Adventures in Job Searching

A very close friend of mine once said, "Mom, talk to Ren about getting a job. She can leave one job one minute, have no prospects, and find another one in two seconds."

How true that was for such a long time!

I felt my running streak came to almost a demise in this past year. But maybe my streak of bad luck has come to an end?  I don't know, but I can't wait to find out.

Within the past two weeks, my life has been an interesting mix of...well, I just don't know what to describe it as...but for lack of a better word, an interesting mix.

I haven't publicly blogged about it, except in my other blog, "Pineapple Pirate School for Language Snobs", but a year ago, I was let go from one job I absolutely came to despise. You can see the post here.

I worked for an online school based out of Orlando. At the time I got hired, it was an absolute God-send. I was in a terrible relationship. I had no money as my own paycheck was being sucked dry by bills and, "other" people.  The school, as I am a teacher, hired me and paid me $8K more a year!  I could finally leave my oppressive situation and finally start over! Yes! You can also read about that here.

Things at that job were more than great for a year! Then came a huge change that made everything spiral down.  At one point in the final year of my time at that place, I had over 253 students. Anyone who works in a regular brick and mortar understands that your sanity will be close to nil and you'll actually want to strangle yourself for lack of peace.  Not to mention, my own kid had no schedule and was practically raising himself. I'd often hand him my tablet and he'd whine, "Mommy? I'm hungry!".  I'd tell him to wait "just a second" and a few hours later, it would be 11 o'clock, and he's fallen asleep.  I remember thinking to myself, "Just waiting for summer!"  As I mentioned above, you can read the whole incident above.

Then came the summer. With the online teaching job I had, you don't get summers off.  I reveled in my newfound status of an unemployed Spanish teacher about to go back to Argentina for a month during the North American summer. A week before I left, I got a phone call from a middle school down the street from where I am currently living. I went to the interview, got the job a few hours later and proceeded to get really excited about what I was going to be doing for middle schoolers.

It takes a special person to be a middle school teacher.

I was to teach six 90-minute classes of "Intro to Spanish".  On my roster, I noticed that I had more students in a tiny classroom than I had ever had before.  Total, I had about 241 for first semester and about 246 on the roster for 2nd semester. Broken up into each class equaled around 40-42 students in my classroom.  The first couple of days of school, I had a few kids even sitting on the floor.  Not classy for a county school district that is supposed to be #1 in all of the state of Florida.

For the remainder of the semester, I tried my best. I even had people come in to give me pointers on what they would do in my classroom if they were the teacher. People that came in were not all consistent in their feedback with me. It was so confusing.  The majority said they understood what my dilemma was in terms of a small classroom and too many students, and gave me credit for that.  However, the principal gave me bad marks on everything.

I am the type of person that doesn't like to beat around the bush. I am a resilient soul. I'd rather someone be completely honest and up front with me and tell me, "This is how terrible you are doing." or "We don't like you." etc. If someone doesn't like me, fine!  I don't care if you don't like me. I'll kindly remove myself from your presence and get the hell out of Dodge. Then we can both exist in our own ecosystems without each other's negative Baloney Sandwich.. But don't sit there and be wishy-washy with me and pretend that you're my friend and that we are going to eat ice cream together, and then go and tell people that I'm a horrible person, teacher, friend, mom, sister, daughter, etc.. Karma is not a kind thing. I'd hate to see what it does to people such as bad souls as some of the people in the school district I was in.  A friend (a REAL friend) warned me, "Don't be too friendly with these people, Ren!  They don't understand people like us and will back stab you at any moment!"  I took her advice, but man! She wasn't joking. I ran into a former co-worker and was very warm and friendly with her. What a cold shoulder...  Just because I've been terminated doesn't mean that I'm radioactive or toxic. Puh-LEASE!  People can just be snarky...just saying.

Anyways...back to what I was saying...All the great ideas that I had with my students flew out the window because of the small size of my classroom. I mean really small. My classroom was 13'x25', I believe. I know the 13' to be true because I measured the tiles for the width of the room for a project my kids and I were doing together.  I wanted to do language and culture center tables with them. I wanted to be able to play games for them to learn. All the kids were shoved into that tiny classroom and were practically on top of one another. As a result, I also had some kids that were mean, and evil and downright rude.  I realize I am the adult here, but if you haven't taught, and have never taught middle school, you don't know what Hell on Earth is like. Middle schoolers are exactly what I described up above.

However, I did have about 3 classes that were lovely, well behaved little children. Some of them would give me Oreos, or blue little staples to put in my stapler. Some gave me chocolates and flowers.  Some even gave me hugs and told me that I was their best and most favorite teacher.  If that's not love and if that's not success, I don't know what is. One student even said that she wanted to be a Spanish teacher because of me. Granted, she's only in the 7th grade. She may end up changing her mind, but that was still nice.

I was let go the day before Christmas break. I had just finished a messy project with my students where they made Three Kings Day crowns. Glitter was everywhere. I had paper plates strewn about. Glue was stuck to the desk.  I was busy cleaning up when the principal popped his head in the door and asked to speak with me. Everything after that was a blur. He'd mentioned that my progress had not improved with my classroom management.  I knew what he was referring to.

About a week before my firing, I had been really sick and out for three days. The reports I had received about my students were HORRENDOUS. My kids were the epitome of evil children on speed.  My classroom neighbor, who could hear everything through the walls and the vents said things had gone really badly while I had been out.  That the principals had been called down several times to my classroom.  It was not a pretty sight.

I will pause here and interject myself and say that had I had the necessary resources and maybe transitioned back into classroom teaching, maybe I would not have gotten fired from that job too.  But I like to believe that God has a plan for everyone and maybe it was just His will for me to get fired. I'm still a little sore about it all, though.

In any case, I was let go right before Christmas. The principal had the nerve to say, "Well, it's the holiday season. You'll get a part time job somewhere." I wanted to slap that bastard across the face. 

His secretary, whom I will say is a lovely angel, stayed with me to help me pack. She told me several times that she was amazed at how well I was taking it. I told her, "I'm trying really hard to be strong here and not cry."

That happened December 19, 2013.  

A friend of mine goes to a church close by where some of the kids I had attend Sunday School. One of them somehow connected my friend and I together. I found out that there had been a substitute keeping watch over the new round of kids that I would have had.  Each semester brings in new kids. I had been excited that I was going to start fresh with new kids. I even had new policies in place for the 2nd semester. Alas, it was not to be.

It's only been after months of fruitless job searching online that I was able to find a part time job through people I know.  

In order to get unemployment in Florida, you have to search for 5 jobs or more a week.  Only one person called me in for an interview and that was the county where I live. They needed a graphic designer, but still haven't called me back. That's okay, though. Because, through networking, I got a job!

In fact, the same day that I started working for the photo and video studio I am working for right now, I went to visit an old employer just to see how she was doing. She needs someone desperately and said she would love to have me work for her!

So now I have two jobs. I am super excited!!!

Let's see what life has in store for me now! I'm hoping my negative streak is over. 

Maybe teaching is not for me anymore. 

Right up my alley!

Trolling Facebook tonight, as I always do each and every night, I found the link below on a friend's wall.

Velociraptor Statue

Not only do I have the opportunity to make my own legacy by having a life sized, realistic Velociraptor in my garden, I can purchase him for only $2250.

That's what I call a real bargain!

So, I am now a Speedy Thief and a muscular menace!  I do eat meat, but mostly only in Argentina. I have terrifying bicuspids! RAWR!

I have not frequented the nail salon, so I can say that my feet are looking a little beastly right now.

I remember my dad calling me "The Shark" when I was a kid since I would wander about the house with items appropriated from hapless family members at inopportune moments of their lives.

I want to slap that sucker in my garden. I can't wait to see the reaction on some people's faces when they walk up to my front door.

It's like he's saying, "Hey, yo! What's happenin'? Fancy a skip in my garden?  Don't go eatin' my birds now, yo."

Paradise of Alligators, Beaches and Bugs vs. Land of Oz.

Kansas experiences hot summers. 

Kansas also has some cold winters. 

An exciting thing is that I don't have to deal with snowy winters anymore as I am now a Floridian Transplant.  I do have to deal with hot, humid summers from about mid-March to mid-October, though.  Winter here in Florida is cold.  That being said, even though Florida is part of North America. We typically have two seasons: hot and cold.  There is no in between. 

You're probably shaking your head and wondering..."What does she mean that it's cold in Florida?"

I shall explain.  

Florida, being humid year round, experiences a few months of chilly to cold weather in the wintertime.  When it is 60 degrees here in Florida, it's cold.  It's a wet kind of cold.  

