my trip to felicity::

Pondering habits.

2005-02-15T10:27:00.000-07:00

I'm completely a creature of habit.

I have horrible web hosting. They never respond to my concerns. They instead send my ambiguous emails, 'we're sorry the servers will be up soon.' Or they encourage me to call them. I do and they have an automated message that tells me they have 'a high volume' of calls and they ask I call back later and they cut me off. It's funny how I write "they"-when there is no they-it's all automated.

I'm finally ditching them. I'm not sure the money I paid them will ever see me again. I feel like I was used. I wonder if there is a support group for women who are abandoned by their web host. Any takers? Heh, maybe not.

Yesterday I shot myself in the foot. There's a lady in my class who asked for help & I opened my trap and offered it before I thought about what I'm about to do. She seems like a nice person, but I suspect she has a lingering idea that she will win the Pulitzer Prize. This is great, but I tend to stray away from people who've never done something before and intend to win the lottery in that area. So, I'll be editing her book. I'm hoping this teaches me something. Maybe I'll come away and I'll not be such an asshole in the future. Then again, 'leopards don't change their spots.'

I've also been trying to change some other habits. Spending has gotten me nowhere. I can't figure out why with several raises in the last year I still don't have a remarkable rainy day fund.

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The site may be down in a week or two-or before. I'm switching hosts and will have some darling people installing new software. This place may also get a facelift-so watch out!

More about love.

2005-02-12T21:03:00.000-07:00

"Love, like truth and beauty, is concrete. Love is not fundamentally a sweet feeling; not, at heart, a matter of sentiment, attachment, or being "drawn toward." Love is active, effective, a matter of making reciprocal and mutually beneficial relation with one's friends and enemies. Love creates righteousness, or justice, here on earth. To make love is to make justice. As advocates and activists for justice know, loving involves struggle, resistance, risk. People working today on behalf of women, blacks, lesbians and gay men, the aging, the poor in this country and elsewhere know that making justice is not a warm, fuzzy experience. I think also that sexual lovers and good friends know that the most compelling relationships demand hard work, patience, and a willingness to endure tensions and anxiety in creating mutually empowering bonds.

For this reason loving involves commitment. We are not automatic lovers of self, others, world, or God. Love does not just happen. We are not love machines, puppets on the strings of a deity called "love." Love is a choice -not simply, or necessarily, a rational choice, but rather a willingness to be present to others without pretense or guile. Love is a conversion to humanity - a willingness to participate with others in the healing of a broken world and broken lives. Love is the choice to experience life as a member of the human family, a partner in the dance of life, rather than as an alien in the world or as a deity above the world, aloof and apart from human flesh."

Passion for Justice by: Carter Heyward

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With the commercial holiday around the bend I dug this up. I'm not particularly a feminist not because I don't understand the issues but because I am not of the same clay. I think the line that speaks to me is:

"Love is a choice -not simply, or necessarily, a rational choice, but rather a willingness to be present to others without pretense or guile."

This one has taken me a long time to come to terms with. One night last week I spent recalling a relationship I was in a while ago. Though the man is gone from my life there are days when I recount all the things that transpired and think, 'boy am I ever glad I was not crazy enough to stay a moment longer'. I contributed to the madness, but it still makes my head spin to think about it.

This year I think I finally understand what it means to be present to others without pretense or guile. I think for the first time in my life I live with someone who knows my every little secret and has not once taken the opportunity to belittle me for anything.

Though I feel compelled to report every smell and outline every superb moment wrapped in his conversation; I'd rather keep it all to myself. I'd be silly not to admit that it has taken work. We did not fall into some magical love hole that erased every imperfection and made us untainted versions of ourselves. Instead we are learning each day how to be better partners. For me it's learning to listen when I feel like screaming. To lay the nagging down and pull out some down time. To stop pretending I am not my mother's child or that I am disciplined. Through it all I feel: We have grown into something beautiful. I can not imagine for one moment raising my cat with anyone else.

My dear Valentine, for you--I wish another year filled with moments of calm, additional maps and an endless supply of pizza.

(Now Super J-we need to talk about the beagle business. To beagle or not to beagle-that is the question.)

Like I said before.

2005-02-12T19:13:00.000-07:00

I have been promising pictures for some time now. I started several times but I couldn't find the enough momentum to look though all the cd's and find things I wanted to share. Finally I rounded up a few that I like:

This one is one of my favorites. It was taken by Sam Minkler. The girl is Sam's granddaughter. Her name is Carmen. I spent alot of time with her during the shoot. She told me all about the dentist. (I never got why kid's blow out their cheeks. I'm sure I did it when I was her age.)
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Photo taken by Ed Little Jr.
I think Ed is the photographer I would hire to photograph every important moment in my life if I had the money (& I could convince Julie). I think when I publish my 3 page book called, Bo the Great I will call him to come shoot me.
This photo looks much better big.

Another one by Ed. I cropped it because I liked the lack of expression in this one. (Notice the similarities in the two.) I think this is how I look at home when I'm sitting at my sewing machine or watching the tube.
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This one, man this one is one I still can't get over. I asked that he shoot me in a way that made me look 'womanly'. I got exactly what I asked for, but in my ignorance I wasn't ready for what I got; some of them were superb. The photographer is Ed Flores.

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This one is more recent. The sole gentlemen in the picture is Michael Horse. The image is a bit grainy for my taste-but hey at least I got one. I look surprisingly short in this shot. Lime green outfits can be purchased from Navajo Spirit.

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"The true way to render ourselves happy is to love our work and find in it our pleasure."
--Francoise de Motteville

rant & rave #42.

2005-02-08T09:57:00.000-07:00

I've been stalking Maroon 5. I've even gone as far as recording Late Night with Conan O'Brien. Right, it's those 15-year-old feelings all over again. Soon I'll have a poster with Adam Levine in his underwear draping over my closet door. If you saw the show you'd know that the boy can't dance, but that hasn't upset my syndrome over the band.

Speaking of premature love, I'm in love with my writing class. For once I'm in a class with no goal except to have a good time. There is no scholarship office looming over my head or prospect of homelessness if I don't do well. To my utter delight I spent time discussing my characters. My scene has characters! I thought, "who are these people" and "why have I not taken a class before?" Of course, I could be a bit premature and in two weeks I'll be ranting about some bad feedback. But...

This weekend was my last hoorah; my last modeling event. No matter how much I tried in the month leading up to the event I couldn't charge myself up. Moments before the event I finally felt excited. The event turned out well. The fashion show was on Saturday & much to my surprise I was not the fat model. Not that anyone was fat but I couldn't stomach a day in the presence of women who can't be bothered to eat food. Fortunately I didn't have to worry about that. They were all superb, well almost.

There was of course one jack ass in the bunch. I think it would be too much to ask that you get a bunch of pretty girls together and assume they'd all behave. To my credit I have enough tact not to post pictures of her or name her outright. But if she ever reads this let me just say, Retire Your Fucking Ass already. You make us look bad, no one wants to see another has been parading her tractor trailer onstage. Right. And the next time you want to bring your 'designer' friend over make sure she doesn't offend everyone by saying, "I don't think anyone will fit my clothes they are all size 2's." (At this point my size 8 nearly 6 foot body wanted to MOO like no other.) Size two my ass, if I need to use a safety pins to HOLD UP a not finished skirt--it's NOT a size 2. 2x maybe, but not size 2.

Regardless, I has a wonderful time. Nothing like pretending to be in someone else's skin to make the day fly by.

Even though I had a good time I found myself in another self critical mode. At one point a high school model was watching me put my make-up on. She seemed enthralled by the whole process. All I could think is, "I hope she isn't idealizing me-this is not something I want people to remember me by." Seriously, that's not the legacy I want to leave. I'd rather be remembered as being a good counselor and getting someone sober; thereby supporting my decision to leave this nonsense in the sand.

Sunday was not my cup of tea. Some kid grabbed me during the auction. It was disgusting. I expected at any moment to be grabbed, duck taped and shoved in a trunk. He instead settled for shadowing me and smiling like he was hurting and I was a nice rock he could smoke up. The kid was about 15 or 16 but that wouldn't have stopped me from taking out at least an eye with my heel. Further proof that I would attract a serial killer if I ever met one.

I think my new tagline should be: Dannabug.com home of the retired Navajo/Jemez model who officially attempted to offend yet another human being.

"And all I wanted was the simple things, a simple kind of life..."
-No Doubt.

update.

2005-02-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

I have a story to tell you. But not right now.

In other news, I saw a guy I used to know in high school. He doesn't look anything like I remember him. And his voice has normalized, it no longer booms. Which is too bad, because it was neat having a boomer in the class.

Also all my jams from school are now playing on the old station. Holy hell, I truly am old. Consider this-I went out dancing last night and again one of my jams was rocking in the old person room. Mind you I am morbidly against 40 something year old people grooving to my jams. More on that later.

The pretend gardener.

2005-02-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

Today I finally got around to planting my tulip bulbs. I bought them last October and was waiting a month or two to plant them. Somehow they got misplaced and forgotten.

I'm sure by now that it's too late; but I planted them anyway because they're only good for one season & I'm secretly an optimist. After planting them I moved another pot to make room. I noticed an earthworm came rolling out. I can't tell you how happy I was to see that worm. I ran inside and told Super J. "there's a worm!" He smiled his familiar smile and said, "cool baby..." I was quite proud.

I feel like I personally created my own little system where a worm happily lives.

