tell me you love me, come back and haunt me.

It has been exactly 14 days since I received that fateful phone call at 6:33 a.m. I remember looking at the caller on the screen of my phone and knowing exactly what was going to be told to me - knowing a chapter of my life was about to close. In those 14 days since, I have had to tell people about it, tell people over and over again how I am okay and thankful that my dear Mama Debs is at peace now, and how I am happy she is no longer in pain.I have even convinced myself that I am okay to the point that I can speak about her passing with ease. 

Today was such a stressful day at work, but one I handled with ease as well. I made every necessary phone call, wrote out every report that needed to be submitted, and dealt with the endless emotion that comes with my job. My coworker and I vented and shook our heads at our mutually hectic day with smiles on our faces because that is how I am programmed to handle all of the stress and distress in my life - with a smile on my face. And I don't know it all went wrong exactly; I did not feel like crying at work. I felt triumphant and accomplished by my day. However, and maybe it was the fact that "The Scientist" by Coldplay came on, or the fact that I absently allowed my buzzing mind slip into the darker realms of my brain, I lost it in my car and burst into tears. This is the first real breakdown I have had in these 14 days since Mama Debs' death, and boy does my heart really hurt right now. Really, all of these tears could be a manifestation of everything going on in my life. I keep lingering into the past and recalling how great life used to be when I was naive and more fun to be around and more like myself - when I wasn't lost in the desert.

No, I will not say that I regret moving out to Las Vegas. I moved out here to find myself, but Lord, am I finding out how hard being a "grown up" really is. I was so spoiled in LA. I was spoiled by friends and dreams and my beloved Mama Debs. I was cocky and ungrateful, floating by with my intense post-teenage invincibility haze where I was sure life would always be an endless beach beneath a glorious sunset; I would never get burned and when the sand was too hot, all I had to do was ride a wave to feel a cool rush that everything was okay. But the beaches here are far away, and the only coolness I can feel is when I run my blistered tongue over cracked, chapped lips. The desert isn't entirely dry. There is water out here. It just isn't fun to search so aimlessly. I have grown tired, I suppose. I wish things would be a bit more certain. I used to tell Mama Debs how right everything is here. When I would give her the rundown, it was always happy, progressive news. She would always tell me how proud of me she was; she always seemed to be more excited about my life than I was. When we hung up, I always felt better because I knew that I was being accountable to someone. Someone was watching over me, sending me strength from afar, and I was receiving it with open arms. I suppose I always assured her that I was just fine here because the last thing I wanted to do was to make her worry about me. I did not want her to waste any amount of strength worrying over me because she needed every amount of strength to get better. The cheeriness in her voice and the love that she sent to me through our cellphones gave me so much hope - hope for her, hope for myself, hope that one day she would watch me graduate with a B.A. and be there at my wedding and be one of the grandmothers to my future spawn. I prayed to God that this cancer would be a bad dream that we could all eventually wake from, something to forget about later on in the future; a down point equivalent to a bad day that we could be thankful to be rid of and never look back to. 

But that hope would be futile.And while I am thankful my mother would find peace from such a terrible, evil thing, I still find it hard to believe that something so terrible and evil could possess her. Debs was nothing but a ray of light and hope to many. She gave so freely of herself and of her love, and it really hurts that that candle would be fated to go out so quickly. I find myself thinking about my last encounter with her and how much I needed to see her one last time before Sept. 4th at 6:33a.m. to tell her - even though she could not say it back to me - that I loved her and that I would make her proud. In these following weeks, I have been so blinded by my job and the desert that I haven't really processed everything, and maybe that's why I am being swept away by a wave of emotion now. 

My coworker returned today from a trip to New York. She was a part of a wedding and she was able to see family and friends from her past. She told me that when she does take trips back, there is always a weirdness that follows her upon her return to Vegas. It is not a desire to move back to the east coast, but there is a period of time in which she must process that that is her old life and this is her new one, and this is where she belongs and wants to be. I agreed, thankful to hear from someone who doesn't share roots in my coast that there is a weirdness that follows a return to Vegas. I always feel it, as does my bestie and my boyfriend. But where my coworker, bestie and boyfriend can return freely to their homes of the past, for me there will always be that place where my Mama Debs used to be. There will always be that side of town that was so engraved into my driving patterns whenever I would return to the South Bay. And while her home, my home and the ever-strong and loving Linda will remain there, there will always be that one thing missing, the best thing, the most loving thing that I can never visit again. And yes, you may say the cliche line about her being forever in my heart, and while I may believe you, there will always be a Mama Debs-sized hole through my heart reminding me of how short and precious life is. It will remind me how stupid people can be but how we must forgive and forget because tomorrow does not come for us all. The only thing I regret was that I was not there more to enjoy those final moments of her life like those other precious and lucky individuals who watched Mama Debs transition into the end. That part will always haunt me.

