This is how I feel...period

The other day, I was talking with one of my student's Moms. Her name's Lucy and she speaks Spanish. I asked her if she was coming to the kids' swimming field trip next Tuesday.
"Vas a ir al paseo de nadar proximo Martes?"
"No, es que...yo no puedo...."
She started mumbling something that I didn't quite get. I kept prompting her in different ways, trying to get a clearer answer. Finally, it came out as this:
"Es el tiempo del mes." Translation: It's that time of the month.

Needless to say, I was intrigued. A Mom has just told me she was on her period. Simultaneously though, I wasn't shocked. It takes a lot to shock me nowadays. I just took it in stride as if she told me she loved strawberries.

Then I did something I always do--and maybe I should step back from, I'm not sure--I probed further.
"Hmm, usas tampones?" No translation necessary, right?
"No, no me gusta." So, we're getting pretty close. She's on her period. She doesn't use tampons. Sweet! And I am not being sarcastic.

I went on to relay this story with my co-workers. We're pretty close and all, after all. Their reaction was normal: "Too much information!!!!" Lots of laughing and eeewwwwing and I-can't-believes- and covering of eyes, shaking of heads. I get it. It's crossing a fine boundary. It's usually a topic that's broached only by the most intimate of girlfriends...while drunk and eating McDonalds.

So, I get it. People don't like to cross boundaries. It's way too intimate. Way too personal. But in my mind, it's beautiful. I loved that she felt comfortable enough to share that with me. Hell, I told her I was on my period too. I am. It's nasty. But it's a part of being a woman. It's common. It's shared. Like a language. I think it's one small step in creating a shared language for women--whether it's in English or Spanish. Oh, here's how you say period in Spanish. In case you were wondering, like I was:

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080812155125AAVh9Hx

Grocery shopping

It's funny going to the grocery store.

Rick and I have been going to Sunflower Market for about two, three months now. After reading Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food, we thought it'd be cleaner, healthier to shop for produce there.

As it turns out, for the most part, it has been. It's actually been cheaper, too.

Simultaneously, I have mixed feelings about going there. Here they are, mixed and matched, in no real order, but I'll make it look orderly:

1) I feel physically cleaner, more comfortable there. The food is just packaged and showcased so beautifully, so naturally. I love being surrounded by more fresh than frozen aisles. No real temptations besides nuts--you just feel good.

2) I like being around other people trying to be healthy. You feel close and connected, like they're saying, "Good for you! You're young, but learning how to eat good early." It's a good community of happy, healthy people.

3) I like looking into other people's grocery carts--full of wild rice, ground Ethiopian free trade coffee, rhubarb, serrano peppers. Sometimes, I can imagine the food just sitting on their counters, never being eaten, just as a decoration like daisies in a vase. "My, what a beautiful assortment of vegetables," a neighbor would remark.

3) But here's a con--the snooty, rich people trying to be healthy. Sometimes I make eye-contact with these people, and instead of feeling camaraderie, I feel competition. The funny thing about Colorado is that people are one-upping each other on how healthy and resourceful they can be constantly. I'm not saying this is bad, it's progressive and wonderful. But, taken to an extreme, it's just pure annoying.

Don't give me glances that say, "Oh, you bought that milk. Huh. So, you're that type of healthy person. I make my own milk on my cow farm. That's how healthy I am."
And if I'm hiking on a trail, and you're running 50 miles with fifty-thousand mini-waterbottles strapped across your waist, don't call me an amateur under your breath. Get a life, people. But I digress, we are still talking about grocery stores, right?

4) One thing I don't like about the healthier markets, is how expensive everything else is besides produce. A block of cheese for eight bucks. A tiny box of cereal for $6. A loaf of bread for $5. No thank you. But hey--that's why there's the big chain supermarket. It's an extra stop, but it saves money to shop at King Soopers for the rest.

5) At King Soopers, I feel like I'm more in my element. I'm surrounded by a wide spectrum of people--not just the overly health conscious upper middle class. King Soopers houses the homeless, the food stamped, the lower class, the middle class, the upper class, the black, the white, the Asian--everybody's invited. You don't feel so judged using your food stamps. And, might I add, they go through every time, unlike Sunflower Market. It's as if the cashier there is indirectly saying, "Poor people don't deserve free healthy food. Government cheese for you, baby. Next!"

