A Letter to Cancer

Dear Cancer,

We have some things to talk about. Very serious things.

You have hurt me and my family for far too long. You have brutally attacked far to many members of my family and have struck fear into my family members who have been blessed with avoiding cancer (so far).

First, you attacked my great grandmother (Grandmother) with breast cancer. She is one of the strongest people I know and she toughed it out and lived.

You've also assaulted my other great grandmother (Grams) with cancer of the colon. Again, you failed. Both my great grandmothers are alive and well.

Not to long ago (three or four years ago?), you attacked my grandmother (Nana) with breast cancer. After long months of chemo and radiation, she too lived (and her hair is coming back in).

You also got to my childhood best friend, my rabbit Honey, with cancer of the uterus. She, however, didn't make it. You killed my best friend.

Two weeks ago today, we discovered you had also attacked my best friend, my bed-hog, my snuggle-bunny, my Scottie dog, Hamish. We had no idea you were hiding in his stomach until it was too late. You killed another best friend.

Do you know how hard it is to remember these things and type them out? It's brutal. I have cried so many tears both very recently and in the past over my best friends and my family. As a matter of fact, I'm crying now. The other day, I found a something-of-mine that smelled like him (generally, not a pleasant smell, but it was a good smell this time) and I cried.

You have nearly killed three of my heros and did actually kill two of my best friends. How many of my family members have you instilled with fear of you? I don't know. I know I'm afraid of you. I know I'm afraid of my other dog, my other best friend, Havie, catching you. Very afraid. I'm going to treasure every second with her.

You know what I'm also afraid of? Going home. I have only heard that my Hamish is gone. I haven't seen it. I haven't felt it. I am afraid of going home and realizing he actually is gone and losing it all over again.

"To Hate, V. :To hold in very strong dislike; to detest; to bear malice to. The opposite of to love. (OED)." I hate you, Cancer. I hate you with all of my being.

I've had enough with you.
No love at all,
Margie


Hamish is the sleeping one.                                 Grandmother and Nana







If we're friends on FaceBook or you follow me on Instagram, you're seen this one before. Hamish is the one on my tummy on the upper left. Such a love. I will miss him so much. I barely remember life without him (I was only about 6 when my parents brought him home--SURPRISE!!!--that was a good day) and it's gunna be hard to be without him.














(Sorry to Grams--and Honey--I couldn't find any pictures on FaceBook of you--and Honey--and, sadly, unless I took the photo myself or it's on FaceBook, I don't have it with me at school.)

Red and Yellow, Black and White Part 2

I have discovered, over 17 years of living, that the thing that makes me the MOST infuriated is when people speak "ill" (this being a kind word) of my interracial family.

Like the lady at Starbucks who called my family "disgusting" RIGHT in front of my mother!? (Had I been there……)

Or what about the lady on the beach who told her kid that she could only play with the "white one" (referring to my blood-related sister, Evangeline) and not the "black one"--except she used the N word?! (My mother had to pin me down so I didn’t slap her with all my might—not kidding.)

How about the countless people who asked us while we were in the process of adopting Ray Ray, “Why would you adopt a black one?” (To this I spat back, “Because there were no PURPLE ones!!”)

Can you believe the RUDENESS and the AUDACITY of these people?!

Seriously! WHY is a white family with a black baby (or husband, or wife, or brother, or sister, or ANY relation) such a big deal?! Answer: It’s not. It really isn’t.

People generally associate racism against African-American people with the pre and post-Civil War eras, but it still prevails today! I just don’t understand. Why does the color of one’s skin change how people think of them?! That’s NUTS!!

People don’t compare the size of each other’s feet or length of hair, or height, or tone of voice to decide who’s worth anything! If someone tried, everyone around them would laugh or call them crazy. Why does the color of the skin matter?!

I know I’ve had a post about this before, but it is worth reposting.

For the record, I fully plan to adopt many children from other countries and the majority of them won’t be white.  (My husband has really no say in the matter—sorry whoever-you-are! Hope you love adoption!)

I am not as patient as my mother is. I do not have her kind of self-control under circumstances such as these. I have no qualms with slapping people or shouting at them regardless of where I am or whom I’m with.

