Uncomfortably numb

I've been trying really hard, as I do every few weeks, to be happy and pleasant. But the truth is I just feel numb. Maybe it's all the drugs the doctors have me on for my neurological problems, or maybe it's just that I don't give a shit anymore.

I have no life. I sit at this computer day-after-day sending out my resume. I go to interview after interview that amount to nothing. I just wonder why?

Why do I have to feel this way -- you know, like I'm a loser or something?

It's dragging me down in a way that I'd hoped it wouldn't. Sometimes you just have too much to deal with and it makes you a little sad.

So, I'm a little sad.

Rent

For the last few weeks I've literally been living unemployment check-to-unemployment check, which isn't saying much at all. I did get Food Stamps and Medicaid, which is a blessing, but it's not cash. I'm still paying on my medical bills from Delaware -- that's including a surgery -- and my electricity.  Again, this month, I can't seem to come up with the money I need to pay rent. I guess this is why I never fully unpacked my place. I was afraid of this. I'm not sure what I'll do. I guess I'll have to sell things that I never thought of selling, and I know I won't get much for. I've been working since I was 15, and this is literally the hardest I've ever had it. I'm just waiting for the tow truck to come and repossess my car at this point.

I'd hoped to find work by now, but I haven't had luck. My savings is gone and all I have are "things." So some of these "things" are going to have to be sold to survive. I just never thought in a million years I'd be in this spot at age 43.

But I have to remember that there are people out there in worse shape than me. They need greater help. I wish this country would truly take care of its own. I want to work more than anything. I'm sick of doing nothing, but looking for work. And I'd take anything.

Missing my family

It's hard to live alone and miss your family so much. I know that Caroline, Anthony and Hope aren't far away. I know that my tios aren't far away -- between Phoenix and Tucson. That's comforting.

It's my mother, my father and my grandmother I miss. It's my cousins Melinda and Steven, and my Aunt Mary (Pee Wee).

I had to deal with death at an early age. My great-grandmother who lived with us died when I was 5. My Grandmother Jackman died when I was 6. My sister, Susan died when I was 11. My mom when I was 30 and my father when I was 41. And I lost Grandma, Stephen and Melinda at 41, too.

Sometimes, it feels like I've lived my entire life in grief, but I do the best I can to make my ancestors proud.

Right now, I don't think they are so proud. I can't even get a job at one of the casinos.

It's pretty depressing.

Will I ever find a job?

My parents were very encouraging people when it came to my eduction. It was pretty much a given that I would be a writer in some form. Mama was a librarian and Daddy, an avid reader who met her in the library, always encouraged me in that direction.

My teachers throughout school said the same: You should be a writer. You have a way with words.

I tried my hand at journalism and it got me nowhere. Now I'm writing for myself. Continuing stories I'd started in my late teens based on me and my friends and our adventures. I think they'd make great juvenile books.

All I need is a little support -- emotionally and professionally. I can do it.

It's my dream job.

A haunting on Lee Street

I'm an educated woman who thinks, for the most part, rationally. At the same time, I've always believed in a higher being, in the power of spirituality, and in the thought that our ancestors surround us.

I was raised by strict Mexican Catholics drowning in superstitions. I admit to still hanging on to some -- sometimes they're hard to shake.

So I moved into my casita here on Lee Street a few weeks ago. After about a week I started hearing what sounded like knocking within the place, then doors would slam shut or open. And today I had the stereo off -- I know I turned off the power strip, and the cats can't get at it. I came into the living room today, got on my computer and the stereo came on with that Charlie Parker CD I'd been listening to.

When I was growing up I could "feel" things. By that, I mean I knew when something was about to happen. And I've always been sensitive to what I call a person's "presence."

There's a presence in this old place, and it's not negative. But I can feel it moving around the house.

I'm not a nut-job, but throw in a few superstitions: I'm up all night.

My tribute to Miss Tasha Okamoto, RIP

Americans love their pets, or "companion animals." And I'm among the group possessing "companion animals," who help get me through good and bad days.

I have two cats: a 14-year-old long-haired tuxedo and gigantic 7-year-old  tan tabby. I had a papillion, but she died at 16. So It's me and los gatos against the world. Priscilla's shy, so don't worry about her. But Diego, who weighs in at a whopping 20.9 lbs. (the vet said he isn't overweight) gets into everything.  I call him mi changuito (little monkey), and when he's really bad, I call him "demonio." Aiy, dios mio.

I don't know what I would have done without my cats the last couple of years. They've brought me so much comfort, even when Diego is running on top of the kitchen cabinets and eating all my plants.

And we, as humans, know that. It's unconditional love when there's a critter doing a little dance or jumping around when we get home from work or errands. We know there is a little guy who wants to spend time with us, cuddle with, bring us comfort.

But when you adopt an animal -- even if it's a baby -- you can't help thinking that one day in the not-so-distant-future, you're little guy will be gone;  they don't live that long. But we find happiness and love in the time we do have with them.