And I pray to God that she always does.    

A Heavy Farewell.

On June 7^th, 2013, James died. It was terrible and unexpected, and I can remember being in that state of shock, the one in which your mouth can do nothing but hang open stupidly and your breath is caught in the back of your throat as though someone has just punched you in the stomach. I remember how quickly time moved around me while I sat crouched before my good friend Sybrina, to whom the news of her brother’s passing had just been delivered. We were caught in some other-dimension bubble, replaying the news over and over again in our space while the rest of the world moved on in its rapid, unforgiving pace. She cried. It was hard and unlike anything I had ever seen come out of her small frame. I hated to see it but I could not leave. I patted her back, hugged her tightly, said those loathsome words in a faint whisper, “Everything is going to be okay,” and called her wife for her when she needed a ride to the hospital.

            Everything changed in that moment. It is a scary notion to consider how plausible this thing is, yet it is always the farthest thought from our minds. No one expects after news of positive recovery and continual progression that the worst result could rear its ugly head. That’s what the few weeks preceding the accident were like, terribleness to hope to happiness to the end. It was a twisted plotline with an ending inconceivable and heartbreaking. I did not want to hear the truth – no one did. Especially Sybrina. No one wanted to see her go through such a wicked twist of fate, and yet here she had come face to face with the wall of reality. I watched the entire thing unravel from the background and then within the fore. And that is where I stand now, in the foreground as close as anyone can get when a memorial is being held for the passing of a friend’s sibling. It is an honor and a hardship, a blessing and a curse to be a part of something so final. Of course I will do anything within my being to assist my dear friend Sybrina and her family with overcoming this terrible time – if overcoming something as horrid as the passing of a family member is even possible. At the same time, I have felt a piece of my own heart die as well. I am not trying to take any attention or care away from the family; I am merely expressing how tragic it all is, and how evident it is that James touched so many lives even when those exchanges were new or brief.

            I did not know James long enough to be considered as one “close” to him. But I did receive many tight hugs, enthusiasm, a printed picture of him, proposals to attend dances with him, and the honor of being called “Hey you!” because he never could seem to remember my name. Whenever I ventured into the lunchroom at work to assist my guys with grabbing a soda, I became fervent in casting a watchful eye out for James. I enjoyed his embraces and his stories about baseball games and his love of the Raiders. I also did so to report anything that should have been brought to Sybrina’s attention – I know, too harsh, right? I suppose in a way, I had found myself another person to protect, another “sibling” to keep an eye on. God only knows how much James put himself out there. He was a character, a ball of joy and obnoxiousness, always smiling, passionate and friendly. One could hear James from a mile away literally. He was known to start the chicken dance in the lunchroom as well as on the baseball field. He was known to charm girls and sweet talk his way out of almost any situation … almost. Of course I needed to make sure James was, well, you know, not being too much for any given situation when his sister wasn’t around. Besides, I could never get enough of the faces she’d make after I would tell her about the latest in the world of James after my stroll from the lunchroom back to our program. I don’t know if some of the things I told her about her brother ever surprised her, but I knew deep down inside she always got a kick out of his personality. It was too hard not to. He was so honest all of the time. He was himself all of the time.

            I suppose I took those fun times for granted, because I never expected to be sitting here typing this out. I never expected to be so full of emptiness over James. The entire thing is still so surreal, despite the fact that we lost James a couple of weeks ago. Looking back, I didn’t realize how deep this wound actually is. It seemed so small, like something that could be easily bandaged when it happened … but I have come to find that as the memorial looms ahead on Friday, the 21st, the wound is larger than ever. I can’t really find the exact reason why, and maybe it’s because there are so many reasons why losing someone like James is so hard. It’s easy to say that it is because of the man he was, the fact that he served and was served by an organization working with those with intellectual disabilities, that he was the brother of a close friend; he was someone I ran into almost everyday, who always put a smile on my face and filled my heart with laughter. It could also be because this is the first memorial that I am attending where I will stand in front of people close to this individual and speak about him. Well, I will be reciting a poem I wrote for him, a poem that captures the essence of how one could feel at this moment of loss. I cannot say that I wrote the poem as myself entirely; I was full of emotion and tried to channel those feelings into how I could believe Sybrina is currently feeling – as unsuccessful as that is. I will never know how Sybrina is feeling or the depths of the pain that has entrapped her existence. The poem is my interpretation of how Sybrina could be feeling, like a writer trying to write a biography on another without being able to understand the evidence cited because it is in another language. It is subjective and inaccurate but it captures an emotion that is not impossible within her. I am beyond honored she has allowed for me to share it at James’ memorial. She will never know how honored I feel to be one of the few to speak before James’ friends, coworkers and kin. That, too, is surreal.

