Underappreciated is an understatement

Your mind is racing again. It's smack in the middle of the night and you remember that you needed to get that packaged Fed Ex yesterday. You start to wonder how the hell you're going to meet your deadline. There's nothing you can do about it now. It's 3am. You have four hours until you have to get up to prepare the kids for school, but sleep has eluded you. When you were a child your mom would give you a cup of warm milk and that seemed to do the trick. Hopefully, it still works.

You crawl out of bed and make the long walk past the kid’s bedroom, avoid stepping on the dog and walk down the steps. The kitchen seems so far. You remember the day you bought the house. The selling point was the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen. It was just far enough where your spouses early morning coffee routine wouldn't bother you. The neighborhood was also important. You came a long way from the place you used to live in. You worked very hard to give your children the peace and tranquility that you did not grow up with. You have done well in your life.

The long walk to the kitchen brings you past the hallway where your mail sits un-opened. Bills. The first one is that dreaded property tax bill. It seems that while everything has been crashing to a halt, those taxes keep going up and up. Everyone is always asking for money. You struggled to get where you are and it's not fair that people who did not study as hard as you or made the sacrifices you did to put themselves through school should make equal to or more money than you. Civil employees are a joke. Everyone knows that they are just rejects who couldn't make it and had no other choice. Definitely not your fault. You worked hard to be where you are. They are just a bunch of lazy people who got a hand out. They don’t know the meaning of sacrifice.

You get to the fridge and pour yourself a glass of milk. It's 3am and you don't feel like dirtying dishes, so you opt for the microwave instead. You rub your shoulders dreading the day that lies ahead when you hear a noise just outside your French doors. Relief calms your mind. You invested in that alarm protection that they advertise on TV. You know the one where the burglar manages to break in the door and then the alarm sounds and the burglar runs off. A second later someone calls and ask if they are alright. Peace of mind is worth the money. If the burglar were to  manage to make it through that expensive lock you placed on the door after extensive research, the alarm will scare the burglar off. Back to the milk.

You hear the dog racing down the steps and walk over to the pantry to get a treat. But, when your pooch finally gets to where you are, you notice he is staring outside those French doors your mom helped you pick out so you would have a panoramic view of the pool and yard. Then you see it. There’s a shadow lurking in your backyard. It looks like a man. The dog starts to growl. Your heart sinks and your first instinct is to get to the kids and call 911. Forget the alarm.

You run upstairs, calling the dog behind you. You start to think that maybe that Second Amendment wasn’t such a joke. You should have bought a gun after all. You'll be damned if anyone tried to hurt your kids. You enter the first kid bedroom when you hear the French door handle jiggle. Why hasn't the alarm gone off?? The dog's growl is now getting louder. No one is calling.

You manage to get the second child out of their bedroom and hear a voice on the other end of the phone by the time you hear the glass break. No alarm. This is not the way it was supposed to go. The voice on the other end asks you the address of the emergency. You have lived here for over ten years and for the life of you, you can't remember where you live. You inform the operator that someone is breaking into your house. You need the police now. The voice on the other end calmly asks you again, what's your address? You've watched enough movies and enough television to know that they already know where you are. With a pompous and frightened voice you advise the operator she already knows where you are at, just send the police.

The over paid civil employee informs you that they don't know where you are, you are calling from a cell phone and that they need your address. You thought you grabbed the house phone. You give her an address. It sounds about right. Then your heart stops. You can hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. You are scared for your life, for the life of your children. Why you?

The lifeline informs you to lock your bedroom door. She asks you for directions to your bedroom. You tell her it's the fourth door to the left side of the staircase. She asks if you have a closet or a bathroom in your bedroom with a lock. You think of the bathroom. She tells you to lock yourself in the bathroom with the kids and to keep your voice down. She tells you that police are on the way.

You can hear this burglar rummaging through the bedrooms. Who is this person and what is he looking for? You hear the footsteps getting closer. You inform the operator and she reassures you that help is on the way. She's calming. She sounds certain that you are going to make it through this without injury. You will survive. Help is on the way. You try to fight the tears and remain calm for the frightened children that are staring into your eyes. Silently you pray.

Just as you close your eyes to ask Jesus for salvation, the room door burst open and all that separates you from this madman and your children is a bathroom door. Thank God she told you to lock yourself in there. Your kids start to cry hysterically. The voice on the other end tells you that the officers have finally arrived. They are making their way inside. You hear them now. They are shouting commands. They have the lunatic that broke into your home. The voice tells you that the subject is in custody and that you can step out for the officer. You are safe.

Here's the same story from the other end. A story that is not to0 often shared.

A 911 operator finishes a call where she gave CPR instructions to a 12 year old boy whose mom wasn't breathing. She just spoke to the Staff Sergeant who informed her that the mom didn't make it. The story tugs at her heart as she remembers how scared he was. She couldn’t help but to think of her own son. He was screaming that his mom was going to die. This wasn’t going to happen on her watch. She reassured him. He needs to be strong. She needs him to help his mommy. She needed him to be brave and follow her instructions. He could do this.

She let him down. His mom did not make it. When the officers arrived, his mom was already gone. They tried CPR, but it was too late. For every good call, there's ten bad ones. This was supposed to be her day off. She switched days off with a fellow co-worker because he couldn’t take the day off to be with his wife for surgery. The shift was short again. He would have worked his life around for her. It’s something you get used to around here.  Due to staff shortage, it’s not rare to exchange a day off with someone. It’s all about being there for your family. Everyone understood.

She is not able to take a break yet and decided to take one more call before running to the bathroom to cry her eyes out. Some calls stay with you. They never go away. But, maybe she’ll be lucky this time and this boys screams won’t haunt her dreams. The next call will make her forget. It will go away. It had to.

Her next call is a screaming woman. The woman doesn't know her address. She's handled this before. She calms the caller down and mutes the phone as she asks her supervisor to try to trace the call. Someone is breaking into this citizen’s house. At the same time, she creates the call to start officers to the general area where the cell phone grid. She starts adding comments to the call. She forgets about the 12 year old boy who is without a mother. This woman needs her now.

The police dispatcher has been busy all night. It seems that when there's a full moon, all the crazy people want to come out and play. The day started with someone trying to kill themselves, leading the police in an extensive foot pursuit, which resulted in minor lacerations to an officer who struggled to get the knife away from the subject just in time. She hasn’t stopped talking and she is in dire need of a bathroom break. She shouldn’t have had the large coffee. But, caffeine is what keeps her moving. She really has to go, but there is no one to relieve her. She feels the stress start to build up. Air traffic is busy.

From deadly vehicle crashes, to mothers fighting with daughters, boyfriends slapping their girlfriends, loud barking dogs and robberies; She’s ready for some quiet time. Finally it slows down a little and she finally managed to dispatch an officer to the vehicle accident that has been holding for two hours. It's been raining. She feels bad, but due to recent cut backs, there aren’t enough units to go around.  If only the public knew.

Just as she thinks she'll finally be able to take a breath and maybe take a sip of water, she gets a call about an unknown person attempting to break into a residence. She asks for an officer to clear from a call. They are all tied up on some priority call. There are no units available.

The officer who was on his way to the vehicle accident that was holding for two hours, informs her that he hasn't arrived yet. He'll take the call and then respond back to the crash. She feels bad. The call will hold, yet again, but there aren't any lives in danger...just property damages. They can wait a little longer. She hopes that they understand and don’t call back requesting an ETA. We have the call and an officer will respond.

She requests a unit to back up that officer. The sergeant who is tending to the injured officer says he will go and then come back to the officer. There is no one else available. Just then the call heats up. The subject has made it inside the house. The complainant on the call is now locking herself in the bathroom. Her heart starts to race and she starts a game plan in her head, just in case this goes bad. After the many difficult calls she has handled, she knows that every second counts. Everyone is going home tonight.

The responding officer hears the information over the radio. He is tired. He's worked double shifts the last two days. He's can't remember the last time he tucked his kids into bed or cuddled up next to his wife at night. His weekends are Tuesday and Wednesday. He is sleep deprived and hungry. He turns his lights and sirens on and drives a little over the speed limit in the rain, just as he was taught in the academy. He wants this scumbag in handcuffs and in the backseat of his police car. That could've been his house, his family in danger.

He arrives at the house and waits for back up. After all, he doesn't know if this subject is armed and he really wants to make it to his son's baseball game later on that afternoon. He takes a peak into the back yard. He sees the broken glass and advises the dispatcher. He request additional units, just in case the subject runs out, and begins to call out perimeter points around the house.  There’s no way in hell this guy is getting away. He is going to jail tonight.

A couple of other officers arrive on the scene and he advises the dispatcher to hold the radio traffic, he's going in. He draws out his gun. He has his back up right behind him. He’s the first going in. His heart starts to beat a little faster. Everything inside him is screaming for help, telling him to turn around but, he is help. If he doesn't go in there, who else will? He closes his eyes for a brief second and makes a quick prayer. Lord, let me make it through one more. He walks in.

It isn't difficult to see where the burglar went. He follows the mud prints through the kitchen, past the hallway and to the staircase. Thank God for the rain. Just as he makes his way up the stairs, he hears the door being slammed open. He rushes up the stairs, not sure of what he will find when he sees the subject about to walk into the bedroom. POLICE! He announces, LEMME SEE YOUR HANDS! LEMME SEE YOUR HANDS! Luckily the guy comes out, hands first. No weapons in sight. GET ON THE FLOOR! GET DOWN!! The subject is down. He walks over, gun drawn and ready to shoot. He hears his back up approaching and when he gets the ok, he walks over and handcuffs the subject. Case closed.

He gets on the radio again. Tells the dispatcher that the subject is in custody and to advise the complainant that she can step out. He walks into the fourth door from the left of the staircase to hear the bathroom door cautiously open. He says in a firm but gentle voice, its ok ma'am we got him. C'mon out. She runs out and into his arms. She gives him a tight hug, thank you. Thank you so much. He smiles. Just doing my job ma'am.

He transports the dirt bag to jail, Finishes his report. The vehicle accident had to be given to another unit. His shift is over. He has enough time to stop at a local coffee house before heading home and taking the kids to school. He's dead tired, but he has to go to court after he drops the kids off. Caffeine is a miracle. Hopefully, his court appearance doesn't take long and he can catch some sleep before picking up the kids in the afternoon. He has to work again tonight.

He sits back in his police cruiser and he starts to think of the uncertainty. The many times he's had a close call. The many situations he's wanted to run from, but instead runs into. He thinks of the disrespect he deals with from every angle. And yet, these are the same people that look to him for reassurance that everything will be ok. But, who does this for him? He thinks of the pending budget cuts and whether or not it's all worth it. He always wanted to be a cop. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to help people. But, the cost is his life. He looks at the time. He's going to be late to get the kids. He wants to call his wife to drop them off, but he fights the temptation. He needs to see his kids. He’s doing this for them. As he sets his car into drive, he thinks to himself, things could be worse. He could be without a job. Yet again, he could have lost his life today. He drives off not knowing if today will be the last day he takes his kids to school. It's just another day in paradise.

What was your work day like?

I am a writer

As quick as it started, it ended. A friend of mine once told me that she thinks I suffer from A.D.D. I’m starting to suspect that she is right. The words start to flow in my head and if I don’t immediately get them all down, they go away. It’s like there’s this pathway to this hidden creativity that roams the world. If I don’t grasp the idea as quick as it comes, it will go away and fall on someone else’s shoulder. Make their way to a known, published writer or some word genius who sits around waiting…leaving me with a desire to become a published  and successful writer one day.

At times I wonder if this dream will ever come true. I’ve wanted this from the time I was a little girl. Actually, I think I wanted to run my own publication. I started with my spin on the New York newspaper, The Daily News…I called it The Daily Kids. The paper started as an attempt to make candy money. I sold it for twenty five cents a copy. I was also under the impression that whatever was written or printed on paper, in coupon form, would be honored. So, I created coupons for the things that I wanted. Barbie’s and dollhouses, books and stationary. Sometimes, my mom would honor them and other times, she would laugh and say that she would buy it when she won the lottery. To this day, she owes me soo much!

As I got older, the dream kinda sorta faded. I began to concern myself with the things that other kids were worried about. Hair, clothes, music and who was cute and who wasn’t. My road map was thrown off track. Soon after I got married and my priorities changed. My passion became my husband and my household. I wanted to start a family and was heading in that direction. Eventually, I lost myself and my dreams. Being a writer was far from my thoughts. Occasionally, I would right in my journal. I found that I only wrote when I was down about something. It was my release. As my marriage began to fail, my words became my only sanctuary.

I didn’t rely on them as much as I should’ve. I did start to count on alcohol a whole lot more. In fact, it became my best friend. I became addicted to that feeling of NOT feeling. It felt good to not be in control. To follow that initial instinct and not worry about the consequences made me happy. At least, I felt happy at the moment. The morning after was a whole other story. After making several mistakes, one of which was drunk driving, I decided a change was in order. Thankfully, I did not injure someone or myself, but I did wake up the next morning in my bed with no recollection of leaving the club, driving home or crawling into bed. I was done.

I don’t know what changed in my at that moment, but I have never again been that intoxicated and I am very well aware of my limits in regards to drinking. With that said, I had the desire in my to write at that point, but I didn’t know where or how to start. Keep in mind, that my whole life, prior to that, I never had to work at words. They just came to me. But, now I found myself fighting for the words. Craving to have them embedded in my brain and have them flow out on my computer or on paper.

Lines came out at me, but not full paragraphs. I followed my other passion…reading. I began picking up books. Each word was a struggle that I never had to face before. But, I forced myself to get into it. I read, not for pleasure but because I had to. I had to rediscover my love of words. No matter how horrible the book, I was going to force my brain to like it. It was a learning experience after all.

After some time, the words slowly began to make their way back to me. Little by little poetry formed, then I discovered blogging. Disorganized thoughts became post. I even joined a writing group. One day, one of my writing mates, came up with a writing schedule. If we wanted to be published writers, we had to dedicate time. I was going to do this. I was going to write a book.

Well, the time that I was supposed to dedicate to my best selling novel, became dominated by my blog post. Each becoming organized and reader friendly, but again, I had no direction. I created a new blog after joining a blog challenge. This was going to be the beginning of awesome. I was going to be a writer. I even had business cards made.

As I sit in this French café, enjoying my Mochacchino and croissant, I have yet to figure out the direction I want to take as a writer. It’s a dream that I have held for a very long time in my heart. The words still struggle and for the first time I find myself working towards something. I have decided that I have job security and I feel comfortable where I am right now. But, this is not where I want to see myself when I am forty. My dream is to become a writer. My dream is to live part time in New York City with my apartment being steps away from The Village. I want to jog in Central Park in the morning and catch the train to have dinner with my mom by Yankee Stadium. The flame has not burned out, it’s being re-ignited and I will reach my goal. One word at a time…

This song says it all. . .

B.A. (Before Atlanta)

In a typical Ymelda fashion, things were forgotten. You would assume that the many times that I have traveled in the past, by now I would have a mental check list of everything that needs to leave with me. Very cliché to say so, but, it should flow like clockwork. Apparently,  I need a new clock. Unfortunately, my sacred memory stick is sitting in my work bag on top of my bed or on the floor somewhere. Can’t remember exactly where I left it. Therefore, all the work that I was supposed to get done on the plane is not going to happen until I arrive back in Miami.