And you don't feel so judged if you haven't bought cloth bags for your groceries yet. And I haven't. I've been meaning too. But I do need free plastic trash bags.

Ye Ol' Food Stamps Place

Oh, goodness. Wasn't I a drama queen today?

I'm pretty calm now. It's pretty much worn off. But I was mad at the world today. I felt like I used to in high school. A loner, binging on food after-school, waiting to do something new, but feeling like the only place I really belonged was in bed. And that happened today, too. It's funny how those little up and down cycles of your life never leave you. I'm sure I'll have more of them in the years ahead.

But anyways, back to the drama. So, my Food Stamps were up March 1st. With plenty of leeway time, I went to the Denver Department of Health Services on January 23rd. The lady who helped me there was listening to Spanish music.

"Who is this?" I asked with genuine interest, thinking that she liked Latin music, like me. Trying to make some connection.

"Oh, I don't know. It's the radio." Drones. The poor people who work there helping the poor. I really do feel sorry for them. It's probably hard to keep your head up or even appreciate the beautiful music playing in the background of your boring, sad day.

So, this lady told me I'd be all set. That it's good I came in early. It takes about a month for the re-certification process to go through. I'm all good, I thought.

Then, March 1st rolls in. With avengence. Okay, it's not that bad. But, I had no money in my food stamps account?
"Where was it?" I worried. "It's March!"

So, I proceeded to march on in to the Food Stamps place, a second time, but the line was too long, and I'd certainly be late for work.

So, I proceeded to march on in a third time. The lady there told me to fill out a request form, and that I'll get a call in 48-hours by my case worker, Flora Garcia. I'll have my food-stamps by 6pm.

The time goes by, no food stamps.

So, I proceeded to go in a third time. The lady tells me to do the same thing. Fill out a form. 48-hours. 6pm. Yeah, I hope so, I think.

Nada.

So, I let a few days go by, cool off. Luckily, the Rick's saintly parents, Carol and Vince, come to visit and shower us with extra groceries and gifts for our apartment. We are truly blessed to have them in our life. Carol, Rick's Mom, even leaves a surprise $100 dollar bill hidden in an envelope behind a painting. We are indeed spoiled.

But this is a matter of principal. I am qualified for these food stamps. I need them to be comfortable.

So, I walk in today. This time, I'm ready to give it my all. I wait for two hours. Get tossed around like a bag of groceries, and I begin to feel broken and manipulated...like someone's taking advantage of me. Not raping me, but taking advantage of me. And I start of think of all the people in my life who take advantage of me. I start to feel all whiny, "Why me? Why me?" And like my Grandma Lurkin's used to say, "I don't owe those people nothin'!" I begin to lose passion for my work, for what I do.

Let me fast forward a bit. So, I do eventually get to talk to someone after two hours.
She asks, "How are you?" And for the first time, I don't act all cheery. I am honest.
"I'm pretty good." How can anyone be happy at this place?

Before this happened, I watched something melancholy. A Mexican woman's turn is skipped. Number 6 and Number 7 are called.
"Excuse me, I'm number 5," she says in broken English.
"Are you Spanish?" the blonde, middle-class, hickish worker asks as if she's asking for her shoe size. "Because you gotta wait for the Spanish case worker."

The women sits dejected, trying to get her toddler daughter to sit still.
"Parate. Parate. Parate!!!!" She keeps telling her daughter to stop it. To stop falling on the floor. Another Mexican woman sits down with her baby. The woman who just came in offers the other lady's daughter a Starburst. They exchange some banter about having to wait in line, about not working, and needing money. I want to reach out to them and say, "I want you to be happy. Go back to Mexico and be with your family." Working with Hispanic families, I see too many who are taken advantage of, can't understand what's going on, made to feel like pieces of shit. Most of the mothers tell me they're happier in Mexico. Then go back there, I think. But they really want better opportunities for their kids. It's beautiful. It's sad. It's self-less.