            Somewhere out there is an answer that we will probably never get, the one to the question Why? Sybrina and I were conversing over the memorial today while together at work. My boyfriend took the day off and in his errands he had a photo of James enlarged to be used at the service. We talked about that photo, the details of that day and of the poem and my worries about it being too sad to be spoken to a crowd of mourners. When we finally pulled up to our worksite, I turned to her and in the most honest of professions expressed that the deepest of my hurts came from being robbed of my hope for James. That is what cuts the worst; his death was the last resort, the thing farthest from anyone’s minds – so why did he die? She solemnly agreed … and we didn’t talk about it anymore.

            I suppose one of the things I love most about Sybrina is her ability to be strong despite the storm raging around her. She endures my honesty about life, the sorrowfulness of her parents and friends, all the while trying to balance her own personal demons. I’m sure she would disagree with being called strong, but being “strong” is not the person who won’t shed a tear in the face of tragedy; or the person who takes charge when others whimper in weakness. For me and how I have observed strength, a strong person is the one who cries openly and honestly says when they cannot take anymore, and they allow for others to carry them in their weakest of moments. They press on along the precipice of uncertainty when giving into pain is so much easier; when finding solace in solitude sounds so much sweeter. Sybrina is strong because she surrounds herself with others and weeps openly about how much this entire process just fucking sucks. She is strong because she accepts the meager hugs we extend and the shitty take-out food we swing by her house. She is strong for finding times to smile and times to laugh and times to kind of feel like herself again despite this ominous shadow lingering over her head. These are things that make Sybrina strong, and I firmly stand my ground on those things. I can only pray that when tragedy does strike me down that I will have the strength to accept humbly the support offered to me by my friends and family without pride or reservation, and with the strength to fight the urge to completely give up.

            I have finished the guest book for the memorial and now I selfishly muse over what I should wear for the service on Friday – but that is not what consumes my mind. I am not so selfish as to dwell on something as frivolous as clothing. I feel that darkness, though, not in the same intensity that Sybrina or her family does, but I can see it there. It is hard to miss. Death is such a fascinating, cruel thing; fascinating when it has everything to do with someone else, someone unfamiliar. When it concerns our loved ones, death is an angering, evil thing. James’ passing puts death into full view of how swiftly and suddenly it can come. But if there is one light at the end of this long, long tunnel, it is the knowledge that James did not go out with regrets for his choices in life. He did not miss a moment to smile, or to laugh, or to be himself at every moment of his existence, and perhaps at the end of his story that is the moral of it all: you can never, ever miss those moments because all we have are precious blinks that slip past us in the stresses we focus on and are never seen again. The simplest things, the grandest things, all of those things mean something, and they must be taken advantage of before we lose that time. James indulged in all that made him happy; he spent his time sharing his happiness with others, whether he realized it or not. He filled any room with joy whenever he entered it, or changed the mood of a room to happiness whenever he left it. And though James made his final exit from this life onto the next, I will always have the comfort of his smile, his laughter and his loud-mouth antics locked away in the capsule of my heart. This is the capsule I will open every now and again to chase that impending darkness away, and to be reminded that there is always time to enjoy all of those things that make up this crazy puzzle called life as long as we take the time to seize it.

            James, you taught us all in life and you have changed us all in death. You can never be forgotten.

All of my love always,

Hey you.

Field Trip: Yama Sushi Las Vegas.

Red letters of glory!

 I’m sure you’re all aware of what happens in the summer time, as you’re sitting outside in the evening, rocking back and forth in one of those swinging chairs, enjoying the warm breeze and watching the sun go down behind the horizon; as the day darkens, you turn on the porch light so that you are not completely prone to wild animals and various monsters that inhabit the surrounding area, and in that instant you are hit by a swarm of moths and flies in pursuit of one thing and one thing only: the Light. Yes, the holy Light probably the equivalent to Jesus but for winged life, the most attractive, glorious, beautiful creation by man for these annoying bugs.

            

By now you’re probably asking yourself, Okay, what the hell does that have to do with the picture in this article, or with anything for that matter? Well, let me tell you why this is the perfect analogy for this blog post: the sign in the above photo is that porch light and I am the representation of all of those winged annoyances that haunt your porch light once you flip it on. But the sushi sign doesn’t even have to be on for me to flock to it like a crackhead to crack; all I have to do is merely see it and I will come. And went I did.

           

I hope the gates to Heaven look similar or I won't be as excited.