As a kid growing up in Kansas, anytime the forecasters said, "Well, folks, It's going to be 60 degrees tomorrow" in December or January, that meant you could run around like Superman without a jacket and wear shorts and a tank top.  My dad used that term whenever he noticed I ran around without a jacket or sweater. "You are not Superman!" he would shout at me with his Ecuadorean accent. "You are going to get sick!"  "Sick" always sounded more like "seek". 

Another thing about living in the Land of Four Seasons is that you have to wake up extra early to warm up your car when it's cold.  You have to scrape ice or snow off of your windshield. You run the risk of your boogers freezing while prepping yourself for your daily bump and grind, like if the weather is below 20 degree Fahrenheit.  Do I want to do that all time?  No, thanks.  Although, living in Kansas does have its benefits. 

This summer, I will hopefully be going home for a few weeks to enjoy the summer heat of Kansas.  Kansas summers to me are incredibly hot, but at least they won't be as humid as they are here in Florida.  It seems to only get humid before it's going to rain in Kansas.  One thing I really like is when you first walk outside in the summer. It's like a blast of nice, hot air in your face.  I like getting nice and tan. :D

If I were to move back now, after having a ten year absence with exception of family vacations, I might have a better tolerance for the nasty weather. In Kansas, you can experience the four seasons in merely one day.   Once, I wore shorts in the morning as it was 80 degrees outside.  By nightfall, it was snowing.  I don't know many places in the world that can do that in one day. 

All of this nostalgia for my home state reminds me of the last winter I spent at home before moving out to Florida ten years ago.  I lived for 21 years in the Land of Oz 

before moving out to the Paradise of Alligators, Beaches and Bugs. 

I worked at a place called the "Nazarene Publishing House" back in 2003-04.  As the name implies, it was a place where books were published. I didn't spend my time working with books, though. I worked in their cafeteria.  The former manager is one of my mom's best friends, Nancy. She is an amazing cook. :D This place was located on Troost Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, in a pretty crappy area of town.  When it was first founded in 1912, the area in which the NPH is located was a nice place. Not so much now.  Even the Hostess head bakery was located next door. I could actually touch the Twinkie Building!  Now, there's nothing but resident hookers and crackheads on every corner. But apparently, there are plans to revitalize the area.  Good luck with that, City Commissioners!

Run away!!!

One day, in February '04, I was hard at work in the kitchen, cleaning and cooking. A blizzard was forecast for the day. I didn't think anything of it, as I was used to snowstorms. I wasn't expecting it to come until late afternoon.  My car at the time was a 1994 Mitsubishi Mirage, 5 Speed, Periwinkle Blue, with "Hello, Kitty!" car seat covers. 

Mine had Black Spray paint on the hubcaps. Thanks, Dad!

 The Ren-Mobile, a great little car for driving in the snow. It would only take me about 30 minutes to drive to work or home.  Work was 8 miles from my house. No biggie, right?

Well, this particular day the president of our company sent us home early because the forecasters kept saying "It's a doozy out there folks!" It turns out that February was one of the snowiest on record, which has been surpassed by now, I believe. 

Everyone else in the House was able to leave right then and there, but we kitchen workers still had food to pack up, dishes to wash, tables to clean, food to restock, etc. 

When I got out to the parking lot and my car, five inches of snow had since fallen since that morning. I started my car to warm it up. Grabbing my ice scraper from the back seat, I began to brush snow off my car since it's against the law in Missouri and Kansas to have snow all over your car while driving.  Snow has the potential to fly off your roof and hit someone's windshield, thus causing a visual barrier. It's some sort of liability issue. It's ridiculous.

Twenty minutes later, I'm still brushing snow off of my car. Meanwhile, the snow is falling fast and accumulating quickly. I hop in the car, put my car in reverse and all I can hear is my tires spinning. So... I get out AGAIN!  I figured if my tires were spinning, what I needed to do was scoop snow from underneath my car in order to back out of my car space. I'm laying there on my stomach, scooping snow from underneath my wheels, on the corner of 29th and Troost Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, which, mind you, is a VERY BAD area of town. Anyone from KC on both sides of the state line know not to go in that area after 5 pm. All I'm doing is shoveling snow from underneath my car and my tires. I am laying there on my stomach and thinking, "I could get shot at or mugged and have my car stolen".

After spending 10 minutes backing my car out, success! Kansas City lies on some pretty large hills and river bluffs. Everyone hears that Kansas is flat. Well, not eastern Kansas. 

 Trying to drive either up or down these bluffs and hills with snow and ice on the road is just a tad difficult. I decided I was going to take the "Long Way" home, which is more or less flat, but takes me about ten to fifteen minutes more time.  It's more or less the same distance, but there's more stop and go traffic.  The publishing house is only 8 miles from my parents house, if you take the Interstate and go the way of the hilly side roads, but it takes awhile to get to and from going the backroads because of stop and go traffic. 

Route A in Grey; Route B "The Long Way" in Blue

I'm driving south on Troost Ave., all the while praying to God that I don't get stopped by somebody demanding my car or worse, pointing a gun at me. I'm the only one on the road, except for the homeless people and neighborhood crack heads sitting on the benches, waiting for buses. 

Driving in the snow takes great care. I'm not sure what your expertise is driving in the snow, but my motto is "Safety First".  I don't care if you are an expert at driving in the snow. I will be a slow driver until I feel I can drive safely at a fast speed. Any of you can drive as fast as you want and flip me the bird...I still don't care. Safety First.

As I am heading south on Troost towards 43rd Street, I see that I have a green light!  "Green light, go!  Heck, yeah!" I thought to myself. I'm finally emerging from the bad area of Troost and Gang...  Accelerating carefully, I am near the intersection, when all of a sudden...out of NOWHERE, there's a guy crossing the intersection, crossing Troost.  All I can think of is, "WTH?!  I'm the only person out here on the road. Can't you merely wait until I cross through the intersection? Don't you know that I have the right of way since I am the one with a green light?! ARGH!!!"

Of course, I slow down because I don't want to get a ticket, just in case there are cops hanging out and about, you know. As I stop at the intersection, with a green light pour moi, mind you, I notice that this man is wearing shorts. SHORTS!  IN WINTER!! DURING A SNOWSTORM!  Picking his way carefully across the walk, I also notice his legs are VERY white. I thought to myself, "This poor black man is so cold, and wearing shorts, that his skin has turned white!  Aw, poor guy!"  If I had had a blanket or a jacket, I would have gotten out of the car and given him one. 

Upon further observation, I noticed why his legs were white. They were prosthetics. 

With my mouth agape, all I could think of was how absurd this all was to me. As he finished walking across, I put my car in first gear, skidded, slipped and slid some more. I was prevented from leaving my new perch because, guess what? My green light had turned red.  Boo. I sat there some more thinking, "Lord, why do I encounter the most random stuff?! Answer this for me." 

With the light finally turning green, I slowly made my way to the next intersection where a Metro Bus was stopped and surrounded by, guess what this time?! Cop cars, paramedics and fire engines. I couldn't see this down the road six blocks because in a snow storm, you can't see squat more than 10 feet in front of you. It's impossible.

Yet again, I had a green light, but yet again, I was prevented from going through the intersection by a police officer. He motioned for me to roll my window down. He asked me where I was going. 

"I'm going home from work, Officer."  I said. 

"Where's home?" he asked, eyeing my little blue car with suspicion. 

"Merriam, in Johnson County, where I live with my parents." Saying that you're from Johnson County while you're in KC is your ticket anywhere. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just your car looked suspicious with those spray-painted hubcaps of yours." I rolled my eyes, and said "Thank my dad for that one. He didn't like silver color that they were and thinks they look better spray painted black. But, since you've stopped me, can you tell me what's going on?"

Turns out that an attempted purse snatching had occurred on the bus. The intended victim was a little old lady who had a heart attack that had to be carried out on a stretcher. The assailant was arrested by one of the cops and they were waiting for backup. The cop moved me along and I was on my merry way.

It took me TWO HOURS to drive 8 miles. Luckily, I didn't have any more strange encounters. When I got home, I wasn't able to park my car in the driveway because a foot of snow had fallen. That's how fast it snowed in the two to three hours I had left since work. I had to park my car across the street. As soon as I got inside, my mother impatiently asked me for the meal that I had brought home from work. 

"Are you going to give me any of Nancy's food?" she asked, pursing her lips.

I was in such a bad mood that I said, "No. I'm going to eat this myself." 

I told her about my day. Mom had absolutely no sympathy for me. 

As absurd as that whole story was, I certainly did not bat an eye.  I seem to be destined for interesting things and events. 

Even if it includes weather. 

No Escape from THE FOGHORN

Recollection sometimes is a wonderful thing.

Sometimes, it can be used to remember a loved one that has gone the Way of Yonder, a.k.a. Death. Other times, it can be used to remember a painful memory.  Lastly, it can be used to remember something so memorable, that it's worth laughing about.

