Super%2BCourt.jpg" width="320" /></a>For chrissake people, aren't we all the exact same folks that made the most of our day off when we all "celebrated" Veteran's Day? Did we all not just hang our flags and beat our chests and tell each other what awesome patriots we are? And did we all not just hug a veteran or feed a veteran or throw some change at a veteran at a freeway on-ramp or pump a veteran's hand and slap him (or her) on the back and tell him (or her), "Helluva job you did there, son (little girl); helluva a job. So, proud to call myself an American, and so proud to say thank you for your service and your sacrifice." <i>That last part embarrasses me to no end today</i>.<br />
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If that was you yesterday and you are sitting with me in the juror selection room today, I wanna punch you in the throat right now. How dare you be so selfish; how dare you be so cowardly. How dare you believe that your time is worth more than someone else's freedom. After all, if you are eligible to be seated as a juror, you are part of that small segment of society for which jail and prison still operates as a deterrent and you should be pretty grateful for this opportunity to make sure that this one system we got going on IS actually working!<br />
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<i>And lemmetellyou</i>, most of you are acting like assholes. Near as I can see, you are working one of two angles: 1) The language angle; 2) You are biased against/for the police, the plaintiff, the defendant; pink hearts; yellow moons; orange stars or green clover <i>and whatfuckingeverelse you can dream up </i>as you describe in a manner, that you cannot even convince yourself is true, that you just cannot see yourself being able to see past your somewhat proudly proclaimed biases to ascertain the facts from your own ass when the evidence is presented, AND then you bold-faced lied and told the judge that you could not even do that when instructed by the judge about the actual law!!!<br />
<i>Unfuckingbelievable</i>. Honestly, I cannot tell if you are stupid or liars <i>or you are just stupid fucking liars</i>.<br />
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And please 'splain to me, Ms. Juror 110, how you took your citizenship test and oath and the written driving test all in English AND received and answered your jury summons managing to both drive and arrive at the jury assembly room only to find yourself seated next to me making English small talk about how nice my cat-eye eyeliner and your chola-esque eyebrows look this early in the morning and listening to the same jury instructions, yet, lo-and-behold when it comes time for voir dire, "you no do English goodly" <i>riddlemefuckingthat.</i><br />
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I am also pretty upset at that small specific portion of my fellow cast of characters called to report to Section C68 on the eleventh floor to help figure out if Mr. Patron had too much to drink one particular night when he got in his car and started driving and then a whole bunch of shit must have gone down because it ultimately resulted in me waiting on your disrespectful ass to get off of the escalator or elevator or the phone late each and every single goddamn time we had to arrive for roll-call because the rules say we all have to shuffle-move as one great big 300-styled-ready-for-battle-tortoise-shell-shaped mass from the jury room to the courtroom to the bathroom and back, again.<br />
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Disrespectful; disingenuous; deceitful and duplicitous. And almost all of you smelled. Disgusting. I am so mad and upset and disappointed. You all ruined my day. You all conspired to take something that is a privilege and something we should all be so proud to do with a pure and engaging heart--to listen completely and openly; to follow directions. I was sad to be unable to serve. I would have made the sacrifice; I would have lost a butt-load of money NOT availing myself of my own work, but I would have sacrificed to be of service.<br />
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Oh, and I am a good juror.<br />
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I don't mean to brag and I don't mean to boast, but you really want me on your trial; your attorney wants me on your trail! I listen and I think and I am discerning and open-minded, but not so open-minded that things like my common sense fall out. And, to be honest, I am easy on the eyes and if you are going to have to look at someone for a month, well, I think that would be an added luxury--definitely not a requisite, but a nice little frill. I know I want to look at a couple of sharp attorneys in pretty clothes speaking properly while duking it out. Like I said, it does not make a real difference but its an added treat. If you are a shitty lawyer with a crappy case and client, no matter how impeccably appointed you may be, it will not make a difference.<br />
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I have had the privilege of being seated as a juror twice, both criminal trials; both grueling; both were about a month long. The first trial was a gang murder in which one gang member put the business end of a less-than-18-inch sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun with a pistol grip to some poor bastards head when he mistakenly wandered into West Trece territory and did not answer properly to the question, "Where you from?" Ka-Boom! The top of his head got blown off and all over his buddy riding, ironically enough, shotgun and the velvet headliner of his low-rider whip.<br />
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The second trial was a child molestation case where I was seated as juror No. 1 at approximately 8:30am on day No. 1, and I did not move for nearly three weeks as I endured the then 6-year-old victim take the witness stand against her "tio". See, Tio was found by the young girl's mother spooning her sleeping 5-year-old daughter with her panties inside-out and his pants undone, and somehow some of his semen mysteriously made its way to her prepubescent vulva. Yeah. Picture that in your mind's eye because it is emblazoned into mine. I cannot imagine how the assistant district attorneys sleep at night nor how the defendant sleeps at night, well, actually, we found him guilty so I am pretty sure I know how he sleeps at night, or at the very least, how he lays there very still with his eyes wide open and his back pressed against the wall just like that petrified little girl must have on a lot of nights.<br />
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That was intense and important stuff people.<br />
