Memorial.

I dont remember how old I was, or how old He was at the time.  I know it was before I had my first son.  Maybe a year before or somewhere along those lines.  We were told to do a book report on war veterans.  So i figured, instead of writing about some war that I only read in books or looking up some soldier whose name I wouldn’t remember after the book report was turned in, I decided to sit with My Father in the kitchen and tell His story about his experience in the Korean War.

He was around 16 or 17 at the time.  He couldn’t recall the place where he was at, only that he was sleeping in a trench for days.  Talking to his buddies, the enemy lines not far from where they were.  He remembered getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom out in the woods.  He was gone from his spot for a while, probably about a half hour or so.   And then coming back to his post and falling asleep.  When He woke up, He turned over to his buddy, and saw the blood.  He turned him over and his throat had been slit.  He went over to the next soldier.  And the next one.  And the next one.  All around him, His comrades were dead.  Throats slit and He stayed in that trench for days, screaming.  His battalion found Him days later, unable to move or speak.  They took him back to the main camp and He couldn’t remember how long he had been there.  But this teenager, who went out there for whatever reason; to see the world, to kill people, to do something more than what he was doing back in the states, got more than what He bargained for.

My Father never really liked to talk about The War.  Too many bad memories of things he had done or seen.  Some things you cant really explain to a person, let alone a child who is sitting there asking all sorts of questions with a tape recorder in your face.

I remember one day we went to Battery Park to the memorial.  Throughout the day He was fine until he got to the site and then he just started weeping.  Another Veteran went up to Him, someone who never met My Father in His life, and just hugged him, rubbed his shoulders and kept saying “its ok, brother, its alright.”  Even then as a child I couldn’t understand why a complete stranger would comfort My Father and call Him Brother.  Now, all grown up and seeing wars plastered on the tv and in the newspaper, I understand to an extent:  Why there’s a need to have a Brother.  When you put your life in someone else’s hands, that unspeakable bond that happens when you share something that painful, that life changing.  Its a language that a civilian couldn’t possibly comprehend.

I’m not a fan of War.  I mean, who really is?  Except politicians of course but that’s a whole other post.  

Fathers, Mothers, Sons and Daughters..Sisters and Brothers:

I can never understand, but I am grateful that they would put their lives on the front lines so I can sit here and have an opinion.

I aced that book report, by the way.  

Fair Weathered Family

Yep I’m going there.

So I sat here over the weekend with a little lion on my mind.  My lil “mail-wailing” nephew who was having some yucky times in the hospital and it was definitely a nail biting 24 hours to say the least.  The most important thing is that hes okay and back to his hyper huggable self.  I definitely miss him.

So relief set in.  Which was unfortunately replaced by incredible bitter resentment.  There’s the part of me that always wants to do more.  Its those times when I do wish the teleport button was available in real life and I could swoop in and make things better (or worse) for the people that have made a scratch on the Bentley that is My Life.

So someone who is starting to become less and less of an importance in my life made it thier business not to show a genuine concern for their blood.  In a nutshell it was a write off of “dont call us, we’ll call you” type of thing where a  dick in the pants held a priority over just a few minutes of putting their needs aside for the concern of a young boy.

This is how I took it people.  

You would THINK, that this person who now has the privilege of being involved in this child’s life, that they would do everything they can to make the most of the opportunity.  Instead its brushed off, secondary, with a signature of “oh well, I’ll get back to you when I can.”

I’ve been on a roll lately of writing people off and I’m seriously that close to doing it again without a second thought.

What gets me even more tight is that this fool goes ahead and posts on FB about “how concerned they are and how they’re sending a prayer to their “poor little nephew”.

Fuck your prayers ok?

Fuck that phony bullshit because if you really cared, your man wouldn’t be a priority.  FB wouldn’t be your way of fishing for your friends to give you bullshit sympathy because you’re starved for attention.  If you were any kind of person, you would tell your man to hold the fuck up for 10 minutes, step away from the computer, pick up the phone and talk to your family who is in need of that support.

Zero tolerance.  

I’ve written off people with huge eye openers as the aftermath:  Family who don’t have a mind of their own and still think that they’re living in their high school eras where the world is a popularity contest.  Yea, you keep doing that while I’m enjoying the fruits of my labors and laughing at you in the same breath.  Pieces of shit who didn’t wait for My Fathers body to be cold because they wanted his big screen tv and that was the only way they would come over and offer condolences.  Ghetto ass welfare hustlers who can only make their living on their fucking back between their cellulite packed thighs.