Today, I was doing some of the latter.

I was at a friend's house today, regaling her with stories. I honestly don't remember how I got on the subject of awkward people, but I remembered this story of a girl from my time at Flagler College.  Reason being...this girl was really weird.

Here, I shall pause and say, I'm kind of weird, too. I'm weird in a fascinating and funny way. I am unique! You won't find anyone else like me.  None of this creepy crap with me.  No way, José! I am blunt and realistic.

For the last four semesters of my undergrad, I attended Flagler College. Flagler College is a nice little college in Saint Augustine, Florida, that caught my eye for many reasons.

Not only is it a beautiful college campus, but they have reputable academics and small classes, which appealed to me. In 2004, it had a stained glass minor. I had never heard of a college with that kind of a program, so naturally, I wanted to minor in stained glass!  As the Vallazza-Luck would have it, the year I arrived was the last year that anyone could enter that particular minor program. So, I switched to Spanish as my major and Creative Writing as my minor.

My first class on the very first day of my "career" at Flagler was "Theatre History".  I sat down on the risers with my notebook, pen and paper.  The room began to fill up with other students. I didn't know a single soul since I had just moved from Kansas.  At last, class began and our teacher, Andrea, went over the syllabus. Just as she was finishing, in walks a mulatto-skinned girl with long hair wearing brogue shoes, a long skirt, a white t-shirt, and a unibrow meant to be the envy of Frida Kahlo.  She dragged a suitcase on wheels wrapped in silver duct tape.  She found a seat and abruptly sat down.

Her suitcase was one that rolls with an extendable handle.

Andrea, the professor, greeted her. "Hello, Renee."

Renee looks at Andrea. Without a smile of acknowledgement in return, she opens her mouth and releases the most basso profundo voice I have ever heard on a woman.  "HULLO!"

Her voice, manly and coming from what seemed like an endless abyss, sounded just like a foghorn.

This was the first of four semesters that I was to have experience with the girl I shall refer henceforth as "The Foghorn", except in case when it has to do with my name or hers, which are both very similar. I had many classes with this girl. In fact, not a single semester at Flagler was spent without having her in at least ONE of my classes. One semester, she was in TWO.  That was a nightmare.

The Foghorn was, what I will delicately say here, socially awkward and inept. The poor thing had very limited social skills and really needed friends to help her.  She was pretty polite, but as I mentioned before, her social skills were severely lacking. Surprising for a theatre major.

One of many experiences I had with The Foghorn was when I somehow got roped into being the "Inter Club Council" member.  A friend of mine got sick and could no longer attend the meetings as the ICC rep so she elected me to be the ICC member. That meant that I had to pal around with The Foghorn.  As I've mentioned before, this girl's name is Renee.  My nickname is "Ren" or "Renny".  People were always confusing us because our names are so similar.

However, does that mean I think it's funny or okay to confuse us both?

NO!

I don't even resemble this girl in any way shape or form, so I felt slightly insulted each time the mistake was made. She had long hair, bushy eyebrows, café au lait skin, and dressed in potato sacks. My hair was short, sculpted eyebrows, Beaner skin and I wore shorts and a tank top with flip flops.

Costa Rica, 2006.

Anyways...back to my story. 

For Christmas 2004, we had to come up with an ornament to put on the Christmas tree in the rotunda in the Ponce De Leon hall at Flagler.  Me, being creative with wannabe flair, wanted to come up with something snazzy.  The Foghorn took it upon herself to decorate an ornamental ball she found at Michael's with red puff paint that simply said 'ARIEL' Spanish Club.  We were supposed to place the ornament on a tree during a special ceremony. The club with the best ornament was to have won something pretty awesome, which must not have been that awesome because I can't remember what it was. 

The Foghorn told me to meet her at her dorm room at 5:45 p.m..  I had just recently moved off campus, about three blocks away.  As I was getting ready, I realized what time it was, 5:30 p.m., and ran three blocks in heels.

 I sweat the entire way there.  Running up two flights of stairs to her room, I see the door ajar. I knock, wait a moment, hear no answer and very gently pushed the door open.

Lo and behold...The Foghorn is hanging around in her undergarments and she's typing away on her computer.  Not even remotely getting ready. 

"Uh...you told me to meet you here at 5:45.  You're not even ready! I just ran three blocks and two flights of stairs. In heels, I might add. " I said, exasperated. 

With her booming, manly voice, The Foghorn says, "YEAH. I KNOW."

"Aren't you going to start getting ready?" I asked.

"YEAH," she boomed.

"Well, I'll just wait for you downstairs," I said, rolling my eyes.

"YEAH. YOU CAN DO THAT," honked The Foghorn. And she went back to her computer.

Annoyed, I walked down the stairs and headed straight for the cafeteria. I had some remaining meals on my plan and decided to get an ice cream. In fact, I went and got TWO. Yeah!

In the time it took for The Foghorn to get ready and come down, I had eaten one cone.  By this time, it was 6:05 and the ceremony had begun.  The choir was screeching Christmas carols and I was well on my way licking down my second cone. The Foghorn carried our drab looking, golden ornament in her hands. 

The clubs were called alphabetically.  ARIEL was the second club called up to the front for the night.  After the first club went, hung their ornament, they handed The Foghorn the microphone. I am almost finished with my cone. All that remains is the actual cone itself, so I shove it into my mouth so that people aren't looking at me eating ice cream in front of the whole school.  

She blasts into it, "My name...UM.... is Renee <Insert Last Name Here>. UH....UM....UH...I'm the president of...UM...UH...ARIEL, the Spanish club.  And this is...UH....UM..."

She thrusts the microphone in front of my mouth. 

CRUNCH!!! CRUNCH!!! CRUNCH!!! 

All you can hear through the microphone is me munching on the rest of my ice cream cone. 

"THAT'S REN. SHE HAS AN ICE CREAM CONE IN HER MOUTH. SHE IS THE ICC REP FOR ARIEL," announces The Foghorn.

Mortified, I manage a goofy smile with bits of cone in my mouth. I wave at everyone like a dolt. 

I hand the microphone to someone else and we hang the ornament together onto the tree.  As soon as that was over, I left.  LOL.

Another case in point was class. 

The Foghorn had this special knack for asking questions. Lots of them. Which is fine, mind you. There's nothing wrong in asking questions, especially if the meanings or context elude you. The Foghorn would ask questions when the answer was obvious, or if it were in the textbook, or in the discussion.

Here is an example from a blog I wrote back in 2005. I was taking a "Literatura Española" class (Spanish Literature Class) and The Foghorn was in that class.  As I mentioned before, The Foghorn was the PRESIDENT of the Spanish club, ARIEL, at Flagler. How she got that position, I have NO IDEA because the poor girl was not fluent verbally in Spanish.  All you could get out of her were deep vocalizations of "UH's" and "UM's" in between incoherent Spanish words and phrases.

Read the excerpt below from November 3rd, 2005.

I think I've mentioned that I have a particular classmate that is really loud, but also just doesn't get it. 

Today in class was another classic event.

This girl is in my Spanish Literature class. The class is conducted entirely in Spanish, so what ever questions or discussions that we students have must also be spoken in Spanish.

We've been studying a piece called "La Celestina". If you really care, it's set in the late 1500s in Spain and is about a prostitute by the name of Celestina who is a money monger as well as a matchmaker. She sets two people up by the name of Calisto and Melibea. Well, anyhow, think of this story as another Romeo and Juliet, but set in Spain. 

Any movie with Jordi Mollá is worth watching...

Calisto, the guy, dies by falling out of a tower and Melibea, distraught over having lost her true love, wants to kill herself. But of course, before she does so, she has a long monologue over how she lost her virginity and how she cannot live in society as a "loose" woman. Then she pitches herself over the same tower and dies.

Now, The Foghorn has no social skills.  She shoots her hand up right away and asks in Spanish, "Cómo sabe...UH...la gente que...UMMMMM... sí no estoy....UH...virgen?" 

Meaning: How do people know that I'm not a virgin? 

First off, she misconjugated the verb "to be" incorrectly. She should have used "SER" instead of "ESTAR." Secondly, she should have said, "soy" for "I am". "Estoy" mean "to be feeling" or "to be located". Let me localize your virginity before I take it!

This girl is a VERY conservative Christian. For her to say something like this is way out of the ordinary, as if Hell froze over! 

For those of us that are bilingual or just really good at Spanish, we tried really hard not to laugh straight in her face. I snorted and a few people turned their heads away from her so that she wouldn't notice them laughing either at her or her question. 

She then blushed, corrected herself and said with her booming voice, in English, "Wait! UM....No, I don't mean me!  UH, I mean her. I'm still a virgin, guys!" 

EVERYONE laugh more than they were.  A few people were crying from laughing so hard.