And for a minute there I was sad because I don't have a plot of land here to plant & all my plants live in crowded little pots. (I blame the pots when they die-but I'm sure it's just me.)

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In two days I'm throwing a baby shower for one of my old co-workers, I should call her my friend, but that's a big title reserved for those who've seen me cry. I'm trying not to blow it out of proportion and spend more than I should because I'm doing it alone. It started with about 12 or 13 people talking about it and thinking about it. She's supposed to have the baby any day now, so I finally hammered down a date and place, now no one will help with the cake or decorations. I'm not sure why people do that. It always bothers me when people volunteer and bail out at the last moment or find random things to do when they've already commited to something. So far one person has given me three dollars. I stared at the three dollars and thought, "what the hell am I supposed to buy with three dollars?" But I kept my yap shut because I was happy she at least pitched in. Now if I could shake down the rest of the bunch...

Sheepishly

2005-02-01T09:52:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking to myself, boy it sure is quite in here that's awesome the cat is finally chilling out. Then I remembered the cat is OUTSIDE. And I bet she is playing with that homeless orange toddler cat that I can't catch. However, I did leave food out for it.

This is another one of those, "damn it I'm turning into my mom." Her house was the local stray hotel. I swear almost every time I go home there is a new dog, cat, duck, or bird. You'd think that by now she'd have enrolled herself in the local veterinary course.

I don't think I can remember a single season in my life living with my mom when she wasn't trying to rescue something. If one of our dumb dogs managed to catch a bird she'd shoo the dog off and bring the injured bird inside. So we'd have this little thing with a broken wing chirping around sitting in the window sill. This always minorly irked my dad. He couldn't believe that my mom had brought in another mouth to feed. He's always joke that he'd 'kick a field goal' with our cat. He never did it; but he liked getting a rise out of us. We'd all run to our pets and hug them and tell them their mean grandpa was lying and jealous.

What's ironic is we never did this for sheep. We weren't even allowed to name this because we knew we'd end up eating them. I found this cruel and unusual. But that's another story for another time.

Grown like a tree on crack.

2005-01-30T19:23:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to celebrate the fact that I've let go of my stupid ways. There are not pictures of me on the net scoping for modeling jobs. I was never really good at keeping my big mouth shut. More often than not I butted heads with people & had to walk away and tell myself repeatedly, "this isn't worth it you're too fucking smart for this crap anyway."

And you know what? I don't miss jack shit. I don't miss designers asking me to model for them and having them scuffing at me when I ask to be compensated for my time. I used to have a shit list two miles long of all the photographers, fellow models and designers who owe me photos and time; however I walked away with more than I left-so I'm golden.

Not that I regret it. I made some wonderful friends. I learned some profound things about myself. I will always be a tom boy. I will always love my people and I will always have something to say about injustice. However, there is no place for these things in Native Entertainment; nor is there any place in it for me.

And I feel good. I feel strong. I still have one more event to do. I agreed to do before I made my final decision to let it all go. I just hope I do a good job & don't enrage anyone with my ambivalence about it's importance (in my life).

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In other news, I'm supposed to be doing my homework for my class right now. Except I can't get started. I can't seem to find my center, the one that allows me the freedom to say what I want. I don't want to tell total strangers about my childhood. I know it sounds insane because I do it here all the time, but it's 2 degrees removed from me. There is a distinct difference between words spoken and words written. With spoken words you only get one chance to make them sound right. When you speak there are only a few moments between the silence after the words have left your mouth and the time someone responds; the terror lives in that two seconds.

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Recently I had a dream about this man I used to date. However date doesn't quite convey what happened between us. I feel compelled to report he was the first man that I ever contemplated foreverness with. The dreams was simple. We are talking. We are normal, we are friends, we lack the complication that we have in real life. Don't get me wrong; I don't miss him. I don't regret for one moment that I left his backward-cap wearing ass in the gravel. That night we both in a moment knew (for what was probably the 16th time) that we were not supposed to be together.

I think if I ever wrote a book about failure I would dedicate it to him. And that's the simple truth. We both knew in the span of two hours that whatever it was that pulled us together wasn't strong enough to hold two pennies together. And for once I didn't cry. For once I didn't think that I had failed, but in fact did the best thing I could have.

And the dreams? I'm not sure about them. We aren't friends; nor will we ever be. The way I feel can best be explained by something he once said to me, "just imagine when we get really old, I'll be at the store and I'll see your granddaughter across the room & just KNOW that she belongs to you..."
I am certain in 60 plus years if I saw his grandson, I too would KNOW that he belonged to him, & my heart would smile. Maybe the dream was a reminder of that.

The color blue.

2005-01-26T21:38:00.000-07:00

Today was a bit trying for me. When things go bad I tend to be rather cheeky with people. Cheeky in a bad way that is. The people closest to me notice it right away. I'm not very good at being blue. However, I think sometimes I forget how lucky I am.

Today I was a bit blue and I tried very hardly to hide it. Against my strict no moping at work policy I moped at work for a few moments. You see my two lunch pals are gone. My spirited Navajo woman, who called me her daughter (I am by clan), moved back home. I never got to say goodbye, but truthfully I don't believe in them. People in ndn country know you never really say goodbye because as soon as you turn another corner-there they are. I do however miss her candor about her boyfriend and her grandkids. There is no one buzzing my phone to say, "let's go get me some REAL coffee" and no one to tease me in Navajo.

My other lunch pal was canned yesterday. Neither of us really understands the real reason; and I spent most of the day hoping I didn't contribute to the decision to let her go. Initially, I didn?t get along with her very well. She has a tendency to haze new people & my hazing period seemed a bit long. Regardless, she over time became one of my allies. She stood up for me in times of heat and took all of my teasing about her Hopi-isms. Not to mention she loved to eat & I'm down with food. Give me a pregnant woman to eat with & I'm there-they don't waste a moment when it comes to getting food. Besides, she had worked in the area so long she knew everyone and she knew where to get the cheapest hottest wings. That kind of love can't be bought.

Today I was leaving for lunch alone and feeling like my pity party for one was a bit on the slim side. As I was leaving another co-worker came to me. I invited her to come with me. She shared some personal information. I've known her a long time, but have only worked with her for two weeks. She made me realize what I silly monk I've been. There I was moping about because I had no one to tease and no one to grab a sandwich with and here is someone who is supporting her family on my income. So, I took her out to lunch. Even though she insisted Quiznos was 'too expensive'.

So, I'm still a bit peeved that my truck was vandalized over the weekend; but I have a truck, a good job, stable relationships and I'm moving forward.
There isn't any reason be sad.

"If you have not often felt the joy of doing a kind act, you have neglected much, and most of all yourself."
-A. Neilen.

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Side note: I am however disappointed in this site: *Removed because I realized what a jerk I am to do it to her on the net.*
I used to read it often because I was inspired by the fact that she seemed to be living her dream; however I got my email today and found that she had sent email to her listserv asking people to donate money to help save her cat. I felt is was sad; but the last thing I need is someone tugging at my wallet-especially someone who claims to 'make it' on their own. Get a job lady. That's something I'll NEVER do-ask total strangers to make my life 'suitable'. I at least expect her to dance or sing for me. (Wicked aren't I? Lesson: Don't send Danna email asking for money or she'll publicly flog your ass.)

About potatoes.

2005-01-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

Today I went to my first class. It's been so long since I've gone to a class that I didn't quite know how to deal with myself. Ok, so it wasn't that bad. I was just worried I'd be the oldest person there. (Not even, actually.)

I was seriously late to class because my dumb ass either misread or misremembered the class start time. I breezed into class at 6:20pm and was completely dumbfounded that there were 18 or so people staring right at me with a "what do you want retard?" look. Of course my mouth probably gaped open. Fortunately a nice gal told me what class it was as I was stammering "is this…" By the way, class started at 6pm.

Right, bad move. My teacher was not at all happy. He ignored me for the better part of 15 minutes. However the class was interesting. For once I didn't want to talk. I just wanted to sit there and watch everybody. I wanted to hear all their stories. I wanted to watch the way they wrote their potato stories. I didn't want to write mine, I didn't want to share mine; I just wanted to confirm I was there.

I was not however impressed with the facility. I think I was spoiled at U of A because everywhere I go I find myself comparing libraries, bookstores & sidewalks. This is a ridiculous idea-but I find it difficult to stop.

This is my potato story that I didn't share because I was terrified and too busy listening for the words and pauses in other people's stories.

(We were given a potato and 15 minutes to compose a story about the tatter.)

I met Blythe at the Penguins on Campbell Avenue. Imagine my utter surprise when I saw a rugged potato slumped over a cup of fat free frozen yogurt. I ordered my yogurt and took the available chair next to him.

Blythe told me he came from a troubled home. A terrible home where he was terrorized by two small children. The garlic scented pantry he lived in for 6 days was hell.

Aunt Lily came over one Sunday afternoon to babysit the kids. "Aunt Lily is the family bingomaniac", Blythe told me. The children in their usual manner where playing and got into Lily's bingo bag. They stole away with her lucky blue haired troll Roger.

Roger eventually found his way to the doggie door and was wisked away in moments, never to be seen again. The children, fearing the wrath of Aunt Lily, threw Blythe in the bag to disguise the missing troll.

Imagine the horror as Aunt Lily discovered her precious Roger was missing and in his place a grimey spud. She instantly became rabid and dug her nails into Blythe's firm body.

"It isn't easy being in a home with small children", Blythe told me as he scarfed the last few spoonfuls of his strawberry yougurt. "Worse yet to be the victim of a bingomaniac." We both nodded. I scooted out my chair and we parted ways.