I’d rather have an honest enemy than a fake friend.  I’d rather show love to the innocent than waste it on the tainted.

I’d rather people keep it real than pretend to care.

 I’d rather have a handful of family to say I love you than a group of broken people looking for a handout.

My Bentley is accessible to a selected few.  The rest get run over.  

And I dont give a fuck.

 

That being said,  Let it out, then let it go.

 

 

Sunday Morning.

It was the weekend.  A Sunday.  The night before I was online doing a vigorous search for programs for disabled vets.  James was 3 months old and my I was getting ready to go back to work.  Me being, well, Me, I had to start planning what was going to happen with The Family in my absence.  The hubby was exhausted, Chris was even more of a handful and My Father was, well..being My Father in his carefree ways.

His cat, Nikita..old, old, cat.  We had her for about 15 years.  If any one in their lives had a companion that was always at their side, then Nikita was it for My Pops.  She never left His room and even tho she drve him batty, she was, in essence, the only thing that he could physically take care of anymore.  

And then, He couldn’t.  It got to the point that I knew that coming home late hours, if I didn’t cook, then the family wouldn’t eat that night just because everyone was so tired and they didn’t have the energy to even turn on the stove. 

So that Sunday morning, I sat out on the deck.  It was a beautiful morning, unnaturally warm for spring, and I asked to speak to Him.  His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he had on that damn denim shirt that He kept in his closet for like a millenia.  Still looked good on Him tho.

I asked Him how He was feeling and I got the usual response: “eh.”

And then we spoke in depth about His future.  I explained to Him that I was at a point in my life that I couldn’t take care of Him like I used to.  With a new baby, I couldn’t ask Him to help me.  I couldn’t ask him to carry James or change Chris..I just needed Him to take care of Himself.  And I remember telling Him that I didn’t even see Him doing that anymore.  That I was worried about Him and at this rate, if He kept ignoring His health, that He wasn’t gonna make it to see next year.  

We talked about the option that was not an option.  And of course He was like “I’ll kill myself before I go into a home.”  And I told Him, I knew that wasn’t a choice.  So I gave Him the information that I had been grueling for the night before.  He had choices.  A nurse would come to the house and give Him checkups, Meals on Wheels would come and bring lunch and dinner.  Someone would come and go to the store for Him and get his groceries.  And He had this smile.  A smile that I had seen countless times before and never really appreciated more than I do right now at this moment.  It was like, a solution, an answer that we didn’t know we had.  And for that moment, we figured everything would be okay.  

And then I explained to Him why.  I told him I loved Him.  And I wanted Him to be around for as long as life would permit.  And then we both were crying.  He told me he loved me.  That He really loved me and was grateful for what I had done.  That He should have looked into this years ago when He qualified at the age of 65 but He never gave it a thought because He really didn’t know how or didn’t care to know because looking at those options would be the final confirmation that He was, in fact, getting old and that He needed help.

We sat there on the deck that May Sunday Morning.  Me telling Him that I would do anything to take care of Him.  And He told me how he was proud of me and He loved me, and he loved his daughters and how smart we were.  We walked away from that conversation with a positive look on the future, and a new hope that things were going to be better.  Days later, the nurses came and the programs were in full effect  and he was happy.  

That was the last real conversation that I would have with My Father.

That would be the last time that we told each other that we really loved each other, not just in passing.

There are so many things that I regret not being able to do with Him or for Him.  Things that I wish there was more time.  And I know I can’t get that time back.  So I look at what time we did have, and what memories we did make, and even now, with my eyes practically blinded from tears,

I remember My Father and I remember that He did love me.

And I remember that I truly, deeply loved Him too.

 

Trivial Things

When I was a kid, I was the ultimate nerd.  I used to have to find different routes to go home to avoid getting beat up by the “cool kids”.  I was that girl with the knappy hair and the HMO glasses that shadowed my entire face.  And if I ever got cornered and my ass kicked, I would expect another beatdown from mama dukes when I got home for being “a pussy”.

My childhood was spent imagining to be someone that I wasn’t.  To be that kid that was loved, and liked, and popular.  Instead, I was the little girl who got her nose knocked in whenever it wasn’t hiding in a book; the girl who was getting the spitballs in her hair and her poetry journals torn up by the cute guy in class.

In that world in my thoughts, I dreamed of the life that I’m actually living right now.  No, I don’t get beat up anymore.  I wound up with the ultra sexy athletic guy and bore him a beautiful son.  And my oldest child, I couldn’t be prouder of.