The ever lovely Denise had told me of an amazing sushi experience she had had with friends at a place called Yama Sushi off of Flamingo and Maryland Parkway. Of course my ears pricked at the sound of the word sushi and instantly it was decided that we would go. Grabbing the Manfriend and our friend Sean, we decided to see what this yummy goodness Denise had described was all about. And while she had already explained that Yama Sushi had an all you can eat menu that cost an easy $20, those immortal words brazen in neon immaculacy over the front door nearly brought tears to my eyes: had we died and gone to fishy heaven? If we had, there was a line to get in through those pearly gates. 

      

It didn’t faze us too much because Denise was generous enough to let us play around with her gorgeous camera. The wait was said to be around 30 minutes, but unfortunately we were standing outside for almost an hour. Again, like I said, we were having fun with Denise’s camera, conversing about the pains of work and how hungry we were. My suggestion to anyone who goes to Yama Sushi for a meal: arrive kind of hungry but not starved because you will wait for a hot minute. At least with an increasing appetite you are assured to get your $20 worth. We sure did. Anyway, as hunger gripped our sanity, we inched closer and closer with every group they ushered in towards sushi bliss.  

24 hour wait? Not a prob! I have all day.

The interior of Yama Sushi is a hustle of romance and hunger. It is an odd coupling that compliments each other so well it’s almost maddening. The lighting is low and comforting, the flow of traffic in the small space is quick and aggressive, yet I never once felt crowded. The thing that impressed me the most out of the service was how quick we were served and the food was delivered. With a bunch of orders going in and coming out all at once, we had our drinks and appetizers and essentially everyone’s first set of rolls on our table within the first ten minutes of being seated. I was shocked; the order was always accurate as well. I was thoroughly impressed.

Or maybe my brain had become sod with hunger and anything that resembled something edible in front of me seemed accurate. Regardless, when the food was in front of me, the world outside could have gone up in

One always needs a bowl of health to
compliment the fried.

flames and I would not have had a care about it. I was faced with delicious rolls and seated before great friends, so in that moment, life was peachy. Denise ordered for the table some Edamame and pot stickers.We each had our own rolls. I am a big eel enthusiast, so naturally I went with the Eel Avacado roll to start.

Eel - the other, other, other white meat
slathered in a brown eel sauce ...
I guess making it a brown meat after all.

With a few shots of sake and some chugs of water with lemon, the four of us finished the delectable rolls rather quickly as our taste buds re-familiarized themselves with the concept of food. Before we had even finished our first rolls, our waitress was already inquiring as to what we would have as our next. Maybe it was because we all held the disposition of Charlie in the chocolate shop at the beginning of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, or maybe because we’re American and our glutton-isms were displayed on overdrive as we  dug into every ricey piece with our chopsticks with clumsy precision, but this waitress was on top of everything. She only made us wait in intervals of about two minutes before our next round of rolls to conquer was placed before us. It was service with a serious smile, with a lack there of smile on her part, stupid grins on ours. 

Satisfaction guaranteed!

      

Over the course of our dinner, I began to realize why the wait to dine at Yama Sushi was so long: the all you can eat deal is amazing and affordable, the food is really good, and the staff are all super efficient. I only made it two and a half rolls in before I threw in the towel (to accommodate for the yummy green tea ice cream at the end, of course), and the half I ate came from aiding Denise with her roll. The big rule at Yama is that whatever you order must be eaten or you will pay a fee. 

Thankfully our table was ready to dive into help out whoever needed the help. We all ended up trying/sharing our rolls anyway once the initial hunger rage was subsided by the first round of food. Aside

That's a spicy meat - er, sushi roll!

from Rey’s spicy roll, I enjoyed virtually everything I put into my mouth. I don’t mean that in a dirty way but if you took it that way, kudos to you.

Denise's beloved No Name roll! ... seriously, it's called that.

Overall, Yama Sushi was an enjoyable experience filled with all that I love: fish, friends, and a splash of booze. It has been over a week since we dined there and I am already craving a rerun … hopefully my next paycheck will allow me to splurge on more next time. But for anyone who is in the Vegas area, visiting or living, and hasn’t tried out Yama, I strongly suggest it. They have an array of sushi as well as other combination plates and such, so if you’re a non-sushi fan there is something you can enjoy while your friends pig out in front of you. Just remember my warning about arriving hungry; don’t be in starvation mode when you show up because other bystanders will not be afraid to shove your famished corpse out of the way to move up in the line. And remember to make sure that whatever you do order must be consumed. Really, it’s all about careful planning, time management and the Tortoise and the Hare philosophy: slow and steady wins the race – or in this case, wins the overabundance of fishy burps succeeding a delicious feast of epic proportion.

