Is this what they call the language of love?

cc licensed ( BY NC SD ) flickr photo shared by ·Cuentosdeunaimbecila·

This morning, as another woman and I waited for the bus, we witnessed something out of the ordinary.

Or perhaps, extraordinary is a better word.

Ten minutes before the bus was to arrive, a couple joined us at the stop.

At first, I thought they were Spaniards, but after overhearing them talk, I discovered they were Italian.

It happened suddenly.

One minute they were talking, and the next, the man pulled the woman to him and gave her a kiss that made the other lady waiting for the bus and I, blush.

Never having been a fan of public displays of affection, you’d figure I would have turned away.

Yet this kiss was so sensual, I couldn’t help but stand there and gawk.

I gawked because it was the kind of kiss that compels you to do just that.

It wasn’t a “See you at home” kiss.
It was an “I’m off to war and don’t know if I’ll see you again” type of kiss.

I was glad I didn’t have my camera, or I would’ve been tempted to capture such a moment and that would’ve been more of an intrusion than my gawking.

Just as the bus approached, the man said to the woman, “Ciao, amore.”
Goodbye, love.

I swooned.

I swooned because anything said in a foreign tongue has that effect on me.

I swooned because “Ciao, amore” reminded me of Pietro, a beautiful Italian boy I met when I was fifteen.

Handsome, charming, and at seventeen, already a ladies’ man.

Girls flocked around him like bees to honey.

And his smile.

His smile was so beautiful, I had to restrain myself from kissing him every time the corners of his mouth turned upward.

However, whenever he said, “Bella, tu sei bellissima,” that’s when the world came to a standstill.

My heart raced, my palms started to sweat, and I sighed like I was taking my last breath.

I had the same reaction with a French boyfriend named Alan.

His “Ma chérie” made me feel faint, lightheaded, dizzy.

And who could forget my first love, Domingo, a gorgeous Spaniard I met while vacationing in Spain?

Every time he said, “Hola, cariño,” or “Hello, sweetheart,” my heart stopped.

Or at least that’s what it felt like.

Hearing endearments in a foreign tongue made me think the world had stopped turning; everything halted, including my ability to breathe.

I wonder if I’m the only woman with this affliction; this inability to think straight whenever I hear a gorgeous foreign accent.

Yet, the other woman’s reaction to the Italian couple’s exchange makes me think this isn’t the case.

Being mesmerized by such an exchange can only prove that many of us want to be the leading lady of such a scene.

To swoon with expectation, feel our hearts pound in our chests, experience tantalizing giddiness.

Just once, or even better, many times.

Why?

Because I dare say, most of us want to experience passion and the reckless abandon that accompanies it.

Whenever we’re an eyewitness to something like today’s kiss and hear the words that accompany it, we’re able to regress in time; to remember our first love, our first kiss.

And if that first love was Italian, French, or Spanish?

Having experienced it I say, even better.

After all, there’s a reason they’re called “Latin Lovers.”

And that, my friends, is how I started my morning.

Do you remember your first kiss? Your first love?

Would you be rich by now?

cc licensed ( BY NC SD ) flickr photo shared by kate e. did

We knew the possibility existed.

Yet we prayed, crossed our fingers, and started a novena.

But all was for naught.

After a long wait, the repair person came out of his office and delivered the news that no laptop computer owner wants to hear.

“I’m afraid, it’s the motherboard.”

My reaction?
Nooooooooooooo!

For more than a month now, the Son has been without his laptop.

And as a result, so have I.

Why?

Because he’s been hogging mine every chance he gets.

Sadly, this has resulted in me writing posts and responding to comments in the wee hours of the morning.

And frankly, I’m spent.

Hearing today’s dreadful news only confirms that this situation, this dreadful little arrangement the Son has, is going to continue.

Until only the good Lord knows when.

After stumbling home, a migraine effectively blurring my vision, I picked up the phone and dialed my sister.

Because misery loves company.

And because usually, no matter what my circumstances, hers are usually worse.

And that makes me feel better.

Not that things are worse for her, but the realization that mine aren’t as bad as I think they are.

“It’s the motherboard,” I tell her without so much as saying hello.

“The mother what?”

“The mother to some board in the laptop.”

“What board?”

“How the hell should I know? All I know it’s going to cost more than 300 euros to repair.”

“Is that how much mothers are worth now?”

“It appears so, yes.”

“Mother @#$@!”

After commiserating for another twenty minutes, my sister said, “Girl, if I had a dime for every time…”

It was this phrase that gave me the idea for this post.