Please, think about your words before you say them! My sister has cried before because she has different colored skin than the rest of my family does and she didn’t even hear these mean words; she just came to that on her own! Think of how hearing these things could crush her—or anybody—before you say them. 

Happy Birthday to Ray Ray!

Happy 5th birthday to my Ray Ray!!

I love this little Ethiopian princess so much! She is one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

I love when she wants to snuggle with me (although not in the morning, she informed me, because "[I] am really nice, but not in the morning. [I'm] grouchy in the morning."); I love it when she wants to hold my hand; I love it when she wants to run errands with me, not because I might buy her an ICEE (which is very possible--weak spot), but because she wants to hang out with me; I love it when she really wants to help me wash the car; I love it when she REALLY wants to help me cook or bake; I love her.

Yup, she drives me CRAZY sometimes, but isn't that the job of a little sister?

Happy birthday to my Ray Ray, my Roo, my Rooby, my Ethiopian Princess, my Eli Roo, and all of her other little nicknames we've all dubbed her. I LOVE YOU!!!

Here are some of my favourite pictures of my birthday baby:

My Dream Last Night

Last night my dream was too fantastically strange not to share with you.

In my dream, there was this guy (isn't there always a guy?) and he was wonderful.

He was handsome, he was smart, he owned a bright red convertible something, and he stole my heart throughout the dream.

I was taking a drive with him somewhere (did it really matter where? Answer: No) and he and I were talking. I was wearing shorter shorts and was trying to pull them lower to cover the "scars" on my legs that I was embarrassed about so he wouldn't see them, but he told me he thought they were beautiful and he thought I was beautiful.

We held hands...

It was romantic.

And I was in love.

When we got back to Westmont, I raced to find my friends to tell them of this man (unnamed of course, but does that matter in a dream? Answer: No) who lived in Emerson Hall and how much I loved him and how I wanted to marry him.

He and I went out for another drive to go get some food the next day. We talked about getting married and he told me just how much he loved me.

I thought I was going to die.

Or explode.

Or some combination of the two.

As we were returning back to campus, a police officer pulled us over. He demanded that my man get out of the car and as he got out, the policeman handcuffed him, marched him to his car, and drove off.

I followed them in his car to a weird building with my two friends along side me for support (who weren't with us initially, but were now. Does it make sense? Did it matter in my dream? Answer: No) and ran inside.

The harsh lady at the front desk had me watch a documentary/video thingy about the man I loved that would explain why they arrested him.

He was a serial rapist.

(I fell in love with a serial rapist!? You'd THINK I would have sensed something!)

I sobbed my way though the video and asked if there was anyway he could get out of jail.

They told me that if I was an attorney I could represent him in court and he would be set free, but because I was in college and hadn't gone to law school yet I couldn't represent him and he had to go to jail forever.

And I couldn't marry him.

I woke up then.

Okay, WHAT that HECK?! I woke up all weepy and emotional too....who has dreams like that?!

The Thankful Tree

Today I was at Balboa Island exchanging my TOMS and discovered this tree:


Upon further investigation, the tree had a little baggie and a sharpie tied to it with a note: "Please leave a not with something you are thankful for."

There were probably at least 100 notes hanging on various places on the tree full of things people are thankful for. What a cool idea!


This one was mine:

There were even a few in different languages, but this one was my favourite:


I will be doing this at my house in the future. Love it!

Insert a Clever Title about "A Girl Every Guy Should Date" Here:

Okay, I may be a girl, but I still loved reading this!! I "Stumbled Upon" it this afternoon and had to share it! Enjoy!

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

– Rosemarie Urquico –

A Confession

Sometimes, when God tells me to do something, all I want to do is scream "NO!" or "I don't WANT to!" and stomp my foot like a little bratty three-year old.

Sometimes, I do what God wants me to do, but I have a bad attitude. And I may take a break from doing what He wants me to do just to kick and scream and thrash my body about.

Sometimes, when the way I have planned out my life does not go my way because God says "No. Here's something else for you", I cry. But not a pretty cry. More like a red-faced, snot-dripping, blubbery-mess kind of cry.

Looks kinda like this: