The Dollar Store is looking pretty good...

March 29, 2013

Sorting myself out day!

My rule of thumb is to work at tackling whatever off-putting task I am avoiding and finishing it. If I don’t complete the undertaking it picks like a vulture at a fresh dead festering bloody rabbit on my brain until I drive myself into the Looney Bin. When I get to the tough bit of the project I stand up, walk outdoors and contemplate the blinding sun, brilliant melting snow and come to a conclusion that helps me take the next step forward, as painstaking as it may be.

Toggling between Resume work, photographing artwork for staging newly listed homes and forwarding them to the appropriate party (where is a teenager/young adult when I need one?) letting the pack of dogs in and out, chasing the dust bowls around the house with a broom, throwing in several loads of cold water wash, wearisome job lead follow-thru, moving personal possessions from one room to another, and slurping cold coffee while fending off hunger, generating more options for my Resume (how many hats can I wear before they all tumble to the ground or the monkeys steal them on-by-one as I nap?).

Encounter other job seekers by phone, talking of the demons that scare them into staying at home and watching the Tube, over-eating, indulging in link after educational or otherwise link on-line, start other projects around the house, yard, take aptitude tests, read significantly depressing articles about the job market, garage re-organizing, re-configuring the snake pit…anything to avoid the silent telephone and empty calendar. It is far easier to allow the  Avoidance of Responsibility persona to take charge than manage the fear creeping in and taking over the bank account, mortgage payment, threat of utility shut-off, empty kitchen cabinets, refrigerator or gas tank. Without a group of like-minded people or close friends to confide in, to relay the deep-seated anguish of rejection, sense of not being good enough and wallowing in self-pity, it can get very isolating and extraordinarily frightening. I am ever so grateful for the support system I have between friends and family, job search centers and delving into educational as well as emotional tools of practice. Yet, I can tear up when I consider the light at the end of the tunnel needs a higher magnification number than I have in my eyeglass case.

“It’s Friday and no one wants to accept solicitation phone calls” was the mantra from my friends today. “I will call them on Monday.”

Fed the horses early this morning and next thing I know it is time to make “supper.” Yowser!

Fair Jobs

March 28, 2013

The outdoor cat is spying on the red squirrel racing around the yard, seeking seeds from the bird feeder. I want that job. Only I can’t have it, it belongs to the cat, I have to find my own way, my own role on the path on my journey. So I am off to a Job Fair to pan for the Golden Parachute.

The Eagan Civic Arena parking lot is jammed with cars so I am forced to circle ‘round and ‘round three large lots before I find a spot to stop my embarrassingly gas-guzzling vehicle and park. Didn’t have to pull a Kathy Bates move and smash the car that stole my space, fortunately. I am not in the mood to head to the police station in handcuffs today. I feel very desperate since the swarms that are entering the doorway ahead of me are getting all of the highest paying, best work environment, greatest benefits and emotionally satisfying jobs! I should have left the house earlier. Besides the fact that I am in heels and have to limp farther to the front entrance, I am surprisingly hopeful.

Black suits and blonde hair fill the Arena, manila folders, briefcases, smart leather bags and empty applications gripped in their hands. Each organized booth had bite-sized candy, engraved pens, plastic water bottles, wrench sets, sleek garden tools, sky diving jump suits, enough complimentary bricks to lay a welcoming path to the front door, hotel room giveaways, flights to China, vacation homes in the Caribbean…yes, you missed it all!

The more popular corporate vendors have a line of patient though gut-wrenching anxiety-filled job seekers. As I stand behind folks, I can hear the murmur of troubles. One startlingly pretty brunette worries about her 19 year old sassy daughter that is moving back into the house. Where will she sleep, how will she cope with the adjustment, will she be able to keep her job and perhaps step up and go to college, obtain proper healthcare and overcome mental health challenges that seem to stand in the way of a rich future?

A man in a brown suit jacket and a bit on the tattered side black pants complained about losing his job at the worst possible time. Taxes are due, summer vacation plans to visit his ailing grandmother are on the calendar and expensive car repairs are splayed out on his lengthy to do list. His wife works nights, six days a week and is not around much to discuss the distressing options.

At the REM booth a woman about my age in a black dress with an exaggerated colorful scarf is fretting about her oldest son who has never left home, is having a difficult time adjusting to the changes in the household since she lost her nursing job. She nearly tears up when sharing her fears of his acting out with aggressive behavior again and struggles with drug and alcohol abuse.

Just when I suspected I had heard it all the man behind me in a silk shirt and linen pants blurted out he has to get home since he is taking a new medication that gives him diarrhea! Oh boy, I have to bolt out of there with my bagful of goodies and a few meager leads to the job of my dreams.