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Watching that little girl bravely facing her perpetrator and providing her own testimony was very powerful to see, and if you do not think that that is worth your time or your energy or even your timeliness, well, I feel very sorry for you and I hope that one day you need the services of an attorney and he (or she) has to pick a jury out of a roomful of people. Just. Like. You<i>.</i> Because let's not forget, one of your rights as a citizen includes the right to a jury of YOUR peers.<br />
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And maybe that is all you deserve, you selfish sonofabitch.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-91846326067558875152014-10-08T08:05:00.001-07:002015-01-11T15:31:02.420-08:00I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part II<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In all fairness to my amazing friends and readers and supporters who have been so kind as to follow along with me on my journey to become a more happy and fully functioning grown-ass woman, I just could not make you'all read about ALL my anxiety ALL at once. </i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>So, I busted it out into two parts.</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>If you feel lost or have forgotten, either by chance or by choice, about what has already gone down, feel free to read through<a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2014/06/i-am-anxietys-bitch-part-i.html" target="_blank"> I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part I </a>and join me back here. I ain't going nowhere.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>xoxo D</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And so it goes...</i></span><br />
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In an effort to help me understand what anxiety really was, Dr. Headshrinker brought out his well-worn volume of the DSM-IV-TR (the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition, Text Revised, <i>nice, huh</i>), and together Dr. Headshrinker and I looked it up and sure as shootin' I had 9 of the 13 symptoms listed necessary to meet the criteria for a bona fide panic attack. And honestly, what a relief to know I was not just being all Darya-y. You know, all nervous-y and twitchy and migrainous and easily made to vomit.<br />
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Like all things that happen, they happen for a reason, <i>though much of the time I really have no earthly idea what that reason is; however, I have learned not to question that--to just "be" as a new old friend </i><i>has </i><i>repeatedly said to me. </i>And they happen in groupings of instances. In the span of two days, I had three very separate conversations with three very different men about this exact same topic. The fact that they are all men is not purely coincidental as I have always been able to speak more freely with men and most of my deeper friendships have been with men--namely, my husbands. As part of The Better Me Project, I am trying to have more female relationships. That is an entirely different blog topic for another day, <i>believeyoume</i>.<br />
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Anyhoo, one of these men explained to me that he loved having those feelings of uncertainty when it came time to do an especially difficult or mind numbing CrossFit WOD. He related that he so rarely feels that sense of uncertainty and rush of adrenaline. And I know what he does for a living and I would think his days would be filled with the thrill of adrenaline. He spoke frankly to me about utilizing that heightened sensation to make myself brighter and quicker and more alert.<i> </i>I have trouble acting normal when I am nervous so that did not seem very relevant to me.<br />
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My second conversation was a text thread with a friend; whereby, he told me that he had had a near-perfect day riding his motorcycle fast enough to scare the soccer moms on the way to his uber-sleek <i>and fast</i> fishing boat, and he opined that if he had just been able to make a jump out of an airplane, it would have been a grand slam of a day.<br />
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And then, later that same weekend, I sat on our backyard garden wall while the Caveman was working on the roof and I asked him if there was anything that scared him, like, so scared he might feel paralyzed or stupid? The Caveman said that the only thing that scares him is the thought of not coming home to me at night and that makes him work harder; to be more alert <i>be alert; the world needs more lerts--an old, dumb joke few will get</i>.<br />
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Let me break it down for you: What I perceive as fear and anxiety, they process as feeling alive or as an adrenaline rush. I think I may die and they are trying to feel this way on purpose because they do not feel this way enough of the time! <i>Da fuq.</i> CrossFit WODs; jumping out of planes; riding motorcycles super fast; prepping a witness; walking high up in the sky; welding on something hot and high or cold and deep in the ground <i>deep enough that the sides could cave in and I would never see one of those men ever again</i>.<i> </i>I do not need to be jump qualified or stand below a helicopter lifting something insanely heavy overhead for my adrenaline to make a sound in my ears. I only have to think about how I will pay my house or how I will tell the Caveman that his mother is too much for me to care for properly, and then the panic rises like bile from my stomach and burns the back of my throat.<br />
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As I sat on the planter in the backyard explaining all this to the Caveman, I asked him again the same question. He made me come up on the roof and sit down next to him and we looked out over the house we have made our home and I could feel the salt air in my hair, and he very patiently explained to me <i>like he was speaking to a small retarded child</i>, "I am only afraid of not coming home to you at night, Darya, and that just makes me pay more attention at work. That is it."<br />
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I told this last part to Dr. Headshrinker. He so simply said to me <i>like he was speaking to a small retarded child</i>, "The Caveman does not have an anxiety issue, Darya." That sounds oh-so-very-simple, but in my pea-brain it sounded like something Copernicus or Einstein or Alex Trebek might say. It was so simple as to be beyond my comprehension, but to be fair, that happens to me a lot.<br />
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Hi, my name is Darya. I am anxiety's bitch.<br />
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This item has been added to the spreadsheet: Break-up With Anxiety. And Dr. Headshrinker and I have a plan--a very good, thoughtful plan on how to get me over some of the anxiety-inducing bumps in my day <i>and my nights</i>.<br />