But she was in earnest and wanted to know. The teacher didn't know how to respond to her question.  I was fed up, since by this time, she had already asked several questions that annoyed the class. 

So I told her, in English, "Honey, they didn't use certain feminine products back in that day and age. They're going to know whether or not she's a virgin when she gets poked." 

Everyone started howling with laughter! 

This girl is so naïve. I feel so sorry for her. She is so out of place because she has absolutely no people skills.

Everyone tries so hard to not laugh openly at her because the questions she asks are absurd. 

But, I guess I have to sit back and realize that there really are people who just don't know about things."

Later on that day, after I wrote that post above, I felt badly. I went and actually wrote The Foghorn an apology for laughing at her.  The nice thing she did was tell me that she hadn't noticed.  That made me feel a little bit better about the whole situation. Nobody wants to get laughed at. I would feel poorly if I laughed at someone, knowing that I caused them some sort of hurt for doing that. 

Another time in class, the last semester that I was to share a class with her, she walks into the the second installment of Literatura Española, with her duct taped suitcase.  She stalks in with her long skirts and heavy brogue shoes.  She stops directly in front of a new student, who turned out to be a roommate of mine later on, and says to him, "I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN MY LIFE."

Well, no shit, Sherlock! Of course you haven't. 

He looked at her strangely, then looked back at me, while I smiled at him a knowing smile of  "Be careful with her," and he simply smiled at her. 

Later on in the semester, he invited her to a "Study Party" we ended up having at our house. I remember him saying, "Dude...we are going to get her messed up!!! I'm going to give her lots of beer!  She'll loosen up that way."

I remember thinking and I even told him, "Oh, please...don't do that. Invite her, but don't try to get her drunk. That's not funny."

She came to the party, but politely declined all offers to ply her with alcohol.

"I'M A BORN-AGAIN CHRISTIAN. I WAS RAISED A ROMAN CATHOLIC. IT'S AGAINST MY RELIGION. JUST LIKE HAVING FEELINGS FOR WOMEN IS AGAINST MY RELIGION."  She boomed.

Well...that explains why she speaks with a deep voice, then.

As I have grown older and become a teacher myself, I realize now that I was pretty harsh in my view of her back then.  I have had students in her situation that suffer from anxiety disorders related to interacting with others.  She could very well had Aspergers Syndrome, which disables people from being able to socially interact with others on a high level. 

She was pretty smart, from what I understood, but just really lacked the skill necessary to interact with people on a whole different level. 

I wish I could go back and tell myself from 10 years ago that perhaps what she needed was someone to help her.

Knowing that now, I think that's what I'll do in the future to help out a person like...The Foghorn.

Old Adventures in Babysitting

When I was in middle school and high school, and even some in college, I babysat a lot.

I was going through an old diary of mine when MySpace used to be popular and found the funniest post I wrote about nine years ago about an experience I had had with some kids as a children's photographer, as well as babysitting.

Please feel free to enjoy this "adventure" from the past. :D

Originally posted Thursday, September 29, 2005. (With edits.)
"First Days"

Today, I am going to write yet another babysitting/child experience story.

Friday, I began my job as a children's photographer and assistant for local daycare centers. I get to either pose the kids on the props, "style" their hair and try to calm them down if they happen to freak out. 

The kids at the particular center that I was at on Friday had some very well behaved children. They also had some REALLY interesting names. Like Niquel (pronounced Nyquil), K-Shonda, and Jai Kumar, who was from India. 

Some kids were also very photogenic, like 4 year old Samir. He came up to me and asked if he could have a comb. I told him that I would give him one after he took his picture and if he gave us a HUGE smile. He got up there on the prop and gave the biggest smile I have ever seen a child his age give. After getting his comb, he began to comb what little hair he did NOT have. You see, his head was shaved. His teacher told him afterwards, "Boy, you ain't got no hair! Whut you need a comb for?!" It was so funny. 

Today, I babysat two toddler boys. Their parents hired me to give some relief to the kid's grandmother, who normally takes care of them.  These kids are heavy. I'm not saying they're fat. They're just muscular little boys that seem to weigh a ton. The older one, Nick, is almost 3. All he talks about is elephants. Elephants this, elephants that, elephants happened... We watched Dumbo at least THREE times. I hate that movie now. The younger one, Alex, wouldn't stop crying whenever his grandmother left the room. It's not like I couldn't ask her what helped calm him down. She spoke only Polish. 

The family had two dogs. A chocolate lab named, guess what? Mocha! How unique!! The other was a German Shepherd called Hilda or Bimbo or something along those lines. Guess what with this dog responded to? German words. Nien or Nein (however it's spelled) means "no" in German. The mother told me that this dog came direct from Germany on a plane and was trained over there. It cannot follow English. 

GREAAAAAATTTTT....

All I could do was sit and think--Why, God? You've blessed me with an ear for languages and I have yet to pick these other languages up?

The older boy, Nick, understands his grandmother when she speaks to him. But all he can say in English is "Elephants", "Happened" , and "Hugs" and a bunch of other incoherent words. The mom called me from work and asked how my first day went. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't want to babysit again, but first days are always a bit difficult in any kind of job.

The American Dream...

Today, I was trolling through and stalking people Facebook as I normally do and came across a very interesting article/slide show from NPR about life along and immigration via the U.S./Mexico border.  The entire presentation may be found here.  Borderland

Clicking on it, I was taken by the photos, video and most importantly, the stories of these people that go through what they have to go through just to get to the U.S..

As a daughter and granddaughter and the ex-wife of immigrants to the United States, many people whose families have been here for generations have NO IDEA what it is like for people to come here.  My father came for new opportunities and adventure.  My grandfather came because it's where his family lived across the river from Mexico.  My ex-husband came because he knew he didn't want to be in his country anymore where it was more difficult for opportunity in his field.

Coming to America - It's not just only for Mexicans, or Central Americans. It also is a dream for people from other continents...such as Europe, Africa and Asians.

Most often times, it is for a dream of better living, education, and work. Simply because they cannot achieve those dreams and goals in their own country.

BORDERLAND

We Took A 2,428-Mile Road Trip Along The Mexico Border: Here's What We Saw

Broken up in to a series of 12 photojournalistic stories, each one tells a compelling piece.

Story 1: Just Getting There, by Steve Inskeep, tells the stories of several people crossing the U.S./Mexico border. One young woman, in particular, is from Ethiopia, named Saraa.

Yes, you read that correctly. She is from Ethiopia.

You're probably thinking, "But she's from an African country...how the H*ll did she end up crossing the Mexico/U.S. border?"

Americans, especially those who do not travel internationally, are unaware that most foreigners need a visa to simply enter the United States, even if it's simply for a visit.

Saraa was unable to obtain a visa from Ethiopia, but somehow, someway, she was able to come up with $15,000 to have someone escort her from Ethiopia, Sudan, Brasil, Venezuela, Colombia, Panamá, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico and finally the United States.  That's 12 countries. TWELVE!  To top it off, she came with her husband, a younger sister who unfortunately perished along the way, and she is pregnant.  She is currently in a safe house in Texas, called "La Posada" and has asked for asylum, since she is afraid of returning to her country.

Other people that are waiting there are from: Albania, Bangladesh, Belize, Brasil, China, Congo, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Guatemala, Honduras, India, Ivory Coast, Mexico, Nepal, Nicaragua, Romania, Rwanda, Somalia and Sri Lanka, just to name a few twenty-two countries.

Story 2: Why The Border Is Where It Is  was pretty compelling. It provides you, the reader, a view through historical maps and interactions that show how the current U.S./Mexico border has changed since Spanish colonial times.

I find it ironic of ignorant people that live in the US complain about the presence of "Mexicans" in the United States.  It is ironic to see that firstly, Spain owned a lot of the American West. When Mexico gained their independence from Spain, it became part of Mexico.  Throughout wars and purchases and annexations, a lot of the land "Out West" became part of the US.  People who have been there for generations are American, but culturally they are Mexican, Spanish, Native American, etc.  So...who are the invaders (other than the white folks, no matter their back ground)

Fascinating, at least for history buffs like myself.

Story 3: Fence Facts

Did you know that the current U.S./Mexico Border is 1,969 miles long?  Nope, I didn't know that either until today.  I knew it was pretty long though. Anyone who has common sense and knows how to read a map can tell.

Parts of the border are walled or fenced, which is mostly in highly populated areas.  What's even funnier to me is that part of these walls are erected between 1-5 miles north of the border to keep people out of America.  Another thing that I find funny is that parts of the fence have gaps so as to let animals migrate seasonally, to let farmers onto their land to cultivate crops, and to allow their livestock to graze.

Sometimes, the fence is designed to stop transportation. In other cases, people.  What even baffles me this fence runs past children's play grounds, through the desert and even into the Pacific Ocean, near Tijuana, Mex./San Diego, Cal..

The first fence was erected in 1909.  It was designed to keep out certain types of cattle that had bug infestations...bugs...not people.

I'm sorry, but am I missing something here? Aren't our principles founded on immigration? Aren't we a country of immigrants?

In any case...the fence/wall has been erected in some places.  There are resident Picassos and Van Gogh's in the area on either side since art has been placed on these walls. It has only been in recent years that presidential administrations have been hell bent on keeping illegal immigrants out.

Do I agree with the wall/fence? NO. Does that mean I believe in illegal immigration? Of course not. My family came here the right way, including my ex-husband.  You file the paper work and try it that way.  However, I see where families become desperate to come to the U.S. and cannot wait for the paperwork that is necessary to live and work in the U.S..  But I believe in patience and perseverance and prayer.

Story 4: What's is Like? Portraits of Life on the Border. 

People who are not familiar with the Frontera/Border Lands of our compadres to the South think that it's nothing but a showdown with Mexicans in a huge truck and guns.  I mean, it's all that is heard in the news, so most people assume that people are still living in the times of the Wild Wild West.

WRONG...

People along the border live normal, happy lives.  They do normal things as other people in other states and cities do, taking their kids to practice, running around and going shopping, etc.  My favorite slide of this story is of a Gringo wearing a full fledged Mexican outfit.  He is the port commissioner for Brownsville Port Authority.

There are stories of people and families living on both sides of the border.  A woman in Juarez, Chihuahua, Mex. wants her daughters to find an education in the United States and make something of themselves.

A border patrol agent also states that Border Patrol Agents are not all mean people, that they are empathetic to illegal aliens' causes.

An American born woman to Mexican parents in San Diego says that she enjoys the fact that she can switch living back and forth between the two countries.  She says it's a privilege. I see how that works for her. I would love to say, "I'm going to Mexico for the day. I'll be back for dinner!" Other people truly enjoy the proximity of living close to the border because it is good for business.

Some Mexican/American couples learn each other's language in order to communicate.  After looking at that picture, all I could think of was "Papers!".  However, I could be totally wrong. They could have genuinely fallen in love with one another...but she's MUCH younger than her American husband, so it still makes me think she married him for the papers.

Other people lament, though, the problem of living so close to the border.  One man says that a middle schooler brought a bunch of pot to school with him because it was smuggled from over the border into the U.S..  Another family complained about the fact that the drug cartels were fighting with each other in Juarez.  An American man has part of the border running through his property, but dislikes that the Border Patrol has essentially taken over his land.  Pursuits of illegal aliens on his property have enabled Border Patrol to erect watch towers on his land.

Story 5: Empty Houses

Vacant houses in Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, that sit pockmarked from bullets fired at other drug cartels.   Many of them are identical, but are painted differently.  These are the empty shells of family life that once thrived in these neighborhoods. That is, until the drug cartels began their wars of controlling the drug trade out of Mexico.

Juarez is the most dangerous city in Mexico, and one of the most dangerous in the world. It's a pity because I would go over there border from El Paso, on visits to my mom's parents, and wander around with them.

El Paso, over the border and Rio Grande from Juarez, was voted one of the most safest cities in the U.S..  Ironic since it sits merely over the river from the most dangerous city in Mexico...

Story 6: Junior

Junior is a Mexican-born student who attends high school in Anthony, Texas.  Junior is an interesting case because he lives with his older sister since his dad was deported only a few months or years before his video was shot.   Since his mom was pregnant, she decided to go along with her husband, thus leaving Junior to fend for himself with his older sister.

It was hard watching that video.  You could tell that Junior really missed his parents and wanted to be with them.  His parents encouraged him to stay and get a better education.  He knows this and also wants to file paperwork in order to become legal so that he can stay and bring his parents back.

Story 7: Snack Time

For about $3 and nine ingredients, you can be the proud recipient of a snack called, "Tostilocos", a snack that has migrated north of the Border from Tijuana, Mexico.

Recipe is as follows: 

• 1 bag of Salsa Verde Tostitos, cut lengthwise. (These can be found in Tijuana, Mexico)
• Cucumbers & Jicama
• Pickled Pork Rinds
• Fried Peanuts
• Chaca-Chaca (Tamarind Candy)
• Salsa de Chile
• Chamoy (Pickled Fruit) Sauce
• Squeeze of Lime

You are then supposed to enjoy this interesting mess of flavors and textures. I don't do anything spicy, so that won't work for me. I'd be willing to try it without the spicy stuff. 

Story 8: Toothbrushes

Or things left behind in the desert, would be a better title for this story.  Toys, belts, shoelaces, toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant, combs, brushes and carpet shoes.

Carpet shoes, you ask?

Avoiding detection is key when crossing the border illegally. To prevent detection, many people have made slipper like shoes with carpet on the bottom.  This enables one to cross the desert virtually undetected.  The illegals carry their own regular shoes with them in a bag and once they coast is clear, they abandon their carpet shoes for regular ones and go on their (hopefully) merry way.

Also, the story talks about the majority of the smugglers are men.  Women that are smuggled by the men are often raped.  Some of them know the risks and carry contraceptives and prophylactics with them to prevent pregnancies and STD's.

Story 9: Apprehension, by Steve Inskeep.

Getting your hand caught in a cookie jar is a story that most people can confess to.  Getting caught by Border Patrol is reserved for the ultra persistent. From home-made ladders to scale the walls to

children as young as toddlers escaping into the U.S.

After months of walking from their respective countries to the border and stepping foot onto American soil, some are captured and deported. Yet, some of those same people are determined to weasel their way into the American dream and continue to persevere.

Story 10: Wanna Buy a Hammock?

Waiting to either get into or leave Mexico via Tijuana is an interesting business, no pun intended.  Many people waiting in their cars to get back into the United States are sold a variety of items.  From hammocks, to wicker baskets, to pottery, to crucifixes to Aztec wall hangings, wood carvings and cold drinks, you can be sure you'll find it at the border in Tijuana.

I remember my days as a young girl visiting my relatives in El Paso, Texas. We would hop in the car for a day of sightseeing in Juarez, Mexico.  Always on our way back into the U.S., we would spend HOURS waiting in line to be processed and all that crap that Border Patrol has to do.  Meanwhile, during our hot and arid wait in the car, vendors would come up to us shouting in Spanish, "Quieres un helado?" 'Quieres una botella de agua?!" etc.  We often would cross the border and realize, we didn't have anything to eat, drink, cool ourselves off.

Once, my aunt bought a blanket from a vendor. Why she did that, I have no idea. It was hot as Hades that day.  Maybe it was meant for a nice Christmas holiday.  It does get chilly in the winter in El Paso.

Story 11: Palabras | Words.

A photojournalistic view on English and Spanish vocabulary that may or may not need translation.  Tacos, of course, need no translation.

Story 12: By the Numbers

Throughout the time that you go through the whole presentation, it shows you what has happened since beginning the story.

At my time of reading the story, Saturday, April 5th, 2014, this is what was found:

When I started reading the story, only 5 ounces of cocaine had been seized. I'm not sure if that's for the day or just when I started reading the story.

It's amazing to see what comes through our borders everyday.


Conclusion:

Though I am only a 1/4 Mexican, I am proud to say that I am still a small part Mexican. I have lots of family that have lived on both sides of the border...and from other countries as well.

So many people come here for the opportunity.  I'm happy to see those that are hardworking and persevere so for the things that they want.

High five to you all...

A Wanna Be Travel Writer

As a kid growing up, I absolutely loved to read!

Books and articles were always my foray into magical and imaginative places.  My favorite books were ones of adventure, travel, history or sometimes, just even plain old make believe.

From the Little House Series by Laura Ingalls Wilder, to The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, to atlases or books on actual historical geography or the origins of things,  I loved books of all kinds.

When I was 14, my mom introduced me to an author by the name of Bill Bryson.  Bill Bryson, for those of you that don't know, is an American transplant that has lived in the UK for most of the past 35 years.   Mom happened to pick up his book, "Notes from a Small Island", which chronicles his travels and life to and about Great Britain in the early 1970s.  Bill uses such dry humor in his books, all the while giving the reader really useful trivia and perfect imagery in his writing. To quote the opening line from his book, "The Lost Continent" published in 1988, he states, "I come from Des Moines. Somebody had to." I think that has to be one of the most amazing introductions ever. This is one of my favorite books ever, if not THE most favorite, for many reasons.

In his book, "A Walk in the Woods", Bryson uses such humor and imagery that it is laugh out loud funny.  His descriptions seem spot on, since I have nothing to compare hiking the actual Appalachian Trail.  I liked his book, "In a Sunburned Country" where he describes having gone to Australia.  That book is great, too, if you want something really funny to read.

In 2000, my mom called me up at work to tell me that Bill Bryson was coming to Kansas City to promote one of his new books, which I think was "In a Sunburned Country."  I was elated!!!  I couldn't believe that one of my favorite authors was going to be in my hometown!  There was no way I was going to miss it. My mom, knowing how much I admired him, as well did she, purchased tickets to go see him at the Unity Temple right off of 47th Street in Kansas City, MO, on the Plaza.

We walked into the auditorium of the Temple.  The seats were theatre-like seats that were upholstered in pink plush material. Awestruck that BILL BRYSON was only 10 feet away from my nose!!!  IWhy the hell aren't there more people here?!" I thought to myself, as the auditorium had only about 20 people sitting there. Perhaps some people just aren't as cultured as my mother and myself.

Bryson finished his reading excerpt and began to take people to sign their books. Mom and I had both "Notes from a Small Island" and "The Lost Continent" in our hands.  I stood in line waiting for his autograph, and thought of some really witty and influential things to say for my turn.

I was going to say this:

"Mr. Bryson, it is such an honor to meet you. You've inspired me to write comedically after having read every book that you've published thus far.  I want to travel and write about the things I encounter, just like you!"

When my turn finally came, I stood in front of him agog.  More of like a statue...  Mom nudged me as if to say, "Move!" but I just stood in front of him with my mouth hanging open.

Instead, my careful speech went right out the window. All I could muster up was, "I like your books." with a dumb look on my face, my eyes big and my mouth hanging open like a lush. He looked up, smiled, thanked me and signed my book. Mom's turn came next. I can't remember what Mom said because I was in such a kerfuffle about what I had WANTED to say, but could not.  ARGH!  "Really, Ren?! That's all you can say?!!" I thought to myself.  What was WRONG with me?!!!

In any case, my post today is not ALL about Bill Bryson. But just to say that I still aspire to become a travel writer like him. I also want to write about useless trivia that fascinates people, like myself.

I am getting there.  I know that I will become a published writer someday.  I've always had a knack for writing.

We'll just see how soon. :D

XOXO

Vallazza-Raptor

My Foray into Latin Dancing...Part One

Dancing is like second nature to me.

Look for the woman wearing a brightly colored dress in the middle of the dance floor.  Yep...that's me! Shaking absurdly, It often looks as if I have an electrical current flowing through my veins.

Electricity pulses through my body as I hear the music.  Immediately getting goosebumps, my limbs begin to move to the music.  Putting on a song,  I shiver when I hear the familiar strains of salsa, merengue, bachata, reggaetón, cumbia or tango. I put on my high heels. I slink into a sexy dress. I begin to dance around my living room. I look amazing, dancing by myself, with my inner Latina Goddess rhythm.

I first discovered Latin music as a child. Actually, I shouldn't say that I "discovered" it.  It was actually played incessantly throughout my childhood in Kansas on my dad's tape decks and record player.

My father, being Ecuadorean, usually played the music of his youth.  These were countless tangos by Gardel from Argentina,

 or cumbias by Lisandro Meza from Colombia,

or salsa by Celia Cruz from Cuba,

or merengues by Johnny Ventura from the Dominican Republic.

 He would put on his records and my sister Ro* and I would dance around the living room, in no particular fashion. The music moved us, as if we were marionettes held by invisible strings and our imaginary puppeteer maneuvered us through the room. My dolls would twirl in my arms as I danced.

As a child, I had no idea that there were sub-genres of Latin music. I thought it was all the same because they sang in Spanish.  It wasn't until I was older that I realized the differences in the music, therefore there would be an obvious difference with the style of dance.

By the time I came into existence in the early 1980s,  my parents were pretty much homebodies, having exhausted themselves in the 1970s to K.C. and the Sunshine Band and other forms of pop music.  They were quite content to watch the occasional Brasilian or Italian soap opera, or to read through the occasional stack of books from the library. The few family get-togethers that we attended including a mix of American music as well, like Donna Summer or Blondie, etc.

I didn't really learn how to really dance to Latin music until I turned 17. I was at a baptism for someone whose name that I don't even remember.  What I do remember is that they were Mexican and they played Mariachi music.  I don't mind listening to Mariachi music at all. They're actually kind of entertaining, with their big sombreros, their little costumes and them strumming on their guitars or honking their trumpets. Anytime I listen to mariachi music, I keep waiting for my chips and salsa to magically appear in front of me.

As I've mentioned before in previous blogs, my family make-up has allowed me to appreciate music of all genres from different countries. But listening to Mariachi music ALL NIGHT makes you appreciate a mix of other kinds of music after a long while.

They finally put on a merengue.  My dad said, "La saco para bailar."  Meaning, "I'm going to take her out on the floor for a spin"  (Keep in mind for those of you that think I've translated that phrase literally, get off the translation websites. They won't do you much good.)

I didn't get the moves correct, but my dad was patient with me for once.

Since that night when my dad took me out for a spin, I have had an insatiable hunger for Latin music and dance.

When I moved to Florida about 10 years ago, I didn't know a single soul.  To pay the bills and also to meet people, I worked at a small Cuban restaurant in Saint Augustine, FL as their "Hostess Extraordinaire", a moniker coined by the flamboyantly gay bartender, Moranti.   On Fridays and Saturdays, they had a live band that consisted of a guitarist, a congo player, a piano player, a saxophonist, a trumpeter and a singer. They had an open floor towards the stage and dancing would occur.

The Conga Player/Sometimes-Guitarist, was the owner's son who I shall refer to as "Junior", noticed me immediately. He began to teach me a few things here and there, initiating me into many things that could be considered useful & good, but some things most definitely not good.  He first noticed that I was a terrible dance partner.

"Baby, you have let the man lead!" he would yell at me.

I thought I was doing well, but apparently, any time he took me for a spin on the dance floor, it was just a jumble of arms, legs and footwork.  I looked like one of those twisty dolls with wire legs.

How was I supposed to know?  He was supposed to be teaching me how to dance upright on the dance floor.

In any case, once I dumped him, I began to go out with some of my friends that I had met in my Spanish classes at school.  To spare them from seeing their real names, I have affectionately bestowed upon them some nicknames.

Toaster Over and Squeak Rodriguez were two girls that I met at Flagler College during 2004-2006.

I met Toaster Over first.

We both were in a Spanish 101 class. I had no idea WHY I was even there. Didn't they know I was already a Spanish speaker? I was such a snob with such big ideas then.  Ha Ha!  It turns out that I would have to test out of Spanish 101 into the higher levels.

I mentioned this to a bunch of the other students there in my class. It was the second day of classes.

Toaster Oven immediately overheard me telling the others my plan.  She turned to me and said, "I have an aunt that is Puerto Rican. I love practicing Spanish with her. I should test out of this class, too."

I remember looking at this petite girl with wild auburn hair and thinking, "There is NO WAY that some little red-headed American is going to test out of this class and I'm stuck here!  Hell no!"

We both tested out of Spanish 101.  I placed higher, for Spanish 301, but since I had only grown up speaking Spanish, I wanted some of the grammar that I had missed. I had already taken French and Portuguese in high school and in junior college, respectively.  We both ended up in Spanish 201.

Throughout the year, Toaster Oven and I would collaborate on projects together. One such project had something to do with music.  She came over to my dorm room to work on our powerpoint together.  When she discovered that I had over 5000 songs on my laptop, she realized two things: A) I was cool because I had an iBook and B) I had lots of fun music that included lots of Latin music.

Thus began a friendship that continues to this day. Our project, which sadly has disappeared for lack of jump drives or the disappearance thereof, discussed the different genres of Latin music such as Son, Mambo, Merengue, Salsa, Bachata, Reggaetón, Tango and Cumbia, to name a few.

Over the summer in 2005, Toaster Oven went to Costa Rica for a study abroad trip and became close with one of the other girls on the trip, Squeak Rodriguez.

Now, I had seen Squeak Rodriguez before in some of my other classes during 2004-05.  She had been in my Intro to Mesoamerica class on Wednesday nights and in one other class that was as boring as the hills.  However, we never spoke to each other because A) I was oblivious to others because I was working four jobs at the same time and had no time to really socialize after class and B) I think she was shy or intimidated to approach a girl with pink hair.

Meanwhile, once school started back up in the fall, I kept my usual bump-n-grind of jobs.  One Saturday night, I was at home which never happened. I usually kept busy working my derriere morning, noon and night when I didn't have class, typically working all seven days of the week.  I get a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. I pick up and it's Toaster Oven!  "Ren! Do you want to go to Orlando with me tonight?" she asked.

What's in Orlando, other than Disney?

She explained that she was going to be meeting her friend in Orlando to go out dancing. She also explained that this was someone that she went to Costa Rica with over the summer, blah blah blah.