Pulling teeth

March 27, 2013

This is a chicken and egg dilemma. Simultaneous windows open to the Resume, Cover Letter, job search links, company research sites, Reference List and meditation tapes sounding off in the background and a cup of Lemon Calm tea to keep me from killing the cats in the house. Which job title fits my resume best, what are my salary requirements, I am in the market for a job __ miles from my home…what home? How do I state my qualifications to a specific job and fit the company philosophy without scandalously plagiarizing the request? So, as you can imagine, I would much rather be getting my teeth pulled than juggle multiple windows and make irreparable decisions regarding my potential employment. Did I say that? I really don’t mean it! Please!

We are a first world nation with many possibilities for work yet the task of discovering the key to actually attaining a position that is a best fit as well as having the potential for making a livable wage is daunting. In a developing country it is often whom you know and how much money you can dole out for referral fees to win that post. The story and process is much more complex and mental health damaging in the United States of America. Would I be willing to bribe a friend to get a job? Hm.

Life is good

March 26, 2013

The comfort of a US doctor’s office is surreal. I sit in a cozy intact fabric chair with current and varied magazines within reach of my extended hand, one of a handful of people awaiting a visit with the professionally dressed surgeon. Smiling Neurologists, Podiatrists and their astonishing credentials plastered above my head in a sturdy wooden frame, assuring me I will be in good hands among the well-insured.

I amble up to the front desk asking for assistance from a staff member who can listen to my incredulous story, take a gander at my x-ray and give me advice as to my next step in treating my tender and aching left foot. “I am in need of surgery to remove a pin that is pressing along my inner bone,” I explain. “What is the next step and how can I get attended to in the University Health Services clinic?”

A friendly and professional woman appears to take great interest in the x-ray I humbly present and asks me if she is able to take the film to the physician who specializes in lower ankles to feet. It was far more than I expected to be able to set up an appointment in conjunction with my good friend’s follow-up visit next month. The physician came out to speak with me directly about the pin removal and possible trimming or extraction of two more longer upper pins.

I am uncertain as to the expense of it all yet am happy I have been introduced to a more than capable surgeon and extensive system that deems it all possible. Tearfully grateful and utterly pleased with myself and the promising situation I march out of the lobby with my $2 parking slip and treat myself and my friends to Khan’s Mongolian Bbq lunch. “Life is good,” as they say in a first world excellent healthcare at your fingertips country!

Times a wastin'

March 25, 2013

Navigating the job search links, searching for socially responsible companies located in the Twin Cities is a mind-numbing task in and of itself. The direct sites do not contain a physical address for the company so the tenuous journey takes me, link after uninformative link to another inappropriate state. The idea that most job seekers are on the search for six months to a year is completely believable now. Of course, I would like to think that I am the exception rather than the rule and can find and land employment by the first of the month! Envision me with a wonder Woman stance smiling and humored.

It's not that my life totally rocks except for a more than a few tricky spots, wet and exceedingly slippery patches, and physical and mental challenges.

But that my life soars, in large part, due to the tricky maneuvering spots, gradual melting black ice slick patches, and discovering the next step challenges.

I recall the past scenes where I felt shockingly bothered by the idea that I was not acceptable, not enough to be hired for a position I knew I was more than capable of filling. The resumes go out into the great abyss of the internet and I never knew if it even reached its destination. Very infrequently was I informed I did not get a post and my resume would be kept on file for future openings. In order to avoid the attachment to the end result I can see this as a journey and not the means to an end. An emotionally confrontational path, eliminating more of what I do not want to do “for a living” to one that is life-changing and a place I rejoice in being a part of daily.

Imagine myself in a setting that is fast-paced and fulfilling, stimulating and encouraging for the staff and clientele. Not being on the road, fighting traffic to arrive in frustration or upset would be appealing, walking distance to my home sounds perfect!

For all of you whom are seeking your best livelihood-I send you a warm hug and whisper words of encouragement for only accepting what turns you on versus a job that fills the refrigerator.

Time clock

March 24, 2013

Events revolving around the house must accommodate the horse, dog, cat, wild bird (a number of turkeys even come to pick away under the feeders) and youth feeding schedule. Now I know what my mother must have felt like managing and organizing a house with nine children! No wonder my parents were resistant and I was not allowed to own a dog. Gerbils, guinea pigs, rats, chicks hatched from the incubator and field mice were the extent of our pets until I begged and pleaded to get a puppy when I turned 12 which was then hit by a car and had to be put to sleep after a short nine months.

This is just a brand new kind of me! The entire day was spent plunking out a chronological resume for my employment search. It is laborious to generate a long list of tasks for each job I have ever wrangled in my life (working since the age of 12) and stretching my brain cells to recall the names of my supervisors let alone company addresses, phone numbers not to mention the job descriptions. Cut and paste from the web makes things a lot easier than coming up with job duties and the full scope of said positions. As they say, it is a full-time job trying to land a full-time job! The majority of my weekend has been unabatedly positioned in front of my laptop with my lame foot propped up, warmish wake up! herbal tea by my side and inadvertently scanning the kitchen clock anticipating up-and-coming feeding times. I gobble grapefruit, apples, bananas, nuts, remains from the popcorn bag, yogurt and blueberries to ward off boredom and lethargy. Already chased the dust bunnies around the house with the swifter so they are no longer a distraction.

