:P

You are completely clueless sometimes, you know that?

A different kind of Christmas

My usual Christmas consists of sleeping in as late as possible (which is usually about 7:00 a.m., before the phone starts ringing with well wishers), eating a late breakfast and vegging out in front of the television all day.

This year was different though. A few days ago I thought I'd be alone again on Christmas (as the past 4-5 years have been). And that really bugs me because even though I'm not big on Christmas to begin with I would still like my family to be around.

I thought my mom would end up at her on again, off again boyfriend's place, and my brother would be God knows where, but they both proved me wrong. Not only were they both home but we all actually ate breakfast, opened presents and watched t.v. together. And of course Christmas dinner in the evening.

Funny thing about the presents this year. Everyone who gave me anything must have been paying extra special attention.

Why do I say that?

Well . . . let me start off by saying I'm always appreciative about what I receive. Seriously, I'm not just saying that. I know there's a lot more people in the world who don't even have half of what I have so I'm grateful for everything I have (most of which I don't need, but that's another story). Anyway, so as I was saying, the givers were incredibly thoughtful with what they picked out.

For instance, my oldest brother gave me two cds. One was the newest Green Day album: American Idiot. I LOVE Green Day. I'm already on the second playing of the album.

He also gave me the latest Coldplay cd. Now this is interesting because I'm going to see Coldplay in a couple months when they come to Houston. He didn't know I bought tickets to the concert. In fact I don't think he knows much about my favorite bands and artists unless he just happened to walk in my room and look at my extensive cd collection, but then he could have gotten anything from Frank Sinatra to Norah Jones to Audioslave and I would have been happy. But he buys me an album of a band I'm going to see soon. Cool!

Here's another funny story. Well it is to me anyway . . . my friend Anna at work gave me a book. Two actually, but we'll talk about this one for right now. It's a Calvin & Hobbes collection: Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat.

No one else in the entire WORLD would have thought to have given me that book. It's crazy that she even gave it to me! Let me tell you the coincidence in the story: a few weeks ago the parental figure and I were in a book store looking for something for my niece and we came across this stand which held a book similar to the one I got, also Calvin & Hobbes. I was slowly flipping through it and reading the strips when my mom called my name and I go to turn a page and accidentally rip the bottom of a page. Mind you it was a very small rip, not even a half inch long, but still. I immediately look around to see if I had been caught. After realizing no one was looking I slowly walk away, whistling to myself.

So needless to say, when I tore open what Anna gave me my first reaction was to laugh. I'll have to tell her the story tomorrow. She'll get a kick out of it.

And my mom of course. Lately her trend has been to get me jewelry.

I'll let you know one thing about me: I'm finicky when it comes to jewelry. I don't do gold. I only wear real jewelry and only very simple rings and necklaces. I don't like watches (though I wear one only when at work), bracelets, anklets or toe rings.

And my mom has obviously caught on. For the past two years she's given me sterling silver necklaces. Both have been simple rope chains with a beautiful religious pendant.

Last year it was an old fashioned cross that I swear was nearly stolen right off my neck! I used to wear it to work and I'd have people reaching up to my neck and grasping the cross in their hands to 'get a better look at it.' It was mostly short Hispanic women who would often ask me (in Spanish), "Where did you get this?" And after I'd tell them it was a gift they'd want to know where my mom got it from.

Which is another thing about my mom, she never gets these things from jewelry stores. I don't know where she gets them, but they're truly unique. The one she gave me this year is a circular pendant with praying hands on the front and the Serenity Prayer on the back:

God give me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change

the things I can,

and the wisdom

to know the difference.

Heh . . . she doesn't know how many times these past two weeks I've gone into work muttering the first half of that prayer under my breath.

Overall today was a nice day, and not because of the presents. The fact that each little gift was incredibly thoughtful and said something about the presenter is what made me happy. That and the comfort of knowing my family, for the most part, is in one peace helped to cease my frazzled nerves. God only knows how the holidays can zap my sense of inner peace faster than lightning can.

Hopefully the remainder of the year will finish out the way this week started and I can start looking forward to all the crazy changes that are sure to take place next year. I know I'll need the courage.

Random thought of the day: I love hair cuts! They always make me want to shake my head like dogs do and lick myself.

Family Matters

I used to dread the holidays because they always reminded me of the family members we lost and the lack of family I have locally, with two brothers on each coast, my uncle up north and my good friends scattered across the country.

This year though, looked like it was going to be different. My mom is here, my oldest and youngest brother are here and my other younger brother was home (Virginia) to celebrate his daughter's first Christmas instead of being out on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic.