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For right now, I have just been practicing my surfing because one Fourth of July a long time ago at San Onofre State Beach I was hit in the face by the surfboard rail in a major way and it broke my nose and separated it from my skull and split my lip and gave me a concussion and I had to get stitches <i>and it was all very bloody and emergent and, well, anxiety inducing</i>. I did the math over Father's Day weekend this year when we were camping and the Caveman was surfing at San O, and that is when I got back on that surfboard--I got back on when I realized that that was nearly 20 years ago. That was much too long to be so afraid--especially of something I love so much.<br />
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Break-up With Anxiety--I think we will be working on this one line item for a while but I think it is time. It is my time. And I believe I am totally worth my time.<br />
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<i>And I can see Dr. Headshrinker dreaming of a week in Waikiki off of this little gem alone.</i><i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i><i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-39934518961333929302014-09-30T00:35:00.000-07:002014-09-30T08:31:24.453-07:00Being Hip Without Breaking A HipSo, if you follow me on <a href="http://instagram.com/xoxoxdarya" target="_blank">Instagram</a> or my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/xoxodarya" target="_blank">Facebook</a> Fan Page, you know that I fell off of my bike and ate it hard on the Fourth of July.<br />
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I was on Balboa Peninsula and riding my bike along with the Caveman and about 400,000 other people and one of them <i>a drunk-ass wannabe sorority chick from the 909 </i>locked target on me like an Exocet missile. I had no where to go--I was stuck between her bearing down on me and a huge solid oak garage door.<br />
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I laid the bike down and slid on my right side thinking, I guess, that at 4-mph I could somehow cafe-racer-style pull it out in the straightaway. Let me just take the suspense out of the story right now: I did not make it. Instead I laid the bike down and slid on my right side for an unreasonable distance and amount of time, and came to a halt with my cruiser on top of me and my silk JCrew sunsuit with a deep case of road rash. Have no fear: I did, per usual, protect my expensive and diligently maintained teeth.<br />
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Later that night, <i>with me sitting on the closed toilet lid</i> as the Caveman cleaned and dressed my ridiculous wounds, I asked him, "How many more years do you think I can continue doing this sort of nonsense?" It was really more of a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway, "For forever." And he said it to me like he says most things to me: With an absolutely clear conviction, and posolutely no hesitation. He wholly believes that I will be participating in these antics when I am 65-years-old, <i>which in all honesty is really not that far away</i>.<br />
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This question-and-answer scenario has played like a loop in my head since that fateful evening. And it seems it has served as a catalyst for what I think may very well be a developmentally delayed midlife crisis, that is if I live to be 104 <i>and God help me if I live to be 104-years-old, because if that is the case, I will need a complete lumbosacral spine transplant, as well as a bilateral elbow and wrist goes-ey over-y</i>.<br />
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Let's face it folks, I am bordering on just this side of the ridiculous here, but because more often than not it is the uncomfortable and distressing and not the comfort-making and appropriate that we labor under that helps us to birth a new personal truth or maybe even just a cool new IG handle.<br />
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So, I have been reviewing a few facts that I just cannot seem to get away from:<br />
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<li><b>Over The Hill</b>: Most of the Caveman and my friends, for whatever reason, are the age of my 30-year-old son; a few are the age of my own parents, and some are our own age. Age has just never really been a deciding factor in whether we enjoy your friendship. <i>I like that about us--we are equal opportunity with our love and our friendship and our support</i>. </li>
<li><b>Fear and Loathing</b>: I have been laboring under fear my entire life. Whenever or wherever you see me AND I am awake and upright, I am in all likelihood scared shitless. All my day's worth of self-control and stamina is used up trying to keep that goo-ball of boiling and roiling and rolling and rumbling fear contained to the center of my being <i>because God forbid that should ever show</i>. It truly is difficult to behave cool and perpetually unencumbered if you are constantly gritting your teeth to keep from peeing your pants out of sheer fright. I just gotta get over this--<a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2014/06/i-am-anxietys-bitch-part-i.html" target="_blank">I just gotta break up with anxiety</a>.</li>
<li><b>What Not to Wear</b>: I am probably as fit as I was the year I became pregnant with the Hero and <i>lemmetellyou</i>, I was pretty fit that spring. Regardless of how fit my body may be or how appropriate my BMI, it seems wildly inappropriate to be dressing in clothes from Forever21 and No Rest for Bridget. Perhaps it really should not matter, but it does. Because we all see that lady that just cannot seem to come to grips with the fact that she is over 50 <i>and there ain't nothing pretty about it, and mostly it is just sad and pitiable and the thought of being that lady leaves me totally bereft</i>.</li>
<li><b>Got My Mind on My...Huh? What Were We Talking About, Again?</b>: For the most part, my mind remains young. I mean, I keep my education solid by reading the Urban Dictionary Word of the Day daily and my street cred, well, credible by subscribing to the Inside The Mind of a Ghetto Genius blog. As the proprietor and sole staff member of<i> </i>my own little research and cancer registry services company, it is imperative that I stay up-to-date with technology and medicine and business and cancer and some of the most brilliant research minds. I cannot afford to sit back on my heels and simply say, "I do not do that," or "I am sorry, I do not know that." I <b><i>better </i></b>do that and I better <b style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">fucking</span><b> </b>get </b>familiar. Period. I may not know Wordpress or how to put in a widget or even "program" my own Facebook fan page, but I do know the important questions to ask should you or someone you love be diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer or localized breast cancer. Cancer: It is what I do. </li>
