Ode To The Freckled Ones

Growing up in an Italian family is never boring. Growing up in an Italian family looking like the Irish side with freckles, pale skin, blond hair, and green eyes makes it even more interesting. I grew up around a slew of beautiful olive complexions, dark eyes, thick dark haired people, and lets not forget that I was taller than all of them by the time I was 8!

Those dark and beautiful people...

Looking back I knew I was different than most of them, and just assumed I came from a different family (i.e. adopted) but wasn't sure how to explain those thoughts as a kid. I just knew everyone else looked different, even my mother had blue eyes and reddish/brown hair with no freckles, so by the time I was four I was convinced that I was dropped off on the porch along with the newspapers.

And then he came along! I went with my parents to the hospital to see my new cousin, a boy! This was very exciting as all of my other cousins were teenagers dressed like Janis Joplin and I'm pretty sure they smelled like her too. 

So here I am peeking over into this very large window where there's a row of plastic beds and pink human beings squirming. The family is pointing and saying, "There he is. That's him." Peeking through the crowd I see the most awesome sight. The first baby I recall ever meeting, and he had this really cool perfectly shaped bowling ball round head. How cool! A pink bowling ball that cries. As a four year old I thought this would be a very interesting thing to keep around.

...fast forward a year or two...

Growing up in the heights, near downtown Houston was pretty cool as stated before in my kudos to the 70's, but the best part was having our birthday parties at a place called, "Peppermint Park". It was just what was expected and where to celebrate events for kids.



                                                          
Suddenly, I see that kid with the perfectly shaped head wobbling on his loose two year old legs, and then it happened. I realized I really was a part of this family. I was NOT adopted, because this person, who once laid in the plastic beds at the hospital, had freckles. I had freckles! He had light colored skin. I was pale too! He had blond hair. Hey, I have blond hair! This was an amazing event. Not only was I at the best place in the world, "Peppermint Park", but my new found identity had come into view. I was not delivered with the newspaper. I belonged in this family too, with this other adorable freckled face, blond headed kid.


It's funny how memories slip our mind and then one day you're sitting at a family function. You find yourself sitting at the end of a dining table next to someone who takes you back. Waaaaay back. You start thinking about your first encounter with people, and you study the kid next to you. He is the spitting image of his father, his father who saves lives and has a very contagious laugh & twisted sense of humor (must be in the DNA), his father who was/is that freckled face, blond hair toddler who told me without ever speaking that day at Peppermint Park, "Hey, you and I look alike, so I guess we really do belong."

Once upon a time there were three little girls who went to the Police Academy

So as I was saying, I grew up in a violent home...yadda yadda yadda. My parents divorced when I was 8. Thank you, Jesus!  My mother said, the day she kicked him out, was the first time she ever heard me really sing out loud. Well, duh.

Do not get me wrong, I appreciate the good and the bad of my childhood and especially the fact that I am a child that grew up in the 70's...and because they were D-Y-N-O-M-I-T-E!

Not to say, it was the perfect era, heck no. The clothes were itchy and hot and the hairstyles oh Lord, what were people thinking? But the music…man the music was fantastic! You got Al Green on the radio. Even if I have taught English let me have this next moment…There ain’t anything wrong with some Al Green on the radio. You know what I’m saying? (Just an opinion, but I'll stick to my opinion as this is MY blog.) 

                                                                          

The 1970's were so cool. I mean there were new shows on television called, 'Good Times', 'Charlie's Angels', and let us not forget, 'Love Boat'.

 

So today's blog is dedicated to 70's television and I don't care how sexy, cool, or hot you think it might be, do not try to revive the bad acting, 'wings' hair-do, and grossly over sexed moments that was strong and alive in the 70's from the original Charlie's Angels...today it's just gross.

                                               

 

      

     

The truth hurts

The truth hurts.

When you live in a bubble, and someone bursts it with the truth; it hurts.

When you look in the mirror and see one size, and another size much bigger is all that fits; it hurts.

When you believe that someone is a sociopath without a conscience, and you find out they are; it hurts.

When you admit that all the food, shopping, and margaritas won't make the pain go away; it hurts.

When you come to terms with yourself, for not being all that you could have been because you were only a dreamer and not a doer; it hurts.

When you discover doctors can not save you, and it feels like God has forgotten all about you; it hurts, but it doesn't make it true.

God Bless Charlie Sheen With A Little Bit of My Soap-Box.

He wasn’t an alcoholic. He wasn’t a drug addict. He was just mean as hell. Looking back now & being educated I’m pretty sure my father was bipolar. He was cruel. He took his self hate out on my mother. Actually he took his self hate out on the wife before my mother, Let's call her Cleopatra, and all the wives after my mother..I have fake names for all of them too... Bugs Bunny, Gloria Swanson, White Trash, and Twin. Geez, I feel like I’m forgetting one of the wives. Who knows? And yes, he beat them all. And for the most part I saw the bruising, the blood and heard a few fights or sounds of punching. As early as I can remember all females in his path, even his own grandmother he called whores. As a 5 year old, I didn't know what that was, but I knew it wasn't something coming from love.

What caused me to think of all of this was seeing Charlie Sheen on The Emmys. So many people have no idea how sick a person is and they really and truly can not help themselves when they are ill and not educated or medicated to deal with the bipolar disease. It effects everybody and the people who usually suffer from it, are so loving and generous, but they just can't help themselves.