I recently received some very sad news from a friend in Delaware who told me she had to put her 12-year-old Mastiff down. This dog was so lovable. My friend would bring her to work and she'd just pretty much lay there until food was broken out. I once tried to walk her and it was like walking a horse! And I didn't care if she drooled on me. She gave my friend so much comfort when my friend lost her beloved Rottie while already dealing with so much. Tasha was a sweetheart, and she'll be missed terribly. May she rest in peace.

Chisme

I hate gossip. For most people, that may be a strange thing for a journalist to say.

But I really hate gossip. Especially when it has to do about me, of course. I thought I'd shed all that crap in high school, but apparently there are people in this world, who for whatever reason -- whether they think you've done them wrong or they are jealous -- will always gossip.

I have a couple of chismosos in my life right now who have said things about me to other friends that are beyond hurtful. People who I've loved all my life and who I've trusted. I'm not sure if they're bored with their own lives or maybe my situation scares them.

I do know for now, I'm trying to stay positive and healthy so I can find work. But these things bring me down and depress me. So, I've vowed not to associate myself with these people, which feels like a part of my heart is being torn out, but it has to be done so I can create the stability I need to move ahead. And I won't let anyone or anyone's lies tear down what I've rebuilt this far.

Man, I hate chisme.

Babies

I love babies. I used to think "Oh, that baby is really cute and sweet, sure I'll take care of it as long as you pick it up by the end of the night."

Then I was diagnosed with an ovarian tumor. I would never have a child of my own and it was something, yet again, that I had to deal with on my own. I think it depressed me for a few weeks. I knew what had to be done. But it made me sad in a way, that most women feel they know they'll have children of their own.

I kept away from having children before  because of the expense. I couldn't imagine how I could possibly afford to have a child. But now, when I know I never will, I wish I'd ignored that rational thinking. I wish I had a child. Someone I can play with, who would love me unconditionally and someone I can care for. Someone I could watch grow into the adult. Someone who would carry on my line.

But things happen in life that you have no control over. And I believe God has some mission for me if I'm to be alone and childless. And I'll figure out what that is soon.

The Bitch is Back

I love living in the city. This city. I'm smack-dab in the middle of town, exactly where I want to be. I'm not hearing gunshots nightly; yeah I hear a siren here and there, but I can hear the train at 3 a.m., and it comforts me. It  comforts me in the same way that the rain does here in the desert. It's so familiar, but rarely there.

Tonight was a night when I got both. It's been raining all evening -- the desert's winter rains -- and I went out on my back porch to smoke a cigarette.   I heard both sirens and a couple cop cars. Then I heard the train -- the whistles of the train. Probably transporting coal or cotton, or God know what else. I've always wanted to know what the train whistles mean. I suppose some day I'll find out.

But what I know right now, is that at 2:58 a.m. on a Saturday night is that I love living in the city. And I'm not going anywhere else. This is where I belong.

So Tucson, this bitch is back, and she's here to stay.

Single and unemployed

Gannett -- more specifically -- The News Journal in Wilmington, Del., laid me off in July.

I'm a 43-year-old, single woman with little means thanks to what I was being paid by Gannett.  And I'm someone with health problems. I recently gave up Cobra because of the cost and stood in line for hours to get Arizona's version of Medicaid.

I'll back this bitterness up a bit:

I used to live in the Monterey-area of California. I loved living there and the friends I made, but  I became unhappy with my job and wanted to move closer to my sister, her family. and most importantly, my elderly father. I asked Gannett to transfer me, if they could, to an to area around Philly so I'd be close enough to help with my ill father. I was told I would go to Cherry Hill, N.J., as a copy editor. I'd also posted my résumé on JournalismJobs.com and ended up with three interviews in N.J., and Pa. But I wanted to stay with Gannett.

So, it was the first quarter of the financial year, and when I got there, I was told the job that I would have at Cherry Hill was eliminated. So Gannett sent me to a couple other interviews in N.J., to The News Journal, and I had separate interviews in Maryland and Pa. I had several job offers and chose The News Journal. It seemed exactly what I was looking for at that point in my career, and I liked the folks there a lot.

I worked for Gannett for nine years. But I was given hell about trying to help take care of my father, and my own health issues.

I worked at The News Journal for eight years. I did what I was asked t do. I rarely missed deadlines. But they wanted me gone. It didn't matter that Daddy was dead and I was busting my ass to learn new skills. They wanted me gone. I guess it's my big mouth at questioning stories and their relevance. Whatever it was, I -- and several other copy editors -- was chosen to be laid off on July 9, 2009.

I lived for a few weeks on unemployment and Gannett's so-called "Transitional Payment Plan."

Yes, the Transitional Payment Plan, or as I started to refer to it as the "Toilet Paper Plan."  In other words, we would receive no severance. What this "plan" did was make  up for the difference in my weekly earnings AFTER my unemployment check. So if I'm getting $355 from unemployment, but I was making $980 a week (gross), than they would send me a check for $625. I had the TPP plan for nine weeks -- for each year I worked for the company. So this also meant that the amount of unemployment (in weeks) was greatly shortened by their brilliant TPP.