<li><b>The Invisible Woman</b>: As I move into the middle of my life, I have found myself feeling that there is something very invisible-making about being a middle aged woman. You are no longer a mommy; not a grand-mommy and not quite dead, either. The fact remains that the days of me turning heads as I walk by has passed me by. Both men <i>and women</i> do not notice me the same as when I was younger, and I have stopped being asked my opinion about anything from what diaper and detergent I use to what type of car, pantyliner or even panty I prefer. And they <b><i>should </i></b>be asking me, because I have a lot more money now than I have ever had, and I like to eat nice food and buy nice things for myself and those I love and to see nice places and I like to do it all while driving a nice car. AND I do not need to spend any money on diapers or daycare or dental orthodontics!</li>
<li><b>Hip Without Breaking a Hip</b>: And this last point, I believe, is the most important point: I want to remain relevant and interesting and fun and interested. I want to continue to have goals that interest and challenge me. This includes and is not limited to: getting better at surfing, growing my little bloggity blog, bettering my overhead squat, and learning how to do a strict pull-up, as well as getting back on an airplane without barfing <i>the list is endless and excruciatingly exhausting. </i>All this is in an effort to be<i> </i>hip just without breaking my hip! </li>
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Well, that was a whole lotta words for me to say just to announce that I am creating a new reality for myself and re-dedicating my blog to the pursuit of my own heart's happiness and to being brave in the face of all that frightens me, as well as all the things that are really important to me as I move on from the age of 50. And like I told a group of new blogging girlfriends <i>my new tribe</i> I am redefining 50 for me.<br />
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THIS IS MY 50!</div>
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Well, we will all just have to see where this leads--ride along with me because <i>lemmetellyou</i>, God willing and the creek don't rise, you will be in my shoes one day and you are gonna be thanking me for saying to you one Fourth of July holiday, "Yeah. No. It is time to walk your bike across Pacific Coast Highway to get yourself into <insert goofy-and-prolly-totally-inappropriate-place here>"<br />
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This is my gift to you. <i>And you are welcome.</i><br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-48025317988013897902014-09-16T16:25:00.000-07:002014-09-16T16:28:11.952-07:00Do Good LoveI do not write much about my immediate family. We are very private people by nature and by nurture. And in all honesty, we have no deep dark secret lurking in the shadows waiting to have a light shined on it; there are no interventions waiting to be done or truths to be told. We are simple people; we are blue-collar working folks that earn every inch of our wages and save our pennies and pay our bills and do the hard stuff before we do the fun stuff. That last part is usually what made us different from most other families I knew growing up.<br />
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That is what I lived; that is what I was taught; that is what I learned; that is what I saw in the Caveman and that is what I instilled in the Hero. I am telling you all this today for a reason. <br />
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Because today is the occasion of my parent's 53rd wedding anniversary. Their wedding created the family seat into which two girls were born and then married two wonderful men creating four beautiful children.<br />
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But in all honesty, my parents have been together even longer than that because they met and started dating when my mom was 14-years-old and Daddy was 16-years-old! How about that for high school sweethearts! And let's be honest, staying together for that long and not committing some kind of felony against the other person is a feat in and of itself <i>that is stupid of me to write because a) NOT being together is not an option and b) we are not felonious people--we are that one segment of society for which jail still operates as a deterrent</i>.<br />
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I asked my parents last night what one thing they would say to a newly married couple for a long and loving and lasting marriage. Daddy immediately answered with, "Be kind and laugh!" And according to Momma, it is, "Lots of hugs and kisses." When you really think about it, isn't that the answer to a good and happy and loving life in general. Simple. Simple answers to a simple question.<br />
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Because love is simple and simply put, the Parents do good love. <br />
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In two weeks, Sister and her husband will celebrate 24-years of marriage, and in December, the Caveman and I will celebrate our 24th anniversary, as well. We have a good road map to follow, and we all try to hug and kiss and laugh and be kind because we all want to do good love.<br />
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Happy anniversary, Momma and Daddy! And just like <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2013/09/life-is-for-learning.html" target="_blank">I wrote last year</a> on this occasion, well done, Parents, well done; Mazel Tov! Congrats! Many happy returns! Auld Lang Syne! Cheers and Salud!<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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<i>PS - In the pic above Mom is wearing her "going away suit" from when she left her wedding reception. I was supremely lucky and grateful to have Mom keep that collar all those years and to offer it to me when I was designing and making my own wedding dress to the Caveman. I turned that white mink collar into the cuffs and headpiece for my dress. Upcycling at its best. Simple. </i><br />
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<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-12288861054944068942014-08-11T09:34:00.002-07:002014-09-02T10:24:14.351-07:00My Blogaversary<div style="text-align: justify;">
A lot has happened since I hit "publish" one year ago today on my <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2013/08/the-golden-girls.html" style="text-align: start;" target="_blank">first official post</a>. I was so brave that day, because I was so scared. Scared, like, you-do-not-know-scared <i>I was less scared to push a baby human out of my lady-parts, and for the record, that shiz is pretty scary</i>. I was so scared of what people would think of my thoughts and my fears and my insecurities and my less-than-picture-perfect life and all my complaints, and oh, yeah, my writing.<br />