It still amazes me how as we get older, we still look for acceptance from our peers.  Even though our priorities change, in some way shape or form, we do things that unconsciously need acceptance or approval.  Because lets face it: no one enjoys being that pariah or target practice for the entertainment of others.

When we get promoted, we get criticized.  When we get the ultra sexy guy, we get slandered.  When we sever ties, we get bias judgement.  And when we have a child with disabilities, we get looks of pity and ignorance.

And then, at some point, the layers come off.  Even though the eyesight starts to go, and the grey hairs start to develop, things become more clear.  And clarity comes in the form of different phases:  it comes when you get that sweet paycheck and you know you worked hard for where you are; when the ultra sexy guy tells you that he loves you and you’re the sexiest thing walking in a pair of size 10′s and you think “damn, somebody actually loves me”; when years of memories and heartfelt conversations are completely forgotten and you think “lesson learned”; and when you get a call from your sons doctor saying hes gotta go under the knife again to let him have a somewhat normal life you think as a parent “whatever it takes to help him have a better life.”

A better life.

I brought my son Christopher to my job on Thursday.  It was “bring your child to work day” and I was proud to have him sit at my desk, taking pictures and showing off what a handsome little papi he is.  And then I was sitting with him in one of the board rooms, and there was someone else’s son there.  A cute little 8 year old who was drawing and when I brought my son to the table, the little boy paused and just stared at him with this scared look on his face.  Then he asked me in a soft spoken voice:

“What’s wrong with him?  Is he sick? “

In the past, when someone has asked me “whats wrong with him?” I give the usual clinical diagnosis, explain his disability and that’s usually the end of it.  But this time, this was a young innocent little child who, in his innocence, asked me the same question, and I couldn’t give him a direct answer.  I think it was the expression on his face that threw me off.  That and the inching away he was doing when Chris made a movement.

“No, he’s not sick.” I said.  ”He just grows a little slower than other kids do.”

“Why?”

It’s amazing how simple questions can make you pretty much mute.

For some reason, I felt angry.  Not angry at the boy, but angry with myself.  Not being able to explain to a child what I had been able to explain a thousand times over to other people.  I kept thinking, this would be an opportunity for a child to understand, for him to see that Chris is really no different in the essence of his spirit.

But how could I explain it when the words just wouldn’t come together?  How am I going to explain it to his little brother when he comes of age?

I feel like that little girl again, hiding her nose in a book.

 

Dream a Little Dream of_______?

Being two weeks in my new position, there has been alot of adjusting.  I can’t say its been bad at all..just a really big wake up call, where there’s the question that hits every day at 5pm…

What now?

I think back to what my better counterpart said: “you’ve worked 20 years to get to this spot if you really think about it.  Working since you were 12 and helping to support a family from baggin groceries to stockin shoes at fayva.”  (^5 to anybody that knows about Fayva ..ollld schoolll)

When I was a kid living in the projects, I always thought of a better life.  I mean who didn’t, honestly?  Especially living in the conditions of, well, lets be blunt: The Ghetto ass hoods of Harlem and the South Bronx.  You want that white picket fence, Sunday dinners, not having to feel that level of embarrassment of sitting in the welfare office with your failure of a mother:  things that most people in the middle to upper class took for granted because they never had to worry about things like that.

So here I am…33 years old, my own office, 9-5 and able to actually come home on my lunch break and spend time with my kids.  I honestly did not think I would be in this position considering the shit that bore me always told me that I would be nothing, never amount to anything and that I was no better than following in her footsteps of collecting a welfare check.

So the kids dream has been made a reality.  And honestly, that’s all it was: a dream.  Had I known what I know now, I would go back in time and ask that dirty, nappy haired little girl..what do you want to do once you make that dream come true?

It’s funny cause My better counterpart asked me..she was like: Sabrina..what’s your dream?  What do you want for yourself?

And I answered without hesitating…I want to be a provider for my family.

And she was like..yea but that’s not a dream for YOU…what do YOU want to do for YOURSELF?

I honestly couldn’t answer.  Like she totally had me stumped.  Cause the majority of my life has been to take care of other people.  And I don’t regret it.  But She hit a nerve..and made me question..made me think..

What the hell do I really want that I can say is Mine and no one else’s?

I think I feel like once I had my children that part of my life was over.  My life isnt my own anymore and I live for my kids and what family I have left.  So the big question..damn her for being so smart:…

Is there still room for one more dream that is meant just for Me?