However the youngest brother isn't even here a month (he came down for the Thanksgiving holidays and was going to stay a while with us before going back to Virginia) before he finds his old group of friends. The same ones who were a bad influence on him and got him caught up in stupid petty crimes before winding up in jail. Now he's in some kind of trouble AGAIN.

We got the call from the police two days ago. He hasn't been home since. He called maybe once to let us know where he was at.

*Sigh*

My goddamn family.

I don't know what to do. I gave up on the kid once. But then he turned himself in, did his time, got out, took his GED test, passed with flying colors and then moved to VA with his older brother and got himself clean, a job, and even started looking into colleges. I honestly don't know what made him turn back to his old ways. As far as I could tell he was doing okay here the past couple weeks. Everyone was on good terms and looking forward to the holidays. He and I were talking about what we wanted to get the parental figure for Christmas and we even went shopping for our niece together about a week ago.

He and I also took pictures together, the kind where you sit in that cheesy little booth and make stupid faces and a strip of four pictures spits out the slot after two minutes. I gave him the top two photos and I stuck the bottom two in my wallet because I have no recent photos of him and I together. On the last one we were imitating the three stooges. We had fun.

I'd give anything to talk to him. If I just . . .

If I just knew where he was at, figuratively speaking.

God, I need to escape for a while.



Random thought of the day: Ugh, hurry up 2005, hurry up and be done with.

Sandman where you at?

I'm bothered.

{Then again when am I not?}






I'm not one for writing down my dreams. For one I can almost never remember them. And two it's always seemed like a lame way for me to fill up a journal. When I can remember them I'll tell a friend or two, but lately, for some strange reason I've been having nightmares. And they aren't your usual 'boogey man' type nightmares either. All of them have me in a real life, everyday situation.

Of the ones I've had I can vaguely remember four over the course of the last month and a half. The first one is actually a repeat of another dream I've had before, months and months ago. In it I can see myself laying down in the grass of a median in the street. I'm just lying on my side watching all the cars whiz by when this one car stops. A guy leans out of the driver's side window and asks me a question. I ignore him (he asked me something crude). And before I know it he's out of his car and on top of me.

This is where I woke up the first time I had the dream.

However a week ago, when the repeat continued it got as far as me trying to fight him off. I remember him smiling at me and him telling me, "Baby I don't wanna hurt you. But I will if I have to."

I was angry. And I was fighting as hard as I could. Not a single sound escaped my lips.

I didn't scream for help.

I didn't cry.

I didn't beg for him to stop.

Nothing.

Finally, I had the opportunity to stop him and I started to go for it.

But then I woke up, my right leg lifted, bent at the knee, prepared to kick the shit out of the man between his legs. Though I couldn't see my hands as it was nearly 2 a.m. I'm sure they were white; they were gripping the sides of my hammock so tight. Hair was damp, as was my shirt and my heart was beating so fast. When I woke up again later that morning I saw half the stuff I usually keep on my nightstand on the floor: my alarm clock, a small picture frame, a small wooden instrument a friend at work gave me.

Apparently I put up one hell of a fight.

I don't remember my second dream in as much detail. I do remember watching the dream through my own eyes, and at the same time being a participant, unlike the first dream. I remember picking up the phone and some man talking to me like he knew me and then asking for my buddy Anna (her debut in any of my dreams) from work. She talked with him a bit, really friendly like before hanging up. I asked her something and she went on about some 'big' project as she began to cut up paper bags.

She lined them up, one next to the other and wrote, in black marker, a letter on each bag: J-O-H-A-N-N-E-S . . . I'm not sure if it contained the 'burg' at the end. I woke up before she finished.

I know this dream was hardly a nightmare, but it still bothered me for some reason. I've never been to this town in South Africa, nor do I know anyone from there.

A couple days ago there was a rat in my dream. Like the first dream I was watching myself interact with people and things. I don't remember where I was or who I was with. I might have been alone.

There was a rat on the ground, squashed, sort of like when you see roadkill in the street and it looks like it's been run over a few dozen times. Anyway so I'm talking to someone in the dream when the legs of the creature start wiggling around and I freak out. It moves over to a white sheet of paper. Apparently the paper was of importance to me, homework maybe.

I go to pick it up by the edge of the paper and the rat crawls on my hand.

And this is when I wake up. Hand held about my head, ready to fling the imaginary rat off my hand.

Despite the situations though, the one that's bothered me the most was the dream I had last night. Again I was an active participant in the dream, seeing everything through my own eyes while talking to everyone else.