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<i>Oh, God...my writing</i>.<br />
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When I write, I am actually writing as if we are having a conversation. And if you have ever met me or spoken with me in person, I think you would understand what I am talking about here: That I write exactly as I speak. I know, my writing has a weird syncopation with an odd cadence, but you always seem to understand and respond to the feelings I am trying to convey. <i>Hopefully, anyway</i>.<br />
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I have really come to love this space; my blog place. I realize, too, that that is because of the people that have gathered to laugh and to point and to read my run-on sentences and my huge paragraphs and my one-too-many ands in a sentence because I need to get just one more thought out of my head and through my fingertips <i>and this God-forsaken Windows 8.1 keyboard</i> and onto this virtual page.<br />
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You all have brought to me the you-can-do-it-girl encouragements, and the I-cannot-believe-you-had-the-guts-to-say-that sideline conversations, as well as the that-is-exactly-how-I-feel high-fives. That last one is the holy grail of blog comments. That is the one that says, "You did it girl!" I made a connection and I made one other person on this big blue marble know that they are understood.<br />
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You are the ones that are hoping I get my shit together, and you keep encouraging me to shine a light into that sad dark empty spot where my heart and happiness is supposed to be. You are the ones that are making me feel less weird and more normal.<br />
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You are my tribe.<br />
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And I do not have words enough to say all that needs to be said because it is all so overwhelming, so I will simply say, thank you. Thank you!<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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The Golden Girls</span></h2>
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We were all at San Onofre California State Beach to celebrate Chigirl's "golden birthday" but by my calculations, she was more than 25-years-old. <i>Whatever</i>. I was soon educated as to the reality of a golden birthday: The occasion when your birth date and your birth years are the same. <i>Golden. Silly</i>. Looking at these beautiful young women wearing golden bathing suits and sunglasses and drinking out of golden cups, I just could not see myself as their twenty-seven.<br />
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They come from both coasts and big cities in the middle of the country. They are smart girls; employed girls; educated girls. They au pair; they play professional football; they work as paralegals and they work in city government. They support their boyfriends; two of which travel and train for a major CrossFit box teaching strength and fleet-of-foot, and so many things that are important to athletes and our military. These girls are part of that community, the box; one <i><b>is </b></i>the box, as she is one of the two box-bound trainers; some sell T-shirts and set-up and tear-down at events and literally walk the walk--just look at those abs and arms! Absolutely beautiful young ladies. I am so proud of them. They make me proud to be a girl, too!<br />
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Looking at these young women, I want to tell them so many things <i>and by this age</i>,<i> I know what is important and what is just noise meant to distract and derail and demean us as women</i>. I want to tell these girls to keep being nice to one another; to keep supporting and guiding each other. Stay tight; stay connected; stay unified. The world can be a hungry ugly place and you will need your girlfriends to help you through it. </div>
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On my list of <u>Things I Learned in My Fiftieth Year</u>, #28 reads, "I envy girls who have girlfriends and girl's nights out". I don't envy much; this I envy. A lot. It seems like such an odd thing to think about now, but in all my years of marriages and babies and jobs and gyms and laundry and grocery, I never had a group of gals to have my back. <i><b>This </b></i>Darya is really sad for <i><b>that </b></i>Darya <i>doing it all alone for so long</i>. I could have used a bunch of girlfriends--I really could have used <b><i>a </i></b>girlfriend.<br />
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This isn't the only group of girlfriends I know. And they all have common threads: They made their friendships in high school, college or as roommates. They all have a bestie who held their hair back when they had to throw-up or held their purse when they had to pee. They all have a BFF who understands what their dream wedding gown will look like and the song her and her daddy will dance to. They all have a genuinely beloved friend who knows the names of her babies before they even fall from heaven. <i>Hmmm</i>. <i>Golden. Maybe not so silly</i>. </div>
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I love these girls; I love what these girls are making of themselves; I love that they love each other; I love that they included me, <b>me </b>who is nearly twenty-seven years older than they are! But that is okay--I can feel in my bones that it is true what they say about staying young at heart and body and spirit when you surround yourself with the young. I was flattered to be included with these women that could have been my daughters and whose experiences are so different from my own.<br />
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This makes me want to laugh and to cry all at the same time. This is the first time that I have felt that my time is over; my hey day is gone; my opportunity for what these girls have has been missed. True? Most definitely. Sad? Kinda. Jealous? Maybe. But it is what it is. And maybe<i> <b>what it is</b></i> is just the combination of caring for my mother-in-law and my own aging parents and my own age and my own son and my own friendships and my own questioning of my place in the universe.<br />
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Who the hell knows. Maybe I<i> </i>grew up just a little bit as well on Chigirl's birthday. Maybe it is all true, after all;<b> </b>maybe this is just how life happens. <i> Golden</i>. <i> And definitely not silly</i>. </div>
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Happy birthday! </div>
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<i>xoxo Darya</i></div>