Yes, I said on the plane. For the first time in about seven years I am flying without my reliable relaxant, Xanax. To say that I am freaking out and just seconds away from being tased by the hot Marshall sitting in the corner, is a HUGE understatement. I am keeping calm by pretending I am sitting in a chilly Starbucks and writing on my blog, like I would any other day of the week. I have my iPod on and Godsmack is playing in the loudest possible setting that I can stand. This technic is used in order to drown out the sound of the engines, which I’ve learned get louder as the plane speeds up. It gets lower as the engine slows the heavy mass of metal down and that’s when my heart feels like it’s about to burst into a never ending hysteria.

On a less psychotic note, this will probably be the third time I visit Atlanta. For the life of me, each flight there has been a total blur. Thank you Xanax! Since my total stay this time will be about two days in the city, my usual recovery time of a day is going to be a waste. So, I decided this time not to take anything and wing it. So far so good! I can’t see myself flying to L.A anytime soon without it….but It’s good to know that I can last an hour or so without having a minor heart attack.

My writers block has somewhat lifted. It’s not as bad as it was, but the stump is still there. Things don’t come as easily as it used to and it’s starting to feel like work. There are currently three stories in my head, from beginning to end. Each detail is outlined perfectly and I can see the characters and I know them as well as I know my closest friends. But, the words won’t come. The letters will not formulate and make sense long enough to bring these people to life.

It seems that lately the easiest thing to write about is myself and what I’m going through. And, if you’ve been following my blog at all, you would know that it really isn’t much. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy with where my life is now. I am comfortable, I have a dog, I have a stable career that I love…my friends and family are amazing and I am truly blessed to have them holding me up. But, man, I get tired of talking about myself.

I hear that you are supposed to write what you know. It flows easier and the story comes together easier. I do write about what I know. Or at least what I think I know. The ideas are there. It’s the spitting it out that’s the problem. Even now as I write this the words just don’t make sense to me. I could blame it on my one hour of sleep, the nervousness about flying or the fact that I am on a Delta flight and I really really miss Jetblue right about now…but that’s not the case. It’s just not there.

I tried free writing the other day. I can’t remember when, but I’m thinking it was on my flight from New York to Miami. That was a Xanax induced free write. There was a tone of rambling. In the mist of complaining that I had nothing to write about and that it was probably the dumbest thing I have ever written there were two main points that created one of my stories. In fact, I could’ve elaborated on those points right now, had I remembered my memory card.

I could’ve slept, but I’m sitting in a middle seat. And, I also couldn’t pass up the opportunity to write sober on a plane. What exactly brings me to Atlanta this time around? The last time that I was here, it was for a couple of hours. I had a connecting flight while on my way to New Orleans. This time, I actually get to experience Atlanta and all its glory. I plan on it being a calm relaxed visit. I was in desperate need for a vacation and this trip presented itself. Lord knows I can’t turn down a chance to step out of the box and try something new. This is definitely new. According to the besties, Atlanta is as South as it can get. Although, I have pale skin and somewhat light hair at the moment, I will be classified as a “Mexican.” Not really offended as I love tacos and margaritas, but it’s pretty messed up.

Bestie told me a story about her brother in law. He is a pharmacy technician in a large chain. He was working the midnight shift. After responding to work and feeling ill at around 4am, he decided to go home. On his way home, mind you he’s wearing his uniform, which consist of a lab coat; he gets pulled over. I doubt he was speeding, as I’ve been in the car with him before and he drives like a grandma. Or maybe that’s why he was pulled over…hmmmm. Anyway, the officer approaches the vehicle, and proceeds to ask him how much he had been drinking that night. Brother in law, hereafter referred to as BIL, denied drinking and stated that he wasn’t feeling well and was on his way home from work. The officer stated that he knew he was Mexican and that all Mexicans drink and drink a lot. BIL advised the caring officer that he was not Mexican, but in fact from El Salvador and that he had not been drinking. Officer advised BIL that it was all the same thing and asked him to blow into a breathalyzer.

There is a certain kind of “racial profiling” that comes into effect when one swears to protect the laws and citizens of this country. But, that’s taking it to the extremes. I’m ok with getting pulled over because I drive fast and my vehicle has extremely dark tints (I hate the sun), BUT, to be pulled over because I look a certain way. NOT COOL.

My task at hand is to keep my mouth shut. Which, in the last couple of days has actually worked wonders for me. So much so that I am constantly being asked “what’s wrong?” I don’t remember where I heard this quote, but it went something along the lines of being quick to anger but slow to speak. I know I’m slaughtering that quote right now, but that’s what I took from it. I am very quick to get upset over something and speaking my mind right then and there. Most of the time, if not all, my human filter goes out the window and the “words made of knives” come out to play.

Keeping my mouth shut and not saying things when I want to say it has made me laugh more.  I am NOW starting to realize how bad of a temper I have. My outburst are less and my stress level as decreased a little. I have come to the realization that when I am not in control my emotions go haywire. However, I am also learning to let go and realize that I cannot control everything and that’s ok. Sometimes one has to kick back, relax and let someone have the last word. Because, all though they have the last word, silence speaks volumes.

Jeter made it simple

It was hot. I like the house to be at a certain temperature. BELOW FREEZING!! Granted the energy conservationist in me puts up a fight, but the fat girl that wants to lay in bed and dwell on day dreams and comfort always wins. And when I say comfort, I mean COMFORT. Sixty-nine degrees of straight chill, while I marinate under my level three Ikea comforter. So, this morning, when I woke up in a pool of sweat...I was a tad bit pissed.

Jeter was fidgety in his kennel next to me. They guy at the pet store told me that I shouldn't keep him locked in there longer than eight consecutive hours. I timed it in my head. I got home at about 1:44 am. Crawled into bed at like 2am, so I could stay in bed until 10am. It was 8:17am and I was awake and even worse, I was hot. My roomate was already gone, at least I think she was because I couldn't understand how anyone else would be surviving in this torturous Miami heat. My mom told me the other day that New York was in the high nineties. At least we have ocean surrounding us...so I really shouldn't be complaining. But, anyway, back to my story.

I roll my chunky monkey self out of bed and make my way to the temperture control thingy for the air conditioner. It was up to SEVENTY NINE!! Seriously?!?! I went ahead and lowered the temperature and made my way back to the bed. By this time, Jeter is up and jumpy because he thinks it's play time. I look at him and say..."Not yet baby! Go back to sleep." He begins to whine. It's breakfast time and what kind of mother would I be if I deny my child food?

Whatever, I was out of bed anyway. So, I open his kennel and lead him to the back door. My puppy needs to do his morning business. I leave him outside and walk back into the house so that I can get his breakfast ready for him. But, he follows me back in. I walk back out with him and ONLY when he is sure that I am watching and not moving...he poops! Yaay, he poopied outside and not in my room. I get all excited and then he recipricates by doing it again. Sad that at my age I get excited that my dog can poop outside. I thought it was a given!

We walk back in the house and Operation Feed Puppy begins. I prepare his food and bam...Jeter is eating. I take the opportunity to walk over to the bathroom and brush my braced teeth. Jeter follows. I look at him and tell him..."Go eat Jeter." He looks at me with his sad puppy dog face and his big eyes and his head tilts over just a tad. I hear his look telling me "Come on Mommy!" He wins....I'm just a sucker for wimpering and sad faces.

I walk over and I lean on the kitchen wall and watch him enjoy his breakfast. When he is done, he runs towards the front door and I take that as a sign that he needs to go use the "facilities." Turns out I was right. He runs out and bam...baby pee-peed. Again, a swell of joy fills my heart and I am happy. In turn, I make him happy. A simple good job and a tummy rub go a long way with a puppy. I start to wonder if I could benefit from one of those.

He follows me through out the house and is constantly searching for my attention and affection. He loves me for apparently no reason. It's easy. I give him and he gives me. At night when I come home, he's there. Tail wagging, smile on his puppy dog face and he is excited to see me. I can't tell you how much joy this brings me. To know that there can be a relationship where you don't have to invest everything you are and everything you could be into the other being to make it work baffles me. If it's so simple in a human/dog relationship, why can't it be simple in the human/human dynamic?