It started on a street in some dark alley, near one of those metal trash cans. The first thing that happens is someone gets shot.

Mind you I'm talking to this girl, not even two feet away from me, when she gets shot. And at the time she was VERY pregnant!

I catch her before she falls, her hands around her belly, my hands there as well, trying to keep the blood from coming out of the hole in the left side of her stomach. I can remember holding my hands up to my face, seeing all the blood. I nearly freaked.

But then, just like a movie the scene changes and she and I are on a beach, in our one pieces. And for some reason the girl is blind now. But I say to her, "Come on, let's run along the beach."

And off we go, sprinting before we turn a little and dive into the warm water.

And that was all. The only other thing I can remember was the first half of that dream took place in black and white while the latter was in color.

I rarely dream in black and white. I know that's supposed to mean something but I don't recall it right now.

And the fact that she got shot in the stomach and (I'm assuming) lost the baby is what's really bothering me. Because . . . well, I can't explain it. All I know is if it's pertaining to me in a way I think it is that's going to cause me to question my beliefs (not that I have a strong hold on those anyway) and ah, I dunno.




Random thought of the day: Stay awake!

No hablo Espanol . . .

I can't help the way I look.

And I look Hispanic.

I AM Hispanic.

But I do not speak spanish.

Don't hold that against me. If you wish you can speak with my parents. I was never taught spanish growing up. In fact my brothers and I were sort of pushed into being as Americanized as possible.

Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. I mean, we do live in America and learning english, being able to speak and read it well is practically a necessity. However I'm not the type of person that believes one should return back to their country if they don't speak the language of the natives. I bet my ancestors ran into many people like that. And you want to know the funny thing? The opposite is happening to me now. In my line of work I run across so many people who believe I should be able to speak my 'native' tongue.

Nevermind the fact that I was born in the United States, as my parents and grandparents were. Speaking spanish was never something my parents felt I needed to know. This thought having stemmed from the fact that when they were kids they were forced to learn english in school. Their teachers, like a lot of teachers here in the southwest would ask students to tell their parents to speak English in their homes during their time. In fact I'm sure this request still goes on to this day in some schools.

Spanish was a first language for each of my parents. However because they used so little of it growing up they felt the same would be asked of us as were grew up so they figured, "Why bother teaching them?"

And now in our 20s and 30s we're faced with rude comments from others of our race, mostly first generation Americans (I'm a third), or the illegals.

Everyday I repeat the phrase, "I don't speak Spanish," at least a half dozen times. This usually brings the person to peer at my name, whisper, "Christina," with an emphasis on the 'r' and give me a look as if to say, "C'mon, I know you speak the language, quit lying." And usually they'll make light of the situation and ask me, "How can you not speak spanish? Your name is Christina."

To piss them off I say something like, "Yeah, but it's spelled the american way, with a 'Ch.'"

{In the spanish language 'Ch' is the fourth letter so if you were to say my name, as spelled, in spanish it would really sound like 'Tristina.'}

Either that or I'll point to the black chick with the same name and say, "She doesn't speak spanish either."

It's not that I don't want to learn. In fact I took two courses in highschool and aced them. But that was basic stuff and I've retained a lot of what I learned. I know how to ask for the time, tell someone it's hot or cold, I can count in spanish and I know most of the days and months, but I can't hold a decent conversation in spanish to save my life.

Although I've been accused of holding out. I've had several people tell me I know spanish I just don't want to speak it.

*Mutters*

If that isn't the biggest load of . . .

I've been in many arguments with people who don't believe me. Two years ago, on Thanksgiving, I was called an 'English speaking bitch.'

The man was thrown out.

And just the other day I had a buddy of mine, a white guy, speak up for me when I was having it out with this Hispanic man because he believed I was lying. And on top of that a black man listening to the whole conversation spoke up and said he knew plenty of people like me, people who were never taught spanish.

I can come across rude at times, I know that. And trust me, I try not to jump the gun before I hear something out of someone's mouth, but when you were born in my generation with parents and grandparents born in the States and you have no accent whatsoever and you have to deal with stupid people all day you'd have a small chip on your shoulder too. I can communicate with deaf people and a very lovely couple who only speaks Russian so if you find it difficult to get your points across to me then that's your problem. Don't give me your lecture because it's only falling on deaf ears. I'm not asking you to learn the English language, so don't tell me I need to learn spanish.




Random thought of the day: I really need to stop scratching my arms so much. I look like a junkie going through withdrawal.