Note: I tried not to edit it. I think it's best to see it in it's raw form. I will however MAYBE later go back & fix it.

2005-01-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

Note: This post is to be read with the first 60 seconds of Thunderstruck (by AC/DC) playing loudly in the background.

I have this problem. In college a friend of mine would give blood on a quarterly basis. Although I admired her attempt to help another soul, I always wondered if she was completely honest with them when she disclosed her # of sexual partners. Although I am still traumatized by the men I'd find watching me put my make-up on the next morning; my real problem isn't with my promiscuous friend, but with needles. I don't actually KNOW if they actually ask how many partners you have had.

I have never once in my life given blood.

Which is why I imagine they ask things like:

Have you gotten a tattoo in the last few months? Do you have any major diseases? Do you boil your smack and shoot it up? Are you pregnant? (Do you cause major accidents by throwing boxes of nails on the I-10 and the guilt is riddling your capricious soul?) Have you ever received a transfusion?

With the world being as it is I often think that I should just take my finicky veins in and tell the blood bank, "tap that sucker yo." However when faced with the possibility of being poked more than once & possibly fainting in a room that smells like alcohol-I choose to ignore all obligation to help. What is the term for that?

my lizard.

2005-01-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to the grocery store. Although I try to ignore public places whilst in a mucus oozing state the cat ran out of food and I ran out of cold medication. I managed to canoodle Super J into accompanying me with pleas that he push my cart, in exchange for admiration, he went. (I did however end up pushing my own cart.) Ok, so it wasn't that graceful, it was more of a "sniff, sniff, please come with me." I felt lucky because he's sick too and neither of us wanted to be out.

When I was pushing my cart trying to secure each item on my list, I couldn't help but notice how healthy everyone looked. There was one gal in particular who was there in running shorts and what appeared to be a yoga top. The shorts were up to here, but boy was she glowing. My green eyed monster peeked to the surface and I wanted to cry but I was afraid that I'd go through another box of tissue and who needs that?

I felt miserable. I am not a good sick person. For example, today I went to work and felt I had to apologize my way through each sneeze and sniffle because I felt like I had a sign hanging overhead that said, "contaminated."

But it's more than the jealously. I want to feel vibrant. I want to feel like I've been doing more than exercising my noodle trying to figure out whether my latest case is really substance induced psychosis and not just flat insane. I want to run. The other day at a meeting someone asked if I had ran in the Rock and Jock marathon. I wanted to say, "yes as a matter of fact-I did." But I mumbled, "no." And felt I had to tell him why. I had to tell him that I took my little brother ice skating. I had to tell him that I was doing great, even though a five year old schooled me with his little swirly skating backwards ass. But I ate it. I totally ate it and I had to laugh at myself knowing that it was probably a bad idea that I was on ice but I did it anyway.

Since then I've been having back problems again. And much as I try to pretend it's all ok; there is something very wrong with being 25 and not being able to sleep through the night.

When did I join the injured sick class?

And even though I'm usually pretty good at being empathetic--I am tired of hearing my little voice inside say, "I wish?"

Though I am enjoying my 8 extra pounds, I am not enjoying watching everyone run past me. I'm trying to chalk it up to 'life's way of teaching me patience' but I'm completely not buying that idea. I never was good at interpreting; the superb news is I start my writing class on Monday.

rub a dub.

2005-01-20T15:55:00.000-07:00

Once I've completed rubbing the skin from my nose-I'll have plenty to write.

However I can't guarantee it'll be anything logical because my brain will be soaked with disgusting "orange" flavored medication. Yum, I wonder what idiot thought fake oranges would be an ideal flavor to have mimicked.

Sing it with me now...

2005-01-16T19:37:00.000-07:00

I just updated some portions of the site. There is now a pretty picture on the index. I also created a FAQ'S page and updated my about page. It took me a long time because I kept finding typos & I couldn't get it to format exactly to my liking.

I also just got nailed for putting, "not at this time" instead of "no" as my response to are you accepting romantic propositions. The truth is that I'm happily shacked up my my muffin dealer who keeps me tweaked out on carbs.

So there internet-the real truth, can you handle it?

Friday was an interesting day at work. One of my co-workers is a religious fanatic. In a bad way. She used to wear these, "Jesus saves" shirts to work all the time. She stopped right around the time she stopped wearing shirts with slits to her hip bone. Friday she brought in a hand held radio with an antenna big enough to poke my cat's eye out; even thought my cat was safely 8 plus miles away. She had some AM station blaring a sermon. I tried to blast out the sound with my Rio Carbon Player, but it didn't quite work considering I had to make sure I'd be able to hear my phone ring.

Later I hear her talking to her husband over the phone. I know it's her husband for two reasons: 1) she has him on speaker phone-again, 2) she is telling him he needs to 'adjust your fucking attitude' and read some passage from the bible. She explains to her husband what she's listening to. He attempts to discredit what she is saying. (She thinks some prophecy is going to come true or something doomsdayish that I can't discern because I'm still trying hardly to ignore her platinum behind.) She then shrieks, "well it must be true-everyone is talking about it." At that moment I considered reminding her that once everyone thought the world was flat.

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be

Like a pup.

2005-01-14T09:55:00.000-07:00

I was looking at a Native Website. I have been thinking about adding to my baseball cap collection & thought for once I'd patronize a non-college business. (Ok, a non- U of A one.)

Every time I read profiles online whether it's a blog, a business site, a model bio or a summary Native people almost always give way to many details.

I took several courses in college because one of my minors is American Indian Studies. The general consensus in the class was that it was a bad idea to continue to tell every we met our genealogical breakdown. Sure, we're a proud bunch of skins-but not telling someone my mom is 75% Navajo and 25% Jemez Pueblo doesn't make me any less what I am. I don't think because the government/tribe created a quantum requirement for my enrollment status that every time I meet someone (even if it is over a monitor) I need to reinforce that I'm real.

I mean the fact that I'm breathing and I know what's happening should be enough. I don't know that I understand the degrees of Nativeness completely because I take for granted that my identity is unique. Sure, every single one of us is-but what makes me different is not where I was born-but a combination of SEVERAL factors.

Because let me tell you something-I've been served up some humble pie in my life. I think some of the strongest changes for me personally occurred when I spent some time surrounded by Plains Natives. Their concept of Nativeness was so different from mine that initially I was overcome by confusion and too much pride.

(Let's face it I was traumatized by the fact that they 1) dance counterclockwise 2)serve up some mean thick little frybread 3)aren't terrified when the sunset looks "bloody")

In a moment, I ended up sleeping at the house of a Cherokee man and his wife. The whole time I had known the guy I laughed when he'd say he was Native because he looked whiter than a hillbilly from Arkansas. Believe me, he was the last person I ever wanted to take help from. However when I was at his home he told me (and my roomie-Hi Miss Robinson) a story about Cherokee creationism that involved a woman and dogs. Later I realized what an asshole I had been.

Did you know that aside from animals Natives are the only ones who use blood quantum to classify themselves? I think that was the compelling factor in getting my class to unanimously say, "that isn't right man." (I can't verify this-so you'll have to believe me.)

It's good to be proud of your family and your home...
I'll stop there; I have to do a treatment plan for a 100% human being.

hopping into the new year.

2005-01-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

"For a long time I was in love, not only in love-I was obsessed...All I wanted was the simple things-a simple kind of life & all I needed was a simple man-so I could be a wife. I'm so ashamed-I've been so mean..."-Simple Kind of Life
By: No Doubt

Today my first issue of National Geographic came in the mail.

I wanted to pounce on it and devour it's contents, but I didn't want to spoil the glory in it. See, NG was the magazine I wanted when I was a kid. In the rare event my father & I were in some waiting room we'd always scout for the magazine. Once in a while my dad would bring me used magazines that he'd picked up on his way home from spot jobs. We'd also rummage around the fleamarket in hopes of finding a few I could look over.

I lived in a room with a bed and a closet. I don't think I ever owned a lamp. I'm sure that was the best thing because if I did have a lamp I imagine I'd have stayed up half the night reading.

Whenever I got the magazines I'd be in a rush to get home so I could run to my room, close the door, fill my cup with kool-aid and read. This continued until one of my parents came into my room, kissed me and tucked me in.

I don't remember when the tucking in stopped.

The tucking in was an indication that we were trying. That we were trying to be sober, that we were trying to be employed, that we were trying to figure out how we got where we were. Children are on board for whatever is happening with their parents & I tried too.

Tonite I put my magazine down on the kitchen table because I needed several long moments to reflect. I'm in my bed with my fat grey critter. The love of my life is singing along to Grease. (Who by the way proof-read my hate mail to my gynecologist-further proof there is no one else on the planet I should be shacked up with.) Once again I'm reminded that I've always gotten more than I think I've given.

All I know is that I'm eternally grateful that in times of peace my parents never forgot to be parents. I'm also superbly thankful to hear Super J's cheeky voice coming down the hall.

Everyone needs to be tucked in; I need to go practice with the furball.

another theory of mine

2005-01-11T18:35:00.000-07:00

The other day I went shopping with a friend of mine. This friend is 200 times more elegant than I. I would be a turnip to not admit this outright.

At some point the conversation drifted to high school. We were talking about dresses and talk of dresses spawned talks about prom and other social activities where teenage hormones swoon like bugs to a mint bush.