Because after feminism, chivalry, racism, and discrimination, I want to keep it light.

And because I only have an hour before the Son arrives and hogs Apollo.

Apollo’s my laptop.

Poor guy. He’s really been working overtime.

My laptop, not the Son.

So here it is, friends.

Let me know if you agree.

If I had a dime for every time…

~I wished things would happen and they don’t.

~ I wished things wouldn’t happen and they do.

~I sat on the toilet and realized there wasn’t any toilet paper.

~I asked the Son to do something and heard him say, “In a minute!”

~Roxy pooped in front of people and we didn’t have poopie bags to scoop it up.

~The phone rang while I was in the bathroom, taking a shower, or getting frisky with the Significant Other.

~I asked the Significant Other or the Son to take out the trash and they said, “Tomorrow.”

~I added baking soda when the recipe called for baking powder.

~I forgot to turn on my cell phone and when I did, had twenty missed calls.

~I remembered to turn on the cell phone and nobody called.

~I called the Son on the cell phone and he didn’t pick up.

~I called the Significant Other on the cell phone and he didn’t pick up.

~ I asked Roxy to “come here” and she ignored me.

~I stepped on dog poop while taking Roxy out to poop.

~I opened my umbrella in the rain and it turned inside out.

Join the pity party and finish the sentence.

If I had a dime for every time…

Do you share the dream?

cc licensed ( BY SD ) flickr photo shared by hlkljgk

When Beverly, of Writing in Flow, invited readers to write a post about racism and discrimination, I hesitated.

I did so because I didn’t know if it was a subject I could pull off.

After all, even though at times I tackle difficult issues, racism can be, as Beverly says, an “explosive” subject.

Having recently wrapped up the controversial post on feminism, I was dubious if I was ready to stir the pot again.

Nevertheless, I think it’s an issue that should be addressed, that needs to be addressed.

This because, discrimination is no longer something that affects a specific community; it affects us all.

It can touch our lives or the lives of those we care about.

Society has become vulnerable to racism and those affected can give testimony of how much suffering they endure; of the hostile environment that at times, leads some to commit suicide.

Sadly, we can never say we’re immune to it; protected from it.

Today, racism is not just provoked by the color of our skin, but instead, gender, sexual orientation, religious beliefs, and even our weight can turn us into a target for discrimination.

Beverly’s thought provoking post, “I Have A Dream–MLK Blogfest,” served to trigger a memory; a childhood memory of when, for the first time, I wished to be something I wasn’t.

I must admit that I only remember some of the details, yet through the years, my mother and nana have related what happened that day.

I think this was their way of reminding me of the importance of accepting and loving myself just the way I am.

My parents were as different as night and day, both in appearance and temperament.

My father, a native of the Caribbean, had beautiful skin the color of teak and large, chocolate-brown eyes.

He was formal, serious, and driven; a military man who knew the meaning of integrity and honor.

My mother, a spirited Spanish woman, is fair skinned and has blonde hair and blue eyes.

She’s a woman who loves to laugh, dance, and sing.

My sisters and I look like my father.

We have what nana used to call, cafe au lait skin, with brown eyes, varying in shades from dark to light.

Some of us are serious, others carefree.

One of us is by the book, while two of us love to break every rule.

But I digress.

My mother and nana told me I was three and a half on the day that it happened.

I remember playing with my sister in my mom’s room and discovering a bottle of Baby Johnson’s baby powder.

I recall sitting in the chair that faced the vanity table and pouring half the bottle of powder over my sister and myself.

This, while it made us look like we’d been dredged through flour, helped me achieve what I wanted.

My nana told me I walked into the living room, pulling my sister along, and proudly announced, “Mama, look at us!”

My mother turned and when she saw us, a horrified expression crossed her face.

“What in the world have you done?”

Nana told me I said, “Why, I’ve turned sissy and me white! Just like you and nana!”

This resulted in my mother dragging us to the bathroom and ordering me to wash us both.

Nana said I cried and I cried, unsure of what I had done wrong.

Throughout the years, nana retold the story and I remember it would always end the same way.

She’d say, “Bella, that day, your mama was awfully mad. She realized you wanted to change the color of your skin; to turn yourself into something you weren’t. I told her it was important she help you understand that the color of our skin is not what makes us who we are. Our attitudes, beliefs, and how we act, define who we are. Because the color of our skin doesn’t matter. What matters is how we treat others.”

As we grew older, my mother spoke to us openly about the similarities and differences between people and in doing so, encouraged us to value the humanity in people; to reach across racial and ethnic lines.