Then I knew as those nine weeks ticked away, and I'm still not working, that I'd only be getting that $355 -- and that, luckily because President Obama and Congress subsidized a portion,

So when my Toilet Paper Plan dried up, I started thinking about my pension, and I believed it would give me some security -- I had nothing else but the pension. So I cashed it in. And the unemployment checks stopped. I'd envisioned that I could sock the pension money away, just in case I ran out of unemployment and still didn't have a job. I'm not dumb, I know the situation out there. Well, now the pension money is all gone and I started getting unemployment checks again. Oh, I do get Food Stamps now, am on the state's MercyCare healthcare program and I'm going to the Food Bank once a month. This makes it easier to keep my car and pay rent and utilities.

When you're single and get laid off, you don't have the financial and emotional support you need to get through it. It's scary. It's frustrating, and it's embittering. You don't have someone next to you who can tell you, "Well, I still have a job, and things will be tough, but OK."

I moved back to Arizona with my sister and her family in the hopes of a better situation. Things have gotten worse, but for the most part, I'm content. I know that there are people out there worse off than me or in the same position. But so many have spouses who can help carry them, no matter what the financial strain. And I'm glad for those people, because it's so hard when you're alone. And I'm definitely jealous.

I know I'll find work soon. I'm in the land that I love and am connected to. I'm home. But a job sure would make things even better.

And that's my rant on being single and unemployed.

Cat rant

I love cats. Anyone who knows me well, knows this. I suppose at some point I could turn into a crazy cat lady, but I appreciate the space I have and the space they need.

I've got two gatos: Priscilla (Queen of the Desert) was born here in Tucson. I adopted her nearly 14 years ago. She's my "funny bunny," because she looks like those Dutch Dwarf rabbits that I like to call black-and-white cookie bunnies. I adopted Diego -- who I sometimes refer to as Gigantor or changuito -- in Delaware. He's the guy in the pic on the left.

I had a cat that was found in the desert near my house in Huachuca City when I was about 16. He was purebred seal-point Siamese. Someone was breeding them and he was the runt, so they dropped him off in the desert to die.  (Our vet knew the breeders and reported it.)  My neighbor found him while walking in the desert and brought him to me. My parents let me keep him. He was in bad shape -- he was starving and had the worst eye infections. But I nursed him back to health, kept him with me all the time I could and gave him all the love he deserved. He was the best cat I ever had, although he was super chatty, as Siamese tend to be. I could walk for blocks around my neighborhood and he would be right by my side, just like a dog. Just before I left Arizona, while my father and I were still living together, Orion was attacked by a coyote. Luckily, he survived. He was 17 and his vet said he had "perfect muscle tone" which is why he was able to escape ol' Wylie. But six months later, Orion disappeared. I searched for him everywhere. But I knew a coyote finally got him.

And this is why we must keep our cats inside!  Some say it's cruel, but the cats don't know any better if they are raised inside. I would give anything to see Diego and Priscilla roam around free outside, but they are like my children because I don't have kids. I don't want anything to happen to them. I recently  got a harness and leash for Diego so I can take him out to explore the world. He loves it, but I've always got an eye on him.

There are so many unwanted cats and dogs in this world who deserve a good home. Consider it. And consider it well. Do your research and find out if it's the right animal for you. We are responsible for them. Spaying and neutering is only the beginning of pet ownership. And if you don't neuter your pet, because you think you'll breed it one day -- you better breed it. A neutered animal lives a longer and healthier life.

And that's my rant on cats.

My parents

I guess with my sugar cane post, I should explain a bit about my parents. My mother was Mexican and my father was white. Daddy was 45 and Mama was 25 when they married, two weeks after their first date. He was Protestant, and she was Catholic. We were raised as Mexican Catholics. So when I talk about eating things that may seem odd to anglos, it's because I am Mexican -- a guera, but Mexican. l'll talk more about my folks another time.

Sugar cane

I was craving something sweet tonight. It reminded me of going to the grocery store with Mama when I was a kid. There were big stalks of sugar cane. She'd get them for me and my sisters as a treat. Pure, unadulterated sugar. We'd chew and suck on the stalks, which were like chewing on these tough shreddy stalks of bamboo or something. But it was good.  It was sweet and the texture was pleasant when you got used to it. I never see sugar cane in stores anymore, unless I go into a Latino store. I'm always tempted, but I think at my age it would probably make me sick. I love that image and memory of the sugar cane, though.

In the beginning

I grew up with a librarian-mother and a father I rarely saw because he worked swing shifts as an air traffic controller on Fort Huachuca in Arizona.

Yes, I grew up with a librarian-mother. That meant hours at the library from the time I could crawl. I learned to read and write by the time I was 4. I could shelve books using the Dewey Decimal System by the time I was 7.  Being in the library made me love books -- the pictures, the words, the cloth covers, the paper, the print, the musty smell of the stacks.

And I knew what I was meant to do: write. Write for myself, for my parents, my friends, for anyone who would read what I had to say. And I had a lot to say -- and I still do.