I did get my food-stamps. I cried. The food-stamps lady told me I was missing some documents. She was all by the books. I hate those kinds of people.
"You have one pay check here, not two."
"Okay. Well, what's the difference?"
"We need two!"

"Do you get paid bi-monthly or twice a month?"
"Isn't it the same thing?"
"No, it's not!"
"I think I get paid around the 15th and 30th of each month."
"Says here you got paid of the 13th!"
"Okaaaay."

"Did you get extra leap year pay?"
"What?"
"If you don't know what it is, then no!"

"I can't process this without your current checking account balance."
"I thought I already did that when I came in January!"
"No, it didn't go through."
"Well, I don't have it."
"Then, I can't process your food stamps?"
"Can I use your computer and print it off?"
"No! You are not authorized to use this computer!"

Then, when all else failed, I cried.
"I've been here five times!!! I don't want to come here anymore!"

She didn't make eye-contact. Looked at her computer all confused. Didn't respond when I asked questions. Bitch.

But she did work some magic.

You won't get as much money as you're used to. I had to make some changes with your current status. But you should get money by this afternoon.

"Sorry I got so emotional. I've just been here too many times."
"Well, we all work really hard here."

Huh.

So, I left. Was in a mood all day. Felt put out. But at least I have food stamps.

Adoption Ceremony Song

So, here's part two to this year's Song Repertoire. This particular one, is for the Adoption Ceremony for my 3rd grade Dreamers at Valdez. It's the big kick-off to their ten-year commitment to the Colorado "I Have a Dream" Foundation. There will be family, friends, board members, staff, and some other big-wigs, I guess.

So anyway, here's the song I've been practicing with them for forevvvvverrrr. It'll be great.

Oh, I should probably also mention that the lyrics are to the tune of "I Just Can't Wait to Be King" from Disney's "The Lion King."

First Verse:

We're gonna be a might class,
With energy and flair.

Porque somos los sonadores,
Con suenos, con poder.

We're gonna be in this program,
From now until ten years.

Nos unimos tanto que,
No nos querremos ir.

We'll help each other as a team,
Thanks to Colorado "I Have a Dream."

Second Verse:

We go on lots of field trips,
To places near and far.

Como paseos al museos,
Tambien a patinar.

We do lots of activities,
From science to yoga.

Trabajaremos para ganar,
Birretes y togas.

We learn together as a team,
Thanks to Records and Rainaldi.

Bridge:

We're gonna have to study.
Tenemos que estudiar.

We're gonna have to work hard.
Tenemos que trabajar (fuerte!)

A good mix of work and play,
Keeps us happy every day!

(Dance interlude)

We're gonna have to study.
Tenemos que estudiar.

We're gonna have to work hard.
Tenemos que trabajar (fuerte!)

A good mix of work and play.
Keeps us happy every day.

Third Verse:

We want to thank our Moms and Dads,
For whom we do adore.

Ellos nos dan ayuda, apoyo, y amor.

We want to thank our teachers,
Ms. Ornelas, Ms. Solis.

Nos ensenan tan mucho y
Siempre soy feliz.

They work together as a team.
Thanks to you all we have a dream.

You together as a team.
Thanks to you all we have a dream.

Thanks to you all we have a dream.

Cute, huh? I think so.

The mystery fighters/lovers

I saw the strangest thing on Friday: Walking up the concrete stairs into my apartment building, I saw two men that appeared to be arguing about car damage. It seemed like there was a car accident, involving both their cars, and the man arguing more fervently was standing next to a silver, blue Volvo with two damaged headlights.

One of the men was Hispanic, maybe Mexican. He was short, had a shaved head, and a leather jacket. The other man, Mediterranean looking, a foot and a half taller, short spiky black hair, and also wearing a leather jacket. The latter was arguing with his hands violently splashing the hair, striking hard and forcefully with every point he made. Or so I assumed. I couldn't hear a word.