Fish-ay, fish-aay!

 Staying hungry for life,

Rae :]

the affair.

When I'm not playing mommy to an overly expectant princess of a pooch (which is never, by the way), you can find me lost in my own world behind the screen of my laptop or between the pages of one of my many Moleskin journals. I'm a writer by nature, and I'm sure that if my head was not buzzing with some new concept or a scene for something in progress that I'd surely be crazy. Or normal, because sometimes I do believe that I am crazy. But that's a different blog post entirely. However, my craziness over the past few months has inspired me to look at a few of my characters in a new light in an attempt to give them new depth. It is with new inspiration and old encouragement that I continue to fight the good fight for self, for creativity, for novel. *raises fist*

Writing also makes me late from my breaks at work.

I am currently working on a novel I started Sunday, May 2, 2010. Holy shit, that was a long time ago. In fact, I had to look at the properties of the file to tell you when I created it, and I'm honestly surprised that I've been working on it for this long. You see, typically, I am very good at coming up with story concepts. I absolutely love beginning a story, searching through fonts to continue it in, typing away merrily as though I have it all figured out, becoming irritated with the look and then changing the font several times all before creating a new concept, deserting the old one to use up space on my laptop all to start the cycle again. This novel, though, this one is a bit different. You see, the reason I fail at literary (I wish) completion is due to the fact that I have no accountability about writing. I don't have an agent or an editor; there is no one official to tell me, "hey, Cass, you really need to stop slacking and start writing!" Well, it was like that until Liz Strohm decided to change the game up.

Liz and I went to high school together. She graduated a year before me because, well, you know, she was a year older than me. We had spent dance classes and theatre classes together; while we didn't necessarily spend our break time hanging out together within the same group of friends (though both sects of our friends knew each other), we did find time to hang out after school. From early on, Liz knew of my passion for writing. She always encouraged it, and even after we lost contact for a couple of years after I graduated, Liz and I eventually found each other again, created our own weekly dates and revisited the topic of my love of writing. I would let her read current work and every week the stories would change. I'd start one and drop it, begin another and then forget about it, until I told her about the novel I am currently bound to. Liz loved the concept so much, as well as the idea that being a writer was my only option as future revenue, that she forced me into a contract about the progress of my story.

Okay, okay, perhaps I wasn't necessarily forced, but the idea was entirely hers. I just went along with it, ready to sign my life away to her with the quick swipe of a messy signature across a piece of paper she found at the bottom of her purse. It was with that signature that everything in my writing universe would change. 

Liz. She means business. With a smile.

As you can tell from the date I posted above, my novel has taken me a long time to construct, and I'm not even done with it yet. I update Liz weekly, albeit late at times, but she always gets her update. Even my move from L.A. to Vegas has not upset the flow of emails she receives regularly, as hard as it is to write at times. And it is hard. If there is anyone out there who thinks writing a novel is easy, boy, are you mistaken. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have the passion to write. I really believe I wouldn't have a purpose. But with all of the love and enjoyment I get from my craft, it is a lot of work. I've come to many walls writing this novel, moments of agonizing writer's block; I've let those tiny whispers of "what are you wasting your time writing this for?" and "do you really think this is going to amount to anything?" get to me. And it's easy with the content I'm working with in regards to my storyline. Reading my friends' work and the work of some amazing authors out there often intimidates me. The fact that deciding to "be a writer" as an occupation often merits a stable income resource alongside it because not everyone is a Stephen King or J.K. Rowling also teeters me towards the side of pessimism. But then I recall all of the lovely emails of praise and constructive criticism from Liz, and others with whom I've shared my novel, and the fact that people actually do want to know what will happen moves me forward, because after all, writing really isn't about being a Stephen King or a wealthy billionaire J.K. Rowling ... (oh, how nice that would be -__-); it's about affecting that one person out there, making them feel something, relate to something, learn from something that came from my own head. I learned that the day I was messaged from a counselor from a summer camp I worked with once upon a time. She and I were merely acquaintances, friendly, but nothing more. It had been several months since I'd seen her. I'd posted a poem I'd written on my poetry blog and then linked it to my Facebook not really expecting much of anything to happen from it. But then I got that message from her; she said the poem was exactly what she'd been feeling lately, and that she loved it because of that. I don't think I've ever been prouder of something I've written. I made someone feel something that day, all because I shared a piece of myself in the form of written word. Whenever I am feeling like I'm hitting my head against the wall, struggling at a lost cause of a novel, I remember that girl and that poem, and I wipe the dust off my shoulders and continue to press on against that wall. The world I've created won't write itself without me, though I often end up watching everything unfold in surprise. 