We ended up going to City Walk at Universal Studios.

They have a place, or at least, they used to if it's not still there, called "The Latin Quarter".  It's a restaurant that converts into a club after 9 p.m..  Food is great, music is great...it's amazing!

The friend we ended up meeting was none other than Squeak Rodriguez!

The three of us ended up having a great time with one another dancing all night long. Thus began a Three Musketeers type of friendship that also continues to this day.

Every weekend, without fail, the three of us would go to any place in the area that played Latin music.  We would go as far as Orlando, which was about an hour and fifteen minute drive on some Saturdays.  On Fridays, we'd drive up to Jacksonville and go to Havana Jax to dance all night long.

We'd get ready at each other's houses and leave early, around 9 p.m. as the clubs in North Florida close at 2 a.m..

The first time I went to Havana Jax on Atlantic Blvd., I was a disaster. The Girlies could hear me squealing with laughter when I'd mess up majorly with my dance partners.  But I wanted to be a better dancer and meet people, make friends, etc. I'd keep going to improve my dancing skills. On Thursdays, we'd go to the now defunct Twisted Martini, at the Jacksonville Landing. I miss that place. The bartenders, bouncers and DJ even knew who we were. We even made Dancing Friends with various males who would go to dance there. I still keep in touch with several of those guys today. :)

One thing I discovered after the age of 17 is that there are not only different genres, but also different styles of dance within that genre of dance.  There is Cuban style Salsa. There is Costa Rican style Cumbia. There is Dominican style Bachata.  There is a myriad of different styles and it's hard to keep up.  There are way more I could list here, but the list would be exhaustive.

My Ex and I met coincidentally at Havana Jax one night after having danced with the Girlies in 2006.  He constantly criticized my way of dancing, stating it was difficult to dance with me.  It was difficult to dance with him!  He would turn me left or right in the middle of a beat and then I'd tornado myself into the wall or people.

  It was awful. It's easy to blame people for their lack of leading skills, but I have to say he didn't know how to lead me very well.  We did dance bachata well together when we were a couple. I guess it's just as well that we are no longer together, whether it be for couple or dancing reasons. LOL.

Since I am also musically inclined, I keep track of the beats with my feet or my hands. I don't need to count them, as others do. Of course, if there's a fast tempo, I step up the pace...literally. I once went out dancing with The Girlies and there was a dance class.  One guy grabbed my hand and began dancing. The music was fast paced and my legs and hips immediately began to step in tempo with the beat. Well, the poor man counted aloud, slowly. I asked him what he was doing and he responded that he was trying to count on the ball change. I looked at him like he was nuts. I'm not a classically trained dancer. This is the part that is difficult for me. Trying to follow someone's lead when they're counting slowly against the beat is difficult.  More like, disastrous.

I think it's important that when there is a woman who is dancing with her male dance partner, that the man KNOW how to lead. Nothing sucks more than dancing with someone who can't lead.  I am the type of dancer who did not have professional instruction as I was learning. Therefore, I need a strong partner who knows what he is doing.

Stay posted for the next installment.

The Hotel from Hell

Readers Beware - this is a long, but I think a funny post.



I travel often.

I love nothing more than to hop in my car, or hitch a ride with a friend, and go to places known and unknown.

A friend of mine from Pure Romance noticed that I liked to roadtrip, she asked me, "Would you like to ride to Miami with me in a few weeks? I have a Pure Romance party to do and I hate doing those drives alone."  Of course, I said, "Hell yeah! I'm down for a road trip. I am a Roadtrip WARRIORESS!"  I'm not even sure that "warrioress" is even a word, but hey, I like coining new words and phrases.   

The plan was that she would pick me up on her way from work to Miami around 3 or 4 p.m., we would arrive at the party 5 or 6 hours later, she would do her demo for about an hour, take some fabulous orders and then we'd stay at her brother's house and then wake up early and come back to Jacksonville by mid-afternoon today (Saturday).  

Unfortunately, unforeseen obstacles at her job along with traffic coming from her work to my house prevented us from leaving on time.  By the time we arrived to the party late, the party people were more than in the festive spirit.  My friend did her demo to a large group of women.  In exchange for us driving down 5.5 hours to Miami, spend the gas and the money we spent on food, she only received a few orders and some change, probably only $150 in sales.  Nonetheless, she was able to get some potential parties or consultants, so that was exciting. We left the party at around 3:45 A.M. after everyone had left.

"Girl," said my friend, "I didn't realize it was so late. My brother has to get up early for work. I can't be calling him at 4 o'clock in the morning. His wife got to work at 8." She did try to call them, but there was no answer. I even called a few people I know in Miami, but I realize it's too early in the morning. People are sleeping.  I even posted on Facebook to see if anyone of my friends in the Miami area happened to be awake, stalking people on Facebook. Perhaps someone would come to our rescue!

To no avail, I suggested that perhaps we do one of two things:

1.  Drive all the way back to Jacksonville right then and there or; 
2.  Get a hotel room in the area.

She looked at me with tired eyes, "There is NO WAY I can make it all the way back at this time of night, that is, unless you want to drive. "

I declined as I was tired myself. I didn't want to be responsible for wrecking a fancy car by hitting a deer on I-95. No, thank you!

I mentioned that I had a few bucks saved for an emergency on the trip, just in case.  I said, "Since you paid for the gas, drove down here, paid for snacks and drinks, I'll cover a hotel room as long as it's cheap."

I was thinking maybe $50 or a eensy weensy bit more. I mean, there HAD to be a Days Inn or something like it around the area where we were at. 

She pulls up a list of area hotels up on her phone and we called eight.  All eight were fully booked due to spring break.  I mean, all we wanted was a place to rest our heads for a few hours before heading back home.

We found one more hotel on the list. The name of this place was called, "Hotel Roma Golden Glades Resort".  She called and the desk clerk said there was one room available at the oh-so-cheap rate of "$120.98 plus a $50 refundable deposit."   I said, "That's a bit pricey. Let's look for another one."  

I end up calling "Hotels.com" and they wanted to send us to a really "cost effective" hotel of $799 a night at Miami Beach on Collins Avenue.  We both looked at each other as if to say, "Hell, no!"

By this time, it was 4:15 A.M.. We're either going to bunk down in the car or we are going to call that other pricey hotel. .

We called the Hotel Roma Golden Glades Resort, or whatever that hotel's name was. The man on the phone gave us directions.

After a short, 10 minute drive, we arrive at a location that is comical at best.  Down the street, I could see bright lights and white columns. The most garish and most gaudy looking building I have ever laid eyes on came up before us.

The hotel looked something as is supposed to be depicted, but way more drab. I think in its heyday, it was a much nicer looking hotel. 

As you drive through the "stately" coconut palms of the driveway, there are a bunch of broken down fountains that greet you. There are, AT LEAST, 25-40 whitewashed Greek and Roman statues that make you think, "This is overkill." I half expected Ben Hur to come flying about on his chariot and broom-bristle helmet in front of us!

  

We parked and walked up to the front door. On the way from the car to the front door, I noticed that there was a former restaurant or entrance that was boarded up with pink plywood right beside the hotel. I remember thinking, "Oh, dear...is this a Mario & Tio hotel?"  My father and Uncle have particular knacks for choosing really crappy hotels. It seems that I am not that far off either when in a pinch.

A really bored looking security guard wearing headphones and playing with a smartphone unlocked the door for us. We walked into the lobby.

"Can I he'p yoo?" asked the desk clerk, who had a thick Asian accent of some sort.

"Yes, I called about 15 minutes ago wanting to know if you had any rooms available. Is that rate and the room still available?" I asked.  He said yes and proceeded to tell me that check out was promptly at 11 A.M. and began to shuffle some papers around, all the while staring at my credit card as if it were a piece of filet mignon wrapped in bacon.

The man asked for the credit card and ID.  He ran the credit card and then proceeded to make copies of both ID and credit card. 

While waiting for him to check us in, I took a good look at the lobby.  Behind the counter, on the left hand side of the wall were four clocks.  Each one indicated time in four different world cities.  These were New York,  Paris, Miami and Brasil.  BRASIL?!  Come on!  BRASIL is a country with FOUR different time zones, not a city.   Maybe they meant the capital, Brasilia?  

On the center wall, were three pictures of the kinds of rooms they had to offer guests. King, Executive and Suite. The pictures looked as if they were taken back in 1995.  The bedspreads in the picture looked outdated, as well as the decor and furnishings. The countertops were green granite or marble tile that needed some deep polishing.  The couches looked forlorn. Made of green leather or pleather, they sagged in some places. The cushions on the couch were cracking and flaking from wear and disrepair.  Large, terra cotta tiles made up the flooring. If I had had a bucket of sudsy hot water and a scrub brush at the time, I would have knelt down and scrubbed the dirt and grime off the floor.  The TV was a large, flat screen from the age of the dinosaurs had only three colors  - RGB. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was one of the first flat screen TVs that came out in the 1990s.  Like the ones that are flat in the front and have a tube in the back.