 

 

Never Over It.

Not Over it.

Never Over it.

Don’t wanna be over it.

 

I have no great words to express how I’m feeling right now.

Honestly, in my life, I don’t have time to feel, or to dwell, or to pause whats happening around me to have, what my better counterpart would say “a moment.”

But now, while the kids and hubby are sleeping, while I put down my bag and kick off my shoes from a long day of work, I’m sitting here with a beer, having a fucking moment.

So lets define the word Loyalty

1. The state or quality of being loyal.

2. A feeling or attitude of devoted attachment and affection. Often used in the plural: “My loyalties lie with my family.”

Pulling apart these words, and the thinking of a statement that was made by a piece of shit who is less than the biggest fucking roach on the lower east side…yea..My loyalties lie where they should:

With A Man who was there with me, for me, for 22 years of my life.

Let Me clear:  He didn’t HAVE to be there.  He didn’t HAVE to stick around after that fucking cuntrag bailed and left Him with 2 kids who in a nutshell, didn’t have a mother anymore.

Not that she was a mother in the first place, but this was the icing on the cake.

This Man, Our Father, who sat there and listened, nurtured, gave us choice, treated us like his princesses, who said He was proud of the paths that we made in our lives, He made the choice; to love Us unconditionally.  To support us even if we were wrong.  To sacrifice whatever He had for the sake of his girls…

THAT is a Parent.  THAT is what inspires us to be the Mothers that We are.  THAT is why we are loyal.  And not because its an obligation, or a burden:

Its because He loved Us when no one else would.  Not even the piece of shit that to this day, curses His name because “as Her daughters, we need to have some form of loyalty to Her.”

Fuck. That. Noise. Ok?

Fuck it up the ass, 20 times, with a syphilis, wart covered cock.

Her jealousy of Him is unfathomable.  You would THINK that this bitch would show an INKLING of gratitude for Him picking up the pieces of a broken family and putting them back together.  Lord knows She didn’t have the balls to do it.  And fuck knows She didn’t even try.

I know what some of You are thinking.  You’re sitting there thinking

“how can she say these things?  what damage was so massive that she would want to wish demise on the woman who bore her life?”

There aren’t enough words, not enough blogs, expressions, tears, or levels of hatred that can describe what that woman has done, and continues to do.

“You need to let it go.  You need to forgive.  Cause that’s what Jesus would do.”

“The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it,” Proverbs 30:17. “Whoso curseth his father or his mother, his lamp shall be put out in obscure darkness,” Proverbs 20:20.

Ok s0 pretty much, this is what I have to say about that:

This sinner would rather have the ravens and eagles shut the fuck up with their cawing and turn into 4 chicken wings with french fries.

Let my ass live in the darkness…and even from there I’ll be shouting to the point of insanity: MY FATHER WAS MORE OF A PARENT  IN 10 LIFETIMES THAN THAT WHORE WAS IN 1!!

And if I actually believed in God, I would say to Her/Him/It:

I’d go through it all over again, as long as you bless me with the same father I had.

That’s where loyalty lies.  And it stays with That Man even after I lose my breath.

 

A Prayer Leyla Style

So Me and My Sis were sitting in Our Dads room missing Him…and we came up with Our version of “The Lords Prayer” Now named “Our Pops Prayer”: Ahem…

Our Father
Who art on Route 66
Hollow be thy Harley
Thy Indian bike too
On earth as it is in Harleyville
Give us this coffee, Our daily dose
And forgive us for being assholes
As we forgive those who are assholes against us
And lead us not into stupidity, but deliver us from pop music
For Thy has the Ozzy, The Zepellin and The Hendrix, For ever and ever.
Hell Yeah.

The Greatest Joke Of All

She was a fuckin dope fiend ok?

Lets just get this out of the way right now:

Kurt Cobain was a manic depressive herion addict..

Michael Jackson was a Pedophile who O.D’ed on his own pharmacy.

Amy Winehouse was a lush.

Bradley Nowell was a dopehead.

Don Cornelius was a woman beating shithead who should have off’ed himself sooner..

And Whitney Houston was  a hot mess of piled shit mixed with prescription drugs.

No Sympathy. None.  Zero.

When everyone was blasting the late Ms Houston’s music on the radios, I tuned it out.

When they closed down 125th street to have a party “in her honor” and people were dancing in the streets and doing the souuuulll train: I tuned it out.

When I look at the news and want to see whats happening in the real world, and I see this woman’s face plastered everywhere “click here to get her greatest hits” :

I tuned it out.