Through all of the hardships of writing, these things keep my fingers tapping away at the keys. They keep me creative and receptive of the recipes life inspires to stimulate my own fantasy worlds. And so, I press on with my novel because I want nothing more than to finish it and touch somebody in the world with it ... and because legally I'm bound to finishing it.

I am also environmentally friendly, acting as my own notepad.

166,384 words currently. 254 pages currently. I don't know what the counts will be tomorrow, nor do I have an estimate of where those counts will be at its completion. All I know is that this work in progress is going to take me somewhere; maybe not fame-wise or money-wise or even to wizard rock band status. But it is going to take me to an end of hard, loving labor, fueling proof that even someone as scatter brained as I can actually finish something of substance. And there is substance to it in some way, to somebody. To me. But until then I will hold up my end of the contract and continue to fuel this fire that's ready to blaze out of my hard drive. 

I hope you all continue to follow me throughout my journey to see its completion. I hope my passion makes you proud.

Thanks, Liz. I love you.

Staying creative,
Rae. 

P.S. I've changed the font to this blog post three times.

now a mommy.

I'm going to not be so angsty this time around and write to you about something special that has happened in my life. The reoccurring theme around here seems to always be connected to Las Vegas, and seeing as how the city of Las Vegas has become synonymous with the word change, I'm going to fill you in on a big change that took place on April 3rd, 2012 (yes, I'm late - I know this):

Take heed - she will cut you.

This is Nellis Mae. She is now a 6 month old Chihuahua-Yorkshire Terrior mix with a huge weigh-in of about six pounds, a plethora of sloppy puppy dog kisses to give and a personality enough for a Great Dane ... maybe ten Great Danes. Regardless of the amount of dog she is, Nellis has become the daughter of my roomie and bestie Denise and myself. She was a free pup, given to us graciously by Denise's friend.

"Really humans ... this is it?" On her first night at our place.

There was a bit of nervousness about actually making the decision to take Nellis; between Denise's schedule and mine, we are both extremely busy. Then there was the issue of finances and parental responsibility. Was I actually ready to become a mother? No, she would not be born of my womb (haha) but we were going to be bringing another life into our world ... would we be ready to handle that? But more importantly, would I succeed as a pet owner?


Horrible flashbacks of my failures with my pet hamster from my past flooded into my brain as we made our way to Nellis Blvd. in North Las Vegas. I had only seen this puppy in a picture on Facebook; in that form, she was fine, cute to look at without the strings of being attached ... but I walked into a backyard where I could hear barking - oh no! This is a tangible, real little creature. I was absolutely nervous ...

Despite our lack of shared DNA, this animal got a lot of my traits, i.e., laziness. 

Until I saw her. Everything - my worries, my failures, the face of the hamster we had to get rid of, and the fact that I was probably walking into a very irrational contract all dissipated at the sight of her precious black face. We drove Nellis Mae home that night. She laid across Denise's chest, both scared and curious. We formulated the name almost instantly; Nellis, from where we picked her up. It was simple yet original, and unlike anything cliche when naming an animal. Despite the "animal" that she is, Nellis has become a vital addition to our home. We love her dearly (the vast amount of pictures of her on my phone and Facebook and Twitter account can all tell you that), but beyond that, Nellis has put me through some learning experiences about life and myself.


I never thought I could love something so much at first sight. And that's what it was, love at first sight.


I never thought something could love me so unconditionally.


I never thought I'd be the one to spoil anything (which is really biting me in the butt right now).


And maybe, someday, I will be a good enough parent to an actual litter of children.

My only fear is that my children will never be this adorable.

Making the decision to become pet owners and mothers to a very special furry baby was one of the best decisions I've ever been a part of. It has also been a great change in my life because suddenly I am responsible for feeding, housing and spending time with someone else. She is our baby, and our responsibilities have changed because of her, and despite my fear of being selfish, I don't mind sacrificing for her. This road hasn't been easy, and I know it will continue to have its challenges, but Nellis brings so much joy into our home with her crazy antics, her puppy dog eyes and the fact that underneath her worms-in-the-head, queen-of-the-world run of the household, she is just a puppy who loves us and who we love even when she barks all night long. And trust me, she does.


I absolutely, unconditionally love this dog.

Rae & Nellis Mae <3

Even in my most childish of moments, being a grown up is becoming more and more evident for me. This little puppy reminds me of that everyday; everyday we make choices that impact our futures. We choose where we want to go and how we will make a life for ourselves, as well as how we set the tone for that life with our attitudes. She brings me patience and frustrations, joy and disappointment; but most importantly, Nellis reminds me to love - to love with all of my heart because love conquers everything negative in our lives, and it is with love that we can live happily and fulfilled in a satisfaction that cannot be robbed by anything.