Then, (and this was the breaking point for me--the point where I felt that as a good citizen of the United States, it was my duty to mediate--or at least observe them from a close, awkward level so that they'd stop). Then, the taller Mediterranean looking one, grabbed a white froo-froo dog out of the other man's Hunter Green Ford Explorer. Wait a minute, I thought. Something ain't right here. From my perspective, it seemed like the taller guy was using the shorter guy's dog as some type of threat. I imagined him saying,
"If you don't pay for this fucking damage, I'm going to take your dog...fucking Mexican." And I love them dogs. And I love them Mexicans." Time to act, I thought.

So, I walked, like no big deal, over to the scene. But then something strange suddenly happened. As soon as I approached the fighting duo, they hugged. I heard a smidge of what the taller man said right before the hug, he said something like, "Sorry, I just wanted you to come down here. I was waiting by your car." Hmmm. Maybe the taller guy caused the car accident. But why then was he so mad? Did the shorter guy say he'd sue or something? Or was that the taller guy's dog already taken for ransom in the Ford Explorer.

Here's another thought: maybe they were just friends? Just two very dramatic, hand-gesturing friends. Maybe they weren't mad that whole time, but extremely extroverted and happy.

I walked slowly up the stairs to my 3rd floor apartment, trying to think it all out before telling Rick my story. I told him. His response:
"Maybe they were two gay lovers. They got in a big, flamboyant fight. And then made up as soon as you approached."

Hmmm. That could be true, too. Regardless, something that adds to this mystery, is that the taller man got into the car with the shorter man, and they drove off. Gone. Mexican music was singing as the car door opened. Everything seemed much more calm than before. Were they strangers on their way to the mechanic? Were they friends who were happy the whole time and I just didn't catch it because Americans don't gesture as passionately unless they're upset? Or were they two lovers making up after a heated argument? Who knows.

But it makes for a really good story.

a thought

So the title of this blog is "Alliecatadventures" and yet, I don't think I've recanted one adventure on here thus far. Maybe I need to do a better job writing. Or maybe I need to do a better job finding some adventures. I'm going with the latter.

Passions

What's your passion? What are your passions? What are you passionate about? I feel like I get these questions constantly as of late. And I have to stop and think: well, what are my passions.

As of now, here are some:
--watching movies
--reading articles in magazines
--scoping out Facebook
--going out to dinner
--making dinner
--going outside for a run
--drinking orange juice with my breakfast
--checking my gmail
--wearing pajamas

Hmm, these don't really sound much like passions, now do they?

Rick and I got into a pretty big argument tonight about the "pace" of our lifestyles. He's much more intense than I am. Take tonight for example, I got home after a long, energetic 9-hour day working with 39 third graders, and thought, "You know, it'd be fun to use that Olive Garden gift card we have." He, more or less immediately shut it down.
"We went out for drinks Friday with Leeann, spent a whole day skiing yesterday, and went out for dinner last night, too. Don't you want to wait awhile before going out again?"

I should say yes. I mean, I do get his point. He said I reminded him of the worst of his students, always needing to be constantly entertained. And he's right. I do need to be constantly entertained. And after working for nine hours straight, I need someone else to do the entertaining--like my Netflix. I need to relax. Listen to Pandora radio. Slow the fuck down.

You see, that's the hard thing about being in relationships. Getting on the same rhythm as your partner. After a little more than three years, I'm still working on it. A constant push-and-pull of needs and wants and compromises and let's do this now then do this later.

Part of the problem is--yes, I do need some stronger passions.

I'm going to watch an Improv Group perform all on my own on Wednesday. Huh. Sounds funny, doesn't it? All. On. My. Own. It kind of freaked me out at first. The idea of going someplace by...myself! I used to do that all the time. Nowadays, most outings are usually duets. But yes--it's a passion of mine--improv theater, guerilla theater, and it's about time I do something about it.

Having a passion--something you can claim, cling to--is indeed important. For when I think of Rick--when just about anyone who really knows him thinks about him--a string of images pops through their minds: books, magazines, writing, pictures, running, trains, cooking--the list goes on, but is known.

When people think of me, I think they think this: tap dancing, writing songs, guerilla theater, food--and then I kind of stop. What is linked to me? How do people define me. But even more important than that: how do I define myself. That's what I'll be working on.

Damn--you spend a whole day at work to help others, only to come home and have to work on yourself for the rest of the night.