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-44744513307131125662014-07-29T12:04:00.002-07:002014-08-02T20:43:44.530-07:00The Caveman Was Right...AgainThe Caveman woke-up in the middle of the night last month to me standing by the side of his bed. He was startled and concerned and he asked, "What is wrong, baby?"--well, really, first he said, "Jesus, Darya how long have been standing there?" And then, he realized I was not going to go away <i>poor, Caveman</i> and he figured he had better wake up and get up and pay at least a modicum of attention and figure out what the hell was going on with me that I should be creeping on him in the middle of the night.<br />
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I said it in the dark so that he could not see my tears and my fears and the knotted ball of anxiety inside of me, "I am petrified, Caveman. I did what I said I was going to do. I was big and brave and <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2014/03/my-blue-sweater-day.html" target="_blank">I made my Blue Sweater Day speech</a> and now I do not have a job. I DO NOT HAVE A JOB. I have no place to go everyday and I do not have enough work to keep my mind busy and I do not have enough money to pay all that I need to pay. And what if there is no more work out there for me? And what if no one wants me?" Then, I listed about a million ridiculous, yet somehow plausible, what-if scenarios. And I gotta give the Caveman props for not swatting at me <i>like a mosquito caught in his ear</i> just so I would shut up.<br />
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Instead, he spoke very calmly and slowly <i>like you would to a small retarded child</i>, "DJ, I know you. You are going to get your hard-hustle on. You will get work and then you will have money and then your bills will be paid. And by this time next month, you are going to be telling me that you wished you had enjoyed this little bit of down time that you have right now because you <b>will </b>have hustled hard and you <b>will </b>have gotten a ton of work and all of your bills <b>will </b>be paid. Now, please go to bed and go to sleep or you will make yourself sick tomorrow. Pleeeeaaase." And that last part was said with the quiet desperation of a grown man who really just wants to cry because he knows his alarm is going off in about two hours at 4:00 am.<br />
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But I did not sleep<i>, and a lot my Facebook friends can attest to that.</i> Instead,<i> </i>I worried and I plotted and I strategized and I scenario-ized.<br />
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And then I got up and I got my motherfuckin' hard-hustle on.<br />
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Well, <i>lemmejustsay </i>this about all that: The Caveman was entirely right. Yep. He totally called that shot--he pointed at the upper deck and he swung and the ball went right where he said it would. Because I am beyond swamped; I am overbooked at approximately 100%, and I am overcommitted to an 80-100-hour work week and I am working day and night <i>and complaining night and day</i>. And I really could not be happier and I am just so very proud of myself: The contracts are signed and the work is getting done and the checks are starting to come in. I am hustling hard, man.<br />
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And the Caveman was right...<i>again</i>. <i>Thank you, God</i>.<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-57591689540892183832014-06-25T00:01:00.001-07:002015-01-11T15:27:49.656-08:00I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part I<div>
Last month was one year since the Caveman stood blocking my way from the laundry room into the garage<i> </i>with his eyes level to mine and very firmly told me that I needed help, and not the kind of help that ends with my house being clean and me having nothing to do but get a blow-out and lay in the sun all weekend.<br />
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Nope.<br />
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He meant more along the lines of find-a-shrink-Darya-before-I-wring-your-skinny-assed-neck kinda help. And because the Caveman really does not ask very much of me, and Lord knows, he does not get much out of the booby-prize he won in the wife-lottery of life, and also because I am a scaredy-cat people-pleaser at heart, I found myself a therapist.</div>
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Dr. Headshrinker came highly and reliably recommended, and we got down to the business of getting me fixed--not like spayed, but more like I was broken, which to be perfectly honest with you I totally was, and to be even more honest with you,<b> </b>it pissed me off to no end. To be resentful for being targeted for therapy, because I hurt the longest and cried the loudest was a shitty way to start out on a reflective and therapeutic journey <i>though</i>, <i>I imagine a whole lot of people start out in much the same manner, I dunno</i>. <i>Whatevs</i>.<br />
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Three very separately distinct situations had occurred over the course of a year that had rendered me a hollow shell of myself. And while I may have been able to recover from each of the circumstances individually, collectively, they were out of my weight class--I went from shadowing boxing to hitting the heavy bag. Worse than that, I would perseverate and percolate and articulate on the subject of these three circumstances constantly. That is when my exit was blocked and I was pointed to the therapeutic alter.<br />
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I came to my first appointment with a spreadsheet of issues and <i>lemmetellyou </i>after the eleventh minute when the first ten minutes were taken up with HIPAA regulations, patient-doctor confidentiality and insurance crap, and THEN I was informed that I really only got 50 minutes of time on the couch for the 60 minutes I was billed, well, let's just say I talked really super duper fast from there on out. And I had a lot to get out. For the first six months, I do not believe I even sat back into the couch--I balanced on the edge of the cushion and I made Dr. Headshrinker hide the clock because I would see the time clicking by and my anxiety would go higher and I would talk faster and at some point he would say, "Darya, please take a breath."<br />
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To Dr. Headshrinker's credit, he let me lead our dance and this process worked perfectly well enough for me until the spreadsheet was completed, and I was actually kicking around the idea of cutting back to one day a week. I did not really have anything of major consequence remaining on my list. For the VERY first time, I was allowing the Doctor to do what he was trained to do<i> hmmm, imagine that</i>.<br />
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But in all honesty, I did not know that I had not been totally honest with him or myself about how fearful I was of everything or even how much actual anxiety I lived with and endured each and every day. I had written about my <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2013/10/my-4th-grade-existential-crisis.html" target="_blank">nights of sleeplessness and crisis</a>, but even at that time, I thought it was just me being me. Mostly because growing up I had always been dismissed as a worry-wart and nervous and all manner of botheration; however, in hindsight, and I say this with the utmost seriousness, it really began to ramp up after 9/11, and the whole-shit-and-caboodle has most definitely been escalating. It was quite revelatory to be told that not everyone had these same feelings most minutes of every single day of their whole entire life.<br />
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Now, wait a minute. <i>Lemmegetthisstraight. </i><br />
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Not everyone has an actual tactical security maneuver when there is a knock at their front door? Not everyone jumps a mile when the phone rings and then stares and pleads for it to stop? Wait. Not everyone walks around with a hollow pit in their belly or a constant throb in their left temple or their heart beating out of their chest like there wasn't enough room in there for their heart and their worry and their pain AND all their love? And they do not do a dive across the room and on to the bed reminiscent of Dennis Rodman trying to keep a ball inbounds just to get to the remote so they do not have to hear Sara McLachlan sing "Angel" and see frightened and abused animals <i>because goddammit that shit is not fit for human viewing</i>?<i> </i>They do not think that they may die at any moment from sheer exhaustion, worry and fright? You mean they just walk around NOT afraid of or worried about anything all day every day?<br />
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Dr. Headshrinker, assured me that normal<i> </i>people<i> </i>do indeed go about their day not thinking that the shiz is about to go down.<br />
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<i>Clearly, this was a completely and totally foreign thought to me</i>.</div>
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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PS - As an added bonus, I finally got my act together and made it easy for you to get to <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2014/10/i-am-anxietys-bitch-part-ii.html">I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part II</a>. I know, I know, I'm a giver like that ; ) And your welcome.<br />
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<i><br /></i>xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-8200490212960341732014-05-24T20:07:00.001-07:002014-05-24T20:16:22.821-07:00This Day Memorializes A LotThere are three or four days that come along during the year that completely throw me--I just do not have the presence of mind when I am in their throes to realize what is going on<i> yeah, kinda like PMS</i>. I get anxious and weepy and a migraine may or may not be involved and there is definitely tears <i>oh yeah, mos def--tears</i>.<br />
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At some point my attention gets drawn to the calendar and I realize that it is April and it was my first husband's birthday just a few days before or it is August and it would have been my 33rd wedding anniversary to Sgt. Airborne just that last week. And the ultimate of all my tizzies, my <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2013/09/i-forgot-to-never-forget-3.html" target="_blank">I-forgot-to-remember-what-everyone-was-telling-me-to-never-forget</a> meltdown over last year's 9/11.<br />
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So, when I realized I had been feeling distressed, I automatically chalked it up to anxiety over <a href="http://www.xoxodarya.com/2014/03/my-blue-sweater-day.html" target="_blank">my recent job change</a> and the waiting game that comes with creating a new book of business. Then, I started to see the snarky little e-grams on Facebook telling me to have a Happy Memorial Day Weekend. <i>Happy?</i> And then my generally restless mood, went from zero to completely and acutely pissed-off in, like, no seconds flat.<br />
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Really? Is this what everyone thinks this holiday is for--that Memorial Day is about a BBQ and a beer and a third day off in a row and the Old Navy Item of the Week? If so, that pains me greatly, like down to the marrow of my bones. Because I know differently.<br />
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For those who do not know, I was an Army wife. Not for long in the grand scheme of time, but long enough to make a grand enough impression on me. Long enough that I find nothing less than absolute respect and gracious admiration for our veterans, as well as our active duty servicemen and women, to be highly offensive and completely indefensible. Oh, I do not want to debate the better president or who is in charge of congress or the house or the military budget <i>or whatfuckingever</i>. I am talking about sons and daughters and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and men and women just like you and me making the greatest sacrifice of all for the good of the many. For us; as in, the U.S.<br />
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Sgt. Airborne and I arrived at Ft. George G. Meade in Laurel, Maryland, on December 6, 1981, and Sgt. Airborne reported for duty to the 311th Military Intelligence Battalion, Company C, and went to work at NSA, the National Security Agency, as an Arabic-Egyptian linguist with a Libyan dialect <i>a 98Golf for those who know or even care to know. Do your math people, this was 1981--Gaddafi, helloooo, McFly</i>.</div>
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And from that first cold wet day in March 1982, when ground was broken for the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial, better known as The Wall, Sgt. Airborne and I went into Washington, D.C., with another married couple from Ft. Meade and our boys wore their uniforms. The boys did this on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day as we paid our respects, not only at The Wall, but at all of the memorials throughout Washington, D.C. Now, maybe because I am old enough to remember hearing the body counts on the 6 o'clock evening news and seeing some of the older neighborhood boys <b>not </b>come home from fighting in Vietnam or maybe just living near enough to be in Washington, D.C., at the time of the building of The Wall at a time<i> </i>when our husbands still served with soldiers who had served in Vietnam, I identify so closely with this particular memorial and it resides in a place so deeply rooted and special within my heart as to be a part of me.<br />
