Thursday, September 18, 2014

Where I Stand

One of my favorite social media sites is Instagram.

I just LOVE taking photos and peeking into the lives of others....even when overly stylized. I find that Instagram is my daily dose of inspiration, especially when I see a side of someone that they don't normally show on Facebook, Twitter and even their blog.

So when I see someone I know, I look. I look at their latest photos, compliment their style, and many times get inspired to try something they are doing. Be it cooking, shopping, or anything else really.

But sometimes photos that come across my stream remind me of just how sucky folks can be. Let me tell you why...

Today, no less, a photo of a colleague flashed on my phone. Although I've never met her, I've referred her business countless of times. I believed in her talent before she made it "big." I tend to do that, call out the talent of others before they even see it themselves. So, call me crazy, but I expect some sort of reciprocity if I do a good dead - especially when involving business.

Any who, going back to that photo...today I realized that I have supported this woman more times than she has even "thanked me." She seems to be above supporting most things I get involved with, but will, bless her heart, throw a bone my way now and again.

I've never really said anything - I have my tribe that stands for the same values as I do - but today it bugged me.

As nice and ra-ra as she seems to be towards everyone, it's just an act. She's only supportive of those that are paying her or giving her a reason (wink-wink) to be supportive. I guess my favors or my early door-openings don't count...and here I was trying so very, very hard, to see all the awesome goodness other people saw in her.

But I don't. At least not anymore.

I now have clarity of where "I" stand when it comes to my relationship with her...and isn't that all that matters?

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

I'm Snippy

It finally got to me: I am not OK with being around people, even if related to my hubby or me, that don't strengthen our marriage.

I am no longer single. Nor is my hubby. The whole is a much bigger, and more important deal, than our individual needs...when it comes to our marriage. But our invidividual needs must also be met in order to meet in the middle.

It's a hard balance, but I figured out that I'm perfectly OK spending time -solo- with my friends, and perfectly OK with my hubby doing the same. It works for us.

What doesn't work is spending time with folks that, well, don't want us there, together.

So I put my foot down.

"No, I am not going to that "party," even though you are talking about it a year in advance. They are YOUR friends, not mine." I reminded him for the 100th time last night.  "You will have more fun without me...why doesn't this register with you?"

The conversation went on. Rather, the slight disagreement. (Way to ruin that double Margarita that I shouldn't be drinking in the first place Mr. Man).

In the five years, well, almost five years, we've been together, this has been a point of contention once I decided to "do me," to make us happy.

But yesterday, only four days into my new medication regime, which is making me rather miserable, not to mention the horrid LA weather, I was a little snippy.

"I can't have this argument again and just stand behind and watch it unravel with cryptic texts, phone messages, and other forms of communication that I'm privy to." (sorry folks, hubby isn't very good at keeping secrets).

So it all ended like this: "Your friends and your family, your commitments. Don't bring me into the mix unless it's something that's inclusive and won't affect our relationship," I told him.

I hope, pray, did I say hope? That this is the last time we have this conversation...because I am so. over. it.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

A Picture of Me Trying to get Better

It has only been four days since I got started on my new Thyroid and Diabetes medication regime. Yes my friends, as of last week, I am officially diabetic, more than likely caused by my thyroid issues.

Let that sink in for a bit.

Not only is it time consuming, confusing (because of the times/schedules + number of pills), but it has also been draining on my system.

The heat in Los Angeles, even in my usual cooler-than-the-rest of Los Angeles neighborhood, has also been affecting my body. Not only am I weak, dizzy, and plain uncomfortable because of my new meds, the heat exasperates it all.

I'm miserable and not myself. The few brain cells that are functioning are devoted to work and school. Everything else, unfortunately even this blog, is falling to the wayside - for now.

According to a friend that has been undergoing a similar medical treatment, my side-effects should subside in 10-14 days. The heat in Los Angeles should also drop in a few days. At least, that is our hope. So by the end of the month, or at least that is the hope, I should be my usual self.

For now, I am miserable, weak, running to the bathroom every few minutes, and sweating like a hog in heat.

It's not a pretty picture, but it is a picture of me trying to get better.

Send me good jujus - I need them.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Getting Better

This week was supposed to be a good week.

Although the weekend started a bit stressful, we ended it with mass and dinner out. Hubby and I spoke, figured things out, and realized that worse case scenario, all would be good.

Then I started school, my first full week of this semester. I connected with my professors, got in the classes I was on the waiting list for, and got all my books. I figured out my schedule at home, got a new work project, even packed my lunch and ate healthy.

I finally saw my Thyroid Specialist, to confirm that yes, I had indeed lost weight over the summer (yah me!). But before I started celebrating my small win, I had more blood tests to do.

Without much thinking I kept going, moving forward, and doing all the awesome things I had scheduled for the week. "Don't forge to call the doctor," my hubby told me before going to work.

I didn't - I just wanted to finish off my day before I sat down to make the calls I needed to make. In between all that I was hot, as most of us are in this God forsaken summer heat, I thought about stopping by a Winchell's to order a Raspado. (A raspado is Mexican shaved ice that has fruit instead of a syrup).

As I sat in that nice air conditioned shop I checked my messages and made a few phone calls while I ate my raspado. It was cold and tart, a perfect snack for a hot day. It was, of course, right at that very moment that I get a call from my Thyroid Doctors office.