Staying in love,

Rae.

hater.

It's been a while since posting on here, and it is with a heavy heart that I must update my blog with a not-so-happy post. You see, since moving to Vegas, I have undergone a significant culture shock. As any rational human being would assume, moving from one place to another can do that you. I was born and raised in a suburb community ten minutes from the beach. My weekends were spent playing video games, body surfing and nerding out to the latest fandom I was obsessed with. I was always surrounded by people like me: same schedules, same beliefs, same rather sheltered existence. 

I must state here that when I say "sheltered," I refer to the environment itself, not necessarily in regards to family life; I have seen much in terms of negativity growing up. 

Las Vegas is devoid of any beach influenced suburb. It is a city settled upon a mostly flat slab of dirt, encompassed in a crescent shape of dirt hills. The city is the only thing one can see under the glare of a wicked hot desert sun, like an oasis to the wandering soul. But no matter how lost one is while wandering through the desert, one is never as truly lost as when one finds himself on the threshold of Sin City. 

Many people feared for me when I made the decision to relocate here, that I, too, would be a lost soul found in the clutches of the city. There is no shelter here. Every freeway offers a phone number to a moment of bliss; signs instruct on where the cheapest plastic can be purchased; and the evolution of a city bent on becoming more family friendly is merely a theory hazed over by sand and rock. 

I have met many people here. They are friendly and welcoming and different. I treasure every relationship I have formed because with these I can learn and grow from our differences and come to understand myself a bit more. I am trying to, anyway, instead of being locked into a constant state of culture shock. But it's hard to accept things as they are at times when I've grown up in an entirely different atmosphere. I was never sold sex back home. I have never felt so intimated by billboard-sized women in my entire life. Unfortunately, a small piece of my confidence was lost along the way and has been replaced by a sadness for the world I never thought I'd experience. Maybe this is why I was led here, to show myself where I really stand on the scope of things. Of everything I have witnessed thus far, I can honestly say I have a top three list of things I hate. Now, I realize that the word "hate" is incredibly strong, but with the constant spoon feeding of these three down my throat in an alarming motion, it is very hard not to want to throw up these contents.

Number One: Porn.

I've always been irked out by the idea of porn but it's never been something that has been so easily accessible to my naked eye until I moved to Las Vegas. You may completely disagree with me on this (and with everything you read on here) but my feelings about porn go a little something like this: porn reduces girls like me to hopeless pieces of meat. I will never look like a porn star. I will never be able to perform in bed like one. I think the idea of knowing that somewhere in the subconsciousness of our men's minds they are thinking about someone else to get off on or even worse, as they are "making love" to us is heartbreaking. Porn makes me feel wildly ugly and like I will never be enough for somebody. It casts an unreachable expectation on we girls that are average. The sad part is that it is everywhere; I see ads for it and trucks pulling billboards with naked girls plastered to them. I cannot seem to escape from the fact that sex sells. It really does sell. This in turn leads me to the terrible truth that the value of sex has become just that; it is what it is, sex, in a casual, forgettable form. This breaks my heart the most because I believe that this act is one the purest, most sincere forms of sealing yourself to another forever. Somewhere along the road, though, it has become nothing more than the value of a handshake and as memorable as last night's trip to get take out. 

Number Two: Drugs.

I'm not going to go into too many details about this section because I don't want to use any names, nor to I want to divulge to the world any confidences of my private life (and I am not insinuating that I am a user or have tried), but I really hate drugs. I really hate marijuana. I have always disliked these things because of what has happened to my family over them, but up until recently, my hatred for the substances has returned full force as I currently sit on the threshold of destruction of a person I used to know; someone who is well on her way to losing her children, family and life. Right now, I could sock her in the face if I saw her, but I can't. The only thing I can say is that drugs destroyed this woman who has so much potential, a potential she will never fully realize until she finds the strength to fix herself.

Number Three: Cheating.

Cheating and porn hold pinky fingers at this point, as I consider porn a form of cheating. You may be aghast at this, but I firmed believe in Matthew 5:28: But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If you couldn't tell, I am a Christian, and whether or not you are, that is how I feel. I am so terrified by the act of cheating that I know I've developed a complex against men. My brain dwells on the "what ifs" constantly that sometimes I think I'm going insane or am not meant to be in a relationship. While I have never actually been cheated on, I have experienced the act because of my family. I seen many marriages ruined because of infidelity, and again, I am saddened because this city glorifies the motto of "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." Call me old fashioned or weird or even close minded, but when it comes to cheating, I have no tolerance. I don't think I could forgive somebody for cheating on me. I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than be reduced to a fool led on by another as he gives himself to someone else. I believe that you can fall out of love with the one you're with and desire to be with someone else; I get that, that's fine. But would it be so hard to grow a pair and tell your partner that you don't love them anymore? Then pursuing someone else would be okay. I would be sad hearing that piece of news, but I would also feel like a human being worth something if my partner was honest with me from the beginning of the end. 