This is not a joke.

He told us, "Room 321. Elevator on the right. Enjoy your stay!"  At least he was pleasant enough for two very sleep deprived women. 

I noticed the elevator must have been manufactured to European standards. It was tiny and not to mention, very wobbly.  

On the third floor, immediately to the left, there is an ice machine that has "Out of Order" slapped haphazardly on the front of the machine.  Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera out and ready for that one. 

On the right hand side from the elevator are the rooms.  As you turn the corner, you are greeted with a sight all too familiar if you've seen the movie, "The Shining",  minus the kid on the tricycle and the crazy REDRUM twins.

The hotel looked similar to this.

The hotel corridor was dark, with flickering lights.  It smelled of either mold or cigarettes. I don't know which since the hotel claimed it was a non-smoking hotel. It smelled nasty.  I noticed that the carpet had not been vacuumed in centuries, as there were dust bunnies collecting on the sides of the carpet nearest the walls. I kept expecting some big dude to come out of a room with a beer gut, a bottle of Budweiser and two hookers on each arm.

We got to our room door and opened our door with the card keys.

Upon entering, we were immediately assaulted with cold, tobacco-scented air conditioning. I found the air conditioner and immediately turned it to low, but that didn't do anything except blast more cold, dusty and tobacco-scented air on me. I was not about to get a headache and cold from sniffing that nasty air.

In the room were two double beds, a heavy tube TV, a nice looking dresser with handles that didn't work well,

 and a worn looking table with chairs with major wear on the upholstery. In the dim lighting, I noticed there were some stains on the carpets.  As I knew from the photos downstairs in the lobby, the bedspreads were outdated, but VERY worn.  Mine even had a mysterious stain on it...

I knew then that I had entered the Hotel from Hell.  

You know what's even funnier?  I even laughed about it!  

I felt right at home.


That last line above was such a lie. I guess I meant to say that it all felt familiar to me.

It made me remember a time that I had stayed at a crappy hotel in Orlando. That's another story here.

My friend asked me why I was giggling uncontrollably. I didn't have the mental capacity to tell her the story right then and there. I mean, it was 4:30 A.M.!  We were both exhausted. She had been up for almost 24 hours.

I peeled back the covers, half expecting circus roaches to come flying out of the sheets or centipedes to crawl out of the pillow cases, SOMETHING like that. With nothing but white blankness from the sheets, I gave a sigh of relief.

My friend had already put her pajamas on and sank into bed. I sat on the edge of the bed trying to get comfortable when, all of a sudden, I felt as if the mattress had swallowed me. I am not joking when I say this.

I felt like I was wallowing in a sand pit as the bed sank under my weight. It took a lot of abdominal work to get back up out of bed. I had my phone with me and noticed the clock said "4:40".  Knowing that we'd have to be out of the room by 11 A.M., I tried to sleep. It took a while, but I got there.

Around 8:15, I awoke to car alarms going off outside.

The thing with me is that, once I'm up, I'm up.

I looked over my mattress hill and saw that my friend was still asleep.

I grabbed my phone and decided to post on Facebook how crappy this place was.  Of course, I didn't have to read the reviews to find out that it was a piece of crap before posting to FB.  I knew it!

Being that I thought our predicament was kind of funny, but also that I have had first hand experience in the hospitality industry, I decided, "Well, why not?! I'm here waiting for my friend to wake up. I'll go ahead and read the reviews on this place."  I mean, were we the only people who thought this place sucked?

Oh, no.

Since I travel a lot and have a smart phone, I have various apps that assist me in getting to where I need to be or finding important information about accommodations, flights, etc.  It's a shame I didn't think to use them yesterday.

Trip Advisor immediately pinged our location and this is what was found. The total reviews and pictures for this hotel can be found there, but I have highlighted my favorite reviews and photos down below.  I even went on the hotel's website just to see what they had to say. Along with my own commentary as well and other photos I took while we were there.

1) The Hotel's Actual Website  - click here to view it.

I felt anything BUT inspired...perhaps they meant to say, "revolted"?

Yeah Right! Maybe they hired a set designer from the adult film industry to create that "look" and "feel". Also, the lobby did not feel cozy. It was DIIIIRRRRRRRTTTTTAAAAAAY!!!

When I was there, the fountain didn't even work.

Well, I didn't see HER and the pool didn't look like that!

The pool looked more like this, as a fellow guest and Trip Advisor reviewer took excellent note of this fountain below. If the fountain looks like this, you can bet you'll get scurvy just THINKING about dipping a toe into the pool.

When I think of Tropical Splendor, I think of the Dominican Republic. That country has a lot to offer in terms of Tropical Splendor, don't you think?

.

Photo by Renata Vallazza. Please do not take without permission. Barahona, R.D. 2010.

Not this. Looks more of a Concrete Jungle to me, I'd say!

I'm Italian, I should know what's what.  That ain't Italian!

Oh, my! How ITALIAN!

Well, I'll agree somewhat with this one. My room did happen to have two queen sized beds.  I'm not sure what had slept on them prior.  We had ONE TV, but that didn't work very well.  In fact, I don't think it worked at all.

According to another guest review with their photo below on Trip Advisor, their room came complete with this fancy telephone!

When I went into the bathroom, I was skeptical about anything in there being clean or working right since the bed had been sketchy. Turns out, I was right!

The countertop sagged and was only adhered to the wall with badly applied caulking.

This was the underside of the counter...complete with a ROACH and masking tape!

Bathroom vent that had not been cleaned in centuries.

"Replace Filter Every 3 Months". I don't think it's been changed or cleaned AT ALL!!!

One thing is for certain - they are not "green" at all. They're dingy, dirty and smelly.  But one thing is for certain: they sure are conserving the Earth's vital resources by not doing any washing nor cleaning!

I think  they replace all the towels directly from the floor anyways.

Towels are dingy and Dirty Bathtub

Now...for the cream!!!

2) Trip Advisor Reviews

As I laid in the bed waiting for my friend to wake up so we could get the hell out of there, I tried so hard not to laugh out loud from the reviews. I had tears streaming down my face.

This first one is my favorite!

(Please note, these are all screen shots from the Trip Advisor website.)

RUN!!!!

Dead rats, open toiletries, broken irons, yucky pool and a wholesome breakfast of Mini Muffins!  Don't mind if I do!

Well then!  A dead rat!

According to the post below, you can be stolen!  Within one hour, too!

I'm disappointed I didn't get to see any wildlife in my room!  I like reptiles. They would have had a feast from all the yummy cockroaches in my bathroom or as the post below states, from under the bagel tray!

My room was also missing an iron, much like this reviewers room.

The review below states he wouldn't even wish this upon his own enemy!  He must care a lot about people, even bad dudes, to not want to send them there.

I liked the line, "Not sure when the remodel occurred, but they missed a bit of the hotel."  I have tears streaming down my face already!  Bugs having a buffet?!  Priceless!

 

I don't even want to know if our door locked or did not lock. Thank you Lord that we are home safe now.  I wasn't even aware that it was close to a strip club.  Well, I'll be!

This review needs to review some of his or her spelling techniques and grammar. I've since discovered that "matters" stands for "mattress".  According to the hotel, Subway is fine dining!  

Also, he states that he and his wife wore their socks in the shower and tossed their PJ's after use in this fine establishment.  Especially after reading this review, I think I might have to do that if hot water doesn't do it for my clothes.

I'm jealous of this guy right down here. His bathroom came complete with a 2x4!  Mine was just held together with caulking.  Boo!

"Scary. Weird. Old. Strange." has got it RIGHT!

Ain't that a fact?!

This reviewer is Swedish.

This guy below must have sub-par standards.  Ripped lamp shades, broken chairs...and not minding if other people's hairs are on the bed?!!!  YUCK....

This still sounds really bad to me.

All in all, this is a place that you want to avoid like the plague.

As everyone else happens to say in these review, my stamp of disapproval is so great, that:

A) I would not wish this upon my worst enemy and;
B) If there were a negative stars rating, I would give this place a -2.


That being said, it did give us a place to sleep for a few hours which was necessary for our return trip.  I did not utilize the shower there whatsoever. As soon as I got home, I hopped in the shower and fumigated all nastiness off of me.  It was like being born again!  (Which is what my name stands for anyways.)

I was so relieved when we left.  The place is so bad that as you walk out to the parking lot, wasps buzz around your face.  There were so many wasps nests there, it was unbelievable.

Friends and non-friends alike...please do not choose this place at all.  I guarantee you will have an experience to remember if you do, but why not live vicariously through others?