I told her about one of my theories.
In high school I never brought boys home. At least not in the "meet my parents" sort of way. If there were any boys at my house rest assured they were there to pick something up, drop something off or ask for advice about my friends-whom they typically were dating. Boys did not come to my house in hopes to fondle me. (Ok, so there were a few-but they left real quick when a male member of my family came running out.)

My mother & I were never really on cue when it came to mother daughter talks. I watch a lot of Lifetime & I see the drama unfold before me as a woman takes a 17 year old lover who happens to be her best friends' son. This isn't the part that shocks me, what shocks me is when the mom sits down with the daughter and they have candid conversations about sexuality, about growth and other 'how to be a female' talks.

I missed out on many of those talks. My mom took a job in the east coast when I was in junior high and returned two years later to find I was 'grown'. My grandmother was there for all of that. She was very candid and modern. Her approach to such things was a cross between mysticism and counseling technique. When I got my 'grandma' as we call it my real grandma said, "do you want a Kinaldaa? what do you know about pads and tampons-do you have preference?" (Bite me-it's been at least a couple of years since I've written Navajo for anyone.)

Later she sat me down and told me the things that I needed to cease immediately.
These things included playing tackle football with my brothers and the neighbors. I needed to wear hose with my dresses (if I ever wore one that is) and other such mannerisms.

However there was never talks about how I would interact with boys. There were no, "you'll have these feelings…" talks. I don't necessarily think that I was at a disadvantage-but my personality is a research one. I like to have all available information laid out on the table before deciding. I think it would have benefited me to know that I was not crazy.

My theory is that my mother was terrified I was gay. At first my mom used to brag about how I didn't "bring boys home" and how I wasn't "boy crazy". In a few short months however my mom tried to put make-up on me. She tried to curl my unruly hair. At the time I was horrified at the concept of make-up. My father was there to insist that I not be tainted by eye shadow and mascara. At the time I thought I was being saved.

A year or two later I regretted not taking her up on the offer to chickify me.

My discovery of make-up was a silly half assed one. The approach was this-whenever we had away games or trips with school and sports my best friend and I would attack the sample section of the make-up aisles. I was practically clueless. My friend had more insight into the intricacies of hair curling and foundation application. I'm sure there was more than one occasion where I wore the wrong color and instead of complimenting me it made me look like I was ready to audition for the traveling circus.

Well, on this shopping trip the other day I shared my theory with my friend.

There are truckloads of things to add to my list being a late bloomer and all, but I'll spare you-for now.

I think my problem with my mom started when she noticed all the other girls had sheep corrals promised to their parents & me-well I was still trying to figure out how the hell to tell boys I liked them without outright confessing and asking them to leave me the hell alone. So my mom started dropping hints like a Doberman salivating over a steak taco. The drool was all too apparent to me & it drove me to the brink of insanity.

The final straw was going to school with my little brother & having him tell me I needed to "hurry up and date someone" before I "got desperate". My brother theorized that if I didn't go out with someone I would end up dating some loser from the street where my mom lived. The fact that I was being lectured by my little brother, the school gigolo, made me want to lie beneath a school bus and hope it crushed every major organ in a matter of seconds.

Side note: Never mind that 'dating' didn't actually exist where grew up-I was just supposed to do it.

I wasn't terribly terrified that my mom thought I was gay; I was however concerned that she really didn't know anything about me. I don't think I should have cared much considering I lived with my grandmother and did in fact pass letters to boys in school & felt thump-thumpiness for some of them--but there was that lingering fear that there was something 'wrong' with me.

In small communities different is almost often bad regardless of it's existence. I don't have an issue with the sexual preference of other people, but I do have a problem with labeling.

Later when I did finally pick a boy to kiss and hold hands with in the dark my mom was upset because I didn't strut him around. It didn't help that I showed up at my graduation rehearsal with hickies and didn't produce a boyfriend. But, I've always been of the opinion of better safe than sorry & I didn't foresee the 'relationship' lasting much longer than another few months. It in fact didn't due in part to my paranoia. I suppose no boy wants to stick around a girl who does not take him to her prom or invite him to her graduation. Although he did come around again a year later with the same fawn eyes & gentle manner.

It's funny to think that in a couple of years it'll have been 10 years since I left that town. What's notable is that my mom now bugs me about my inability to pull a screaming troll from my womb. She's not worried that I'm gay anymore but instead she's offended that I'm 'selfish' and don't want something crying after me.

Today someone told me about his mother and how he could never please her. I had to laugh because I completely understand him.

However if I were a mom I think I'd be paranoid too.

The grass is...

2005-01-09T21:09:00.000-07:00

Whenever things get tough I find the need to remind myself that I've always been ok. That no matter what is or has happened-I'm fine.(Or at least I WILL be)

Even having insight into things doesn't make them easier or less painful. That's the part that I have trouble with; the pain.

My first instinct is to run. To protect myself. Then I have to remind myself that in some cases-that didn't work.

I find myself wanting to elaborate, but know that some things don't need to be shared because sharing doesn't make them hurt any less. In fact sometimes it serves almost as a reminder that thing's aren't going the way I want them to. Then again I could say this is another one of those, "damn it-I'm not in charge" moments.

Were I a drinker I'd ask you pour me one and pull up a chair. Instead, I've decided I could be a nap person.

bullets

2005-01-07T18:29:00.000-07:00

If you've sent me email in the last 2.5 weeks & I have not responded-it's probably because I didn't get it. My email has been on the fritz since I dropped fat cow and picked up 1and1 as my hosting provider. In this case, cheaper is most certainly not better.

I am looking to hire someone to design a template for this site. If you can do it-shoot me a line at dannabug@gmail.com (Ditto for any other email right now.) There is money involved so let your friends know if you think they'd be interested.

I just realized what I bad cousin I am. I have a cousin in Iraq that I haven't written to. Then again I didn't have his address. It's sad but he was in the Navajo Times and my dad finally gave me a copy and said, "write to him". So, tonite I am. I think out of all my cousins he's one of the ones I miss the most. When I was in high school he would go haul wood and bring it my grandma's house for us. He's very much Navajo in a good way. I hope he's ok and he doesn't get any more crazy tattoos.

In a conversation with friends over dinner:
"S you're Calvin Klein, Danna you are totally Marc Jacobs and I'm Robert Cavalli..."
Hearing this sentence marked my first exposure to designers as adjectives. Since I'm Marc Jacobish I think this site needs more bling to coincide with the 2005 line. Keep that in mind if you decide you can design me a template.

Thinking Problem

2005-01-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

I haven't had time to write lately. This is both good and bad. This officially qualifies as another one of those nifty two-coined things. I've been promoted. Usually when something happens I tell everyone I know. Reason one, to confirm that I am in fact not crazy and alive, two to spread the love. This time I told the man I live with and emailed a dear friend. Together the three of us have been reveling in the fact that I am no longer a grunt. However, I've been scarce on time. The positive aspect of this coin is that I've moved up my pink ladder fairly quickly. The last year has been a series of not this again moments and now I find that I am in a position to ignore those moments because they no longer apply to me.

The other side of the coin is that I wanted to go to school to get there. The fact that I'm the only Clinician in my clinic without a Master's degree is still compelling, but there is that sneaky part of me that says, 'why go back to school right now-you can wait a little bit longer' That part makes it hard for me to sit down and do my statement of purpose that I need to complete my applications. Regardless, I'll apply again this year and see what happens. If I get in, I'll go. If I get the big brown door closed before I've had the chance to peak in a see the yellow chickens-I haven't lost anything. (However I couldn't go out and buy a nice house on my income-so that's reason enough to go back.)

In other news I am unofficially retiring from my modeling thing. I don't know what else to call it but a thing. I didn't really make any money; then again I never really tried very hard to. I find all the reasons I did it before no longer apply. I have no solid compelling reasons to strut my self around. Don't get me wrong I'm still a gal who likes to play dress up-but that's what parties are for right? I will at some point post all of my favorite pictures in a last hurrah and mail thank you cards to all the wonderful photographers I've been fortunate enough to meet and work with. But lets face it, it's going to be damn wonderful to go somewhere and not have someone ask if I'd reconsider my position on nude modeling.

I was talking to someone about this the other night. I told him that when I first began modeling one irrational reason was having people think I was pretty. In my family I'm definitely NOT the pretty one. My brother wows the socks off of people within two minutes; I on the other hand have always been, "the smart one." I could psychologize all my reasons for doing it, but now when I look at it-there isn't a place for it in my life. Why keep something around that you've never wanted enough to struggle for? The ironic thing is that everyone who loves me thinks I'm beautiful and that is more than I've ever acknowledged.

"Sex appeal is fifty percent what you've got and fifty percent what people think you've got."--Sophia Loren

I never met her, but I'm sure we'd have gotten along.

2005-01-01T22:51:00.000-07:00

With all the attention regarding the Tsunami disaster I was reminded of an aunt I had. I don't know if I can really call her my aunt, because I never met her.

My grandmother gave birth to five children. Two lived to be adults, my mother and my uncle who is no longer living.

There is a story about one of the children. A story of purity that my grandmother tells, against taboo I might add. (Then again my grandma is more Christian than anything and they don't forbid the recalling of life as others do in the area she resides.) And let's face it-I'm not exactly superstitious either. You have to believe something has power in order to violate it. I respect the concept, but it's not something that has a place in my life. But this story isn't about me-so let's move on shall we?

My gran recalls a story of this aunt. There were natural disasters in flux. The aunt, after watching the news on tv and seeing people suffering in the wake of a mudslide, sat in front of the tv and began to pray aloud for the survivors. She prayed for safety. She prayed for relief, she prayed for comfort.