The on-line individual corporate applications are exceedingly tedious, tear my hair out time-consuming and make me parched. I toggle back and forth to obtain information from the internet, control “c” and control “v” from my multiple resume revisions and cover letters and send out pleading inquiries for current contact information from long ago fellow detainees. I cannot expect the scanner to look beyond appearances to discover I am the best candidate for the post. Simply have to buckle down and do the work! Drat.

And so the story goes..

March 23, 2013

Four blanketed horses, two rambunctious Boxers, my brute of a dog, three mischievous indoor and one complaining outdoor cat and a sleepy young man are all in my care this weekend while my friends are taking a much needed weekend snowmobiling excursion. I putz around the house, shuffling my things from one spot to another, scramble through my past to add to my Resume, wrestle with the buttons on the four remotes to search for  stimulating or informative yet interesting movie selections and juggle my petting hands between all of the attention-seekers. The animals and young adult lounge around with “nothing to do” and I am sorting my life housed in a dozen or so boxes out in the pull barn. “What was I thinking?” passes thru my mind frequently as I shuffle admired books, handy kitchen items, cherished photos miserably stuck to one another, rapidly outdated clothing, irs.gov-deemed never-to-be-thrown-away documents and can’t-squeeze-into shoes. An insight into where and whom I was at the time of packing to head from Washington state to Toronto, Canada. Or so the story goes!

Oopa!

March 22, 2013

As I entered the movie theatre the woman ahead of me held the door open and “Hi!” blurted out of my mouth versus “Thank you!” Such a strange process the brain goes thru in automatic translation.

Often giggle and chortle at my errors, not recalling a word in English and continue to dream in Portuguese. When I talk to myself I also realize it is in Portuguese. “OOPA!” came bursting out of my mouth and a friend asked if that was a bad word, couldn’t even explain what it means but something to the effect “Oh my!” in response to the cat knocking something off the shelf and racing off.

Bananas and avocados are bland and tasteless in the States, I crave the fresh cheeses and wake up feeling deprived of hot fresh nutrition-less rolls from the bakery down the street. Pipo is missing me, Theo sends FB messages constantly on the dog’s behalf. Hear he is pacing the floor in front of my old bedroom door, waiting for his daily walk to the Dunes and beach. In the snow and cold and the simple fact that my foot is not as stable, I walk much less and miss Pipo and the Campeche neighborhood.

I am grateful for the sunshine and warmer days (it’s 32 degrees!) in Minnesota. Happy to be wearing one less layer around the house and knowing the sidewalks are clear of snow and black ice.

Job Jargon

March 21, 2103

Next to a coffee-colored woman with a caramel silk scarf wrapped around and around her head who is muttering under her breath. Dates, names of Superiors, searching for action words to describe her multitude of tasks at her last position, whispering her email address to incorporate near the top of the document and occasionally sighing loudly. The click of computer keys interrupt my thoughts of scrawny Paula, working at 12 in my parent’s in their infamous for the foamy root beer A&W. Sweltering brown corduroy pants, cover-what-little-butt-I-had-back-then burnt orange poly top with brown trim and an ecstatic grin on my face. I was earning minimum wage, I believe it was $2.35 per hour plus tips we scrounged and divided amongst the other ‘hops.

Barely able to swing the metal tray laced with a rubber mat on the bottom to prevent the heavy octagonal mugs from sliding off, car hopping was my favorite assignment since it meant I appeared to be working hard and could generate more tips for the effort. The customers took advantage of a skinny twerp trying to earn money for not-hand-me-down clothes, dog food and treats for Sybil, the Samoyed and college tuition. Ambitious and stingy, fiercely loyal and determined I didn’t let many of those mugs slip through our fingers into the thieves cupboards or park on robber’s desks as pencil holders. 

As I tread slowly across the foggy fields of memory creating my chronological employment history I realize just how complicated and seemingly random that path was.  However it led me to the place I am today, through the multitude of Managers, Supervisors, shop owners, fellow employees, name, rank and serial number of so many whom were making their way across the sands of time with me. A number were threatened and against me yet that is another story in and of itself.  Placed in their snow boots, leather sandals, rubber flip flops, pumps or Keens, I may have done the very same horrid thing.

A slight man, a bit older looking than me, dressed in all shades of black, across the aisle and behind me has been out of work for over six months and is nearly in tears considering the loss of his family home.  How do we as a society cope with the suffering of a long string of unbeknownst to us, poor choices, bad karma, indiscriminant decisions,  string of wicked luck and inattentive management of what we once had? We stick together as a community. I call my friend, write a letter, send an email, text, create telepathic bond or yell into a tin can attached to another by a long string. Whatever it takes!

Colder than a

March20, 2013

As I glanced to the left of me I spotted a figure behind a wheelchair on the sidewalk. A thin person holding something in their hand while wrangling a chair in front of them. I hollered out and ran to meet an exceedingly thin woman dressed in a stained long-sleeved powder blue shirt with ragged ends at the wrist. Her summer thread slacks bared wide stripes that hardly held the brittle wind at bay. Her long fingernails stark and white clung to a plastic crinkled cup of some sort of brownish liquid swirling with once crisp squared cubes softly banging the sides of the glass. A long narrow face framed with a smattering of oily fringe led to narrow pitiful green eyes, ragged around the edges. Her mouth responded in a mumble when I inquired about her destination. “At the end of the block,” was all she said. A thin grim line faced away from me as I encouraged her to just sit and take a ride back to her destination. It is bitter cold and my hot tatty breath steamed the back of her head as I whisked the silly woman back home.

We arrived at the end of the city block and she then pointed to the Hi Rise at the dead end of the street! Little did I know I should have brought a snack for the trek. It was a good half mile and I sorely regretted offering my help. I was behind schedule yet could hardly give up in the middle of my kind act for the day. I slipped and slithered along with my stiff ankle wedged in a winter boot, snug in its agony. I got the lightweight wheelchair stuck a number of times, the breathing cadaver sloshed her drink around as she barely lifted her scrawny hinney up off the seat to inch forward. Several times I had to pick up the chair from underneath her increasingly heavier weight to scoot it forward in the built-up snow on the sidewalks edge.

Not such nice conversation was rattling around in my head as I puffed along, avoiding the careening car that didn’t give us a nevermind. A kind truck driver stopped and witnessed my slow progress across the next road which made me keenly aware of just how cold my passenger must be.

The Hi Rise loomed in front of me and I sighed in relief. The thin woman must have profusely spouted her thanks yet her specific words did not register, for after looking her directly in the eye, I was lost in acceptance of compassion and gratitude for my mental and physical capabilities.

Piles of pebbles

March 19, 2013

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY QUEEN TAELOR!

Fiscal solvency is creating knots in the pit of my stomach. The grand scheme of things to come, job searches and selling my soul to a company is on the immediate horizon. A one-career-in-a-lifetime doesn’t appear like that in our culture anymore, however, we play many roles in our lives that correlate with a corporation mission statement and personnel policies. The perfect position would entail the demolition of cultural, socioeconomic and gender differences. Wouldn’t that be a brilliant community!

Back to Credit Cards, Debit Cards, shuffling dull green bills around in my wallet and processing transfers on-line. I no longer am responsible for turning coins over to inspect the side that reveals the value to hand over to a clerk. Colorful unrecognized images of women and men on a 2, 5, 10, 20, 50 and 100 real, that do not represent my country, no longer loiter in my pockets.

Budgets and financial strategy take over my thoughts as I contemplate my salary requirements on a Cover Letter. In Brasil, one works for a company for 40 hours per week. If over-time occurs, the hours are reduced by that amount the following work week, at least in theory. A portion of the salary is set aside for retirement yet most people are well aware they must save for their future since it is enough for survival alone. Tax returns are filed at the end of the year as well. No refunds are submitted, it is simply an opportunity for the government to generate income from Self-Employment tax. No one spoke of credits so as far as I know, there are no Child Tax credits, no entrepreneurial credits, no mileage reimbursements, Disaster Relief, medical compensation, etc.   

I think I would like to head to a place where we trade for work in pebbles and handshakes.

Santos team

March 18, 2013

Chilled to the bone, to the ankle bone as a matter of fact.

Working the system-healthcare, job search, car insurance and licensing, coordinating cell phone contacts, navigating with GPS woman (and arguing with her when she becomes insistent!)

Doubts, worries, frustrations, considerations, alternatives, and overload. My mind constantly works at translating from Portuguese to English. Forgetting words in my native language since I have not utilized it extensively for such a long time is ravaging my brain. It is a constant comparison between there and here, here and there. I love to share the experiences as the memories pop into my head, joggled by similarities with  people, events, handling of money, shopping, brushing my teeth, turning on the water faucet, driving down the road, a change of clothes, barking dogs. The present moment of the past drift away as the deep tan fades.

An alarm goes off to remind me of places I need to be, people to connect with, list of to dos, keys to carry, and links to follow for the next step in my life is such a far cry from where I was four short days ago wearing simple flip flops, a swimsuit and sarong. In a real bed, versus twin-sized blown up mattress or child’s lumpy bed with numerous stuffed toys glaring down at me, I can hardly sleep for the memories and what is next on my path. A dichotomy of cultures to divide my heart and dreams.

The 2014 World Cup plans spiral around with promise of days plotting a course of planes, trains, buses, automobiles and soccer (futbol) games!

St Patrick's Day

St Patrick’s Day, 2013

Out to the bar, Newmans, oldest establishment in St Paul since 1887 with wild hogs with teeth bared, moose heads lolling above, decapitated alligator staring from the walls made for a lively atmosphere. I did dance a bit and have had little repercussion in my ankle which is great though I am still not able to squeeze into my fashionable boots (yes, I did find some of my winter items stored in the pull barn.)

In Brasil, the norm was sharing a big bottle of beer and a cachaca drink (hard core moonshine-like liquor loaded with ice, limes and spoonful after spoonful of sugar. Large platters of breaded fish, French fries, breaded chicken and pastels are also divided and conquered by the group. The cachaca glass is drained from one hand to the next and another ordered without much discussion about it.

I kept my hands to myself at Newmans but it was tempting to reach across the table and swipe a sweet potato fry or nab a bite of a tasty sandwich. I drank my own beers and asked for a taste of someone’s tequila or whiskey when curious. I miss the communal social aspect of being out at the bar yet I will get used to it just like the snow and cold, I don’t have much of a choice now do I?

In the clearing stands a ...

March 16, 2013

Four shirts, two pair of pants, socks, a sweatshirt, gloves, wool-lined winter coat and I still shiver uncontrollably in minus a bizillion degrees outdoors while walking Tyrus around the streets of buzzing downtown St Paul. Needless to say it is tricky to transition to Minnesota winter.  From eighty plus degrees to minus seven makes me envy to cat parked by the heat vent in the hall.

Surrounded by three big energetic dogs, four lively cats (one who adores beer and another tosses around limes from the counter) four blanketed horses and giving and supportive family…what could be a better haven?

Dogged tired so I will make this short and to the point…brushed my teeth, washed face and hands and came back to bed only to find the Boxer in my spot on the pillow!

Snowy roads and incommunicado day.  Tomorrow has already arrived so I push aside my furry friend to get some much needed REM sleep!

Task at Hand

March 15, 2013

Bitter tears stream down my tired and dampen the spirits face aged with long wakeful travels. My intention of working extended and break my back laborious hours in the glorious productive fields with inventive farmers never came to fruition. Many months of detailed preparation, communication with contacts regarding integral seasonal timing, sorted complicated transportation and gratis room and board fizzled, disappeared in the blink of an accident on a slippery slope. The intense grief appears out of the blue and I couldn’t be more grieved at the loss of my unrequited dream.

In front of me lies the challenge of maneuvering our survivor level wage rate employment prospects riddled with rejection and discouragement. Unless of course I manage to greet the chance of work for trade in another field entirely, one that doesn’t require long hours on the balls of my feet nor an expertise in fresh mud-ridden produce. The lay of the land of opportunity, our streets paved with gold that await my positive thinking approach, a Super Woman’s stance of confidence and professional foot attire to support my lumpish left foot is imperative. All is available in the Land of the Home and the Free!

The grueling task of a search and rescue operation discovering the guarded skills and talents I packed away for future use those many months ago before accepting my ex-pat mission is at hand. I cannot possibly manage without the devoted support of my multitude of friends and family whom spew resources and suggestions I open-mindedly consider unless of course I stew in my stubbornness and dig in my heels with resistance.

I could be a pilot, astronaut, firefighter, brain surgeon, circus clown, golf cart driver, go go dancer, life guard, writer, professional basketball player, renter of wheelchairs at the Mall, street sweeper, Global Globe Award decision maker, fashion model, Geriatric Care Manager, photographer, tiger attendant at the zoo. The sky is the limit. My mind whirls with the chance to discover the particular posts that will reflect who I am now and what I am capable of.  

Now, if only I could shake the inability to recognize objects (visual agnosia) like the patient in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Guess I will go back to bed!

Beat it home

March 14, 2013

The last minute scramble to the airport by a good-looking, taciturn dark-skinned cabbie who dropped me in a hurry at the inconsistent airport commercial bus stop was a feat in and of itself. Upon arrival none of the numerous attendants were certain of Air Canada’s check-in desk locale so I raced around from one end of the terminal to the other with a heavily loaded cart to land at the destination in time for my flight. Guzzle water from my smart green reusable container as I wait my turn at the security checkpoint, taking in the various passengers kissing their hosts, family members, and lovers goodbye. I politely nod in agreement, it is difficult to grasp the multitude of sensations passing through my heart and soul as I quiver with sweat from the OJ Simpson journey and anticipation of the loss of my adopted country. I had to be content with a silent farewell to those whom touched me in my just shy of six weeks mission.