"Blood results came in. They are not good. Your thyroid is low, so we need to update your medicine. Your blood sugar is VERY high, possibly affected by your Thyroid...we will need to add more medicine to control your sugar. You cholesterol and blood pressure are normal."

I immediately stopped sipping my raspado, and tried to explain the peak in my blood sugar levels, "I didn't take the Glumetza this summer. I tried to control it by eating...I lost weight, doesn't that count? Can't I just go back to taking Glumetza," I pleaded.

The answer was no. My blood sugar levels are too high. "Much, much too high," and if I don't get my levels controlled within a month I will be "hospitalized."

Hospitalized.

That word rang in my ears loud and clear. My voice started shaking as I calmly said yes to the instructions that followed.

"The medication will be called in today. Start taking it immediately. We need to see you in a month."

I nodded as I said yes to the receiver. I couldn't say no.

Could it be the soda I drank last week?, I asked myself as tears started streaming down my face. Maybe it was the slice of pizza I had for lunch a week ago. Could it be the fruit I eat instead of protein I eat after school?

Could it be the added stress from work, school, life? Maybe I need a vacation?

What I don't need is the added medication...I don't do well with most medications. They affect my stomach. I'm nauseous, feel weaker, and my mind is sometimes so cloudy and heave that I can barely keep my eyes open.

I also don't need to be hospitalized - so I have to do whatever it takes to get better. At least to my level of better.

Wish me luck.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

I Belong in Paris

This past week was a bit hard on the home front. Nothing to fret in regards to Mr. Man (AKA my hubby) and me. It is, like most people are dealing with, something to do with our careers. Rather, my hubby's job.

My first thought was to call my mom, but I didn't want to worry her. Then my brothers, but then again, didn't want them to worry either...then I mentally went down the list of friends that I could just share the potential bad news with:
"So-and-so has a newborn, so I can't disturb her. So-and-so has wild kids, so we can't speak in peace. So-and-so is at work and probably busy..." and so my list of friends went.
Then it hit me, if Sebas were alive, even if he was in the middle of a meeting, he would "feel me" and send me a text.  He would call me on his way home. Listen. Calm me without being overly positive and annoying, and at the end of the conversation make me laugh.

He would call me "dah-ling" in his French accent and then invite me to dinner. On him. He was one of the few people in my lifetime that's treated me to dinner...for no reason at all.

We would sit down at one of his favorite places and he'd order wine, appetizers, and plan on dessert.

He'd listen. Let me vent; and help me come up with a response on my own...before he got up and walked around. I would order for him if he took too long to come back. The waitresses or waiters always twisting their lips in that smug smile thinking to themselves: "She got dumped."

I didn't.

That was one of the petty annoyances of being friends with him: He would up and disappear to think. Smoke. Walk. Sometimes, anytime, during dinner.

He always took too long.

Sometimes he picked-up his cell when I called to check-up on him. Many times he didn't. I worried only to laugh when he walked behind me to wrap his arms around my shoulders and exclaim, "dah-ling...a woman like you belongs in Paris."

He wore cargo shorts. Too big and always the same. Even at places that weren't necessarily appropriate.  But he talked his way into breaking clothing rules. Because he was French and anything he said and did was a lot sexier and more appropriate than anyone else. Maybe because he always wore French suits and Italian shoes, that on the rare occasions he Americanized his wardrobe nobody really cared.

His rolodex, as thick as his Foreign Ministry Press Attache title, gave him a reason to be invited to yet another black tie affair that went beyond the commonplace Hollywood Gliterati events that Los Angeles drowns in. I was always invited, yet rarely accepted.  He sent me a client for every event I missed.

Heads of state, people with big titles and even bigger pocket books, called him, counted on him, and he always smiled and laughed about it all. It was no big deal, nor did it matter to him.

What he considered a big deal was his intense need to be surrounded by people he loved. To be needed. To be babied.

But not in crowds. Crowds made him anxious.

On a good day, I loved loving on him. On a bad day, it was suffocating.

He wanted to see it all. America. California. Los Angeles. But as a lifelong Angelino, his bright-eyed expression at something rather commonplace was not always fun. He had, as we all do, quirks.

He was foreign, of course, which made his quirks more acceptable when followed with "He's French," to the people that really didn't know him or understand his sometimes odd behaviors.

He would only be in the states for a few years before he would move, yet again. To Africa maybe? Possibly even Latin America. We talked about me tagging along and experiencing the world with him and my mentor, his partner.

No man, according to Sebas, at least those I dated at the time, were good enough for me. They had the big titles, the big pocketbooks, but not the "heart" that Sebas always advised I look for.

I didn't care.

My days were filled with work and building a business. My nights were simply extended ways to entertain myself without commitment. But there was always Sebas to guide me. Listen. Make me believe that everything would be fine, and that answers were only as far as my eyes could see.

Nothing was impossible.

But when he died, too soon for his age, too soon for this world; that tinge of hope and of "gusto" in building my business, traveling the world, and living the dream, died on the few pages that I wrote to him before they were shuttered in his coffin.

I have always credited Sebas, always, for that odd situation that introduced me to the man that later became my hubby. "This situation is just so Sebas," I remember telling my mentor after meeting my hubby.

My hubby, always living in a somewhat Sebas shadow, has since been accustomed to my random reminders of Sebas or his funny expressions that make me laugh when I'm only minutes from crying.

"Lets move to Paris," I told him when bad news hit last week. My hubby laughed, maybe a bit confused by my odd resolution to our problem, and smiled.

Even in death Sebas has a way of making us smile.
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