My grandmother recalls this act with such nobility.

That my aunt, as a 6, 7 or 8 year old had such compassion befuddles me. I've seen pictures of her. She looks like a miniature of my mother. The same brown eyes. The same facial structure. The same quaint curiosity.

Every time I see something on the news lately I think of this aunt.

I think this is oral tradition in motion. This aunt lives in my memory & I've never even met her.

Internet-I'm back!

2004-12-31T13:16:00.001-07:00

While I was hoping that I'd start the new year off with a complete redesign I've come to the conclusion that a woman can only do so many things at once.

Yesterday when I left work I started thinking about all the events that have transpired in my life this year. Some momentous, others heartbreaking and yet others-simple but necessary.

A big one for me was my transition from 'graduated college person' to 'old chick'. You realize that you've joined a new class of people when your idea of a Saturday night is a good book, hot tea, nice dinner and pleasant company whilst bare faced.

I've spent many of my evenings this year reading, cooking, creating, laughing, writing horrid emails to friends in which I discuss every insecurity in detail & eating. (Ok, there has considerable time spent asleep after 10pm on the couch because I refuse to admit that I can't hang anymore.)

In summation-this has probably been the biggest growing year of my life.

I learned that friendship challenges the way I interact with people and that real life has provided me with all the companionship any woman could ask for.

I love the internet and I love my internet friends, but I've come to realize that real people are my people. The people who compose my christmas card list are the people I learn from. They are the people who inspire me on a daily basis. They are the people who pick me up when I'm dizzy from another migraine. They are the people who leave messages on my voicemail with silly jokes or songs. They are the people who I send my you aren't going to believe this shit emails to.

My only wish for the new year is that 2005 is as complelling for me and the people I love as 2004.

It will also be the year where I get married.
The same year I will use my grant money to take a class.
The one where I will learn to sew with my new sewing machine.
And the same year where I'll seep all the benefits from my new promotion.

May this next year be a superb one for you & yours.

"Happiness depends on ourselves"
--Aristotle.

2004-12-28T19:05:00.000-07:00

test.

Another day spent on the couch hoping those donuts won't go to my thighs.

2004-12-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

Ok, so all morning I've been waiting for the maintenance people to hurry their asses over to my joint & fix a broken shower. The shower shoots incredibly hot water out. How visitors in the past have been able to stand it is beyond me.

But you get an 11 year old in there and he's like, "your shower is broken." This kid, he doesn't waste time trying to pretend it works when it doesn't.

They told us they'd come between 9am and 12pm. All morning we've sat around, adventures on hold-to get the damn shower fixed. Two of them show up at 11:54am. Right-6 whole minutes to spare.

And they come to me and say, "we're done." I asked what they did, they said they flipped the water heater it off then back on. I ask what that will do to fix the shower. Turns out they thought the sink was producing too much cold water. Right, obviously some sort of miscommunication.

Why it would take two men to flip the water heater off and on is beyond me.

Men still manage to stupify me on a daily basis.

fatso.

2004-12-21T10:56:00.000-07:00

Women who have shy little brothers visiting cannot be bothered with updating their blogs. Ok, so that’s only part of it. The other part is that lately I’ve been seeing the light in regards to naps.

I’ve always hated the term hacking up a lung; I felt it overused and too simple to convey the sheer pain and irritation it describes. But people, I’ve been hacking up lungs. Also, there is this icky mucus thing happening, sexy I know.

Currently I am abusing work time. Why I scheduled myself to work only one day this week is beyond me. Sometimes I amaze myself with all the insight I possess. Fortunately HBO will be babysitting my little brother. Thank god for TV, otherwise we’d all have to be rational adults and hire babysitters to teach kids unimportant things-like how to read. Don’t worry-he knows how to open a bag of Doritos--so he will not go hungry at my house.

The trip home was divine. The roads were clear. There was napping on the passenger seat in the middle of the night. Donuts aplenty. And my family, well they are themselves, which is the best that can be said at this time. My nephew finally is outgrowing his fear of strangers. I look forward to not being that strange woman who brings gifts. He’s quite the charmer and every word he babbles further ensures I will one get one like him for my very own. (Like children are trees you find on the side of the road. Heh.)

I think before I get caught and executed I better go back to hiding in my cubicle pretending I’m not embarrassed by the cold sore I’ve been attacked by; in addition to the morning and night hacking-snot-machine I’ve become.

All the world loves a sick person, even more they love an overachieving one that refuses to call in-again.

“Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.”
--JOHN LENNON

nite lights.

2004-12-17T22:44:00.000-07:00

"happiness on earth ain't just for high achievers..."--Red Dirt Road by Brooks & Dunn.

Children, it's been a busy few days. I've been a mad shopper trying to find something for everyone on my list. And well, I still have a few more. I finally got round 3 of the Saunders x-mas card list labeled-they just need a mail box.

Today was pretty funny in retrospect. I did an assessment over the phone. Picture this-me in my cubicle with my froggy stuffy voice asking someone:
"do you hear voices?"
"how old were you when you started using stimulants?"
"Have you ever publicly exposed yourself?"

I was miserable & I know the person on the receiving end was as well. But we got through it and I sat there thinking, 'jello and theraflu so did not prepare me for that one'.

Thankfully we had a nice meal for dinner & Super J let me ramble on and on.

Unrelated:
I miss watching things like Creepshow and Tales from the Crypt.

My mom was big on scary flicks. When we were kids she'd rent us videos and we'd all gather around with our blankets tucked around our ears trying not to scream. Of course we had to resist being the first one to jump when something popped up or someone made a creepy noise.

I remember once around Christmas time we didn't have much going on. No promises of electronics or new clothes. Just two weeks of sandwiches, oatmeal cookies and potatoes with fresh bread and canned meat.

We got this old black and white tv. It had this funky white case. It was pretty big compared to the one we had before that. I think someone took off with our vcr, so she borrowed one from someone she knew for the week.

We spent a couple of days camped out in the living room where we had put our mattress-watching horror flicks, eating popcorn, and dozing off.

My mom had an old school corn popper. She'd oil it up and get that puppy rolling. We'd wake up with kernels in our hair laughing about the brother who started whimpering first. In those times I'd always wish we had a nite light in the hall-so that when we had to go pee we wouldn't be attacked in the dark by a little brother with visions of power.

Regardless of everything I've ever said to hurt my mom or tarnish the world's view of her-I think today I am most grateful for her.
She taught me to stop and to live the moment.
She taught me to make cookies.
She taught me about fear and anger, but more importantly she taught me commitment to family. Because even though she did leave once-she came back. She came back to us. And she never left.

Tomorrow I will go see her. I will track mud all over her tile. Eat her bread. Listen to her tales of "do you remember" and I will try not to be a jackass when she asks when I'm going to visit for more than 10 hours. Because I have her lips & you can't stare at something you are without it changing who you are.

Move your dishes.

2004-12-15T16:42:00.000-07:00

Today I stayed home. Though I wasn't as doped up today & the sneezing has abated, I did sleep. Alot. A whole damn lot.

All it took to get me rolling was an hour of Animal Planet, 1.5 episodes of ER, sleep, half a thingy of Sprite, more sleep and a a funky recipe for Salmon.

No ordinary recipe, but one you can make in the dishwasher.
I'm not kidding. I don't know if it's someone's idea of a good joke, or if someone really does cook salmon filets in the dishwasher. However, even in my 12 minute food craze, there is no way you'll get me to try it-regardless of how much theraflu I've taken in the last two days.

lists.

2004-12-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

What to do when your boss is at management meeting:

Make tea. Watch it cook. Add honey. Slurp.

Devise plan of attack for work sitting on your desk

Send trash talking email to co-worker in which you refer to his alma matter as "pansy sissy babies". (Email spawned by 2005 desk calendar where he wrote, 'hail maroon & gold' on plastic covering)

Read Dooce.com

Beg maintanence person for personal heater. Threaten to 'get sick' if you don't get one.

Plot out how long it will take for you to lose your pooch if you continue to not eat because your nose is running faster than Marion Jones on crack & everything tastes stale.

State at monitor for 22 minutes waiting for screen saver to come on. (aka reason #24 re: why I hate taking medication)

List inspired by: Theraflu for breakfast.

Talking Shit.

2004-12-13T10:30:00.000-07:00

Goal #17: Piss off cubicle neighbor #2.
Effectively accomplished. Today I started with a country station on my horrid alarm clock radio. Feeling guilty I switched to the station playing, “all Christmas 24/7”. (minus the commercials for sears and all other stores that target stay at home moms)

Now, the co-worker is playing his own music. Something ‘dance rock’. Which translates into old ass music that my parents wouldn’t be caught listening to because the men all look like Fabio and couldn’t get a spot on American Idol if their life depended on it.

Excuse me while I sing along with my reindeer song and try to drown out the elevator music next to me. Ok, now’s he’s whistling along to one horse open sleigh (that is playing from my clock).

So-someone tell me he isn’t playing Kenny G to tick me off.

On second thought, the music is better than hearing him breathe through his nose all morning & it just might be loud enough to drown out his retard use of the speakerphone.

Gotta love cubicles.

douglas fir

2004-12-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

I bought a tree.
A real christmas tree. I haven't had a real tree since I left home about 7.5 years ago. I've had those 2 foot fake ones all this time and somehow it never really felt like a holiday when they were all lit up. Last night, it was hard to deny what month it was, even though it was about 70 something degrees yesterday & being the wimp I am I almost turned on my a/c in my truck. (The cat calls were bothering me when I had the windows down. Stupid unemployed bastards.)