The story served to initiate a dialogue that still continues today.

I believe that parents have the responsibility of talking to their children about racism and diversity.

Keeping silent and not educating our children serves to feed misconceptions, fear, and ignorance.

And these help keep bigotry alive.

In fostering tolerance and acceptance, we raise children who are sensitive to the feelings of others.

In having open conversations regarding prejudice and discrimination, we help strip away misunderstandings and fear.

It would be irresponsible to believe that we can shield our children from bigotry, but we can take the first step in educating them to the importance of respecting others.

Like Martin Luther King Jr, I have a dream.

I have a dream that one day we will no longer have to worry about cruelty, bigotry, and hatred.

I have a dream that we will find our voice to promote compassion, acceptance, and fairness.

Do you share this dream?

If you’d like to take part in the discussion, or read what others have to say about racism and discrimination, drop by Beverly’s blog.

You’ll be glad you did!

Bella, the dog whisperer?

There have been many times when I’ve wished Roxy could talk; to express what’s on her mind.

Life would be so much easier.

But then, other times I think, where’s the fun in that?

We acquired Roxy when she was only seven weeks old.

She was born on a farm, which I affectionately call, the “Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.”

Roxy came from a tiny litter; just her and her sister.

At the time, we were asked if we wanted both puppies, and because our house is quite small, we declined.

After spending two and a half years in Roxy’s loving company, this has been a decision I have deeply regretted.

After all, we could have had double the fun.

But alas, what’s done is done.

Roxy, being the social creature that she is, loves to meet up with friends at the dog park.

This makes me think growing up with her sister would have been a wonderful experience for her.

Nevertheless, she gets round the clock attention at Casa Bella, and I believe she’s happy.

Observing Roxy is one of my favorite pastimes.

She’s a very important “character” in my life and not a day goes by that I don’t thank the Universe for allowing her to be a part of our family.

Keeping company with little Roxy has taught me a lot about her; how she reacts; how she feels.

While I may not be Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, I have arrogantly come to believe I have the ability to decipher Roxy’s conduct.

And today’s post serves to share that knowledge with all of you.

Is this interpretation subjective?
Totally.

Will it be fun?
I hope so!

Enjoy!

~ Like a baby, Roxy has a special whimper for “I’m hungry,” “Pay me attention,” and “I have to pee.”

~ While Roxy may not understand what you’re saying, she’s sensitive to the pitch and tone of your voice. These help her understand if you’re happy, angry, or sad.

~ When something itches, she has to scratch and if she has to clean her “lady” parts, she will. It matters not that she has an audience.

~Kisses and licks are Roxy’s way of communicating, “I love you more than chicken liver.”

~Roxy feels cheated when she performs a trick or follows a command and doesn’t receive praise or a treat. She’ll show her resentment by refusing to look at you.

~Large dogs scare our little Miss. She has to be formally introduced before attempting to make friends.

~ Roxy dislikes when, due to special circumstances, she’s given commercial dog food. She’d rather eat baby spinach leaves, cottage cheese, and scrambled eggs.

~ Roxy doesn’t mind dressing up. She does mind having to pose for an hour for a photo shoot.

~ Roxy’s easily bribed. Offer her peanut butter and she’s a goner.

~She knows we brush her teeth to keep her healthy, but she prefers we use gauze instead of a her large, ugly, blue toothbrush. If doggy toothpaste isn’t involved, don’t bother.

~ Roxy loves being swaddled in her “blankie.” It makes her feel safe and warm.

~ She loves sitting and laying on people’s laps. Doing so makes her feel like she’s part of the group.

~Sniffing your butt is Roxy’s way of saying, “Nice to meet you. Want to be friends?”

~She hates when you feel her nose to see if it’s wet. A dry nose doesn’t mean she’s sick. It just means it’s dry from having been touched so much.

~ Arguing and angry voices scare Roxy and make her run out of the room. When the storm passes, you can find her under the couch in the family room.

~ Roxy needs her beauty rest. She hates it when you constantly wake her to ask, “Roxy, are you awake?”

~She likes to sniff her poop. She feels that if she doesn’t have a problem with this, neither should you.

~ Tail wagging doesn’t always mean she’s happy. It also means she’s excited, curious, or happy you’re home.

There you have it, friends.

Roxy and I hope these “facts” will allow you to know her better and love her all the same.

An update of where we stand at Smurf Palace

Roxy shakes her head to signal, "No, no, no! What a mess!"

What does your pet “whisper” to you?

Today I’m linking up with Heidi’s Black and White Wednesday.