I am actually grateful to my father for so much now. He loved me the best way he knew how even in his own ill way. He taught me to love every style of music and to dance at every party. He taught me the love of lakes and boats. He taught me that you're never too old to need your mother. He taught me how important it is to make people laugh. He taught me forgiving someone never changes them but it changes us for forgiving them. He taught me that even in the worst of times...when you can pull yourself together, tell people you're sorry and you love them...even if they don't believe you and even if they shouldn't believe you. (Don't get me wrong he never sat down and had these talks, these are lessons from my father through experiences with him.)

 The man caused so much pain growing up I literally use to fantasize about when he would die, and when he did die I cried. I cried because the only father I would ever have would never change now. He would never get to be the man I needed him to be. He would never be alive when I was pregnant, and I sure as hell didn’t want him dead since I believe in reincarnation.

I have a relative who thinks her father was/is the worst man on earth because he was selfish. He was. He put other women first for a long time. Now this relative doesn't speak to any of us because she doesn't want to hear our excuses for her father's old ways...still trying to figure this one out. She has admitted that she doesn't want to speak to her father now because he is a better father to her siblings (who are 8 and 4) than he was to her. Let's see... he is still alive, changed his ways, and loves her.  Did he ever call her a whore? Nope. Did he beat her mother or her? Nope. Is he suffering from a chemical imbalance? Nope.

(Insert sarcasm) Oh yeah. This all makes sense.

 I find it so sad that as she prepares for her upcoming wedding, she really has no idea how lucky she was to have a father who was only selfish. Who wasn't bipolar. Who is still alive and just wants to be a great dad. Thank goodness she didn't have my dad or Charlie Sheen for a pop.

And by the way, God Bless Charlie Sheen for trying to get well and getting a chance to be a great dad to his kids, yet again.

Does Costco carry Campho-Phenique?

Why does this smelly liquid stuff have such a fancy name and with a hyphen too? And what's with all it's remedies? (It's like the dad from 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding' who used Windex on everything. That will be me next but with C-P in spray bottles.)

Did you know the following are ways to use Campho-Phenique?

1. Fever Blisters
2. Sunburns
3. Boils
4. Helps stop  tracheal stricture (sudden wheezing) on dogs (I tell you the truth)
5. Athletes Foot
6. Mosquito Bites
7. Healing any and all wounds
8. Skin effects from radiation
9. Weight Loss...just kidding. I was seeing if you were paying attention.
10. Skin Rashes... and thus begins my blog 



Stress makes me itch. I realized that this week. Whenever I am having a really, I mean really, stressful month(s), I itch. I itch like I've eaten something I'm allergic too. I have even taken Benadryll this week a few times at night thinking I ate something I was allergic too. My next trip to the store was to buy some of that smelly stuff for my allergic rashes (or so I thought).

My epiphany occurred when I was talking to my lawyer's office and they didn't receive some over night information, and poof...there goes my allergic reaction to Skittles? No. Ozarka water? No. And as I went through my day dealing with stressful moments I began to itch and swell and itch and swell. I really am allergic to stress...surely this is a condition that I can get help with from the medical field. Nah. Who am I kidding?!?

I'm Breaking Up With You!

Dear You,

When I first found you I thought for sure all of my problems were going to disappear. I dreamed of the the marriage, the kids, and all the holiday memories we would build together. Little did I know, what a fantasy I was creating. By appearances, you were all that I thought, I ever wanted. You were big and strong. You made me feel safe and gave me shelter. My entire family adored you. Then within a year you started to crack.


You were falling a part and you were no longer who I thought you were. You appeared one way to others, but deep inside I knew what you were becoming...a bad habit I was trying to maintain.

You cost me:
money,
time,  
sleepless nights,
and you even caused me to stay away from outings (I was so wrapped up in what I thought I had to take care of to keep all of your flaws hidden.)

Well NO MORE!
I'm over you!
No more sitting alone worrying about what you will do to stress me out.
No more thinking how am I going to clean you up in time for the holidays and make sure no one sees you falling a part.
No more feeling obligated to memories of what once was.

You really did it this time! Your last hurrah at 3 in the morning was the final straw. Imagine... up all night attempting to destroy all of my belongings, shutting doors that will no longer open, and even scaring the dog!

Good bye to the idea that I had to have you to keep up with others.
Good bye to the idea that I had to have you to feel successful.
Good bye to all the heartache and worrisome nights of how we were going to make it just so others would think I was somebody because of you.

Good bye, House. I'm breaking up with you.
LL

(The beginning of the end.)

                                          (Just think... these are the pictures I can show you.)

(Last thing left hanging in the house...he works in mysterious ways...for real.)

I love you like a fat italian kid loves basta...tiramisu...eggplant parmesean...lasagna

According to the dictionary, a family is defined as...  "any group of persons closely related by blood, as parents, children, uncles, aunts, and cousins." According to me, a family is defined as people supporting one another through good and bad; who can be honest with one another without fear of judgement from either side, and who sometimes have to put their needs or wants to the side for each other. This has been some blood relatives without a doubt, but on the flip side I am proud to call many people my family, because lets face it, sometimes the blood line disappears among the money, among the name brands, among the omission of truth, among the jealousy, and among the insecurities.  

My family ranges from some of the best friends I have ever had. Some have been around for 30+ years. Some have been around for 10+ years. Some have been around for just 5 years. All of these people have needed me and I have tried to my best to be there.  Most importantly when I needed them, they were there for me emotionally for sure and sometimes to make me "Snap Out Of It",when I needed them.

http://youtu.be/0x-fkSYDtUY

This is my way to say thank you, and I love you like a fat italian kid loves basta.