The flight to Toronto Pearson was a sordid affair with wailing children, a vomiting woman, men bantering in enthusiastic voices as though no one was sitting within earshot. The annoying announcements in three languages interrupted my three full-length films throughout the night. Who can sleep in such commotion and non-conforming seats? My aching stomach battled with the once fresh vegetarian meal so I staggered up and down the football field aisle to the restroom far too many times to keep track. At least I paid attention to the suggestion I wouldn’t like the coffee by the charming male flight attendant and drank cup after cup of sweet juice, hot bitter tea, and water from the petroleum based single use plastic water bottle. The ten hour plus flight passed like a child awaiting Christmas in July and I was dog-tired upon our pre-sunrise arrival.

A week dried cranberry scone and diluted cup of Seattle’s Best coffee woke me up long enough to walk the long distance to the newly revised Customs System. Step One scans the boarding pass and then a long wait with a disgruntled group while unbeknownst to me, Customs employees scrounge through my bags looking for illegal paraphernalia. Step Two allows the agent to scan my Passport and I enter into the slot to speak with the chatty Step Three Customs gent. Off I go along the corridors to Security where I pass the water guzzling, shoe shunning, metal stripping, ziplock bag stuffing, computer juggling passengers through X-ray to my gate.

I have to leave the warm building to climb the metal stairs to my seat on the small plane parked at the last possible gate on the planet. It is too cold for my light summer jacket, yoga pants and snazzy painted tennis shoes. I long for the fuzzy boots, scarves, wool coats and gloves glued to the rest of the brilliant passengers. No one is up for sharing.

My head bobbles as I manage to stay awake long enough to read bits of my hardback book I can’t recall the subject of, from one paragraph to another. An hour and 53 minutes and we are in Minneapolis. My bags pop off the conveyor belt and I stupidly ask the woman next to me where I need to take my luggage for a Customs search. Apparently as I waited in Pearson Airport, they were passing inspection!

Snow, freezing temps and long hugs from Taelor and my friends brings me back to the reality of my life before fields on the farm, fractured bones, lengthy conversations over platters of sustenance and relationships that will last my lifetime.

Brigadeiros are coming

March 13, 2013

Feliz Aniversario Max!

The two little recent huggable and kissable men in my life woke up as I did and stormed down the stairs to say goodbye. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the chance to give them my fond farewells since they were overtired and went to bed kicking and screaming last night. But there they were, smiling and loveable bright and early to tell me to come back soon.

Carpooled in with Katia and, per her usual schedule, had shockingly high octane coffee in a thimble and a cheese roll bigger than my head for breakfast at the little café ‘round the corner from her office. We struggled with my over-packed luggage to the taxi stand and eventually a guy showed up in a marked cab to bring me to my destination that, from my trusty ipod, looked “just around the bend.” As we drove around and around several blocks, making turns this way and that as the meter ticked-on I got angry, muttering about the R$17 missed turn so he admitted it was his fault and he charged me a flat rate. I was squirming in the back, controlling my upset in my per-usual angst in a cab with the meter running and running…don’t know how the big city people cope!

Hitched a ride into downtown with my friend, Guilerme on his way into town (he decided to take a cab today for some odd reason so I got to practice my taxi calming skills once again) and they dropped me off at the Metro Station (Se.) I am forever asking a million people which way to the this, that, or the other and I get a different response every time. Brasilians, like most people, like to be helpful and blurt out seemingly exact directions whether they know or not. It is a great game of who looks like they REALLY know as they are pointing, gesturing and nodding in earnest.

Toodled around the main drag, side streets, back alleys while out on a search-and-rescue for a real leather (not those synthetics made in CHINA) purse for my favorite daughter. I never did find the color nor shape she was requesting so I bought a few other things just to make the trip worth my while, sat and nibbled more cheese rolls (this time they were the size of a nickel in diameter and were 7 for R$1) slurping a singeing hot coffee and watching the shoppers go by. There were a lot of sets of police officers in and around the area, dressed in tight grey uniforms with black shiny boots and official badges on their arms.

Careening around the Metro maze and hopping on several lines before submerging into the heat of the day and wide open streets of bustling Sao Paulo. People sleeping off to the side with bare feet the size of bear claws and tattered clothing, face turned towards the crowd in a trusting snore. One woman wore a tattered flattened box over the top as a filmy blanket. She looked relatively peaceful in her impoverished state.

I am caring for the wee ones tonight while one parent is off to a party and the other has class in town. Already shared my plethora of photos on the ipod for the now four year old (his birthday was Sunday before last) and I got the lowdown on his party, presents and was able to sample the left over brigadeiros. They are yummy rolls made of chocolate, coconut, and something-or-other rolled in sprinkles or bald! The adults swarm the tables and have their elbows sharpened when the brigaderos arrive so you have to be quick!