The cat loves the tree. The ornaments she loves even more. I've taken to hitting her on the head with a roll of wrapping paper when she gets one in her clutches.

I haven't finished my x-mas shopping. I wanted to be done with it yesterday, but I just had too many people. Even though I said I wasn't buying gifts for my loser addict brothers, I did. I just felt like a fat jerk in the store & I thought, I might be the only person who buys them a gift this year. And well, I've always gotten back more in my life than I've given-regardless of my attempts to convince you otherwise.

Besides I'm the oldest, I have to set some kind of example to my little brother.
I got him some cool gifts. I can't wait to go get him.

I have to turn the lights on the tree on and stare at it for a few more hours.

family picnic.

2004-12-09T13:14:00.000-07:00

I keep trying to grow things.

Super J's sister gave me a self-watering African violet that isn't doing so well.

I used to be good at it. I didn?t try then, the critical difference between then and now. I left them alone, the plants, and they grew. They grew practically rabid.
I have pictures of one sitting next to an Elmo doll that a friend of mine had. She called it her baby, "Elmo". She didn't rename it which I found funny. Like taking a Barbie from a box and calling her Barbie. I never was good at leaving things be. My spell checker just switched barbie to Barbie-so what the hell do I know about growing and naming things.

But here it is. I want children.
Loads and loads of them. Except for that whole patience thing I think I'd be pretty good at it. Except I fear being a nit picky mom. A "let me lick your face for the third time in an hour" mom.

Yesterday my parents called. I think the trick is to send them money. My dad's voice was raspy. They went to a basketball game & he of course was yelling. I never had that much dedication to my old high school. Then again, people don't remember me for my hook shot & 50 year old cheerleaders don't walk up to me and giggle because they remember what I look like in my green and orange shooting shorts.

His voice trailed at one point, I knew he wanted to ask for something. He's never been good at it. He's so predictable. He becomes shy and his voice softens in a way that I've never gotten used to. Like he's afraid and he doesn't know what he should do. "Are there any jobs there you think? Maybe around there somewhere?" Before I could say anything, with no pause he says, "it's better if I stay here with your mom. What if the car breaks down? It's too cold and she's been getting sick a lot." I didn't say anything.

I never know what to say.

Having my father around wouldn't be so bad. But I know after 2 days of looking he'd call one of his cousins (who never come visit unless he's around and there is beer to be drunk & black eyes to acquire) and I'd spend a week looking for him & being scolded by my mother for 'letting him run off'.

Later my mom is back on the line. One of two of my distant, distant girl cousins wants to come visit me. This means of course that I would have to pick her up too when I go home to get my brother. "Your other brother's don't want to come they said it's too boring and all you do is work". I try to hide the pain in my voice.

1. I did not invite any of my other brothers
2. The last time they were all here they stayed for nearly three weeks-how the hell was I supposed to pay for the food, movies and gas?
3. No tact. No damn tact.

So I laugh and I say, "well I don't know if she'd like it here-it's pretty boring and I work too much." A cheap shot, I know. My mom tells me my cousin could babysit my brother. This is after I tell her I am taking 4 days off-without pay to spend with my brother. Finally seeing no way out, I tell my mom I'll think about it.

But I have a feeling she's already committed me to it. And I know that she'll want me to drive her to my aunt's house where I can listen to another rendition of my aunt referring to herself in the third person and telling me how poor she is.

Later I will go open my aunt's fridge to find three cases of Coors, a jar of mayo, mustard and a jug of water-just the basics. Then every cousin I have will crawl out of the cracks and ask to borrow money. I will stand there awkward and ashamed because I feel used.
And I'll lose 5, 10 or 40 dollars to make my escape and vow to never to visit while they are all home.

And when I feel my ovaries knocking I think about these things. Holy shit batman my aunt wasn't ready to have kids. The woman sleeps with an open Coors can near the base of her bed. My mom wanted kids, she stayed home with me at least until I went to school. I see pieces of myself sitting there with them at that table. The crazy women in my family.

And I imagine my kids will say, "shit mom-what the hell were you thinking taking me to visit?"

Family-the ultimate form of birthcontrol.

a special note.

2004-12-08T18:12:00.000-07:00

Today someone I love more than books had to have surgery.
He's doing well, don't fret. But I felt like a basketcase all morning. I was stressed out about not getting his pain medication to him before he dozed off; in my head I could hear a voice saying, "bad woman-what's taking you so long-can't you drive faster?"

And it made me realize how many times he's been in this mode for me.
How many times he's taken me to the hospital, or nursed me back to my normal state.

And damn, it takes some skill. Because after driving him home & a trip to the store, I was wiped out. I fell asleep on the bed curled up next to him, a la Bo.
I woke up and I wanted to jump on him and hug him real hard. But I didn't want to disturb him. Instead I found a blueberry muffin to keep me company.

So thank you my dear mate for all the times you've carted me to & fro, all the times you've cooked me soup only to hear me whimper.
Get well soon. (I'll be here to tell you what to do. Heh.)

Tell me who admires and loves you, And I will tell you who you are.
--Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve

Unpopular

2004-12-07T18:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday one of my co-workers had her purse stolen.
Sometime during our afternoon meeting, in which my boss once again managed to depress the animation out of the whole department, someone walked off with her purse. We share an office. There are four of us total in our office.

At some point I left my cubicle and came back to her snooping around. I stood there watching her duck around, but at that point I didn't know what was happening. I didn't know she lost her purse until a full fledged search was on involving almost everyone in the office-except me.

When I realized that she was looking in MY cubicle for HER damn purse, I lost all interest in helping her.

This morning when I went to work I wanted to tell her, "you don't have anything I would EVER want." But it didn't seem like it was worth it;so I let it be and when she told me her theory about who she thinks took it I recommended she talk with HR about letting us close our doors when we aren't in our offices. (We currently can not because it "sends a message that we don't want clients coming in")

Things like this at work remind me of bad days in high school.

What bothers me right now is that she even thought I would take her purse.

I should ask her what Yeshua would do. Especially since that's what her license plate says.

Then again this is woman who will periodically eat carrots as she "detoxes" her body. (This is while she smokes cigarettes every half hour...)

So maybe there is no logic involved.

sunday morning

2004-12-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

"I never believed in Santa Claus because I knew no white man would be coming into my neighborhood after dark." --Dick Gregory

(quote inspired by the Salvation Army bell ringers)

I've been feeling bi-polar lately, so the posts have been sparse and clear.

I used to wonder if I had a mental illness because of my crazy preoccupation with my family & their well being. I've come to terms with my need for a family & lack of a solid and responsible one.

What I have not come to terms with are the feelings of loneliness.

This begs the question? How can you miss something you've never really had?
Or is it based on envy & stereotypes?

And I've been thinking about this whole Christmas thing. I think it's gotten away from it's whole purpose.

I've been thinking about boycotting the whole gift purchasing & asking everyone I know to make me something. Even if it ends up being a post-it note that says: I'm happy that I know you cuz-you're silly.

Because I don't want someone throwing a gift at me and saying something stupid like, "you don't have to get me anything back.." with a tone like they felt obligated to buy me something.

I am hoping that this year none of my gifts scream, "I am a last minute gift & I know nothing about you."

No one should feel obligated to buy anyone anything. Especially if you don't even know them.

This year my goal is to only buy things for people I truly want to give a gift to. And I'm not expecting anything. No expectations-because that's where I've gotten in a tizzy in the past.

Why lie about it? I've been caught up in the consumerism of it all. Last year I got some pretty odd gifts. I told someone I wanted candles & I ended up with all these candles. I liked em, but there was nothing original about the gifts. Then I felt like a retard for saying anything at all because I got exactly what I asked for.

A Guide to Buying Gifts for Danna:

Teas are appropriate. Even cups. Tea is her pal.

No more stuffed animals. Regardless of cuteness-she will only stuff them in her closet where there will die a painful slow stuffed animal death-never to be admired for their charm.

There are some things that are failsafe: purses, animals (real), make-up, food,jewelry, technology, books & coupons for time with people.

Anything home made.

sock war.

2004-12-01T19:12:00.000-07:00

I was just told, "you have the most undisciplined attitude when it comes to laundry."**

Quick, call my mom!
I've again failed as a woman.

**It's a poor joke; but I laughed so hard at hearing this. Obviously my approach to laundry is lacking. It typically goes: sort, start washer-add soap, add clothes, dry, fold.

Today I did my duty at work. And well, I've gained a deeper appreciation for the Board. Maybe they all aren't sitting around twiddling their thumbs...

I also learned what a pony keg is. Proud of me aren't you? (No, I've never done a keg stand-I was merely a spectator.)

ac/dc

2004-11-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

Dear itunes music store,
As a former wanna-be basketball player from the Navajo Nation, I would just like to say-you fricken suck.
Why the hell don't you have thunderstruck? It's only the most abused song by Navajo Basketball Players of the last decade. I mean come on--what the hell else are we supposed to run out to in our 3 minute intimidation session?
John Mayer just will not cut it.
Think about it: Would Tuba City have the same amount of oompf if they had to dim their lights and come out to Jessica Simpson. I didn't think so.
Come on now--you've got anna nalick for the free download of the week-do you really think we need anna nalick? Who the hell is she anyways?
Get some damn ac/dc and stop making me look everywhere for music.
Perturbed,
Danna.