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I have just very recently renewed my friendship with that other boy from Ft. Meade <i>that is a story for another day--out of deference to him and this "holiday", and also because I just cannot seem to write the right thing right now</i>. But in our conversations, this California beach girl, pipe welder/steamfitter's wife and firefighter paramedic's mother is getting to know that young Army wife all over again, and I am thankful to that boy for a lot of things this Memorial Day. I am thankful for his service on my behalf and we have talked about that both in broad strokes and in fine detail. Mostly, I am grateful to this new man I am meeting again for the first time, and for him seeking me out and befriending me once again. And like the Caveman said, "Maybe he needs you as much as you need him, Darya." <i>I pray that is true</i>.<br />
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Selfishly, in my heart of hearts, I am just so very glad to have a friend who has known me since I was a 19-year-old newlywed fresh from unhooking the U-Haul trailer and in-processing where we both shared our first permanent party post. For now, just know that I have missed him immensely--more than even I could have believed or imagined. With him comes a little bit of my own tribe; a tribe that has known me longer than anyone but Sister; a tribe that I felt so proud to be a part of and never really properly mourned the loss of because I was so damn busy getting down to the business of surviving.<br />
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In honor of all that has come before and all that will go on, thank you, veterans and servicemen and women, thank you for your service and your sacrifice. You all mean the world to me, and especially, too, to that other boy from Ft. Meade.<br />
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So, as you can see, this Memorial Day memorializes a lot for me<br />
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
<br />xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693300302384231085.post-56552413245627208832014-05-14T22:10:00.000-07:002014-05-24T16:13:01.230-07:00Beast of Burden<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah, all your sickness</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can suck it up</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Throw it all at me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can shrug it off</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's one thing, baby</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That I don't understand</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You keep on telling me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ain't your kind of man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> --<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Rolling Stones, Beast of Burden</i></span></span><br />
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I hear this song in my ear buds almost daily <i>clearly, I need to shake-up my Pandora playlist</i> and all I can think of is the Caveman and when we started dating. See, the Caveman proposed to me on our very first date. </div>
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Yep. </div>
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I just wanted a meal and a drink and a night away from my two-year-old, and this knucklehead proposed marriage. Oh, it was not a get-down-on-one-knee-kinda proposal, but a proposal nonetheless. On our drive home from the restaurant, when I was fully lubed from his attention and touch and equally loaded from a couple of carafes of Avila's house margaritas, and while he drove up Pacific Coast Highway in a hot summer month, he said in an extraordinarily matter-of-fact manner, "I can see myself being married to you, and taking care of you and your son for the rest of my life." The fact that he did NOT look hard into my eyes or lean into me so I could feel his breath in my ear deeply underscored the gravitas of his words. He did not rely on gimmick; he let his words alone speak his heart's truth. How simple. How effective. How scary. </div>
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I just stared out the window and pulled a long drag on my Marlboro Light 100 thinking how much I wished he would slow the car down enough so I could just jump the hell outta there <i>I had a mental picture of a perfectly executed tuck-and-roll thereby protecting my precious and expensive teeth, as well as my ubiquitous Marlboros but, sadly, I was glued to the seat</i>. I did not turn my head. I did not answer him. Boom. </div>
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I just let it lay there. </div>
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Later on in our relationship when I was fussing with staying or going or this-ing or that-ing because of my age or his earning potential or whatever I thought was so important that it should keep us apart <i>because I have that wholly unique ability to confuse the problem with the issue when it is so perfectly clear to him</i>. He simply told me, "You know what, Darya, do what you gotta do. I will always love and take care of you and your son. I will always be there for you--you are gonna have to chase me away with a stick." And he did not say it in a way that gave me that shotgun-in-the-back-of-my-head dread shiver as I went to the door nor were any Star 80-esque alarms going off <i>and if you don't understand that reference, Google it, girl because it holds the key to what I came from and where my head was at</i>. Because it was not a threat. </div>
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It was a vow. </div>
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Go ahead, Darya, throw it all at me, girl. I can take it. <i>And he still can</i>. I can shrug it off. <i>And he still does</i>. And I will still be standing right there by your side holding your hand. <i>And he still is</i>. It gives me chill bumps to even write all this out loud because as I grow older I realize how precious and gracious and tenacious the Caveman is naturally. His actions and his words still say these things to me--just like the other day when I was once again this-ing and that-ing over some stupid-ass nonsense that had me all worked up and ready to tell the whole wide world to shove it.</div>
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He is my beast of burden. </div>
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And I am glad his back is broad <i>'cause the weight of my worry would prolly crush an average man to smithereens</i>.</div>
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<i>xoxo Darya</i><br />
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xoxo Daryahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14619311496298366129noreply@blogger.com0