*Sigh* So this is my rant for the morning. I hate to disrupt such a happy flow of postings, but these are all things that have really been torturing my mind as of late. I am thankful for their presence in my life at this point solely for the reason that because of my introduction to these topics I am able to learn exactly where I stand on these issues. I know now that these are things I can never tolerate; they are a plague in my body and a thorn in my mind. These are things that I can live without and not have a second thought about them because for me they produce nothing good, and I intend to fill my life with only the best.

~Rae

Sharks, Joe's and love.

Two kids in an aquarium.

It's almost the end of February, which means it's the month of love and that I am safe in updating this blog for that purpose. My manfriend and I just celebrated our 3-month this past Saturday. I'm still trying to figure out how three months has gone by with this man; it feels like we've been together forever already, but really, it has only been a blink. We've been up to a lot recently, including the Mandalay Bay aquarium, he cooked me a very lovely meal on Valentine's Day and we went out to Chicago Joe's Italian eatery for the first time downtown for our 3-month. Every moment I've spent with him thus far has been a pleasant adventure, and I look forward to making many more fond memories with him.

Rae is on a date with Rey,
touching a ray. Whoa.

Rey took me to Mandalay Bay for a date because he knows how much I enjoy sea life, sharks in particular. He even bought me a shirt against my will ... because he loves to dote on me much to my annoyance ;) It was a a great night of skipping through tunneled corridors and pressing our noses up to the glass tanks like we were on an elementary school field trip - except there wasn't a legitimate fear of cootie catching, as there was plenty of hand holding. 


We hung around the aquarium for a while until we decided to catch dinner elsewhere. Overall, it was a lovely, memorable evening, and I'm glad I get to share the memory with you :D 

Rey being a ray. Confused yet?

Jaws 3, anyone?

Walking on water ... okay, 6 inches of glass.

My man loves him some jelly.

Thinking cap.

Who knew sharks could need glasses!

It's just a flesh wound, man.

For Valentine's Day, I was spoiled at the hands of Rey. If you couldn't tell, we're food enthusiasts and thankfully for me, not only am I living with an amazing woman who knows how to cook, my very handsome manfriend cooks as well. Looks like I'm not destined to be a supermodel after all. I mean, what supermodel gets the luxury of this kind of dinner? 

Sorry Victoria's Secret. I choose calories.

He made us a delicious dinner of steak, veggies, his own mashed potatoes (that compete heavily with my mom's ... who knew that there could even be a competition!), and Alfredo noodles. Oh, and bread. AND wine. Yeah, I was spoiled. He definitely knows the way to my heart.

Just a slice of heaven.

Oh, and did I mention that during the day he had Edible Arrangements send me send me a bouquet of this deliciousness?? 

Dark chocolate and strawberries. Yeah, he's a keeper.

 Saturday the 18th rolls around and we decided to celebrate three wonderful months together at an Italian restaurant suggested to us by our friend Sybrina. It's called Chicago Joe's, located in the Fremont area on 4th Street. It's basically a brick house that has been converted into a quaint restaurant, covered in random memorabilia, Christmas lights and a romantic atmosphere. It's so cheesy it's cute. The food was excellent and the prices weren't bad. I wasn't allowed to pay for the check despite the fact that our meal was supposed to be my gift to him, so I can't tell you what the actual damage was. What I can show you, though, is our lovely meal in all of its Italian glory. 

Penne and chicken in a spicy sauce.

Mussels and cheese bread, baby.

I went with the mussels and spaghetti dish because I am a big fan of eating something that will absolutely make one's breath insanely rank on a date. He went with the penne pasta and chicken in a spicy sauce so that I wouldn't pick off of his plate. He had a beer and I had my wine. Together, we enjoyed a lush dinner on our own sides of the table before hitting up a bar at the Aliante Station Casino. There, we had fun listening to a guitar player as he serenaded us while we drank beer and So-Cos and Coke all while snapping pictures of ourselves on our phones. I'm still wondering why they didn't card us ...

We are so special.

The love of my life.

And while the next photo would be considered horrible quality by anyone else's standards, I love it. I don't know why ... I just do :) Happy Valentine's Day and 3-month, Reynaldo. I love you so, so much. Here's to many more memories together.

Oh, the quality of Blackberry.

Staying hungry for love,
Rae.