Dear Inventor of the bubble bath.
Good call! (or accident.)
A Devoted Follower.

Dear Mom.
Don't do it. If there ever was suck a thing as a spiritual mail box-I've just filled yours with the biggest most pompous hug ever. Steadfast mom, steadfast. We didn't get these ovaries in the lottery-we've stuck it through more than this.
Love your overly-emotional daughter.

Dear Baby.
Stick it out kid. In only 17 more years you can divorce your dad and attend the University of Arizona so your aunt can sport a "my nephew and my money go to The University of Arizona" bumpersticker on her truck. And it will be totally ok for you to major in something silly like Geology. Ok, so you'd have to pick something with some stamina; but I'll take what I can get.
Love your pain-in-the-ass aunt.

Dear Work,
If I don't spend as much time there-don't be surprised. If I leave the ofice for lunch instead of shoveling food in my trap hovering over my cubicle in between appointments; get used to it. Also if someone in particular could stop talking about his girlfriend who is 5 states away. Marry the woman already; don't be talking incessently about the paisley $100 promise ring & referring to--"the one". Holy shit, get a spine your 27 years old-grow up. Also if another co-worker could stop talking about how having her 2 kids and getting married was "not doable again if I had to redo it" then I can live peacfully in my cubicle. Come on people, live-don't spend so much time talking about what could have or could be. Do it. Also, I'd appreciate a reduction in the use of the SPEAKERPHONE. I mean come on-do I really need to hear every detail of EVERY drone ass conversation you have?
Signed atachfully, the office eye roller. (yes, I made that word up.)

Dear Littlest brother.
Work on that math kid. You don't want to end up like your big sister kicking herself for spending so much time reading books & not enough time memorizing the angles of triangles. But hey, you got it in you. Don't forget--if you can roller blade backwards up a hill-math is no sweat.
Your obsessed sister.

Dear Cuddleface,
Remember what we talked about today? I think we should do it. I'll buy the Malibu.
Me.

Dear Gran,
I know you can't write because your hands are bad; but I miss your notes. I miss your bread. I miss your stories. Ok, ok--I miss you.
Love your Near-the-Mountain Girl. (I won't forget.)

Dear Dad,
You're too old for this shit-period. You'll never get to see that stinkin' Farve boy play if you don't start 12 steppin' it real soon.

Dear Nissan,
You whores better fix my truck.
Danna.

Dear Fat Karate,
Kid, you are one of the few female cousins I have. For some reason today after my run I thought about you & your smudgy eyeliner. I hope you get your ducks lined up and stop kissing your fellow Gallup High Latinos. Show some gumption kid; I know you got it in you. I know you miss your Grandpa-I do too; but for once it's ok to break taboo. I hope you find it before something finds you.
Your too-distant cousin.

Dear Train,
I love Drops of Jupiter. Thank you.
your fan, Danna.

Dear Bo,
Stop scratching. You know your grandma needs a grey cat... That's all for now.
Your mom.

Cracked out.

2004-11-27T16:16:00.000-07:00

I decided to share my arm with you. I went to have blood drawn on Monday. The lady SWORE she knew what she was doing; my arm suggests otherwise. I should have known it was gonna be bad when she said, "I think you're gonna have a bruise there" as she quickly pulled out the needle and asked for my hand.
(Notice Bo running by in the background.)

See, I have teeny tiny veins. Ok, so I don't like needles either. In thinking about this the over the last week as I've walked around looking like an opiod injecting experiment gone wrong...I've decided that my fear of needles stems from the fact that almost every time I've had blood drawn since the age of 11-they've poked me more than once. Every single time they get cocky.

As a big person, I've taken to telling them, "please don't stick my unless you are absolutely positive you're gonna get something." They get cocky. They start talking about how great they are. I don't care about great.

My veins, they don't care about great either, we're talking excellent here.

We need people who know what the hell they are doing. My veins & I are getting pretty used to being abused in the lab. Every time it is deemed I need blood drawn I get nervous. Real nervous. I've fainted a couple of times after being poked three times. So excellent, excellent is damn good.

Otherwise we are condemned to walking around Scottsdale with our older snow-leopard-coat-owning pal. (I kid you not-she owns not just a simple snow leopard coat--but a trench coat.) And well, it just doesn't feel right; me with my ugly green arm.

And that stripey green thing hanging down is the FREE scarf I got from Express today. Some incentive deal. And I haven't decided whether to keep it or give it someone much more fashionable than I.
So if you get it--I only wore it around the house-a test drive of sorts.

Unrelated cat update:
Pictures from last week. Bo is thinking about whether or not my shoe is a threat.

Bo trying to look cute.

black friday.

2004-11-26T16:32:00.000-07:00

Today is the biggest shopping day of the year & I have not bought one single thing. I'm pretty proud of myself.

I was supposed to work; but something bizarre happened to me physically.
I'm still not sure how I'm supposed to deal with it.
I think for now, I'll accept that it's another one of those, 'slow the damn train down' warnings.

I was reading Stephen King's, On Writing A memoir of the craft. (before I misplaced it-I think it may have fallen out of the truck)
Interesting to see where writers draw their inspiration from. I'm also reading, Bird by Bird; another great book on the craft.

It makes me rethink the whole,"I think it would be neat to be published" idea I used to have. I don't think it was the glory of seeing my name in print that excited me. I just wanted someone to say, 'hey I've felt that way too'.
I've already gotten that, so now writing is purely selfish. My fiction is for my own suspence and gratification.

Happy pie eating.

P/S** Way to try there ASU; pansy yellow wearing harlots.
Now every one at work can shut the hell up about the U of A football team.
I think this merits me wearing my jersey to work on Monday. Especially since most ASU fans never even got their degree from ASU. What the hell kind of thinking is that? Geez, Kansas is a WAY better pick. Heck, even Michigan. (Then again-I'll all about good colors.)

**You knew I couldn't keep my trap shut. I'm a big trash talking turkey.

So much more...

2004-11-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

That time of year is upon us.
Holidays.

Dannabug.com would like to wish everyone a peaceful & cranberry holiday.

We will be busy stuffing our cheeks with pumpkin pie, hot gravy and oh so delicious stuffing. There will be a turkey. Maybe a nap, or two. The Cowboys will probably give me another reason to remain a fairweather fan. I will feel a tab bit guilty that I am not in the 505, but am in the 520 with the man I steal quarters from whenever he leaves them about. Were I not a rambler, I'd have stopped at the last paragraph. I've consumed your life for another 2 minutes; so give me two more.

My only request?
That tomorrow you remember someone you overlooked. I promise I will.

And my list of things I'd pray for if you ever caught me in the midst of a public prayer?

better schools

self-actualization before destruction for people everywhere

appreciation for the little things (cats fall in this one, so do tweezers, the letter e & chrismas songs)

*insert your cause here*

one less headache for everyone I know

one more moment of peace for those in despair

(last but most importantly) that my family never forget their motto of, 'no matter what happens I am still your_____(insert relationship)'

the circus.

2004-11-22T09:41:00.000-07:00

Sitting at a table with people can be dangerous. Whenever I meet people I hesitate to talk. I sit there looking at them wondering which type they are.

Recently I helped a someone paint. I enjoyed the activity. Shouting over the noise of assembly and being careful not to soak up too much paint in the roller. Making sure I x, so I don't miss any parts in the sunken parts of the wall. Work.

Afterwards there was dinner. Dinner with non-brown people can sometimes be tricky. Like learning a new dance or how to drive with one blurry eye.
In this case,it starts simple, but if you get people who are curious and don't have any boundaries it gets complicated quick.

All of a sudden you're bombered with questions. "How do you say this in Navajo?" Why do you do this? What about x, y, and w? Ordinarily I don't mind.

But these are strangers and I feel like I am-amusement.

They see that I am part of collective and that's the only part they are interested in. They don't want to know why I do my job. They don't care about where I come from, they just want to learn something they can tell their friends. They want pieces of my childhood served up on an attractive platter.

They want to know why "we", as in all Indians, say this or that. And along the way my personality shifts. I sit there, waiting for the next question and think of ways to answer it in the least amount of words-but making sure I close the question and not prompt any others.

In these moments, I wish I had remembered to learn card tricks & to carry a deck. A top hat would be nice-so they'd know who the monkey is, so I could stand on top of a table and perform.

I feel exploited, but try to remain grateful that they at least are interested and think it's cool. Rather than them lobbying to export us like they do immigrants. Which I laugh at. Which all Indians laugh at, because we know we're all immigrants-some of us just have had our green cards longer.

I think this is why I never made friends with people who weren't brown in college. I got tired of the questions not from them-but from their families. Young people know to be aware, older people don't care as much. They think living in a state long enough where they, "pay taxes" gives them a right to harass the locals.

Yesterday outside of Dennys while waiting for a table, a white man and his son walked up to my friend.
"pow-wow! Hey-are you Native American?"
(friend talking on cell phone) "huh?"
"Are you Native Americans?"
"uh..yeah"
"Man that is so COOL!!' (he then pranced around there among us acting weird)

It happened so fast that none of us registered it until the jackass had walked off. We were like, "what the hell?" My friend after finishing his conversation on the phone was like, "where'd that jerk go? Pow-wow my ass..."

Seriously, it's the stranger part that bothers me. I don't walk up to people and demand they give me attention. I try not to ask questions about culture unless I'm sharing something of myself. (Note I say try-maybe I'm guilty of this on some level, but unless you are british, a polar bear, a giraffe or a beagle-you're safe from me)

It's not what they say, it's the way they say it. Like we owe them explantations for our existance.

That's why I think culture is each person's responsibility. It's your own job to find out who you are. It's your responsibility to find out where you come from and what it means to you. That way when you meet someone you aren't trying to pick up pieces of theirs to fill the holes in yours. At least that's the way it feels, I'm not sure that that is the intention.

on others.

2004-11-21T20:37:00.000-07:00

This weekend I was social.
Not that I'm anti-social, but a few weeks ago I was feeling a bit sad that I didn't have a lot of intelligent people to spend my spare time with.

Well after that post things started to change.
Last weekend I went to a wedding cake testing with a dear friend.
Afterwards I went on a much needed field trip and spent time in the company of people I deeply enjoy.

This weekend I spent most of a day helping a co-worker paint her new home. (I'm a great painter by the way-and I'm not bragging, I really am.)

I spent most of another day with one of my former co-pilots and his family. On second thought,I think maybe I was his co-pilot.

And you know, there is no way to convey how happy I am that I know people who I can spend large blocks of time with. And the part I especially enjoy is the fact that I may not see these people every day, week or month-but when I'm around them-I feel good.

Because when you're around people you enjoy-the little things are funny. With them we can talk about things we've done before. We can laugh about me blowing a bubble and having it fall from my mouth to the ground & the two seconds it takes for me to mumble, "damn it-not again", as the fully inflated bubble sits there sticking to the tile. And we laugh, yet I continue to mumble with people walking by wondering if the feathers in my down vest have gone to my head.

And we can laugh about the time we wrote a 2 dollar check and deposited it in one account so that the balance would equal 20 dollars--so we could withdraw it to go buy booze. After which, we could then go & sit on our patio and watch people walk by and laugh about daily events. Why we didn't just use our debit cards to buy what we needed is beyond me-but then again who needs rationality when you've got booze?

I know I've rambled, but I just wanted to share: I have much to be grateful for.

Laughter. Dear sweet laughter.

cheese cake factory-you suck.

2004-11-20T08:41:00.000-07:00

Whenever I get mail from home I feel a tingle in my tummy. If I were a superstitious person I'd do a little jig before tearing open the envelope. I'm not, so instead I sit myself down and look over the curve and curl of letters that resemble my own.

My mom writes more often when things are bad. I should learn to consider it a blessing when I don't get mail for weeks at a time because it means things are ok. Or in extreme cases the lack of mail means something has gone VERY wrong and no one wants me to know because they fear my response. If it is the second case, I usually find out one way or another. Gossip is an unavoidable current in the pond back home.

But when the letters are thick, I am sometimes afraid.
Afraid of what they might say. Afraid of the terror it may reveal. Afraid that the poverty I ran blindly in the dark from will wrap it's paws around my throat and pull me close so it can suck the color from my hair.

Sometimes the thickness turns out to be drawing from my little brother, or notes from him about basketball, scooters and school.

This time the letter had parts of both. Grades from my little brother. Good grades. Similar to my grades. (Who needs math?) A note from his teacher about his reading progress. He apparently enjoys reading. There is a 50% chance in my family that you will learn to read well.

Were there a reading club in my family I would induct him and bestow all honors. In other words, he could look forward to me mailing him shoeboxes of recent fiction that I've just devoured. In a few years maybe--when he learns to appreciate stories about witches, working moms and crazy people with afflictions for sweets.

The other parts, terror. Unspeakable things that are common to dysfunction. And no matter how many times I read about the same things-my response is always the same. Anger, fear and pain. Were I am screamer, I would run up and down the street of my complex pulling at my ears yelling. Were I a lush, I'd buy a bottle of Jack Daniels and drink it, up, in a glass with a twist. Since I am neither of these things, I sit there stunned. Accepting for all two moments. Then like a tidal wave my face reddens and I cry. Hot wet overwhelming tears.

And Super J. is there. Trying to hold in his anger. Trying to understand it all. Trying to support me when I can't stand to be touched.

I feel alone.
I feel small.

But I'm neither. And he continues to listen as I struggle to push the words out of my mouth. As my heart burns and beats too big for my chest & my tears create red splotches all over my face.

And I know no matter how hard it gets he'll be there to tell me that I am ok. That no matter what happens I will be ok. Even though I already know this, it's nice to have someone tell me. And he sighs as he pats my arm and rubs my back.

In these moments I realize how lucky I am to have him.
To see him every day. To get mad at him for forgetting to put left overs in the fridge. To be a grump at him because he has splashed all over the counter top and I've leaned into the water and gotten my shirt or pants wet. To listen to another one of his tales about his latest research topic-cars, tires, & policies. To listen to his tales about growing up on the, "mean streets of Oracle", as if it were a city in the Land of Oz. To hear him talk to Bo and pet her chubby grey head.

And I realize how wonderful he'll be as a dad when we both get mild food poisoning and he is hovering over me with a spoonful of pepto bismal asking if I need anything & I want to tell him, "I need you." But he already knows about my needs, because who else would let me record every episode of Gilmore Girls and leave them on the machine wasting storage space that could be used to save episodes of South Park, Reno 911 or Highlander.

And family? Well, that's just something I deal with moment by moment & fill my plate with hope-because sometimes that's the most I can do.

"Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons."
--Ruth Ann Schabacker

on being average.

2004-11-18T17:47:00.000-07:00

"To go against the dominant thinking of your friends, of most of the people you see every day, is perhaps the most difficult act of heroism you can perform.--Theodore H. White

Today for the third time in my life, I took the GRE. (Has it really been 3?)
I swear an embryo could probably outscore me. .
But today, today I am so freaking fantastically happy to be average. My math score, it's so damn average. And you know-I ok with that.

Right, jot down today's date and write, "Danna is ok with being average."

Moving right along onto agenda item #2:

Next week is Turkey day. I've never been a big fan of the holiday. It's symbolicness always eluded me. Not that I don't like peace, but holy shit teachers everywhere are making kids cut out turkeys made from tracing little hands & talking about the damn pilgrims. Don't get me wrong-I am TOTALLY about the food. Nothing can keep me from the turkey, stuffing and the pies. Oh lord those PIES.

Regardless of my shoddy appreciation for the day I can't ignore the fact that it gives me the opportunity to be with family. I can never forget my father during these times saying the prayer before we fight over the drumstick.

There's a line he says that I think of when I'm at work. "Please bless the people on the highways and in hospitals. Please take care of the people overseas...Please take them safely to their loved ones..."

There's more to it, but it's always that line that pulls at the strings on my heart. That line that I think of when someone walks through the door at work and I think of all the paperwork I have sitting on my desk from the day before. I think about my dad's prayer and smile. He makes me humble.

cha cha ching.

2004-11-15T11:51:00.000-07:00

I took everything down.
The site will be going through some renovation over the next few weeks & I want to make sure I didn’t lose anything.

However in my grand scheming I didn’t realize I was taking all the posts away-you know in case anyone wanted to read about my latest tiff with the cat. (So go suck your thumb in the meantime.)

Or about the time when my grandmother nearly gave me a heart attack insinuating her RE-marrying-like she was some spring chicken that needed her eggs colored. It’s not that I don’t like the idea of my grandma being happy, but hey-I want her to be safe.

If anyone wanted to know how I feel about the president, my shoe addiction or my fantasies of independent wealth they’ll have to ask because dannabug.com has temporarily been relocated, to ensure safekeeping.

Besides from a progress prospective it’s a good idea to retire old ideas & make room for new ones.

In the mean time posts may be sparse. But you know every time I say that I compulsively post multiple times a day in which I detail my every move, thought and remorse. And then people comment, “hey I thought you were going to go on a vacation there…”

Unrelated:
In case I didn't tell you I got relocated to another cubie. With a window. And well, I'm not sure if I like it yet because there are three other people in this room with me & I don't think it'll be good for my mental health right now.

2004-04-20T23:21:00.000-07:00

You know when I was a kid I used to pray every nite that my dad would change.
I remember after he would tuck me in, I would fold my little brown hands, look out at the bun and ask the creator to make our lives 'better'.

I was tired of all the chaos.
Tired of all the nites spent looking out the cold window wondering where they were.
Wondering if he was ok. Wondering if my mom found him.
Trying to soothe my brothers with their gibbling questions.

Watching the men in my family fist fight.
Listening to the women cry as they tried to make things work out.

Every nite I did my ritual.
I don't think that I ever really knew what I wanted-but I knew it would be different.
I didn't understand, 'normal'-but I wanted it.
I wanted more than anything to not have a dad who came home with black eyes or ran off with his check.

When I was real little we had a garden with corn.
We would go out there to shake the corn pollen when it was time.

I am sure that at some point I realized that I couldn't wish any longer for a better or different dad.
That no matter what I hoped for and how many times I wished on shooting stars-I couldn't change my family.

Someone once told me that when the creator asked my family what girl they wanted-they choose me.
And you know, I think they did. I am sure I picked them too.

As a teen when I tried to give up on god I ran away from my father.
He found me at the water tower sitting there listening to crickets dragging a stick in the sand.
He tried to console me, but all I could smell was the liquor on his breath.
I told him, in anger, that I didn't believe in god-because I knew he prayed and didn't want my prayers heard by any god who listened to him.

I hurt him badly & I could see the tears well up in his brown eyes.

He told me that no matter what I did-he always prayed for me and to never forget that-because the creator wouldn't forget about me.

I don't think I've been forgotten--but sometimes I forget to pray for my dad.
I'm sorry.