Age Old Story

March 12, 2013

Happy Birthday Seppo!

Fresh homemade orange swirl cake and French rolls from the bakery sit prettily on the organized breakfast table, rich coffee prepared in the pot, mango jelly, sweet butter, powdered milk in the can, and silverware perched on the folded napkin. Who will prepare all of this for me when I arrive home? No, I have not taken any of this for granted!

Wow, boy energy is sooo different than girls. They run around like wound-up toys, flop around on the couches, cry at the drop of a hat for reasons unknown, provoke one another, viciously smack, spew grape juice all over grandma’s white blouse and hide under the pillow to suck their thumbs (hated to share with the parents that I sucked my thumb until the first grade!) as well as succumbing to cuddles, kisses and extended sweets from the crowd of admirers. From the farm in October to this particular apartment, I have been exposed to boys. I wonder what gender my grandchild/children will be!

Two more than full-time working parents (Fa left the house at 3:45 this morning, Katia at 6:30 and will arrive after 7:30pm,) two complete sets of grandparents, a great grandma, one capable nanny and a jolly maid, a handful of various subject teachers, and swimming and karate instructors all manage the complicated care of these two young lads.

The baba is asking me what I am writing about, I tell her my story is generally about family relationships and the fact that things are slowly changing here in Brasil, especially in this enormous city. I go on to explain how the children and elders are usually physically separated from one another. Families spread across the country or perhaps worlds apart. Children back home go to school generally from 9-2:30 and sometimes have after school activities but not a full-time babysitter like her. I could only describe the daycare facilities, home care and after school programs and cost from a million years ago when I was the single mother of a little girl. Carolina is incredulous!

There are already several nursing homes in the city of Sao Paulo and surrounding area and it is a swiftly growing industry, unfortunately. Oodles of medications and a longer lifespan increase the accountability of family care. What would have been a shocking shift in elder care will soon sadly become run-of-the-mill.

Hit the Mall again, thinking I would surprise my darling daughter with a purse, after a long walk in the sun, thru the dangerous shady streets of the favella and asking a gazillion people, I found the Shopping Center! Close inspection of the purse revealed a “Made in China” label and the fabric is a darned close to leather polyester! Toured the Mall since I had made the treacherous journey, risking my life and self-doubt and ended up with a magazine. Wow, made it home alive!

The favella looks like cardboard boxes stacked on top of one another, thin clothes lines strung over slabs of concrete with shirts, shorts and well-worn socks hanging in despair. Faded and stained couches, spring-less chairs and mostly black strewn garbage bags cover the sidewalks so I had to skirt into the street. Young teens rambled along since there are two gigantic schools along the main streets, yelling and kids noises drifting from the concrete buildings with high walls and prison-like sinisterly energy. I startled as a man came up behind me then passed around my body, clomping in barely-holding-it-together black clumps resembling shoes. I felt badly, probably looked like I was going to jump outta my pasty white skin yet he didn’t even glance in my direction. The women trudging up the hill once I arrived in the safe, rich neighborhood were clearly maids on their way home from a day of eat-off-the-floor sanitizing, toothbrush-in-the-gaps cleaning, questionable cooking, piles of used-just-once laundry, chasing after little to big children and getting in a cell  phone call or two in between long desperate breaths.

My feet are perched up on the suede sofa and I am thinking about motivating and getting the ice cream out of the freezer. It has been calling my name since I left the Shopping Mall.

Boy Toys

March 11, 2013

Hosted in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in the city of Sao Paulo which happens to be separated from the second largest favella in the area by two wide lanes. The dichotomy of Brasil.

The Disney Channel is on in the apartment all the time and the shows are in English so the children hear the language and learn to pronounce words correctly. Or as good as an animated figure can generate! The boys whine when I speak in Portuguese and ask me to switch to English I assume so they can practice. The little one, who is two, complains the most. He seems to understand everything I say and yet doesn’t respond in English often. It is difficult to explain to them that I prefer to speak in Portuguese while I am in their country, even if it is far from perfect!

The shopping mall “mom” took me to after her short shift at work (she is a Administrative Assistant for a one-man realty show) is close by. We meander the relatively empty Center with paid parking, take the time to eat a flaky palmetto torte and have a rip-my-guts-out cup of sugar with coffee. “Mom” insists I place my slim purse gripped on my lap as we sit to chat. As most malls around the world, the prices are outrageous. We jump from shop to shop searching for the perfect backpack purse for my daughter. I shoot photos of one I thought she would like to attach to an email her this evening.

While we are in a chatchkey jewelry store, “mom” tells the story of a robber who broke into her house thru the electronic gate (the street guard, like Sergeant Schultz knows “Nothing, nothing!”) The family jewels were swiped, along with dollars she was saving for her daughter’s trip to D.C. She described the designers and types of stones and cut to the three wide-eyed clerks with skin-tight tops. Because of this horrific experience, “mom” no longer purchases genuine precious stones, it makes her ill to think of what she lost. A lot of the pieces were handed down from her grandmother, snatched in the rush to leave the country in a panic.

I share my own sad tale of being robbed in our Port Townsend home then having generous friends anonymously replace some of the cash, slipped it in my purse during a meeting which I only discovered when I returned home. I cried in gladness and for my close friends compassion and generosity. I believe “mom” understood my story or perhaps the glazed look isn’t in sympathy!

The vampire shop clerks race to greet us at the entryway of each store hoping for a sale. The minimum wage here is R$755 ($1.962 less in today’s dollars) per month for a forty hour week yet I am not sure how they are paid, considering their behavior, I would say it is based on commission. A slight glance to the right brings down the purse from the high shelf to show me the compartments and features. Vanna White unzips, twists the handles and places it on her slender shoulder to present the full picture. Most are dressed casually and are in their early 20’s wearing a lot of make-up and over eager attitude. Ugh, I hate shopping, especially at the Mall!

“Mom” turns us around and around the parking lot looking for the car and then again to search and rescue the EXIT. Back at the spacious apartment, the boys greet us at the door with huge hugs and kisses for avo. It is so wonderful to realize they have the ability to be with their grandparents every week. They love going to her house to wreak havoc on her plants, scrounge in the cupboards for Frosted Flakes or anything that resembles sweets. The last time we were there they ate multi-colored sprinkles from a cup.

The electricity went out so I was unable to finish my Blog and Post it until today.

Grannie brings grapes

March 10, 2013

An early trip to Sao Paulo after a short night of sleep, too much beer and strawberry dessert. Can’t describe the folks at the airport since I was far too tired to think. Crept along with my cane and fumbled up the stairs to my seat. The 48 minute flight flew by so I didn’t have a chance to sleep. Drat!

The stiff sitting next to me never breathed a word during the short flight except to reject the hard coated peanuts and request an orange juice from the beverage cart. The trim crisp flight attendant with twin purple circles under her eyes (I suspect a recent visit to the plastic surgeon) and stingy counterpart whom I didn’t have the courage to ask for a second serving of bagged nuts since he sternly grimaced at one of the other passengers who suggested she wanted a full can of juice versus the standard shot. My professionally-attired seat mate studied and marked a lengthy document and snoozed for 32 minutes, give or take, while we soared above the clouds. I don’t know what I did with my time except that I felt very parched and, though unprovoked, completely disgruntled.

Two young and boisterous boys, 2 and 5 year olds came to collect me at the airport with their fairly tall, pale-complected serious and handsome dad. I was sure I’d sent a message from the airport clearly stating that the plane was delayed yet they never received it. The lanky boys who are obvious descendants of their father balanced on either side of him like an oreo. The ankle-biters kept up their chatter from the back seat the entire route home. This neighborhood, Fabio assures me, is a taxi ride to shopping, parks safe enough to walk in, restaurants and bars, nothing but a shanty-town on the opposite side of the busy street within walking distance. As he is explaining the wondrous features of the surrounding area, Tiago, the eldest is yammering for a fish after I had asked him if they have any pets at home. "No? Not even a fish?"…that set him off. "I want a fish, just a little fish!"

Green Hulk figures, Superman, Spiderman, Legos, blocks, trucks, small blue, red, yellow and green plastic table and matching chairs, puzzles, games and such breed in the corner of the vast livingroom.

Incredible lunch menu with grilled veggies and tofu while we chatted about this that and the other. Being around young boys is always a bit unsettling. They romp, run, scramble to climb on people’s backs, futz with video games, glue themselves to the tv screen, ignore pleadings for hugs and don’t show much interest in my pics of beasts from my trip stretching from the farm on, hit one another, hide things, eat on the run and are very loveable.

The older of the two is in a bi-lingual school. His English skills are incredible. Sitting in the back seat he blurted out “Great! I couldn’t be better!” Highly doubt he knew what the hell he was saying but I had to laugh out loud in earnest. Everyone learns “The book is on the table” and is a standard interjection when discussing language class.

Grandma is an immigrant from Italy. She is a perfect box with a silvery grey top. Light blue floral mumu fluttered about her as she scrutinized me with a dare. Her entire family escaped the Western Front regime and she has never fully recovered. An obvious stubborn decision to not speak fluent Portuguese makes her isolated and lonely after many friends have died or moved away. Kaka is lonely and forlorn. Her daughter, Fabio's son-in-law, is concerned about her mother's future and rapidly diminishing facilities. Mom is stubborn and insists upon cooking for herself and not allowing hired help to sleep over in her beds. Syvia asks me how the aging infrastructure world works in the United States. In my opinion it is on shaky ground as well. Forgetting herself seems to come naturally to grandmother though she did remember the grapes!