But then something got my attention which brought me here to My verbal punching bag:

The Govenor of New Jersey is ready to Veto a bill which was passed by the NJ assembly allowing gay marriage:  but then he will hang flags at half staff to “honor a daughter of Newark, New Jersey”

Really?…Like…REALLY??!!

This is what our priorities have summed up to people…when the rights of people are still being discriminated against; when the same town that spawned a shit like Ms Houston is the same town that just layed off a shitload of cops and which happens to be one of the top most dangerous cities of the country; when an 11 year old girls tragic death from a school bus crash is overshadowed by a woman who CHOSE…let me repeat that…WHO CHOSE to go down the path that led her to a watery, soggy grave…

This is the world we have molded ourselves into.

So with that being said, before I go into every other word being “fuck”,  I’m gonna wait for the new south park..cause you know they’re not gonna pass up on this one…

 

For Dad.

So today was that emotional roller coaster of WTFness…in a good way.

 

All aboard.

So I interviewed for this corporate position two weeks ago.  I honestly didn’t think I was going to get it because I just moved up in the ranks a few weeks ago.  But then my higher ups called me and were like “you should apply”.

Weird much?  Just getting promoted to jump into another promotion?..Pretty fuckin awkward.

So ok…I apply.  I interview.  I give my ideas and my “vision” of what direction I want to see the company head…funny thing is, someone was actually listening.

I head into work today trying to think of ways to improve the team, build up the morale and basically deal with customers that ask the SAME QUESTION 7 TIMES (many puppies died every time this questions was asked by the way…).

So I get the call from the VPGM’s secratary and shes like “can you call him at 130?:

Sure no problem.  I’m not gonna get it anyway but what the hell, maybe he sees things I can improve on.

So I call in at 130..”I’m sorry he’s in a conference with the RPGM (Regional President General Manager aka The Big Boss of the NYC market) “call back at 230″

Sure no problem..now’s when the nails start getting bitten off my finger.

I’m smoking like a chimney, chugging red bull, trying to find ways to get 2:30 to get here sooner.  Then I sit in my office, and I look at the picture of My Father.

I’m thinking of the couple of weeks before he went to the other side and looked at my work and he looked at me dead in the eye and said “I’m so proud of You bebe..You were meant to do this”

I was sitting there in my office looking at this man..who raised me and believed in me till the very end, and I just kept talking to him..I wanted to make him proud.  I still do.

So 2:30 comes along and I call in..the VPGM asks me how the interview went with his boss..hes glad I applied, loved my energy..and congratulated me for the new position I am to hold a month from now.

I screamed.  I screamed to the point that everyone on the sales floor heard me.  And after we hung up..I cried.  I wept holding My Fathers picture to my chest and rocked back and forth sharing that moment with The Man who never gave up on me.

My job is not done.  In fact its just starting with the hit of the reset button.  There’s no peaking.  No plateau.  I have more to prove now than ever.

I want to continue to prove Him right.  To know that everyday He inspires me to have excellence.  Not just at work, but as a Mother, a Sister and a Wife.

This one’s for You Dad.

It is what it is.

Severing ties that you never really had in the first place:

It is what it is.

Seeing someone get that “familiar exit” as they pack up their things and walk out the door:

It is what it is.

Having to pick up the slack and do damage control from other peoples fuck ups:

It is what it is.

“Well the perception is that he’s gone now and You’re walking around like You’re mentally celebrating:

It is what it is.

 

Ok, so..in the end..What is It?

For some reason I’m hearing that Faith No More song in my head now.  (“faith no more”…it is what it is.)

The truth is, I tried.  I seriously tried to reach this person.  Countless conversations, to the point of near begging: Get Your Shit Together.  Being in the industry, this isn’t my first run around the rodeo.  I’ve been doing this long enough to know the difference between right and wrong.  Ethical and Unethical.  Leader and follower.  blah blah blah yackety schmackety.

It goes to show wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age.

Call it mental celebrating.  Call it not giving a shit.  Call it “the show must go on”.  In a nutshell, this tired, running on fumes-red bull drinking minority misses coming home to her kids when they’re actually awake.  She misses not seeing that exhausted look on her husbands face from running around keeping up with a baby and a fifteen year old special needs child.  She misses actually coming home with the sun at her back.  While a failed, defeated man is collecting unemployment, a hard working mother is doing everything she can not to fail, not to set her employees up for failure, and look forward to the day when she can actually see her children again in the sunlight.

It is what it is.